#tw codependency

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pyrophilia, n. • the (often unhealthy) love of fire, flames, or explosives.

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people wax far too much poetic about the difference of a house and a home - really, it is only in concept that they contrast. a house is an architectural structure. there are rules, and if you break those rules, someone could die. not necessarily the builder, nor the person who approves the design, but an innocent bystander, someone hoping for a roof over their heads. a home is a figurative thing, a place of belonging.

there are rules, and if you break those rules, someone could die.

i cannot feel the pair of eyes upon my neck as i sort through chests, but i see them dance along the wood, little slits cutting through red nectar as scarring in the wood matches up with scarring in the gaze. red is nowhere else to be found, though, as my stash of redstone was all used for traps. i suppose it makes sense, we have to get kills at some point, but what does it matter if the last thing someone sees is a sight as damning as red, red eyes? a trap offers anonymity, but if you known well enough, fingers will point in your direction.

still, i gather up sticks and turn around. like blood in charcoal, iso's eyes are discs of liquid, tearing real holes through my fake excuses the same way acid forms faux scars on wings that could carry me far, far away if i so wished. they only move when i do, sliding the disc of charcoal, daring to make a mark on the paper that has been clean until now. when all the dust is brushed off, the scene may be tragic - it may be beautiful.

"out mining again?" his voice cuts through my reverie, tinged with too little venom to sting. when i stand my flower crown feels heavy, as though i'd dipped it in water before leaving, mixing with the roses to create the scent a façade leaves behind.

because the roses are gone, replaced with mourning flowers that remind me of iso, black seeping into red, fangs finding a creature with a scarred neck, blood on the charcoal-stained page. which consumes which, i am not sure. "we're low on redstone. gotta get a kill at some point, right?" i almost feel jamie's words echoed in my own, one of the only people who can catch my companion's gaze.

jamie, and me.

"it's dangerous out there," they murmur, "want me to come with you? two swords beats one."

bile, in the back of my throat. i cannot gather if he is right next to me, because if something goes wrong, i will freeze until told to do otherwise. if i am safer with or without him remains to be discussed. because there is strength in numbers, but i feel my strength unnecessary if they are around, and that is not a mindset i can have at this stage.

i reach upwards, blindly fiddling amongst the cornflowers and the twigs i attached to act as thorns before i find the poppy. it makes its way upwards, nudging itself at the top of his ear, petals just avoiding its point. "here. i can't leave for good if you have this, right?"

iso cannot meet my eyes. it hurts like a hunger, so i offer my best smile, hoping it conveys how much i would rather paint with blood than sketch with charcoal, how much i despise the darkness the night creates. the moon is so dim faraway torches are more tempting.

like the warmth of a fireplace they look at me, chasing away the chill, the layer of too much too much faint compared to the wispy strands of light he gives off. "can you promise you'll stay safe, moth?"

"as much as i can promise that this house is made of spruce." my smile doesn't stretch as far as it should, because i am nocturnal only in theory, and my fatigue sets in even further when all i want is but a whispered ask away. i cast it off. "don't worry yourself, acid. i'll be back before dawn."

before they have the chance to object, to offer anything further, i am out in the night. forest presses in all around me, even as the crunching of my footsteps on a gravel path drowns out the sound of nearby mobs. when i take out my torch, it is as red as my surroundings seem to be lately, but there is not enough flame to justify it as an expense -

my ally does not know where all of our redstone keeps going -

so i shiver, fearful that my wings and my noise make me stand out like blood on charcoal, prey to larger bugs. that instinct rears its head when i catch my hair on webs or hear a hisssss from afar, and it is sickly green, neon and pulsing and melancholy compared to the sour taste of red haze; if iso is a healing potion that stings going down, i grant night vision with addiction to the blinding.

my fingers are covered in dust that makes men monsters, glows when i hold it up to torchlight, reminds me that i need to brace the sour to get to the sweet. when i am a panicked and inconsequential thing thrashing around blindly, redstone keeps me ethereal, because iso is reflected in it.

when i get back, the sky is tinged the shade of pink my fingers will be even after a good wash, or the tips of my ears under the scrutiny of an enemy - when we go to meet opposing factions, iso makes sure my hair is covering my ears, so they do not see my weakness. i hear voices inside, so as sneakily as i can muster, i press my pink, pink ears to the door. i hear jamie, names like gray and mulsea and even mine getting thrown around, but iso's words are quiet enough where they are obscured.

i open the door. any conversation comes to a halt, though i can see the way this interaction has irritated the both of them, my ally's eyes wavering like blood in the water. jamie's are wide as saucers, living up to his honorary title, and he asks, "why are you back so early?"

"what does it matter to you?" iso snaps.

jamie turns on his heel and leaves. i sidestep him, giving our ally an awkward smile, still not sure what had just happened. iso sucks in a breath through their teeth when the door is left open, and when it slams, a vase nearly topples to the ground. my eyes are questioning, but he gives me no indication that anything can happened, only sighing and leading me with their eyes to somewhere warmer.

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