He sinks down to her level, meeting her where she chooses to be, and it isnât fair. The unflinching care to his courtesies arenât fair, not when she is all too well aware of their rarity, the inherent specialness of the bristled tenderness he extends to her and only her. She falls back in the face of his crouch; her spine jostled by the dull thud she hits the kitchen island with, her sniffle wet and her huffed âOof!â emphatic enough to flutter a stray strand of unkempt blonde against a ruddy cheek, like a leaf lost to a vicious gust of wind. Desperate arms wind spindly legs to her shaky chest, squeezing close, holding tightly, tucking herself into a corner like a secret she had been born to be. Itâs an old habit thatâs never died, no matter how many parts of her have over the course of her life. Simultaneously, she is splintered to an array of dimensions stretching across the years, scattered in all and belonging to none: curled up under their parentsâ bed to feel close to a mother that was hers and still wasnât whilst she slept, memorising the rhythm of breaths like lullabies; huddled underneath their fathersâ study desk, where they werenât, under any conditions, allowed to be; hunched behind the bar at PEST nightclub when sheâd begun tending bar for the first time in twenty-seventeen, breathing colours in with the sharp, staccato beat of the music, centring herself amidst neon madness.Â
He had warned her, was the thing. Perhaps what undoes her so completely is that single, irreconcilable truth.
Fletcher had warned her, and she hadnât listened.
If sheâd listened to anybody, sheâd listened to Priscilla, instead. Electric, magnetic Priscilla, whoâd painted a picture of the person Genie Gray could become; what she could have, and embody, and impose. The ways in which she could be a part of something. Where she would never have to shatter herself to pieces sheâd cut her hands bloody upon, miserably rearranging towards a perfection she could not attain. The ways in which she could be someone. She could matter. Genie had wanted so badly just to matter. Fletcher had warned her there would be a price, and Genie, who lived in the now, too much past weighing on her to ever consider a future, had thrown a challenge in his face and played it like a game. Itâs hard to believe these days, that her involvement with this world had begun as just that: fun and games. It isnât fun, now. Whatever game this is, Genie feels herself losing, over and over, never quite graduating to the next level. The walls are closing in. The walls keep closing in, and if she doesnât do it, if she doesnât step upâclimb the rungs of their ladderâthen sheâs just gonna get squashed, isnât she? If sheâs not a rat, then sheâs a roach. Slippery, and quick, and quick to disappear into cracks in the foundation. Just a bug who could survive an apocalypse, and just as easily be stomped out of existence, innards oozing in gluey goo splattered on the ground as all the mark sheâd ever leave in the world.
How long can he protect her? How long will he want to? He stands by his reprimanding assurance, and her hands splay over her face, failing to shield it any more than she can muffle the cry that bursts from her with a hiccup in ineloquent response to words he hands her with control that escapes her all over again. Genieâs hands shake. Her heart bleeds, overflowing, brimming and brimming till she tastes its sour metallic tang in her mouth â till it stains her coarse words, âI donât know anything about anything.âÂ
Dejected, she slumps as though melting; her head against the islandâs wall, tears rolling down her cheeks in fat blobs that riccochet into palm-cradles, accumulating pools of paine salt. âDoes it evenââ What? Matter why? He wouldnât ask if it didnât. Her head shakes to herself, dismissing herself before her lips shape a truth of her own. She tells him the only thing she knows anymore, haphazard spillage interrupted by sporadic sobs: âIâm so fuckingâ Iâm scared ân Iâm sick ân Iâm tired of beingâ Iâm not free. Iâm justâ just caught in this fuckinâ war I donât even fuckinâ believe in, ân Iâm pissed, ân I miss my mates. I miss Zach ânâ I miss Wren. I miss breathing, I missâ I miss Pris. Khanâs gonna kill me, or one of these Deathies will, ân I donât⊠Why am I even here? Why am I even fucking here? Why did she tell me Iâd fucking belong?â
   This is what a breaking heart feels like, he thinks, the plate protecting his tender organ cracking with every one of Genieâs sobs, every whimper, every gasp and tear-choked confession. Thereâs a faint sting along the bridge of his nose and he bites down, denying the sensation as he lets another thunder of rage shake the ground he kneels on. Why did she tell me Iâd fucking belong? Fletcher wishes heâd been the one to shoot her, bitter venom dripping down his throat as he watches the pain Priscillaâs inflicted on his sister with her betrayal. How many had she said the same to? Did he even care? No â because it didnât matter who else sheâd coaxed into the serpentâs den, none of them mean a thing except for Genie. His sister. His. And Priscilla had snatched her right up, dangling her in Fletcherâs face, a threat whether sheâd known it or not. How could he fuck up when they held Genie in their clutches? Now, here they were, with Genie in a war she doesnât want to be in, trapped, led by Priscillaâs broken promises.Â
   âKhanâs not gonna kill ya,â Fletcher sighs in assurance, shifting so he can sit next to her, bending to fit under the island at her side. This is what a breaking heart feels like, he knows, when bone snaps and fierce, molten loyalty spills out inside of him. The air is too cold for a heart exposed, a harsh contrast to the fire burning within, and it steals his breath, forcing him to hold it in his lungs for too long, and when he lets it out it feels unnatural. âDoesnât matter why youâre here, anyway. Youâre here,â he tilts his head toward hers, âân Iâm here with ya. Deathies are fuckinâ cowards who ainât got shit on ya. Yâhandle Khan ân Apollo, right? Yâthink any of âem got shit on them?â He jabs her side playfully with his elbow, âOn me?â Then heâs throwing an arm around her, pulling her into his side, fingers working damp strands off her cheek to tuck behind her ear, âWanna smoke a joint and watch some shit? Iâll let ya steal all my cigs and have full remote control.â He squeezes her bicep, nestling her closer as he slowly inhales, trying to still the quake reverberating through him. âItâs gonna be alright. And⊠Iâll get yâout if ya really want.â Fletcherâs eyes flutter closed for a moment, willing her to feel the love seeping out of him, to feel what he sometimes fails to speak, because, sometimes, the words get lost in an uncontrollable flood, washed into the gutters of his heart. He never minds it; not unless it comes to Genie.Â