#ryan things

—a flash of light and a photograph and you were gone from her side. that wasn’t unusual, you didn’t tend to stick around afterwards (didn’t like to be seen), but the way you hadn’t slipped a note into her palm with an address and a promise was. even without looking back you knew her smile would tighten, worry leaking almost imperceptibly through her heroic mask.

you’d always had a talent for disappearing things, and even though this had none of the flair you’d use for cards and coins the motions were familiar. you knew she was not yours to have—could never be yours anywhere but in the shadows and alleys and from the corner of your eye—but the space behind your ribcage would collapse inwards with each breath.

you always let her find you, eventually. it was not the chase that mattered after all, but the knowledge that you were being sought. and besides, a trick is not complete until what has been vanished has been returned, so you would splay out the deck for her and there you were—a forced card she was guaranteed to pick—and the kiss you were gifted with upon discovery would ease the tightness in your chest (the knowledge that you weren’t worthy). when she smiled against your skin, all static and shine, you would gaze into her radiance until you saw sunspots, until your eyes ached and your head throbbed and your chest wanted—and with that you were flung back into yourself, into a dark and sickly-sweet place of—

—mine—they’re not allowed to see you like this—what do they have that I don’t—do I mean anything to you—why am I never enough—Julia, please—

—and you hoped she couldn’t taste it on your tongue. you knew if she did she would slip through your fingers like water, flow back to those who could give her what she needed (what she deserved). someone without rot decaying in their chest, filling their lungs, tainting their skin.

she always seemed able to feel something—more of a mind-reader than you could hope to be in return—and even with your eyes closed you could see the concern on her features (unwelcome, unwanted, undeserved), and without thought you would obfuscate—talented fingers drawing her attention where you wanted it with a gentle tug of her braid and tilt of your neck—misdirection for a perfect French Drop with the truth (palmed out of sight, if not truly gone).

“you must be a lightning rod—I always find you” she breathed inside your mouth once, and you took it as permission to hope.

“sappy idiot” you responded (for you, I’ll try to stay—withered in your throat).

seven years and a lifetime later you don’t mean for her to find you—to find you, buried and bloody and still hoping to be stopped (to be saved). she tells you the bitterest of lies (that you matter) and you love the taste—addictive like coffee and adrenaline and dying—and you feel yourself being unearthed. but you aren’t the only thing she resurrects by reaching into your chest and shocking you awake. shining a light in you casts familiar shadows as well (the roaring in your good ear and the sickly honey in your mouth at others’ sidelong looks and heated thoughts is as much a part of you as the face you wear). and you suppose you should have expected it—after all, a trick is not complete until what has been vanished has been returned, and though you may be performing on a grander stage than you used to, that is one rule that doesn’t change.

you have less of a right than ever to claim her (two hands intertwined, one yours and yet not yours, a heated “ma cherie”), but that has never stopped you before—a hypocrite seeking love from all sides but never returning equal what you have taken. you do not disappear, however. you stay, a lightning rod, and you let her strike you again and again, and you put your money on the fact that you’ll burn away before the truth comes to light (you always were a good magician—the first person you learned to deceive was yourself, everyone after that came easily).