angel shivering

& i want to meet judas on a subway train so i can tell him i love him, i forgive him.

[whiterxbbits]

anoracle‌:

Maybe there were always meant to be something like this, only a cryptid and only an art. Only art. Only smeared blue and black across their faces, skin made to look like stars, skin made to look like oil stains. Does it fit them better than their own skin? Does it seem like they were made to be things seen as masterpieces? Do you find them beautiful now? As much as she could have told you before, how beautiful a person can be? How beautiful the world can be? 

Do you see the way bright visions hold their own drops of light and color?

If they always must wonder if what they experience is real - how long is will last, if she must choose which dream of theirs to live in, she thinks she might choose this one now. Awake and alive. Cheeks all red, her’s turning a brighter shade when she sees his own shades. “Yeah?” Laughter in it, hiding the pad still close to her chest, like hiding there herself, “Stop counting then, for a second, pretend we’ve paused. Or they have outside,” the camera crews. “I still have a few things to finish, and yes. And let it be the same thing I can do for you too,” think of streets they’re lost in and nervous words, “What would convince you - to forget to count?”

There’s still red cheeks, think they’ll stay there forever, when he asks her to stay still, moves her sketches behind her back to wait, speaks in a whisper, as if it keeps her from her own fidgeting, hands that want to move, take a place at her chin, worry at a bottom lip, something fond still. “Did you mean you ran out of stars, or wishes? I don’t think there’s too many wishes you can make on a star.”

pencil across paper leaves hard lines, steady and sure - no trembling, no hesitating. almost a home there, in between the shades and smudges, quick eyes flickering between girl and paper, teeth biting lip without a word, without a counting. only the silence that isn’t a haunting, only a girl he tries to keep on paper, but never quite right. one day, maybe. 

it takes him a moment to reply, finishing his drawing before he does, looking at it with steady eyes and holding it up with nose scrunched softly for a moment before flipping to a blank page, tucking it under arms again. is satisfied enough, smile shy again when he looks back to emme.

“how do you imagine a pause when you have to keep breathing? i’ll start to count those, too, after a certain point. measure time with it, if not with all the clocks in my head.” said easily, said lightly. doesn’t mention how the ticking sounds like a time bomb at night, make it something quaint instead. easy, like this smile, like this red in cheeks, blossoming.

dear heart, stop leaping, won’t you? you’ll get caught in a snare like that; one looking just like that smile.

“what would convince me to forget to count?” a little grin, bashful and bold, for him. “what would convince you to sleep? i suppose we both need better bad habits.”

he takes smaller hands in his again, starts guiding her to someplace else where they can suspend time for a moment, find another forever on the third floor, perhaps. “wishes, i think. is that possible? to not want any more anymore?”

[whiterxbbits]

catalinaccarter‌:

“We will! It’s smaller than you think, besides. We’ll spread it out to really appreciate everything.” She grinned and nodded, linking her arm with him. She knew he was nervous, and she really didn’t want him to be right now. It was supposed to be fun! This was the city of love after all, no? “I have, I studied here for a semester.” She smiled and stopped, her eyes glancing over at him. “City of love and lights, maybe you’ll get some love.” She grinned, tilting her head. 

“Are you okay?” She asked before biting her lip. “It’s a lot, I know. But I promise, it’ll be fun!” 

her smile is infectious, regardless of the butterflies threatening to swallow him whole from the inside out. feels it fluttering under skin uncomfortably, tries to chase it away with the warmth of her arm looped around his; a familiar thing. like lying out in the sun, that smile. if he follows it, he’s certain only good will come - or so he hopes.

“will we have enough time for everything? i mean - if there’s a lot - and we still have to go back to perform or stand around for the show or something and i don’t - don’t want to be late and have metzger mad - “ words are falling quickly, eyes darting to hers quickly. “but it’s not like i don’t want to go! i want to come. go. i’ve… never been here before, but i think it’ll be fun, if you say so.” he tries an easier smile, finds it comes out less crooked. laughs, even.

“love? i… i don’t know. i think you’re better suited for it than me.”

[whiterxbbits]

skyandwave‌:

The security had closed the doors to the cameras in her face, and she couldn’t really fault them. Not with the large protest sign she held in her hands and the history she had. Still, it was with regret that she tucked that sign back amongst the props, and decided to head towards the art gallery and look through it herself.

Steps into the Louvre and feels an openness like the hug of the surf of a wave. All gold and white and she can hear the sound of money trickling through fingers to land on a marble floor through every piece of ostentatious frippery.

She sneers. Then she spots the art. 

Her breath is stolen from her lungs, and she remembers that this was where she wanted to be, a year ago, travelling, that this had been on the list. And here she was anyway. What an interesting way for life to work out.

It’s in a daze that she peruses through the art, stands back to admire, stands close to inspect. Compares artists and genres and styles and emotions as she steps through the hallways, before spotting Theo, his nose close enough to the painting to be setting off alarms.

She’s tempting to push him that little more off balance, into the arms of the artwork, but it’s too beautiful. Instead, she stands next to him, tilts her neck to take in the entirety of it. 

“Where are the statues? Though I don’t know if anyone could replicate the work of art I already am.”

wide eyes are finally pried away from the art before him to look at the girl by his side, small smile quirking, fluttering like broken butterfly wings. there’s an art there, he wants to say, in untamed hair and summer-kissed skin. stark in contrast to things death has touched too intimately, becoming it with blue lips and obsidian in veins, in wings, in eyes.

(what is death like, the interviewer asked. doesn’t know how to say that it is an unforgiving kind of lover, kind of master. doesn’t show the marks around throats, imprinted into bone. what is death like, curious, foolish mortals wonder. rabbit boys can only shiver in answer)

“i think they’re in the next hall down.” he says, turning to her fully, fingers toying at hems of suit jackets at the sun before him, all brazen and brash and beautiful. he has to turn his eyes away from it, still think it lovely even if he can’t meet its eyes.

“shall we go just to see, then? perhaps you’re a different kind of art, maybe - i don’t think picasso would have understood it.” he tilts his head slightly, playing along with her words, watching as if he would another painting, smile toying at lips. “how lucky the louvre is then, perhaps, to have you here tonight.”

he grabs a map near the wall, long fingers tracing paths down the different floors until he finds what he’s looking for. “here - the statues. second floor. we can go and do a comparison - though i don’t - don’t think it’ll be quite fair, if you asked me.” smiles a little easier, could get used to this sun. “i don’t think you’d belong in a museum as much as amphitrite does, maybe.”  

[whiterxbbits]

oogs‌:

From across the room, Omari imagines how Theodore’s body might turn up - not unlike Aladdin’s, he imagines, though then again, Metzger might be smart enough to make them seem like unrelated incidents. A quiet smile spreads across his face as he catches the boy’s attention, offers one waving hand that drops just as quickly when Theo turns his head back towards the sculpture.

Art - they are all dead things anyway, and he doesn’t understand the fascination with them. Has this boy not seen enough of it already?

There’s a certain innocence in the way the other boy speaks and he thinks it a shame that he’ll have to be the one to snuff that light out, however faint. And if he knew what that joy felt like, he might even feel bad about what’s about to happen to this foolish creature - so it’s a good thing that he’s never had the luxury of innocence.

One hand reaches forward and brushes Theodore’s hair back, thumb brushing against cheekbones.

“My boy, delusions are for children. Have you already forgotten?” Forgotten, or does he refuse to see the truth? Either way, it matters little - either way, the boy will remain blindfolded if he has anything to say about it. “You can run, but you’ll only be free if they don’t see you behind cages. Don’t you want to live, Theodore?”

He takes his face in both of his hands, then, as though he’s offering him safety. “We’re meant to be human, not art - haven’t you ever imagined something better than this? If not for yourself, for the people you care about?”

how easy it is, to be a dream. boy does it well, with those big eyes, with that ghost-smile. is already a thing half-here, half-not, as the world would have him. makes the harsh tug of reality a thing of wing torn from skin when omari speaks, words of freedom. of living. of being a cageless thing.

(he doesn’t know any of that anymore. can’t remember, is afraid to. would become icarus, falling, if he did. rabbit in trap, boy in love with the sun. such dreams have him halfway there, and memory of it would be the death of him)

(to want, to live, is a dangerous thing. he knows too much of neither)

“is it wrong to be scared to? what if i don’t remember how to anymore?” he closes his eyes to omari’s touch, finds poison a thing too familiar. leans in too much, doe-eyed stupidity running into the same trap believing it’ll be different this time. “is is better to be this in-between, then?”

(a poor thing, truly. perhaps one can grow accustomed to death, even after all this time. makes him a familiar thing; perhaps why he leans into this touch so cold. reminds him of it, this part of him. it is always aching)

at his words, he no longer meets his eyes, biting down at lips softly, fingers knotting by his side. “i… i - i don’t know. not for myself, but… “ don’t they all deserve more than, something better than this kind of death? living? even him?

“how? i don’t know - how could we have more than just this?”

[whiterxbbits]

ceydran-aecor‌:

They’re quiet for a while, sleeping souls as the world slumbers around them. Theo’s voice whispers away with the campfire smoke, and Ceydran looks up at him. “Familiarity goes a long way in keeping you warm,” he agrees, feeling alley-cold New York winters on his fingertips. 

Theo doesn’t swallow, and Ceydran frowns, but doesn’t mention it. Follows his gaze into the fire, into a tomb of rebirth. Fascinating, isn’t it? Ash to warmth to darkness. A jolt of something shivers down him as Theo haunts him, burrows himself deep into the recesses between spine and ribcage. 

“Always,” he whispers after an eternity, feels something dislodge itself and leap free. He starts to shiver, harder than he has in many winters, despite the layers, despite the flame. “Every time I see a mirror.” Maybe it’s insensitive. Maybe his own fingers beg to burn. “You too, I imagine.”

“and if it’s cold? if what all i remember is is just the cold?” asked to the cup in his hands, barely above a whispers. tries to recall the image of a sister, a mother, a father, a family - remembers snow. remembers splintered fingers, blood in wood, in ice. ten years since and when he looks in the mirror he isn’t sure what is his, what is his mother’s and what is death’s

(perhaps all of it. do you suppose god made his bones hollowed to hold less, to carry death easier? is that why he is so adept at falling to his knees like this?)

there’s a quick flicker of a smile towards the older man, something almost wry, something more ghost than boy’s. “of course. sometimes i’m not sure what’s looking back half the time. do you ever feel that too - just - you don’t feel quite right? here, like this?” hands are pressed to cups almost too hard, eyes too set on feet, on dying fires. “i don’t think i’ve ever. felt right, i mean. what is that like?”

[whiterxbbits]

anoracle‌:

DATE & TIME: February 20TH, 11:00AM LOCATION: The Louvre  TAG: @whiterxbbits​

It’s quiet, the corridor they’ve found for themselves - quiet until it’s only her pen against sketchpad that makes a sound where she sits on the floor, cross-legged and a few feet away from Theo where he stands in front of the painting. She asked him too - draws him as within the paintings, to be among the colors and art, believe they could blend in into it with their skin, believe when she looks at him the way she does that she wishes she could take hands and walk through frames and walls until they’re sitting in watercolor fields, stay there forever, just as they are. Believe that she feels she can finally breathe here, among the silence, as if this somewhere for only them to know - a different kind of hiding place. But there’s a shyness if you look long enough, in her eyes, in blushing cheeks.

The kind of nervousness when she starts to wonder if hearts are shared, look into eyes to draw them and feel ears grow warm. (How does a girl know what’s real, even if she feels it, if all she can know are ghosts? How do you trust even what feels real, what you want to be real?) She stops, only when she sees the familiar shape of a shadow across her hands, reeling back, but lightly, but hiding the unfinished drawing.

“Hey!” She leans back from him, holding the pad close to her chest, fingers knotting, “Hey - wait! You have to hold on, it’s not ready for you to look at it yet,” voice laughing, cheeks still all pink, and not looking away from him even if she has to look to his cheek or his chin when she doesn’t have the bravery yet to look into eyes. "I’ll show them to you all at once tonight, draw too anywhere if we walk around tonight - and only earlier if you can convince me,“ eyebrows raised with it, rocking on toes with the sketchpad behind her back, something sheepish it in, something hidden, a promise in it, for both of them.

he can’t help but to fidget, fingers pulling at hems and feet swaying as he stands, trying to distract himself with the brushes of colour mere meters away from him - masterpieces, things loved and seen by thousands. much like him, but in a different way. he wonders if he reaches out to touch it, if he would be able to feel death somewhere next to the ink, or if it would just be pigment. just be something of beauty without a withering.

one can only hope, he thinks.

cheeks are red when he turns back to the girl, hiding under hair, tucking himself inside lapels of suits, too bright for his comfort - ties long since loosened and makeup smeared messily and there is a comfort in that, reminding him of oil stains and funfair lights instead of those television circle-ring spotlights searching for bone when they turned to him. what is it like, unsaid, to be a certain kind of small death every day?

she smiles at him, and he back at her, shy. i could live with it, he would’ve said, with tradeoffs like this.

“why not? just a little peek - i’m sure you’re done, your pencil hasn’t moved in some time. i’ve been counting.” words still stumbling but grins easier now, tugging at sketchbooks lightly. “and what would convince you? will i have to wish on another field of stars for that? i think i’ve used up all of mine from last time, so we’ll have to find another.”

it’s easy, like this. to be art, moving. he believes so when she moves, pulling out his own sketchpad and paper, eyes bright. “hey - hey, stay there. like that, if that’s okay? just - just for a moment. i’ll be quick.”

[whiterxbbits]

catalinaccarter‌:

DATE & TIME: FEBRUARY 19TH  LOCATION: HOTEL LOBBY STATUS: CLOSED @whiterxbbits

Catalina had actually been to Paris once, it seemed like forever ago. A birthday present for graduating high school and having been accepted into an Ivy League, she and her friends went to tour Europe before adulthood officially began. It was bittersweet to think about the reasons from then and now, but Cat wanted to do something nice for someone else. After all the stress and trauma from the past several weeks, Cat wanted to show Theo the liveliest places in Paris from what she could remember. Deflecting from her own issues was her specialty and she figured- she needed to show the boy who felt death what it meant to be alive.

“The merry go round in the park across fro the Eiffel Tower is definitely one of the spots we’re gonna go to.” She grinned, her pocket notebook full of ideas for them to see. She wanted to go to the flea market in downtown, the shops Paris was famous for, and to get any dessert their hearts desired. “But before that, let’s get a tradition French macaron. The nutella ones are still one of my favorites.”

he follows her, eyes wide and feet lost, half-stumbling through the streets and clinging onto hands to keep himself from getting lost in the crowd - the thought is enough to have him shuddering, gripping hands just a touch harder - careful not to jostle anyone, keeping an eye on the smaller girl ahead of him.

it is unfamiliar to him, this quick-stepped city, looking alive under the stars. he’d stop and stare if it weren’t for cat tugging him along, smaller smile matching hers.

“will we have time for everything - don’t - don’t we have to be back before it gets too late?” he says, eyes still flitting around the city, head spinning. “i think we’re gonna need more than one day to go through all of this - city of love, they said, i think, when we got here. is that true, cat? have - have you been here before?”

[whiterxbbits]

DATE & TIME: february 20th, 8:45pm LOCATION: the louvre STATUS: closed for @oogs

he should wonder why the man is around every corner he turns in places like these - quiet, someplace like nowhere, an in-between that he’s been rooted to since thirteen. it is familiar now, maybe, dark eyes staring at him, the way something crawls under skin. he should know better, but still, he greets omari when he approaches him.

(knows, he has not given him any reason for trust. has poisoned and called it mercy. knows that fathers had said the same about love, before altars, before boys in the snow - mercy, taken on the knees. from a place of a loving)

(says, he’s not dead yet. and if he was, if he did - he might even thank omari for it)

“before, i didn’t understand why everyone tried to run once they got to paris.” said, half hummed, eyes slowly pulling away from a sculpture to meet the other’s. “i think i can get it now. someplace like this, you could run forever and feel alright. i - i could almost feel like i don’t have to hide.”

he blinks up at omari, smiles softly. “it’ll be a shame to leave, don’t you think? it was lovely, being art for the first time.”

[whiterxbbits]

DATE & TIME: february 20th, 7:00pm LOCATION: the louvre STATUS: closed for @skyandwave

it is easy to get lost like this, he thinks, eyes only centimeters away from the painting, nose almost brushing the canvas. could lose himself to the swirl of paint and the smear of colour like this. easy, really, to have eyes focus on this and not the cameras, not the smiles too wide and the questions that leave chests feel like things with ribcages protruding.

(asked: what is it like, to feel such an intimate death upon your skin? is there a guilt there or have you gotten used to it?)

he can feel someone next to him, knows the wild sea-sun air she brings wherever she goes. doesn’t turn to greet her, still. says instead, “i think i get it. why you would stand for hours and hours to stare at something beautiful. at something you don’t understand.”

(answer: like dipping hands into blackwater currents and feeling cold palms pull you in. can you ask a drowning man if he’s used to the water in his lungs?)

“have you seen the sculptures yet? they remind me a little of us, sort of - if someone thought to make cryptids art and not just exhibitions.”

[whiterxbbits]

oogs‌:

He understands, in part - this lack of will to live, the way Theodore seems to welcome death. Still, he is pleased at the fact that there’s still real fear behind those eyes, telling him that the boy hasn’t forgotten at all.

“Speak clearly, Theodore. The cold can only kill you if you let it,” he hums, though his tone is just as gentle as the hand that cups the other’s face, pulling him closer. Then two hands wrap around the frail body and lifts it up, silently prompts him to stand on his own two feet. Dark hands take pale ones, pulls him forward, lets thumbs caress the boy’s palms as he watches the not-tears fall.

He shudders, watching him. If only I could hear the same fear in his voice.

“You have to know that I did that for you, to protect you from more pain. If I wanted to kill you, I’d choose something simpler, quicker. All you have to do is ask.” And he only speaks the truth - death has never been something he revels in, only an end result, and on most days he takes little pleasure in seeing someone writhe in pain until they die.

But here, he is losing control - and if he can gain any piece of that back through Theodore, he doesn’t know why he shouldn’t.

A hand leaves Theodore for a moment and finds a small flask from his back pocket, makes sure it ends up in the boy’s hand. “Drink,” he says, “I would offer tea but we’re not exactly living in luxury here. It’ll warm you up; and I promise it’s just whisky, nothing else.”

if there is an enjoyment in pain, he does not know it. could never understand it, no, how there can be a joy in how bones break, flesh crumbling from the inside-out, outside-in as life gives up on someone, on him. there is no beauty in death, he knows. only teeth chattering. only skin paling.

it looks an awful lot like this.

“i - i’ve been letting it.” quiet, no tremble in voice but you can see it still, how it becomes a thing that lives in bones, in body. has become a home for it. “so when will it?”

eyes are too close to glassy now, following omari’s gentle guide easily. simple as slipping into water, as drinking poison. looks at him with eyes too wide, heart and hollows bared to him when he listens to the other speak of a mercy. blinks slowly, catching snowflakes on eyelashes and feeling them melt on skin, soft landings too heavy as he closes his eyes again.

“how - how does that make sense to - protect pain with more pain? where is the healing in that?” he grips omari’s hand tighter, weak hold shaking. “i’m scared that sometimes, i’ll still taste it in the back of my throat when i swallow. is that what you wanted for me?”

he stares at the drink for too long before bringing it to lips, hesitant. feels the burn of the whiskey hit his throat, scrunches his nose and shakes his head at the aftertaste, wiping mouths with the backs of hands clumsily. stares at the flask for a moment more before taking another drink, long and steady. says, in a way, i trust you. says in a way, now i’m asking - you, the cold, some grim reaper - to do what you will with me.

he hands back the flask to omari, gripping too hard around it. “thank you. i - you should have some too. if we can make it to my sleeper, maybe i’ll repay you with the luxury ot tea.”

[whiterxbbits]

minvlibi‌:

What does he want? A lot of things. Nothing. He doesn’t quite know, hasn’t since the day he lost the Original version of himself. ( perhaps not even before then. ) The question no longer amuses him to consider, too much a reminder of what he’s lost and what he no longer is, and the ever-present Grin finally falls from his face.

( beware a Cat who doesn’t smile. )

Fingers find flesh now, pressing skin to bone, willing the blood to pool under pressure until bruises form in his fingerprints. Another reminder of who is in control here; a reminder of who this little Pet belongs to.

“Silly rabbit,” his voice comes out soft, the words a murmured endearment. Almost gentle, in contrast to the tightening grip he takes the boy’s jaw in. “Didn’t I already say? You don’t have to understand anything.”

and if this isn’t a mistake -

he isn’t sure where was the wrong place to put his stuttering words, but grips on skin has him with breaths short, panicked, eyes flitting up to kanta’s and blinking too fast, trembling held too still under his hands. ever-present smiles are missing, and boy thinks the straight line of the other’s mouth reminds him too much of the arrows used to hunt deer. thinks he can see himself at the end of it.

if he is bruising, he doesn’t notice it. will, though, at the end of the night, when he sees the purple-blue on skin. will try not to think about how it looks like a collar, like a brand. imprint.

“but i want to if you’re - you’re going to be - “ in my head, under my skin? the words don’t leave his lips, but the other already knows, he thinks. knew long before he did that his body would made a toy for him. “ - kanta - kanta you’re - you’re hurting me, i - “

[whiterxbbits]

xuebird‌:

Her smile turns wry at his actions, obviously startled, and she feels slightly bad for having given him a shock. But she knew his tendencies of getting too immersed in his work, and it is part of her job to make sure that all the people here are well.

Slight wrinkles mar her forehead, though the smile is kept on her lips. Understands that there is work that cannot be stopped at the midpoint, but it also does not mean that she is leaving before ensuring that adequate rest is had.

“ Carry on, then, I’ll just wait for a while here while you finish up. I won’t get in the way, ” she assures. “ I have to make sure you do get rest, though. What good would it do if you collapse from overwork? ”

It’s the way he phrases his words that leaves her concerned. To say that food would be a waste on a person themselves, an implication that they aren’t worthy enough, is a dangerous mindset to carry. Whatever the case, she tries to soothe his worries. “ It’s not a waste, we need you to have the energy to finish repairs, after all. ”

smiles are almost half-glitched with how they quirk before falling at her words, hardly a comfort in the action. “i won’t. i won’t. i - “ doesn’t say, have gone longer in the cold, half-starving. have had body more bruised than this. asys instead, “it’s alright. i’m alright. i think it’ll take a little more than this to have me collapsing.”

(give him thirty-nine days. boy has been counting down the seconds since they got here, waiting)

she has always been a thing too kind to him, and at her words he pauses, if only for a millisecond. returns to his repairs afterwards, hands fumbling and eyes darting away, hoping that hammering drowns out thoughts, drowns out the counter embedded in skin reminding him of the reset of a loop that he is too familiar with in the snow.

(bloodied nails, splintered palms. that drowning, that buried alive in the snow, dirt when they take him away. metzger, and cryptids with glassy eyes looking back at him. he’s not sure if this was yesterday or a near decade ago)

“i’ll be alright.” he echoes himself, words easy with how often he says it now. “there’ll still be food for me later, when this is done. you should have it instead, xue - it’s too cold for you. here, wait another minute and i’ll be finished - i’ll brew you some tea. you shouldn’t have come out looking for me.”

[whiterxbbits]

lifeinpoetry‌:

This is how I will always remember you: trembling like an antelope brought down by arrows, asking the arrows if it’s okay to bleed.

— Jeremy Radin, from “A Pyramid of Bison,” Slow Dance with Sasquatch

[whiterxbbits]

THEODORE NAM X SOCIAL MEDIA: INSTAGRAM + MUSIC

clarine today 11:08 PM i need a caption xia today 11:08 PM  just write some angsty shit

clarine today 11:09 PM IT’S FOR THE SOCIAL MEDIA TASK PLS

[whiterxbbits]

ceydran-aecor‌:

Theo steps into the light of the fire and he is translucent, ghostly things so barely present Ceydran almost starts at the sight of him. He looks more ashen than the smoke that conceals him. And his words do nothing to elucidate his figure, act only to conceal, to rebury, to sink back into fog and snow and disappear. He seems to be dissipating before his eyes, so Ceydran reaches out and carefully takes his hand. Pulls him to sit next to him. 

“I know you’re not going to die,” Ceydran murmurs, stoking the fire higher. An errant bluster of wind causes it to flicker, but then the flames leap higher and the warmth is bright against his face. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be uncomfortable now.” Theo is so still, he notices. His eyes flicker open and shut, exhaustion clear in the tilt of his gaunt frame. Ceydran frowns. He knows cold, knows the way darkness and the ache from inside your chest can combine to still your whole body, freeze you to a solid core. He picks up his metal mug from next to him, half empty of disgusting instant coffee, and adds a lump of ice from the ground, inspecting it for dirt before deeming it safe enough. With his metal hand he places this on the fire, letting the tepid liquid inside heat to boiling over glowing coals, watches flame lick metal and pulls it out, wraps it in an oil covered rag meant for cleaning. 

“Drink this,” he pleads softly, offering the cup to Theo. “It won’t taste great, but it will warm you.” 

and what does that say about him, to be a thing befriended to the cold? to death? boy shivers in his own skin even with the sun on him and we say that it is merely what lives in his veins - holding back a scream, on the surface of lips, waiting. he knows the feeling too well of things living inside bones that are not his own, knows this cold.

if he died right here, would the boy even notice? for once, maybe death could be painless.

“it’s familiar now.” he says, voice more of a thing of the wind. call it a returning, to the dirt, to the bones underneath them. “my home - i - where i used to live, it wasn’t too different from this, almost.” hands wrap themselves around the steaming mug, feels it burning fingertips, doesn’t wince. “there was no snow, but… it wasn’t too different from this.”

(was your tomb cold, little rabbit? does it now live in your hollows after your resurrection, after your deaths, again and again?)

(did your jesus ask to live again? did you?)

“thank you.” said quietly, a ghost. he sips on the drink slowly, barely touching lips, more of a holding to mouth. doesn’t quite meet ceydran’s eyes when he speaks; somewhere over his shoulder, somewhere beyond them both.

“are you afraid of dying, ceydran?” fingers curl around mugs as if hoping to have it burn through skin with the question. “i think i am, all the time.”

[whiterxbbits]

llenore‌:

Lenore tilts her head, looks at him with a sad smile and says, “We did make a good team.” The way he says it makes this sound like an ending, and it can’t be, shouldn’t be, not for them. But still—this reminds her of the endings to all of Metzger’s fairytales, where they’d end up in flames. She forces herself to swallow the knot in her throat. It only tightens. “I don’t know. There was a wall where they wrote the names of the people who died in the first fire, and everyone after that—they still knew each other, they still knew their own names. They weren’t so far gone.”

The words are said quickly, quietly, said on what little breath she can manage to squeeze into rattling lungs. 

She blinks, allowing Theodore’s words to fall to silence before she says, “I see.” Teeth catch on the inside of her cheek and she forces herself to look away. “I’m—I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable by asking. But it’s—it doesn’t need to be nothing if you don’t want it to be. I don’t know. I’m sorry.” (Little bird always asking too much, saying too much. But she really is sorry.)  

Unfolding her legs, she decides to bring them up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. After a moment, she leans forward to press the lower half of her face against the tops of her legs, hiding the fact that she’s buckling, that she’s about to cry any goddamn second now.

“and now? will there be another wall of names?” a quiet question, curled into itself. “if there are no deaths - and there won’t be, there isn’t - what do we write for the name if it’s a death of a home? a hope? what do we call that?”

(let him know, let him carve it on his arms, on the walls. let him remember that that is what he is; a hopeless thing always aching, greedy in wants and too poor in luck. if there is a word for it, perhaps it would be his name)

he smiles a little at her, and it is almost real, no matter how small, how sad it might be. perhaps it is a fixture of what he is now, these things. shakes his head a little, shuffling inside her coat, giving her more of the warmth. “it’s - it’s fine. i haven’t thought of it for a very long time and - it’s not a bad memory. just - just a little nostalgic, i think. maybe. it’s hard to say when you can’t remember much of it anymore.”

(fields in the summer, grandmothers singing. the boy found in the lake and the nails in the wood, mothers saying that she loves him. it is a hurt, but one he welcomes. one he’ll take if it means it comes with the memory, no matter how bitter the taste it leaves behind)

“do you have something like that too?” faces are buried in the coat now, only eyes peeking when he blinks at her. “there’s no need to apologize. i - you haven’t done anything wrong. you’ve only helped me, after all. maybe next time it’ll last a little longer - be nostalgia a little slower.”

[whiterxbbits]

minvlibi‌:

Curious boy, little rabbit more Fear than person, curled into a hidey-hole, jumping at his own Shadow. Is this any way to live? he wants to ask. Is this fun? Are you having fun, running from the night? 

“Hmm?” he feigns ignorance, smile the closest to Innocence that his brother’s madness in him will allow. “You don’t have to understand, just accept it. As a gift.” ( a sign of ownership, a reminder that there will always be a Cat watching wherever you go. )

The snow is soft, sinking with his weight where he crouches back down, eye to eye once more with his scared Pet. His head cocks to the side at an odd angle, and had it not been for that perpetual grin stretching his mouth too-wide, he might have seemed harmless in the moment. “Please what? What are you asking of me?”

he is too calm, to still in contrast to his shaking - both perhaps shadow-ghosts in their own right; wisp and a haunting. the way kanta smiles is familiar under his skin, this needle-pricking throat-closing feeling that he associates with the other, both a comfort and a choking.

there is a fear in both running and staying. he forces himself to meet the other’s eyes, trembling, ring on finger too heavy when he lifts it up to look at it, too out of place with threadbare clothes and smudged cheeks.

“a - a gift? what do you - you want in return? what do i give you in place of it, i can’t - can’t accept this for nothing.” is ha afraid of what he wants from him, or curious of what he sees in him that has him so - endeared?

“please, i - i would just like to know. i don’t… don’t understand what you want from me.”