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It was something like walking barefoot atop a path of glass shards; stepping lightly and praying that the shards wouldn’t cut you anyway.
Or, it was something like wishful thinking, for glass doesn’t care how lightly you step, only that you stepped at all; like that was your mistake, and, really, maybe it was. After all, it’s in the nature of the sharp to cut, and the fault is on the one foolish enough to try to traverse the path anyway.
Killer had always liked sharp things, both at a distance and up close; had always flirted with the danger they posed, as easily as he breathed. (He couldn’t remember the last time he’d loved anything that didn’t have the ability to gut him completely. How long had it been, now?) There was just something unbelievably alluring about the things that hurt, and it was difficult to tell if his infatuation was a result of his self-destructive tendencies or simply an accustomation to the pain. In reality, it was likely a mix of the two, but there was no use in dwelling on the matter when one was dying a death by a thousand cuts.
It was exponential; a slow decline that rapidly grew in speed. Where, once, he could relish in the sting, the pain quickly lost its charm once he became numb to it, but it was too late to turn back now. When his feet were too shredded from the shards of glass to continue to stand, and he was forced to his knees, like the pathetic beggar he was, so that he could bloody his palms as if the sacrifice might bring him mercy.
“Look!” he’d say, smiling as he offered his hands to someone who could never appreciate the bright crimson that they bled; to the one that walked the path with him and made it look easy. “Look what I did for you. It’s what you wanted, right?”
Hooded eyes, glowing in a way his could not, would peer upon the damage with vested interest. Gentle fingers traced over the cuts, his other hand holding Killer’s steady by the wrist, and Killer would flinch at the contact with a smile. The man would pause, considering, then glance up with a frown Killer couldn’t understand. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
His head cocked to the side, browbones furrowing. “Does it matter?”
Bright sockets narrowed, and a finger carefully circled one of the worse wounds. “So, it does, then.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, afraid to step; afraid to hold on. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
“I don’t want you to hurt,” came the return, as if it really were that simple.
Smile wavering ever so slightly, Killer laughed; something strangled and ugly, just like the rest of him. “But, I thought you wanted this.”
Careful fingers picked the shards out of his wounds, and, strangely, the tenderness of the action made Killer’s stomach churn in a way that was equal parts unpleasant as pleasant. “I do,” the man admitted. Mismatched eyelights focused intently on the task at hand. “Not if it hurts you, though. We can find another way, if it hurts you.”
“Another way?” Killer echoed.
“Sure,” he said. “We could figure something out.”
At the mere thought, the glass cut deeper beneath him, as if trying to root him in place. To ask for anything else was to ask the sharp to change its nature, and sharp things were unfeeling in the same, immutable way as their sharpness; in part, because they were unaware of the way that they damaged so easily, and, in part, because they had no soul with which to feel the remorse. Perhaps, it didn’t even know that it was cutting. Perhaps, it couldn’t hear him when he told it as much. Perhaps, he liked the way that it did it anyway.
Cautiously, Killer stepped. The words echoed with a crunch. “Like… what?”
For a brief moment, the gentle ministrations faltered, and the grip around Killer’s wrist tightened sharply – alarmingly, like the sound of breaking glass – before the dullness of before returned; as if it had never left. “Well, I don’t know,” the man said. “I’ve never thought of an alternative to something I always viewed as so typical. I’d never imagined it would be so difficult for anyone. I’m sure we can think of something, though.”
Wincing, the glass shifted beneath his knees once more, and Killer exhaled a short breath that was only a little pained – a little confused on just how it should feel – and something brewed in his chest that ached. He shuffled forward again, nevertheless, knowing it would hurt. “Sorry,” he bit out, shortly. “No one’s ever expected this from me. Not like this.”
“Then,” he tenderly sneered, “I suppose I’m the problem, aren’t I?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he said, moving further still; pushing the limits in a way he’d long since learned he should not. “I understand what you want. I just feel like maybe you’re expecting too much from me too quickly. I’m trying,” he insisted. “It’s difficult for me, and I’m sorry for that.” The glass crunched beneath him as he pressed close, and something metal glinted nearby. “I’m trying.”
Picking out another piece of glass, the hooded man shifted; considered. “I know you’re trying. I appreciate that, and I should really be more patient with you,” he sighed. “It’s just frustrating sometimes that you struggle so much with something so normal.” He gestured to the glass beneath his own bloodied knees nonchalantly. “It shouldn’t cut you like it does, see?”
With a surprised blink, Killer’s sockets narrowed at the sight. “But, you’re…”
“If you really wanted to,” he continued, undeterred by his own wounds and not bothering to struggle against them, “it wouldn’t hurt you like that. You know I don’t want you to do things you don’t want to. It’s just difficult for me, too, because I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to do this for the person you love.” His fingers caught on an embedded shard, and Killer bit back a noise of pain as it was smoothed back into its rightful place. “It makes me feel like you don’t love me.”
“Of course I love you,” Killer breathed, sockets going wide again. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“Sure,” he agreed, then paused, sighing, and he placed Killer’s hand in his lap. There was an exhaustion in the shadows that veiled his face; one that drew guilt – a dark feeling of responsibility – from Killer’s unstable soul despite his best efforts to squash it down. “But, it hurts you. Which means that you don’t want to do it, and I don’t understand that.”
“It doesn’t hurt me,” he mumbled, and the words were unconvincing even against his own ears; again, unbidden remorse bounced off of his soul. He flexed his hand in his lover’s lap, fighting back a flinch at the dull agony the movement caused, breaking through the numbness. Then, he tried again. “I do want to do it. I…”
The words trailed off, and, testingly, he ran his hand across the glass once more, glancing up for a reaction with bated breath, met with the same rigidity of anticipation. To love someone was to compromise – to do things to make them happy, even at the expense of yourself – wasn’t it? When they ask you to bleed for them, it’s only fair to, if they’ve already bled in return; even when you didn’t ask them to; didn’t want them to; right?
All the sharp knew how to do was cut – whether it was aware of that fact or not – but it desired to be caressed anyway. Could it really be blamed for that? Could it be blamed for asking; begging; pleading; doing whatever it had to, to get what it needed so desperately? Could it be blamed for the hurt that was caused when someone said yes; acquiesced; submitted; gave in? Whose fault was it when they bled? Did it matter?
Harshly, Killer scraped his palm across the shards, and his breath caught in his throat — froze him solid — so as to not demonstrate any pain as fresh crimson bubbled to the surface, and he choked on the relief. Again, he lifted his bloodied hand up to be scrutinised, and, again, he smiled. “See? It doesn’t hurt. I do want to.”
Again, the other took his hand into his grasp, examining the wounds with a withering suspicion. “It doesn’t hurt?”
Nevertheless, smile widening, Killer nodded eagerly. “No. It doesn’t.”
For a moment, bright sockets simply traced over mottled hands, and, for a moment, Killer hoped that the bleeding might be coaxed to stop beneath tender touches once more; that sharp could become soft. He carefully examined his love’s expression — or what he could see of it from the shadow that seemed to constantly haunt his expression and exude displeasure — and his smile faltered as bright, glowing eyelights were narrowed once more. “You’re trembling.”
“…Am I?”
A finger pressed against his wounds, and Killer managed to only flinch minutely – no longer fully able to feel the pain, but, somewhere deep down, instinctually aware of it anyway – before schooling his expression back into a bright smile; happy to feel nothing at all. The man’s mismatched gaze bore into him, searching. What for, Killer couldn’t be sure, and he could be even less sure whether or not he found it, but, either way, he was sure of the reaction; sharp edges pressing against him.
“If you really want to, I want you to stop acting like this when you do it,” he said, and it felt like taking a step on glass coated feet.
Belatedly, Killer blinked. “Acting like what?”
“This,” he said, shaking Killer’s hand as if to remind him. “Trembling. Holding back flinches. Smiling completely emptily. You do this for me, then you become numb – like a robot; like it’s hurting you – and that’s hurting me,” he insisted, sharply. “You say you understand and that you want to do it, but the way you behave says otherwise.”
His free hand pressed against his chest, steadying the dull throb in the way his soul spasmed unstably. “I… don’t get it.”
“You don’t act like you want to do it,” he reiterated firmly. “You’re not convincing. I just want you to act like you do, if you do.”
“I want to do it,” Killer insisted again, smile growing tense. “You want me to do it, so I want to do it. I want to make you happy.”
“No,” came the response, sharp. “I want you to do it because you really want to do it. Of your own volition.”
It had been so long since Killer had known what he’d wanted; been even longer since it had mattered in any genuine way. How long had it been, now? Why didn’t it scare him that he couldn’t remember? When other people’s wants had become his own, replaced like bad code – like a robot – and he’d been left with the aggravating residual resistance of the ache in his chest. Never had he been unfamiliar with the necessity of doing things he didn’t fully want to for the sake of someone else – with the necessity of wanting it simply because they did first – but never had it been so unequivocally demanded of him that he want it for any other reason than the fact that it was being asked of him. Never had he been faced with the notion that what he wanted could matter so deeply while, simultaneously, somehow, not mattering at all.
Did he want to? Did it matter if he didn’t? Did it matter when to not want to was wrong? Did the cutting make a difference when it was the only option; when even feather-soft touches were sharpness in disguise?
Did the pain mean a lack of desire? A lack of love? Was there really no other way?
A strangled sound – something like a laugh – managed to worm its way out of Killer’s mouth before he could stop it, and he pulled his crimson coated bone from his love’s grasp as if it was just as sharp of an agony. “Okay,” he said, hoarsely. “Then, what’s my other option?”
The words were met with a scoff, and, through the shadows, Killer could almost make out a sneer – or maybe it was despair; maybe Killer had hurt him again. “Seriously?”
“Do I have an option or not?” he bit out without thinking.
“I’m not forcing you,” came the response, equally as cutting, and the glass crunched beneath them. Then, suddenly, tenderness returned, and it hit him like a blow. “Or– am I? I’m not trying to. What you want matters to me. That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” he insisted, gentle. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t want to force you. You’d tell me if I was, right?”
“Aren’t you?” Killer asked, equal parts rhetorical and genuine, as if the answer were obvious and unknowable all at once, and maybe it was.
Browbones furrowing in either anger or sorrow – Killer couldn’t be sure, when the result was the same in the end – silence lingered for just a second too long. “…How do I know you’ll do this for me if I don’t?”
Tiredly, Killer blinked in momentary thought; considered keeping his sockets closed; decided against it. “I guess you don’t,” he spat, exhaustedly, mistakenly. “I guess you’d have to trust me.”
Sharpness bristled once more – as if the mere notion were ridiculous, and, really, it probably was – and serrated their wounds. “Then, you wouldn’t,” he hissed in return. “Why wouldn’t you want to do this for me?”
“I’m already doing what you want,” Killer retorted with equal vitriol, ignoring the sharp agony in his shins tucked beneath him and the equivalent agony of his lover, “what you’re asking me to do. Because I love you. Why isn’t that enough?”
“Because,” he hissed back, standing to his feet and reminding Killer, startlingly, how small and helpless he really was as the man so easily stood atop the shards – in a way that Killer, for the life of him, could not – as if they weren’t there at all, “if you really loved me, then you would want to do it. I wouldn’t have to ask you.”
Was it true when he said he couldn’t feel the pain? Did that make him sharp, too?
For a moment, like fire doused with gasoline, resentment flared in Killer’s chest.
The ground crunched beneath him as he struggled to stand, pushing himself upwards with hands that were already glass-coated and bloodied. “I’m trying,” he insisted; ignored the way that his voice pitched upwards as his hands slipped beneath him. “I hate that I have to prove myself – prove that I mean it – like the fact that I’m doing it in the first place isn’t enough,” he hissed; grunted as he forced himself to one foot, then stumbled again. “I want to do this for you. I want to. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to you, but, I swear to you, I am trying.” He managed to get onto only one knee, glaring up at his love with determination; as if the struggle itself would ever be enough to stand as proof. “I love you. I do love you.”
And, coldly, bright purple eyes stared down at him, dousing his fire. “Then, why don’t you stand up and come to me, Killer?”
Frozen for only a moment, “…Fine.”
If Killer had any room left amongst exhaustion to feel shame, then he surely would have been humiliated by the way that his fingers continued to slip beneath him and painted the glass red; by the way that he only managed to put weight on a both feet for a fraction of a second before he was sent sprawling back downwards – face first – yelping as shards made a home within him. It was strange, then, that, yet again, guilt somehow found its way in instead. Hatred, though he couldn’t be fully certain for whom, broiled in his soul mutedly at the realisation, but there was little room for it to take root.
A grimace strained his expression as the first tears mixed with determination – called to the surface by an instinct that he was sure he’d stamped out like the rest of his emotions; like his self-preservation – and, after managing, with great effort, to push himself back up onto his knees once more, he went rigid, unable to fight against the tremble in his arms, revelling in what once he knew must have been agony; when did that change? How long had it been, now?
He wiped watery determination and crimson from his cheeks, only dirtying himself further in the process, and, slowly, allowed his skull to press forward against the glass again; bowed before his love in a crude mimicry of submission despite the position’s inherent disobedience.
Above him, dismay sounded, and his failure solidified, “That’s all you can muster for me?”
“I’m sorry,” Killer wheezed, helpless in a way he had grown used to.
“You’re always sorry.”
“I’m– I’m trying,” he insisted again, and the shuddering breath with which he spoke disturbed the glass beneath him. The assurance felt empty in a way he couldn’t hope to achieve. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t love me anymore,” came the damnation.
“No. No, I do,” Killer began, desperately. He clutched shards between his fingers, grounding himself in the familiar way the blood seeped into his joints, then reached, pathetically, for his partner; like he couldn’t help but to reach out for the sharpness even when it wasn’t being asked of him. “I love you,” he pleaded. “I’ll try harder. I’ll do better.”
Glass crunched around him, and he didn’t bother to temper his wince as his love knelt and gently – in a way that Killer hated to think of as uncharacteristic – guided his chin up from the ground so that their eyes could meet. Again, tears that he didn’t really feel pushed their way out onto his cheeks, falling in dark streaks. Sharp purple searched his empty sockets, and, this time, Killer knew exactly what it was they were hoping to find.
“I love you,” he repeated, more firmly. His hands wrapped around the other’s wrists, smearing them in blood just the way he liked. “I love you, and I’m sorry. Please.”
One more moment of silent consideration – though, really, it felt more like condemnation – passed before, finally, “Okay,” and that single word was enough to allow the tension he hadn’t even been fully aware of to leave Killer’s bones. Gentle fingers wiped at crimson on his cheeks, a pathetic reflection of earlier, and Killer leaned into the nauseating touch. He couldn’t be sure if the pain that flared was from the shards embedded in his bone or from the touch itself; wasn’t sure what that meant; wasn’t sure it mattered, in the end. “I believe you. It’s okay. I’m sorry for getting upset.”
“I love you,” Killer slurred. His chest ached, but he ignored the feeling.
“I love you, too,” he returned. Then, softly, “Are you mad?”
With a shake of his head, he immediately insisted, “No. Of course not. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” A beat, and his sockets narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Killer echoed. He pressed his skull against his love’s hand, allowing his sockets to slip shut tiredly; in a bone deep exhaustion that he was well aware sleep couldn’t drive away. How long had it been, now? “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he repeated, and something like a smile made its way onto his face. After a moment, he released Killer’s skull, offering his hand warmly. “Here. Let me help you.”
There was a hesitance in the way Killer examined the subtle sheen of his partner’s hand, one that he squashed down as he placed his hand in the one proffered. When they touched, red blood of shard imbued bone painted the porcelain white of the other. The contact was torture, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of old wounds or new ones; wasn’t sure what that meant; wasn’t sure it mattered, in the end.
The shards made music with each step as he was helped to his feet, leaned against his lover for support; the soundtrack to their romance in the same way as dissension; as the sharpening of a knife. Each step was no tremendous amount of effort; as easy as breathing, the way it was meant to be. He didn’t feel a thing as they traversed the glass; as easy as breathing, the way it was meant to be. But, even if he did feel something – and he didn’t; couldn’t – it would have been his fault for stepping in the first place, really.
As usual, he was the fool for playing with sharp things. Damned the second he felt himself bleed and didn’t turn around; didn’t let go. Doomed the moment “I love you” became a plea.