Link to article: Hurting People (FRAGMENT).
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//We could have hung out in the living room,// Paige thinks, staring out the passenger window of Eric's car. //We didn't have to go out.// = ##white|**ArtPiece XXI**## She dressed up, but she doesn't have much to dress up in. She wears tight, ripped jeans with leggings underneath, and a crop top she had to fight herself to put on. She spent an hour and a half trying to get the blue tint off of her chin, every last little bit of stubble scraped away, and now she's worried her chin looks red and irritated. She can't tell, and she's had to make herself stop checking in the mirror. Eric, for his part, has commented on nothing -- if she hadn't imagined it, he even looked pleased with her when he came to pick her up. Eric sits in the driver seat, and they'd exchanged some small talk about his work day. Eric seems to have a good relationship with his coworkers -- if unfriendly. Eric has fewer hesitations when it comes to telling shitty customers to fuck off. It's earned him some respect, and he's saved some coworkers from customer service hell on occasion. Apparently, something along those lines happened today; a woman was unhappy with her sandwich, accepting no alternatives, and Eric got her to fuck off. It's clearly put him in a good mood. Good enough to either not notice or be unbothered by her standoffish responses to him. Or, what she assumes came off as standoffish -- //assuming, always assuming,// she tries to keep herself in line. //You think you know everything, you don't know anything. Stop assuming. Have you ever considered that you're doing fine? What if he's comfortable with silence?// They arrive at a cafe, some place called Althea Coffee. Paige is too inside herself to notice the aesthetic, but Eric catches the colorful cartoon bears that walk along the windowsills and the big detailed skull on the door. //Hippie shit,// he squints, but he supposes that was inevitable with a cafe in Oregon. Paige takes a second longer than Eric to get out of the car, but follows him inside, something between a fever and a cramp slinking along the bottom of her rib cage. "What's your usual from a cafe?" Eric asks. "Ah, I used to get caramel macchiatos pretty often, I guess." "Cool. I don't really get coffee. Is it any good?" "It's just my normal. I dunno." "Okay." Eric opens the door and they step inside. //I hate my belly. My chin is too square. I'm flat on both sides.// Paige shakes her head. //No one is looking at you. No one cares.// They get in line. "You alright?" Eric asks. "I am," she replies, too fast. //I had to dress up,// she thinks. //I just had to try. I'm failing. I'm no image of femininity.// She imagines herself as a neanderthal, and while it's incredibly demoralizing, it's also just funny enough to make her chuckle. "You sure?" Eric asks, tone lower. She looks up at him. He looks intense. Judging? //Angry. I'm fucking this up.// She tries to shake it away. //I'm not fucking this up. He just doesn't get it. There's no way for him to get it -- to him I'm a man. To him I'm pretending.// Another hole. She shakes her head again. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches away. "Come on," he says. //Annoyed with me, hating me.// She looks up. None of that is on his face. "Let's go," he says, and his voice is soft. She hesitates to move, and he puts his hand on her shoulder again, as he begins to walk to the exit. She follows, and in a sequence of events she doesn't seem to record, they're back in the car, driving home. She looks out the window, at the residences as they pass. Moments pass in silence as she fights the static in her head. //This is why you don't go out,// she reminds herself, //idiot.// "Are you better?" She turns in her seat and looks at Eric. His eyes are on the road, but he glances at her. His expression is neutral, his tone equally unreadable. //He's holding it in.// She shakes her head. "No?" "No -- yes. I'm better. Not good yet. Sorry." He nods. He doesn't ask her what's wrong -- and somehow, even through her haze, she recognizes it. That's what she learned to do with Cole -- allow him to say what's bothering him, never push. That's the language the Ortegren boys speak. She glances at him again. //He's letting me control the pace,// she thinks. Her eyes return to the window. "I just..." she starts. She doesn't continue, but he doesn't insert himself, so she restarts. "I just... I shouldn't have dressed up." He huffs, and she turns to him, surprised to see an amused smile on his face. "You dressed up?" He looks at her, and his expression hardens. And then his brow furrows. //Anger?// "Sorry." //At me, at himself?// "No, you're right," she allows a small chuckle to escape her own lips, "I don't really have anything to dress up with. That's... part of the problem." "Mm," he says. "I just..." her voice lowers considerably. "It's different, um, going out, without dressing up, and no one knows I'm //supposed// to be a girl, um. But... //you// know, and, I couldn't just... go out, in boy mode -- uh, in boy clothes, and, feel like I wasn't lying, or, that... the lie is..." She flounders. "Okay," he says, slowly. She looks at him. The anger has melted, but he still looks tense. //He doesn't get it,// she thinks, and this time, with a clearer head, she feels better about believing it. And then she frowns. "//Do// you?" He glances at her. "Huh? What." Her face screws up. "//Do// you think I'm a girl?" A pause ensues as Eric pulls onto their street, and lasts until he parks in the cul-de-sac. But he doesn't get out of the car as the engine turns off. She doesn't look at him. Doesn't know if she can. Finally, he says: "I don't know why I'm supposed to." She jerks her whole body in rotation, looking at him, but she doesn't take in what he looks like -- she just turns back to the door, opens it, and gets out. "Paige --" "//Because I am!//" she yells, even louder than she means to, hoping not only to convince Eric, but herself. She immediately feels seen -- watched, the houses around her, the setting sun preventing her from seeing the faces staring out the windows she's somehow sure must exist. "Paige," and Eric's voice has an edge to it as he gets out of the driver's seat, "keep it //down.//" For some reason, she listens, though her voice crescendos with every syllable. "Because I'm a -- because --" she loses her footing. Before she notices, Eric's closed some distance. She steps back, and he reaches out and grabs her wrist. She pulls her arm away, and it catches, his grip solid. Her heartrate jumps. "Calm the fuck down." "Let //go!//" She pulls her arm away, and this time he lets her, releasing his grip. His eyes are steely. His expression intense. He's //big//. He's a lot bigger than her. Tall, wide without much fat. Naturally strong. A man. The build, the stature -- the imposing, instinctual intrusion on her personal space, the willingness to touch her without asking, the assumed ownership of that which he can take. Suddenly, she is not merely uncomfortable with him -- she's frightened of this man she shares her house with, this person she's allowed in her space, her space he thinks he can //take.// Where else to go? She stumbles towards the house. "Paige --" "Shut //up!//" She makes it to the door, but she doesn't get much farther. As she tries to fish her keys out of her pockets, her shaking hands fumble and drop them on the ground. She feels herself losing grip, her thoughts spiraling more and more. //He's right, you know. You're nothing like a woman. You've made no strides in ten years. You sit in your room all day and lie to everybody.// The thoughts interlock with another set, like intertwined fingers: //He's right there. You can't do anything to him. He's going to hurt you. He can do it -- he's hurt you already.// She doesn't even get to lean over and grab her keys, before she feels a familiar hand on her shoulder. She startles, and an embarrassing noise escapes her lips. She turns, and backs up, then realizing she's been quite literally cornered -- her back where a wall makes a corner with the door. Eric stands there, hand hovering. "Stop //touching// me!" she shrieks. His expression hardens. //Furious.// He looks ready to kill something, and her eyes fix on him, unable to look away -- trying to find the angle of attack, dodge, fight back. He does nothing. He stands there. At some point, his eyes drifted from looking at her to looking at nothing, the wall above her head. After what feels like minutes, he reaches into his pockets, and pulls out his own key. He moves to the door, unlocks it, and pushes it open, then stepping back and out of the way, his expression unchanged. A moment passes before she realizes he's letting her past. //He's putting you in the house where no one can hear you, where you have less escape routes.// She shakes the thought out of her head. //Where else is there to go?// She slides past him, then bolting up the stairs and into her room. Eric hears the door close behind her, still standing at the doorway, outside in the dark, cool evening. //He's fucking retarded,// he thinks to himself. But even as he feels it, it comes with no anger at her. It aims inwards. //He can't help it, you shithead.// Then he finally clenches his fists. //Can't he?// Paige startles at the guttural yell from downstairs. She sits on her bed, breathing faster and shallower than she should. The front door slams. //Is he gone?// No, she hears his footsteps through the living room. Back and forth, back and forth. She fixates on his movements, as if keeping track of him gives her control of the situation. As if she'll actually jump to escape out the window should he approach. She won't, she knows it -- she's fucked, if anything should happen. She isn't that proactive. //I'm just not that smart.// Over the course of minutes, his pace slows. In the same timespan, her breathing becomes more regular, though not as deep and consistent as she'd like. Finally, at some point, he stops. Without the sound of his footsteps, all she hears is her heartbeat in her ears. Then, as the silence prolongs, the soft tinnitus ring of sensory depravation. He starts moving again, but his footsteps are softer. They feel less like the stomps of a man overtaken by anger, and more like the quiet steps he takes when he gets a glass of water late at night. He stops in the kitchen for a moment, and she can't hear exactly what he's doing, but there are the soft sounds of movement all the while. Her heartbeat slows. Her breathing calms. //I might be okay,// she's finally allowed to think. Then, the front door opens, and closes, and the noises stop. But now, she can hear her room. The ambience of the running computer tower she turns off less than she should. The //shiff// of the blankets while she nervously rubs them with her hands. Other sensations come into focus. The ache of her back from sitting so hunched for so long. The similar ache in her neck. The soreness of tension in her arms and legs, which, now acknowledged, she wills to loosen. Unexpectedly, a brief swell of emotion forces water into her eyes. She blinks away the would-be tears, and composes herself. //Okay,// she thinks, //what now?// All she wants to do is curl in bed and try to sleep. //You won't sleep,// she thinks, //and you'll boil in your thoughts. You've done this before.// She winces. //You're emotionally unstable. Reach out.// It comes so unnaturally. She doesn't want to talk to people -- she doesn't want to tell anyone. She doesn't want people to know that she's weak. She doesn't want people to feel the need to accommodate her. But Kiave has put herself in a position to be reached out to, has yet to make her feel bad for venting -- well, has yet to make her feel //especially// bad about venting, just the normal amount for venting in general. She stands up, almost losing her balance as a reminder of how shaky she is, and moves to her desktop. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## hey > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## o/ > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## whadup gurl > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## rp? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## sure > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## medieval, high fantasy, duel? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## huh? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## and could you be kind of an asshole? big character moment, protag v antag > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## im the antag huh > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## could you > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## please ... > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## ok > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## no foreplay for this one huh........ > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## alright im Dazaus, like da-SAY-oos, and im a fucked up lizardman > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## I'm Argus, a knight from a fallen kingdom. I still have loyalty to a fallen royal line, and am trying to find a new worthy cause. The destruction of everything I've loved has shaken my faith in God, though I still believe in His existence, as I was told time and time again that I worked for the heavenly kingdom, and I can't believe that, should that be true, God would have allowed the kingdom to crumble and die. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## ok > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## um there's a lot more but you don't gotta know > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## sounds like you kno what you want > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## yeah > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## be part of the army that razed the castle? or something? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## sure as long as you're not hung up on specifics > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## nope > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## oh adn like > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## be a bigot, a lil > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## ah c'mon > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## so im not even a fun bad guy > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## you dont have to ... > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## no i will > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## alright me or you > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## ill start = ##white|**ArtPiece XXII**## > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus slides down the hillside, drawing his sword from its sheath, not attempting stealth as he comes within twenty feet of Dazaus, the lizard's back turned from him. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus turns, the fresh blood dripping from his curving dagger, to regard Argus. "Ahh," he draws out, "what a pleasant surprise." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## "Dazaus," is all Argus says. Somehow, he makes the name sound like an accusation. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## "Argus," he gives back, pretending not to hear the venom in Argus' tone. His tail twitches back and forth, the metal ornament on its end scraping against the stone ground. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus' hackles raise, the associations of that sound saturating his minds' eye, the imminent deaths or the harrowing defeat -- Argus, supine, watching Dazaus' tale winding along the stonework, slinking away, trailing Argus' blood with it. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## "So, you're alive." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus neglects to respond, eyes travelling to the dripping dagger. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Choking, sputtering noises come from the heap at Dazaus' feet, but he doesn't answer them, instead maintaining a long, cold stare at Argus. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus steels himself. He will not make the same mistake twice. He returns the gaze. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## The miserable sounds slow to a stop. Dazaus' eyes finally glance down to the fresh corpse, and a terrible smile creeps across his face. "Cold. I'm impressed." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## "There was no saving her." > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## "You've wizened some." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## "You haven't changed in the slightest." > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Finally, Dazaus respects the knight's presence enough to turn around and face him fully. "Fine then. Let's do something different this time, then. I'll let you strike first." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus hesitates none, his sword raising before Dazaus has even finished his sentence, and brings it down against his shoulder. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus' long tail reaches up and bats it away, but it seems to be less effective than he expects, and he takes a large step to the side as Argus' strike goes wide. He laughs. "That strength! You've been training, haven't you? Almost enough to convince me you're a /man!/" > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## [nice] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [i gotchoo] > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus refuses to respond, instead launching into a series of strikes against the serpentine bastard. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus alternatively parries and dodges each strike, using both his metal-tipped tail and twin daggers. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [i dont eally knwo swordplay] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [well of that kind] > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## [it's cool you don't have to, me neither] > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## [also, ha] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## honestly i just dont do action scenes > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## if you say you do something to me but i want to parry it then we have to like > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## retcon > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## i dont really do action either > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## well, didnt > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## but if you dont say anything hits i can just make you not ht forever > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Yeah so > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## mm > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## you good paige? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## no > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## but I want to do this first > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## just um > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## dont fight back too hard? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## you want to kill something > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## yeah > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## okay > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## you're the best kiave <3 > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## i know B) > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus shifts his footwork, and takes his sword /up/ and into Dazaus' side, sliding against the grain of the scales and working into a gap. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus stumbles, hand shooting to the bleeding gash in his side. "What -- you!" > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus doesn't let up, striking again, symmetrically stabbing at Dazaus' other side. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## He dodges, but stumbles, nearly losing his balance. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus capitalizes on the opening, and plunges his sword into Dazaus' belly. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [prolly coulda used my tail to do something] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus screams in pain, and swipes meaninglessly at Argus. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus retracts his blade, and watches as Dazaus falls into a heap on the ground, recreating the original image of their meeting, only with the lizard replacing his own victim, and Argus the merciless victor. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## "You..." he chokes. "I didn't think... you had it in you..." > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## "I don't pull my punches anymore, Dazaus. I would ask you to remember that, but you won't need to where you're going." > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## "Still... believe in that g-d of yours, do you?" Dazaus coughs up blood. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## Argus doesn't respond, instead watching Dazaus slowly bleed out, staying safely out of range of the whipping tail, though the strength seems to have gone out of it. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [want me to question your gender again] > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## [nah that'd be overdoing it] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## [ok guess ill die] > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## uh > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## *dies* > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## really? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## I dunno I don't usually do death scenes > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## you were doing fine you'd just have to continue > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Dazaus' eyes flutter as his head goes limp, his gaze drifting from Argus to the open sky. His mouth slowly opens, then sets. His body is still. His blood gleams on the stone beneath him. Dazaus is finally dead. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## thanks > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## *bows* > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## was that violent enough > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## honestly i was hoping to go stupid go crazy but i just dont do action very much, it was hard to come up with things > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## yea > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## so who was i anyways > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## my roommate > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## oh > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Oh > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## What did he do > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## nothing > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Paige She wants to type "we got in an argument," but is that true? What did they argue? Was it a fight? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## he said some shit > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## phobic shit > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## yea > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Fuck. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## i mean > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Fuck. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## it wasnt unexpected > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## It wasn't?? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## he's from fucking idaho > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## i mean sure but i grew up in kansas > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## That's not really an excuse. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## i wasnt excusing it > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## i didnt explain myself well > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Explain what? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## he asked me why he should think of me as a girl > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Jesus. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Are you okay? Are you safe? ... > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## im okay > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Should I be worried? > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Where are you now, what're you doing, where's he what's he doing > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## kiave it's fine > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## You told me he's kind of a big guy > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## He LIVES with you > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Are you going to...? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## I'm not kicking him out. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Is that safe? She's not sure. She feels unsafe, but she's too rattled to trust her emotions. > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## idk > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## when it comes to safety, "idk" is /no/ Paige > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## he's an asshole, he's not a murderer > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Has he touched you? > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## not that way > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Paige. She hears the front door close, and then steady steps up the stairs. Her heartrate increases, but she's nowhere near where she was before. Garden-variety anxiety -- if a bit strong. She struggles to juggle her sense of the present, her sense of Eric, with the growing realization that she's pressed a button of Kiave's that she didn't mean to press. People caring about her -- caring for her safety, caring for her success and her wellbeing -- is exhausting. She hates that she thinks that, she wishes it weren't true, but it is. Kiave had thus far been her go-to because she let off when Paige asks, but now she feels like she has to tend to Kiave's feelings instead of merely communicating her own. Paige had done this before -- it remains her least favorite outcome. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## You need to confront this > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## kiave calm down She winces as she reads Eric's voice in her words. //Is there a better way to say that?// > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## it's alright > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## I'm alright > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## What did he do > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## he just touched my shoulder //And grabbed my wrist,// she thinks. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Why > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## um > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## I think just to get my attention > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## and calm me down //To shut me up,// she reinterprets. Which was more likely? //Always assuming,// she thinks, but the efficacy of interrupting her own negative thought patterns was lesser in the face of Eric's comment. //I don't know why I'm supposed to.// In a better state of mind, she doubts her own interpretation of the words. She mulls them over. //And what reason have I given him// -- she shakes her head, legitimately angry this time. //Stop that shit.// > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Why were you upset > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## kiave please stop digging > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## I'm worried about you > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## don't be > ##green|**pentaclespaige:**## im fine //Knock knock.// She startles, slightly. She realizes she never heard Eric go to his room. //Was he just standing there?// She doesn't respond. "Paige?" his muffled voice comes through the door. > ##blue|**bluefootedboobies:**## Explain everything. She tabs out of that conversation. Kiave isn't helping. She doesn't usually feel like reaching out helps, but she's trying to train herself to do it anyways. However, this, she feels, was an abject failure. She's equal parts disappointed and frustrated -- with Kiave and, inexplicably, with herself. "Paige, I know you haven't fallen asleep yet. You barely ever sleep anyways." She still doesn't respond, but turns on her rolling chair to face the door, and stays that way. "Are you going to talk to me?" He doesn't hide his frustration, and Paige flinches. Eric sighs. Paige hears a brief sound of shuffling, and then a sliding sound that she realizes is him sitting and leaning his back against the door. "Fine," he says, almost inaudibly, "I'll wait." He does. Paige's eyes drift to her web browser, watching as she gets more and more notifications on IRC. Kiave hasn't let up -- anxiety builds. The conversation won't be pretty when she gets back. Somehow, she'd rather be here, with Eric. It's so backwards it's humorous, but in a sick, queasy kind of way. She clears her throat. "What is it." A moment elapses. "I don't get you. You're not a pedophile. You're not going out, creeping on people. You've known Cole for years and he says you don't do shit. You don't dress up. I sorta thought you just... got off on it. But you got so //fucking// upset." Every word stings, but he says them so slowly, he makes no sudden movements. Still, without the barrier of the door, Paige doesn't know if she would be so calm. "Why?" "Why what?" "Why are you a tranny?" Her whole body tenses, but she's in a place of comfort. She's in her room. Her sanctuary. Here, she feels safe by default. It's not the cafe. It's not the grocery store. It's not even the living room. It's home base, and it relaxes her defenses -- with a looser grip, the spines of Eric's words don't pierce skin, even as she feels their pricks. "Why?" "Yeah," he says, frustrated at repeating himself. "Why." "What, do you..." she trails off, and then anger creeps in at the edge of her voice. "Do you think I //chose// to be this way?" "Fucking duh," he says, with some emphasis. "What are my alternatives? Be a //guy?//" Eric laughs, and it's a mean laugh. "I //tried// that, okay? Don't you get it? I fucking //tried// that!" Her voice is louder than she wants, but she can't seem to keep it down. "I lived a decade of my fucking life wasting away, thinking I was a guy, thinking everything I had was just depression, anxiety, disfunction. I was told I had self-image problems. And you know what, I fucking do. I do but nothing anybody ever said helped, because nobody fucking knew anything, like //you.//" She regrets the words as they come out, but she fights that side of her. //He's Cole's brother, he's responsive to that.// For his part, he says nothing while the conversation lulls. So she continues. "And when I fucking, readjusted myself -- after losing my place in life I just took a long look at myself, and I hated doing that -- I hate doing that. I hate looking at myself. And I realized it's... I saw that I had nothing to work towards, that everything was bunk, because I was doing it for a person I wasn't. I never felt like anyone wanted me anywhere, and no one looked at me with that warmth that they had when I was little anymore. It felt... like no one really cared about me. And I had to ask //myself// that, Eric. //Why.// Why be this. Why live like this. And -- and when I started saying I was a girl, there it was again." No response. "Why be miserable, all the time. I already knew some shit. I was called a girl a lot, when I was really little, and I didn't notice it at all, but I noticed when it started going away. I was in a play, and I played a princess that was disguised as a boy, even to herself. Magic bullshit, okay? But when she's revealed to be the princess, the actors switched out. I was just the disguise. //She// was real. And that sucked. I loved that play when we rehearsed it, and I didn't know why. When we actually started performing it, I fucking hated it, and I didn't know why. And now -- now, I know I'm a girl." Her voice weakens at the last sentence. She doesn't know. She hopes, with fierce determination, that she is, but she never feels like she's //known.// But that's privileged information Eric doesn't get to hear. He remains silent. She doesn't give him much time, anyways. "And now people talk to me like I've wanted to be talked to my whole life. And people see me in ways I want to be seen. It's better this way." "What?" The tone throws her for a loop. What is that -- anger? Why? At what part? "What?" she repeats back. "Better how?" She opens her mouth to respond, but he follows with: "Better to be cooped in your room forever, playing pretend?" Her face contorts, but he can't see it. "I'm //not// --!" She can't finish the thought. She sounds too childish in her own ears. //You are,// she thinks, //you are and you know it.// "Paige, you //crumpled// at that cafe. Was that what you wanted?" "And what, do you think that's because I'm a //tranny!//" she yells. "No!" he yells back. ... "No?" "You almost had me, you were making sense for a second, but you lost me. So being a dude sucks. That's not fucking new. Do you think that's new? I'm a guy and it sucks every fucking day." Emotion creeps into his voice, but he pauses to curb it. Then he clears his throat, and continues. "Every fucking day. You're not special. So on the one hand, get the fuck over yourself." "Fuck you," she says, surprising herself. Eric powers through. "On the other hand, you're not even doing what you say you're doing. You're fucking up on all fronts." "Eric —" she stops herself, surprised at the words that could have come out of her mouth. That he owed her, that she was the only thing between him and the street. "I — you can't — I've been —" What is she trying to prove to him? What does she owe him? "What? //What// have you been doing?" "//Everything!//" "No you haven't!" "What do you know?" "Get fucking dresses!" "I —!" she reels. "What?" "You want to be a woman? //Do// it! Stop fucking sitting in your room all day and jacking off!" "I-it's not that //simple!// Did you not just fucking see -- the -- I can't handle that! I'm weak, I -- I //crumple,// you saw me --" She realizes that he's twisted the conversation, and now she's arguing on //his// terms. "It isn't for them! I don't live to make people comfortable, I don't need to present just so I can be put neatly in people's boxes." "If it isn't for them, then why do you care? Why do you care how they see you?" "I --" "If you care, do something about it. If you won't do something about it, stop caring." "You can't //choose// not to care." "Fine, then you've narrowed down your options." She shuts up. There's no point in talking to him. Her thoughts roil -- even as she defends against his attacks, she's fighting on two fronts, as the other offensive comes from within. //He's right. You wasted your life hating yourself for failing to be a guy, and now you'll waste your life hating yourself for failing to be a girl. Your life is just a long string of wasting away, and before you know it there will be nothing left to waste. You don't go out. You don't go to college. You don't work. You don't// do //anything. You sit on your computer, wallowing in your filth, day in and day out.// "Paige..." "Go away," she says, unable to make it sound strong, unable to bring her voice above a certain volume without cracking. "Paige, I didn't mean to get angry." //That's not "sorry."// "I'm -- I'm trying to //help// you. I'm trying to //understand// you." But there's an edge to his voice as he says it. //I didn't ask for your help,// she wants to say, but she's afraid of saying anything, of prompting more conversation. She just wants him to leave. ... //You fucking retard,// Eric thinks to himself, staring into his lap, his back against the door. //He hates you now. People have to be some kind of fucked up to let// you //get near them, and yet you're still finding ways to fuck// that //up. Good job, asshole.// "Did you choose?" Paige's voice comes muffled through the door. His head raises a fraction, momentarily unsure what she's asking. Then he catches it, and his expression burrows back into a furious shape, at odds with the quiet voice that comes through. "Didn't I?" "Eric..." "//Didn't// I?" he reiterates, cutting her off. His eyes travel back to his lap. "I knew it was wrong. I knew what I was risking and I did it anyways. I was selfish as fuck -- and I pulled Jed into my shit, too. I didn't care. I fucked him up like I fucked up myself." "Eric --" "It's //always// a choice. Isn't it?" "Did you choose to love him?" Eric snickers, but there isn't much humor in him. "I wouldn't call it //love.//" "Fine. Did you choose to be attracted to him?" "It -- it was a power thing. Teenage rebellion shit. My dad yelled at me a few times for shit I did wrong and I couldn't handle it. I went and fagged out." "Do you really believe that?" He thinks about it. //Of course,// he thinks, but there isn't enough certainty to say it out loud, and he notices. //For what other reason?// He can't identify the hoops he's jumping through -- he isn't aware enough to notice his backwards assumptions of how other people feel attraction, he doesn't know -- even though its existence scares him from somewhere beyond his vision -- that under his schematic, everyone is gay, and those that are straight are those who have their urges "under control." He hasn't been taught how to think that way. Still, he does feel //different.// Why //couldn't// he control himself? What makes him so much weaker than everyone else? His silence seems answer enough for Paige. "Eric, neither of us are in control, here. Do you see that?" He doesn't believe her, but his willingness to fight the point wanes. He shrugs, but she doesn't see it. //We do what we have to,// he thinks, //to keep ourselves together. Maybe that's what all of us weak people do -- my boys and Paige's "gender," or whatever.// "Sure," he says, though he sees it as a personal failing nonetheless. "I couldn't choose to be a boy, the same as you can't choose to be straight." His face curls into an ugly shape. //I could.// Then why hasn't he done it? //Because I'm a fucking retard, that's why.// "Sure," he says again. ... "What do I do, Paige?" There comes no response. "What do the freaks like us do? Where's the end?" He brings a hand to his face, and rubs at his right eye. "I-if you put up with my bullshit, I'll put up with yours. Is that fair?" "Eric," her voice sounds closer, "I'm not //putting up// with you." There's a silence, broken only by the occasional involuntary sound from Eric. Paige slowly turns the knob, and opens the door. Eric falls backwards some inches before catching himself with his arm, his face angled up at Paige, standing with the door half open. A chuckle escapes her lips. "Sorry, I forgot you were sitting like that." His face is red, his cheeks are wet, and he ventures no response. //Jesus, this guy,// Paige thinks, but it comes with little anger. Not //none.// But little. He tries to turn away, to hide his face, and she kneels next to him. //This sucks,// she thinks. She's aware, the whole while, that an interaction that should have been about //her// -- that should have ended with reconciliation from him for her feelings -- has been twisted, and now he's crying, and she's taking care of //him.// //This shithead.// And yet, empathy is something Paige has never been able to turn off. However angry she knows she should feel, more than that, she sees someone in need of help. //He didn't ask for my help,// she thinks, with some spite. //Just like I didn't ask for his.// She considers. //He didn't ask to touch me, either.// She leans forward, landing on her knees, and then does one scoot towards Eric. //This is gonna suck.// She wraps him in a hug. A weak, awkward hug, at a terrible angle that makes her back, already aching from earlier, remind her of its existence. Eric flinches, but accepts. His eyes go from staring into the middle distance to meeting her forearm as it drapes across his shoulder. //Right,// he thinks, //they respond to weakness. They -- we -- have to, or else we'd just kill ourselves.// The contact is awful for Paige, but she maintains it. Not merely the angle -- physical contact reminds her of her frame, of how far she is from what she wants to be. And worse yet, she can't fight her head this time -- the thoughts are correct. He //doesn't// think of her as a woman. He //is// judging. Of that she's sure. And yet, Eric is reminded of the only other physical contact he'd allowed himself -- that with Jed, and that with his mother. Jed, because of how unthreatening Paige is, of how comfortable he finds himself crying in her presence, of how soft and awkward she is. His mother, because she was the only person he ever let himself cry in front of. He connects that to his framework of femininity -- the virtue in being meek, the capacity to comfort and nurture. He watches as Paige slots in, and he feels a little less confused by her, he feels a better sense of how to interact. //Maybe sissies like him make for good girls.// They sit there for a long time, until the shudders turn to sniffles, and when it finally feels like the well of tears is starting to run dry, Paige releases her grip, and leans back so that she's sitting with her haunches on her heels. "It's not your fault," she says, so quiet he barely hears it. He silently disagrees, but nods. He accepts it as her place to comfort, to speak sweet nothings and tell him it will be okay. "I'm alright," he says. She silently disagrees, but nods. "And I'm sorry. That I got angry." "It's okay," she lies. "Don't do it again." He nods. He stands up, and she stands with him. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out her keys, then holding them out. "You dropped these, earlier." She gives a small smile. "Thanks," she takes them. He nods. "I'm gonna go to my room." "Okay." He looks down, and sees that, at some point, he'd disarmed. The gauntlets, the pauldrons, the chestplate. They lie in a heap on the floor. He looks at Paige. "Thanks." She shrugs. He turns, and decides he won't need that where he's going. He leaves his armor behind. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXIII**## @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ > **PieMouth** > How's bro? > > **PentaclesPaige** > tbh > I think he's kind of going through it 😵💫 > > **PieMouth** > mm > > **PentaclesPaige** > or, more likely??? > He was already going through it and now he's like, finally showing it > Y'know? > > **PieMouth** > uh > not really but alright > > **PentaclesPaige** > you never had someone hide their feelings from you > > **PieMouth** > ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ > > **PentaclesPaige** > Doesn't matter ig > point is he's looked real sad > > **PieMouth** > yeah > he won't tell me about that shit > > **PentaclesPaige** > y'ever > idk > Ask him? > > **PieMouth** > lol > > **PentaclesPaige** > """lol""" > 🤡 > > **PieMouth** > ok ok > I should ask him > i dont think he'll tell me > Does he tell you? > > **PentaclesPaige** > no 🙁 > I can just tell > > **PieMouth** > magic > > **PentaclesPaige** > heehee > I am known to dabble 😏 > How are //you//? How is other bro? > > **PieMouth** > You can't just tell? > lame > > **PentaclesPaige** > nah my magic stops at the screen > > **PieMouth** > i'm doing alright > i mean it > > **PentaclesPaige** > 👐 > > **PieMouth** > i was really nervous when he moved in with you, but it seems to be working out > I'm trying to figure out how to visit > I'm saving up to get my own car > used ofc > > **PentaclesPaige** > ofc ofc > > **PieMouth** > i want eric to come here but ... > **PentaclesPaige** > 💛 > yea > > **PieMouth** > lots of emojis today > > **PentaclesPaige** > yea huh > I'm kind of excited today !!!! > I'm experimenting with my look > > **PieMouth** > oh? > > **PentaclesPaige** > yea 💛 > > **PieMouth** > neat > Well I have a thing to go to > > **PentaclesPaige** > a thing? 👀 > > **PieMouth** > ever since bro left, Mom's been all kinds of worried about me > She's really up my ass for the weirdest things > now she's upset I don't hang out with people more often > shes //encouraging// me to go to a party > > **PentaclesPaige** > aww > that sucks(?) > > **PieMouth** > it's whatever > > **PentaclesPaige** > know anyone there? > > **PieMouth** > No one worth knowing. > > **PentaclesPaige** > dam > harsh > What's the occasion? > > **PieMouth** > There fucking isn't any > Idiots don't need an excuse to throw a party > but I guess it's Easter themed > > **PentaclesPaige** > haha! People throw parties for Easter??? > > **PieMouth** > I did say "idiots" right? > > **PentaclesPaige** > you did 😛 > god i totally forgot it was close to easter > Which is stupid > I just did Ostara > > **PieMouth** > Happy Rabbit Ovulation Day > > **PentaclesPaige** > ewwwww > > **PieMouth** > Ostara? > > **PentaclesPaige** > Spring Equinox > > **PieMouth** > oh cool > you celebrate that? > > **PentaclesPaige** > I said I dabble, didn't I? 😎🪄 > > **PieMouth** > lol > > **PentaclesPaige** > but fr there's more to it than just a "magic" thing, paganism (as broad a term as that is) doesn't exist just to be mystified, there's like some serious spiritual and cultural background that I'm really into and connect a lot with > > **PieMouth** > sure > But also like > orgies and stuff > > **PentaclesPaige** > yea but like I can't hear your voice so clarify for me > are you puttin //stank// on "orgies" ??? > are you saying it the Christian way ???? > (important) > > **PieMouth** > I figure orgies are mostly composed of idiots, like all large gatherings of people > but they're probably having more fun than the party I'm about to go to > so they're probably less idiots than these guys > > **PentaclesPaige** > heehee > > **PieMouth** > ok im gonna like > get ready and stuff > if you never hear from me again i died of boredom > and tell eric to never go to a party ever > > **PentaclesPaige** > o7 > Roger Dodger Big Man > I'm gonna go look at myself in the mirror for a long time > > **PieMouth** > lol > bye > > **PentaclesPaige** > 👋 @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ Cole's annoyance grows, gradually, with every minute of the thirty minute drive out to this person's house. It's probably more like a twenty minute drive, but he had to write down the directions on a piece of paper and he missed some turns, got lost and had to get back to the correct route. //No one's waiting for me, so whatever.// The road devolves into gravel and then eventually just dirt, with its fair share of bumps and potholes that make him nervous, driving his dad's car. The house's string-lights and grouped silhouettes make it obvious -- and good thing, too; he's not sure he could make out the numbers of an address in this twilight. The road is parked up, and he assesses that "parking space" is a loose term here. As long as he isn't directly blocking anyone's exit, it looks like grass and curb and road are all fair game. Still, he's late, so he has to search for a moment to find somewhere discreet. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXIV**## He turns the car off, but doesn't get out right away. The hesitation, spurred by anxiety, he decides is actually disdain. He looks at the party in his rearview mirror, and he can hear the music from here. Loud, crowded -- Cole has rarely found himself in such environments. //C'mon,// he sighs. //Let's get this over with.// He steps out of the car. He's dressed up somewhat -- instead of his thrown-on tee-shirt and jeans, he's wearing a button-up and black pants. His mom told him it made him look "smart." He thinks it makes him look like a dweeb, but he didn't have a better suggestion. He walks up a stonework pathway to the house, and, if Cole had a frame of reference, he would be impressed. Teenagers aren't renowned for their organizational skills, and yet this party is put together in exceptional detail. In fact, it is the afterparty of a longer event that had been organized by the party-planner's parents, who are still on the premises, available should something go awry, but gracious enough to let the students get drunk and high on their generous property. The decorations feel surreal -- as Cole gets to the fringes of the crowd, he notices wireframe rabbits with coolers in their haunches, so you'd reach into their body and pull out drinks. There are eggs //everywhere,// and Cole gathers that there will be some kind of competition for finding the most -- he notices little teams of girls flitting about and hiding them places. The center of the party is an honest-to-god stage, where, at first, Cole thinks a band is playing. However, standing to the side and watching, he begins to recognize two of the bandmates, the drummer and bassist, as classmates he'd generously call "imbeciles." Assuming their lack of musical talent allows him to catch on that the music must be being played from some computer or device, and the instruments on stage are props so people can pretend to be rockstars. His suspicions are confirmed as the bassist engages in conversation with someone at the base of the stage, and then hands them the instrument as they climb on, switching places. Cole looks up, and sees the string lights dangling in the trees and he wonders how much effort it took to get those up there. //Jesus Christ, someone here takes this// seriously. He follows the perimeter of the crowd dancing in front of the stage. They're playing some flavor of pop-rock that Cole has no taste for, not that he's ever deeply engaged in music regardless. In the dim, multicolored lights, faces and clothes and silhouettes -- details -- don't seem to coalesce into recognizable people. He knows he should know most of these people, if only by their face, but besides the people spotlit on the stage, he hasn't been able to name a single one. By the same token, he figures, they probably don't recognize him. He finds that comforting. He swims through the party as a passive observer, not even moving to hide his stares. He watches a couple tucked into a nook make out and pet each other. He finds a drunk group clumsily playing foursquare. He eavesdrops on a circle of people passing a bong, until one notices him and offers, at which point he silently departs. Cole finds he's enjoying himself, despite his reservations. Watching people make fools of themselves gives him a great deal of schadenfreude -- or, more honestly, living vicariously through people without the sense of reciprocated judgment frees him from his unacknowledged anxieties. However, as he's listening to two jocks compete over what girls they've laid, Cole starts to get hungry. //I've seen people with plates of stuff, where is it all?// He feels like a scientist following ant trails as he locates the buffet. At last, he's greeted by an indoor setting -- a garage door is open, and the inside of the garage has been decorated and dressed with a spread of finger foods, as well as some more filling things, such as chili, a pasta salad, and a chicken dish of some kind. As he steps into the light of the enclosed space, he tenses. //You're fine. Just get in and out.// He grabs a paper plate, and gravitates towards the finger foods. He grabs a handful of sandwich rolls, some chips, and some kebabs. He then looks around for a cooler, and opens one, only to find it full of coronas and pabsts. He scowls, and closes it, searching for a soft drink of some kind. He finds a separate cooler, from which he grabs a coke. Satisfied, he stands, and turns to leave. "You're Cole, right?" The hair on his arms stands on end, as he sees an approaching girl. She isn't terrifically pretty, but Cole doesn't get approached by girls at all. His heartrate rises. He clears his throat, and avoids eye contact as his face coils into a frown. Better to be pissed than to be nervous. "Sure," he says. "And //you// are?" He sees that she's not alone. There's a group of one more guy and a girl behind her, and they all walk like they're a little buzzed. "Is it //true,// Cole?" "What? What true?" She drops her voice, and leans towards him in a way that makes his face burn. "Your //brother,// Cole, is it //true?//" He'd caught on that, at some point, his home life had slipped into the consciousness of the school rumor-mill, undoubtedly from Austin in some kind of petty revenge against him, but they'd yet to approach him about it. The attention is uncomfortable -- and yet invaluable. Though a part of Cole's body screams at him to evacuate, another is captivated. "None of your fucking business, is it?" But he doesn't leave, and he isn't cornered. "Hey," the guy steps forward, in a way that implies Cole is intruding on his property. //Boyfriend. She's taken.// That bothers him. The girl puts a hand on her boyfriend's shoulder absently, and seems to give him a hushing look. "I'm just //curious,// come on. Did he really...?" He's unsure how the story has been twisted while it's blown through the teenage imagination outside his control, but he isn't really concerned with telling her the truth anyways. Whatever she thinks, it doesn't matter to him. But continuing to talk to her does, even if she's already been claimed. "Sure. What's it fucking matter?" "Why don't you //tell// us about it? That must be so //hard// for you," she reaches out and nearly touches Cole, but her boyfriend reminds her of his presence with a hand on the shoulder. He looks between her, the boyfriend, and the girl who's yet to talk. Cole's only taller than the main girl -- how he ended up being such a runt with that monster father of his, he'll wonder for the rest of his life. His brain churns with the attention, the interest. He shrugs, and grunts to seem like he's more bothered than eager. "Sure. But let's get out of here, it's crowded." "Did he really...? You know --" "I'm leaving, if you want to talk you can come with." "He's a fag, isn't he?" the boyfriend speaks for the second time. Cole flushes red as the girlfriend turns to look back with a disappointed frown. Facing Cole again, she starts: "Don't mind him, he --" "Yeah," Cole says, too loud, "yeah, he fucking is." The girl feigns shock, and Cole sips from his coke, noticing his own shaking hands. "How does that make you feel?" she asks. "That must be really hard for you. For your family." "What's your name?" Cole prods. "How's the house? With//out// him?" So they've at least heard that much. Cole's chest contorts, and his head fills with defenses. Clumsy but reliable defenses -- "fuck you," "none of your fucking business," and other variations on "fuck." But she's closed distance -- she stands just at the boundary of his personal space, and his chest pounds. The defending urge gets suppressed as another, conflicting imperative says: //Keep her talking. Keep her here.// The two fight long enough that someone notices his silence and cuts in. "You must miss him," the second girl says. "No I //don't,//" Cole says, quick. His breath catches. //What? Breathe, moron.// "You a fag too?" asks the boyfriend. "You a mother's boy?" "//Fuck// him. And //fuck// you. I-I'm nothing like my brother. I'm no -- I'm no fucking fairy." The words were beginning to be difficult to get out. Beyond that, his voice trembles. He can't force the strength into it that he wants -- he sounds like a wimp. He sounds like a mother's boy. "Woah, Cole! Calm down," the main girl speaks, "ignore him. He can't handle when I give other boys //attention.//" At the word, she reaches a hand forward, and touches his chest. Despite the desire, the feeling is so overwhelming that his immediate reaction is rejection. He bats the hand away, and she backs up at his rebuke, at first looking hurt, and then, inexplicably, laughing. Cole can't parse it -- //what the fuck is happening,// he wonders, and the question begins to swell. "Hey," another, //new// voice forces his focus out from the immediate group, to notice the crowd of people at the buffet, and the eyes that are on him. "Hey, Cole, you coming?" He turns, and sees a guy. Deep black hair, round face -- piercings. Through his septum, so many in his ears. Black clothes. Without waiting for an answer, the guy waves Cole towards him. He realizes, with a rising panic, that he isn't intaking information. He doesn't know who this person is, or why they think he's with them. He doesn't know why these people approached him. He feels like he's hit a wall, like he has all the knowledge but can't use it, can't put it together, and he's left instead with a sinking feeling -- no, faster than that, a falling sensation. Suddenly, he feels like even if he //wanted// to step towards this stranger, he couldn't -- his legs, his arms, everything feels weak. //Weak. I'm so fucking weak.// Words are exchanged that he can't hear. The world is dim in a way that can't be explained by the lights around him. He begins to feel a phantom pain in his foot. It's the forest floor. //Am I dying?// He's being led out. His legs barely hold his weight, but he's being supported somehow. //Who am I with?// Just before they pass out from the light of the buffet, Cole sees that it's the guy with the piercings. //The emo kid?// "//Hey,//" the guy says, loud, loud enough to grab Cole's attention. "Breathe. //Breathe,// dude." Cole hears the words but doesn't parse them as a suggestion. What about breathing? He's barely getting anything -- he's taking quick, shallow breaths, and barely anything is getting in. "Slower, hey. Breathe //slower.//" He focuses on that, and starts breathing slower. He's shaking, all over. Sweating. //It's not that hot, why am I sweating?// "Keep walkin', keep walkin'." "You're doing great," says another voice to his right, startling him. He turns, but he can't make out anything except that the person is tall in this light. "Eyes in front," the guy with the piercings says, "I got you but I don't want you to stumble too hard. We're gonna sit down soon, we just gotta get some distance. Keep breathing." He does as he's told, and they somehow make it to a table he can't see in the dark, as he's guided to a seating position. However, the physical contact isn't released. "Where are you, Cole?" //What?// He's too out of it to find the question offensive with any sincerity. Grandma. The hospital. //I'm bleeding out. I'm not putting things together.// "Cole, where are you?" His brow furrows. "Party. Easter party, what the fuck question is that." "Breathe, dude. Calm down." "You're doing great," the voice from before echoes. "Is he alright?" another voice, across the table. "How'd you get here?" Crawled. //How did I get here?// The hospital, in and out of consciousness. Carried by Eric? "I drove?" "What'd you eat for breakfast this morning?" "What? I ate some steak. Leftovers." "Alright. How's your breathing?" He breathes. "It's fine." "How's your head?" "What the fuck is..." He feels like his eyes are focusing. He's grasping the silhouettes of trees, the shapes of people around the table, illuminated by pink and green and blue string lights, selectively highlighting features and hiding the rest of the person's figure. To his left, he can catch gleams of the lights on the piercings in his ears. "I'm fine. I'm //fine,// stop touching me." The hands pull back from his arm. "Are you here?" Cole looks at him, incredulous. "What does //that// mean?" But he doesn't have the energy to put all the anger into the statement. He feels like he just ran a mile. His hand moves to his chest, and feels his own heartbeat, which is beating scarily fast. "What...?" His posture and his hand must have communicated his question he couldn't put into words, because the voice from across the table answers: "You were having a panic attack." Cole laughs, but it's a thin laugh. "Panic? I... I'm //fine.//" "No," the piercings-guy says. "You're not. But that's okay." "You're way better now," a voice behind him says. He turns in his seat, and sees the tall figure that must have followed him here. //Here?// "Where are we?" "Our table we got, nearer the road. Far away from party central. Are you centered? You think it's over?" //Over? Think// what's //over?// He sits. He breathes. He wipes sweat from his brow. He breathes. He deeply, thoroughly breathes. "Yeah," he says, half-confident he's answering their question earnestly, "I'm good. It's over." "Do you want a hug?" the tall figure asks. "And //you// are?" "Sorry man. I'm Nick," says the guy with the piercings. "And I'm Sequoia," the hug-offerer says. //That doesn't sound like a guy's name,// Cole thinks, and he reinterprets their voice, finding then that he can't decide if it's masculine or feminine. The gray area bothers him, but he decides they must be a girl, which makes him blush at the idea of them offering him a hug. "Nice to meet you, Cole. Offer stands?" "Uh, no," he says. "I saw you cornered by those assholes," Nick says, matter-of-fact. "I've dealt with them before, so I pulled you out. They got you bad." "I'm really sorry you went through that," Sequoia says. "It's fine," Cole says, sharp. He turns to the figure across the table, and then to Nick. "Panic attack?" "Never had one before?" Cole shakes his head, hard, still hoping he didn't have one just now either. "It's what it sounds like," Nick follows up. "Get overwhelmed. Get fucked up. Panic, hard. Body starts shutting down." "//Shutting down?//" "Not like //that,//" the voice across the table speaks up. "Just, head stops working. You're not gonna die." "And what did you...?" There's a brief pause. "I have an anxiety disorder," the voice across the table says. "They just did for you what they do for me." //Are these the special ed kids?// "I'm Lissa. I didn't catch your name?" "Cole," he says. "Hey," Nick draws his attention again. "I just extracted you because you needed extracting. You don't have to stick around if you don't want." "But maybe if you leave, you should //leave.// Courtney's a bitch," Lissa adds. Cole is antsy. He doesn't want to be here -- he doesn't want to be seen with the outcasts. //You can go hang with the bitchy emos instead, maybe they're more your style.// Austin's words return to him. He eyes the silhouettes around him. Is this where he was always going to end up? Is this his inevitable fate? Is this what happens when you're tainted? Is this what happens when the family crumbles, when someone goes and fucks it all up? Can he accept that? @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ > [[SIZE 150%]]**The Pals of Pentacles**[[/size]] > Welcome to the beginning of the **The Pals of Pentacles** group. > > ----- > > **PentaclesPaige** > Welcome welcome !!! > > **PieMouth** > sweet thanks paige > > **PentaclesPaige** > 💛💛 > > **TurdMuncher_** > whats this > > **PieMouth** > Okay I wanted to talk to both of you > I've got some news > > **PentaclesPaige** > oh ??? > good news? > > **PieMouth** > ye > I'm gonna come visit > if that's cool > > **PentaclesPaige** > OH!! > > **TurdMuncher_** > oh nice > yeah i mean thats fine > i dont do shit > > **PentaclesPaige** > Me neither 😵💫 > That's exciting !!! When? WHat's the pkan? > > **PieMouth** > I figure this next week > > **PentaclesPaige** > ohhhh sooon!!! > > **TurdMuncher_** > to do what? > > **PieMouth** > idk > See ya > Play Advance Wars in person again > you were right > The UI sucks > > **TurdMuncher_** > fuck yea > > **PentaclesPaige** > You have a specific say in mind? > day* > > **PieMouth** > Uh > How about Tuesday > > **PentaclesPaige** > sure!! > When until? How long you staying? > > **PieMouth** > idk > > **PentaclesPaige** > Just gonna take the couch? > > **PieMouth** > it's kind of up in the air > I was just gonna feel it out > I have my own car now. I can leave whenever. Can't we figure that out later? > > **PentaclesPaige** > Sure > Cool!!!! > So exciting you've got your own car now 🥳 > you've sorta needed a way out of your house for like a whiiiile now > > **PieMouth** > yeah. i have > > **TurdMuncher_** > well cool bro > see you in a week > > **PieMouth** > you too > ok i gtg, just wanted to announce that > See ya > > **PentaclesPaige** > o/ > > **TurdMuncher_** > see ya bro ... //Knock, knock.// "Yeah, come in." = ##white|**ArtPiece XXV**## Paige opens the door to Eric's room, and pokes her head in. "Did he seem...? Feels like something might be up. With him." "I'm supposed to know?" "You're his brother." He mulls it over. "I don't know. How do you get any emotion over text? I don't get it. It's like magic or something." She chuckles. "I dabble." "Yeah, well, tell me when next something works out for you." //More often than you think,// she keeps to herself, but smirks. "And when it does," he continues, "pass me whatever you're having. I'm down to do magic." "Noted! But... seriously. This is pretty short notice, and there was no buildup. That doesn't ping as weird to you?" Eric sits on his futon, and considers. He looks down at the floor for a long few seconds. "I dunno. I haven't seen him in a while." He looks up at Paige. "I don't really know what's going on with him, anymore." "Did you before?" He shrugs. "I caught onto more things. You could watch him, figure out when he's gonna whine and when he'll shut up. I can't watch him anymore. I don't know shit." Paige looks concerned at that. "I'm wondering if I should bring it up, or just let him come over." "Just let him come over. I'll be able to tell you what's up with him when he's in punching distance." "You have such a way of thinking. I'd like to dissect you." Eric sticks his tongue out at Paige, who chuckles. "You're one to talk, coin-lady." "//Nice// one." "Thanks. I'm full of 'em." "Okay. Well, goodnight!" "Goodnight. But if I hear //any// rituals, I'm calling the fucking cops on you and telling them you're a commie." She chortles, and moves to leave the room. "Okay, I won't. Goodnight." "Goodnight." Paige shuts the door, and walks back to her room. For a moment. //Knock knock.// Eric looks up from his phone with a furrowed brow. "Uh, yeah?" She slowly opens the door. "Is there something up with //you?//" "What? No, I'm fine." "That's what's weirding me out. He's your brother. You haven't seen each other in most of a year. And when you saw each other last..." Eric just stares at her. "I was just thinking. That like. It might be a big deal. Is it?" Eric continues to stare. And then breaks eye contact, and shrugs. "It's not." "Okay. Well... I think it might be a big deal for Cole." "He didn't make it seem like one." //Is he hurt?// Paige thinks. "You're not making it seem like one, either." Eric shrugs again. "Then I guess it's not a big deal." Each one, hoping the other will be the one to admit it. //Fucking men,// Paige thinks. "I don't think he //would// make it seem like a big deal. I just don't want you to be surprised if it is." "Okay. I won't be surprised." She feels unhappy leaving it at that. "Do you miss him?" He huffs, then turns to Paige with an expression that reads as: //Are you serious?// But it softens, and he turns away again. "Sure. Yeah." He pauses. He twice looks like he's about to say something, but doesn't. And then, no more attempts are made. He just glances back at Paige. She gives him a soft smile. "Okay," she says. "I get the sense there's a lot of stuff you're not saying." He huffs, but doesn't correct her. "Goodnight," she says. "Goodnight," he says. "Thanks for worrying about me." She doesn't know what to say to that, so she just smiles. "And I was serious about the ritual shit. You keep me up with that stuff." She laughs. "Okay, not tonight." //No special astronomical events tonight, anyways.// "Cool. Goodnight." "Goodnight," she says, and closes the door for good. @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ The house is ridiculous. Two stories, on a hill, in the middle of a bougie cul-de-sac, surrounded by trees that are much closer to "wilderness" than Cole is used to (closer, but not quite there). It looks well-maintained, too. The walls are a nice, clean sky blue. The roof is scaped like those he sees every day in his parents' suburb. //It's also// my //suburb,// he corrects his own word choice. But is it? He wonders why that wasn't his first thought. He steps out of his car, and gets lightheaded from standing up. At least the air is nice. Cool, but not cold. A slight breeze makes the trees sway and their leaves chatter. Birdsong somewhere garnishes the experience. Cole breathes deep, and the pleasant sensation in his chest mollifies. He breathes again -- the air like a bellows, pointed at the embers of courage in his heart. Just once more, and he feels ready. He goes to his trunk, opens it, and gets his suitcase out, then extending its handle and kicking it onto its wheels. As he begins rolling it towards the house, the door opens, and two figures step out. At first, he recognizes neither as his brother, and hesitates, but as his pace slows, one waves to him, and calls out: "Bro, over here." That's Eric's voice. He wouldn't be able to mistake it. His pace picks up, and the two come into focus. It's a lady and a guy, and by process of elimination that must mean that this guy is his brother. Of course, his face, up close, is recognizable, but that doesn't speak to just how much has changed about his appearance. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXVI**## Gone are the earthy colors, the canvas jacket. Not a speck of camo. No cap. Instead, he wears a black leather jacket with a black-and-white striped shirt underneath, jeans torn to shit that couldn't have been protecting him from any amount of chill from the afternoon air, and black cotton canvas shoes with white treads and laces. But those aren't the most striking parts of his look. The choker stands out -- one plain black strip around Eric's neck. In the same matte black, the choker is framed by his two dangling earrings, which Cole sees are upside-down crosses. Or are they swords? His eyes don't linger on them too much, because there are yet more worrying changes on his brother's body. They would be the pink additions: his nail polish and his lipstick, of all things. "Good to see you too," Eric comments in a dry tone in response to Cole's roaming eyes. "You look //awful.//" Eric doesn't hesitate to punch Cole in the shoulder, with enough force to rotate him and shift his footing. Cole rolls with the punch, making no attempt to block, and smiles. "You don't look much better, bro." "//I// didn't go //emo.//" "It's //punk.//" "That's not better." Eric shrugs. "No. It's not." Cole laughs, and Eric smiles before continuing: "At least I've fucking changed, what the fuck is this you're wearing. We're not wading through mud, moron. These your gaybashing boots? Hopin' to get some slaves to lick 'em clean?" Cole reels, brow furrowing, but he keeps his smile. "Hey, they're fuckin' //good// boots. And maybe they can get licked clean if you keep fucking running your mouth like that." "Yeah, good for stomping the little guy. Seriously, fucking grimy, take those off before you go in the house." "Says the guy who dressed up for sucking dick this morning. Maybe //you// should wipe off that lipstick before going //out,// and we can keep these boots and your faggotry in their respective environments, unless you really wanna see if you were right about them." "//Hey,//" Paige's voice warns, as Eric's stance shifts into the beginning of some kind of lunge for Cole, and Cole in turn looks like he's about ready to bolt or deflect, a wide grin on his face. The boys both look towards Paige, and loosen, Eric's glance shorter than Cole's. Cole considers her for a moment, and she burns under his gaze. //He's judging,// she thinks, and it comes with a certain amount of confidence. But his expression is soft. "You look... good, actually," he says. The "actually" stings, but she's not sure if she would have believed his words otherwise. She was preparing for worse -- she was honestly expecting a much rockier beginning. A compliment, even when acknowledging his reluctance at saying it? That's friendlier than she thought might happen. "Hey," Eric growls. "She looks //great,// actually." "Thank you," she says to Cole, and forces a smile. She eyes Eric, and hopes he receives the message: //This is good. Back down.// Cole had come prepared for a different scenario as well. He was afraid he would have to fight himself to keep his mental image of Paige in-tact and, though he hadn't been this honest with himself, was scared to hurt her, was scared that whatever tension there was between them in-person would extend online. But she reads as a woman to him, easily. She wears sandals, a mossy-green skirt that terminates just above the ankles, and a brown cardigan with a plain white shirt underneath. Her chin is shaved clean -- Cole was worried about that in particular -- and she wears a subtle brown lipstick that gives more contrast to her face. (Some application of a cream furthers the effect by making the tone of her face lighter, but Cole misses this point.) "The hair is a work in progress," Paige feels the need to say, after a brief silence. Cole reacts. "Really? It looks fine." While she doesn't feel it, she tells herself that's likely another genuine compliment. If he didn't believe it, she expects he would grunt, or make a face and stay silent. The hair isn't as long as she wants, but she's stomaching this middle phase where it only reaches the very tops of her shoulders. She's pulled it back into a very tight, small bun, which she also doesn't like the look of, but she prefers it to the hair being loose. "Well, uh, thanks." She projects more confidence than she feels, and still doesn't come up with very much. All of a sudden, the eyes on her feel weighty, so she decides to deflect with something she wanted to say anyways. "As long as we're discussing looks, Cole..." Cole looks away, and shrinks a little bit. "I kind of figured it out. Eric himself is not //that// old, and you stopped referring to him as your 'older' brother when we met. Like, tried to push that relation under the rug." Cole doesn't speak up. Eric neither. "How old are you now?" "Seventeen," he says. "Yeah. That's really not cool." Paige doesn't say anything for a moment, and then looks to Eric, who is prepared to meet her eyes. He nods. She sighs. "Do you know why it was fucked up?" Cole makes eye contact again, a look of fury across his face that Paige hopes, from practice reading Eric, is further from violent action than it looks. "I don't see why it's a big deal, no." "Then let me spell it out for you." Paige folds her arms, partly to hide her shaking hands, and lowers her voice. "Do you remember when //you// made a //rape// scene in our roleplay?" He looks away. She continues. "Do you know how much //shit// I could be in if it's discovered I was in a sexually explicit roleplay with a //minor?//" "You were against the scene," Cole says. "I was! Barely fucking matters, depending on who gets their hands on that information! A twist of that story could lose me friends, Cole. And it could look //really// believable. Do you understand how that was fucked up?" He turns to look at her, but can't keep eye contact and bows his head. "Yes." "And that's not going into how you casually lied to me. For years, Cole." He stays silent. Paige looks to Eric, and they share a meaningful look. "Okay," Eric says. "You're good." Cole looks up, confused. "What?" "You stood there and took it," Paige says. "Eric says that's what you'd do, if you knew you were wrong." "You even said it out loud, actually," Eric adds. "So, I forgive you." Cole just stands there, stunned on several fronts. On the one hand, his brother feels suddenly alien to him. The change of appearance had been the first disruption, but their banter had put him back on familiar ground. Now, to be analyzed by him? Never had the Ortegren brothers spoken so frankly about their emotional processes -- not even to themselves. Where had this power of perception come from? On the other, he feels like he's just learned something of himself -- //is// this how he acts when he's sorry? Is this how he says it? It rings true, and that frightens him, that something as elementary as this could be new to him. Lastly, he's surprised at the acceptance. His assumption in these scenarios is that once he's been established as defenseless, the confronting party is free to slice him however they choose, and his penance is to let them. Paige, instead, offers mercy. "I..." he starts. He looks to Paige, with her arms still folded, then to Eric, with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Gaze returning to Paige, he finishes: "I'm sorry." She nods. "Thank you for saying it." He doesn't know what next to say, so he just continues to stare. Paige and Eric share another look, and then Paige says: "Sorry to start the visit off like this. But, Eric and I talked about it, and we didn't think there was a better time to bring it up. If it didn't happen first, it'd be hanging over the visit the whole time." "You don't look twenty, bro." "I know," Cole says with some venom. Eric responds by roughing up Cole's hair while the runt tries to swipe away the arm. "I am glad to see you," Paige says. "Really." "I'm... yeah. Happy to be here. Can we go inside? My legs fucking hurt from driving." "Yeah. I thought you were coming later so it's not done, but there's shepherd's pie in the oven." "She makes a really good shepherd's pie," Eric adds, as they all three turn and walk into the house. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXVII**## //Do they have a maid?// The inside is just as ridiculous as the outside. To Cole's right is the living room, where Eric gravitates and sits on one of the two couches. In front of him is a coffee table, low enough to set one's feet upon, and on it is a short stack of what look like board games, though they seem color-matched and witchy. Looking up from them, to the furthest part of the room, is a TV bigger than Cole would have expected from his deadbeat brother and homebody Paige. //How did they afford something like that? The sound system looks good, too.// In a cabinet below it is a clearly visible Wii and a collection of titles. Above, the walls have textiles. They bear simplistic, geometric designs that seemed to tend towards branches, leaves, and other contrasting organic shapes. Fungi, birds. Between the textiles hang some more of what he imagines were Eric's contributions -- inverted crosses, mostly, but a surprising number of them. Most look homemade, and mesh with the textiles by being made of sticks. As the living room's far wall makes its way towards the kitchen, the wall-space seems taken up by more Eric posters, specifically bands that Cole has no chance of recognizing, as well as a spattering of pride flags. Cole must have made a face, because Eric feels the need to say: "Got a problem, runt?" Cole waves him off. "It's not //my// house." The kitchen is well-outfitted, and the smell of cooking shepherd's pie wafts off of the oven in soothing, homey waves. There were several cookbooks on the counter, the front one bearing some Celtic knots on its cover. The overall color scheme is mostly dark forest-greens and black, with occasional purples and the garish additions of pride flags that draw the most attention despite their relatively small size. "The bathroom is back here," Paige says from the kitchen, pointing behind a corner, "if you need it." "I do actually." Cole moves to relieve himself, and once the bathroom door is shut, Paige approaches Eric, sits on the arm of the couch, and in a low voice asks: "This is going well?" Eric nods. "Home turf. He's got no choice but to go with it." She frowns. "That's not how I want it to work out." "Well, sorry? He's a bigot. We've got to beat him over the head with it." Paige's expression changes little, but its focus shifts to Eric. //You say that like you're// so //far removed,// she thinks. Eric gesticulates. "What?" "Nothing. Maybe don't beat him too hard." "//Psh.// You don't know my brother." "I know some things about your brother you don't." Eric rankles, but she doesn't give him room to respond. "Just, play nice, maybe?" "He //won't.//" Cole emerges from the bathroom, and quirks an eyebrow at the two. "Talking about me?" "Yes," Eric says. "Nothing good, I imagine?" "Never." "Good, I've got nothing good to say about you either, I'd feel bad if there was an imbalance." Eric mockingly laughs, and Cole smiles. "Good to have you back, bro." Cole's heart bubbles, and he fights the emotion from showing on his face. //Good to have you back, too,// he thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. The oven beeps. "Good timing. That's dinner." "Oh thank god," Cole groans, "I'm starving." They eat and talk, and it //is// an especially good shepherd's pie. Paige attempts humility, but Eric says that he's tried to follow the same recipe she has and it doesn't come out half as good. Paige needles him, saying that he's very bad at following instructions and can't make rice without having it stick to the bottom of the pan, so him being //bad// at cooking doesn't make her //good.// Cole enjoys watching their banter -- he enjoys participating. He, too, needles Eric, but he never turns his meaner humor to Paige. Though he's sure of his own understanding of the Ortegren dynamic, he takes note of whenever Paige seems nervous, and tones it down for her sake. If he doesn't imagine it, he thinks he catches Eric doing the same. In all honesty, Cole is eternally grateful for Paige's presence. Her being there keeps the brothers from touching on the harder subjects, keeping her in the loop necessitates having the conversation be more surface-level. Jed stays far away from the dinner table, as does the Ortegren home life, though there is a telling silence when Cole winces at getting up. He tries to hide it, but he's already accepted that he's going to feel pain in his foot for the rest of his life -- not chronic, but when he puts pressure on it in certain ways. He was told he's lucky it was a glancing blow, but he's certainly not going to run ever again. When Eric expresses some sympathy for the injury, Cole prickles, and waves him off. He doesn't want to talk about it. Thankfully, Paige brings the conversation back around by referencing a concert she and Eric are going to be seeing later that month, which begins a conversation about Eric's "punk" look, which Cole fails to say without putting some dirt in it every time. "It's the moshing, bro," Eric says. "And the music. It's //angry.// It's fucking riling. You get going, some people get their earrings ripped out. It's blood and energy. You should try it sometime." "No," Cole says, a bit snippy, "not for me." "I just stay back, it's about the music for me," Paige says. "I'm still not into a lot of punk, but these guys are good." "What's good about them?" Paige finishes a bite, and says: "The lyrics. They're very biting, and they're very, uh, queer. It's... validating." Eric gives her a look that says: //stop compromising.// "They've got a song about killing a senator. That bother you?" Cole furrows his brow. "No. Whatever." "And burning the American flag." Cole huffs. "Good for them. I suppose you're into that shit now?" "Hard not to be, when I've got a target on my head." "When you've //put// a target on your head," Cole says, giving Eric a once over. Eric bursts out of his seat, and wrestles a laughing Cole into a headlock, then pulling him out of his chair and forcing him to the floor. "Boys," Paige admonishes, but she doesn't put a lot of emphasis on it -- this isn't the first time this has happened. "If no longer kissing ass puts a target on my head, then sure, yeah." "Oh, you're no longer kissing ass? I thought you were practicing for nationals -- ack!" Even as Cole's face turns beet red from the strain, he's smiling. Smiling while Eric pushes his head into the floor and pins him there, Cole's legs kicking to no effect. "Uncle, uncle, okay!" Eric releases him, and he gets to his feet, sliding back into his chair. "You spilled some pie on yourself when you got up, re— moron." Paige had asked the boys to stop using that word, and Cole had listened more easily than she'd expected. She's repeatedly surprised at how much respect she's earned in the eyes of the Ortegren boys -- though some portion of it, unconsidered by her, comes from their view of her as a woman, and some learned masculine drive to protect her feelings, uphold and respect her frailty. She's been recognized as a woman so few times by cis people, especially in-person, that she's still unfamiliar with the sexism she will begin to face as she passes more and more. "Ah really? Thanks for looking out for me, //bro,//" Eric says. He too smiles, but he's holding more hurt than he shows. "You're welcome," his brother replies, beaming. The interplay, the needling and roughhousing, is familiar, and dearly missed. Cole might have gotten addicted, pushed too hard, had Paige's mediating presence not been there. The evening proceeds in much the same way, until night falls, and Eric admits that he has work the next day. "I'll be around for breakfast, but I'll be gone for lunch, back for the evening." Cole looks to Paige. "I'll be around," she offers, "wanna hang out?" "Yeah, show me the place." "Sure." Eric smirks for a reason private to himself. "So, where am I sleeping? The couch?" "That couch is actually a futon," Eric points at the one nearest the TV. "We've got some blankets and pillows in a closet upstairs. I'll get them." "Thanks," Cole says, as Eric tromps up the stairs. Paige also stands up, and grabs her plate, as well as Eric's. Cole offers his own to her, and she takes it. "Thanks," he says to her. "No problem. I won't clean dishes tonight, I'm honestly too tired, but I'll get to it in the morning." "I don't care. I expected this place to be a fucking dump anyways. You could shit on the floor and I'd probably still be impressed." She chuckles. "Good to know, but I don't think I'll take you up on that offer." "Free reign to shit on the floor and you won't take it?" Cole shakes his head. "I don't understand women." Paige rolls her eyes, but she smiles. "No, you don't." Eric returns, and tosses a blanket and pillow onto the futon, then removing the throw pillows and tossing them onto the other couch before pulling it away from the wall and unfolding it into a bed. "Anything you need to know where it is before you sleep?" "I know the bathroom, I know water, I'm good." "Cool." Paige looks between the brothers. "Well, I'm gonna probably sleep, so I can be up and about in time to make breakfast tomorrow." "You don't gotta, I could make us French toast." Paige gives Eric eyes. "Okay," he chuckles. "Okay, you can make breakfast while we have guests." "I don't think I've ever had bro's cooking. I'm curious." "Don't be," Paige draws out, one foot on the stairs, "you're not missing anything. I'll make us Dutch babies before Eric goes to work." "Dutch babies? What the fuck is that?" "They're good," Eric says. "But everything Paige makes is good." Cole shakes his head. "Fucking Europeans and breakfasts. What's up with that? Anyways, goodnight Paige. Thanks for hosting me. Thanks for dinner." She curtsies, and then feels stupid for having done it. "Uh, you're welcome. Goodnight." She goes upstairs, and leaves the brothers alone. The silence for a moment feels natural, but prolongs, and Cole's smile fades as he looks over his brother. "What's up?" Eric walks over to Cole, and jabs a finger into his sternum, then speaking in a low voice: "Paige is //crazy// fucking anxious around people, and she's gonna go out with you tomorrow." Cole raises an eyebrow. "Not in that way, dipshit. Seriously? Your mind goes there?" "What? I don't follow." Eric pulls back and jabs Cole in the chest again. "//Don't// fuck it up. Treat her like a lady." "Fucking, what are you talking about? Of course." "Good." He backs up. "Goodnight bro." "Oh. Just like that?" Eric shrugs. "Got work tomorrow." Cole crosses his arms, confused and a little hurt that this is the final interaction of the night. "Okay. Goodnight, I guess." Once Eric is out of sight, Cole mouths: //missed you.// He walks to the lightswitch, turns it off, and then crawls into bed. He dreams of shooting cans and a lunar eclipse. @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ The following day, Cole is awoken by Paige already being in the kitchen, and the oven being on once again. He turns over, and passes between waking and sleep several times, fast-forwarding him to when he gets a good slap on the shoulder, turning on his back to look up and see his brother in a much more familiar look. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXVIII**## "Breakfast time, bro. C'mon, I only got so long 'til I gotta go." Cole gets up, and first gets his suitcase, obtains toiletries, and cleans himself up. Once he's out of the bathroom, Dutch babies are available on the table, as well as several bowls of toppings, such as yogurt, powdered sugar, blueberries and, of course, butter and maple syrup. The Dutch babies themselves seem to be a variant on the pancake, but in the shape of a pie crust with no filling. They have a pillowy, though thin, bottom, and a dramatically raising edge, and are cut into the shapes of pie slices. They're served along with small sausages and orange slices. "Wow, Paige. Thanks. This looks great." She grins, and Eric cuts in: "Don't let her trick you this is what it's like every morning. She's making it all special and shit." "I didn't think it was?" Cole responds. "It's just nice. Thanks for the breakfast." "It's one of my favorites," she gets in, "I make it when I have motivation to. Which isn't often, but. Special occasion." "I'm not so special," Cole says, under his breath, and Paige doesn't seem to hear it as she scoots her chair in to be at the table. Cole joins, and they banter over breakfast. Eric, in his work uniform, talks about his job he'll be going to in a moment, and the bullshit uniform codes they have. Cole silently likes them -- if only because they've made Eric dress himself in a more familiar fashion, without the earrings, makeup and nails. "What's rent here anyways?" Cole asks. Both Eric and Paige hesitate to respond, but then Eric says: "Sixteen-hundred. I pay half, 'bout eight-hundred. Why?" //That sounds crazy cheap for a house like this,// he thinks, but he says: "Really nice place you have. Nice location, too." "Yeah," Eric says. "The landlord is a friend of mine," Paige clarifies, "from high school. We're paying way less than it's worth." //A friend from high school?// Cole didn't take Paige for the type to have made and maintained connections from her youth, especially not ones that could afford a house like this. But, then again, he doesn't have a good grasp on the scale of money and affordability of housing either. "Damn," he states. "Yeah," Eric speaks through a bite. The rest of breakfast passes easily, and the boys don't even get into an altercation. Instead, they amicably meander between topics until Eric has to go to work, and the roleplayers wish Eric goodbye. Once Paige is done clearing the table and washing the dishes from the night before, she turns to see Cole simply sitting in his chair, unmoved since he finished his Dutch baby and Eric had left. "What's up?" The questions brings him out of a daze, and once he gets his bearings, he replies: "I didn't bring anything to do." Except books to read, but he has yet to feel comfortable reading in front of anyone. "Well, give me a moment, and I can show you around the town. It's not much to look at but you'll know what Eric's talking about. We can even go visit him at work." "Mm. I don't want to. Take me to downtown, show me your spots." Paige gives a wistful smile. "I don't really have spots. This is my spot." "Right." Cole offers no more direction. "How 'bout a hike? There's a trail, just behind the house. Goes maybe a half hour out, half hour back." "Sure. Let's do that." They get their shoes on, and walk out the back door of the house, down some stairs, and towards the treeline. The forest is dense -- so much denser than the lumberyard. As Cole looks around, he wonders if //this// is what a forest is really supposed to look like. The trees seem freer here, not to mention taller. In the forest, it feels like his world only extends so many feet in any direction before it's lost to the mesh of trees. However, he can't know that this is too dense. He can't imagine the fires that will eat through this forest like nothing in the coming decades -- that will be unstoppable, the trees so densely packed that the flames leap from one to the other as though there were no barrier. [[image https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/dr-k-stuff-s-personnel-file/XXIX]] But still, here, he wonders if the lumberyard weren't some facsimile of the outdoors, and that this is real. His scope is woefully small, his world only so many feet in any direction before it's lost to the mesh of reality, the dense packings of information, him traipsing along a narrow corridor on the floor of the jungle, on occasion looking up at the sky to catch his only reminder of the gasping void in his knowledge. The two talk about benign things, returning to the familiarity of their characters for conversation topics, discussing their various retcons and favorite moments. Cole loses himself in thought sometimes, and Paige has to work to get the discussion back on track. After about the fourth sudden silence, Paige lets it ride. On the walk back, Paige gets some distance on Cole, and waits for him at the trailhead before they each head inside. "Do you want to be alone?" Paige asks. Cole feels insulted by the question, but considers it honestly. "Yes. We'll hang more later." "It's good. An evening and a morning of being with people is already a lot of human interaction for me, I'm happy to return to my room. Knock on my door if you need me. I'll probably be back down for lunch." He nods, and she walks upstairs. The remaining hours of Eric's workday Cole spends reading and walking around the neighborhood. Cole and Paige have a short conversation about Eric's punk tastes over lunch, which Cole works to keep very surface-level, and Paige notices. She doesn't want to pry, not just yet, but she's soon to ask him why he came up, what the impetus was. The circumstances seem strange and vague. Besides, she'd asked again how long he was thinking of staying, and he gave a noncommittal answer. After some further questioning, he answered "a week." //He can't have gotten the days off school, then,// she thinks. But she doesn't want to get in the way of the brothers' reconnection. She wants to leave them their space. Obviously, if he's come, he's deemed it important enough to do so. And if he hasn't said the circumstances, then he doesn't want to talk about it. She'll respect that. Not forever, but for now. When she returns to her room, Cole returns to his book. It's a high-fantasy about cycles and transformations. The characters excavate ancient ruins to find older and older names of the same spirits and deities. The older the name, the stronger its power. The revelation is of the cyclical nature of the world -- and that through the lens of an ever-repeating world, all names are just as old as all others, and in fact, newer names hold more power, as they come directly from the characters' own conceptions and emotion. Cole finds this turn cheesy, but is committed to finishing the book, and so finishes several chapters. Cole's ears perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching the front door, and he straightens on the couch, hiding the book under a pillow next to him. Keys jangle, and then the lock turns and the door opens, revealing Eric, still in uniform, holding a paper bag. "Welcome back, bro." "Hey." He shuts the door, and walks to the kitchen, dropping the bag off on the table. "Gonna go change, be right back." Cole stands up, and walks to the table, pulls the bag towards himself, and looks inside. His eyes raise as Eric comes back downstairs. "Are you bartending?" Eric snorts. "Tonight, maybe. That was my idea." Cole hasn't had much alcohol. It's been passed to him at some holidays and family events, but he hadn't made the connections necessary in high school to have alcohol be in supply. His curiosity wasn't very high, either. But... "You good at it?" "I make Paige her girly drinks, I drink beer. You can have either." "I'll have beer," Cole draws out. "Or a rum and coke. That one's pretty good." "Y'know what, I'll have whatever you're having." Eric laughs. "You haven't drunk before, have you?" Cole snickers. "You know I haven't." "You're sad, you know that?" Before Cole can retort, Paige's footsteps on the stairs draw his attention. "Oh," she says, "you got something?" "Brought up cocktail supplies." "How'd you get that?" Cole suddenly thinks to question. "We keep good stuff in a fridge downstairs, in the basement." Cole raises an eyebrow, but Paige cuts in: "So, this is the dinner plan?" "We have burger fixings. That's classic, beer and burgers." "Sure." Eric starts burgers going, but Paige can't help but switch out with him. He makes some comment on how grilling is exactly what he's supposed to be good at, but Paige points out to him that he's frying the patties in a pan, not grilling them. He concedes the point, and Paige starts adding some spices to the patties once he's gone. The brothers discuss Eric's work, which mostly consists of shit-talking the customers and coworkers. Paige prompts Eric several times for especially good work stories while flipping patties and getting out all the condiments and toppings. Once burgers are ready, the three serve themselves, and Eric makes Paige a margarita and Cole a rum and coke, as well as another rum and coke for himself. They eat their burgers, sip at their drinks, and talk about roleplay -- a conversation Paige forces into existence at the resistance of Cole. The conversation meets a dead-end when Cole makes it clear he won't play ball, and Paige wonders how far she should push Cole outside his comfort zone. She finds it difficult to figure out what boundaries she even respects when his comfort zone excludes her identity and culture. She can't respect none of it, or else she wouldn't have even dressed up today. But is talking about their shared interests "too far?" It seems unlikely. "So," Eric starts, "when'd you get a car? I don't remember that." Cole shrugs. "Saved up, paid for half of it. Parents said if I got my grades up, they'd foot the rest. It's a piece of shit, but it works." "That's fucked up." Cole shrugs again, and takes another swig. "Fucked up?" "They didn't help on mine." Cole shrugs. "Stop fucking shrugging." Cole shrugs before thinking about it. "Why?" "It's annoying. Speak." Cole crosses his arms, drink in one hand. "Yeah well." He hesitates. "Once you left, they started doting on me." "Doting?" "Being sweet and shit. Easy." "He didn't leave," Paige corrects, too quiet to interrupt the flow of conversation. "Like fuck they are," Eric says, though there's a note of curiosity in his voice. "Dad doesn't go //easy.//" "He //didn't.// Not at first." Cole's face coils, but whatever thought he may have had, he takes a drink instead. "Now he just ignores me, I think. I guess I'm a lost cause." Eric spits onto the floor -- Paige watches him do it, and then gives him a quizzical look, like she's surprised that that was an option available to him, and furthermore that he chose to do it. "That's fucked up. That's retarded." "Hey," Paige warns. Eric shakes his head. "Moronic. It's //stupid.//" "What? What's so stupid about it?" Eric just shakes his head again. "Stop shaking your head," Cole delivers in a sardonic tone. "Oh shut up." Cole shrugs, deliberately. "Guys," Paige cuts in, feeling the tension rise, "cut it out. We're here to have fun." "I'm having fun," Cole says, interrupting some similar statement that was readymade in Eric's mouth. "We're shooting the shit," Eric adds. She frowns, but just takes another sip of her margarita. The conversation lulls for a moment, and each participant enjoys their food and drink. Cole finishes his first. "It's mostly Mom. Dad leaves me alone now. I guess Mom feels like she has to make up for it. She follows me around like she's afraid I'm blind -- or, like, she's... bailing water out of my sinking ship. She's so fucking annoying." "Sounds like she cares about you," Paige suggests. Cole shrugs. Eric stands up as he and Paige finish their drinks, and goes to the kitchen to fix up a second round. "I'd have been happy to have a mom who cared about me," Paige says into the distance. "It's not as good as you think it is." Paige turns her focus towards him. "You're not //better// without it." "Well I'd like to figure that out for myself." "How exactly?" Eric returns with the drinks, this time a piña colada for Paige and another round of rum and cokes for him and his brother. "So," Eric says as he sits back down. "How'd you make time to come here anyways?" Cole raises his hand, and finds it feels heavier than he expects. His thoughts are briefly interrupted by the sensation. Paige notices, and laughs. Cole smiles. "I guess I really haven't drunk before." Eric catches on, and laughs himself, Cole waving his arm in the air just a little. "Huh." "I usually stop around three drinks," Paige says. "Maybe four." Eric leans back in his chair. "Psh. I'm not even feeling it." "Eric," Paige smiles, "you're //huge.//" He just shrugs, and smiles back at her, then turning to Cole: "And //you're// tiny. Hadn't thought about it yet, but maybe you should take it slow." "I'm not //that// small." "Cole," Paige laughs. "You're small," Eric finishes her thought. He prickles, but tries not to show it. He's very bad at not showing it. "That's probably why Dad went harder on me," Cole submits for discussion, a sharp note in his voice. "//Harder// on you," Eric says with an ambiguous color. "Yeah," Cole takes it as a question. "Harder on me." "He didn't fucking go harder on you." "And how do you know, huh? How do you know he didn't?" "How do you know he //did?//" Paige nervously sips her drink, eyes passing between the brothers, trying to gauge whether this is the kind of fighting through which they express enjoyment of each other or if it's something uglier. The alcohol is already working to impair her ability to tell the difference. Cole shrugs. "Stop fucking shrugging. He didn't go harder on you. He went hard on //me,// because I'm the older brother, and it was //my// job to go hard on you. He made that very clear." "Well you didn't. He picked up the slack." "I didn't, and he //didn't// pick up the slack. I made you look really good, Cole. I made you look really good." "What's //that// supposed to mean?" Eric avoids responding by taking a drink. "Hey," Paige says, tentative, "is this a conversation I should be here for?" "Why shouldn't you be?" Eric asks, setting his drink down. Paige winces, regretting her tactic and switching over. "Er, are you two sure you can handle discussing family trauma right now?" "//Trauma?//" Cole laughs. "While drunk," Paige clarifies, and then feels stupid, belatedly taking in what Cole is really laughing about. "It wasn't //traumatic,//" Eric seems to take Cole's side, though his face remains stone-cold. "Like fuck it wasn't," Paige says. "Are you hearing yourselves? You're describing emotional abuse." "And physical," Cole adds. Eric's head turns away with a speed that makes it look painful. Inexplicably, Cole laughs again. "I'm so sorry," Paige says, and she //feels// it. Hearing the admission strikes her as if it were her own experience. This kind of empathic response has always been hard for her to turn off -- the drinks bring the walls she'd worked to put up down. "I'm so sorry." Cole waves her off, and Eric follows up: "It wasn't //abuse,// it's fucking, corp-eerie-al punishment. Some kids we knew. They got it a lot worse." "Dad was fair," Cole adds. "And it's 'corporal.'" "Define //fair,//" Paige asks with some alarm. "Like fuck Dad was fair," Eric practically spits the words. "It wasn't very //often,// and we got to make appeals. And it's pronounced 'corporal.'" Eric spits on the ground again, and Paige nearly slaps him. "Eric, stop //spitting.//" "It's either I spit, or I get up from my chair and I tie my piece-of-shit brother into a knot." Cole laughs again, and Eric smirks. "Oh, that's funny to you, huh? Sounds like a joke, huh?" Cole makes a circular motion with his hand, and once he's fought down the laughter, asks: "Another drink, c'mon you guys are done, get up and make another drink." Eric stands up, and Paige puts a hand on his arm. "Don't get Cole another drink. He's had enough." "I am //not// small," Cole responds. "I'll get him something light," Eric says. "//Don't// get him another drink," she insists. "Get me something, bro, c'mon." "I'll get him something light," Eric promises, and then he's off to the kitchen, Paige's hand hanging in the air. She turns to Cole. "Are you okay?" "I feel great." "I think you're upsetting Eric." He waves her off. "He can take it. We're shooting the shit." "Yeah but the //shit// here has a really strong stench, Cole." His brow furrows and he leans back in his chair. "And why is it all about him, huh? What if //I'm// getting upset?" "I just asked, and you said you feel great." "I feel fantastic." = ##white|**ArtPiece XXX**## Eric returns with drinks. He puts a light beer in front of Cole, at which Cole frowns, but the brothers' bickering ends with Cole reluctantly accepting that he will get no other option. Eric prepared for himself another rum and coke, and Paige receives a sex-on-the-beach, which she tries to take only small sips of, to not get too drunk too fast. Cole seems to have no such reservations. "Dad's fucked up, Cole," Eric suddenly resurfaces the topic. "Don't idolize Dad." "Dad sucks. Fuck Dad." Eric raises eyebrows. "That's right, bro. Fuck 'im." But his tone doesn't hide his surprise at the easy agreement. "He thinks I'm a lost cause." "You're not a lost cause," Paige reassures. Cole gives her a kicked-puppy look that makes her want to wrap him in a hug -- she's glad she's still sober enough to fight the urge. "What if I am? What if I'm a lost cause." "Lost for what?" Eric asks. "What the fuck does //that// mean? Say what you mean." "What cause were you gonna go do, that's lost now?" Cole shakes his head. "I don't get good grades. Fuck school." "Fuck school," Eric emphasizes. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm a lost cause." "You're not a lost cause," Paige unhelpfully reiterates. "I wish he'd hit me again." "Holy //fuck,// Cole," Paige startles. Eric spits on the floor. "That'd show he'd care." "That's not //caring,//" Eric growls. "What do //you// know? You left." Paige shakes her head. "He didn't //leave.//" "Didn't he?" Cole glares at Eric. "Didn't you?" "Fuck you," Eric's voice strains. He takes another sip. "He //didn't.//" Paige turns to Eric. "You didn't //leave.// He kicked you out. You're not to blame." Eric barely meets her eyes, then turns away. Cole just nods. "He left. See? He left." "And Cole, //Cole,// don't //ever// say you -- don't ever //say// that! Don't you //ever// say that." "What? What did I say?" "Cole, p-people don't hit you, when they love you." Cole hangs his head. "That's a lie." "It's the //truth.//" "No, that's a //lie,// that's a lie, Paige." "You're fucking crazy," Eric says. "He got you." "What do you mean? Say what you mean, bro, say what you mean." "You never left. You're Dad's kid." Cole shakes his head. "I'll do better." "What do you mean by better? What do //you// mean?" Cole just shakes his head again. "I mean what I say." "You're fucked up, Cole. You're going to grow up, and hurt everyone you ever love, and they're going to leave you." "No I won't. See, Eric, I'm a lost cause. Bro, when are you coming home?" Eric slams a fist onto the table, spilling some of Paige's cocktail before she can grab and steady the glass. "I //can't// come home!" "And you wouldn't," Paige is anxious to add, "you wouldn't, right?" "I'm not coming home, Cole. Ever, not fucking ever, and don't you fucking wish that on me, don't you fucking put that on me." Cole stares into his glass. Then he raises it. "Get me another." "//No!// I'm not getting you another fucking drink, Cole!" Eric moves like he might cross the distance around the table towards Cole, but Paige's hand on his arm gives him pause, and her squeeze stops him. "C'mon, I'm empty." "Yeah, so's your heart, you son of a bitch. So's your crusty fucking heart." "Ease up," Paige urges, "let up." Cole shakes his head. "I missed you so much, bro. I miss you so much." The words take Eric by surprise, and the hurt curdles in his heart. "//Fuck// you, no you don't, no you don't!" Cole sniffles. "How do you know? How do you know I don't?" "You //laughed// at me!" Cole feels the weight of his words press into his chest, and he's momentarily at a loss for words. He just shakes his head. Eric's volume lowers. "You laughed at me, you learned what I am and you laughed at me." "I didn't laugh at you." "How can you say that? How can you //say// that?" "This was a bad idea," Paige says, the volume of the brothers -- of Eric especially -- pushing her into some other place, reality becoming a familiar kind of slippery that she usually doesn't feel until some more drinks in. "Guys, we should stop." "Because I //didn't.//" "Then what?" Eric waves his arms. "Then what did you do? What was that?" Cole only shakes his head. He doesn't know the answer himself. A more sober version might have said: "It didn't feel like laughter." Or: "It wasn't //at// you." But Cole only shakes his head. "Boys," Paige tries to get in, but her energy can't penetrate the brothers' frenzy. "//You// reached out to //me!//" Cole suddenly flares with anger. "And what, bro?" "What? //What!?//" "You hate me! You hate everything about me! You hate that I'm a fag. You hate how I dress, you hate how I look. You hate Paige, you keep giving her that disgusting gaze you have. You hate that I left. You hate me. You //hate// me." Cole shakes his head violently. "You fucking retard. I //love// you, you faggot. You fucking moron. I love you." "And what good's that do me?" "What?" "What //good's// that do me, Cole?" "I love you, bro, I love you --" "What good's that do me if you're just gonna hurt me again!?" Cole sobs an ugly sob. The drinks strip from him any restraint or concern for modesty. When he cries, the sound is a loud and undirected moan. The sound rocks Paige out of her dissociation enough to look at him. Eric projects all his self-hatred onto Cole. It's easy. It's far too easy. The Ortegren brothers understand each other. They know the venoms in each others' fangs, they know the rattles of each others' tails -- Eric knows the feelings Cole politely pushes down in Paige's presence, he knows the anger behind his actions, he knows the fears behind his words. Only, Eric is bigger. Eric has always been bigger, and Cole, especially, makes Eric feel big. He sees in Cole his own stupid, rotten weakness, and he hates it -- a knife flicks open and closed in his mind, his fingers on his right hand mimic the motion -- but he has the advantage of size, the disguise of physical presence, that Cole has always lacked. "Cole," Paige stands and moves towards him, then kneeling at his side, "Cole what's wrong?" Cole shakes his head and cries. "He loves me. He loves me but he won't say it." Paige turns to Eric and gives him a look that says: //Is this true?// "I don't." "Yes you //do!//" Paige looks appalled. "Are you fucking serious?" "Faggot! You're a fucking fag!" Paige stands up and slaps Cole full across the face. He's so taken aback, it even interrupts his crying, as he puts a hand to his cheek. She turns to Eric, who can't come up with an argument against Paige's direct call-out. He stays quiet. "I can't -- I can't believe we let this happen," she says. "What the fuck were we thinking?" Silence reigns, occasionally broken by Cole's return to crying, though his eyes remain pointed at the floor. "I'm sorry, Paige, I-I'm not that drunk. I don't have an excuse." "You fucking don't," she bites. "Eric, leave." "//Me?//" "Cole's not moving." He looks between Paige and Cole, and finds he can't argue that. He clenches his fists, and then trudges towards the stairs. He doesn't make it up the first step. "Bro," Cole says. "Cole," Paige warns. "I won't do it. I won't hurt you. I don't wanna hurt you." His voice is reedy. "I gave that up. I gave up hating you. I couldn't do it anymore." "You don't have to hate me to hurt me." Cole shakes his head. "I won't do it. I won't hurt you. I don't wanna hurt you, anymore. Please?" Eric stands completely still. He turns around to face Cole. "Please what?" "Just tell me. Tell me you love me too. Please." He looks off to one side, unable to make eye contact. He leans, and then sticks out a hand to hold the railing and hold himself steady. "Of course I do." He surprises himself, and he can't finish the statement without a crack in his voice. "I -- of course I love you, you fucking retard." Cole raises his head, and hiccups. "I love you, bro. I miss you so much. I miss you so fucking much. I can't stand home without you. You have no idea what it's like. It's fucking awful. I can't stand it. I miss you so much." "But I can't make the same promise." "What promise? What promise, bro? I miss you so much." "I don't know if I can love you and not hurt you." Cole shakes his head violently. "I don't care. I don't care at all. Fuck you." "//I// care, Cole! I'm scared. I'm fucked up, and you're fucked up. Can't you tell how fucked up we are?" Cole just shakes his head. "You used to hurt me all the time. That's how you showed me you love me." Tears run down Eric's cheeks while he fights to keep his face straight. "I don't wanna do that anymore." "Then don't, you fucking fag. You twink. You can't hurt me anyways with your weak little wrists, your little limp-ass wrists, what punches you gonna throw with your weak stupid wrists?" "I'm gonna fuck up people like //you,// Cole. With these limp faggy wrists of mine, that's what I'm gonna do." "Then do it, I don't care, just love me and do it." "I don't want to do both." "Then //pick// one!" Eric walks towards Cole. "Eric..." Paige stands in his way. He looks her over, as if estimating her, and then looks her in the eyes and shakes his head. She cautiously steps aside, and he closes the distance. "What you gonna do, bro? What're, what're you gonna do?" Eric motions at Cole. "Stand up." Cole tries to stand up, and is surprised at the difficulty -- he loses his grip on the table, slides on the ground, and -- Eric catches him, putting his hands in Cole's armpits and raising him up to his feet. Cole raises his head to look into Eric's eyes. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXXI**## Eric pulls him into an embrace so tight it forces a grunt out of Cole. The older brother streams tears down his face and onto Cole's back. Cole follows, sobbing openly into Eric's shoulder. "You're fucking stupid, you're a coward," Cole says. "I hate you," Eric replies. "Don't leave me again." "I can't promise you that." Cole struggles to breathe. "Why not? You fucking oaf, you fucking ogre." "//You// have to not leave //me.//" "Not fair." "It's not fair." "I missed you so much. I missed your stupid face -- never wear makeup again, you look different, it's terrible." "Fuck you, I do what I want." "Don't leave me. Don't leave me again. I'll fucking kill myself if you do." "//You// have to not leave //me,// Cole." "That's not fair! Why?" "I can't go home." Cole shakes his head. "Why can't you." "I'm a fag, Cole." "Why'd you do that?" Eric laughs through the tears, and Cole giggles alongside him. "I think I got hugged too much. Grandma says that makes you gay." "Ah fuck. You need to stop doing that." The brothers laugh with each other, neither loosening their grip. As the laughter subsides, they sniffle and hiccup in turn. "Fuck Grandma," Cole says. "Fuck Grandma," Eric agrees. "Fuck Dad. Fuck Mom." "Fuck Dad." "Fuck you, bro." "Fuck you too." "You're gonna make me choose." "Are you on their side?" Cole shakes his head again. "You're gonna make me choose. You broke the family up and now you're gonna make me choose. Fuck you." "I did, and I am. Choose." "Fine. But I hate you. I hate you and everyone like you." "I can live with that." "Good. I missed you so much." "I missed you too." The brothers hold each other for long moments as Paige watches. She feels a vague sense of unease as she watches. Shouldn't this be a beautiful moment? She can't make herself take it in unalloyed by doubts. Is this a trauma that makes them stronger to share, or is it the type to force them apart? But as they cry onto one another, she must allow for the moments. //That's something I'm always doing -- crowding out the present with the future.// This, at least, had to happen. The harder she thinks about it, the more her anxieties ease, though they are replaced with a darkly humorous thought. //And there's another night,// she thinks, //where I had every right to be upset, to make a point, to finally be acknowledged, and I didn't.// Paige wonders when her life will finally be about her. Paige wonders if she does things that ensure it never is. When the brothers are done, Eric practically carries Cole over to the couch, though he must be a little more tipsy than he thinks because his footing doesn't seem the steadiest: Paige remains close by to assist. Once Cole is laid down on the couch, Eric steps back. "You'd be so proud of me," Cole says, his voice a hoarse whisper, "I only play twinky little cowards anymore. Hardly a link of chainmail on 'em." "What the fuck does that mean." "I love you bro." Eric just nods, and wipes at his eyes. Paige pulls a blanket over Cole, and he weakly shifts his head to look at her. "You're so sweet for a tranny, Paige. Please tell me you love me too." "Jesus //Christ,// Cole," Paige says at the same time as Eric's: "Don't you fucking //call// him that." "I love you Paige." Paige just shakes her head. "Ask me in the morning, Cole. You've been kind of a shithead tonight." "C'mon, bro's a shithead all the time, tell me you love me." "Goodnight, Cole." "Goodnight, Paige. Don't change, please don't ever change." "Goodnight, bro." "Goodnight, Eric. I missed you. I missed you so much." The three go their separate ways, and Cole's eyes drift to the window. His hands shove underneath his pillow and find the book he'd hidden there. He looks up into the sky, and finds a bright, nigh-full moon. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXXII**## //What a fucking sissy I am,// he thinks, //what a lovebird. Maybe I got hugged too much, too. "I love you." You motherfucker, Eric, you got me. I'm gay now too. What's that mean, huh? What's that mean?// Cole can't dwell on the thoughts for long, as he's taken in by a drunken, hiccupy sleep. @@@@ @@@@ @@@@ @@@@ [[=]] + [[SIZE 150%]]Epilogue: **Argus the Healed**[[/size]] [[/=]] Paige fidgeted with a napkin, elbows on the glossy table, eyes narrowly avoiding outright staring at the couple in the booth near her, several up and on the other side of the aisle. Their talking was starting to grate on her -- their merely being there felt like a violation of her own privacy, despite the public space. To fight her own gaze, she looked to the windows, which offered a bland view of mostly black, dotted with the far-off lights of city, the nearer lights of some few streetlamps, and a glaze of gray light pollution fuzzing up the clouds. She moved from fidgeting with the napkin to running her thumb along the plastic edge of the menu when she saw headlights enter the parking lot. The car parked in front of the diner: her heart fluttered. //Is that her?// The cheap plastic was worn enough to have a ragged edge, which she pressed her thumb into until rubbing it hurt. Absently, she put the menu aside. The door opened, and there was no mistaking her. The entrant's eyes passed over the diner, and Paige opened her palm in a tiny wave to bring her over. As the person smiled and strode over, Paige stood up to greet her. "Hey, Blue," Paige said. "Hey, //Pen-ta-cle,//" Blue enunciated every syllable with a strike like a hammer. Paige chuckled. "You know my name." "And you can call me Kiave, unless you'd like to use my formal title, Ms. Boobies. Also, what the fuck you doing? C'mere." The two hugged, and Paige felt eased in a way she wasn't expecting. It had been so long since anyone had hugged her -- anyone she wanted to. //Thank god she's not pretty.// She was mad at herself for thinking it -- she felt like some kind of spy that had been sent to infiltrate queer ranks and seed bigotry from the inside: she felt like the problem. But she couldn't help it. She was so afraid Kiave would intimidate her, and the relief is like a magnet against the side of her moral compass. Once the hug was broken, Paige was sad to see it gone. She hovered awkwardly for a moment, before getting a clue and sitting down. In a low voice, Kiave asked, with a head gesture towards the couple in earshot: "What name should I call you?" = ##white|**ArtPiece XXXIII**## Paige frowned. She'd done nothing to her appearance, except a hasty shave out of embarrassment for the meeting here with Kiave. Ideally, she would stick with her deadname and not feel so seen in a public space, but... Kiave was not so subtle. She had a streak of dyed blue in her hair, and her face was peppered with piercings -- bridge, septum, snake bites, and when she spoke Paige thought she saw a gleaming bulb on the tongue. More piercings in more places than Paige knew the names for. Eyebrows. Everything. And to pair with the hair, blue lipstick. (Paige was surprised Kiave's screenname had that much connection to her live appearance.) She wore a crop-top with "Melvins" written on it, and had clearly visible bra straps -- not to mention little lumps on her chest, without the grace of cleavage like a cis or post-transition woman might have. Below that, she had fishnets -- the band of which rested just above her bellybutton -- and torn jeans to see the fishnets through. No, there was no point in trying to hide. "Paige. You can call me Paige." Kiave grinned. "Nice to meet you, Paige." "Seriously. Thanks for coming out. I know it's not the most convenient." Kiave gave a little wave. "Don't worry about it. But you're right, I don't have all the time in the world -- we should order." The two got sodas and shitty food -- Paige doubted there was anywhere open at this time whose food wouldn't be shitty. They sent the waiter off, and returned to each other's attention. Paige asked Kiave about her trip to Portland, and Kiave told her about the trip she'd taken -- trip of a different definition. Paige listened intensely as Kiave described her experience on mushrooms. She'd wanted to take the trip by the river, but of course, being in any way inebriated around a body of water was a no-go. "I'm not //that// kind of reckless," Kiave grinned. She said it was a relatively small dose and didn't last too long -- that she's new to psychedelics, and didn't want to freak herself out. Her tripsitter, Gracy, had a lot more experience than her, and knew how much to give. "I have... a different appreciation for trees, now, which is interesting," Kiave finished saying. "I recommend it. Gracy gave me some to take home with me. Don't tell the feds, they're gonna fuck with my spiritual journey." Paige chuckled. "I won't." The girls thanked the waiter as their food was dropped off -- a lasagna for Kiave and a sandwich for Paige. "He's real nice. I'll be leaving him a good tip." Paige just nodded at Kiave's remark. "Anyways..." Kiave swirled her drink and lowered her voice. "How are you?" Paige's eyes cast downward. "I've been better." Kiave reached a hand across the table, palm up, and Paige took it. The easy physical contact hummed through her. "I'm... well, I'm... in a shelter, right now." Kiave mouthed a drawn out "no..." "But. I've got something in the works. Please don't worry about me too much. It's... pushing my limitations, but, I've been practicing stuff like this for a long time. Big motivator, I guess." Paige smiled sadly. Kiave squeezed her hand. "If you need any help." "No. Seriously, I'm fine." Kiave leveled a finger at her, and quirked an eyebrow. "Don't pull man shit anymore, Paige. You're supposed to be unlearning man shit." Paige couldn't help but smile. "It's not man shit. I seriously have it handled. And... if I don't, I'll tell you. I don't expect to be homeless for more than another month." Kiave squeezed Paige's hand again, and another hum went through her. "It's... fucked up to say," Kiave started, "but... fuck. Stay boyish, until you get somewhere safe." "That's the plan." "These people are vicious. I can't believe -- I don't know if I can conscience leaving you here, girl." Paige shook her head. "I'm not in serious danger. I have my wards and everything. No one else in the shelter —" her eyes drifted to the couple, and she lowered her voice "— knows anything. I'm just getting by for now. But I can't move far -- I'm in tune here. It's honestly easiest for me to get back on my feet here than anywhere else. I really appreciate it, I do. But I've gotta stay." Kiave put her other hand over Paige's. "Okay. Fuck. I can't believe this happened to you. Why do such fucked up things happen to good people." //I'm a good person?// Not that Paige thought of herself as a bad person, per se -- but she didn't consider herself in terms of "good" or "bad" at all. "I think //things// just happen to //people,//" she supplied. "I don't think the universe much cares about who you are." Kiave shook her head. "That's just as bad, i-m-h-o." Paige shrugged. The morality wasn't what bothered her. That, she had come to terms with long ago. "I don't want to talk about it," Paige redirected. "Can I... can I just pick your brain about some things? I don't need your help with this, but, you could really help me about," Paige motioned to her shaved chin, "this." "Of course," Kiave said with a kind of sincerity so strong it took Paige off guard. "Anything you want to know. Assuming I know it, shit." "I... well, I don't think... I think I'd really just like to hear... your story. What uh, what was your journey, what was the moment?" Kiave gave three quick breaths. "I don't know that there was a //moment.// The moment was a really long, drawn out thing. In high school." Paige nodded. "Did you know there are still fucking all-boy highschools? Fucking archaic. Probably huffing lead paint and asbestos walking through those fucking halls. My parents sent me to one of those." Paige couldn't hide a wince. "You get it," Kiave responded. "Of course you would. Well, you can imagine that there's a lot of fucking testosterone in that shitty place. People always bragging how many girls they've been with. The competition in PE, the casual hitting you. Commenting on you. Well, I wasn't really able to participate. I was sick." "Sick?" Kiave nodded. "My parents thought it was depression. Well, no. That's still giving them too much credit -- because that's assuming that they gave me the amount of respect someone with depression deserves. Mostly they just thought I was a loser. Everyone did. I passed out in PE, I wasn't getting all my homework done. I fell asleep in class. It became really clear, really fast. I couldn't compete. No metrics by which other boys were considered successful applied to me. My options, really, were to accept that I was the piece of shit everybody thought I was, or to redefine my terms for success. Kind of saved me, actually. I flunked out of being a man. What a fucking world that would be. Not that it was an entirely conscious process -- mostly I just felt different, and worse. I ended up hanging out with the rest of the losers, but they still had their aspirations. No one was comfortable there. They all sort of sucked in the same ways, but they were still dreaming that one day they could be an asshole just like the rest of the assholes. They acted like it, too. They had a little more tolerance for weakness because if they didn't they'd kill themselves, but when you got down to it they resented the same things in each other and themselves that the top dogs beat them up for." Kiave took a bite of her lasagna, and talked through it for a moment. "But I couldn't even keep up with the losers. At least they got good grades sometimes, even if they kept quiet about it. I wasn't cool //or// smart, as far as anybody could tell. I wasn't funny, I wasn't likable. I started to feel like I wasn't even there. Mostly I just slept through lunch, and it was at the losers' table because they wouldn't bother me. So. That's how it came clear that there really wasn't a lot of 'man' in my system. Thank fuck for that. But, I'm not exactly sure where 'girl' came from. I think mostly, it was that when I came out as a girl, people stopped expecting shit of me. I'm sorry, this might not be the most helpful to you, but actually, that's why these days I've been using it/its more often. I think femme was good shorthand for 'fuck you,' and I certainly feel a lot better, a lot more comfortable presenting femme, but if I'm being honest about it, I think I just want away from the whole fucking thing. Don't call me 'he' or I'll kick your ass. But maybe 'she' isn't more accurate, just less offensive? Having tits gets the message across lickity-split. People still calling me 'he' at that point are being intentional assholes, as opposed to just people who don't know, so that clears up a lot of ambiguity." Paige nodded, but harbored secret concerns. //Must I be a girl in opposition to being a boy? I don't feel that way. It's not a violent rejection of manhood, it's just an embracing of womanhood.// But she felt shaken in her own reasoning -- //could it even be called "reasoning?" For what// reason //am I suddenly allowed to be a woman, a girl?// Kiave, at least, had a path she followed, a stimulus and a reasonable response. She'd heard it plenty of times -- that trans identity wasn't born of //reason,// that it wasn't a //choice,// that it was chasing gender euphoria, that it was presenting in ways that affirmed your inner being: that gender was a social construct -- in its current state, a method of control, of putting people in boxes and dictating their behaviors -- that gender was, as many of her friends online put it, "a fuck," didn't deserve her "respect," and, as Kiave had put it to her before, she "could take it into a back alley, shoot it, and wear its skin." Her experience didn't feel so volatile. She wasn't the angry trans woman Kiave was. She wanted comfort. She wanted peace. She didn't find any of that with the gender she was given. Kiave seemed to want something else -- retribution? "Besides," Kiave said, seeming to read Paige's thoughts, "it's about interpreting yourself, y'know? There's no handbook. I mean, we're very literally building up gender from nothing. Okay not nothing, but. We're tearing up this fucking system, shredding it up. We're all about not fitting into these boxes people have built for us. Fuck them. Well, you get to make your own box. Or not get in a new box, hell. Have the courage to be boxless. It's not crazy helpful -- and it's better, I guess, to find people who share similar enough experiences to you that you feel like you can model yourself after them, if that's your jam, if that's comfortable. But really it's up to you. Your version of girl doesn't have to be anyone else's version of girl. That's what I did. I worked with the stupid terminology we have, with the fucked up half-definitions we're fed, and I bent them into a shape I like enough to make me not kill myself every time I step out the front door. You feel me?" @@@@ @@@@ ----- @@@@ @@@@ = ##white|**ArtPiece XXXIV**## Paige stands in the bathroom, wearing a dress. //A dress I started wearing at the behest of a bigot that lives with me. Getting back into a comfortable, readymade box. What's that make me? Am I too much a coward to construct something new? Is being under the boot of society// comfortable //for me?// She doesn't have an easy answer for herself. She looks at her face in the mirror. She doesn't like it. But she likes it better than she did a month ago. She feels more like a woman, but she doesn't see Kiave -- her favorite, albeit demi-, woman -- in herself. //I don't have to,// she reminds herself. //We're completely different kinds of women. She's strong in some ways, and I am in others.// Could Kiave have handled the Ortegrens? Paige has her doubts. She finishes gussying up her face, and appreciates how smooth it looks. She's become relatively good at hiding her stubble, and a few well-placed contours make her look sharper, less boxy, less chin. She's actually gotten proficient at makeup so fast, she wonders if she's glimpsing a visual artist that's been inside her all along. She makes a mental note to experiment with doodles. She places the brush she was using to dust her cheeks back in its holder on the sink, and studies herself for a moment. She waits for the usual -- the judgment -- but it doesn't come. She feels it, still, but it's as if the door is closed, despite its presence on the other side being all too obvious. //Maybe I'll learn how to bolt this door shut,// she thinks. //Maybe I'm already doing that.// Satisfied, she turns and exits. She hears Eric downstairs, making himself a brunch of some kind, and smiles venomously at the idea of whatever it must be he's fucking up. She shakes her head, lips parting to show teeth, and takes a deep breath. She crosses the hallway, enters her room, and strides to the open window. She puts her hands on the windowsill, and pokes her head out. "Hey, Cole." He jumps, just a little, and shields the notebook in his lap with his body. "Mind if I join you?" He seems to look somewhere far away for a moment, a breeze passing through his auburn hair, just long enough to catch the wind, still short in the general sense. He shrugs. "Sure." She climbs out, a little ungracefully -- her dress isn't really appropriate for this maneuver -- and gets onto the tiles of the rooftop, scooting in Cole's direction and sitting. "Feeling any better?" Cole shakes his head. "Not really. But my head feels better out here than inside. Besides, it's..." She knows he's avoiding Eric, and doesn't feel a need to push him to say it. "Yeah. Just don't fall and die. I'd feel a little weird if you did." He snickers. "I'm fine." "Sure you are." She eyes the notebook. "What you writing?" He purses his lips, and almost glares at Paige. But he answers honestly. "A new character, I dunno. An antagonist." "Antagonist? What're they about, what's their deal?" Cole sighs again. "I think... he's this guy, I'm thinking he's huge, he's this really big imposing armored asshole, right, and he's all villain-coded, right. He's got the dark-gray-black primary tone, maybe mix it up and make him be more orange-y green, pumpkin-like for the pops of color. He felt a bit Halloween, in my head." Paige nods, and he pauses. "That it?" He shakes his head. "I think, he comes off as this incredibly intimidating dude. Probably not the main bad guy, he's probably a mook of some kind. And they put together, right, that he's actually got a really low kill count. I mean he kills, he fucks people up, don't get me wrong. But he's less lethal than he could be, by a long shot. I guess depending on the context, it's kind of like... a kid's show villain? You know, the kind that can burn down villages, but everyone escapes?" Paige nods again. "Well it's... it's 'cause he's... it's because he doesn't think the good guys, whoever they are in this story, can win. He's... a pawn of the big bad, the major evil, specifically so he can be in control of the harm that it causes. He's trying not to kill people, but to get them out of the way. I figure... I figure that... it's 'cause it's the only way, y'know, that uh... that he knows how to help people. Is to scare them off." Cole takes a deep breath. "Like, he feels like all he's good at is hurting people, so the way he tries to twist that into a good thing is to hurt them only a little. Only enough to get them to go away, to evacuate -- scare the shit out of them so they never come back. It's fucking childish, the more I talk about it the more fucking childish it is." "It's not childish," Paige speaks softly. "I like it." Cole ventures brief eye contact, but can't hold it. Then, he huffs. "You would. You love cheesy shit." She chuckles. "I like honest shit. Honest shit can be pretty cheesy sometimes." He doesn't have a response. "Can I peek?" She motions to the book. He looks between her and the book. He hands it over, but he can't look at her while he does it, and as soon as she has it in her hands, he angles himself away. = ##white|**ArtPiece XXXV**## She studies his designs. He's not a trained artist, but it's obvious just by looking at the linework that he's been doing this for a long time, and especially that he loves his armor. He has several ideas for the shape of this character -- some rounder than others, more pumpkin-shaped, though one outlier design is a slick, slender figure. It seems the rounder designs stick though, as they show up more. She passes through the pages, and skims through his character notes, mostly vague bullet-points. She laughs, and he tenses. "What's so funny?" She shuts herself up, seeing the look on his face. "The designs are really good," she hastily gets out, "I wasn't laughing at it or anything. It's just... 'Mr. Ominous.'" He loosens, and chuckles with her. "It's not his real name. It's just a working title, so I have something to refer to him as in my notes." "Maybe it doesn't fit him, but I like it. It's a good villain name." "Thanks, I guess." "You're welcome, for sure." She smiles at him. He puts his hand out, and she passes the notebook back. "I was planning on revealing him in some RP of ours," Cole elaborates. "When I had him more fleshed out." "That sounds fun." "Yeah." Cole seems to stare at the pages, and flips through them once. He closes the book with sudden force, and tosses it aside. "Careful, man. You could have it slide off the roof." He shrugs, and just stares ahead. She stares ahead with him. Off into the cul-de-sac, at the houses and the rooftops, at the trees. The sounds of wind and distant cars accompany their viewing, and the sky has scant clouds whose movement she follows off-and-on. She turns to look at Cole, and sees his face drawn, his eyes on the asphalt rather than the sky. He catches her staring, after a bit, and tenses. "What?" He practically spits. Instead of answering immediately, she scoots an inch closer, and, in a low voice, asks: "Do you feel like you're going to scare the shit out of somebody? Push them away?" He sits straighter for a moment, just to look her in the eyes, and she watches as he tries to corner the emotion, turn it into anger or something manageable -- watches as his brow furrows and unfurrows, his nose scrunches and falls. Watches him catch her eyes, and have the mask fall, the anger melt, and all that's left is an honest expression of grief. He makes a short sound, as he tries to start a sentence, but his throat closes up immediately. She takes that as her cue, and pulls him into a hug he neither reciprocates or resists. Soon enough, she feels him shaking, and rubs his back. Then, belatedly, he sobs right beside her ear, the sharp intake of air as he fights past his closed-up throat. Tens of seconds pass, until Cole finally throws his arms around her, his hands gripping the back of her dress like a drowning man grasping at driftwood and debris. "Aren't I?" He manages to get out. "Aren't I scary?" She doesn't have a ready response, so keeps rubbing his back as he returns to crying, though the intensity seems to die down until he's no longer shaking, and he's merely holding her instead of gripping so hard it feels he might tear her clothes. "Aren't I scary?" he asks again, with more composure in his voice. "I don't think so," Paige lies. "Are you scared?" There's a pause, before he nods into her shoulder. "I'm terrified." "What of?" He pulls away, and swallows several times, sniffles, looks between her and the space just beyond her with red, puffy eyes. "Everything," he concludes. "The future. My brother. Myself. My dad." She nods. "I didn't tell anyone I was coming here." "I kind of figured that out." "I... I'm going to have to go back to school. Go... back home. Or else they're gonna find me. Find Eric. I don't know how, but they will, eventually. They're probably already looking for me. I've probably scared Mom half to death. Dad doesn't fucking care. He's probably smug. He probably knew I'd pussy out and do this -- he probably feels so justified, that I've become Eric 2. But he'll be so upset. So upset that both his sons are such fuckups. He'll take it out on Mom, and..." He trails off. "Hey," Paige picks up the slack. "That's not your battle. You can't control that, and your safety comes first." He scoffs. "Safety?" But when he looks at her, he can't keep the glare on his face, and he looks away again. "I was -- I'm fine." "You're not. And that's okay. It's okay to not be fine." "Is it?" Surely the question was meant to come out as a dismissal, but the pitch quirks upwards at the end, and Cole rubs at his nose. "Yeah. It is." The wind blows. "Okay," he states simply. Paige looks off at the trees again. "Cole, I don't think you should go back." He shakes his head. "How?" "I... would you believe me if I said I had ways of keeping your location secret, that you could stay here with Eric and I? I mean, unless high school is really important to you." He groans. "No. It isn't. I... I was probably going to get held back, anyways. Drop out, and... join the military." "Don't... do that, either." Cole shrugs. "What other options do I have? Where else can I go?" He looks at her. "How can you really keep me here? I'm a minor. You'd be kidnapping me, I think. Unless you wanna, what, do a court case, get custody of me? A year before I could just leave the house anyways?" "No. None of that." "What, then?" It's her turn to sigh. "Cole... are you open to having your perspective changed?" "What the fuck does that mean?" He considers it, seriously, before following up with: "My perspective changed on what?" "I dunno. Everything, pretty much?" He sniffles, and rubs at his eyes. "Fuck. Don't I have to be? I mean, what's my other option? Fucking kill myself?" Paige smiles, despite herself. //Is it strange to hear Kiave's voice in Cole?// "If I... if I didn't change a thing, about myself. I'd fuck everything up, right? I mean. That's what I figure, I... I thought maybe I could stay the course, that -- well... I didn't think like //that,// at the time, I just... I couldn't stand it, y'know? I couldn't keep hating Eric. And it's not because he doesn't deserve it or anything." He scowls a little bit, but the expression doesn't stick. "It's just as simple as I said it. I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I... if I don't change, I don't get to have my brother back, do I? My..." His voice seems to catch, and he clears his throat. "I don't get to have the family, that I care about. So... I can't... care, that he's a -- that he's gay. I can't care because if I care I don't get to have him. And that sucks, okay? I know you don't agree. Of course you wouldn't. But that's the thing. You're... you're standing where I have to be, right?" Paige gives him a confused look as she tries to piece together what he's saying -- especially trying to piece together whether or not she should be offended, or worried. He takes the moment to continue. "I have to pick sides. I can either be right, and lose everything, or be wrong, and keep the only people I care about. That's... that's not a hard choice, really. So... I have to. Fuck. Even if it's just a strategy for survival, I have to be able to change. Right?" She gives a tight smile. She doesn't like how he's come to this position, but she has to be able to look past that. She can't hope for perfect, and she suspects that maybe Cole is simply being... honest. Could that be the word? That he's acknowledging his emotional reasoning first and foremost, rather than finding rationale after the fact and supplying that. He's made his conditions clear, he's made his influence obvious. Maybe that is a good thing. Paige decides to interpret it as such. "Right," she agrees, and he seems to brighten at that. "I think... a lot of ideology, is about believing what helps you be happy. And survive. Maybe more than survive. Maybe live, if you know the difference." He nods. "You have to be open to the idea that the world doesn't work how you think it works. That you're wrong." "Sure." "I think it's about... interpreting yourself," she echoes her mentor. "Like, you can get all these feelings, and you have to name them so you know what to do with them, and there isn't a handbook. So you have to start making decisions about what you call everything, like... you're an art piece. You're a character, and you have to start deciding what your themes are, what's important to you. And once you start to get a grip on what you care about, then you have to make decisions about what you act on. Like, you're deciding that whatever you've believed until now, it's not compatible with the actions you want to take. You have to decide whether to not take those actions -- whether to go home -- or whether to change, whether to believe something different. You're figuring out what your story is about. You're having to make a characterization decision. Am I... am I making sense?" Cole chuckles. "Some." "Well... I... I've been in a place, where I had to make a really big decision, too. And --" "You're acting like you have to convince me. You don't. If you have a way to keep me here, I'm game. Just tell me what I have to do." She blinks a few times, thrown off-balance. "Alright, well, one sec." She scoots towards the window, and then carefully disappears inside. She reemerges in a moment with a deck of cards, but not playing cards like the ones Cole's used to. "This is a tarot deck. Y'know, where my name comes from." "Yeah. I know." "I want to... do something with you. It's gonna seem really silly at first, but, I need you to go with it for a second, and it'll make sense at the end. Well, why it's important will make sense. But then everything's going to make absolutely no sense. And... then I, and hopefully some other guys I know, are gonna help you pick up the pieces, and make a new world. Change your perspective." Cole throws up his eyebrows, and gives her a long look. "You sound like you're going to //drug// me." "It might feel like drugs, but no, I'm not. I... I just wanna show you some things, that have been really important to my personal development, to me figuring out my things. To me figuring out the world I live in, who I am, what I'm doing in it. I... figure that if you're ready to change your perspective, then, now is the best time to show you. Are you?" He looks between her and the tarot deck, not making any effort to hide his skepticism. But after a long eye contact: "Sure. Yeah. Whatever." "No. I need more than a 'sure,' it's not gonna work with 'sure.' I need 'yes.' I need commitment. Can you commit, Cole? Can you say 'yes?'" Her stare is more intense than Cole has ever seen it, and somehow her conviction seems like it's already working to thaw his doubts and rigidities. She's so convinced -- of //what,// Cole doesn't yet know -- that he feels more capable of being convinced just because of it. "Yes. I am," he says, and he means it. "Good." She begins shuffling the cards. "Usually, for readings like these, I, the channeler, am supposed to deal the spread. But, if you're actually in, if you're open, you can do it. That's why it's so important that you're committed." "Okay." She holds the deck out to him in one hand. "When you're ready, but only when you're ready, flip the top card." "Just like... turn it over, put it back on top of the deck?" She nods. Her intensity -- thus far alien from anything Cole had come to expect from Paige -- made him hesitate. //Am I ready? What am I leaving behind? My parents are pieces of shit. My school is worthless. I didn't make any friends. My prospects? I didn't have any of those. No, I suppose I have nothing to lose except my convictions, and what fucking use are those? They aren't serving me. They aren't helping me. Maybe everything I am is stupid and wrong, maybe everything I've ever believed was contrived to make me miserable. Maybe none of this matters at all.// He reaches for the card, and flips it. [[/==]] = [[image https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/dr-k-stuff-s-personnel-file/XXXVI style="width:460px"]] [[=]] //And with that, my work here is done.// //Forever after,// //Elf for Your Help™// [[image https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/dr-k-stuff-s-personnel-file/III style="width:30px"]] [[/=]]