#foliateface

KIYOKO   twists the switchblade in her hands a few times, watching the polished wooden handle glint when it meets a ray of sunlight through trees overhead. [ it feels dirty to hold, like with each time she turns it over against her palm it leaves a patch of grime & soot she can’t wash out. ] she sets it down on the rock just beside her. though it’s probably more useful than what others have been given— for cooking, for cutting branches, for shaving wood for fire— the weight of what she’s really expected to do with it is too much. 

her collar is tight. it feels tight. without having had much time to PROCESS things, kiyoko can only focus on what’s happening now. it’s almost as if this GAME hasn’t fully set in yet ... despite what she’s seen happen to her classmates. only the readily noticeable surroundings take up space in her head now. she feels the sunlight warm a patch on her arm where it reaches through the leaves above, smells the wet soil beneath her, & hears— a crunch ?

was the only place you could find yourself on a road running away from the people you have left bleeding? 

was it worth it?

drunken poetry never made any sense, or at least not vy’s. especially not vy’s. they normally found themselves in bouts of laughter re-reading what they’d written the morning after. consider it a makeshift hangover cure, they told themselves the first time, and since then, it stuck.

until today. the morning after their birthday celebration. 20 year old vy had to deal with problems sparked by 19 year old vy—the first being stanzas that actually made sense. stanzas that were honest.

ed can’t quite meet their eyes at times. when he does, there’s a hint of the grief from when he held the letter—their letter—over his heart. especially now, when their hand brushes over his shoulder or they lean in a little too close. 

he feigned indifference, but vy would always notice his muscles stiffen. or the way he would recoil, as if he’d been scorched. and when the two of them awkwardly laughed things off, vy can’t help but wonder at the shared hurt, the intimate knowledge that they changed him as much as he changed them. 

they want to say, i didn’t mean to, but it rings untrue. 

they didn’t mean to, but they’d wrote verbatim, i’m sorry i’m not her. i’m sorry you fell for it.

they didn’t mean to, but they told him to forget about it. they told him to move on.

vy had needed…space. needs space. it’s difficult, given their status as roommates, but they make do. they’re only home when they need to be—when ed isn’t. they’re out the door whenever possible—when ed’s heading in. 

conversations are scarce. they aren’t the late-night talks ariel had instigated. they aren’t the exchanged giggles over piss poor pick-up lines. these conversations are requests to brew coffee. complaints to do the dishes. threats to pack up and leave. 

who knew projected anger—grievances about too much creamer in their coffee—would be what keeps them awake at night?

the under-eye bags that’d gradually begun to creep onto ed’s face suggests that it’s mutual.

( three months later, and vy is still sleepless. no amount of liquor sings them a good enough lullaby.

three months later, and question after question after question continues to plague their head. does he still think about her me? does he miss her my touch? does he still ache the way i do?  )

was it worth it?

“ i don’t know, ” vy answers their reflection. it’s flat. blunt. none of the bravado they usually carry so well. 

it’s flat and blunt in the same way their expression is. in the mirror, it shutters, gaze falling to the floor, mouth pulled down at the corners. the pinch between their eyebrows leaves a wrinkle that’s tempting to smooth away.

@foliateface 

Edward’s spinning on his heel in the matter of seconds, pausing in what he’s doing to freeze mid walk and look his sibling in the eyes with a glare. There’s a groan at his very obvious disapproval in what his younger brother just said. 

“Excuse me?! What was that steel fer brains? I am not the baby here n’ I’ll swear all I fuckin’ want to. There ain’t a goddamn thing you can do ‘bout it.”  

Oh he was throwing in a few more curse words just for the extra measure of proving his point. Still, shoulders go tense as the smaller of the two boys glares upwards with challenging eyes to his brother. 

“ n’ don’t come at me like you’ve only done this one time ‘cause we both know that’s a load a’ bullshit. If I’m a baby, yer a nag!  Yer always naggin’ me fer fuckin’ somethin’.”  He sounds shifting his weight as he makes a face and changes his voice to mock his brother. 

“Don’t swear, brush yer hair, brush yer teeth, don’t sleep so much, don’t stay up all night,  change yer clothes, take a bath, don’t just live on pie.”

ordinarily, a separate unit conducts these patrols; currently, another set of eyes takes on the task – not for lack of faith (her men were the best of the best), but for a nagging suspicion that makes her nose twitch. it’s truly a shame that the senses of mankind are so limited in capability. for what it’s worth, those limitations are sufficient enough that olivier is able to distinguish metal from METAL.

it’s true. the brothers are no longer prisoners behind her walls – a technicality of circumstance. even so, she is anything but a gracious host. && it shows in her nonpartisan scowl.