RAVEN HEARTED

It’s almost muscle memory, this. The frigid wind carried the tail-end of the call and stopped the passer-by dead in his tracks, thrown first by the déjà vu before the half-sighted gaze shot up, catching the careening acrobat some crucial seconds before his arms did. Pivot, square, brace; a reflex too clean in its execution to testify as anything short of rehearsed.

The lanky figure folded into his waiting arms, clenched teeth crushing any exclamation he might have had into a laboured grunt as he swiftly righted himself before the abrupt weight could strike them both down. Even with all the indisputable familiarity in this rather peculiar circumstance, it did admittedly did take the bounty hunter a few seconds of scrutiny in the low light to recognise the face masked behind the tipped cap.

“You could’ve broken your neck,” he admonished them flatly, though the lazy alleviation of his brow betrayed the glint of levity. He stared them out for one ungiving second, then two. Three. And then his arms went limp, to let the rigger meet the end of their fateful trajectory before his intervention. He’d accomplished his deed of gentility for the day - his hands were cold. He thrust them into his pockets and straightened, canting his head back to let a querying eye rake up the upward stretch of rigging. The spider’s shadowy web.

“Either you’re having a bad hair day or you’re up to something you,” he eyed them again. “And dare I say I, don’t want to be associated with.”

it works, of course it does, muscle memory compensating for any other issue, the sheer familiarity of running this sort of risk, of falling into his steady form, mariah’s sheer reputation the final puzzle piece for the evening. they grin up at the scarred bounty hunter, winks when he tells them off, half-sad that there hadn’t been more opportunities to cause chaos together on board. ‘ nah, knew you’d catch me! ‘

that, that deserves the dropping, instincts taking over to curl out their spine, roll back and over their head and back to their feet, dances back forward. familiar even in its unfamiliarity, no con against the law or expectation, less a dissapearing act to plan for than invisibility, but the beats are there, the footsteps and the turning points.

Sebastien gave a high chuckle, thumb pads going soft over the calloused swath of Wick’s palm. ❝ Singing? You flatter yourself. Or maybe you’re flattering both of us, since, y’know, I don’t think we’ve been in a state fit for it in a long, long time, ami. ❞ They’re up the ladder in the flash of a moment; Wick, practiced, as always, a nimble whisper of motion and ropes, no surprise to anyone who’s known them longer than a second          and Bastien, now, Bastien is on the stumbling block with heights, not afraid so much as too detached, too lightheaded to dominate them properly, to keep balance, rather than just gawk at surroundings, go moon-eyed at the suspended thrill of it all. Wick was closer to Lucille, on this end.

But, well, this isn’t a Montparnasse exercise. This isn’t some will o the wisp show. This is Bastien having to climb for clues, having to climb for the chances that something, bon Dieu, a scintilla of sense, will reach through the mesh between horizon and ocean. Doesn’t know what they expect, really; a hole in the sky? Cedric’s handwriting spooling from a cloud? He should be embarassed at the giddy hope of it; he should be ashamed, really, the spiritual weight of it, that after all this time, he still didn’t make peace with grief. That he couldn’t rest with their memory without tracing it in this insane, edge-of-the-known-world, fool’s errand task. He should be mortified.

He isn’t. He knows exactly what Cedric would do; feel, sometimes, as if he spent a lifetime training them. Cedric was aware about this place, about whatever power corrupted, sanctified, colluded inside it. If not aware, then at least, putain, he had a pretty good guess on it.

And, naturally, as so many times before, Bastien was left to grasp at the threads.

He thinks of it, again: Cedric holding his own arm, looking at the window hatch. Cedric, in their cabin, sleepless as always, eyes quiet and heavy on the horizon.

In the crow’s nest, he turns to Wick. Skips a foot down the last rung, reaching for purchase, and hoists his weight up. Debates, for a moment, with the fluttering remnants of morality still clinging to them, coming clean about it. Justifying this newfound joy, this spirit, this restlessness to seek the truth. He confessed it to Tristan; still doesn’t know how that went down, still doesn’t know what the man intends to do about it. What if Wick just laughs it off for a lark?

The actor lays it on the mat of their mind: “Wick, you know, yeah, my friends? My lovers, too? That whole troupe business? Well, see, garcon, turns out, they’re not fucking dead, after all. That they were on to this, they were intimately, finely aware that something is going on, occult, ritualistic, whatever. Turns out, yeah, that they’re just utter bitches about it.”

For now, he just smiles broader. Maybe later, he’ll explain this to them. Maybe there’s still a future where Wick can be by his side. Bastien steps in their space, the narrow warmth only spurred on by the crow’s nest tight margins, and finds their hand again. ❝ So, how did I do? Climbed quick enough to earn a prize? ❞ He loops their arm around them, draws it to the small of their back until there’s no more distance; such a change from a month ago, in the sick bay; from the roadblocks of grief that stretched behind them. That insurmountable touch, that pier, even as he laid his head  on their shoulder. Is it just because Bastien has enough to go on, now, enough to hope he’ll see them again? Is it healing, really, or just another false, feather-wisp cure? So many kinds of laudanum, after all; why wouldn’t belief be one of them? He asks himself that, just once; then he stamps down the thought. He’s not wrong about his. He can’t be.

❝ What a show we’re cutting, hm? People dying, Captains toppling over, and you and me still giddy about it all. Are you honestly not afraid, du Vol? Are you still the same as you were? That waltz, that wading into the unknown? Everyone else is losing their bloody mind, and you look at me like you can’t wait to be eaten up. Sex eyes in the midst of disaster. Makes one wonder. Not sure if I should be grateful or cautious. All told, though… yeah, I think I rather like it.❞

they scoff at the dismissal, as though they wouldn’t be able to put on a show impressive enough to stun everyone for at least five seconds, would be able to finish any performance by the time anyone had gathered enough wits and strength to be able to climb to the top to chase them out, had managed to linger in that fountain in paris before the gendarmerie had arrived, terrors and threats to the daytime public, could easily do so again.

they don’t bother to argue the point, far more willing to prove the point later, but only if bastien feels up for it. he’s gotten better, far better, but there is still something lingering under the skin, not the darkness that they had seen in the troupe by virtue of their very profession, but something less oil-slick and more fungal growth.

they take the rigging slowly this time, stopping every few feet to look back down, see if the actor needs a hand. but they don’t need him. so wick skips into the crows nest, presses against the back of it to make space, designed for one person and their eventually-frozen limbs, watches them smile, shift in. there’s a strange sort of anxiety thrumming in their chest, as though they want to make sure there’s no tabacco ash on the floor, to check that the view is as good as promised, this part of the world the closest to the sky that they call home, to share this comfort that they call freedom, more integral to their nature, the most vulnerable part of their self that anything bastien has seen before.

but he smiles and wick lets that knot relax, grins back, interlaces their fingers together. ‘ oh, i can think of a couple of prizes. ‘ bastien pushes closer and wick moves to meet him, curls under his arm, turned in towards him, grins at the kiss dropped on his cheek, turns his head to chase it.

are you honestly not afraid? they can feel a wrong kind of tension begin to knit up inside them, every piece that they dare not think about back to knocking at the edges of his thought, of his vision, breathes it out, lets the air whisk it away. ‘ well, if you like it, no reason to stop. the world keep turning and these moments between disasters needs to be filled with something, no? nothing i can do to change it, no orders i can give, might as well enjoy the journey. ‘

(( a thing unsaid, unknown :: wick doesn’t believe he can die, doesn’t believe that this could be the end. disaster is a thing to be edged along, a life spent falling is one where you can never  imagine hitting the ground ))

being touched is too close to existing, and wick reminds him of this. waves spill across his lap and fingers curl and uncurl, unsure of what to do with the reminder that this body is not translucent, not the glass illusion he thinks of himself when he looks into the mirror. 

he hates it. still, fingers toy with the ends of wick’s locks carefully, the closest to a softness that he can still remember in this cold.

“i have not wanted for a while now. i would have said home, but i hardly even know where that is anymore, or what the word means. perhaps i will gift my win to you  —  you have always been better at these things.” he runs thumbs over cheekbones, smiles the best he can. pretends it does not come out as something mangled. 

“and you? what would you like should you win this little bet we have?” 

it takes a moment for fingers to remember how to tie the knots again, unused to this transition between tenderness and mischief. it was familiar once; an old friend whose name he has forgotten. when he glances over at wick, it almost becomes remembered again. 

“i think he will pretend it to be nothing but a hoax. at least in the beginning. but stubbornness will give way to fear with enough persistence.” said quietly, watching empty eyes reflect back from glistening bottles under the moonlight. “of course he does not deserve it. but he will have to swallow it all the same  —  does the cold have you questioning morals and ethics, my dear wick?” 

there’s a hesitancy to snow’s actions that has never been there in the same form before, the gentle touch to his hair a vast cry to the familiarity of the past, where both had inhabited bodies of different kinds. still, they curl into it, lets snow explore the texture in his own time, surprisingly does know the meaning of restraint.

their eyes blink shut for a moment at the touch to their face, lips curling into a gentle smile. you have to cup snowflakes in gentle hands for fear of breaking their form. ‘ not even anything more tangible? an extra blanket, first pick at meal times, me however you want me? it doesn’t just have to be the universe, but i’ve no doubt i could corral it into submission for you. ‘ the teasing curls back into their tone, spark of mischief as they look up at snow. and as much as it is a grand boast, they would.

it’s almost scandulously easy to find a cap to fit over his head and tuck his hair away, the curl of it near as distinctive as his name, then to find a sheet of canvas large enough to use paint made of coal and saltwater to splat vague shapes akin to mould or blood stains on the front. when it reaches night, they pull it onto the deck and are half-way through tying one end when they hear footsteps from the other side of the ship approach. its a matter of seconds to climb high up enough into the rigging to be completely unrecognisable, and even mostly hidden, before they realise just who is walking towards them.

Come hell, high water, horror, or mutiny— a ship must still sail on. And the caulker, like many others of his station in this case, is well expected to make it so: whoever’s holding the cat ‘o nines. Lowered down the starboard side on a plank seat held aloft by two ropes, Horace is minding his work at the time of the disturbance; like, though he’s not pointing fingers, someone else could be. But Wick has clearly found more purpose in pestering the socks clean off his feet. 

He kicks. “Bugger off!” he hisses, clutching tight to a rope and counter balancing the tar bucket on the plank to avoid any blunders as he steadies himself again.

When he does, he looks over at Wick, balking. “Are you trying to kill me? Can it not wait?!”

horace kicks, because of course he does, and because of course he will, wick is prepared, bounces off the side of the ship to avoid a dirty boot in the face, before settling back, upside down, pouting. ‘ i said don’t kick, laz, but you had to go and bloody kick! ‘ they shake their head before pulling at the the rope to twist back up to a more normal direction, crosses their arms to trap the rope infront of them.

“yes, our paths crossed in paris… twice, actually. i met him first on my table.” and the second time was on my desk. he can still remember it, if he closes his eyes: that same beautiful hair. that jawline, and the way it had tensed when he swallowed. “a simple injury to the leg, if i remember correctly, and then the follow up visit some weeks after. i take it dangerous careers run in the family? well, we can’t be held accountable for our bloodlines. or their proclivities.”

it’s satisfying, to wind someone up and watching them tick out out the steps he’s set for them, reliable as clockwork. he’s been waiting for wick to drop by as surely as if he’d had it written on his calendar, waiting since the afternoon in the common mess a week ago when he’d paused, in passing, behind du vol at the breakfast table. reached proprietary hands around him to adjust the skewed collar of his shirt, the lapel of his coat. left his knuckle to brush a moment longer than necessary against his adam’s apple. then, suddenly as he’d arrived, casimir had retreated, with nothing but a final, firm pat on the shoulder. didn’t say a word in the entire exchange, barely even looked at him. but he knew, on every level that mattered, that it would be enough.

casimir takes wick by the wrist closest to him, feels out the pulse. counts the beats with an eye on his wristwatch, and is still counting when he says, half-bored already, “i’m a busy man, du vol. care to tell me why you’re really here? and i don’t mean the pills you’ve stashed in your trouser pockets.”

-

it’s so matter of fact, stated as a part of the universe, as though it’s something that wick should have known all along, the certainity of it a sudden stability that causes them to stumble, like stepping back onto land after a year at sea. that casimir has known all this time, has known them all this time -

latches out to the question previous, distant as they answer it. ‘ the leg healed fine. can’t say as much for the rest of him now though. didn’t you hear? the whole carnival burnt down. ‘

it feels as though there’s something missing, take a step forward on the rope but meet only empty air, the rush of thoughts as they plummet to the ground. their eyebrows draw together as they try to think back, ignore every emotion, every association, put together the time and the period and the look in his father’s eyes. it’s on the tip of his tongue, ladder rung that scrapes their fingers, when toussaint’s voice pulls them out lurching.

it’s a simple matter to tuck the thoughts away, the memories, the taste of ash on their tongue. the mental movement is well-worn, the lock well-oiled as it clasps shut once again. his father is gone, and there’s no point in thinking about it, about him, about them. no, there was purpose in coming here, and they settle back into it, focus on the pressure of the doctor’s hand against their skin.

her eyes are black moons — full and eclipsed by some spectral haunting — veiled over by unsettling darkness. it does not matter that she may have ordinarily snapped one’s hands for putting them on her, for this was no commonplace occurrence, and right then they felt like relief, like cold water on charred flesh: a jarring, yes, but necessary sensation, forcing a hole through a wall of blinding pain, making room to breathe.

his body quivers in her hold as helplessly as her own trembles beneath his hands. jaya has to force her breath, even as it aches, especially because it does. you are here, it is a reminder. you are still here. be here. her body still grapples, her mind still reels. “that was a man –” jaya’s breaths leave her in harsh, blistering gasps of air, the walls of her throat raw, as though she’s been screaming, and perhaps she is, it feels as though she is, inside, deep inside, even when her voice comes out in a pained croak.

“what the fuck?”

♦ ♦ ♦

he is not in his right mind, he is barely in his body, barely in his mind, too preoccupied with watching it repeat, repeat, film reel reversed and replaying, projector broken on the frames. his body is normally cold after time in the nest, but now, it feels as though his very blood is ice, puncturing through the skin, pale and diluted.

They do a double take, at this       just a small quiver to their brow, a jump of their chin. The actor stares at the palm for a beat. Bemused, rather than put off; with so much happening, how can you fault anyone for keeping their distance? Doesn’t even know if he wouldn’t prefer it. Some avoidance, some drawback of feeling, some panel sliding shut. Because there is just so much he has to research. So much he has to find out. Where does one even start? Old Gods, sky doors, sacrifices. Things frozen in the ice. Who could he even go to?

Bon sang, but hey were never the bookish type. They loved their plays, and could nurse a good poem to its grave, roll it off the tongue until it lost all sense and left only music behind. But they didn’t read for information. Didn’t pore over text, not unless it transported them somewhere beautiful, a place or a notion that burst upon the tongue. That stayed there, steadied you. They could never cope with Cedric’s scrolls, the tomes and heaps of it—it was a point of contention, gentle mockery between them. If anything was ever gentle. If anything was ever just a game.

The thought is a splatter of ice, a slab of it. What if Cedric had known about it?

Wick, insistent, lovely Wick, a grin like a parting of legs on their face, prevents it from unfolding. Whatever they’re looking for, Bastien can look, too. Could use the visibility to take the lay of the land. They grip the rigger’s palm, thumbprint on the callouses. ❝ If you’ll be patient about it, then yes. I’m up for a climb. But hurry me along on those bloody ropes and I’ll sink my teeth in your ankle. ❞ A corner of their mouth ticks, upturns. ❝ Private? Tsk. Always thought you liked putting on a show. Bon, alors—how private is it? ❞

it takes a moment, some thought or process or the thinking that prevents impulsive action that every being bar themselves seems to have, a flash of his eyes before their hand is taken, uses the grip to pull the other to their feet, away from the piles and the texts, heading into the fresh air.

they’d seen him sometimes, in those moments before he inevitably leaves, book or letter in hand, as though the reading were something enjoyable. there was usually something peaceful in it, not just sated from the night but as though the text itself centered, steadied. this, however, this isn’t it, this feels something more akin to the energy before a heist, or after one has gone terribly wrong, where adrenaline and fear and a desperation of options has mired them in stagnation and all their energy is devoted to escaping it. the view, the distraction, it might be good for them both.

they click their tongue in thought, ‘ it might be faster to strap you to my back and climb up, but sure, i’m be patient. i can tie you to me if you’re worried, though you get actual planks rather than the ratlines on the rest of the rigging, so you should be good. ‘ it was designed for the icemaster to be able to navigate from, for the occasional visit from an officer, so wouldn’t be too hard for the actor, just difficult enough to dissuade the average guest from ascending and risking themselves.

“There’s no need to ma’am me. I’m not a lady by any definition of it.” It’s something she should not say, particularly not now, when the meaning will be found in different places and different tellings- reveals imagined that aren’t necessarily true. “Should I call you Sir? Or does that not suit? Will you have Wick from me?”

Would have offered a hand, was only approaching the motion of it when he springs back up. “Are you down here for injury, because you’ll have one if you keep that up.” 

Waits to ensure he’s upright and stable, before she responds to his last. Seems only fitting for the talk of balance.  “Well, let’s be honest, the officers talk more than do any work. So it’s still on you then. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. Even if it’s just tending whatever wounds occur from the job.” Takes a step closer, proof of concern more than anything else, “Do you like the job? Is it what you want to do? What you’re good at? I’ve never had the chance to find out how I’d fare on a crew until now, and no one imagines me to work anyway.”

he wants to laugh at her, the idea that she’s not a lady, as though she was playing at some prince and the pauper, or as though she really did believe that the rest of them lived like her, position something she could retroactively disguise, pretend at. still, he doesn’t begrudge her this, just nods at the comment, will treat her as though she was no lady at all.

‘ ha! ‘ he barks with laughter, delight chasing across his features. ‘ sir? oh that is fancy indeed. call me what you will, names are just another thing to be traded. ‘ he has always been wick, but has been a thousand other names at the same time, switched them with the other thieves and their trademarks, put on a thousand hats and escaped with a thousand curses. sir, though, that one will be new.

‘ here for an injury, yes, but not the kind that comes from such basic acrobatics. a child could do that and be fine. but the doctors have me well in hand, and i am perfectly fine. ‘ he shrugs, grins. as she steps forwards he wants to step back, already trapped by the ceiling overhead, the narrowness of the corridor, the concern on her nearly stifling in its unfamiliarity. ‘ sure, sure, definitely. ‘ he ticks off the answers on his fingers, held up between them, before lowering them and tilting his head. ‘ what kind of work would you want to do? maybe something with the stewards? or are you desperate to build blisters on your hands for some reason? ‘

this is foolish, snow knows. but still, there is a curve of lips over it, wick’s idea a blossom through winter’s ice. 

it will die long before spring, but it is something. but it still exists in the cold of the arctic, even if only for a moment.

and in this moment, it shall do.

snow carefully ties the strings around the empty bottles, long fingers careful with the double-knotting around the long necks; imagines them as nooses, imagines them pressed to his own skin. turns to wick and doesn’t quite meet eyes when he passes him the next bottle, smiles a flickering glitch at best. 

“two days? i shall bet three, then. i am almost certain dear marc will be much too busy celebrating himself to notice much else.” not a prophecy, but a certainty. “tell me, what misfortune should i claim in a day’s time when he starts to hear such ghostly ringings by his window? shall it be of the dead returning at the shock of his betrayal or the supernatural knocking at his door for his ignorance?”

it’s an interesting mix, glacier hungers mixed with fire-born tempests. it only works in times like this, twilight, the sun setting enough that light can settle, soothe, but the warmth is still enough to match with night-children, both resembling and refusing hunger, loneliness, curiosity and charlatans.

here, though, it’s as though snow is blending in and melting into their surroundings, pale skin that feels even more bloodless, absorbed and rejected from the artic surroundings - no matter that spectres and the cold have been their domain ; it’s as though snow is hurting and so wick must simply help.

casimir listens to wick’s, ah, pumpkin story, with one eyebrow raised. polite, even in this, even as he sees the palming motion– bottle to pocket– that surely du vol means to distract from with his nonsensical ramble. casimir smirks as he turns away to fill a cool glass for the man, perched on his cot like the liveliest little black bird in town. chatterbox, chatterbox, what will we do with you? he muses. pat him down, at the very least, for he’s surely stolen something else in this moment with casimir’s eyes away from him. how delightfully troublesome, this one.

“surely that can’t be the only thing your father is good for?” casimir says, returning and passing the glass to wick. he moves in, a smidge closer than strictly necessary, and brushes the man’s hair behind both ears. oddly gentle about it, too. flicks his eyes to his face, once, curious to see the effect of the touch. then he presses the back of his hand to wick’s newly-accessible forehead, leaves it there for a minute, and hmm’s. “he sired you, after all. we must be thankful for that, if nothing else.”

he ignores the obvious flirtation, finally taking a step back. “now, you dont feel warm, du vol, which is a good sign– no fever. but i am concerned about these headaches of yours. do you mind if i run some tests? lie back, please.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, already maneuvering the sailor by the shoulders like a doll. “and do tell me, how is your dear father these days? no more issues with the leg, i’d imagine?”

cas turns away and wick cannot help it if his fingers dance over the drawers and pull a bottle of something else - to be investigated later and hopefully useful - into another pocket, before stilling with his hands trapped under his thighs as casimir approaches. he’s rewarded as the doctor gets closer, and he tries not to squirm as his hair is pushed back, that juxtaposition of incredibly gentle whilst so threatening in some form, locks every muscle in his body as cas places the back of his hand to their forehead - whether to squirm away or fidget or press back into it.

they go to answer the comment about their father but casimir is already continuing, stepping back, and wick feels colder without his presence so near. they go limp as the doctor moves them, goes with the pressure to lie back, hands coming free to twist into themselves in their lap.

at that final question, however, it breaks the normal presence that toussaint carries, pushes wick back into the headspace of the carnival, of his parents, of the broken leg and the anger his father had after that failed practice. wick protests, goes to sit up. ‘ my father, sir? you know about my father? ‘

the air is colder when there aren’t any clouds - despite the direct sunlight, it only threatens snow blindness against the ice that the ship skirts around. still, there’s something to be said of the freshness of it, energy and bouyancy. it brings them light-footed to a number of doors, but they’re dismissed from each one for work, and no doubt their own shift starts soon -

“It’s just Ayla.” it’s so reflexive she barely thinks of how it must seem- if she’s speaking to an ally or a potential one. The curtsey confuses her more, when she can’t tell if it’s meant to be spiteful. Takes a moment to examine it, but still can’t trust her judgement. Follows up with “It’s safer that way.” smile stretched as she checks for any reaction to it, any evidence as to his opinion on the Dowling name. 

“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind a return to how things were?” 

“There are so many of us apparently living in the past.”

Looks past him to the doorway, though she can still very well see should his expression change, should anything flicker in it. It’s less restrained when it’s imagined not to be watched. “No, not really. Usually I clean up in there, but I think things might be different now. Are you still at your post? You’re the rigger, is that right? You must enjoy balance. I’m not sure you’ll have it with everything going on.” 

so these kind of people have first names? half the time, they felt like titles in and of themself, tacked on with lands and messers and a host of other names that he never bothered to remember. so he nods, shuffles out the name in his brain with this new replacement, lips soundlessly wording it to commit it to memory.

how things were - and now she really does sound like the snippets he’d get from the conversations of the rich and traditional, but he supposes she means to a few days ago, rather than to some time that was supposedly better, but even if that, there’s little that has changed for him. he blinks, nods. he could threaten to rat her out, no doubt she had plenty of things worth bargaining for, but it’d be more likely that he’d get thrown overboard by a hand on his ear and amongst the crew, it was fine, but the guests were off limits.

katja… cocks her head. listens, and thinks, and stares at wick du vol. it’s a move not unlike that of a bird; not unlike that of a raptor.

it is no easy thing, prising apart something that’s been true for months. a truth that had to burn into her bones, painful every moment, until she believed it in the first place. strange, to take apart that truth and refashion its pieces into something else, something like it but slid behind a glass, distorted as if through another’s eyes. to think that this creature before her could hold all these strange thoughts and feelings and impulses of their own, wholly incomprehensible to her. wholly illogical. and yet– still equally true.

she straightens her head. makes her way, slowly, back towards wick, keeping her hands where he can see them. stays as far away as she can while still able to reach under his face, tilt up his chin so she can examine those eyes of his, familiar as her own street. familiar as the window in her childhood bedroom. makes a low hmm of consideration as she does. “that’s rather pathetic of you, du vol.” she says. “but…”

she drops his chin. retreats, shrugs. keeps her eyes glued to him the whole time, still not quite defanged (no, never.) “perhaps i’m re-evaluating my code on weakness. i think… i like you better pathetic than wholly heartless. now, what do you think of that new development?”

she listens, at the least. she watches as he tears open his ribcage and pulls out his own heart for her to judge, to find wanting, carnivore turning away from such an offering. this shouldn’t sting, this evaluation, this rejection, as she tilts her head. he still, prey creature caught in the sight of a hunting bird. her fingers touch his chin and he cannot help the whimper, unable to look her in the eye, unable to look away.

pathetic, and he swallows it, feels it join the rest of his bones, reaffirmation of how he’s built - wanting, to the core. he swallows as she steps back, pushes down on every desire to lean back into the touch, to chase it forwards, affection comes in blood and bruises, possession the only understanding of care. but no, she doesn’t not want him. here, in this, in everything, she is off limits to him. here, once again, he has failed.

he shrugs at the question, pushes his back flush against the wall, lets his grip on his knees relax. ‘ never been anything different. ‘ she watches, and he slowly pushes himself to his feet, bundle of things cradled close to him chest. ‘ can i - ‘ he trails off, gaze darting to the exit, to freedom, the ability to curl up in a corner and bury this alongside everything else. she doesn’t move to stop him, so he flees, and even if she wanted to, he’s out the door too fast, praying that no-one will catch him as he flies up to the crow’s nest.