oh

i.

His parents had gotten married in a graveyard. That’s where Peter thinks his bad luck comes from.

The ceremony was small, quiet. The polar opposite of a traditional wedding in Nevermore. It was just them and the witch that married them. No feasts, no masks, no dancing. Just his parents, their faces uncovered, loving each other. It was more intimate, they claimed.

His grandparents claimed that it was spiteful; they didn’t want their families involved in the ceremony because neither pair of parents had wanted them together. Peter thought this would rather justify his parents’ decision.

When they were some of the first people executed by the state, the neighbors claimed this was why. You don’t go against tradition unless you want Fate to come back and bite you in the arse. You don’t celebrate in a somber place unless you’re prideful. And all people with excessive pride have far to fall. Peter never said anything in response to these neighbors. His brother did, all the time. Kid couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It was almost as though some biological reflex compelled him to always defend their mother and father’s honor, often at the expense of his own dignity. And sometimes even Peter’s as well.

Now, he doesn’t know where the rest of his family is. All his neighbors died or moved away. He had a sister, but Haru died a long time ago. He barely knew her.

Now, they say something a little different; now, he is the unlucky, prideful one. Now, he is the one to fall. The one to lose everything to the graves they danced on.

There’s a demon lurking in Nevermore.

It’s stupid, he knows. But sometimes, he looks at the scars on his brother’s face while he sleeps, and he wonders.

Tonight, (or rather, this morning), though, he looks at a different face.

He and Kabuto had pulled probably the most cliche, skeevy move in the book and booked a motel room for the night. They’d gone to the boardwalk that day, for the seventh date in as many weeks. Rowena had been warning him that Otsana was getting more suspicious, but he’d ignored her again. Told her to cover for him. The princess wasn’t pleased, but he knew she liked the doc, so she’d do it. He and Kabuto spent the day in total bliss, and nothing could ruin it, not even when Kabuto got a sunburn and when Peter’s popcorn fell into the waves below the dock.

As the sun set, however, and they’d walked the beach with brown doggy bags full of clam cakes, a sharp restlessness had passed between their fingertips, sending odd shocks up Peter’s arm. When Kabuto finally looked at him, Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That was when he called Rowena and told her that they’d gotten stuck in traffic and might be a while getting back.

“You are so full of shit. You went to the fucking boardwalk, there’s no way it’s far enough for you to not be back until morning.”

“Please, Ro? It’s easier than coming home.”

He felt the deepness of that sentence, and realized with despair how true it was for him as it was for his “secret little friend”.

There was a pause, so silent that Peter was afraid the line went dead. Finally, Rowena sighed.

“I’ll cover for you. You owe me, man.”

“I sure do.”

That night had been a hurricane, and the afterglow, the calm eye.

Now the clock on the nightstand read 4:03 in the morning. The sun will be coming up soon. The red light burns Peter’s eyes. He turns away from it, only to find that he isn’t the only one awake.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, yourself.”

They had never dressed. Their only cover is the warm quilt, pulled up to their chins. But it’s the same, shared duvet; it doesn’t even function as a cover, to protect modesty, when their skin is inches away from each other.

They say nothing, only staring. Eventually their tired gazes trail away from eyes to dimly lit cheek bones, collar bones, shoulders, chests… further and further…

“See something you like?” Peter asks, noticing Kabuto’s eyes dilate, not knowing if its from darkness or something else. But he’s pretty sure he has a good idea.

When he sees the older man blush, he knows he’s guessed correctly.

“I-I wasn’t--”
“Sure you weren’t.” He can’t stop the grin from conquering his face. It’s infectious, everything about Kabuto is infectious. When he’s sad, it’s impossible for Peter to smile. But when Kabuto smiles…

It’s like the rain.

The gardens and the forests and the vineyards are drinking, feasting, like at a wedding, a real wedding. It’s a rinse, a quench, an entire season of “new”.

But when he can’t smile… Peter must smile for him. No matter how difficult.

And it is difficult. It’s like expecting the rain, and drinking salt water instead.

Right now, Kabuto is smiling. He is absolutely glowing. And Peter feels his soul at his collarbone, about to float out of his body towards the man beside him.

“I l--”

He cuts off, nearly biting his tongue, to Kabuto’s obvious puzzlement.

What the hell was THAT? He blinked, feeling a hotness creep its way up his throat, up his nose, into his head and making it ache and throb dully. Oh.

His mother had always claimed that humaans were wrong about romance-- much like humaans are wrong about most things. Telling someone is always hard, yes, but the hardest thing is NOT telling them.

In real life, saying “I love you” is a physical, biological reflex, like breathing. It is harder to hold it back than it is to push it forwards.

There’s a demon lurking in Nevermore.

It’s like a stone has dropped into the pit of Peter’s stomach. His luck truly has been tainted. The reflex, nonexistent one second and there the next, is strong, like a pulse in his throat. Things just got a lot more complicated.

I am in love with a married man. I am so fucked.

Kabuto gazes at him, bemused. Peter plasters on a charming smile, pulling him over for a kiss.

Best not to worry him. Peter tries not to think about the dark cloud following him, that may now follow Kabuto if Peter doesn’t squash this reflex quick and hard.

There’s a demon lurking in Nevermore.

ii.

He never wanted anybody.

He was fine alone. He got along well with himself. It was never ideal, obviously, since alone he was prone to eating badly and refusing to sleep. Alone, he forgot he existed.

He could understand why everyone thought he’d do better with a handler. Now he finally had proof that they were wrong.

With Prospero, he’d remembered his own desires, his needs. His dreams. But he’d forgotten the world.

At best, it’d been an ill-advised distraction from what was Important. Important was Nevermore, Holloway, the state and dismantling it, Rowena, Anabiel, Tara, Chishio. The plan was Important. Staying away from mother-- Laurline, away from what she would do to him… That was Important.

He was Not Important. He was the least important thing on the list.

Love was Not Important. That, at least, he would remember next time. There was no way now that he would ever forget.

At best, Prospero had been an ill-advised distraction. A mistake. At worst…

He shut his eyes, breathing meticulously, trying to calm his lungs. There was a pixie in there, fluttering against the walls, dying to get out. He wouldn’t allow it.

At worst, Prospero had given and taken the only thing Travis had that made him feel human.

It would have been better if he had never felt at all. Not for Tara, not for him. It just didn’t work.

The only thing to do now was to focus. Leave the hurt behind. Leave the feeling behind.

Leave it all behind.

There was a rap at his door. Travis looked up from the rug, where he lay on his stomach.

His friends seemed determined to make sure that nothing was left behind. Everything, according to them, must be brought under a bright lamp to be examined, picked apart, explained in agonizing detail. Sally had come this morning, Tara at lunch. This must be Chishio. Such was their pattern the past three days. Ridiculous Humaans.

“Travis?”

He groaned in response. “Go away.” It was the first thing he’d said to anyone in days. He’d have thought the locked door would have said it for him, but apparently not.

There was a pause, a soft patter of footsteps, like someone was walking away. But only a few before the noise stopped. He’d stopped in the hall. The footsteps picked up again, getting louder; he’d decided to come back and try again. Terrific.

The next rap was more assertive.

“Travis, we really need to talk about this.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” Chishio insisted, sounding exasperated. He’s going to have to try harder than that, Travis decided.

“I don’t want to. Leave me be.”

“No. I’m not leaving until you talk to me. I just want you to be okay.”

Being okay isn’t Important. Being able to perform, to move, to do, is.

“Trying to force me to talk isn’t going to make me get over anything. Just give me space.”

“The last time you told me to give you space, he took over your fucking life! I can’t keep doing that anymore!” Chishio sounded wrecked with guilt, and Travis couldn’t deal with this right now, he couldn’t fucking deal with him.

“If I wouldn’t talk to my mum or my ex, what the HELL makes you think I want to talk to you?!” He snapped.

Silence.

Travis felt a twinge of satisfaction, not untainted by fear and worry. That was too far.
He didn’t expect the door to open. He didn’t expect Chishio to come storming into his room, bright brown eyes ablaze. He sure as hell didn’t expect to be pinned against a wall by the weight of his entire body, uncomfortably present in every corner of his own.

Oh, shit.

He didn’t expect to have his ears blown out by shouting, to be nose to nose with a very angry, very strong man. He didn’t expect to be numb.

Numb?

He had been numb this entire time. Before Prospero. Before Tara. Before even Laurline, maybe.

He just didn’t expect it to suddenly break him.

The absence of feeling had never been so noticeable.

“--Travis, are you even FUCKING LISTENING?!”

Nope, sorry.

Chishio must have felt his friend go limp, or seen the total apathy in his eyes. He withdrew, giving him air, but did not let him go.

“... What did he do to you?” He asked, in dull horror.

Travis remained silent for a moment, but when he realized Chi wasn’t going to back down until he got what he wanted, he sighed. “What are you talking about?”

“Your eyes.”

“What?”

“Your eyes. They’re…” Color came to Chishio’s cheeks. “Dead. You’re like a corpse.”

“Is that any different than normal?” Travis asked dryly.

“Yes,” Chishio replied seriously. “There’s usually fire there. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Sometimes both.”
“... Okay, I’m going to ignore how creepy it is that you pay such close attention to my eyes--”

“Travis, quit dicking around.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insists. “I’ve almost always felt like a corpse. I guess I just assumed that was what I always looked like.”

Chishio was silent.

“You never feel that passion?” He finally asked softly. “You always show it.”

“I didn’t know I did.”

“So then Prospero isn’t the big problem here, he just made it worse.”

This time, Travis didn’t answer. He saw Chishio’s heart in his eyes, and it was breaking.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a fucking huge deal, shut up. Why didn’t you tell me you felt like this? You’re just… you’re like a Rolex watch. ‘Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. Why didn’t you tell me you were just being strong for everyone else?”

Because I am Not Important.

He knew he couldn’t say it. If he said it, it would be true. He would die if that were true.

Please don’t let it be true… I want to be worth something. Not just “useful”. Please Fate, don’t let me be Not Important.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to know.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Chishio opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it. His chin trembled, and Travis feared for a brief moment that he was going to weep. He didn’t. He lifted his hand, brushing his cold fingertips against Travis’s cheek before gently cupping his chin. His words were faint, like a breeze.

“How could you believe that…? After five years…”

Travis couldn’t blink. He couldn’t tear his own eyes away from the chestnut ones. Couldn’t even look at the rest of his face, except his lips, something that his brain, very far away, registered as quite strange. Not quite as strange as Chishio’s own gaze, though.

He was mirroring Travis’s almost exactly.

“You still think I hate you.”

“Sometimes you do,” Travis pointed out. He was about to point out that Chishio was getting a lot closer, but for once, decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Sometimes I do, you’re right…” Chishio conceded, not ceasing his slow advance. Maybe he didn’t notice it; it seemed too trancelike to be deliberate. “And then sometimes…” He trailed off.

“Sometimes what?” Travis asked, wondering if the lump in his throbbing lump in his throat was his heart or if he was just going to cry. Chishio’s face was the only thing Travis could see now, they were so close. He realized now that he too had been drawing near the other boy.

“Sometimes…” They were so close now, Travis could see the salt water on the tips of Chishio’s eyelashes. Both their eyes were closing. “Sometimes I don’t…”

Travis never did remember what really happened next. He could see different versions of what might have happened. But he had left so quickly…

They could have closed that distance, briefly, chastely, and then broke apart civilly. They might have looked into each other’s eyes, shocked, longing, relieved, lost… Hurt. Please comfort me. I think I need help with this. Their lips may have briefly met again before the taller man tucked his head into the crook of the other’s shoulder, whispering, “I am here. I am always here. Where are you?

Or the meeting could have been more passionate, longer, their arms around each other, Chishio pressing his body against Travis’s, the younger boy trapped between the wall and the fire. Their fingers may have tangled up in each other’s hair, tugging, pulling, grasping. Their lips may have bruised each other’s, teeth may have briefly collided before their mouths became more familiar, tongues may have explored deep caverns like barefoot little adventuresses. At one point their bodies may have moved together, desperate for friction or warmth, or both. They may have held each other so tightly that it felt like they would never extricate themselves from the other’s embrace. Chishio’s hand may have spidered its way under Travis’s shirt, up his bare back, to come to a flat rest between his shoulder blades. And with the parting of the ways, finally the breaking apart of skin, they could have been panting, struggling for breath, sweat on their faces, jeans suddenly too tight. Everything too tight. The entire room too small.

Or with the faintest brush of lips, or even just the sensation of another’s breath on his face, Travis could have snapped to his senses and recoiled, mumbling that he needed a bath. He could turned away from Chishio’s look of sickening shock and hurt, pushing it away from his mind. He might have locked himself in the bathroom for well over an hour, Chishio doing the same in his room. Both thinking of the same thing.

No matter what happened, Travis’s thought would have been the same:

Oh.

He’d been right under his nose for half a decade… How could he not have seen?

More pressingly, how could he unsee?

How could he leave the feeling behind?

Leave it all behind.