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Theo’s always considered himself to be a wordsmith. An artist whose only tools are his tongue, his lips.
He’s a master craftsman. He knows what words to say, and when to say them–knows exactly how to strike a cord with his audience with nothing but a turn of a phrase.
He’s a bard. A poet. A master manipulator.
He’s anything but real.
Words–words are easy, to Theo. They’re just sounds, just frilly little decorations to dress up whatever lie he’s trying to sell.
Words are nothing but weapons in an arsenal, and he's a trained supernatural assassin.
They can mean anything. Can mean nothing.
Theo’s not sure he’s ever used words to say anything real–anything honest.
He–tries, sometimes. He tries when he’s with Liam. He tries when he’s at Tara’s bridge. He tries when he’s at Tracy’s unmarked grave.
He tries.
He always fails, in the end.
There are these thoughts bubbling up at his lips. They’re heavy against his tongue, the taste of them like acid the longer they rest there. They’re there. He can feel them desperate to be released. Deep down, he knows all he has to do is open his lips and let them escape.
He–can’t.
He can’t.
They always come out strangled, come out wrong. Come out as lies.
You can trust me, becomes “get realistic.”
I’m sorry, becomes “you don’t have to stop.”
I’m scared, becomes “you’re going first’; becomes “I’ll be running the other direction.”
I like you, becomes “I’m impressed”; becomes “we only feel one emotion at a time”.
Here in the hospital elevator, the words are pressing against his lips harder than they ever had before. Here, while he looks into Liam’s ocean blue eyes, his own heart thundering in his chest at the thought that the light coursing through those blue orbs were almost snuffed out completely by a pair of inept hunters, the words are slamming against his insides like nothing else matters.
I love you.
He tightens his hold on his beanie and wills himself to do something–anything–other than stare at the little beta in front of him.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He parts his lips, and for a second he thinks that he’s finally going to do it. Thinks that he’s finally going to be honest for once in his life.
He–swallows.
He swallows, and suddenly the words are gone. They get caught on the way down, his throat tightening in protest, but it doesn’t last; they eventually fall into the pit that’s opening in his stomach. This void that’s slowly swallowing everything up inside of him.
“I’m not dying for you,” he says.
But it’s a lie.
It’s always a lie.
“I’m not dying for you, either,” Liam snarks back, his voice sharp enough to cut deep into Theo’s rapidly beating heart.
But–what cuts deeper is what Theo hears under the words.
Liam… Liam’s not a wordsmith. He’s clumsy with his words, sometimes awkward or brazen or cold. He’s an amateur .
An amateur that speaks with his heart, more than anything.
Liam’s I’m not dying for you, either, cuts deep into Theo’s heart, but it’s Liam’s heartbeat that truly wounds him as it echoes in Theo’s ears.
It’s Liam’s heartbeat skipping that truly goes for the kill, Theo’s breath catching violently in his chest as he catches the sound–or lack thereof.
I’m not dying for you either, Liam says, and–he’s lying.
They’re both lying.
Theo's eyes drop to Liam's chest, his supernatural hearing focused entirely on the thump, thump, thump against Liam's ribcage.
Liam squirms under Theo's gaze, and–Theo knows that Liam knows he's been caught.
I'm not dying for you either, Liams says, but–Theo suddenly realizes–what he means is, I will. I will die for you.
Liam ducks his head, then tsks softly.
“But,” Liam says, and at first it's through clenched teeth–like even now, as the words are coming out, he's fighting to keep them inside, “I will… fight with you.”
For a long second, then two, then three, Theo forgets how to breathe. His mind goes blank, his eyes widening in surprise.
The thing is, Theo recognizes this; the careful selection of words, the presentation as if they're fully honest, the dressing up of frilly words to disguise the fact that nothing is really being said.
Or–not outright, anyway.
Liam might not say the words he means, but Theo hears them anyway regardless.
I'll fight by your side , he says.
We can do this together, he says.
Together, by choice, he says.
Together, you and me, he says.
Theo's chest hurts, and he's not sure if it's the lack of oxygen or his heart aching .
Eventually, Theo tears his eyes away from Liam's chest--his heart--and forces himself to take a deep inhale of breath.
“Okay,” Theo says, when he can finally get some semblance of air.
He looks back up at Liam, back into the Beta’s blue eyes, and he–tries.
“... Let's fight,” Theo whispers.
And maybe it's not truly what he wants to say; maybe it's not the full encapsulation of everything inside his soul.
But… for once, it's not nothing.
For once, it actually means something.
For once, it's from the heart.
For once, it's honest.