[RECORDING #00142, AMONGST XAVIER’S FILES FROM DECEMBER 2017:]

I was... probably just barely nineteen at the time, when I met him. (Laughter.) 

Now, the late tens is a strange time in any person’s life, but I can surely tell you, it was an especially odd time for me. Let me try to plant you in my shoes.

I had just earned my second bachelor’s in science, and for the first time in my life, books were starting to grow quite mundane. There was so much knowledge scribed in them, but I wasn’t sure if knowledge was what I wanted anymore. I ended up with a new job every other week, for the sake of experience. I was trying to find the purpose in existence, I presume. Something all nineteen year olds seem to do. I was in midst of a quarter... quarter like crisis of some sorts.

And amongst it all, I had just come to terms with my abilities, and I had just decided that whether they were gifts or curses, that I wanted to use them for the greater good. The very question I was struggling to stumble upon an answer to was what “greater good,” exactly meant, especially in perspective to my barely twenty year old self.

That’s when I met him. 

(Long pause.) 

Blythe, I mean.

You would think a nineteen year old with two degrees would have better logic than to fall in love, but that’s exactly what happened. It was gradual and sudden all at once, and I’m never quite sure how to describe just what happened.

He just happened to me, gradually, and suddenly. And all of a sudden knowledge meant nothing, if not knowing him.

I only knew him for a year and some, until the incident happened. I... won’t get into the specifics. (Long pause.) 

What I do wish to tell you, was how difficult it was to not direct my grievance into anger, -- how it took so much to keep myself sane. Perhaps I did go insane, deciding to continue to work for the same man that had murdered him -- and I definitely had lost it when I transfigured my grievance to the greed I had when I soon figured out he was not quite dead. He had cloned Blythe.

I took this better than you think someone would. I understood the science behind it after all -- all too well.

I thought it might be a second chance at something. (Pause.) I knew it could be a redeeming chance at something that was taken from me. (Loud, incontrollable laughter.) I’m sorry. I realize how ridiculous this all sounds, but it really was my thought process at the time.  I did the impossible; the ridiculous. His name is Parker, and I somehow managed to redeem myself. (Pause.)

(Another pause.) For some reason, he seems to love me, and I can’t quite understand it.

Now the question I struggle with is whether any of this was right to begin with. I know by science, that is it all in the right: Blythe and Parker are identical, down to the last codon and anticodon. Every dot that was speckled on Blythe is on Parker, and I know that for fact. 

And yet they are so different, and I no longer seem to be able to distinguish who I am in love with.

And the most outworldly bit amongst all of this: (Pause.) 

Parker knows.

He knows about Blythe, and our history. He knows about the experiment, about this whole timeline, and perhaps even parts of the story I do not even know or cannot be bothered to come into knowledge of. And yet. (Pause.) And yet...

He says we are enough.

He says his love is enough, to look past it all. He says my love is enough to look beyond it all.

He says it is just enough. Barely, but just enough.

(Pause.)

End recording. 

(Tell me about the body.) (Is it empty?) 

(???)

(Sometimes my body feels like a burial ground for all the people I should’ve become.) 

(None of those people did I bury proper. None of those people have found peace with the end.)

(…)

(That’s how ghosts become ghosts, isn’t it?) 

(Something about dying, and never getting any peace.) 

( ... )

You don’t seem to grasp the importance of the package you’re carrying and its contents. 9:30 kid, be on time, or else.

And still, his brows furrow slightly as he looks at the boy who is like a pressing spirit that keeps following him, screwing up his runs almost as if this is a game to him. In a way it probably is, Blythe thinks, starting to feel a little pissed off by that cheeky grin and slouchy posture he can see out of the corner of his eyes. It irks him that this guy can just go without having to prepare like Blythe does, and his fingers scrap the ground as he composes himself. It takes him the better of five minutes to gather a small amount of energy, and after he’s gathered enough to run at a fairly high speed, he takes off.

“If you want to play this game, then let’s play.” he challenges, as his speeds accelerates as he descends down hill. He knows he’s already fighting a losing battle, but he can’t help but to try. After all, he doesn’t know who this guy is, or what his intentions are. So run he will.

“It’s not a game.” 

He catches up too easy, the conversation caught when their feet are still too quick for sight. “Nothing’s really a game when you know who wins by the end of it, is it? Why are you bothering to run a race you know you’re going to lose, Blythe.” He doesn’t ever mean to be unkind, but that makes him no more humane. “Just give me a second of your time.”

“Give me a second and I’ll have your illegal delivery finished in less time than it takes you to simmer on the thought.” There’s too much valor in his words, but he’s given him a chase and he’s prepared see it through the end. He’s ready to arrive at the center of everything Blythe’s thought to hide, even fragments of himself he has not yet discovered.

There’s only one thing, and it’s never his voice that carries his words, but always his body.

i. 

The sun’s coming up from the horizon and the light’s creeping between the blinds. It slips and forms yellow lines on Blythe’s legs, and when he notices, he slips his arms underneath the younger to pull him from the sunlight. Perhaps it’s the most obscene form of jealousy: he will not let even the sun kiss his skin for a second. 

Not even a minute of sleep has lulled him, and he’s remained awake from dusk to dawn with Blythe’s thoughts haunting him. He thinks too much and feels too much – and whenever he thieves him of these very notions, they never truly disappear, and instead, linger and circle around the scape of his own mind. And they irk him, till he gives up on sleep and just takes content in the soft snores of Blythe slumbering beside him.

The sun comes up a little more and his fingers are in Blythe’s hair. When he pushes over his locks, he responds by instinctively moving closer to his touch. Then Blythe’s hands are shaking, and soon his chest, then his whole body – trembling against the sheets, as if being possessed by something. His hands are then quick, placed on his scalp as he empties the other’s mind of his nightmares. They slip from the younger to his own, and he feels Blythe’s fear, and it now grapples with him in between the spaces of his bones. He withholds a breath to remind himself nightmares are just dreams gone fowl – then listens in for Blythe’s lulled breaths, and calms with his.

Then his fingers are slipping between his hair again, and this is how he tells him: I love you.

ii. 

In his hands, he holds three bags, filled with the week’s food for no longer just himself, nor even just Blythe, but for a few more stomachs other than their own. In his other hand, is Blythe’s, fingers intertwined and fitting like two sides of something that was pulled apart. Blythe’s got a little more spring in his steps than usual – he’s talking about something that excites him from work, and his own heart starts running at Blythe’s excitement. He listens in to him, every single word, always squeezing at his hand when given the time. They turn at a corner and Blythe’s steps take him a little too far, and he immediately pulls him in close.

“That’s great, agi.” He says with a smile, always assuring him, always encouraging him. He listens to him, gives him the attention he needs, and this, this is how he tells him: I love you.

iii.

“You’re always keeping things from me.” It’s their fourth fight of the week, but the air is sharper than their past three bickerings, and he doesn’t meet Blythe’s eyes. “You never tell me enough, because you think I’m too young and can’t handle it, or whatever – you never tell me what’s in that mind of yours, Xavier.” He doesn’t watch him, but he knows tears are threatening the younger’s eyes and it gives him more reason to avoid looking at him. “You’re always in mine, so why don’t you let me into yours some fucking time.” He feels the warmth of Blythe’s body leave the kitchen, and he hears the door slamming from a distance.

He exhales into his clasped hands, fingers pressing into his own skull in an attempt to relieve the headache incoming. He closes his eyes, thoughts too cluttered to think straight. Then he remembers what Blythe’s never to know, knowing how he knew of his young and fickle heart that only desired to find missing pieces from the past. He inhales and with it, he remembers why he has to remain silent. 

And in his silence, this is how he tells him: I love you.

iv. 

It’s never enough, but their bodies come crashing close and Blythe’s flushed cheeks always get him riled up too quickly. He brings them over to the bed from the living room and he places Blythe down, lips not leaving an inch of his skin unkissed. He leaves marks over his neck, and then in certain places only they know of, with possessiveness coming over him like a wave. And then soon they’re even closer, bodies one – he’s got Blythe underneath him and he’s above him. He’s watching in adoration as Blythe’s lips are letting words fall from them.

Among them, Blythe calls out to him, giving him his name in the most beautiful voice, coming undone at the movements of their bodies. And he too, in return, lets Blythe’s name leave him, repeatedly and repetitively so. Blythe’s name is a mantra, a prayer; he breathes it out as if it’s the only syllables he knows to put together. When their movements stop, he kisses him violently, lips pressing up against one another’s. Into Blythe’s mouth, he murmurs his name again for him, trying to tell him that he is his and his alone, that he is Blythe’s and Blythe’s alone. 

head in the palms of her hands, she drew a long sigh before sitting up and running her fingers through her damp hair. the car was musty. humid from the summer rain. wet clothes hugged her body tight, making her feel even more suffocated than she already was. she was hot. and more than uncomfortable. she reached for the button to lower the window for a while– to give herself a bit of fresh air so she could breathe. despite the fact that beads of water clung to the glass and that there was obviously more on it’s way. despite the fact that she was already drenched and the last thing she needed was to add more fuel to the fire.

but she didn’t care. the breeze was nice and cool. it drew her in, filling her lungs with fresh air and soothing her discomfort. she felt calm. she felt relaxed.

she felt at peace.

for the meanwhile.

colored hues scanned the outskirts of town. once. twice. three times before she began noticing a pattern. every turn they made, the same picket fence would be in the same spot. so would the parking sign. they were practically driving in circles in the rain and in the middle of nowhere. squinting slightly, poppy properly sat up in her seat as she turned her attention to the other.

“blythe…. do you know where you’re going?”

he nodded, but she sensed his hesitation. anxiousness boiling in the pit of her stomach, she immediately sat up straight, tiny fists clenched at her sides as she  stared. stared until he caught on to the fact that she knew he was lying. until he felt uncomfortable. until he finally cracked under pressure from the weight of her gaze.

“alright…. “ he started, knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “i don’t know. but im trying to find out, okay?”

she scoffed.