Work Text:
1917
It was evening, and the air was humid. Sticky sweet, and rotten smelling, like the earth and something warm and wet. There was a give to the dirt, and it was forgiving under his feet.
Freshly turned over, a shovel was tossed against the side of the house.
The white fence in front of him was worn from the years, the paint taking on a blue tinge in the shadows; between the slats, the river's reflection peeked through. Tossed amongst the overgrown trees and greenery, it was nestled in the dark—the water unassuming but much less merciful than the earth.
Chipped in some places, a few planks falling in others, the fence was an illusion, if anything.
Nothing was kept in, and nothing was kept out.
The nightgown stuck to his skin, one side falling off his shoulder as he tore his gaze away from the water, swaying slightly before pinning one end of the sheet to the clothesline. The other end was next, a stretch as he reached up, feet coming off the ground ever so slightly.
The floodlight on the small home was bright, just barely bleeding through the fence and to the river. It painted his hands stark white, highlighting the blue veins and hues of red swelling under the surface. The moving of muscles and tendons as the blood rushed to the tips of his fingers when he opened the clothespin; uncanny and practiced to near perfection.
The light was artificial and sterile, turning the white sheet opaque once it was hung fully.
The line was tight, the grass under his feet dead.
He dropped his hands, swept the sheet aside, and looked at the water. The moon’s reflection was dim, broken up by the vines and trees sticking through the surface, weaving their way amongst it all and taking on the shape of the things that only came out at night.
The river was dark, a void as soon as the moonlight hit; he knew this.
A sudden drop, miles deep. Children had fallen in, grown men had jumped, and small animals alike never resurfaced. As if, as soon as they hit the water, they became something else entirely and disappeared from the earth.
Nothing that went into that water ever floated back up.
Reaching up, he adjusted the nightgown onto his shoulder, dragging his hand across the back of his neck, pushing the wet curls away from his nape. A brief moment of respite as he took a breath and inhaled the rich, sour smell of the air before leaning down, peering at his thigh.
Hitching the hem higher, he turned his knee into the light, scratching his leg before seeing the mosquito.
He’d heard they liked those that were a bit sweet, and Regulus slapped at it.
Killed it, and it stuck before he tried to brush it off, smearing it into his damp skin. It looked like dirt mixed with another’s blood, and Regulus turned to glance at the water one last time before picking up the laundry basket and walking inside.
He came every morning.
Walked up the unkempt driveway and paused at the first step. A pale green color they were painted, but all the paint was peeling away. Worn and chipped more every day, with the heavy rain and the humidity that crept between the finish and wood, forcing them apart.
Forcing deterioration and lending the house towards something formidable and grim to look at.
It kept most out, but not him.
Life was a dark affair, the spin of the world present as Regulus pushed off the counter, walking to the front door. He felt it under his feet, the weathered tile and the tilt of it all, a bit too far to the left. He reached up, pushing the hair away from his neck.
It was hot that summer, and it was welcomed.
The man would take the path through the yard and make it to the first step. He would hesitate, and it always made Regulus smile.
He wouldn't say he had a nice smile, rather thought it was something offensive and foul the few times it was shown to the world. Regulus often stood in front of the small mirror in the bathroom, spotted and faded with rust and age, and stared.
He would smile and frown, lean in close, and wonder what the difference was between what he saw in his own eyes and what those who looked at him saw. Knew of the difference but wished he could see it for himself.
He would not say his smile was frightening, but perhaps it was strange. It felt odd to him, and his skin looked too smooth as if Regulus had a complex about the way he looked, but he did not. Cared little about it, but he did wonder what the others of the world thought of him.
What they felt when they looked at him, and if it leaned more towards the favorable or undesirable range of emotions.
But the man would walk up to the front of the small home, and Regulus always smiled, something simple and just for himself, a hidden indulgence in life found in the man in front of him.
Pleasure was easily given, but there was something extra delicious about taking it for yourself.
For the one you are stripping it from to remain unaware, and the man hardly knew that Regulus looked at him at all, let alone grinned.
He stood at the end of the step with nice shoes and clothes, hair a striking gold color that stuck to his forehead. Vibrant against the dead and dull grass of his home, he was the color brought to the world wherever he went; Regulus was sure of that.
He didn’t keep up with the estate and cared little for anyone else to. The neighbors left the home alone, and no one ever visited, so there was very little variety to his simple life. Nothing came or went, the birds did not sing, and the animals were never hiding in the tall grass.
Nothing ever came and went except for him.
Regulus watched from the doorway, leaning his temple against the screen and brushing some hair out of his face as the man reached into his bag, setting the paper on the third step.
Gently, he never moved past the second step, but there was not an ounce of fear held in his person any given day.
Beyond that of regular life, the subliminal dread one who woke up every morning felt. The sweltering heat was nothing compared to some horrors, but one that burned equally hot. Made your skin prickle and your clothes stick to the back of your knees.
The man was alluring and created a yearning where there had never been one before. Where the shape of Regulus’ body was alarmed by the sudden appearance of something so foreign and out of place.
It was disgusting; it was tempting.
Unbeknownst to the man, he had reached inside Regulus and ripped something out. Left a massive and cavernous hole where it used to be. His insides were solid and made of something much too strong to break and tear.
But they had torn—one end to the other.
Messy and quick, overflowing, Regulus did not try to stop it. Instead stood there, looked at him for the first time, and let it all fall out, wet splats against the pavement; he wished he could have smelled it.
It had all fallen out the first day he had dropped off a paper.
The sun had been high in the sky, much too bright for Regulus’ liking, but persistent, unwavering, and uncaring.
Blinding and blindsided, it had been turning to the colder months, the ground flooding when it rained even longer than a moment. Wet and sopping earth beneath his feet, Regulus carried drenched bedsheets inside where the red had run through the dirt and grass, eventually finding its way to the water.
Dispersing and forgotten, a process of dissolution.
The red had run, and he had gone inside to see a paper being set on his porch, and he reminded Regulus of the sun.
Entirely too destructive but gentle in nature.
The sun did not know the danger it posed if brought too close. With the pressure and the need for it, the world would not spin and would be suspended in obscurity without its light. The moon would be useless, and the tides stagnant. Time would blend, and the people of the earth would freeze to death and crumble.
That day, Regulus had watched from outside the flames.
The world had turned cold and unusual the moment he set his eyes on the man.
He had been an outsider to ruin at that moment—had been on the receiving end for the first time. It was startling and unnatural and uncomfortable. Regulus felt what he assumed was close enough to fear but did not miss his spot amongst the flames if it meant he got to watch from afar.
The heat had licked at him long after the man had left. Scorching, comforting, and inviting, the flames rose each day as he got nearer, paper in hand as if each step brought the heat closer and the oxygen in the air multiplied.
Tenfold, and by the time the man reached down, nimble fingers gently setting the paper on the porch, the whole world was burning.
And Regulus felt the burn still that day, leaning against the screened door. He watched the man turn to go, adjusting his glasses on his nose and brushing the hair away from his forehead.
Regulus pushed forward, opened the screen door with his shoulder, and, walking out, tilted his head down, regarding the headline for a moment before looking up.
And it was a step inside the flames; he was amongst it all, and it was a warmth and comfort of inexplicable significance as their eyes met and Regulus’ smile touched the world again, in all its horrific glory.
Slow and unsettling but genuine. A warning, if he were smart, but the man only met Regulus’ eye.
He swallowed the gaze, digging through his attention and tossing everything around, wholly enamored and angry at the fact there was no dread. Regulus narrowed his eyes slightly to try and distinguish what lay at the heart of his person, but it was all warmth.
Rivaling the heat around that was sticking to his skin, seeping in and sweltering. The man’s eyes competed against the humid air, and the flames crawling up Regulus’ legs, creeping over his shoulders and sinking into his chest.
Competed and won.
He took a few steps forward, keeping his eyes trained on the threat in front of him before bending down and gently picking up the paper. The headline a whole bunch of nonsense; Regulus leaned back against the closed door as it slammed shut, hands resting against the screen.
Pressing into his skin and pushing around the worldly flesh. The wood of the porch was rough and pitted from years before. The metal of the door was hot from the sun beating down on it all morning, ready to blister and peel.
Regulus held his stare as the man took a few steps back. He felt his shoulders collapse, spine digging into the fine wire of the screen as the man finally smiled.
And the flames turned from a startling orange to a dangerous blue, the man’s smile a gift to the world. Regulus took a heavy breath as it was presented and felt what it was like to be in hell. To burn for eternity and what scorched skin must feel like—torture and the manipulation of fear.
But he grinned back because Regulus had no fears and loved the burning feeling—ached for it.
He held his smile, tilting his head and bringing a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The man’s steps faltered, and teeth were barred within Regulus’ grin, the last warning he thought he was capable of giving. Like a wild animal before attacking, hungry and desperate but still civil enough to show signs of inevitable consumption.
It was silent besides the sound of the breeze, the birds smart enough to recognize a threat, and the animals having much more self-preservation than most, something innate and instinctual.
The flies kept around, though, fond of the heat and the creaking of the floor where Regulus shifted.
“The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.”
― Virgil, The Aeneid
When James was fourteen, he had been playing outside with a boy his age.
His name was Henry, and his mother had been a friend of James’. It was three years before the fire and half a year after James realized there was something wrong with him.
They often played as their mothers talked, chasing each other around and giggling with their new toys. An innate sense to keep to themselves, the others around rarely gave them a thought despite not having a reason. James always thought it was because his mother had been kind, and miserable people in life rarely spared a glance at those who could bring peace.
They played with shiny new toys as well as sticks, the world their playground, and they arranged and viewed it as they saw fit. Henry was just shorter than James, with blonde hair and dark brown eyes. He always thought it a strange combination and, for years, had continued to think of him and wonder.
About nothing in particular but wonder all the same.
They had been running, chasing after one another, weaving between the soft grass and the harsh pavement that was cracked and uneven. Their mothers would yell to be careful, and it would go in one ear and out the other, something expected from children who didn't know what small things could bring so much pain.
James’ foot caught an uneven brick, and he fell and busted his knee open.
There was a moment when he lay there on the ground, tiny rocks grating against his palms that were warm and stung, where James stared at his knee. The skin was a bit white where it had been scraped raw, only irritated, if anything.
He had not cried out, and as he took a breath to finally speak—to yell for his mother as the tears fell—James watched the blood come to the surface. Slowly, he watched it peek through the cuts, clinging to the ripped skin, raised and throbbing.
It happened slowly until, all of a sudden, it was running down his leg. The smell filled the air, and his yell choked off as his arm rushed forward, desperately cupping the bend of his knee to try and keep the blood to himself.
To prevent it from pouring down his thigh and calf, staining the pavement, but it was too much, rivulets and small rivers.
Blood everywhere suddenly. Henry had knelt before him, his hands and fingers fumbling with James’ own. They were slick and slipping against one another, cold and thick, gliding, but their hands were much too small to do anything at all.
So they fumbled, Henry frantically speaking and asking if James wanted his mother.
James only learned he had been speaking to him later after Henry had gone and gotten his mother anyway. He had been too enraptured by the feeling.
It was thicker, heavier than water or anything else he had ever felt.
Almost an orange tint; it was him he was holding in his hands.
It was not frightening; James had been mesmerized. The dull pain faded, and he only hissed when he bent his knee, trying to wipe the blood off his hands but smearing it instead.
It was dark and thick and him—something much too monumental for a young child to try and understand what was held in his palm. Glossy and slippery, sticky where he rubbed his fingers together, a bit of a smack as he parted them. It clung where it ran down his legs, staining his socks, and there it was red.
Cells and skin and what kept us living, and he had been holding it and was still breathing.
Evenly and openly, smelling the bite, his stomach did not roll from fear or disgust.
It was many different colors, and James' mother had yelled when she saw. Apologies were made, and he was brought back inside and cleaned up. Carefully and gently, his mother had him sit on the toilet as she rested on the bath's edge, his leg on her lap as she cleaned off the blood that had already begun to dry.
Then, it was a dark red, almost black. Oxidization; the process of those precious cells dying. Decaying and fading, James remembered wanting them to stay red—he had wanted to fumble and try to put it all back.
It tugged at his hair as she wiped a cloth over it, gummy and wet in the more concentrated areas.
His mother cleaned and patched him up, kissed him on the forehead, and said she would fix his bed. Before she left, Euphemia looked back, the same motherly smile James loved on her face as she reminded him to wash his hands.
He had stood in front of the sink, porcelain a pristine white, and it had seemed a shame to let something dirty run over it. Not dirty but harsh, red was such a cruel color.
The rag she had used to clean him up was tossed over the side of the bath, pink in some spots, thick in others. The room smelled of pennies, and his knee ached.
James turned on the tap and slowly watched the red bleed down the drain, much like it had bled from his knee. His left hand was washed and dried on the towel next to him, a bit of color smearing on the fabric, and he felt guilt, and many years later, that moment would be the first time James could remember feeling such an emotion.
He looked at his right hand, and it looked like a sick novelty.
Pretty but not lovely, it still smelled of pennies and sour dirt, but it was such a vibrant color, one he had never seen in his waking life. To compare it to poppies or the bright red lipstick his mother sometimes wore was to do it a disservice. It was not red, nor was it anything other than red.
It was fallible, somehow, to call it either.
His left hand was much easier on the eyes, clean and cold from where it was still slightly damp. Suitable and like he could touch things, but he wanted to touch things with both hands. Clasp them together, and hear the squelch again—morbid curiosity, the early onset.
James met his eyes in the mirror and held himself accountable, someone watching even if it was his own eyes he saw. He hesitated but shoved his right hand under the water, cleaning it just the same as the other.
Later that evening, tucked in bed with another kiss on the forehead, he rolled onto his side. Turning on the small lamp, he pressed his thumb into his palm, feeling the shift before turning his fingers over and stilling.
The pink stain on the towels had come from the blood stuck under and around his nails. Dried to the cuticles and hard, James sat up on his elbow, bringing his fingers closer. He scraped at a bit of the dried blood with his nail.
Dug the sharp edge of his nail into his cuticle and hissed, trying to scrape away the blood but threatening to break skin. Back and forth, he pressed into his nailbed until it hurt.
And then he began to bleed anew.
That time, he knew what it felt like before the red wet made its appearance, and he watched it mix with the dried a second later. Just a bit, but he swiped a thumb through it before glancing up, and looking out the open window.
He stuck the finger in his mouth, sucked, and drew it out. Ran his tongue along the nail and the side, gaze focused on the few stars he could see in the sky outside. Over and over, every finger until they were clean and wet, cold in the breeze that blew through.
It wasn't until he sat up a bit more, holding both his hands in front of him, that James looked.
Looked but only tasted; there was nothing to focus on with his hands being clean, but he tasted it.
Thoughts flooded his mind like the water had run down the drain, as the blood had spilled from his knee.
Nothing and then all at once.
James lay in bed four years later, and the window was open again.
He had been told it was because of the breeze that would help the heat that came and stayed well into the night, but it only made him sticky. Uncomfortable as he tossed and turned, the linen sheets pressed into his skin, damp as the heavier blanket fell softly to the floor.
He hated the humidity, and there was no real reprieve.
James was restless as he stirred in his bed but grateful he had been born an only child on the off chance he had to share a bed with someone; it would be quite unbearable.
Skin clinging to skin and being close to another induced fear, and James knew his predisposition to yearn for something beyond. Good or bad, something that made him feel more than what had already settled into his bones.
Sometimes he felt he should not be allowed near other people and did not know how to care for or touch them well enough. Something was missing between the slats of his brain, the thing that told him how to love or care gently.
What he had been made from, down to the brick and mortar of his being, was not what others needed. There was a curiosity mixed into his marrow that had earned him harsh words in his youth, some from his inner self. He was well acquainted with it now but all too aware of the feeling as the nights set in.
Fear greeted him like an old friend, one you only have to seek out and reach towards. James loved to brush his fingers against it, his arm happy to stretch towards a familiar feeling. It did not matter what the feeling was from; he found he enjoyed it anyway.
The racing of his heart; trepidation was his favorite to keep around. He liked how he could feel the beating of such an organ, vital and essential, in his wrists—the sides of his neck and the dip of his chest. Something inside that could not come out but was felt all the same.
The heart was meant to stay in one’s body, but the blood could spill without consequence and lend you years after to feel the steady thrum continue on.
And James had learned to be careless.
Would scrape his knees or cut himself, prick his finger, or bite down on his tongue. Letting the door slam on his knuckles did not bring peace; it was always the extremes James longed for. Standing too close to the fire only warmed him and made him sweat, but burns could blister and peel and, if they were terrible enough, bleed.
It was hard to learn to be careless when he had been taught to be cautious.
To look down before we step or to peek around corners. We were taught as young children too much heat could hurt, and too much cold could freeze. Hurt was an innate feeling, indescribable, but James had learned to put words to that feeling over the years.
He had taught himself to shed what he had been shown—did it all backward and moved in reverse. Realign everything into something more palatable for the way he was forced to see the world.
He learned to allow himself to skip that step and fall, to knock into things much harder than need be; James had perfected it.
He now understood how to be careful just as much as he knew how to be careless—reckless.
James watched the chandelier swing back and forth in his room from where he lay on the mattress. A steady rhythm, never building momentum. The cadence was soft and gentle, the faint creaking of brass something that lulled him to sleep.
It always swung, and it always drew out that same dreadful curiosity.
Ornately carved, golden in color with five bulbs, when it first started, James had been concerned. Would get out of bed and stand far away, quickly understanding and noticing there was an uncanniness to the movement, teetering on the edge of natural and the strange.
But it swung every night and had become a constant, like a metronome just for him.
A gift from the world, a little slice of something he could covet. Even in the evenings, when the windows were locked, a breeze was nowhere to be seen, and the air stagnant. Whether the light was turned on or off, even when James left the room, it swung, but never when anyone else was around.
He sometimes watched it for so long he thought he could see a pattern, as if it swung higher to the right, maybe, but James knew that was wrong. He could swear there was a slight pause before it shifted to the left some nights, like a pendulum, before it dropped again, but he knew that was also wrong.
It was relentless, back and forth; James turned on his side in bed, watching it sway that night.
The shadows played against the walls, the chandelier off but the open window letting in the moonlight. The dark shapes shifted and moved, creating a show for the evening. The open and empty space of the room was swallowed in obscurity except for the shine of the metal as it creaked.
James pushed off his bed and took a few steps toward the middle of the room. Took in the draping curtains and the smooth floor, an armoire shoved against the wall, filled with clothes that scratched at his skin and made him feel foolish.
The wood was cold under his feet as he took a step forward.
He glanced up and froze mid-step. Stilled his hand as it came up to push the hair away from his face that fell; he could see then that it did hesitate as it swung to the left.
Maybe most would not notice, but James found it meant a lot to search for the things in life others did not know of. When you had everything, you dug deeper. Fought harder to find something that continued to give you a reason to be in awe of the world.
It was a break in a routine that had long become comfortable, and James hid a smile as the fear of something new crept up his spine. Sluggish and slow, a cold that moved but at its own pace.
The light swung one more time, left and then right, before stopping the moment he set foot under it. Momentum lost in a single second—obsolete. Still as the house under his feet, it was frozen in time and caught in place.
James held his breath, waiting for it to swing again. He dared tear his gaze away and looked towards the open windows. The curtains were motionless, and the breeze had disappeared; the world took on the quality it did before a harsh storm.
Smelling of forbiddance as one would smell the rain, James didn’t fight the smile this time as something unexplainable was invited into the house alongside him.
It was a large house, but it was not home.
From the food on the table to the pristine fabrics it was draped in, others did not have the same luck as James, but he did not care. He felt incredibly selfish most days, hating the things others wouldn't dare think a negative thought towards, but it all felt rotten.
Tainted and like if he were to look close enough, it would be decaying and unsightly. Attracting flies and the things in the world that fed off decomposition and death. Black and slick with changing membranes, pitted and foul smelling, nothing in life seemed worth appreciating when it was only a thinly veiled illusion of giving freely what one needs.
His parents had raised him in a home, and he slept in an illusion of what he once had. But James knew what it felt like to feel safe and tucked away, comforted, and he was not comforted in the bed he lay in at night.
James drew a hand down his bare chest and swallowed before looking up again.
He took a step back and then another, watching as the light stayed in place as it should. He turned, rounding the bed and pulling himself under the covers. James settled and sighed, and the wind picked up again. He felt the breeze against his bare shoulders and the soft sounds of the world floating through the open panes.
He smiled to himself and shifted on his side. Froze before glancing over his shoulder, time seeming to split, fold, and restart. The soft creaking of brass was like an engine starting, just as loud as it cut through the air again.
It had been a moment of suspension, like how the water had run down the drain, as the blood had spilled from his knee, and the light swung from left to right.
“A Party?”
James nodded, leaning into it. “A party, yes.”
Lily was quiet for a moment, shoulders dropping where they sat next to each other. Her thigh was touching his, and he was silent, looking out over the water. She had a pensive look on her face, brows drawn as she stared at the nothing in front of him.
He tore his gaze away from her and looked as well before she finally spoke.
“And you don't like the girl?”
James was silent, debating because he had never met the girl. She might be lovely, but she could not be. His uncle had surely seen her fit, but James thought it was safe to assume it was less about a compatible match and more about what she had to offer.
Not herself, but her name.
So, he felt pity for both of them and hoped she was lovely.
“No,” He finally answered. “I don't like the girl.”
“You don’t like girls.”
James tilted his head, silent, as he finally saw what Lily had been looking at in the distance. His eyes had finally adjusted.
“No, I don't like girls.”
It was like a high note at the base of his spine, the sound the world around James took on the first time he kissed a boy.
He had been a wonderful boy. Gentle eyes and a caring smile, sweet words, and he was pleasant, oh so pleasant.
With warm hands and he rested them on James’ face and kissed him. A press of lips, soft and inquisitive, like he had been searching for something. It had not been James’ first kiss, but it was the one that mattered the most.
He didn't know the boy's name, and they had been hidden somewhere in the backyard of his childhood home. Away from prying eyes, sure to disapprove, James felt like the world could have been his. All he had to do was reach out and grasp it, and he did—he reached out.
Reached out and threaded his fingers through the boy's hair, and it was brushing his fingertips across the earth's atmosphere, so close to having it all. The build-up to something important, a puzzle piece sliding into place, maybe not the last one, but close.
And then it slipped through his fingers, falling much too fast, and that atmosphere, those pieces shattered on the ground.
James gripped the boy's hair tightly, something inside him snapping at the warmth of the moment. His mouth had parted, and the gasp that escaped his lips sounded just like the other boys. It was teeth biting a bottom lip and fingers tugging and pulling, and he had wanted the world and instead learned something about himself.
Not everyone cared for the things he did.
And maybe he had thought the violent nature he always carried around compared to his mother or Lily was innate—everyone occupied it to some degree. He thought boys were tough and rougher around the edges than girls. His grandfather never smiled and never indulged in the small things in life.
Men were predisposed to violence, the dreadful and the hard things; leave the roses and flowers, the lipstick and the violets, and those poppies to the women. Someone who could appreciate red and not compare it to the cells inside us.
James only assumed everyone carried destruction to some degree in them. Inside them, between their ribs, or maybe some held it heavy in their stomach; it did not matter where just that everyone had it.
Everyone’s hands knew to do nothing more than what they were born to; it was not something you could change. James later learned violence did not discriminate; his aunt carried the same that his uncle did, as did his grandfather.
It was tough love, tough luck, and tough kisses.
The boy shoved James back and said something he would never remember. Because he had not broken skin but had been close and stared at the flushed and bitten lips of someone who did not find the appeal and felt sorry for him.
James had mourned the loss and thought it would have been just beautiful. Wanted to taste and would have liked to tell the boy that it was okay and that he would continue to breathe after and to not be frightened.
Explain that he did not understand the beauty that could come from blurring lines and indulging in the strange urges life offered you, but James would show him if he’d like.
He was even more beautiful up close.
The distance had been far too great, James realized very quickly, as he sat down at the table in the home.
The inside was lived in; worn furniture that had once been bright colors, but the dye had bled from the fibers. From the sun beating through the windows, sheer curtains doing very little to keep the heat out.
The kitchen table was too small, and James sat up straight, watching his fingers as he poured them both a cup of tea.
He had walked up that morning, no paper in hand.
James only ever brought the paper up to the door. He was not sure if the man knew that he was not the paper boy, only the one who had thought one day to carry the news up to the house after running across a pile of rained-on and sopping-wet papers by the street.
A feeble attempt at an inviting front lawn gave way to an open field; the house sat in the center of it, a white fence around the sides, the river just seen past the sparse trees behind. The walk was peaceful; sometimes, he heard the animals as he followed the length of the extensive driveway.
They always stopped, though, and let James finish the last bit of the journey on his own.
It had always been something for him. A reason to get out of the house and breathe the fresh air. James had never been sure if anyone lived in the home but felt it useless for the papers to sit and rot amongst the street, so he called it his good deed of each day. Absolution for all his other thoughts; created a place where his consciousness could be cleared.
And then he had walked out one day, and maybe James understood why the animals never came too close. Thought it fit to leave him to his own, he wondered, had the animals been able to speak, if they would have chosen to warn him.
Words paled in comparison, and James’ mind would never find a way to describe the quality the earth had taken on when he met his eyes for the first time. A pulling in his gut, deep in his chest like a wire wrapped around his ribs, an end tied to stone.
And James felt that feeling every day; he wasn’t sure he would be able to go without seeing his eyes, even if he desperately tried to stop himself. Even on the days he did not have a paper to give, which had been what led him to where he was then.
Watching long and nimble fingers handle an opulent cup of tea.
It was instinctual, and James had found himself on that third step, hands empty. When he looked up, he was standing there, arm outstretched. Those same fingers, he had watched them open and close—beckon him inside.
James didn’t dare touch him for fear of that wire tightening and cutting but followed him nonetheless.
And he was even more beautiful up close but in a morbid way. Like looking at a walking corpse, hauntingly beautiful, but something unnatural was there. Pale skin and dark hair, slightly curled at the nape. He looked gentle, soft, and stunning, as if he belonged in a velvet-lined coffin, ready to rest forever.
Delicate fingers poured tea with practiced precision, and the way his hands wrapped around the cup was delightful but forced. Fluid and performed, it was hard to believe something so stunning rest on earth, and James had wondered if that was it, but it was not.
His being reeked of mimicry, and James noticed it almost immediately.
His hair just barely brushed his shoulders and looked like it would slip through your fingers if you ran your hand through it. Tucked behind his ears, the lean column of his neck looked carved from porcelain. He radiated no warmth but something close enough.
That imitation again, James felt warm but an absence of the physical manifestation of the emotion.
There was a sense that he should not touch, but James wanted to. His mind went from porcelain carved skin to poppies and lipstick. Lace nightgowns and the gummy texture of blood that’s set in the fibers of fabric for too long.
Soft lips and a delicate jaw, he was gorgeous but unsettling. He had James sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting to lean forward and get close—dig and explore because there was something there, but he was not sure what it was.
It reminded him of kisses and busted knees, fond childhood memories. Comfort and a home he no longer had. Brass shining in the moonlight and torn cuticles.
He was the breath you took before it all ran free down your knee and thigh.
The man sat at the table, taking a sip of the tea before his lip curled. He set the cup down, hardly gentle, and scooted it to the side. A single finger traced the weathered white paint on the table before he looked up and sat back.
“What’s your name?”
“James.”
He answered immediately, but it was an afterthought.
Everything in his mind was telling him to run. Get up and leave the tea and get out the door. Forget the papers and forget the house; erase it from his memory and leave immediately.
Never look back up at that chandelier, and never leave the bed too late at night lest something grab your ankles and pull you under the bed.
“What’s your name?”
But he asked because James loved that feeling. Fought a smile at the sound of his voice, a bit of a lilt like he wanted to lie down and roll on his back for the man. Toss his head to the side and show his neck, submitting, whining, hoping to get something in return.
He was in it—drowning in that feeling he tried so hard to chase.
Fear was turning to oxygen, threatening to burn them both. Light a match and watch it all turn to black ruin, complete with the trepidation he craved, making his shoes dig into the floor. James’ knuckles were white in his lap from the strength it took to contain his excitement, and even that mixed with the wrongness as the seconds ticked by.
Ammonia and bleach; he took a deep breath as the man spoke and felt his chest hurt.
“Regulus Black.”
James was silent, set his hands on the table, and spoke honestly. “No, it’s not.”
And Regulus held his stare, his eyes the color of ice. Something in them delighted at the test, the quirk of his brow making it known he should not have said that.
His gaze was a color that let James know he should have never spoken in the first place, but it was already too late. He was at that table, had been poured tea, neither was drinking, and it was simply too late.
No tenderness, no saturation, all challenge. Unnatural and deathly, maybe that was what it was. James knew it was not, but the feelings of fear simmered down, like turning off the burner and making way to something palatable.
Something intriguing, he felt his breath come short. A slow smile spread on Regulus’ face as the silence stretched on. James watched his shoulders relax, and he leaned into the chair a bit more.
Regulus was silent until he sucked his teeth, bringing those fingers up and pushing his nightgown back onto his shoulder. His bare arms were delicate, he was fragile, but James knew it was all camouflage.
Hiding the type of animal for which a person would never roll over and show their soft belly.
Concealing the type of fear you were never supposed to expose yourself to, let alone show something as vital as your neck. Your inner wrists, your inner thighs, the soft and fleshy parts.
“I’m sorry?” He finally said, and there was a bit of laugh deep in his chest, a futile attempt at playing it off.
“No,” James met his eyes once more, a smile playing at his lips. “That’s not your name.”
The smooth silver was cold under James’ fingers as he ate dinner. His aunt and uncle were sitting across from him at the table, elbows shoved off the surface; he had learned long ago the manners he needed.
It was practiced, the resting of his wrists on the edge and the ache in his back from sitting so straight. It was silent, and his fingers ran over the smooth surface of the fork. Looked at the polished silver and thought it felt cheap for being so expensive. A ridiculous thing, he thought of teacups with chips in the corners.
Little flower detailing, his hands holding something feminine and soft.
“No paper today?”
He shook his head, setting the cup on the table before pausing—scooting it away from him and towards Regulus. James smiled and watched him take another sip.
“No, there wasn’t one.”
“And you still came to visit?”
“I wouldn’t say I intended to visit.”
“You don’t like your tea?” Regulus murmured.
“Not much of a tea person.”
The windows were open, the hanging lights and sconces lit. Heavy velvets and opulence, the main dining room was stuffy and uncomfortable. Lovelessness was woven into the fibers James sat on and in the movement of his aunts’ fingers as she drank her wine. Like she couldn’t be bothered, hadn’t even considered glancing his way was something she was capable of doing.
Neither of them had spoken a word to James, barely spared him a glance, but the clanking of silverware in the large room was heavy and loud. It made James want to jump at the soft pings on the delicate plates and crawl out of his skin. Claw at his ears and scream; the food was bland, but he was hardly hungry.
A gold pattern was along the edge of the dishes, more of that feminine, that gentle.
The china was something his aunt had picked out and surely thought beautiful. James supposed it was, but then that was not right. Feminine, maybe, but James did not feel gentle sitting there, knife in hand, as he ate.
A smile grew on his face, and he dropped the formalities. Leaning forward on his elbows, he watched as Regulus’ looked on with delight and inched closer as well. The table was small, and he was not horrifying but beautiful; James wanted him even closer. In his lap, under his hand.
“There’s something about you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“I just want to know,” James admitted honestly, words a whisper. “It wasn’t my intention to flatter, but I’m not above it.”
‘There’s something about everyone.”
“No,” He insisted. “Not like this.”
Regulus tilted his head forward ever so slightly. “Any guesses?”
“Not yet.”
James’ glass was refilled, a foul-tasting wine, and that’s when it started swinging.
The same silver color as what he was using to eat, the chandelier above them was larger than the one in his bedroom. Heavier, more substantial. Crystals and more of that loveless opulence, it was silent, but he noticed from the top of his sight.
Directly above him, James saw the slight shift in his vision, stealing a glance as his uncle spoke to his aunt. His eyes flit upward, and he felt his heart in his ribs. Pressed against his chest, the ammonia and bleach from earlier that day, the echo of thumping nearly matching the small and slight sway.
Hardly enough to move the crystals; if anyone was to come in, they would never notice, but James did. He did, and he smiled to himself.
Regulus hummed in response, sitting back against his chair, those dead eyes watching as he stared at James. The faded grey looked over his person, cataloging. Making assumptions, and James hoped they were right as much as he knew they would be wrong.
Things were only feared because someone had once been frightened of them, and James was not afraid. Regulus would find nothing of what he was searching for, and in the end, he finally spoke.
“There’s something about you.”
“And what’s that?” James asked.
Regulus was silent for another moment, and then a smile found his eyes. Just creeping past the corner of his mouth, he was doing a good job fighting it off, but it was useless. Like the warmth he did not feel, James felt the fear press against his person, but it did not take. He only thought Regulus lovelier, his teeth as white and sharp as the first day he had seen them.
He shook his head ever so softly. Only responded when his hand dropped back to his lap.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Regulus said with a pause; he glanced away and smiled. “But I quite like that.”
He had been excused from dinner and watched his aunt and uncle go.
They left the room without a pinch of formalities, and sometimes James hated being alone.
He had Lily, but she was little more than just a someone in his life. They did not keep up; there were no harsh feelings if they did not speak for months. James didn’t know if that was better or worse or if he even had a comparison.
He was solitary and felt like that was okay most days.
James worked when needed with his uncle; it was nothing fun. He felt like he would figure it out one day. One day he would wake up and understand where he fit in the world, and that day had not yet come, so he stole Lily’s nice words when he needed and spent time by himself.
He lay in bed at night and wandered the halls of where he stayed, not his home.
James’ home was no longer in the world, maybe floating through the air to some degree if ash could never fully be broken down, but it was gone. Empty land where it once stood, and it had been comfortable. Beautiful wallpaper his mother had loved; she had made it a home, and he never felt alone there.
Even after he had kissed a boy that shoved him away and scraped his own palms raw one too many times on purpose, James never felt like he did not have someone in the world to turn to.
So he walked the halls of his uncle's home, took his time, and looked at all the same things. Mirror images, really. James would stare at his aunt’s wallpaper and wonder and think and dream of finding that someone. Or a something, even.
Just a bit more than what he had, James didn’t want to be greedy, but he was tired of being on his own.
And he often found himself on the balcony, overlooking the trees and the land, and it was beautiful, it was.
So beautiful it made him angry to find a single thing about the world that made him want to stay. Not that James wanted to leave, but he sometimes found things that made him eager to look for more, and he tended to be let down.
Gnarled and rotting trees, everything was overgrown and chaotic. Humid and sticky, even when it was considered a nice day, everything was too green and full of life. Hope, the vibrant colors that made your eyes hurt when they were always cast to the ground.
Swampy water, and James could see the dock that had been built when he was young across the way. He could remember visiting with his mother, walking on the new planks, and wading in the water when he was young.
It was collapsing now, half sunken in the water and filthy. No one had been there in years, and eventually, it would fall into the water. Rot and soak up the filth and be something James had never stepped on before.
You could hear the cicadas, the insects running wild as night fell. It was mosquito season, but they never seemed to bite him, no matter how long he stayed out there. The flies and gnats chasing between the air and towards the water, James pushed off the railing and turned back for his room.
He was sat up in bed, legs crossed.
Bare-chested, the sheet lay crumbled across James’ lap, and he watched the light swing, saw the pale white moonlight from the corner of his sleep-riddled eyes. Painting more of those shadows, he did not know what woke him. It was only just on the cusp of turning to day, the light warming up.
James groaned, rubbed at his eye, and saw a bit of stars. The light was on down the hallway, bleeding through the crack under his door. He leaned forward, blinked, and his head drew back violently.
Visceral—another blink, and then he was staring at that gold brass again.
Swinging faster—firmer. James’ ears took on a resounding noise, like buzzing in the back of his head, where his skull met his spine. A pitch too low for humans to hear; he was only feeling the vibrations being translated into something he could understand.
His breaths came heavy, taking in his surroundings and feeling the mattress give under his fingers.
James had blinked and saw himself.
From above, but not in his bed. A stranger's areal view, like he was looking over someone’s shoulder, but there was nothing to stop him from taking in the scene. Even just a brief flash behind the white of his eyes, it was burned into his memory forever and had been horrific.
A nightgown tossed on the floor, worn and soft sheets under his skin. James felt it and saw it but was not there. It was feeling without a true source; he felt the soft and foreign bedsheets and saw dark hair but was not present for the touch.
James was above, watching skin slip against his; he could feel the warmth of a body.
Sudden, it had been something gruesome to be thrust into, if only because of the smell.
In his nose, lingering. Just shy of being there in every way but physically, it was the unmistakable smell of blood. Tangy and high-pitched in the back of his throat, but the brass James was staring at was still yellow and in his room.
His eyes fluttered, the fear he loved keeping them from closing too soon because what if it was gone?
James fought against himself to admit that he wanted to see more.
But even half closed, the skin against his own was too slick, a feeling he drudged up from memory. Sticky but not from the humidity. Drying cells, dying and turning black, but there was too much. Entirely too much for there not to be consequences; James knew that.
He didn’t dare move his hands but could feel it slip between his fingertips, smeared against the side of his neck and chest. Another’s weight under him, then on top of him, pushing and moving and writhing, surely tasting the copper in the back of their throat as well.
James’ eyes fell closed, and he froze in bed, utterly still.
And then, the breath was punched out of his chest, and his spine went limp as he came to on the other side.
He was still in bed, but he was also there, and his head fell back at the sudden onslaught of feeling.
Eyes closed, it was not darkness he saw but something only clouded. Like flashes when he would naturally blink, showing him a scene he could watch. That same low pitch waning in and out, James felt hands on him, his chest, and the back of his neck.
Gentle and cold, his shoulder blades drew taut at the sensation. James slowly brought his own hand up and felt his warm skin as he sat in his bed. His own was dry, but his mind was fighting the sensation of what he saw flashes of.
Violent red, a massacre. Drenched bedsheets, and if James was still enough, focused enough, he could hear the panting.
There was nothing there when James brushed his fingers over where he felt another’s. It was as if maybe there were hands on his skin in another life, and the walls between worlds were a bit thin that night, allowing such unexplainable things to take place.
It was hands on his chest and thighs; James’ mouth parted, and he heard a high whine. Saw more red, blood coating his thighs and another’s chest and neck. His skin was beautiful under James’ fingers, leaving trail marks through it all.
He felt it everywhere, the glide of someone’s loss.
And then it was wet, a kiss to the side of his jaw, and James let out a breath. A heavy pant as his head fell to the side. He didn’t dare open his eyes, squeezed them shut as he heard the swinging of the light, and felt the breeze ghost over his skin, recognizing the next feeling as a lick.
His brows drew together, lashes fluttered, and James felt like he was burning and in pain. More of that wet tongue, and then it was a sticky hand against his lower stomach. Sheets were stuck to his back in that other place; with too much blood in the air, he felt like he was choking on it.
A hand dipped under his boxers, and James strained to listen. Sought out what he thought were heaving breaths, light and quick, close to his ear. But before he could hear, the licks turned to teeth, and James gasped.
Finally heard himself gasp and swore there was a smile where the mouth was pressed to his skin.
He somehow knew the shape of the sharpness, how white those teeth against his skin looked in the daylight. They dragged across his collarbone, one end to another. A lick down the center of his chest and then a weight in his lap.
Squeezing his eyes shut harder, he could only see the red and pale skin. A window and a bedframe were hazy in focus, soft yellow walls he recognized. James shoved the linen sheet away from his lap, arched into it, and it felt like bliss. The perfect weight on top of him, warmth pressed to his chest, and he thought the skin might be soft.
Heavenly, on the edge of unnatural.
Wet and slick, all-consuming and dreadful.
James cursed to rid himself of the need for tangible skin. Trying to take what he could and fight the urge to turn the soft kisses, licks, and gentle teeth into something aggressive. It felt too good; he needed the opposite. Loved the press of lips but wanted to see what else they were capable of.
He was breathing heavily, fingers fisted in the sheets as he sat in bed and begged for more. James felt on the edge of something unnatural but fundamental as he felt thighs against the side of his own, hips hovering over his waist. It was becoming harder to understand the difference between where he was and the other side—that other.
James wanted to be there—wanted to open his eyes and see that grey. Pale hands smeared with the color of lipstick and wildflowers. Wanted to watch his fingers run over his skin, run through his hair and snag where the blood had clung. He wanted to see whatever was happening to the end, whatever that may be.
Sopping wet sheets, James wanted to consume him.
Needed that; he thought maybe he’d always been searching for it. The middle ground, something beautiful that he could dig his fingers into. Something gentle he could take apart and let gut him in return. James wanted to feel his inside on the out, messed with so he was known so intimately.
He wanted to thread his fingers through curly hair, tug on it and see if he was shoved back.
And then James screamed, guttural and raw, when the teeth bit.
His head jerked back, and he caught himself, barely supported on one arm. James felt those same fingers dig, claw into the meat of his other shoulder and pull him forward again. They kept him there and brought him closer—further into that mouth.
The hold on him encouraged the teeth to press harder, grate against his bone, and James’ back arched as he fought the urge to shove himself away and lean into it. His mind split, trembling fingers telling him to flee, but the struggling gasps escaping came from pure pleasure.
A contradiction, and then the wet skin broke, and there was nothing to stem the bleeding.
It was a head rush; James felt it all at once, the pain blooming in the dip of his neck, pliable and vital. He took a deep breath, and then he could not exhale. Could not breathe for a moment as his mind tried to reconcile the pain against the gentle fingers keeping him still.
Where his shoulder met, it was burning and raw skin, blood running over his back and chest, the breeze picking up and making him shiver. A scream caught low in his throat, fighting to escape, James shifted against those teeth, and it turned into a whimper.
Escaping his lips, those fingers squeezed as he sucked, and James’ chest caved at the feeling. He tried to groan through the endless spilling, but his gasps only came faster, making the blood run even quicker.
The teeth pulled away and tore, and he collapsed forward against a body. Limp, and it was cold, but he felt wild.
It was the feeling of flesh tearing; James understood that and felt it, but then the pain was replaced with a long lick and soft lips. He gasped and felt it all go numb, there but subdued as if he was above it all. Flashes of more red and tangled limbs quick in his mind.
He felt his fingers on his arms, holding him up. Careful and cautious, like James was something cherished.
Soft lips and then a kiss, licking, and then a warm tongue. Burning and lapping up what James was expelling long before it could begin to rot in the open air. Never meant to turn black; this blood was fresh and was being put back into a body.
Craved—a sense of urgency like he understood it to be precious too. Spilled to be consumed, it was not frivolous. It was exchanging of understanding, and James’ whimpers were turning to moans as he sunk into it all.
He felt drowsy with the smell, too much of what he had only ever gotten a small taste of.
The morbid fascination was no longer a fascination but a practice.
James’ head fell further to the side, opening up and needing more. He whined, a high-pitched and pitiful noise from somewhere deep in his chest that held who he was away from the world. It was wrong, but there were two willing participants, so he could live with that.
He finally caught his breath, and then it was a choked sob, a cough as the blood pooled below him in his lap. His eyes fluttered, brows drew up, and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. James stared up at the ornate ceiling, carved in swirls and cast in shadows, the dark edges where something was watching.
And then it was gone the moment he realized his eyes were open.
Time in reverse, the blood running back into his knee. Unwashing his hands in the sink and the gold brass swinging from right to left.
The air was empty space, nothing moving, and he looked around slowly. The room was still like it was trying to understand what had just happened as well. James felt like time had slammed into him; he could not begin to differentiate feeling from what he saw when he looked in his lap.
He saw nothing.
White sheets and James could not tell if he had screamed or if it had been the other him. If he had been silent or if it had never happened at all. He brought his hand up, abruptly stumbling out of bed. The sound of the sheet falling to the floor was the only thing he could hear, but James felt unbroken skin on his neck, and his hands were clean.