#boxerboats

The rooms and corridors you drift through blend together like one great painting. White tile, crystal clear water, light filtering in from lamps, skylights, and thin windows. There is nothing but the gentle lap of water as it shifts, as you shift motionless with it. Utterly relaxed.

Time means nothing to something like you, an irrelevant human notion that you stopped bothering with long ago. Were you once human? You don't think so, even if some might mistake you for one in certain situations. Not after they look for long, but perhaps after a passing glance.

Your body bends around a turn, the motion impossible for what would be a human's body as you enter a thin tube. Darkness surrounds you. The tube fills completely with water, and you bob there in the subtle current. 

For a while you drift in the tube, changing shape as it narrows until liquid like you drape through the end and land in a splash in a larger pool. Something in the distance taps. You've ended up in one of the border zones without meaning to, water soaking into polyester carpeting. The scent of mold erasing the comfortable scent of clean and chlorine. 

You frown. 

The tapping continues, wood against floor, foot against carpet. A lumbering motion. When you open your eyes, it stares at you, not crossing into the water. That's smart; your teeth could go right through that peg leg or any other part of it.

You dip an arm into the water, reaching down until you touch the tile far below, using the grip to twist yourself to better stare, unblinking. "Aye, aye, matey." You murmur, still relaxed. Calm. The water makes you that way, keeps you docile.

It knows this. That's why it stays on the damp carpet.

Everything that encounters you eventually learns that as long as they're on dry land and you're in the water, you won't be a problem. Not unless they dirty your water, wash their filth in it, or think they can drink you. 

It turns and continues on its way. You've drifted close to its nest, so you don't blame it for being cautious. You've no plans to intervene. Not at first, but in your lazing, not ready to crawl your way back up the pipe just yet, you can hear a voice.

Human. High-pitched. Getting more and more frightened.

The pirate is hunting, it would seem. You close your eyes, listening. The currents have a way of making certain you end up where you need to be, but you're not fully sure why you're supposed to be here yet. So you spin, paddling in circles.

"Pull me up! Pull me up!"

You listen to the voice, masculine, afraid. The sound of it is musical to your ears; there's something rippling about it. Like the dribble of water into a great still pool. 

You tend not to bother with humans. Sometimes they end up where you've claimed as your own, but you tend to leave them unbothered unless they dive too deep. Try to take from you. If they walk through, if they swim through, that is alright. 

They leave salt in the water. You like that. Like the way it tastes as it soaks into your skin.

You can hear other voices, a man and a woman. But you barely notice them, still caught on that waterfall tone. Water into a still pool. Your eyes open again, looking into the brightness of a pure white glow that cascades through a skylight. 

The pirate will kill that voice. Strip off his clothes for the pile and crush his body down into the floor like the others. A waste of such a voice.

Some inhabitants are smarter than others, you well know. There are those that you know to avoid and others that know to avoid you. Most of the things that you fear do not have an interest in your pools.

The pirate is but a speck of a creature, simple. Dumb. Rageful because the memory is rageful. It does not know any better, and so if you steal from its hunt, it will find offense but not revenge. Wood and sloughing skin do not do well in water or on slick tile.

This is where you are supposed to be. The water ripples as you make for the beach where water and carpet meet and pull yourself into the surface. It takes a moment to remember how to move, to put your feet beneath you and walk like a human.

You will need to be quick. 

It will feel your approach, and so you walk, lithe and silent, leaving wet footsteps in your wake into the filth of its den. As you round the corner, you slip into shadow and watch the pirate crane to reach the rope where it dangles above the slope.

Its fingers wrap around and tug. You watch in silence, listening to the man you came for panic. Trying to cling to yellowed wallpaper and friends that cannot save him. Humans cannot save humans in a place like this. 

They are not powerful enough. There's a tumble, a thudding of muscle and bone. You see the figure of the man hit the ground. The pirate reaches, teeth extended. You hesitate too long in your curiosity, forgetting that humans die easy. 

He screams, and even that sounds like rain. Like water cascading onto the surface. Blood spatters the floor, wet droplets. You like that staccato too.

But he is weak and screaming. You shift forward, eelish and smack the pirate hard in the side of the head. He goes stumbling, off balance and one-legged, and you take that movement to grab the object of your desire by the arm. 

He's still screaming. Still dousing the world in rain. You tug, and the rope snaps without difficulty. The pirate roars in an attempt to get his prize, but you're already retreating, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. There's a door; you tug it open and drag him inside as the pirate turns to the other two to pull them down.

They do not matter to you, and because of that, you think it does not attempt to reclaim the man still thrashing against you. He's flailing, trying to kick and punch. It does no good; the blows he lands might as well be gentle caresses. 

"Let me go! Let me the fuck go!" He shrieks and you let him. Enchanted by the sound of his voice and now the sight of him. The white shirt he wears has been soiled with crimson, a rope still dangling around his waist. One of his shoes has been lost.

You won't be able to stuff him in the tube you came down without shattering bones, and even then he'd drown, so you go around the long way. Regardless, you must dive.

You drag him into the water's edge as he kicks, water splashing. There goes the other shoe. It annoys you to leave it floating there, so you reach out an arm and heave it back out of the pool onto the carpet left behind. 

"Hold your breath." You tell him. "Or you will drown."

At first he seems to refuse you, still trying to get away, but when he realizes you mean to pull him under, you hear and feel the intake of air, lungs filling. Together you dip under the water, leaving blood in the water as you move fast as an eel through the short tunnel up into a rectangular pool. 

He gasps when you breach the surface, sucking in air. Good, not dead. You keep going, lifting him up under one arm like a child does a stuffed animal. For a few more minutes he fights you before exhaustion and blood loss win out and he goes limp in your grasp.

He's not unconscious, just calculating, it would seem. Clever. You like that he's clever. You look down at him as you walk through long lines of water, up stairs, and down darkened and lightened tunnels. His hair is two colors, lighter on top and darker on the bottom.

Like how water is clear on the surface and becomes blackened the deeper you go. His skin is pink from panic, but you think it might be a lovely color when he is calm. Pale alabaster. 

Surprisingly enough, he does not try to talk his way out of your grasp, but you think he might be in shock.

Somewhere far from here, but not far enough that it is not heard, the girl he came with screams. No one gets saved in this place. Not unless it's by something like you.

"She is dead. It was quick." You say to him, not certain if he will consider knowing to be a mercy.

He spends the rest of the trip back to your sanctuary crying. You do not try to stop him. Salt in your pools the way you like it and the steady iron drip of blood as it falls from his fingers. 

He is unconscious when you arrive at your sanctuary. A human might not know what this place is, but anything native to the world you know best will sense it. They know to stay away. This is your space, your most well-maintained sanctum. 

That which belongs wholly to you.

A long deep pool with columns running through it on each side and in the center, a large, white, flat circle of marble. Light floods in from windows that line the walls; the whole place glows comfortably. You set him down in the middle, water on all sides, so that you might know if he wakes and tries to flee.

You drape him there against the stone before heading back out. When you return, it is with a pool lounger with a thick cushion and a small patio table and chair. You set these things up for him and shred his clothes from his body. 

Pale skin. Teeth marks in his bicep. Deep yellow, purple bruises around his waist where the rope hung. Human anatomy. Normal, known to you, because your body mimics it.

You wrap the wound in strips of a white pool towel. Seal the blood into his body and place him, wiped clean and dried, onto the lounger. Humans are shy creatures; that's why you wear white swim trunks to better blend with them. More than once they have called out to you, thinking you an ally from a distance.

He will want a pair of his own. You know where to get some and head out again, gathering up a pair of black trunks, several clear glass bottles of drinking water, and a bowl of lemons. You arrange it all on the table, pretty colors, all clean. He'll like it.

And then you return to the water and float. Listening to the take and release of breath, feeling the current that loops you in endless circles around the central podium.

"What the - what the fuck? What the fuck? Where am I?" His voice is still lovely; you do not yet open your eyes. Waiting. It does not take him long to find you in the water. "Why am I - what are you gonna do to me?" 

You continue your floating but turn your head to look at him and see the fear begin anew. Like he's seeing you for the first time. You suppose on the way here he didn't have a very good angle, and it was dark for much of the way. You let him stare.

"Wha' the fuck are you?" He wheezes, hands covering his crotch, realizing his nudity. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were dirty," You reply calmly, voice low and contented. The water soaks through you, still salty from him. "I got you a replacement on the table."

The man is quick to jump up to yank the swim trunks on. He looks good like that, hair messy, silver necklace around his throat, and black swimwear. Like he belongs here. You smile.

"You ... bandaged my arm."

"I saved you," You say, blinking at him. He flinches. "He would have bled you out and crunched your body up into a cube and stuffed you in the floor."

His arms wrap around himself, because he knows it to be true. The pirate made his intentions clear. Teeth in his arm, inhuman violence. Base nature. 

"Why?" He asks, dropping back down to sit on the lounger. "Why save me and not her?"

The woman. Right. They'd been talking to each other. Affectionate. Human connection.

You continue in your floating circle; he follows you as you go. "I like your voice. " You say, shifting a hand to spin you more. "I had no interest in hers."

"My voice. That's it? My voice and you just let her die? You could have saved both of us." He's doing that squeaky thing to his inflection again, rain on water. You smile wider.

"I could have let you both die." You reply with a slow, considerate blink. 

This he has no easy answer to. He is alive. His companion is dead. Simple facts, but perhaps hard for someone of his ilk to accept.

"Are you ... going to eat me?" He asks, registering his own morality. That he is a place far different from the one he knows the rules of.

You smile wider still, sharp-toothed, too far. He gawks at your mouth in alarm as you roll through the water, finally coming to a stop to pull yourself onto the podium with him. "No." You shake your head. "I don't eat."

He draws back, making himself smaller, fingers curling around his calves to tuck himself tight. Protecting his core, like any smart animal does, "Ever?"

"Not the way you do." You jut your chin toward the table. "There is food and water. Do you have a name?"

All humans come with a name, don't they? You can't entirely remember, but that sounds right.

"Bobby ... Bobby Franklin. What's, um, what's yours?"

You've never been asked this question before.

Your fingers play in the water as you think about how you should answer. "What is a name?"

Bobby stares at you in confusion as he reaches for one of the bottles. He gives it a long sniff before he drinks for some reason. But he drinks it all the same.

"Like the definition?" 

You nod.

"It's what people call you, the name your parents gave you."

Parents. A funny idea, that somewhere there are things that made you. The water droplets in the air created you. The current brought you into existence. It saw the reflection of a man in the water and thought, this is what one becomes.

"I do not have parents or a name. Nothing calls me anything. I am the water, the depth of a pool, clean. Is my name pool?" 

Bobby shakes his head. "That's not a name."

"Oh." 

"Also, I can't eat these; they're lemons."

You thought they were a human food. You frown. "Oh."

Your sanctum has been transformed in the wake of Bobby Franklin. Humans, you come to find out, do not love being in the water all the time. It makes their skin prune; the chlorine dries them out, they grow tired. So you have built an orderly teak wood bridge from the central podium to the other flattened space in the room.

Furniture has been claimed from other sections outside your own to give him a large bed to sleep in and a couch to lounge on. The table and chair remain the same. He has a path to get to the facsimile of a restroom, which apparently works well enough for his purposes.

In the beginning, Bobby tried to run often. Sneak away, swim out. The first few times you stopped him, gently guiding him back to the sanctum like a bird too close to the edge of a nest. After that did not dissuade him, you decided to let him go.

Sometimes he would get lost in your domain. You would float or swim some distance away until he swam and walked himself to exhaustion. Watch him attempt to map the corridors without paper or pen. He's not particularly talented at it.

And when he gave up and sat down to rest, you would appear and ask him if he'd like to go back. Sometimes he would say no, sometimes yes. In the end he always said yes eventually.

When that too did not dissuade him, you changed approaches. You brought him to the edge of your waters and set him free from there, trailing silent and invisible behind him. Clear as water until he inevitably stumbled upon another of your kind.

They were never so kind. To make your point, you let them get close sometimes, even touch, before you stepped in and asked if he wanted to go back. Eventually, Bobby settled.

Found some peace. Started asking instead of for an exit for you to show him the most beautiful places. The sections of your pools and corridors where the white light hit the water just right, and the whole room would glow. You got him a camera; let him take his photos and videos.

Bobby found hobbies and explored for pleasure. Swam without fear of the waters around him. The two of you spoke in detail about the place he came from, movies he's seen, and things he enjoyed. You did your best to find replacements for what he missed the most. 

But there are some things the rooms can never remember quite right no matter how many attempts are made. There is always a part of Bobby looking out toward what he knew once and not what is here before him.

And you are ageless. You do not understand what more he could need, because there is water in his hair and stories to be told.

You are not human, and as time passes, you start to understand that humans and this place—that is not a place but a creature in and of itself—are made only to dissolve and digest animals like your Bobby. No matter how fond you are or how contented you are to speak with him for hours on end, to walk through the shallows, or to splash and swim.

There will always be something that is not balanced. Something off. 

You are holding on to something that can't be held without breaking. So as you float in your pool, Bobby sorting through all of his recent photographs, you look to him, devoid of expression as you often are. "I will take you to the exit."

He freezes in his spot at the table, looking over at you. And there in his eyes, hope. Something only humans can possess. Only humans hope for things.

"Seriously?"

"Yes." You let your arms droop into the pool, the weight pulling you down until there's nothing but your eyes over the edge of the water.

"When?" He asks, photos forgotten. As if he has already sorted this place into a piece of his memories, to be forgotten in increments.

You let your feelings, the feelings that your only friend has taught you, distill into the water. Around you the clarity turns black, voidless, and impenetrable to light. You swim to the edge of your sanctum and gesture with your head for him to follow.

Bobby hesitates, glancing around the space you have carefully cultivated for his comfort before walking after you, bare feet fast on the wooden bridge. 

Together you walk, turning onto a path you're certain he's never noticed before, squeezing through a gap that's barely large enough for him to pass through. You have to change your shape, bending and twisting to make it to the other side, and then you are on the carpet.

The smell of must and dryness in the air. Disgusting. You continue, leaving wet footprints, and he follows. You weave around corners without concern.

"What about the, uh, the thing?" Bobby asks, jogging to keep up with your strides.

"The pirate was taken," You reply, "Long time ago."

"Taken by who?" Bobby asks, slightly out of breath. All the swimming has changed his body, streamlined muscle where there was none before. He's only wearing his swim trunks, like always. The out world may look at him funny, but you suppose once he steps through it will make no difference to you.

He will be a memory.

You will go back to floating.

"The ones who take," You shrug. They've never been able to catch you, and you made certain they never saw him.

"You know that's like real fuckin' ominous, right?" Bobby jokes.

"I do not."

You've never been frightened before. Never found anything unnerving or strange. There are things that are yours and things that are not.

It takes less time than your companion likely thinks to arrive at the place he entered. You pause there, seeing a door that he cannot see. A rippling doorway between what is and what can't be. 

You stop, water dripping from your fingers. Caught in the thick carpeting. 

Bobby stares at you, and you stare back. Is there something to say? What do humans say? There is a word. The two of you are always together, so you have not needed to learn it.

"Goodnight," You say.

He rubs at his mouth, looking toward the wall and then to you. "It's, uh, goodbye."

"Oh." You nod. "Goodbye."

"I won't see you again," Bobby whispers. This is registering slower for him than it is you. You've already known that. Known it since you realized you could not keep him happy enough. You and your water are not enough for him.

"No." You reply. "You will not."

"You'll ... you'll be okay?" Bobby asks, crossing his arms. Even as he speaks, he is looking to the exit. Remembering.

"Yes."

"What will you do?" He asks.

"Float ... what will you do?" 

This seems to stump him. "I don't know how long I've been gone."

"What is time?" You reply. More water puddles around you the longer you stand there, infecting this section with your essence. "It is nothing."

"You don't know how long I have been gone." Bobby says, translating your words the way he does from time to time when he deems what you said to be illogical. You do not confirm.

"Goodnight, goodbye," You say. 

He hugs you. An oddly pleasant thing you have only experienced from him a few times. Bobby is hot to touch, comfortable against your damp skin as you return the gesture.

When he lets go, you taste the salt he has left behind. His final word ringing through you after he is gone, "Bye."

It has never occurred to you to miss anything. Upon your return you dismantle the bridge, making neat piles in other rooms away from your sanctum. You leave the furniture, leave the photographs he was displaying on the wall.

You do as you said you would. You float.

But the enjoyment you always get from such things feels hollow. Like a fish starving. No matter where you let yourself drift, where the current takes you, it does not feel the same. You float not out of contentment but because you have nothing to entertain you.

Substance has gone out of the water. Clarity changes; instead of your rooms and corridors being filled with crystal-clear waters, they are dark and treacherous. The bottom is gone from sight; shallow pools look like pits.

The white lights come down, but instead of refraction, your waters suck it in until everything feels dark and oppressive. You barely notice, so busy floating and thinking. Remembering. You've never had so much to remember.

When a human stumbles into your water, you go to it, seeking out the splashes and footsteps. The girl you find is scared, bleeding, running from something else. Dripping blood into your waters, smearing it on your tiles.

Unclean.

And more importantly, unwelcome. You seize her ankle and drag her into the deep. Hold her there as she flails and kicks, and eventually her lungs pop. She breathes you in, and you revile the taste of her. 

You dump her soggy corpse into one of the pits for something else to make a meal of. But unlike before, you do not clean up; do not rinse the tiles of her blood. You float.

More come, creatures that think they can take from you. Humans who are not him. 

Your waters grow foul. The tiles unclean, the light does not illuminate the way it should. Eventually, when you're not paying attention, the lights turn red. Bodies are left behind to rot, creatures dismembered or drowned floating in your channels.

You do not return to your sanctum.

You hunt.

For so long Bobby thought only of getting home, talking to his mom. Finding the space he fit into before he left, but when he got back, the world had moved on.

His mother moved away from San Jose. Two years had passed since he and Kat disappeared. 

When he went to see her, she barely showed any joy at seeing him at all. Spent the whole time he stood in her living room, waiting for love, going on about the money she'd wasted on his schooling, berating him for running off with some girl.

She never even asked if he was alright, and he did not tell her he loved her, because he wasn't so sure if he did after that. Bobby had no money and no home. No car. All of it was gone. He could have gone to the cops to see where his car went, but he wouldn't have known what to say.

How to explain Kat or Clark. It's not like he could tell them the truth.

So he set out for a while. Traveled, slept beneath bridges. Enjoyed the wind on his face.

And every once and awhile he would find himself turning to say something to you. To make a joke or ask a question. And you were only an absent space where something had once been. 

In his travels Bobby found the places he felt happiest were where water was on his skin. In the shower, in the bathtub, or at the beach. He broke into a public pool after hours once and got so overwhelmed with loneliness he just dipped his feet in and stared until the security guard came yelling.

No matter where he went or what wonder he tried to find with the sun on his face, his thoughts always seemed to loop back to the way white light looked on clear water. The smell of chlorine and the bubbly way you laughed. 

Bobby lasts a little over a year as a nomad before he ends up breaking into the empty space for rent that used to belong to Cap'n Clarks. It takes less effort than he thought to step through that tingly doorway, still marked with peeling blue tape.

The pale yellow of the wallpaper greets him, and he knows this is the right decision. This is where he is supposed to be. 

Retracing his steps is more difficult than he thought it would be. The rooms and corridors seem the same, but he still finds himself getting turned around as he walks. But he's determined, a thick backpack weighing on his shoulders and a pair of water shoes on his feet.

He walks, trying to remember the turns you made, but it's been months. Bobby's memory has never been perfect, and so it's trial and error. He doesn't delay, doesn't stop to rest. The monster that bit him is gone, but that doesn't mean nothing filled the vacancy, and he cannot count on you being there to save him this time.

Time passes, but he can't with any confidence say how much of it. All he knows is the weight on his back and the determination to see this through. To find you.

Finally, he smells the chlorine, feels the change in the air, and squeezes through a somewhat familiar passageway and steps out into an unrecognizable world. It's the same tiles, the same shallow channels that he explored with you, but it is different.

The lights are red, everything feels dark, and there's something sickly and moldy instead of clean about the darkened corners. Like stagnant water instead of the clear cool pool water of before.

Unease sinks into his gut, his instincts crying out to him at once. Warning him. Whispering to turn back, that something dangerous is around the corner. His heart pounds in his chest.

Something has gone wrong. He thinks of the way you brought him to the exit, the way all emotion seemed to flood out of you, and how confidently he left you behind. Like he hadn't told you things he'd never told anyone.

The water is murky, blackish, and still. There are no ripples, no underlying current. No motion at all. He walks, keeping to the side at first, and as he goes, he recognizes the paths he sees. Together you walked this area enough to be somewhere he thinks he remembers how to navigate. 

There's blood smeared across the tile wall, long dried and browned. You never would have left this here. To allow the uncleanliness of it.

Did something happen to you? Are you alright? What will he do if you're gone?

Bobby thinks he might be able to find his way back out, but that's a last-case scenario. You always found him when he wandered, when he tried to find a way to leave. It's the water. The water is how you always found him.

But he doesn't want to tip anything else off that he's here in case it's not you and something else. So he walks, keeping to the paths. There's something floating in the water, many-limbed and eyeless. Chunks of gunk float with it.

Bobby swallows hard and walks faster, adjusting the grip on his bag. He can find his way home. It's the path taken most often. If he gets there, then he'll touch the water. Let you know where he is.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the corridors. Everything is harder to navigate in the low lighting and difficult to make sense of. He starts going in circles, using the grime as navigation points. 

His feet ache; he pulls a granola bar out of his bag and eats it as he walks. Sleep calls to him; it has been too long since he rested, but he can't afford to stop out here, exposed. Can't leave you alone.

Bobby goes in another circle and grinds his teeth. He's in one of the larger pool rooms, a deep well in front of him, connected to channels from either side. There's less gore here; it's still dark, the water like oil, but there's nothing floating in the water.

He shucks off his heavy bag, setting it against the wall. There's no avoiding it. He can't remember the way, and the longer he wanders, the more likely he'll get lost further and further from where he needs to be. 

There's only one thing to do. Bobby crouches, reaching forward, and presses his hand into the water, wiggling his fingers. And feels a cold grip latch around his wrist. He lists forward into the water with a splash. Flailing on impulse before he forces himself to open his eyes.

You're there, below him, but there's something different about your face. Eyes blanker, mouth angrier. He reaches out and touches your jaw. 

"I'm here." He says, at least he attempts to. Bobby doesn't really hear anything other than sound, a garbed version of words that aren't really words. 

You hear them. At least, he thinks you do because your expression shifts. Going sealish and then together you breach the surface. He spits out foul-tasting water and takes in air, your hands on his hips, holding him there.

The lights start to brighten, red turning pink and then white, and all around you the water starts to clear. 

"Good morning." You greet, eyes wide, looking him over. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around your neck, pressing in closer. You're always the temperature of the water, but he doesn't mind. "Hello." He says back with a laugh, "Think we gotta do some cleaning, yeah?"

You nod, glancing around with a frown. "I'll fix it."

Bobby takes the chance; he's already come this far. He might as well go all in. See where he ends up, where the current takes him. "We'll fix it." 

Your smile seems to brighten the lights further. Chlorine is heavy in his nose. He finally feels like he's home.

At first you thought Ronin would refuse. He knows your family is a bunch of small-minded snakes with big opinions, so you really expected him to snort and say something like, 'fuck that.' He didn't. 

Instead, when you asked if he'd go with you, because you want the chance to see your little cousins, he cocked his head in contemplative silence and agreed. You weren't sure, at the time, what his angle would be, but you've since figured it out.

Ronin has decided to be the giant moving target.

When you picked him up to head over there, he was dressed about as dramatically as a peacock come spring season. Red pants, a torn-up shirt, a beanie, an excessive amount of accessories, and not one but three different trans flag patches. One on his hat, one on his jacket, and one on his boot.

As if that weren't enough, he's wearing his heeled boots that give him an extra two inches he does not need. Plus, eyeliner, the most delightful-smelling cologne, and a shit-eating grin to cap it all off. Your parents are going to need a fast trip in an ambulance upon meeting him.

They don't know about Ronin; you're not particularly fond of sharing information about your life. They know you've transitioned, though they're pretending it's not happening. It's easy for them to ignore, given you haven't started your medical transition yet. 

Every time you see your mother, she stares at your tits like a fifty year old man standing in a girls' high school locker room. It's lovely. You really enjoy it. Doesn't make you want to throw yourself in a woodchipper at all.

Sighing, you lean back in the driver's seat, trying to encourage yourself to get out of the car. Ronin waits patiently, or as patient as he gets while he taps his foot, in the seat next to you.

Like you tend to do when showing up for anything involving your family, you don't bother with the bells and whistles of your own comfort. There's no point in binding or anything like that because they'll see right through it to what they've dubbed 'the little girl that you are.'

This is all one very big, very elaborate act of rebellion on your part, and with enough disappointed looks, you'll one day wake up and realize that being a woman was something you've always loved being. 

You think at most you might one day wake up to realize Ronin's trying to fuck you in your sleep. Seems much more likely.

Ronin's head tilts toward you as he lifts one dark eyebrow. "You have the Devil himself on your shoulder." He leans in humming, "Who should be more afraid, you or them?"

This is a half comfort, because he's right, but also, "You can't kill anyone."

He lets out a long sigh that dances across your cheek. "I know~ we shook on it."

You felt like you had to make him promise, or otherwise you might find your uncle drowning in a lemonade punch bowl. Family reunion meets red wedding is not really the approach you're trying to take, even if your paramour would no doubt enjoy it.

With one last huff and a few gentle slaps to your cheeks, you step out of your car. It's not a huge event, but there will be a good thirty people at least, you think. Your mom hosts a reunion every two years and gathers up as much of the family as she can.

You press your hands into your hoodie pockets and head for the gate. Everyone will be in the backyard; you can smell the barbecue. It's all very suburban. Ronin sticks out like a giant neon sign that reads FAG in all caps.

Without a shadow of a doubt you've never loved anyone more in your life. You flip the gate and shove it open with your hip. Some of your little cousins have taken over the rusted swing set. They crow when they see you, rushing in a small horde toward you.

This part you don't mind, even if they shout a name you've long since buried in greeting. No one here uses your name. Your little cousins don't even know it.

You curl your arms around two of them as you register this. Though you're certain Ronin knows it—he, after all, tracked you down in an elaborate game of cat and mouse—you've never told him your dead name.

Like poison going into his ears, you illogically think about how that name could be turned against you. How he could pull it up in an argument like your ex did. You know Ronin would never do that; he understands too much of what that would feel like.

Ronin is a Devil not an asshole. Not in that way. He's more likely to stab you than turn your name around on you.

"I'm starving." You tell your cousins, patting heads and sharing quick greetings, "I'll come hang with you guys later after I get some grub."

There are a few groans of disapproval and curious looks sent Ronin's way, but none of them are brave enough to address the over six foot goth elephant in the yard.

As soon as they're gone, he loops an arm around your shoulders, voice hot in your ear, "Darlin', not ta' be mean, but that name fucking sucks." He makes a disgusted face as you grin in delight before he says your name. Soft and sweet, and dripping with ichor. "Sounds much better."

You lean into him as you loop around the corner to the rest of the yard, where all the adults are spending their time. It's not one of those movie moments where everyone stops talking in unison and they all stare, but you're definitely getting some looks.

You hold your breath and wait, "My girl!" 

There it is.

Your mother hauls toward you with all the tact of a bull in a china shop, grabbing your face in both hands and fully pushing herself between you and Ronin. "It's about time you came home. You don't call, text, come for holidays, or nothing!"

Why would you want to come home? There's no good reason, no joy to be found in the action. The only thing that brings you back each time is a misguided sense of loyalty. This is something you've talked to Ronin about in detail.

Despite his grandstanding, he's actually the perfect person to go to for advice. He always listens, he cares, and he tells you exactly what he thinks without sugar-coating it. He's told you to cut them off like a moldy piece of bread, but you can't quite manage it. Every time you think you will, something happens and you're pulled back in all over again.

"Sorry, mom." You apologize, but it falls a little flat. Maybe it would mean more if you could mean it, but you're not sure how to do that.

She squeezes your cheeks before taking a step back to look you over. Her magical x-ray vision sees through your clothes to make sure all the right Barbie attachments are there before she smiles and you ready yourself for the insult, "Been eating good!"

You've been spending too much time with the squad; you want to punch her in the throat, which is not the normal human reaction to that. Angel is rubbing off on you.

Ronin steps up to bat, shifting an inch in front of you. She's forced to take a step back. "It's cause I keep feeding him after midnight."

You snort, "That's awful."

"And who might you be?" Your mom is already on the offensive, sniffing for a weakness to make a new underhanded comment. The truest form of southern hospitality. 

"The boyfriend, Blackjack."

"Your name is Blackjack?" She asks, confusion coloring the question. 

You, however, have to fight for your life not to hide your face in his shirt and laugh. It shouldn't surprise you that he's not giving his actual name to your family, but you didn't think he was going undercover as his pet rat.

"Jack works too." He shrugs, oversized jacket falling off one shoulder.

You cover your mouth with your hand and pretend to cough. Ronin smirks, reaching out to press his palm to your back. You're going to tell the server; they'll be calling him rat boy for weeks.

If your mom scanned you, it's nothing like the way she scans him. It's a good thing her x-ray vision isn't real, or she'd get a nice close look at scars on his chest and other more compromising details about his anatomy.

"Well, Jack ... welcome to our little get-together. I trust she can show you around and get you a plate to eat."

Ronin hums, "I'm sure he can, thank ya'. Won't you show me around, baby?"

You nod, leaving behind your already offended mother, and head toward the fold-out tables covered in a hodgepodge of dishes. This is always the best part.

"You're a match to a hay barn," You mutter to him, but you don't mind if. Talking back to your family faded in appeal after you grew up. Now you just accept it and hope everything goes by quickly.

Ronin reaches for one of the paper plates, holding it out to you. "What can I say?" He gives a shrug. "Devil's love~ a blaze."

You'll be lucky if he doesn't light the house on fire. The two of you fall into companionable silence, filling your plates with food before you look around, scanning for the best place to park.

There are two chairs left at the kid's table, perfect. You head right for it, Ronin chuckling beside you when he realizes where you're headed. None of your cousins complain when you settle into one of the chairs, with Ronin across from you.

There isn't a single kid over twelve, but that's fine. As you spear into your food, they gawk at Ronin. He's not exactly the kind of guy your family keeps around. They're looking at him like a tiger on display. You smile at the sight of it, winking over the glass of your plastic lemonade.

The questions begin with the truest tact of innocent children, "Why do you look like that?"

Ronin fights a laugh, reclining his chin on a fisted hand. "Like what?"

The kids share a look, silently communicating on how they want to approach the question, "You're wearing skinny jeans."

This is stated like it is some great cardinal sin. You love the way he looks in those pants, always have. No one else notices the blood stains along the hems. You know he gets off on dropping hints about his identity, little drops of metaphorical blood in his wake.

This time Ronin chuckles, pointing a piece of speared watermelon at them, "I am. What about it?"

"But you're a boy!" Your cousin whispers. She's in a frilly pink monstrosity that her mother no doubt insisted on. Poor thing, knowing like you do that she has a deep love for mud puddles.

"So~?" He drawls back, shoving the watermelon into his mouth.

"Boys can't wear skinny jeans." One of your older cousins offers up. The jealous look in his eye says he wants this to not be true. He's in plain jeans and a polo shirt that's likely a hand-me-down. They'd all have so much color if they could express themselves the way they want.

Ronin sees that, and you get the chance to witness that rare part of him that hides most of the time. One would never guess it, but Ronin actually likes kids. You remember the surprise you felt when you found out he donates over half of his money every check.

Sixty-six percent, in fact. Devil that he is, and a lovely contradiction to boot.

"Boys can wear anything they want." Ronin leans in conspiratorially, "Even dresses."

"No!" Your cousins all laugh in unison, but something in your chest warms at his soft words. He means them; it matters that he means them.

"Yes!" Ronin says back, shoving another piece of fruit in his mouth, talking with his mouth full, "They can wear makeup too, see." He points at the eyeliner that curls around his eyes.

One of your uncles is approaching with a plate for his kid. Some of the jubilation you feel mellows as he walks over, but that doesn't dissuade Ronin. You doubt he pays it any mind at all, too distracted by the laughter of children.

"Boys can even wear heels." He goes on to say, eyes sparkling at the shouts of childish dismay. He's having fun riling them up. You're having fun watching him.

"You need to watch your mouth." Your uncle says, and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. People don't speak to Ronin like that; you know this from experience. You know this from the blood hidden on his red jeans.

The two of you have never been in a situation where Ronin wasn't in control. You've collared him for this, and he's let himself be collared. He tilts his head, looking up at your uncle, and forks a piece of fruit. Unconcerned.

He turns back to the kids. "You know, when I was your age, I loved playing dress-up."

By dress up he means carving away the marble of the statue he would later become. Chipping it away piece by piece until he became le génie du mal. 

Upon seeing that Ronin isn't going to listen, your uncle's red-faced anger turns to a more susceptible target—you. "I accept that you come around, because you know how to act appropriately. Don't care what you do out there, as long as you behave here, but bringing this faggot around my kids, what the hell were you thinking?"

You thought you were over this, had found the backbone in you, but the moment he speaks, you turn into a little kid all over again. Quiet, scared, confused, being screamed at by your father for being scared of seagulls. For wanting to live.

Your shoulders fall, head lowering automatically in submission. You open your mouth to apologize.

"Don't even fuckin' think it." Ronin's voice is sharp. Words like whip lashes.

He's told you before never to apologize for existing. To never say sorry unless you mean it. He's promised, while you sobbed in his arms, that he'll help you beat the grotesquerie out of yourself.

So you don't say sorry, because you wouldn't mean it.

"This is the third time I'm telling you to watch your mouth, kid. She should never have brought someone like you."

Ronin stands, and you think about his promise. Don't kill anyone.

You realize your error; he's not collared. He's free roam. Ronin is a hellhound heeled but not chained. You told him not to kill anyone. You said nothing about hurting them.

He's taller than your uncle, and you know that beneath his clothes is streamlined muscle. Your uncle is a beer-gutted asshole who has probably punched two guys in his life. He probably only won those fights because he had friends around to help.

Against the Devil's Butcher, he stands no chance at all. 

Others are starting to notice now; the yard is getting quiet. You could call out to Ronin, tell him to stand down. He will if you ask. You know him well enough to know that. But you don't, because as much as this makes your heart pound, his anger feels cathartic.

He's the fire you can never seem to start. So you say nothing as he looks down at your uncle.

"Who are you talking about?" Ronin asks, his voice like hot oil. Your shoulder Devil, your boy. Yours. Yours. Yours.

"The fuck you mean, who?"

Ronin's head tilts slightly to the left, considering. "Who'd I come to this little shindig with?"

Your uncle looks at you in confusion. He's not putting the pieces together, but you already have. Oh, you love him. 

Your uncle says your name, resurrecting it from where it's been buried. It grates like nails on a chalkboard.

Ronin smiles.

Don't kill anyone.

Ronin socks him in the nose. One strong, hard swing that connects with a crack of knuckles to bone.

Your uncle stumbles back. Across the yard your mother lets out a yelp, and there are other men rushing forward to break up a fight Ronin has already finished. He lifts his hands in a playful surrender that means nothing. His splayed fingers are a lie.

Ronin is never harmless, and he never surrenders. He steps back before anyone can touch him, and that's the kick in the ass you need. You're on your feet, putting yourself between Ronin and your family. If any of them lay a hand on him, he's going to hit someone else, harder than the first time.

Your mother is crying, holding her brother's arm as he glares daggers at Ronin. His nose is broken; you've seen a few at this point. It leaks blood down his face, spattering the grass.

Ronin doesn't seem all that concerned with the goings-on. Instead, he turns and looks at your cousin, meeting his young eyes. With his dreams of skinny jeans and a different life. Ronin points at him, "Remember kids, you can be anything ya' wanna be. The Devil on your shoulder told ya' so."

Your body calms; this isn't good. None of this is going particularly well, but for some reason all you feel is happy. Your asshole of an uncle took a hit he deserved. Your cousins seem to like you still. They might even like you more now.

So you point in their direction, matching Ronin's pose, with the widest grin you can muster, "With the right outfit, you too can be a tranny!"

Your paramour's laugh makes it all worth it.

You learned fast that it's best to let him look. It's not like you have anything to hide; your biggest secret is his biggest secret. Since you started dating in earnest, Ronin has completely changed your computer setup. 

He'd laughed his ass off when you told him you didn't know what a VPN was. But now you're a lot more secure and less likely to accidentally leak something important when you save another sunset picture to your sunsets folder. 

It's nice to have him around. You're certainly never bored if Ronin is there to entertain you. 

This time, however, you're spending the weekend at his place. You've seen some of it in the background of your video calls, but you've never actually been over. Never journeyed into his most private residence. 

You're trying to tone down how excited you are about the whole thing, but you're really fucking excited. He gave you the address and told you to text when you got there. 

It took a bit more work to find the entrance than you expected. He's in a basement unit, which is already tricky to locate, but the door for it is hidden in a back alley with almost no light. You're pretty sure he didn't come get you just to watch you struggle finding the door. He's probably got a camera in the alley somewhere, too busy laughing to help you. 

You flip off the alley in multiple directions just in case and adjust the strap of your backpack as you shoot him a text: I'm here.

No one comes to the door. 

Your phone dings: Did you bring food? 

As if he didn't already know. There's no way he doesn't have a camera somewhere, even if you can't see it. Glancing down at the bag in your hand, full of the foods the two of you always order, you sigh. It's going to get cold. 

Maybe you should flip off his hidden camera again. You text back: Nah, I ate it already. 

He doesn't reply, but a moment later the metal door opens and Ronin stands in the doorway. Every time you see him, your heart seems to pick up, stomach filling with moths. The thrill of your first encounter starting up all over again.

He's in a ripped black and white sweater and baggy shorts, hair in disarray around his head. He reaches out and snags the bag from your loose grip. "You're full of shit." 

With a grin, you follow him into the low-lit hallway. He snaps the door closed, flipping the three locks. This doesn't seem to be his place but instead a back hallway for the building it's attached to. You pass a door labeled boiler room and then turn the corner to another two doors. 

Ronin unlocks one with a key, slipping it back into his pocket. It leads to a stairwell lit with a neon red glow, with music playing from inside. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, eyes reflecting the red neon below, "This is the second death, the lake of fire. Welcome to Hell." 

Without waiting, he sets down the stairs, and you, like a moth to a flame—as it's been since the beginning—are a magnet to follow. There's an energy to Ronin that started this whole thing for you. Something inescapable. 

Joining the server, even knowing your life was in danger. But everyone was so kind in their own way, and it got easier and easier with time to see their views, to discount the lives of others you didn't know. Now you're one of them, not a killer, but certainly complicit. 

So you follow, because how could you not follow? He's only a few steps down, waiting for you, stopping to close up the entrance. More locks, even a metal crossbar that slots into place before he heads downward. 

The narrow cement stairwell leads into a comfortably warm room. The room you've seen the most. It's set up pretty much like a studio apartment. There's a bed in the corner. His desk setup: four monitors, whatever the fuck he needs that many for. Oh, there's the security footage you knew he had. 

There are two camera angles for the alley, one for the hall, and one right outside the door you just passed. 

There's more you couldn't see from the webcam: a tiny kitchen area in the corner and a door leading into a bathroom. The room is lit with a mixture of red neon and miscellaneous low lights. 

It's incredibly cozy and the warmest basement you've ever been in. You spot the space heater in the corner and drop your backpack to the ground by his desk, immediately reaching for your sweatshirt, pulling it off over your head. You pause once it's off, hovering in uncertainty on where to put it. 

Ronin eyes you and snorts, "The fuck you think I am, Mother Mary? Just toss it somewhere." 

You gingerly rest it over the back of his computer chair, which gives you a zing. Your things in his space, you in his space. It's still hard to believe that you've ended up here. 

It's not where you thought you would end up. Somehow you can't imagine your life anywhere else. It's not like you haven't been alone in a room together. He's been in your home, in your bed. You've been fucked so good you could barely get out of bed the next day. 

But there's something about being here in this space knowing that no one else has been. He's told you before he's never let anyone in. The handful of times he's met the others in person, it's always been in a location they all agree to, and back with Angel, he would visit her and not the other way around.

You're going to the next meetup. It's displayed on your calendar in bright red ink, one bold-lined skull. You mark off each day in methodical impatience. 

This is special, even if he's playing it off just like you are, in a game of cat and mouse once again. Neither of you is saying what you truly feel. His sweater is cropped short; when he lifts his arms over his head, it reveals a thin line along his stomach. 

You forget about the takeout. 

With a shuffle, you kick off your shoes, leaving them against the wall before the rest of your clothes are shed. Ronin watches you out of the corner of his eye, feigning neutrality before your boxer briefs are ditched like all the rest. 

The two of you could get sappy and talk about how much this means, or you could show him. You walk to his bed, collapsing in the pile of soft blankets and pillows, tossing your arms up over your head in surrender. 

He blinks at you, head cocking to the side. His tongue dips out along his bottom lip. You like the way it feels when he stares at you like this, as if he's dissecting every sliver of skin. The scars along your chest, the tattoos you've gotten, and the hair that's started to recently appear on your stomach. 

"Impressive," He murmurs.

You spread your legs. "What is?" 

Ronin yanks his sweater off. "That the Devil can be tempted." 

You wake up to a weight draped over your stomach. Ronin's face is pressed into your arm, face smoothed in sleep, lips slightly parted. He's naked minus the necklace he didn't bother to take off. The blankets kicked off to rest around your feet. 

Heating up your place like this would cost more than you can afford, but you like how warm it is. Like you've stepped into a different world. It feels surreal here with all the posters that coat the walls and ceiling, the red glow, and the feeling of Ronin curled against you.

You look up, eyeing some of the posters above you, and get caught on a printed photograph placed among all the others. It's a screenshot from one of your video calls. You, in mid-laugh, leaned back in your computer chair. 

He's got a picture of you above his bed. You smile, reaching up a hand to press through his hair. Ronin jerks, eyes snapping open. His body relaxes the moment he realizes what's touched him, and he goes supine again.

"Sorry." You whisper and continue running your hand through his hair. 

He groans, stretching out against you like a cat. "S'fine." 

Instead of replying, you find yourself looking up at that picture of yourself again. Normally you hate seeing pictures of yourself, never want to look in mirrors or see videos. For some reason this one you don't mind. 

There's a sliver of the real you in it. 

This is your second month taking testosterone. You know that changes don't happen overnight, but still sometimes you find yourself wishing you had a little more to show for it than a couple stomach hairs and a slight drop in your voice. 

But that's greed. 

Envy? 

You're not envious of Ronin. You don't look at his body and covet it for yourself, not in that kind of way. You covet him; you want to trace your tongue along every groove of his skin, but it's his skin, not yours. It's his changes, his scars, his hair, his voice. 

You just want a little more of that for yourself, except you're fucking terrified of the shots. A lifelong phobia of needles means it takes forty-five minutes of nerves to do one ten-minute process. Repeat that every week for the last five weeks. 

At this point you've tried all of the simple tricks. Ice, music, wiggling the skin. But when it comes to putting the needle into your skin, your body locks up. You can't do it. In the end you manage it, and there's always more blood than there needs to be, and you're pretty sure all the testosterone leaks out of you anyways. 

At least that's how it feels, and the knot in your stomach makes you uncomfortable. And the itching, the fucking itching, is the worst. For days, unbearable itching. 

Today is your shot day. 

As of right now you have no fucking clue how you're going to manage it in Ronin's bathroom. You don't want him to know you're having a hard time. 

There are days when you worry if you show too much weakness, he'll get bored of you. It's not even a worry for your life anymore; if he kills you, so be it. The idea of trying to live without all that you've gained sounds far worse than death.

There's no going back to a normal life after this. 

Better to get it over with when he's half asleep; maybe he won't notice how long you spend hiding in his bathroom with your headphones, shaking like a leaf. 

Slipping out from beneath him, you grab your underwear and backpack. He doesn't bother to open his eyes, instead only draws one of the blankets up and hides his face in the pillow you left behind.

Readying yourself, you close the bathroom door, flicking the flimsy lock on it. There's also a much fancier lock on this one, but you don't bother with that. Flipping the toilet seat down, you rest your bag against it and pull on your underwear. 

There's enough space on the counter to get everything set up, and so you go through each of your practiced motions. Step by step. 

Put on your headphones. Start blaring music. Wash your hands. Gather your equipment: testosterone, syringe, draw needle, injection needle, sterile wipe, cotton ball, bandaid. You remove everything from its packaging, neatly stacking it in the plastic container you brought. 

All of this is easy. You can do this without shaking. 

Next you twist on your draw needle. Use the wipe on the top of the bottle and your stomach. Fill the syringe. 0.3. Flick it to get the air bubbles out. Cap the needle, change needles. 

This is the part where it all goes wrong. You sit on the edge of the toilet, feeling the cold porcelain against your thighs. The music is slamming through you, lyrics you know, but your hand is shaking so bad you're worried you'll accidentally stab yourself. 

Giving up for a second, you rest your wrist down on your knee. Breathe. Fuck, just breathe. You stay like that in suspended fear for too long. 

A barely heard thunk. 

You can do this. You can do this. 

You hear your name. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

With an awkward motion you knock the headphones to your shoulders. Ronin says your name again.

"... yes?" 

"You've been in there for like thirty fucking minutes." He complains. 

"Sorry. I thought ... you were asleep." You call back aware as you say it that that makes it sound more suspicious. 

There's a pause, and you think he might have wandered off back to bed. It's not like you're making an escape; there's no window in here. The doorknob wiggles. "Open the door." 

You know that change in his voice; it's lost some of the playful tone. Sharper, higher pitch. A sliver of the grotesque making its way through. 

Do it. You need to just fucking do it so you can clean up and pretend you haven't been freaking out this whole time. 

Your hand trembles. Do it. Do it. You attempt the injection, and your body panics, pulling the needle back out. 

"Son of a bitch," You hiss, tears welling in your eyes. Blood wells in the spot. You're a failure, a coward. A little girl.

The door opens. 

Ronin stands in the doorway like a grim reaper. He's got a knife in hand, white-knuckled. He's wearing his shorts, hanging low around bare hips. There's something manic in his eyes—alley eyes.

"Did you call the fucking cops?" 

You blink at him, letting the syringe droop to your leg. You stabbed yourself pretty good; the blood is starting to trail downwards, catching in the waistband of your underwear. 

"My phone is on your desk," You say. 

The thought of calling hadn't even occurred to you. Turning Ronin in would mean giving up everything good. You have no interest in going back to being a miserable, lonely nine-to-five who can never finish a book. 

He looks behind him, seeing it there. His shoulders loosen, and then he actually looks at you, at your trembling fingers and wet eyes. 

"I've .. I've just been having a hard time," You admit. It feels good to tell him, to be able to tell someone about how hard it's been on you. 

There's no one you trust more than Ronin, even if you're terrified he won't be able to swallow your weakness. He's where you go when things get bad, when you want to give up. A quick word, a call, and he's usually around in some way. 

If you need him, he shows up even if he doesn't ever admit to it. 

He eyes your shaking hands. "Oh darlin'." 

You start crying. 

Ronin sets the knife on the counter, approaching to sink into a crouch in front of you. He takes the needle from your grip and sets it carefully on the edge of the box you have set up. "You've been going through it, huh?" 

Hiding away behind your hands, you nod. You don't want him to see you cry. He's only ever seen you cry once, the day you met. That alleyway. His arms caging you in and tears on your cheeks. Not because you were afraid to die, but because you wanted to live with him by your side. 

"I can - I can do it." You hiccup. "Just takes a long time." 

The headphones get removed, music drifting up from the floor tiles where he leaves them. His hand comes to the back of your neck, a tight scruff grab grip. You like the firmness of it, the way it grounds you to the world around you. To him. 

"You do yours in the stomach?" He asks. 

All you can manage is a shaking nod. 

He pulls your hands from your face, locking his grip around your wrists. Tight enough that it aches. "And why are you hiding this shit from me? You think the Devil can't handle a little blood?" 

When it comes to putting your weaknesses out in the world, you make an attempt not to do it. To never reveal your hand. Always terrified that today will be the last of the good old days. 

But you never tell him that. You hide it away. 

I love you is one thing. I would be nothing without you is another. 

Maybe you should; maybe you should rip off the band-aid. Last night was lovely. Surrounded by him in the warmth of his hearth and heart. Fingers to your pulse, hips to your hips, lips on your throat, and dirty nothings in your ears. 

You felt so special beneath his fingertips. This would be a beautiful place to die. 

Ronin quiets when he looks you in the eye. Maybe he sees where your mind has taken you, to the half surrender. To giving into the void. 

"I think I'm not nearly interesting enough to keep the attention of the first Trickster. I'm a coward." 

Ronin giggles. He sinks to his knees, settling down onto his ankles as he continues to laugh. "You know - heh - you know what you did last night?" 

You shrug, not sure where he's going with this. 

"Okay, okay." He wraps his hands around the plush of your waist, digging his fingers into your skin. "You're writing a book, googling all sorts of fun little details. How to dispose of a body. How much blood can someone lose? Blood loss symptoms." 

Ronin snorts. Another giggle.

"And then you join a dark web server full of actual fuckin' serial killers. Any sane person leaves, makes a run for it, and tells the cops. You stay. You stay for months. You fall in love~ with the Devil himself. A butcher, The Butcher. You come out to meet him. You get the chance to stab him, and instead you stick your pretty little tongue in his mouth." 

He reaches out, pressing a thumb into your mouth. You give in, letting him part your lips. "This tongue." He murmurs, touching the tip of your tongue until you taste the salt of his finger. 

"You let a man with a body count in the dozens take you home. You let him into your house. You let him rail you for hours~." Ronin smiles, bright as summer sunshine. "And then you stay in that server. You stay with that killer. You come into his sanctuary. You come three times over in his sanctuary," He winks. "You make the choice to get rid of the grotesqueness in you."

He's leaning in closer. You're captivated by how he looks in the pink-tinged bathroom light. The way the necklace rests on his collar. The Devil is an angel—you forget; he reminds you.

"You're many things, baby; a pussy ain't one of them. And I ain't ever gettin' rid of you." 

You let yourself droop forward, a pile of bones into his arms. He cradles you, nuzzling his cheek against the side of your head. "I'm gonna let you in on a secret." He whispers, warm and comfortable in your ear, "And maybe you've heard me before but never really heard me, but I fucking love you. That means your weaknesses are my weaknesses to fix or exploit. Depends on the potential, I suppose."

It comes down to trust. You have to trust him. That means all chips on the table. 

You press a tentative kiss to his ear. "Will you help me?"

He huffs out a breath, "Coulda saved us all some time by starting with that." 

Against your wants, he pulls away, eyeing the blood on your stomach. He trails a finger through it, shoving his finger in his mouth as he stands. You stay sitting as he rustles around beneath the sink, pulling out a sticker-covered black tackle box. 

He pops it open, and you realize it's his own setup. Silently you watch him sink to the floor, shoving up his shorts on one leg. He follows most of the same steps you do, minus going through the proper hygienic steps. 

Ronin doesn't seem to give much of a damn about washing his hands or his leg. He fills the syringe with the steady hand of familiarity. It's strange to watch someone else go through the process. All you've done is watch some online videos. 

When he switches needles, he looks up at you from his spot on the floor. "This the hard part?" 

You nod. 

"Scared the needle will break?" 

You nod again. That's something you think about constantly. What if it breaks? What if you can't get it out? 

"God, you're adorable with your eyes all wide like that. Like a buck about to get shot." He grins at you, "Watch me." 

At his whim you watch as he neatly presses the needle into his thigh. His hand doesn't shake; it slides right in without difficulty. He's steady as he does the injection, no signs of discomfort on his face. 

He sighs, an exhale of breath that feels like a concession. 

Then because he never lets you know peace, he lets it go, syringe sticking out of his leg. "Ronin! Be careful." 

He winks again and smacks the syringe. It wiggles in his leg. You squeak, and he does it again. The syringe falls to the floor, but you're stuck on the needle still in his leg. 

"Oh no." He hums, sarcasm heavy in his voice. 

Ronin may be calm, but you sure as fuck are not. You drop to your knees beside him. "Fuck, fuck. Why did you do that? What do we do? We need to go to the ER?" 

His hand catches your chin, forcing your eyes from the spot on his leg to his face. There's nothing but cold calm and the edge of amusement. "Honey." His grip tightens on your chin. The pain sharpens your focus. "Watch me." 

You steady yourself and watch as he reaches into his tackle box. He pulls a pair of rubber-tipped tweezers from the box, lines it up, and pulls the needle out of his leg. 

It was that easy? 

"Did you see how hard I had to hit it to break the needle?" He asks, holding the small piece of metal out to see. Blood begins to well up from his leg, spilling down to the floor. "And you see how little I'm bleeding even though I smacked it around?" 

He hurt himself to make a point to you. A part of you is offended on his behalf, but then you think of all the crazy shit Ronin has done in his life. It's hard to be that worried knowing he's gone toe-to-toe with plenty of people. 

But he made his point. The needles are hard to break and removable if the worst were to happen. He made the injection look easy. 

His blood trickles to the floor, but still he's unconcerned. What's a cat scratch in comparison to some of his scars?

"Not so bad, huh?" 

You swallow the knot in your throat and shrug. It helps a little, but when you think of doing it yourself, you go straight to prey panic. 

"C'mere." He pulls you into his lap. You fumble forward, one of his hands coming around your waist. The other reaches for the needle he's left on the counter. 

The two of you settle on the floor. He surrounds you, your bare chest to his, legs to legs. The feel of him is everywhere. His palm comes to your sternum. "Put your head on my shoulder." 

You do as he asks, letting your head droop backward.  You close your eyes, feeling his hand scrape down your chest.

Hot breath. He murmurs directly into your ear. "For he is a liar and the father of lies." 

Everything feels warm, heady, and light. He grips your stomach. You surrender. A pinch of pain and Ronin's lips on your neck. He bites you; the sting rushes between your legs. 

Something clatters to the floor. You barely hear it, barely feel anything other than his mouth to your pulse point. A hand dips beneath your boxer briefs between your thighs, and your body sings from the claiming touch. 

He laughs, licking your neck. "Lie with your Devil." 

You fall again, willing as Adam into temptation. 

After all, he's taking time out of his afternoon to dye your hair to begin with. The two of you are in old clothing; he's wearing an already bleach-stained NIN t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. You're in a ratty tank top and jeans with more holes than fabric. 

Music plays from his bedroom, the door to the bathroom left open. There are no windows in his place, so it reeks of chemicals, but you don't mind it. Being at Ronin's always makes you more comfortable than anywhere else. 

You're propped up on a stool, feet tucked between one of the bars as he smothers more dye on your treated hair. He hums along with the music, methodically going through the process of adding the raccoon stripes you asked for. 

Technically you could have done this yourself, but it would have taken double the time and triple the amount of stress. Ronin has plenty of experience, and beneath that, you like the feeling of his fingers in your hair as he works. 

It's oddly domestic, all things considered. 

"So is the red to please the Devil?" He asks, reaching for more foil. 

If you tell him the truth, his head isn't going to fit through the doorway, but then that's what you like about him. "Maybe." 

"Tsch, maybe." He grunts and tugs at a strand of your hair. "Maybe my ass." 

You laugh, looking toward the mirror. Normally this is something you make a point to avoid, but you want to see him in the reflection. He's got dye on his fingers, clearly unconcerned about it. It's cute the way he squints at the spot he's working at like it'll help him focus better.

The sight of you, however, sort of dampens the view. There's a delay, a disconnect when you meet your eyes. It's you, but it's not you. That's how it's always been. Once you look, it's hard to stop looking, getting caught on that delay, focusing on it. Trying to speed up so it matches. It never matches.

Ronin meets your eye through the reflection and tugs on a strand of your hair again. "Feel that?" 

You glare at him. Yes, obviously you felt that. It hurt. 

He giggles, finishing the last section of your hair, pulling back to let it sit. You stay dutifully in your spot as he rinses the excess dye on his hands down the drain. It still leaves his fingers reddish-pink, stained for the time being. 

Your eyes track him in the mirror as he flicks water at you, feeling the droplets collide with your cheek. He sticks his tongue out, piercing glinting before he takes up residence in the spot he vacated. 

Instead of your hair, his hand loops around to your throat, palm to where your adam's apple should be, fingers on the underside of your jaw. He bends down, cheek against cheek, getting more dye on himself.

His hand slides up to your cheek, puffing your lips apart in a way that makes you look like a fish. You laugh. He smiles. 

"And all is right in Hell." He murmurs, turning to kiss your squeezed cheek. "When you see yourself and smile." 

Maybe it would be an easier pill to swallow if you didn't make it so goddamn obvious for the rest of the world. The hat you wear with he/him stitched into the side. The trans flag shirts and the binders and height inserts in your shoes that hurt your ankles. You even got brave and corrected him once.

But still every morning: 

Need anything from the case, ma'am? 

Good morning, miss. 

Coffee for you and the girls? 

Little things that add up higher and higher, and maybe he doesn't mean anything by it, but maybe he does. You collect your two coffees, 'for the girls'. 

You and Ronin. 

The girls, apparently. 

Ronin leans against the side of your car, filling the tank. It's a rare treat to spend a morning with him, but he's waiting for a part to fix his car, so you're giving him a ride to the shop until then. You don't mind; it's kind of couple-y, to be honest, and you like that. 

You hold the coffee out to him, and he collects it with a yawn. He returns the nozzle, reaching up to pull his beanie harder into his head before heading for the passenger seat. 

It takes you longer to get in the car, stealing a second to try and shake off the unpleasantness of the exchange. But somehow this guy just gets under your skin, makes it itch. Makes you ask yourself, am I real? Am I just a fake?

Is this a phase? Am I just acting out? Do I exist?

You know deep down none of this is a passing fad to you. This is who you are, and since you started all this, you feel better, healthier, the laughs come easier. But still he gets under your skin like a sliver, this nameless motherfucker. 

Dropping into your seat, you burn your mouth on your coffee and shove it into the cup holder, turning the engine. 

Ronin holds his coffee forward, eyeing it. "You didn't spit in this, did ya'?" 

You roll your eyes. 

"Not that I'd really mind, kinda romantic~ actually." 

"Take the lid off and I'll see what I can do." You reply dryly, turning out of the lot. 

Ronin smirks toward the lid, but instead of taking it off, his hand comes to your thigh. He squeezes your leg, fingers dancing upward and down again to some invisible song. 

The way it feels makes you all too aware that your thighs are part of the problem, part of why no one looks at you, and things, boy. You've tried all sorts of pants, but none of them seem to quite mask what your mother called birthing hips. 

You reach for his hand and move it off your leg without saying anything. Guilty the moment he takes the hint and returns his hand to his knee. You crank the music, blaring music filling the car. 

Shit like this really shouldn't get to you; it's stupid. That guy doesn't even know you, but here you are letting it ruin what would have otherwise been a perfectly enjoyable morning. 

Ronin turns the music down. "Spill."

You don't want to talk about it because you're aware of the illogical. It's selfish, but you can't help but wish you looked more like Ronin. Tall, post surgeries, deeper voice. People don't see a woman when they look at him. They don't call him miss at the diner. 

But that's cruel, and you'd never say it out loud, never even consider trying to make him feel guilty just because he's further along than you. 

"S'nothing." You shrug and reach for the volume. He smacks your hand away. 

"Lie to God, not me." He huffs. You come to a stop at a red light and glance over at him. His dark eyes are set on you, waiting for an answer. He's never been very good at handling the word no. 

Anger zips through you. Frustration at the situation, frustration at your own body, and frustration with him for making you talk about it when you don't want to. 

"Gas station guy's a dick. That's it." You snap. The light turns green, and you use the excuse not to look toward him again. 

"What'd he say~?" He pushes—always pushes. You're certain he's lost all ability to drop a subject.

"It's not - it doesn't - fuck." You fumble through your words, jerk into the parking lot of Ronin's work, and throw it into park abruptly enough that both of you jerk with the motion. "It's me. I'm the problem. The way I look. Doesn't matter what I do or what I wear or how I act. Or if I nod up instead of down. Or sit with my legs spread or crossed. I'm just ... her." 

His hand is on your jaw, fingers digging into flesh as he tilts your head toward him. You know that look, have seen it time and time before. The first time you saw it was in the early days, his low voice asking you to find out his name. 

The night you met, his arms caging you in. The eyes of the Devil. 

Ronin says your name, sharp, inarguable. "She's dead. Buried. Worm food. You'll never be her again." 

They're the words you need to hear even if you don't know how to ask for them to be said. You relax in his grip, letting him hold your head up. 

"I think," He leans in until you can feel his breath on your face and smell the coffee he's been drinking, "It's time for you to let a little of the rot in. I'ma text you an address. Be there, say ... midnight tonight."

His hand loosens, thumb tracing your cheek. "Wear white." 

The address ends up being in the shittiest part of town, an area you've never been keen to drive at night, but you do so anyways. It's Ronin, and when he tells you to do something nine times out of ten, you find yourself doing it. 

So you step out of your car into the dark of the night, crickets chirping in the distance. There is a subtle breeze, a bite hinting at a change in seasons. You run your hand along your face, walking toward the tall, nondescript building. 

The door opens, unlocked, but your gut tightens with that feeling of warning. Illegal entry. A place you're not supposed to be. It's dark inside, but there's a light at the end of the hall. You travel toward it, the hair on the back of your neck rising. 

You hear a single scuff of a shoe against concrete, and then there's something cold against your throat, with arms over your shoulders, holding it in place. A mouth to your ear, hot and familiar, "Boo."

The instant gut reaction to throw an elbow tappers. It's his crowbar, likely, against your neck. He's not applying any pressure; it feels like a tease, a hello.

You roll your eyes even as you smile, "Oh no, I'm terrified." 

Ronin chuckles, "You should be." He murmurs your name like a compliment; your stomach flutters. "After desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.  Are you ready to dance with the Antichrist?" 

Perhaps it is not the shift in seasons you felt but instead a change in yourself. The start of something wide and vast in you. This is one of his tests. 

Ronin loves to test you, push and pull. Spread the rot. 

"What are you up to?" You whisper, leaning your head back until you're cheek to cheek.

His lips trace along your skin as he speaks, "I got ya' a present." 

Ronin's presents vary. He removes the crowbar from your throat and takes your hand instead, squeezing your palm as he leads you into the dark. 

Once you reach the light source hidden inside this spanning warehouse, you have to blink hard to adjust. It's a small room, no windows, empty of furniture. Tarps laid out across the floor, a single plastic chair in the center. 

There's a man in the chair, tied to it, blindfolded, gagged, and with a pair of headphones taped to his head. You can hear the metal blasting from here. 

It's the gas station attendant. 

With a dramatic clap, he gestures out toward the man, "Ta-da!" 

At this point you've seen Ronin kill a multitude of people, all sorts, sometimes for a reason, sometimes for no reason at all. It's never been because of you before, at least not that you're aware of. 

This is different. The tone in the air has your whole body flooding with adrenaline. 

His voice is in your ear again, the Devil on your shoulder. Your shoulder Devil. "I want ya' to do something for me, darlin'." 

You know what he is going to say. 

"Kill him for me, would~ ya'. Could ya'?" He presses the crowbar into your hand, curling your fingers around it. "Fall for me. Bury the grotesquerie in his skull. It would be so~." 

He sighs like a lover in lieu of the last word. 

Your hand tightens on the cool metal, feeling the weight of it when he lets go. Kill him. Become one of them. 

No longer the deceitful writer hiding in a den of wolves. No longer having to lie to your friends. Make Ronin happy. Do you want to?

This guy hasn't really done anything wrong to you. Sure, he's a bit blind to the obvious, or he doesn't care to be correct, but is that enough to justify murder? 

When Ronin kills, when you watch him lash out, you no longer think of the person beneath the blow. You're always caught on him—the way he smiles, the sound of his laugh, the shape of his arms on the downswing. 

Somewhere along the way you stopped seeing his victims as people. They became paper targets in a gun range. Something that didn't keep you up at night. The first one you witnessed stuck out, bringing back the memories of when you were a teen and you had to put your pet down. 

The life vanishing away and the tears that followed as you realized they were gone and that the vanishing itself was something bigger than you. Bigger than anyone. 

There's something about watching the life go, flickering away to some unexplored place you can't follow. It's the part you can never look away from. 

Could you be the one to do it? 

"Can we take the blindfold and gag off?" You ask.

Ronin steps back. "It's your kill, baby; you can do whatever your heart desires." 

He approaches the man, slipping a knife from his pocket, and cuts the blindfold instead of removing the headphones duct-taped across his forehead. His eyes are wide, flooding with tears as he looks between you. 

You're not sure if you can do this. It's too much, too permanent. 

Ronin removes the gag next, pressing a finger to his lips in warning. There must be something in his expression because he doesn't shout for help. 

You step closer, fingers flexing against the crowbar. You've seen him use it so many times; you know where to hold and how to swing, in theory that is. But you don't know if you can. 

He'll do it for you if you chicken out. Ronin will probably give you shit for a few days, might be disappointed, but the guy will be dead. There's no letting him go if he's seen your faces. 

Are a few off comments and a dismissive personality reason enough? Ronin doesn't even need a reason; he picks people at random. You've seen him select targets because he didn't like the shade of their hair. 

Maybe you're just not meant for it, not one of them. There's something in you incompatible with the rest of the group you view as family. Never really fitting in anywhere. Not even the place you want to fit in most. 

The attendant looks at you with big glassy eyes, his lips part, and he says, "You're the girl who comes in all the time in the mornings. Why are - ." 

Something breaks. 

Something integral in you cracks like old glass. Spider-webbing upward until the whole core of you shatters. 

That rage in which you were told from the very beginning to repress, rises up like a tidal wave and swallows you whole. Sit pretty. Smile bright. Give. Give. Give. 

Little sweet girl in her Barbie plastic case. Never taken out to be played with. 

You grip the crowbar like a bat and swing. The metal catches him right in the face. Blood spurts from his nose, and the power of it topples him over onto his back. He lets out a gurgle of agony.

Fuck you.

Another swing, just as steady as the last. 

Fuck every asshole who doesn't pay attention to the obvious signs. To every diner server who can't get it right. To every attendant. To every shit family member. Every annoying co-worker who told you you'd regret not having tits in the long run. Every doctor who insisted you'd want children someday.  Every book written about the transgender epidemic. 

You shriek and bring it down again. There's more blood now; his face isn't quite his face in the same way. The shape has changed. You look him in the eye. 

Still alive. Terrified. 

You are either the woman he never expected to be capable of this or the man he should have been scared of. 

You are everything. A culmination of every experience. 

The final swing squelches, and you watch the life fade like an LED lightbulb being turned off. There and now gone. Dark. Vanished. Finite. 

You stay there, crowbar in hand, the world at your feet, and Ronin's laughter in your ears. You don't smile, and you don't laugh. That's for him, not for you. 

There's blood coating your clothes, sticking to the white fabric of your t-shirt. You understand why he wanted you to wear white now. The breaths heave out of you as you look at what you've done. 

He giggles again before reaching out to touch your face. His hands slick against your skin, and you realize there must be blood on your cheeks. Ronin smiles with a hum, biting his bottom lip, "Darlin', you're divine." 

The thin blanket drooped over your legs does almost nothing but tease you with the idea of being warm. The silence in the air is awkward; it's been awkward for days. You have a new bunkmate. 

Simon the motherfucking Butcher. The kingpin of Eden. People avoid him like he's got some long-lost plague, but to you he doesn't seem all that dangerous. Not to say you believe him not to be, just not the kind of guy that's going to hurt you.

He's a bit sad, honestly, quiet, and reserved. Other than a grunt of a hello, he hasn't said a word in three days. You've been watching him, though. 

Maybe it's the loneliness, maybe it's the desire for any kind of stimulation from the oppressive boredom, but he's attractive. Not attractive in the 'sure why not' way, but attractive in the 'I really need to stop staring at your arms before you notice' way.

It's his eyes, the slope of his jaw lined with stubble, the way he does push-ups every morning. You're notoriously bad at watching him out of the corner of your eye when he goes through his exercise routine.

The C.O.I. takes a hands-off approach to their prisoners. There's simply not enough manpower on the station to keep watch. So they lock you in here and show up with food unless they have something for you to do.

Right now there isn't a single person in sight. People aren't keen to break out, because there's nowhere to go. Sure, if you manage to get out of your cell, what then? Kill everyone on the station? Throw yourself out of an airlock?

So they leave you here in the silent cold. The brig is huge; there are only six other people that you can tell, and they're all somewhere out of sight in the expanse of rooms.

This is death by boredom. Punishment through slow insanity.

You know he doesn't want to talk, but fuck, you haven't had a cellmate in months, and your brain is ready to start scratching symbols into the walls. If he lashes out, at least that's something. You'd take a fight as long as it's something to do.

"So, what does Eden do with its prisoners?" You ask, not looking at him. You keep your eyes set on the ceiling.

Simon doesn't say anything at first, but there's a rustling as he shifts on his cot on the other side of the tiny room. "We eat 'um."

A smile curls on your face. "Oh, really. What do we taste like?"

You don't have to look his way to know he's fucking with you. So there's a sense of humor hiding beneath that stern glower. You'd bet that other people take that dry tone at face value. How many dumbasses have believed his answer?

"Radishes." He replies wryly, "Salty ones."

You chance it and let your head fall to the side to look in his direction, surprised to find he's already looking at you. There's no smile to match yours, but he doesn't look particularly pissed off, so maybe that's progress.

"Damn," You sigh, "I've never had a radish. What they look like?"

Simon blinks in surprise. "They're, um, like reddish, about this big." He holds his thumb and pointer finger together to show size. "Kind of spicy."

"Huh." You hum. If given the chance, you'd try one, but then with food as limited as it is, you'd try anything. The gruel they feed you leaves plenty to the imagination. "So what do you actually do with your prisoners?"

It's clear when you asked the question he wasn't expecting a genuine conversation, so this time he considers his answer, his hand coming up to trace along the black leather of the knife sheath he has. There are no resources for prisoner garb, so they just leave you in whatever they arrest you in.

For him that's the full Brother of Eden getup; for you it's a long-sleeved shirt, pants, and boots with a hole in the sole. 

"Recycling." He says, this time you can tell it's not a joke.

Eden executes its prisoners. You can't say that fact is all that surprising for an extremist cult. The Coalition incinerates its dead, using the ashes in metalwork and repairs. Not so much a structural thing as an honorary one.

"What does that mean?"

He eyes you, looking for how genuine your question is. "Compost for the garden. Life begets life." Simon's hand touches the scar on his neck where they've burned his tattoo off. Unnecessary in your opinion, but what does your opinion count for?

"Seems useful," You say, "More purposeful than burning."

You must pass some kind of test because he relaxes, turning on his side to face you. In response, you do the same. The room isn't huge; if you both reached out, your fingers would touch.

"I'm Simon."

You could say the obvious thing, telling him you already knew that, but you don't. Instead, you tell him your name and give him a chance to be something different than his reputation. 

"Most people don't talk to me, especially Coalition prisoners," Simon says.

So the silence was for you, not for him. People probably don't like him much, but you didn't know anyone on Filament Station, and you doubt he acted alone anyways. If he killed that many people, that's impressive, but you doubt it's the full truth.

"I'll talk to anyone," You chuckle, "Don't care who it is."

"The boredom?" He asks, but it doesn't sound much like a question. Anyone who's spent any time in this place knows how debilitating having nothing to do is. You think that might actually be by design, so you work harder on their tasks. Craving stimulation enough to work harder than you would have otherwise.

"The boredom," You confirm. "Want to play a game?"

Simon gives an awkward half shrug. "Sure."

You should have attempted to talk to him days ago; those are days of mind-numbing silence that could have been avoided. "I ask a question, then you ask a question."

"Not much of a game?" 

"You could watch me gnaw off my own hand instead?" You reply, lifting your wrist to your mouth. 

Simon chuckles, and the sound rocks through you like a hit to the gut. Shit, and you thought he had nice arms; it's nothing on that gruff laugh. "Fine, ask a question."

You're not trying to scare him off right away. The last thing you want is to make him irritated or uncomfortable and lose your chance at conversation, so you start simple. "What's your favorite color?"

This is the question you always start with when convincing people to play this game. It's a good way to figure out how seriously they'll take it and how much they're interested in sharing. Someone who writes the question off is going to be relatively close-lipped. Someone eager to answer is going to be an open book.

"Blue," Simon says with little hesitation. "Like Earth."

You reply with your favorite color, giving a general reason why you enjoy it. He listens, which is more than you can say for some of the other people you've attempted to talk to. Simon seems just as eager for connection as you.

"Do you have a favorite animal?" He asks.

Okay, more impersonal questions; you can work with that. You think of the animals you've heard of. The C.O.I. has movie nights every week; that's where you've seen most of them. It takes longer than it should to come up with an animal, but you get there in the end. When you tell him, he nods.

"I like birds." He says, "But also insects are cool, like earthworms."

"I don't think those are an animal," You say.

His eyes dart away. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Shit, well, you didn't want it to sound like you thought the worms were stupid. You don't actually know much about them. "But they seem ... interesting?"

"They aerate soil." Simon offers up, like, this will change your perception of them. This seems useful in theory, except you've never even seen dirt before. All you have is movies to go off of. Not a lot of movies focusing on worms.

"If you could be doing something else right now, what would it be?" You ask, shifting toward a more serious question to see if he'll let you.

Simon gives this a fair amount of thought, and you're happy to let him as you prepare your own answer. Even the lulls in conversation feel better than generalized silence. 

"Sitting with the Last Tree."

You can't imagine what it must be like. Huge probably. What would it smell like? Feel like? Trees have always seemed impossibly large in movies, way bigger than people. Like living buildings.

"Does it have a smell?" You ask, unable to stop yourself.

Simon sighs, "Yeah, it's kind of ... I don't know how to describe it. Musty, but not old. Have you read a book?"

You nod, only a few, but you've gotten the chance.

"Smells a little like that, but greener somehow. It's nice."

Your imagination is only so good, but you doubt you'll ever get the chance. Not in this life. Maybe the next one will have trees. "I would go swimming."

You've seen swimming pools in movies, big open tubs full of water. Pointlessly massive and filled to the brim. A huge gluttonous waste. You're certain it would feel incredible to be surrounded by water like that.

"You know how to swim?" He asks. 

"Not a fuckin' clue, but I figure I'll just flap my arms around until it clicks. The how has gotta be ingrained in here." You tap your head, "Right?"

"For your sake I hope so." Simon smiles, his hand coming to his mouth to hide the sight. His efforts to conceal his glee only endear the expression more to you.

"Worst case, cool way to die, I guess." You joke.

"If you could have one thing added to our cell, what would it be?" Simon asks.

Now you're getting into the swing of it. "Music."

He nods. "A heater."

"Fuck, I could get behind that." You sigh, flicking the thin blanket. "It's like they're hoping we'll freeze to death."

"No fuckin' kidding." Simon complains. "Did a lot of mechanics back at home, so I'm not used to this cold."

It's always been cold, but you've never had to suffer it without at least an extra blanket. You shiver just thinking about it, curling in a little tighter. 

"What's something you miss?" You ask.

You expect something to do with Eden, maybe some reference to a time before the Quiet Rapture. Instead, his face goes pink, eyes drifting away, and you're hooked. What is he thinking about? Is it what you're thinking about?

Should you press the issue? Should you tease?

Your baser nature wins out, "Oh, come on, don't be shy."

Simon hesitates, and you bumble forward with all the tact of a man who has spent far too much time alone in this box.

"Blowjobs. I miss blowjobs."

Across from you, Simon chokes on his own spit. Wide eyes turn to meet yours at your blunt honesty before he laughs. It's a delightful laugh, all bright and stunned. The kind of laugh that sinks into your skin and makes everything a little easier to swallow.

"Fuck, don't talk around it or anything." Simon laughs into his palm again.

"You've clearly never had a good blow or you'd be saying the same thing." You goad. This is more fun than you've had in months. When was the last time you managed to do anything reminiscent of flirting?

"I was never really the kind to want ... um ... always preferred the giving aspect."

Your body flushes with heat at the idea. The touch of another, his dark brown eyes looking up through his lashes. Dangerous thoughts, too hopeful, and too much longing to go with them.

The two of you share a quiet look, the change in the air becoming more obvious. Charged with something different.

You could change the subject, letting the beginnings of tension drip away back to something more sterile and polite. Or you could chase the idea down a long stretch of road and risk making a fool of yourself.

It's not like anyone would care. You're talking quietly enough that no one else can hear you; out of sight, out of mind. Food won't come for a few hours at least. The cell is open, but all is quiet.

You curl a little closer to the edge of the bed. Simon does the same.

"What did you like about it?" You ask; it's a whisper this time. Low and gravelly. 

You can see him swallow, the way it moves the scar on the side of his neck. "Being needed," He admits.

It's a vulnerable answer instead of a flirtation, and that's the first domino down a long row that will no doubt lead you to trouble. To affection.

Your body unwinds, head resting against the too-thin pillow. Tentatively, your tongue traces your bottom lip. This is selfish, no matter what way you approach it. But isn't it okay to be a little selfish from time to time?

To fill the ache with something better. You're a cog in a machine, to be used until you break by the community that swore you belonged in it. Can't you have this?

"I could need you," You whisper, voice cracking.

He looks so desperate, red-cheeked, and dark-eyed. Neither of you speaks; it becomes this unspoken thing as Simon rises from his bed. He moves with such purpose, and you find yourself rolling onto your back.

The very idea of it has blood rushing down between your legs, half hardness and tender want as your breath speeds up. It's been so long. 

The bed is welded down, with all metal bars and solid welding. It doesn't creak as Simon slips onto it. You scoot up; he moves down, settling his weight on your ankles.

The casual forays you've had before weren't exactly like this, so you don't know what to do. Touch him? Don't? Do you hold or stay impartial?

He looks up at you with those eyes, and you can't stop yourself from reaching out as he leans in. Your fingers find the soft skin of his cheek. Simon's eyes close as he leans into the touch. As he cranes forward, your hands find their way into his hair, softer than you thought it would be.

"Didn't want to say before," You murmur, "But you're sort of beautiful."

"Could feel you," Simon replies, leaning down to nuzzle into the skin of your stomach, "Watching me."

"Hard not to."

"Liked being watched." He says and scrapes his teeth along the edge of your hip. 

You sigh, trepidation building, cock pressing against your pants. This isn't how you expected this conversation to go, but your body isn't about to complain about it. 

Not as Simon's hands slip beneath your shirt, fingernails scratching along your ribs. You hum out a pleased sigh as he kisses your stomach. He moves like a lover, not a stranger, and somehow it makes the empty space inside you feel less a void.

Is he the same as you, desperately trying to fill the unfillable?

His hands scrape back down to tangle with the button of your pants. Your heart thunders in your ears, filling the quiet. An unfathomable desire fills you at the idea that there might be something akin to pleasure in this cold hell.

Simon's touch is gentle, a bit hesitant as he guides your pants down to the tops of your thighs. You're not wearing anything beneath, which seems to take your cellmate by surprise because he releases a quiet breath that ghosts against your warming skin.

Your cock twitches just from the sight of him a few inches away. He looks up at you, seeking permission that you've already given him. You nod anyway, tracing his jaw. 

He only allows a slight pause of hesitation before he takes you in hand, looping his fingers around aching hardness. Even that simple touch feels more intense than it ever has.

There's a curiosity to the way he touches, stroking you. He spends more time watching your face than looking at your cock, and you're not sure if you've ever had a partner like that. His other hand dips to cup your balls, and you let out a low groan as your head falls back.

"Will you ... " He whispers, the air of it ghosting across you, "Say my name?"

"Of course, Simon."

Not Simon the Butcher, not convict, not Edenite, not Brother. Just Simon.

That seems to be all it takes because he sinks his mouth down on you almost before you get his name out, and he's so hot. The heat of his tongue on the underside of your cock bends your spine, one hand clinging to the sheets, the other tangling in his hair.

You don't mean to push him down; you're not even thinking about it when you guide his head, but he follows the direction and takes more of you. Your cock grazes the back of his throat, and you moan.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, did it used to feel like this?

Simon is looking at you again, eyes sparking with something you think might just be mischief as he takes as much of you as he can. You pet his head in approval, hips bucking upward. His pace is slow; he's not trying to rush.

You doubt it will matter too much. It's been too long, and he's too warm above you, too sweet to look at. 

"Shit, shit, ungh, Simon." 

His tongue slides side to side as he pulls on your balls and your head goes fuzzy with pleasure. You're jerking your hips up into him, and he's letting you. How nice it is to have someone, even for a moment, to care for you.

He gags and you mutter out a quick apology. Simon shakes his head, pulling back to speak with the tip of your cock still in his mouth. "Don't mind."

"You're a fucking godsend." You say, and in response, he goes back to his steady ministrations. Your hand releases the sheets to touch his jaw, thumb sweeping in a silent thank you across his cheekbone.

Everything feels too tight, toes curling, a shaky groan bordering on too loud slipping from you. He looks so good. Long lashes and dark eyes that gaze at you. Spit rolls down your length, sliding across the top of your thighs.

The way he's bent over you blocks out most of the world, making it seem more like it's the two of you and nothing else. Finally, you're not cold anymore.

His pace quickens, and it snaps your attention to the way his hands are moving, stroking you and massaging your balls at the same time. You keen, thrusting upward, chasing a high that will come too soon and not soon enough.

"Where, ah, where, where should I come?" You mumble out, struggling to string the words into an actual sentence.

Simon doesn't reply; instead, he sinks deeper into his throat. Fuck. Not yet, not yet.

You try to think of something distracting, but all you can think about is how at home you feel. Heat floods you, hot honey, through your gut and down your legs. 

Your hips stutter out of rhythm, your vision brightening as you squeeze your eyes shut. You fill his mouth and feel him swallow what you offer as you collapse onto the cot. Your breath heaves out of you. still holding on to him.

"Simon," You sigh feeling like a wet piece of paper, "Holy fuck."

He sucks the tip of your cock clean before leaning up. The grin he sends your way is scandalous, tongue tracing his bottom lip. That one look is all it takes for you to know you're on the fast track of being utterly besotted with him.

He's listened to his mom's bright and bushy-tailed gushing about Maekar all his life. The red lines around their wrists are always present, a reminder of their dumb bond. His father's embarrassingly whipped. Valarr has been making it his problem all damn summer when his showed up to lead straight to some pink-haired Tyrosh model. 

Aerion's wrist remains, as he suspects it always will, empty of a red string. Not everyone has a soulmate, apparently; that's the ironic part.

Leave it to the world to say love is out there and then follow it up with but not for you. Fuck soulmates and Valarr's girlfriend and Daeron's hopefully speeches about how his will appear someday. If it does, he'll be too drunk to notice it.

He's done with the whole thing. Done with thinking about it. Done with considering who in the world would suit him. 

Aerion is completely fed up until his hand reaches forward to press to the steering wheel of his car to see a thin red line with a dangling ethereal string that flows left.

And then all of his complaining vanishes like a puff of smoke, and he's driving. Following the string as he leaves the estate behind and hits the highway fast. He drives for hours. Two, five, eight. At hour fourteen he pulls into a hotel, passes out, and is back in the car again as soon as he's awake.

He crosses near the entire length of the country, through the flower fields of the Reach, across bridges and wetlands, and up into the North. Through the mountains, past dark pine forests until he can see the Wall itself. It's not as tall as it used to be, or so history says. 

Apparently it's half the height it once was, but it's tall enough he can see it clearly from miles away. Every once and awhile he finds himself checking the thread looped around his wrist, making certain he is heading in the right direction. 

He's a little worried as he drives that they're going to turn him away at the gates; Castle Black is not an area that Aerion is confident he will have jurisdiction over. Being a prince tends to get him into the door of most places, but the North has always been restrictive. They love their laws up here.

The roads narrow and signs appear for different turnoffs. The Wall is one of the biggest prison reformation systems they have in the country, and his car is hating the heavily salted roads and fluttering snow. The heat is blasting to keep the cold from creeping in, but even then he's aware that he's brought no coat. He's in a fucking silk t-shirt.

A shiver runs through him as he follows the thread through one of the exit turnoffs. It leads him to a gated checkpoint. There's an armed guard in a tiny building beside the fence, the barbed wire and chain link pulled shut. Is his soulmate a criminal? He doesn't much give a shit, but it'll make things difficult. 

Once someone is sent to the Wall, they aren't generally allowed to leave. He'll have to use every privilege to get them out. Gods forbid, he might have to ask his uncle for a favor.

He rolls his window down and immediately regrets it as he comes to a stop, shivering as the cold buffets his car. The guard clearly thinks he's nuts. "Orders and ID?" The guardsman asks.

Aerion shivers as he pulls out his wallet and shows his ID. "I'm Prince Aerion Targaryen." He says, "My presence is not expected, but I'll be heading inside regardless."

This was clearly not what the other man was expecting. He looks at the ID, then at Aerion, then at his every expensive car. "One moment, sir. Let me reach out to someone ... um, someone else."

Unwilling to freeze to death before he finds his other half, Aerion rolls up the window. Though he is irritated that he needs to wait at all. Being a prince should have at least gotten him through the first damn checkpoint.

It takes them ages before a different man is at his window, cleaner, more put together. Aerion rolls down the window halfway, heat cranked as high as it can go.

"Please pull through and park in one of the spaces with the yellow signs, Prince Aerion. Our warden will meet you there." He says, pointing north, as if he's not gone north enough.

He rolls up the window and heads through the gate as it's opened for him, parking in one of the spaces as directed, labeled visitor parking. Aerion glances in his back seat, looking for any sign of something to wear. The only thing in there, to his dismay, is one of Daeron's sweat-stained sweaters he's left on the floor.

"Son of a bitch." He mumbles to himself, looking down at his designer shirt and then back at the sweater—of course it has a wine stain. The cold shouldn't kill him; there will be heat inside. He forgoes the stained thing and chooses to shiver with his pride intact. 

He steps out into the freezing snow. Castle Black is half old stone and half concrete, changed and modernized over the years. New and old meet together as he walks toward a man moving fast in his direction. The Wall warden from the looks of his uniform, is finally someone worth talking to.

"Prince Aerion, we weren't expecting you." Aerion shivers, shoving his hands in his slacks' pockets as he heads for the door, eager to escape the wind. To his dismay, once they step inside, it isn't that much warmer, only less windy. He shivers so hard his teeth clack together.

"Yes, well, as you can see from my clothing, I wasn't expecting to make the trip." He says snappishly as they walk further into the building. It's a tad warmer away from the doors, but still, he cannot stop shivering. Aerion was not designed for such cold.

He glances down at his wrist; the red string is still there, still leading him. Aerion feels like whoever he is looking for must be in this building. That doesn't mean much. Prisoners don't stay in Castle Black, but the enlisted may. Those who choose to come to the Wall out of some wild sense of duty.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" The warden asks, but Aerion can tell from his expression and tone it is not much of a pleasure at all and is in fact probably what he'd consider a big fucking inconvenience.

Aerion should have worn the wine-stained sweater; it's freezing in here. But then he's never been all that good with the cold.

"I'm looking for someone." Aerion explains and lifts his wrist in explanation. The warden takes one look at the red string and schools his entire face, but not fast enough that Aerion does not make out the fierce sudden irritation. 

"We've had people show up at our gates for that reason before." The warden says as they dip into his office. This room is thankfully warmer than the hall. There's a heater running in the corner, and he fights the urge to go stand in front of it.

"It won't take me long; I just need to find whoever it is, and I'll be on my way."

The warden blinks, and the smile he wears is the same one you give a very small, very stupid child. "Those promised to the Wall stay at the Wall ... your grace." 

Aerion doesn't give a single fuck about the northmen's rules regarding some giant ice sculpture. If his soulmate is here, then they are leaving with him. End of story.

"Well, I don't know who it is, do I?" He lifts his chin, sheer power of will repressing his teeth from chattering. "Could be someone not sworn to the Wall."

"Everyone here is sworn to the Wall, sir." The warden says, "Even I am sworn to the Wall."

Aerion can feel one of his eyes twitch as he sets the man with a long stare. "Well, it's a good thing you're not who I'm here for then, isn't it?" He drawls, "I will be following - "

The door opens. You step through; it takes him a moment to place the face. Eyes he recognizes, a dark wool coat with direwolf-shaped buttons. A Stark. 

His wrist feels like it's being tugged, and when he looks down at it, the thread runs all the way to your wrist. Tying the two of you together.

You look at him; he looks at you.

The two of you have met before at a few political functions. You're the heir to the Stark line, set to inherit the North. The Wall will be your lovely responsibility someday. 

You glance toward the warden and then toward Aerion. The silence in the room grows taut.

"You're in a t-shirt," You say at last, disapproval heavy in your tone before you proceed to strip off your coat and chuck it at him.

"I take it he's here for me, warden?" You ask. 

"That's right, Lord Stark. He was becoming insistent."

Aerion feels the coat beneath his hands, thick, body-warmed, and lined on the inside with fur. Far superior to his brother's wine-soaked sweater. He pulls it on without thought. As if it were natural, and only after he has gone through with the motion does he realize how strange a thing that is to do.

To put on your jacket, a man he barely knows, without consideration. And it seems that you might feel the same way because you look just as surprised to have thrown it at him in the first place. The two of you continue to stare at each other.

The warden shuffles awkwardly. "Would you like me to lend you the room, Lord Stark?"

"No need; I can handle this from here. Return to your post." You set Aerion with a look, and he's rising without thought, following without word. Like he understands you, like you somehow understand him. It is the strangest feeling in the world.

Once the two of you return to the hall, you set them toward the exit. Aerion follows wordlessly; finally warm enough, the shivering has ebbed. "Did you come straight here once it appeared?" You ask, looking down at your wrist. There was a sweater beneath your jacket, more black, the sleeves made of leather. Everything about you seems well put together. Neat, organized, free of wrinkles.

Aerion has always put stock in his own appearance. Looking the part, being seen as someone higher than mere mortals is important to him. He is the long lost Targaryen dynasty and the dragon bones that now sit in museums. 

People like to wear purple contacts, but his eyes are the real thing.

"I did," Aerion admits, shoving his hands into the pockets of your jacket without thinking. There's something inside the left one, and he twists it curiously in his hand to identify it. A Zippo lighter. 

You are as stoic as he remembers you to be. Reserved in that way of the Starks. A religious family steeped in tradition. Not that the Targaryens are dripping with their own traditions. They are royalty after all. 

The door opens, and this time he feels somewhat capable of handling it. Still, he shivers once more. 

"Button it." Stark says, "There's a hat in the inner pocket if you want it."

Aerion would normally refuse; a knit cap is going to do nothing for his hair, but as he gets blasted with a sudden rush of wind, he changes his mind and pulls the black beanie down onto his head, silver hair be damned. 

He does as he is bid and buttons it. You are not even bothered as you lead him in a new direction. "Where are we going?" He calls, walking quicker to keep up with your long strides through the packed snow.

You look over at him, and there is the barest hint of amusement in the corner of your mouth. The attraction is so immediate it startles him. His violet eyes get stuck on the shape of your mouth as you answer, watching your lips move, "Up."

Aerion looks toward the open-air elevator you are walking towards and groans. "Why?"

Your chuckle is genuine. "You can get in your car and go home, my prince. Don't let me keep you." The title sounds teasing, like you've figured out already what will draw a reaction from him. You pull one of the metal doors open and step inside. It feels like a challenge. 

Aerion never turns his back on a challenge. It is a matter of Targaryen pride. He steps stubbornly into the elevator cage, hunching into the collar of his borrowed coat as you slam the metal bar into place to keep the doors closed. 

You press a button to the side, and the whole thing creaks, metal on metal, before the advance begins.

"Did you drive all the way from the Stormlands?" You ask, taking a step back. Aerion follows and finds the wind is less sharp when near the back of the elevator, hidden in the ice-carved shaft.

Aerion nods.

You look at him in your sweater. He's still freezing, but you're relaxed. No sign of discomfort, not even red in the face. Strange northman. It is oddly comfortable despite the cold, being near you. Aerion has always struggled to fit in anywhere he goes.

He is aware enough that he is different than other people. Angrier, more volatile. Maekar has tried to correct it; give him avenues for that anger. Fencing, hunting, boxing. The list goes on, and he's good with his hands, good at drawing blood but not so good at making real friends. 

All his friends like him for is his wealth and privilege. You have both in your own way as a Stark. The divide is not so great; at least Aerion wants to think so. 

The elevator just keeps going, up and up until things grow small below. Castle Black shrinks by the second, cars turning into blobs of color. The silence does not feel stifling, and he finds no need to fill it, like he normally does. It is nothing but the clang of gears, pulleys, and chains. You stand beside him, each breath a puff in front of your face.

"Why are we going to the top?" Aerion asks, hells you're only a little over halfway there from the looks of it. 

"You drove what, twenty hours, following that string?" You say, eyes out toward the snow-covered trees. "That means you're here for me, and if you're here for me, I'm this Wall." 

You gesture with your hand toward the icy trough you travel up. "Understanding me means knowing what it looks like out there, beyond the Wall."

Aerion gets what you're trying to say; this is your version of his dragon skulls. A way of demonstrating what you stand for, and why not see it given he is already here? At least there's no need to convince you to break an oath. You're not promised to this freezing pit.

The elevator shrieks to a stop sharply; he feels the vibration of it run through him. Aerion tenses, paranoid for a split second that the chain will snap and he'll plummet all the way back down, but you open the door like there's nothing to fear and set out entirely unbothered.

There are a few people up here, but they don't pay you any mind; a few nod their heads. One greets you with a quick Lord Stark, they barely even look at Aerion. There's gravel spread across the ice in sheets of grey, and it crunches as the two of you make for the other side. It's thicker than he thought it would be, wide enough to drive two cars down side by side. 

You pause, outlooking the great untouched north beyond the Wall. Even now no attempts have been made to build civilization out this far. A few companies have attempted over the years to log it or search for ore or oil, but it never goes anywhere.

It's just trees as far as the eye can see. All whites and greens. The wind cuts like a knife. Without the coat he would be a complete mess. But there is something in the sight, the great untamed.

A wildness that he can see in you and your eyes as you stare out at the forest. Like calling to like. As if you were made for this place, to stand on this Wall. 

"Will you come to Summerhall?" Aerion asks, staring toward the ancient pines. So many stories have been told about this place, legends, fables, and forum bullshit.

"For a time." You agree. "Will you come to Winterfell?"

Aerion echoes your words back. "For a time."

He plays with the lid of the lighter in his pocket. 

"You smoke?" Aerion asks, feeling the metal against his thumb. It's got something carved into it. A cigarette at the edge of the world sounds kind of fitting. He wouldn't be adverse to the idea.

You smirk and hold out your hand, gesturing for him to hand the lighter over. Aerion slips the metal from his pocket and tosses it.

You catch it and, with a flick of your wrist, pop the lid and ignite the flame. Even in the heavy wind, it flickers there, orange and hot blue, revealing the dragon carved in the metal. 

Your grin is infectious, hopeful. It lights a Targaryen fire in his chest as you say, "Nah, guess I just saw you coming."