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The night is angry. A nonstop torrential rain falls, the accompanying wind whipping through the droplets to leave nothing but wet, biting pain on Tartah's skin. His fingers are going numb from the chill, digging into Custas' waist as he drags the boy into their warehouse, trying to escape the vicious outburst the sky brang. They could not rest yet, Custas and him. Pushing back wet hair that lay slick to warm cheeks, Tartah stares at the long eyelashes that have fluttered close, the soft curve of Custas' nose, his mouth, parted and taking in shallow breaths. A distraction, wholly unwarranted, and yet Tartah cannot stop himself.
Worse than a dog, he thinks, as he attempts to set Custas down on the floor as gently as he can. Tartah can hear the other boy groan as soon as he hits the ground, and Tartah only mumbles out an apology that goes unheard. He needs to peel the wet clothes off of Custas before he falls more ill, or at the very least dry him with a spell, but his hands won't move any closer towards him.
How disastrous this entire night had been. Had he known Custas was in no condition to have been going out, he would've never allowed him to step foot outside of the dingy warehouse labeled "home". He could never call it that, despite Custas' insistence that they do, but the thought of arguing further with Custas was more unsettling to him than using a simple word. He knows that Custas doesn't really consider this place "home". It would be impossible to.
He supposes Custas would also know that Tartah would've caged him inside if he had shown any signs of sickness. That knowledge had done neither of them any good, ending with Custas failing to carry his own body through to fatigue, and the pouring rain drenching him to the bone as he grit his teeth through a sick haze.
"The Silverwood," Custas says. "It wouldn't listen to me." He reaches out towards his ankles, letting his hands wrap around them and squeeze. A made habit, coming as naturally as the Silverwood that was always wrapped around him. Tartah swats his hands away lightly.
Custas was not "himself', as of the Silverwood. Still Custas, yes, but nothing alike the boy he had once known. Tartah was only so young, and so deeply enamored by the idea of a new friend. One he could laugh and teach, give him everything that he deserved. Now, Tartah is afraid for him. He wishes things could go back to how they had been, that Coco was still here, and that the Silverwood would stop growing.
"You should sleep," Tartah offers.
"I don't want to," Custas says.
Tartah sits, next to him, still adorned in wet clothing. A drying spell would do them well, so grabbing what little was left of his ink and paper, Tartah shakily draws. Line after line, strokes falling into place, he finishes the circle, paper barely holding on due to it's dampness, and lets the heat envelop Custas and him.
Custas practically purrs at the sensation, leaning into Tartah when he feels the warmth. Sick and delirious, he must be, for him to nuzzle Tartah so lovingly. His breath hitches, feeling the now dry paleness of Custas' hair tickle his neck, and Tartah quickly moves away. This, he could not let this happen. Custas was a friend, one who was sick, and Tartah was nothing more than an animal. He squashes that incessant roiling in his stomach, stamping it into nothing as he returns, keeping Custas' head barely grazing his shoulder.
The once-black hair that soaked in all of the light in the room, drawing the eyes into the inky pools of his dark eyes, were now painted what Tartah knew to be a brilliant white. Reflecting the soft glow of the moon, turning light, Tartah brushes it back so the strands would not fall into Custas' face. A mistake, surely, because now Tartah can see everything in clear detail, the flush of his cheeks due to sickness, down to soft bobbing of his throat when he swallowed.
The edge of his shirt is peeling open, and Tartah quickly hastens to cover Custas up. Custas, of course, does not notice. His beauty so apparent, Tartah was sure even Custas himself had known, but such knowledge couldn't even cover Tartah's horror when he realized his thoughts did not stop at mere appreciation.
A want to hug, a want to love, a want to kiss Custas until both of them go silly. Until Custas cannot breathe, and neither can he, because they're too wrapped in each others arms laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Tartah desires, he wants, he wants, and such a thing he can never have. The image of Custas laughing until he doubles over, clutching at his stomach with tears in his eyes is nothing more than a mere fantasy, because Custas could not feel such happiness ever again. The idea of Custas wanting to kiss him, to love him and hold hands with him, to be given gifts and taken care of is so outlandish Tartah does not dare to bring it up.
He cannot look at his friend like this. It feels sick, slightly perverse, for him to feel this way . He hadn't even been sure on what his feelings for Coco had been, but it certainly hadn't felt so gut-wrenching. The lack of Silverwood budding inside of Coco could've been the case, but he suspects it's something more- the want to kiss Coco's knuckles and make her smile hadn't ever been as painful as how it felt with Custas.
Improper, for Tartah, who shouldn't feel this way anyways. No matter how sharp Custas' beauty may cut him, Tartah mustn't bleed for him. This could not be right, surely was not right, and it was a betrayal of Custas' trust to feel such miserable things about the boy.
The truth seal burns on his arms. Custas knew when to leave it be, but Tartah was unsure he could keep such feelings to himself. What would Custas say, if he heard the things Tartah was thinking about him? Could he laugh it off as a joke, despite knowing that the truth seal prevents him from telling anything but the wicked truth? Or perhaps Custas would just turn away, awkwardly fiddling with the front buckles on his shirt before calling Tartah gross.
Gross, he might say, and even the thought of Custas mumbling such a thing makes him feel numb. Custas could never find out about these treacherous emotions, wailing inside of Tartah's heart and forcing his head to come to his senses.
Custas continues to lay his head on Tartah's shoulder. He smells like fresh rain, and Silverwood sap. The sweetness makes him awfully bitter. "Silverwood Trees make wands." He says. "If I'm a Silverwood Tree, who's wand will I be? Who's tool would I be made into?"
"A wand, huh?" Tartah repeats, the words like thick syrup in his mouth. "I don't think you're anything like a wand."
"Because I'm useless?" Custas says, flatly. Tartah wants to desperately see what expression Custas could be making, but he refuses to turn his face up. Tartah fails to reach out, again, again, again.
"Of course not," Tartah stumbles instead. "You're… you're fine the way you are, Custas. You don't need to be anything more, or less."
Custas' eyes are blinding, bright, even through the dim lit room. "Liar," he whispers, knowing Tartah cannot lie. "You're a liar, Tartah."
The seconds pass by ever so slowly as Custas suddenly pulls Tartah forwards, letting both of them slam into the ground. Custas goes limp as Tartah swallows, body freezing when he realizes he's practically on top of the other boy. He wants to move. He must. But Custas does not tear his eyes away from him for even a second, and begins to laugh.
"What do you want from me, Tartah? What do you get out of this?" Custas says, voice so quiet Tartah can barely hear it. "Tell me, Tartah. What am I good for?"
Tartah snaps out of his daze fast. The words feel like a bucket of ice-cold water was thrown over him, and he knows nothing good will come from answering a sick Custas with honesty. "Go to sleep, Custas." He says, as he cannot lie.
"The Silverwood is the only thing I have left," Custas breathes. "Other than you, what else can I trust more? It will never leave me. Will you?"
"Promise you'll never leave me," Custas says, weak and desperately, the words clinging from his lips as if they had never wanted to leave in the first place. Custas slowly brings himself to a seated position, face now directly in front of Tartah's. Awaiting an answer, holding his gaze, Tartah knows what he must say.
"I promise," He says.
Custas gives a pleased hum, letting his head rest in the crook of Tartah's neck once more. His nerves feel alight, the touch feeling like a searing burn on his skin, but Tartah does not push Custas away. The whittling wind is still thrashing against the warehouse windows, the rain crashing along with it, but it's quiet in comparison to the loud beating of Tartah's own heart.
Custas lifts his head to the faint light of the moon, bathing in the glowering beams.
"What color do you think my hair is, Tartah?"
"Silver," Tartah replies easily, hand gently resting on Custas' head.
Custas leans into the touch. "Dummy. That's not a color."
His shimmers once more.
Back then, in the heat of the summer sun, this wound would've been unimaginable. The resting sigil on Tartah's arm would've been treated as nothing more than a laughable offense, both Custas and Tartah unbelieving in what was their future. Two children, so wrapped up in their own concerns, their own happiness, that the idea that it would get worse had been unfathomable for the both of them.
Tartah thinks about the first time he had seen Coco, her hands warm and calloused as Tartah burned red gripping them. He hadn't even known the name Custas back then, simply following the bright-eyed witch until Tartah stumbled over ever bit of her. Coco was incredible, her tenacity and will so strong it broke through any defense Tartah would've bothered putting up in the first place.
He thinks about Custas.
Custas. When he appeared, he had seemed so small. Smaller than the stones Coco liked to draw with, but left an impact that left Tartah reeling. A boy, full of pitiful rage in the middle of an alleyway that bloomed into a boy still full of that same anger, but accompanied by raucous laughter and beautiful smiles. Tartah certainly had no idea what being drunk was like, but from the way the adults described it, Tartah secretly admitted he'd get drunk off of Custas' wholehearted laughter.
He does not laugh like that anymore.
Tartah does not see much of Custas, not after that night. He comes to the warehouse, as he cannot forego sleep, but he avoids the conversations he'd usually have with Custas. The boy hadn't been as sick the following day, but from the way Custas' eyes trailed after him, Tartah was sure that he remembered.
He could not face Custas, not with the truth seal on his arm. Certainly, he had no plans to set Custas off, so he would always engage in idle talk during the nights per Custas' request, but Tartah felt on edge every time he would do so. An underlying worry, coating every action of his. What would he do if Custas found out? How could he stop himself from spilling, should Custas push a little further?
He avoids Custas, so that means he must force himself into the presence of others. Namely, Ininia, who wore pale robes that mixed with her pale complexion and her pale hair. The complete opposite of what Custas used to look like, and a stark reminder that she was the reason Custas was the way he is as of now.
She sits, idly, under the tree by Tartah's side. Her Master, Restys as Tartah knew them, was exchanging soft words with another Brimhat witch that Ininia wasn't allowed to join in on, so the two of them had resorted to attempting to draw sigils on the ground with a stick they had found nearby.
After minutes would pass, and many sigils were drawn, would Ininia lightly point out, "The lines on the rune are too short. That wouldn't do any good." She says it flatly, like there was everything else she'd rather be doing but could not, so she's forced into Tartah's side. She always acted this way, in Tartah's presence, and he reciprocated the feeling. She was someone who could not be trusted. Custas, who trusted no one, did not trust her either. But he followed. How you could follow, but not trust, Tartah had thought, but he knows better than to ask.
Ininia's face is pulled into a frown when she continues to practice the same spells over and over again into damp dirt, but despite the bored look on her face, it was clear she loved this. She loved magic, like she loved Master Restys and sewing and apple candies. She hated Tartah, he was sure, like she hated the Pointed Caps, the ones like him, the liars that pretended to be heroes.
"Why can't you draw any more spells?" Tartah asks her, because her love for magic should've created a vast repertoire compared to what Ininia currently has. She does not take lightly to the question, the scratching of her stick coming to a halt as she does not respond.
Tartah rephrases his question. "Why won't your Master teach you any more spells?"
He was not idiot enough to assume that he knew more than Ininia did about magic. Tartah hadn't even considered becoming a wizard until recently, and she had seemed to be one her whole life. But that, in and of itself, was the issue. How could Ininia, someone who touted her sufficiency and tutelage under Master Restys know so little?
Ininia sends him an ice-cold glare. "Why don't you mind your own business?"
Her ribbons pull into an angry brim to cover her face, a practiced habit of hers he's sure. She does not let the sneer clear from her voice when she speaks. "You, who follows me around now because you refuse to lock eyes with Custas anymore. Why don't you figure out why you're lousing around without him, or will you continue to spout your useless drivel at me in order to try and pretend to play friends?"
This was normal of Ininia. Snooty and defensive, but still a curious girl at the end of the day. Tartah did not miss the way her eyes slid over to his, clearly wanting to know why he would rather spend time with a girl he hardly likes before hanging out with a boy he does.
"I don't want to see him," Tartah says truthfully, letting his stick dig into the mud and stay standing. "I'm afraid."
She took it as the truth, for Tartah could not lie. "What is there to be afraid of? Or are you afraid for him?"
"That, too." Tartah muses. "But I'm selfishly afraid, so I'm running away."
For the first time in their conversation, he sees Ininia flounder. She opens her mouth, clearly about to say something, before snapping it shut. A few seconds pass, consideration clouding her face, not long until she schools it back to that usual listless expression of hers. "Admitting your problems won't make it go away."
Tartah shrugs. "I know. But what else can I do?"
The weight of the truth seal lays heavy on his arm and on her consciousness.
You did this to me, goes unsaid.
You did that to him, too.
Custas sits down next to him, his light hair falling in wisps as he fiddled around with a hair-tie. Normally, he would be shooting them at Tartah, but today, it seemed something was off about him. He settles comfortably next to Tartah, in a way that should feel normal, but it's everything but. He's too close, Tartah thinks. He doesn't know how to shove him away, so Tartah just gulps the knot down in his throat as he lets Custas sidle up next to him. "You should tie my hair, Tartah."
Tartah continues to practice drawing his sigil, not even looking at Custas' face. "You already know how to do that, though." He feels the way Custas shifts next to him, and decides he should add onto that at least a little. "Besides, I'm busy."
"What are you doing after your practice?" Custas asks, trying to lean against Tartah.
"I have an appointment," he says, vaguely describing what he'd call another day of lousing around with Ininia.
"After that," Custas says, and his insistence is shining through. He's clinging to Tartah's sleeve now, tugging, trying to pull Tartah's attention away from his subject and towards himself.
"It'll be late," Tartah muses, still as flat as usual, and all of Custas' motions stop. He doesn't bother looking up, thinking that Custas has gotten bored of pestering him, but yelps when he feels something latch onto his ankle and flip him up from seated position and towards the wall.
"Agh-?!" Tartah cries out, hands immediately flying towards his neck like muscle memory. Of course, nothing is there, but he can see the flash of hurt in Custas' face as soon as he does so.
"What do you take me for?" He snaps, crossing his arms. "I just needed to get your attention, if you weren't going to look at me. Do- do you think I'd seriously try and hurt you for no reason!?"
Tartah grunts, sitting up after he had been flipped. Custas' control on his Silverwood was eerily good now, and it was all the more unsettling. "No! That's really not- it was just a reflex! Besides, you didn't have to get my attention like that, did you-"
"Don't even start." Custas hisses. He's seated him in front of Custas now, trapping him between the boy and the wall. Tartah is trying to look anywhere but in front of him, but all it lands on is the rest of Custas body, crouched and clenched with fury. Tartah chooses to squeeze his eyes shut instead. "I did everything I was supposed to do and you still decided to ignore me. What's wrong with you? Did I do something wrong?"
Tartah feels the answer spill from his lips before he can stop it. "There's nothing wrong with you! It's all… it's all my fault. I'm sorry, Custas."
He thinks he's gotten Custas to back off, slowly pulling one eye open and jolts after he sees Custas' face, practically pressed up against his. He's so close, Tartah can known feel the warm puffs of breath that Custas lets out, in frustration or exasperation he's unsure, and Custas tilts his head at him. Mocking. "Okay. Look at me then."
There's no other choice but to comply. Tartah opens his eyes, staring into Custas'. He's heard Ininia describe them as pale, but no one dared utter the color. Tartah just acknowledged them as a light shade of gray, devoid of the joy that were mixed into his once dark ones, but now shining with a seriousness that Tartah knew the Custas from before wasn't capable of. He was breathtaking, his hair swept back messily and shirt collar so incredibly uneven, and Tartah can't help but think Custas was beautiful. Intoxicating, he remembered.
"Your face is so red," Custas muses, making no move to back away. "Could it be that you like me or somethin'?"
He's so smug it's infuriating, and Tartah hates that these jokes crumble into dust between them now. He can't stop it, he doesn't try to, when he utters out a helpless, "Yes."
For a moment, Custas' eyes widen, blinking at Tartah like he hadn't been the one to ask the question. It's baffling, how many times Custas will forget that Tartah cannot lie to him, and continues to foolishly act as they've always done. It's over, Tartah thinks, because now that Custas knows, he'll be left with nothing.
Custas' expression morphs into multiple things. From what was once shock shapes into acceptance, before a furrow appears between his brows. Tartah recognizes it from far beyond, one where he knows Custas is thinking, and that hurts all the more. Surely, he's thinking of ways to let Tartah down gently. He supposes his luck has always been this bad, starting with Coco and ending Custas. Or maybe it was the fact that Tartah wasn't very lovable, if anything. He understands it. How could someone love him, after what he did to Coco? After he left everything behind for Custas, after he let that disappointment and rage guide him into a decision he never ended up regretting?
"Take it back," Custas mumbles out, fist clenched. Tartah's own lips part in confusion, unsure of what exactly Custas means, before he realizes that Custas himself is looking away. The flush in his face is apparent, but rather than embarrassed, Tartah can hear a slight waver in Custas' voice. "Tell me it's a lie, take it back, Tartah." Custas says. He's left much distance between himself and Tartah, sat on the floor now.
"I, I can't," Tartah whispers.
"Please," Custas begs him, and Tartah doesn't know what he's begging for. "Please don't say such lovely things to me, Tartah."
The Silverwood coils cruelly around Custas' legs, slithering across the floor and beckoning Tartah towards him. It's clear what Custas wants, what the Silverwood wants, and Tartah feels his stomach roil when he realizes he can't give it to Custas. He must not comfort him, he must not pull him into a hug and tell him that it's true, that Tartah likes Custas more than anything he knows.
"Custas, I'm-" Tartah tries to say, but when he sees that pained expression on Custas' face, the honesty tearing the both of them apart, Tartah knows what he has to do.
It takes forever, each step feeling like he's stepping through mud. He glances back, with every few steps, towards the spot where Custas sits, arms wrapped around his legs as he rocks back and forth, groaning. He's hurting, Tartah knows. He's hurting, and Tartah cannot do anything about it. He's hurting, and it's all Tartah's fault.
If he hadn't decided to deal with his feelings so stupidly, would Custas have to clutch at the Silverwood that consumes him, dragging up unhappy memories, things better left long forgotten just so he can breathe for another day? Or was Tartah just like the rest of the world, leaving Custas when he needed someone most?
Hurt and alive, was the better option. Tartah would rather have Custas angry, hateful, and alive than happy and dead. It's a selfish thought, but when has Tartah ever been selfless? His choice to force Coco to speak, his choice to leave her and Grandpa, his choice to hang around Custas until his stupid heart fell in love. All he had to do was protect him and keep him safe, but Tartah could not control the way his heart would race around Custas, the way he wanted nothing but to be by his side.
The unfairness of it all makes Tartah sick. Picking up his pace, trying to get as far away as he can, Tartah runs. He runs, runs, runs, away from home, away from Custas, and away from himself.
"How did you find me?" Tartah remembers asking, back then, when they were cuddled up against each other as a warmth spell crackled incessantly.
"What do you mean?" Custas asks, tilting his head.
"When I was out in the snow, and I was lost. How did you find me?"
Custas does not speak, letting the minutes pass by. His soft breathing is lulling Tartah into a sleep, the warmth from the magic flames enveloping him and dragging him into a light sleep. That was rare, these days, with all the nightmares he would have, but with Custas curled up right next to him Tartah finds a comfort in the evening he rarely found before.
The blue of the sky melted into velvet, the indigo lingering like an unspoken hope, while Custas just leaned his head onto Tartah's shoulder. Silverwood sap fills the air, sweet and lingering, and for once, Tartah doesn't hate it. It smells like Custas. Like home.
"My roots found you," Custas murmurs, when Tartah feels himself about to doze into sleep. "They're always reaching for you." He says it like a guilty confession.
Tartah slips his eyes shut. Silverwood boys and dancing stars haunt his dreams.