When night fell over the Citadel and a young lancer couldn’t sleep, he would go to the balcony to work on his thundersticks. He’d work alone, systematically, effortlessly, while trying to sort out his confused feelings over Nux, his blue-eyed bunkmate. Sometimes, when cutting into thunderstick handle was no longer soothing enough, he’d cut the sides of his mouth and then force himself to smile. He’d stand there, laughing like a madman into the cold night, tears leaking from his eyes and blood from his cheeks. And after that, he’d go silently, like a lizard, back to the bunk, where Nux would lay in his wild fevered dreams, and he’d embrace him. Nux never remembers it in the morning anyways. After such nights, after his knife ritual balcony visits, Slit wouldn’t be so angry in the morning as he would the other days.