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Spoke is everything that is bad. He is the sound which withers make when they are spawned, and he is the greed that lies within everything that calls itself human. He is the rot and the mould which destroys everything one way or another and causes everything he touches to crumble to dust. There is no care for the things Spoke destroys, for there is no life without death and there is no death without Spoke.
That is the way things go; how it has gone since Spoke crawled his way out of the earth and introduced the world to everything bad. Spoke does not change for anyone; human or not, despite the shiny offers and rewards they would give him if only Spoke would be theirs.
But. But .
Parrot is laid across his lap, breathing soft and slow despite being in the presence of what the world calls the most vile creature since humans took their first breath.
Parrot’s hair is sprawled out, a blue halo framing his face, and Spoke can see the freckles that decorate his face. Could trace out the constellations, that Parrot had taken so much time to teach Spoke, in his freckles if only he had more than two arms.
He prefers the amount of arms he has now though -easier for people to trust him when he looks like one of their own, easier for him to cover his arms with the bracelets Parrot has made as gifts.
One of his hands is entwined with Parrot’s, resting onto of his chest, fingers pressed lightly to his wrist. The other is idly playing with his hair; strands softer than Spoke’s own, softer than anyone that Spoke can think of, who let him close enough to touch them.
He could remove his hand, wrench it from the light grasp Parrot has on it, even in sleep; fade away into the shadows and leave Parrot to wake up alone on the floor, Spoke running off to find some other person to twist and change. Still, he doesn’t mind the weird tingling that festers in his chest.
Spoke will not change for anyone, including Parrot; he can already sense the seeds planted in his soul -side effects of being in Spoke’s presence for any more than a passing moment. He’s known men to go mad with greed from simply standing in a room with him for an hour. He doesn’t know what being in his presence, repeatedly, for hours will do to someone, let alone the effect of extended exposure to his touch may cause.
Still, Parrot has yet to succumb to any of that. Has yet to think of Spoke as anything more than a friend that he can enjoy time with.
Spoke will take whatever Parrot will give him, will take more than Parrot can offer, if only for the feeling that festers in his chest to stay there. They’re both young, neither mature enough to care about the consequences of their actions yet.
Parrot is soon to be a brief moment in Spoke’s existence. But he will gladly cling onto any sliver of companionship Parrot shows him, even if it kills the both of them.