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Seeing Norman again was a pleasure so unexpected, so impossible, that Ray never thought to deny himself of it.
Death was a terrible thing, but there was a sense of… finality that came in its aftermath. It wasn’t closure—couldn’t be when Norman was so important—but the knowledge that he was gone closed a lot of doors. The ability to see his smile again, for one. To hold his hand, fine-boned and so pale that blue veins were stark enough to match his eyes.
With Emma it had been different— she was there. She had a life to live and was determined to live it to the fullest. Sure, they were cattle trapped in a demon world, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop her. In a world devoid of options, Ray was certain she was going to use brute force and make some. Why would he tell her how he felt? Why would he put that kind of burden on her when there were so many other people she could meet and so many other things she could do? He couldn’t. He’d just get in the way.
They’d sorted things out in the end (messily, because things with Emma usually were), but Ray had been neck deep in denial by then and needed a lot of convincing.
Norman, death warmed over, was more ethereal than any of Ray’s hallucinations. The boy that had been haunting him was just that— a boy. His cheeks were full and round, he had large downturned eyes, and he hadn’t grown into his nose yet. Baby fat still present, his chin had been barely visible. Ray hadn’t dared to imagine what he might’ve looked like as an adult. It was too painful.
This Norman’s profile was strong, greek nose finally looking at home on his face. His cheeks had slimmed and his eyelids were perpetually half-closed, giving his eyes a sleeker appearance. His wispy white hair had grown thicker and longer, styled to rest above his eyebrows. His limbs were still long, but no longer quite as thin. Broader palms and shoulders were accentuated by the suit he wore, tailored to his figure. His voice too was distinctly his but deeper in a way that Ray should have expected.
It had been one year, eleven months, and eleven days since they’d seen each other. It had been one year, eight months, and thirty days since they escaped Grace Field without him. That wasn’t long enough for the grief to go away, but it had become less stifling. Ray had been forced to learn to live without him, and the thick layers of denial and heartache had shed from him like dead skin. He’d accepted that he loved Norman, but he’d also accepted that Norman was gone.
These emotions bubbled over, and Ray couldn’t stop himself from smacking him. His newly-defined cheekbone stung when it connected with Ray’s palm. When Norman hit the floor, it was with the same wobbly legs that weren’t able to keep up with him growing up.
When he laughed it was boyish, and the self-satisfied grin he gave him was painfully familiar when he said, “You got to see great things, didn’t you?”
Everything that followed after was a dream. Norman’s plan to exterminate the demons was logically-sound. The house he gifted them was huge, sturdy, and fully furnished. The food, something Ray hadn’t had to cook for once, was rich and flavorful. They didn’t need to be stingy and ration out seasoning or soup packets here. When the day winded down and the sun set outside, the bitter cold didn’t seep through the walls at all.
Ray’s heart and stomach were full when he came to rest at Norman’s right side. Emma was on the other squishing him between them, her ridiculously high body heat reaching him even through another person. Norman’s nice button-down shirt was soft against Ray’s temple, and he leaned into it further. Dozing lightly, he decided it couldn’t hurt if they slept on the floor for one night.
“It’s strange.” The white-haired boy commented suddenly, tone wistful. “You look about how I imagined, but you smell different than I remember.”
Thank fuck he said something first. “You do too.” Ray’d been wanting to bring it up ever since he noticed at dinner but didn’t want to put him on the spot.
Children’s scents started developing around seven or eight years old and were fully mature by age nine or eleven. Toward the end of their lives at the orphanage, Norman had smelled like fresh linen and jasmine. It was a clean scent, so clean it almost overpowered its own floral notes. Ray had always thought it paired nicely with Emma’s strong blend of cardamom, clove, and star anise. They balanced each other out. The perfect Omega and Alpha pair.
Now, Norman smelled of oak and iron. It was sharp, metallic, and earthy. Nothing like him at all.
“Ah.” He seemed surprised that Ray said something, awkwardly scratching at his cheek. “Right. I forgot you didn’t…”
“Forgot what?” Emma chirped, her chin resting on Norman’s shoulder. She looked so content and happy Ray could’ve died right then and there.
Their friend grimaced before his face quickly smoothed over, a deliberate masking of his discomfort. Even his scent was neutral, giving away nothing. “Lambda’s experiments were broad. If they could, they did.” Just two sentences filled Ray with dread, but Norman licked his lips and continued, “As a Grace Field product, I was spared from all but one. A few months after I arrived they started administering a pill. The physical examinations became strange, and eventually…” Norman’s eyes clouded over. A quick squeeze to his arm from Emma and he refocused. “To put it bluntly, someone in charge decided Alpha meat was more preferable.”
Ray knew it was coming before he’d said it. It wasn’t any less horrifying.
Emma gasped, a sharp quiet inhale like she’d been shot. Ray felt her heart drop, faint through their one-sided bond. “You mean they made you…? But why would they…”
Norman huffed through his nose, a half-laugh, and shrugged with a small smile. “A majority of cattle children are betas. Perhaps the upper class tired of the taste. An experimental farm is the perfect place to make use of barbaric human customs.”
Barbaric was the perfect word for it. The bunker archives had a small section of literature dedicated to bitching and studding, detailing the history and eventual outlawing of it in the 1900s. The process was so invasive and violent that Ray had gotten sick reading about it. To think that happened to Norman… that other humans had done that to him, to children…
Emma let go of Norman’s arm to take his hand between two of her own. Gently, she cupped it, her thumbs stroking along the ridges of his knuckles. She was handling him like he was something precious, because that was what he was.
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been…” she looked heartbroken. Ray felt the same, but couldn’t find the words like she could. “I can’t imagine how awful that was. And you were alone too.” Her voice trembled when she asked, “It hurt, didn’t it?”
Over Norman’s shoulder, Ray watched him brush a strand of hair out of Emma’s big sad eyes, tucking it into her braid. “I’m here now. And so are all the other children. No one has to be alone ever again.”
Emma threw herself at him, hugging him tightly. Her scent got so strong Ray’s eyes watered. “Never again.” She whispered tensely, “Don’t go where we can’t reach you ever again.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He replied, just as quiet. “I promise.”
“Good.” Emma said, and Ray had a front-row seat to her bright eyes becoming flinty. Her nails dug into Norman’s neck over his shirt collar, light, but forceful enough to crease the fabric. A warning motivated by anger with nowhere else to go. “If you did, Ray wouldn’t be the only one smacking you.”
Norman’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “You’ve gotten scary! I wonder whose fault that is?” He broke the hug and looked pointedly at him.
“Excuse me? She did that all by herself.” He replied dryly. “I tried to keep her happy and innocent but she wanted to run into hell with nothing but a trap pistol and Minerva’s pen.” Emma reached around Norman to shove him.
“You ran in there too! And at least I had the pen. What’d you have? A gun and your bag of scarves.” She stuck her tongue out for good measure. Ray rolled his eyes. Wear one scarf regularly and suddenly you’re the scarf guy.
“…I’m sensing there’s a story here.” Norman looked lost, and Ray instantly felt bad.
“I’ll catch you up,” he assured him. “Emma’s already done five years worth of stupid shit.”
“HEY!” She squawked, and Norman laughed behind his hand. When she saw that, she swatted him on the chest. There was no strength behind it because they were used to pulling punches with him. Norman was undoubtedly stronger now, but to them he would always be the kid that couldn’t go a winter without catching a cold. What they did to him at Lambda wouldn’t change that.
“We’ll have time for that later.” He said, gaze dragging over the wooden clock on the wall, “For now, we should probably sleep.”
Emma groaned and flopped back against the mattress. “Ughhh you’re right. But I don’t wanna!” She’d been saying that for the past three hours. “Can’t we play another round? Or talk s’more?” They’d already played so much chess that they’d lost track of how many wins and losses they each had. (Ray remembered of course, but he didn’t want to admit how many times the two had won against him. In his defense, he’d been distracted.)
Norman sighed fondly, “We can talk in bed?” It was funny how they all assumed they’d be sleeping together. It was the correct assumption, but it was still funny.
“You two can. I’m going to pass out.” Ray got up, ignoring Emma and Norman’s lighthearted booing, and opened the nearby chest for blankets. The colors, styles, and states of wear varied so much it reminded Ray of the bunker’s stash post-Goldy Pond. Any rips and holes were supplemented by Gilda’s sewing and Gillian’s colorful patches—and there were a lot more clumsy hands and accidents.
The two he decided on were on the thinner side, loosely woven and sunbleached in places. They smelled like wood shavings and soap, like the rest of the hideout. When he straightened up, someone gasped. He turned around immediately, searching the room. There was no danger. No one was in there but them.
“What?”
Norman’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated a centimeter more. Embarrassed, he looked away and cleared his throat into his hand. It was an obvious attempt to hide whatever shape his mouth had taken.
“What is—?”
“Sorry,” he interrupted, “Sorry I just wasn’t expecting… that.”
Why the hell was he so flustered? Ray looked to Emma for answers and found a weird but recognizable expression on her face. It was a tilted smile and tense brow—smugness hidden under several layers of faux calm. Oh, she’d absolutely done something. He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking the blankets to his side.
“Really? Harassing Norman the second my back is turned?” He raised his eyebrows, playing up his disappointment. Are you five? he asked with a glare.
Emma giggled delightedly like Ray’s annoyance was her favorite thing in the world, and held up a palm as if swearing on a bible. “Officer, I would never. I know how to keep my hands to myself.”
Behind his hand, Norman snorted and mumbled something that clearly wasn’t meant for their ears: “But not your mouth, hm?”
SHE WHAT!? Ray looked at her with a dropped jaw and she dissolved into honest to god laughter, the tips of her ears going pink and her cheeks dimpling. Norman moved to cover his entire face, embarrassed twofold at being heard. She’d really— Had she really just put her mouth on him? They found out he was alive a few hours ago! No one was that shameless, right!?
“Ray—” Emma could barely get the words out, delirious from amusement and sleep deprivation.
“I’m glad you’re proud of yourself,” he scolded, though he was still reeling. “He’s gonna leave us on purpose if you can’t behave, freak.”
“No, Ray,” her giggles petered out, tiny tears beading at the corners of her eyes as she caught her breath. “He was talking about you.”
The meaning of her words, Norman’s strange behavior, his back being turned— it all clicked, and his entire face turned scarlet. Instinctively, he reached back to cover the nape of his neck. Emma’s mark was bumpy under his fingers, the grooves of her teeth dark red and branded into his skin. It’d healed a few months ago and Ray had already dealt with everyone seeing it—it was in such a prominent place that only the highest turtleneck could keep it hidden. He’d forgotten.
He’d forgotten that he wasn’t supposed to have it.
“Oh.” He replied stupidly, suddenly dizzy and nauseous. Emma mistook his tone and her laughter started back up, Norman joining in. Meanwhile, his mouth was souring and drying. Norman’s expression hadn’t changed in the slightest—was he that good at hiding now? Because surely, surely he was furious. Norman told him how he felt about Emma all those years ago (though Ray had always had a feeling). Ray knew, and he still let Emma sweep him up. He let her convince him that it was okay, because he wanted it and would’ve accepted any argument from her mouth. Guilt, previously laid dormant, bloomed back to life and settled coldly at the bottom of his stomach.
“Ray?”
The deafening static in his ears died down. Norman was staring at him expectantly. It had been him that spoke, right?
“Yeah.” He couldn’t muster the uptick in pitch, question coming out flat and monotone and not like a question at all. Norman’s face shifted like he’d figured something out and Ray tried to repeat himself, “Yeah. What is it.”
“You…” his words were slow and patient, chosen with care, “You look ill. Is something wrong?”
Emma was silent now too, peering at him curiously. How long ago had they stopped giggling, staring at him while he stood there like a statue? How long had they patiently waited for him to stop ruining their fun?
“No,” he rasped, “Just tired.”
His favorite people shared a glance. Norman’s eyebrows drew together with concern and Emma shook her head a little, wordlessly telling him something that Ray could’ve deciphered but didn’t have the energy to. He really was tired.
Emma beckoned him with a hand. “Can you come back and sit with us?”
Here it was. He was going to be scolded for letting himself get carried away, for getting between them. The worst part was he didn’t blame them at all.
When he didn’t move, she said, “I want you to come sit. We both do, right Norman?” The boy in question initially startled at being included, but nodded firmly.
Feet made of lead, he crossed the small distance to sit in front of them, blankets wadded up in his lap and eyes locked on the floor. A warm hand coaxed one of his palm-side down, lacing their fingers together and wiggling in until they were pressed together tightly. It was sweet. I’m not supposed to be the one she’s holding, he thought.
“Are you embarrassed?” Norman’s voice reached him, even-tempered and balmy. Exactly how Ray remembered it—exactly how eleven year old Norman used to whisper to him on hard nights.
He shook his head, though that was part of it. Embarrassment was there, deep beneath the anxiety that was simultaneously clogging up his body and ruthlessly exploding in his chest. It felt like he was being electrocuted at the bottom of the ocean, buzzing out of his skin and crushed on all sides by several tons of pressure.
“He’s shutting down.” Emma informed their friend. She hadn’t done so to shame him, but it had that effect anyway.
“I am not.” Ray grit out, stressing each word as if they’d personally offended him.
“Of course. You should have no problem telling us what’s wrong, then,” she decided. Before he could say something shitty or brush her off, she added, “It would be… good,” his ears burned, “If you could do that for us.” The word choice was deliberate. She knew what she was doing. It still worked.
Carefully, he said, “The bite— I don’t regret it. But if Norman hadn’t been shipped out, it never would’ve happened.” Neither of them replied. He could feel the disapproval in their eyes without looking up. “It’s true. I’m glad I’m alive but,” but if my plan worked— if it had been you two, you wouldn’t have had to settle for me—
“No buts.” Emma interrupted and his jaw snapped shut with a click. “You’re alive. Norman’s alive.” She squeezed Ray’s hand and rested the other on Norman’s knee. “What’s there to be upset about? This is the best case, isn’t it?” When he finally looked up from the floor, he saw how tender her eyes had become. He chewed on the inside of his lip and looked at Norman next. Norman still looked concerned for him. He still cared for him, despite what he did. (Ray shouldn’t have been surprised. Like Emma, there wasn’t a mean bone in his body.)
“You’re not mad?” He finally croaked out. It was pathetic, he knew, but he had to ask.
Norman’s eyes narrowed as he thought, and Ray felt like he was peeling his skin back and reading his contents. “Why would I be?” He replied airily, “What you and Emma do isn’t up to me. Besides, aren’t you already wearing one of her marks?”
Ray pressed the inside of his wrist more firmly against his leg, flush spreading to his neck. That was technically true, but it was an accident from a long time ago. Emma’s adult fangs had come in and Ray happened to be the unlucky bastard sitting next to her—she had no idea what she was doing when she started teething on him. The one on his neck was intentional; anyone with eyes could tell just by looking at it. It was perfectly centered with even pressure on all teeth. Even her slightly crooked molars had printed out nicely. Its placement said a lot about their relationship too—while the wrist could pass as a pack mark, the back of the neck was a horrifically suggestive spot.
“That’s different.”
Norman and Emma shared another look. This time, they both smiled a bit and rolled their eyes, like he was a clueless baby who’d made his first social blunder. Screw them. They were wrong this time. They’d come to see that eventually.
Instead of arguing with him, Norman said the most evil batshit insane thing ever with a wholesome smile on his face, “Can I see it properly?”
Without so much as a thought, Ray covered his neck again. “You don’t want to.” He denied.
Norman crossed his arms over his chest politely, but his smile gained a slightly cold edge. “It’s a bit rude to tell me how I feel, isn’t it?”
“Ray,” Emma piled on, the single word so charged that he already felt thoroughly chastised. “Don’t be shy. You let everyone else see.”
Because they weren’t Norman! he thought distressedly.
“Everyone?” Norman said, sounding marvelously hurt. “Well now I feel left out.” Ray knew he was pretending to be more upset than he was for comedic effect (and to twist his arm) so he didn’t feel bad when he scoffed under his breath.
“I left you out on purpose, pervert.” He hissed under his breath, shocking tiny laughs out of both of them. “It’s just a scar. But if you really want to…”
Norman clapped his hands together, a jovial mimicry of prayer. It was a move so distinctly Emma that Ray almost smiled. “Thank you for indulging me,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll be gentle.”
He gave Emma a pointed glare. “You make each other worse.” They both laughed again. Really, their delirious asses needed to go to bed.
Resigned to his fate, Ray moved to sit in front of Norman and then turned around, tipping his head the slightest bit forward to stretch the mark out. His friend made a soft curious noise, and cold fingers lightly brushed his skin when they nudged his collar out of the way. Slowly, they touched down, brushing along the perimeter of the mark. He wasn’t even touching the teeth prints directly and Ray was shivering under the attention. Norman traced the outer edge of the top row almost reverently.
“You did a good job.” He hummed, and for a split second Ray thought the words were for him and choked on his spit. “It came out nice.”
“Thanks!” Emma replied bashfully, “I tried to stay really still so it wouldn’t tear or anything. It was so much harder than I thought it was gonna be,” she whined at the memory. Ray tactfully said nothing, not wanting to hint at why it had been so difficult for her.
Norman’s pointer finger slipped down to the bottom row, lingering near the deep punctures toward the center. All four of Emma’s canines were especially large, and the holes they’d created had ached more than the rest combined. Was Norman paying attention to them because they looked like they hurt, or was it something else?
“It paid off.” He said. “The illustrations I’ve seen were nowhere near as beautiful as this.”
“I had a pretty canvas.” Emma replied disgustingly.
Ray’s gut clenched and he snapped his head up. “Alright, enough,” he groused, trying to turn around when Norman’s fingers closed around the sides, squeezing both carotid arteries. The world stopped at the pressure, vision fuzzing. Ray tried not to make any embarrassing sounds, but it was hard when his chest was so tight and his head was so warm. Just as soon as it started it was over and Ray’s eyes fluttered at the blood rushing into his head, breath hitching.
“I want to look some more.” Norman complained, atypically childish and whiney like he hadn’t just cut off his brain’s oxygen supply. “You never let me see the first one.”
Heart racing uncomfortably, he corrected, “Mama never let you see it. She covered me with those stupid bracelets and collars for a reason.” It was too much of a liability for the orphans to be bonded when they were born to be slaughtered—they’d feel each other die and catch wind of what being “adopted” really was. Luckily, Ray knew long before Emma had bitten him so Mama didn’t need to ship anyone out early. God forbid it had been Norman instead. Neither Ray, nor Mama, nor the Plantation higher ups wanted to harvest a mind like Norman’s.
“Because we’d get jealous?” He mused.
“Curious.” Ray corrected, shivering when Norman’s touches got bolder, becoming more like strokes than prods. “Like you are now. Honestly, both of you act like you’ve never seen a bond mark before.”
“It’s different!” Emma insisted, “Seeing it on a person is way better than reading about it or looking at medical diagrams.” She… had a point. But still, it was him. Flattery aside, he wasn’t the ideal candidate.
“Besides, it’s your person,” Norman added, like that explained anything at all or even argued in his favor. Ray snorted and then yipped, Norman having pinched him at the base of his neck. “The farm owners worried about the wrong thing. Seeing this does make me jealous.”
“Told you, Ray!” Emma said. He’s not jealous of you, moron.
Trying to get through to her on this would be like trying to argue with ten brickwalls, so he didn’t bother and settled for an eye roll. Norman finally let him turn around, hands returned politely to his lap and the curve of his mouth not indicating that anything was amiss. (The glint of envy in his eyes gave him away, and guilt curdled in the pit of Ray’s stomach.)
“Now may I sleep?” He wasn’t expecting a yes, but still groaned when they both replied with a cheerful no. “Tyrants.” The criticism just bounced right off them. But Ray expected that too.
Eventually—because they’d been running on fumes for hours and had to—they collapsed in a pile on the floor. Temple flush with Norman’s shoulder again, he found he was already getting used to his friend’s strange new scent. If Ray brushed his hairline against his shirt until the spot smelled like old paper and black tea, well. That was between him and God. (And if cold fingertips brushed his neck again while he was drifting off, well, that was just a coincidence.)