#wt3

He knew it wasn’t healthy.

Their bodies pull each other close, a mess of hands and limbs, heat and desperation. Urgently grasping, holding, refusing to let go. He’s driven by the need to feel and the need to touch. To take what’s his. To be taken. His partner responds in kind, firm grip pulling him closer.

Hands glide up his side, trailing stings and dull throbs he knows will bruise. Lips and teeth clash, desperate for something, anything. Fingers curl through dark locks, tugging and tugging and burning. He nips at the expanse of flesh before him, scraping his teeth against the other’s skin and leaving splotches of purple and red. Hatred and passion and disgust and loathing well up, and he bites that little bit harder, grips that little bit firmer. The hands in his hair tug sharply, and he knows the loathing is reciprocated.

The pair wrestle for control, for some semblance of stability, for validation and for dominance. Their words are scathing and their hands are rough. The fingers on his jaw are demanding, scornful the breath mingling with his own. He responds with defiant fingers and smug lips and lilting, teasing words.

He knew it wasn’t love.

Words fly, aiming to injure and overwhelm and torment. Malicious names and mischievous brags strive for a reaction. Searching for that anger, hostility, hate. Seeking to excuse his own feelings; seeking to incite them in the other. The craving to be loathed by another as deeply as he loathes himself. The yearning to spit the poison his partner thirsts for, desires deep in his bones and twisted, thorny heart. The hunger for validation, for proof that neither is alone in their inherent apathy.

The salty flesh beneath his lips makes him sick. The arrogant smirk, the condescending words and the patronizing touches make him want to reach out and squeeze, destroy, mutilate until the too much too muchtoomuch goes away. Until he feels nothing. He knows his haughty simper, his supercilious demeanour and disdainful tone makes the other feel the same. He does it for a reason; to incite that self-righteous indignation he needs, feels, too strongly too strongly in the other man. To make the other man feel how he feels. To stop him from suffering alone.

He knew he couldn't afford to care.

When the aggression and hatred slows, when the fire subsides, when bruising touches turn soft and empty and listless, he thrives. He craves those moments of empty nothing. He craves those moments of idle tolerance, of futility. The moments where they lie, cuddling for nothing more than body heat, skin sticky with sweat but blood cold as ice, hearts firm as stone, eyes vacant as mirrors. The moments of unburdened peace, of fatigue that temporarily quashes the fires of detestation and hatred and loathing and too much too much too much. The moments where he feels blissfully empty. Where he feels nothing.

And he’ll regret it, when the numbness abates, when he feels again. When his inadequate heart is swamped with too-much-too-strong-too-full passion. When he feels so strongly about his own beliefs, his mouth opens of its own volition. When it talks and talks and says nothing of substance to people who don’t care. When he can feel their hatred and mocking incredulity and lack of interest.

But he can’t regret it for long. Not when another remark of “Shut up California.” interrupts his earnest streams of consciousness. Not when another joke is made at his expense. Not when fire burns within him and smoke streams from his lips and the skin bubbles on his back and he burns. Not when the states see this, and they laugh and laugh and leave.

Not when they always leave him.

So he returns to his only constant, to the mutual hatred he feels towards Texas and drowns drowns drowns until he feels nothing once more. And then he repeats, and repeats, and repeats hoping in vain, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that he’ll stop feeling so empty while still feeling everything.

California watched his partner, an indecipherable feeling thick in his chest and throat and eyes. Tranquility was evident in the slow pace of his heart, the warmth of his fingertips. Words pressed against the roof of his mouth, traced against his jaw and fizzled against his tastebuds. His tongue rolled the words, gently grazing his lips, air fluttering between his teeth. He tasted it, then tasted it again.

Love.

It flowed pleasantly from his lips and his heart stuttered in turn, joy and apprehension and warmth pooling in his chest. He felt light as a balloon, like he could soar through the stars he saw reflected in Texas’ eyes and smile. The other state grinned shamelessly from where he stood on the other side of the room, likely bragging about something or other, and the warmth in California’s chest threatened to overflow. Threatened to fill his mouth and spill from his lips and drip down his chin, to expose the adoration and devotion and love love love that pumped with the beat of his heart. His jaw ached in need, yearning to open and spill the butterflies fluttering in his chest, but he clenched it shut.

I think I love you.

The words were bubblegum, caramel, strawberry sauce; pink, orange and red red red on his tongue and in his mind. He paused and just drank in the cloying sweetness, tequila-lime-love pumping quickly through his veins and a saccharine smile on his lips.

He laughed to himself, gentle wind chimes blessing the air. An entire room of states and he only had eyes for Texas. His partner would call him a simp; he wouldn’t disagree with the sentiment, not when he’d fight god for the other if he ever asked.

A poke to his arm startled him out of his thoughts. He whipped around and was greeted by a grinning Florida.

“C’mon, Cali, quit swooning over Texas and come help me and Louie cover Gov’s office in sticky notes.” The shorter state didn’t phrase it as a question and didn’t wait for an answer, tugging California up and out of the chair by his arm. The golden state groaned playfully but allowed himself to be dragged along, flashing one last look at his partner before mentally preparing himself to limit the chaos the other two states would get up to.

Texas watched his boyfriend gesture wildly, the warmth in his chest and at the back of his throat threatening to bubble from his lips. He watched the way the other’s eyes visibly lit up behind his glasses, fond exasperation coloring his cheeks with roses and rubies. The way that dark lashes met with smooth, tanned skin, and alluring, rosey lips lifted into a soft smile made Texas’ heart flutter. His own lips instinctively opened, letters and syllables dancing playfully on his tongue.

Love.

He idly wondered if his lungs had forgotten how to breathe as he choked on the adoration and hesitance and overwhelming fondness that swelled in his chest. He felt as high as a kite, like he could soar beneath the sun he saw reflected in California’s eyes and smile. He once again tentatively rolled the words in his mouth, and grinned like a madman. The other state turned and met his eyes, gaze questioning. For a moment, Texas drowned in those expressive chocolate pools, shoving down the instinctive urge to open his jaw and spill the words hiding in his heart and his head. Then he quirked his lip and tilted his head to quell the worries of the other, and the moment of gentle concern ended, fleeting but meaningful. He continued to watch the beanie-clad state, fingers tingling with warmth and innocent longing.

I think I love you.

The mere phrase was crisp apples and sherbet; red and green and color rainbow color on his tongue and in his mind. He savoured the cool, fresh tingle of apple-raspberry-orange, honey-lemon-love pumping sluggishly through his veins, adoration in the warmth of his eyes.

He chucked to himself, the dancing warmth of a fireplace on a rainy night. An entire room of states and he only had eyes for California. His partner would call him a softie; he’d be right. Texas would drop everything in a heartbeat if the man ever asked.

The rustle of fabric startled him out of his thoughts. He blinked and tilted his head to face an amused Gov.

“You’re down bad, huh?” The smartly dressed personification grinned teasingly, raising a manicured brow. Texas bristled, opening his mouth to defend himself (and gulping back the rush of love love love for his partner that threatened to escape), but the other beat him to the punch. “Illinois told me that the bathroom door’s broken, and I’m gonna need you to fix it.” The lone star state scowled but acquiesced, slowly shuffling to his feet and sparing a final fleeting glance at his partner before trailing after Gov.

The partners lay on the ground under the night sky, grass tickling the napes of their necks. The night air was cool, but the warmth of their bodies and their smiles and their hearts made the cold nigh unnoticeable. Texas merely listened, eyes to the night sky as California regaled him with a detailed account of that afternoon’s shenanigans, of Florida’s prank and Gov’s wrath.

“-But then I reminded Gov of what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been around to watch Florida. Like, I wasn’t the one who left him unattended, it’s not my fault if he decides to cause trouble. Anyway, he paled up real fast and said I didn’t have to help clean up, which is great because honestly? I regret nothing-,”

Soft waves and lavender were evident in his gentle drone, and Texas simply just existed for a moment, basking in the peaceful atmosphere. The state rolled the words in his mouth again, the words that had been on the tip of his tongue all day, before-

“-I love you.”

Texas paused for a moment, his brain processing the unexpected words. Upon finally registering the phrase, he whipped his head to the side and gazed with wide eyes at his partner. Their eyes met and Texas drank in his partner’s features; those chocolate pools were apprehensive but determined. Texas fell a little harder at the certainty in his eyes.

“I wanted t’say that first,” he grumbled goodnaturedly in return. He was rewarded with a chuckle and the sight of his partner relaxing in relief.

“Guess you’ll just have to take the next one,” the other hummed. Texas felt the corners of his lips raise in gentle amusement-adoration-love.

“‘Guess I do. I love ya, Safe Space.”

California’s eyes crinkled in joy and he playfully elbowed the lone star state in the side. “Don’t ruin the moment, asshole.”