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Some nights it’s quiet. He drapes over your bed and stares. He doesn’t think too much. He watches as you shift and occasionally hum, stuck in some fantastical dream that doesn’t involve him. Other nights he twirls a small blade within his fingers, and then he thinks. 

He’s not usually so hesitant with frivolities. It’s a quick in and out of the blade pressed right into the sweet spot. Silent, barely any discomfort, kind of romantic if you think about it. The idea of your white sheets slowly dampening to a deep red as you gasp in pain. 

You would reach out to him instinctively, and wondrously his name would be your dying words. 

See? 

Romantic. 

Not many people think that way, though. And well… it’s hard to just stab a Cleaner and get away with it. 

Also there’s another problem he can’t quite manage. 

He likes you. Not in the way he likes the others—and that’s not much. He can stomach Delmon for perhaps an hour (and maybe two in a good day) but that soon comes to a close when the man starts hollering in Tamsy’s already ringing ears. He thinks he’ll go deaf within the next two years. 

But you’re more pleasant to stick around. It’s possibly because you don’t talk too much. Maybe you’re shy, maybe you just have nothing to say, but he appreciates it. Tamsy has sidled up next to you many times, purposefully shattering your very apparent boundaries to drape over you like a woolen scarf. 

You never raise your discomfort with him. 

Now he behaves like a weighted blanket. He finds comfort in your presence. Very few times (and admittedly, it’s embarrassing) has he fallen asleep on your shoulder. It’s usually in the quiet of your room after you’d begun to invite him inside to continue a quiet conversation. 

So, all that lost time of him being asleep on your bed this evening is made up by him just… staring. It’s fun. It’s better than staring at the ceiling. 

You shift to face the wall. 

It’s harder now, because your shirt has ridden halfway up your back, and he gets a sickening taste of your spine. He once suggested piercings to which you hesitantly turned down. Ouch. 

But your skin framed by silver would look beautiful in the dark. He can imagine it. He could hold you down, pull your tongue and slit a hole through it with a needle. You would cry and it would hurt, but it would be worth it. 

He’d like to feel it on him, too. 

Tamsy reaches over and presses a single pad of his finger to the middle of your spine. You don’t stir. 

This happens. He touches, you don’t react. Same old, same old. He breathes down your neck and you don’t stir. It’s strange. He finds he’d wake up the minute he heard his door creak. 

You hum and sigh. 

Your skin is soft. Mostly unmarred, too. You’ve got a scar that runs along your back from who knows what. Probably an accident when you were younger. He risked once pressing his tongue to the corner of where it begins. One day he’ll slide his tongue along it, maybe when you’re awake, maybe when you allow it. 

Maybe you’ll let him slice new scars across your body. And lick your wounds.

You’re nice enough. You rarely reject things, even if you’re not interested. When you were a new recruit and Enjin tried veering his head too close you only smiled awkwardly until he eventually got the hint. No “I’m not interested” or even a half-baked “I’m seeing someone” to get him to go away. 

Tamsy tried once. You were clearly on your way to meet someone for a date so you’d dressed up. Not dramatically. Just a bit more colour, and nicer shoes. He said you looked nice, like a gift. As strange as it was given you were on your way to meet someone for dinner, you’d hesitantly leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 

Tamsy did two things after that occurrence. First he’d sauntered back to his room and stared at his reflection blankly for an hour with a dried gloss stain on his face. He elected not to wash his face after a headache-inducing debate. Then, he’d followed you, and the person you were seeing mysteriously never responded to your attempts to reach out after that. 

He can tell something is wrong.

It’s sudden, actually, the way the air shifts, like it flexes and bends at random intervals. Tamsy stands quickly and backs away. He’s practised this before: how to leave without a trace. He grabs the blade tight and steps through the door, purposefully leaving it ajar. 

He doesn’t exactly move though. He stands outside and waits. 

He hears you stir until you sit up. The bed creaks. You switch your lamp on. Like always, you stumble to the bathroom. It’s muffled through the door. You’re quick as you try not to lose the drowsiness. 

The problem is when you exit the bathroom you don’t immediately go back to bed as you normally do. 

He stands there completely befuddled as he listens through your door. You move around. It sounds like you’re pacing. The lamp remains on. He hears your feet shuffle over the tiles. This isn’t your usual routine.

Tamsy’s eyes dart around the door. 

He expects you to close it. 

Maybe you don’t notice it. 

Maybe he should run and hold it closed with string. You’ll probably just think it’s jammed. You’ll eventually give up too. 

Instead, he plays his cards. He’s bored. He’s still awake. He loves to bother you. He peers cautiously through the gap in the door. 

Thankfully, you’re facing away. You’re fiddling with something on the nightstand. It looks like a tube of lip balm that you continuously open and close. Free of blood stains, free of scratches and bites and drool that he leaves. Maybe you had a nightmare. Poor thing. 

He grins. 

And then, he pushes the door open. It’s slow. It creaks. 

You look up in alarm, suddenly wide awake. The knife slips up his sleeve. It points inwards towards his wrist. 

“You’re still awake,” he comments idly, like he hadn’t realised. Like he hasn’t been standing next to you for an hour now twirling your hair around his finger. 

You huff, “you scared me.” 

“Sorry.” He’s not. 

You adjust your position on your bed, trying to console your racing heart. 

He knocks quietly on the side. “Your door was open. I saw the light was on.” He looks sheepish, almost nervous. You think he feels bad for intruding. He doesn’t. 

“Yeah…” You’re still recovering. “I think I had a weird dream.” 

Tamsy hums. 

“Like…” You glance up at him from the floor. “Someone was watching me.” 

“Sounds awful.” He leans against your doorframe. He looks exhausted, but it’s strange, like he hasn’t slept a wink. It must be early in the morning. You don’t know the time. It’s still dark out. 

You swallow nervously. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

Right. He needs some sort of explanation. “I was going to get cake.” Then, he brandishes the small knife from his sleeve and holds it out. 

“You… just walking around with that?” 

He hums, amused. “I keep it in my room.” He tilts his head. “You don’t keep cutlery in yours?” 

You shrug. “Not really.” You watch the knife closely. “What’s the occasion?” 

Tamsy raises an eyebrow. 

“The cake.” You sniff once. “Felt like it?” 

He shakes his head easily. “Birthday.” 

You sit up. “Birthday?” 

He nods. 

“Whose?” 

“Mine.” 

“Yours?” 

“Yes.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows furrow together. 

Tamsy nods again. 

“Oh…” You clear your throat. “Happy… birthday.” You glance quickly to the left. “I don’t have anything.” 

He grins. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

Your brows furrow. “But that sucks. Not getting gifts.” 

“Don’t need them,” he reassures. He’ll throw out anything you give him anyway. “Would you like some?” 

“Hm?” 

“Cake.” 

“Oh…” 

Sometimes he’s thankful his strings do more than just tie things together. In the other room, the ropes have wrapped deftly beneath a box he bought the other day for the occasion. Just in case you wanted to share. 

And eat off the same fork. 

Yuck. He pulls his head out of the doorway, both to visibly gag and to retrieve the box that slowly pulls down the hallway. 

“It’s chocolate,” he says. 

You croak sleepily. You pull your legs up on the bed. That’s a good sign. That means you’re comfortable. Even when he’s holding the knife right out in front of you. Your eyes flit to it every now and again; he’s disappointed. He wants you completely relaxed. 

For now, you look docile. That’s good enough. 

Tamsy doesn’t grant you the opportunity to respond. Instead, he lets himself in slowly and kicks your door shut behind him. His hair looks yellow in the golden light of your lamp. It’s a nice antique. The shade is made of a red glass and the stem is golden. It bathes the room in orange and pink. 

You look warm. 

He sits down next to you on your bed. 

And then he pulls a fork from his sleeve. 

You snort. “Do you have a spoon as well?” 

“No.” He sounds dejected. “I also don’t have any plates. Those didn’t fit under my sleeves.” 

“You tried?” you ask.

“Of course.” He opens the box carefully. It’s a simple white cardboard with a plastic top to showcase the display. It’s nothing fancy; it’s a mud cake of sorts with slices of strawberries and cream frosting around the edges. He takes the knife—that unbeknownst to you was grazing over spine only moments ago—and slices through a decent portion of chocolate. He pulls it slightly away from the cake.

You expect him to give you a piece. 

You don’t expect him to swipe a corner from the slice and hold it up to you. 

You stare at it for a moment. Tamsy only stares at you. He blinks like a frog, expectant, patient, passive. 

“Shouldn’t you have the first bite of your own cake?” you ask cautiously. Still, you slowly lean forward. 

So, he spins the fork and pops the cake in his mouth. His eyes crinkle as he grins. You purse your lips together before you take the fork from him and slice off another portion. 

You hold it up to him. You’re also embarrassingly giggling like an idiot. He thinks it’s pathetic, but his smile says differently. It doesn’t help as time progresses and he keeps accepting every bite he inches closer and closer. It’s a test, he tells himself, of your boundaries. How close can he get before you start cowering? 

It seems he’s underestimated you. 

Not only is he now practically straddling your lap, but every so often he giggles. Like a girl. It’s humiliating. It’s corny. It sucks. It’s genuinely revolting. This is like  textbook romance. This is the stuff teenage girls read in their off time and kick their feet. 

He’s kicking his feet. 

Not only that but after two bites you left the room and returned with a bottle of champagne. He hates the stuff; it burns his tongue and it tastes like shit. But, he drinks from the rim because your lips have touched it. And he gets buzzed. And so do you. 

“You need to have more,” you insist lazily. Half the cake has vanished. “‘Cause it’s your birthday.” 

Tamsy hums stupidly, “I feel sick.” 

“Same.” You end up laughing. “Are you staying?” 

He turns his head to look at you. He stares blankly, maybe comprehending what you’re saying. His brain sloshes for words. His nose is buried in your blankets. 

“I think you should,” you try lightly. “I’m a bit tipsy.”

“Me too.” He’s dizzy. There’s faded black spots swimming in his vision. 

Your nose presses to the side of his face. “‘T’s okay.” You kiss the fat of his cheek lightly. “Thanks for coming.” 

He’s too drunk to even acknowledge anything. “Mhm.” 

“Happy birthday,” you slur to him. 

He’s almost asleep. Maybe he feels safe around you. Maybe he’s faking it so he can pull the knife out of the chocolate and ram it through your sternum. Maybe he can grab your heart while it’s still beating. 

That sounds lovely. 

For now, he sleeps soundly as he usually does. He thinks he sleeps better in your arms. You don't; mostly because you have a mouthful of his hair in the morning to deal with. Still, you suppose the warmth is nice.