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“It really should be,” says Wil, and he turns the knife over and over and over in his hands. He feels fatigued, itchy, and the collar of his pink silk shirt is popped like a fruit that’s been stepped on. Grapefruit, maybe, something that makes your mouth taste like cotton if you get too much pith in your bite.
The glass of the coffee table cracks a little, sharp, quick lines that zig and zag.
“It should,” he repeats.
“It should a lot of things,” says Dark. It bleeds from the liminal spaces of the room; the corners, the cracks in the floorboards, the gaps between pieces of glass. The words untethered. Echoey. It seeps from both everywhere and nowhere.
“Are you brooding, my dear, or scheming?” Wil lets his head fall back on the sofa cushion. Feels his neck strain. It’s been a little hard to keep a train of thought recently, more than usual. This morning he came to himself sitting on the upstairs landing, soaking wet, with the shower running in the background and his shirt on backwards. He can’t remember why. He remembers a… why does he remember a gun? Blood all over his-
“I’m… tired,” throbs Dark’s voice. It sounds strained. The reason, no doubt, why he is choosing not to coalesce.
Wil hums. “Me too.” There’s an elegance to his chaos, usually, how he wears it like one of his bright shirts. That’s not here today, and he knows that. There’s a hairline crack in the wall that looks funny when the light floods over it; Wil tips his head, watches it move, even though it probably doesn’t.
The table cracks a little more. Wil rocks forwards, smooths the pads of his fingers over the broken glass. It feels warm. There’s a flicker of red and blue light around his cuticles. It tickles a little and he huffs a laugh. The air contorts around his ribs, his lungs, on the way out, like streamers maybe. Or-
Sometimes it’s hard enough to just exist. Or maybe those are Dark’s words, and he’s forgetting he said them. Usually it doesn’t bother Wil. But today the edges are jaded and sharp and he remembers strange things that feel familiar the way the vague sense of a nightmare does after you’ve woken up and forgotten it. Deja vu. Weird word, that. There’s a kind man in his memories, drunk as hell, laughing while hanging onto his arm to keep upright, and it clogs his throat with something strange and thick.
Wil rubs at his forehead with a shaking hand. Ask. Maybe he-
“Darky?”
The room stills, like something’s listening. His fingers tingle where they’re still resting on the glass.
Oh. It’s gone- like mist before a storm. Wil tries to bring it back- to remember what he remembered, but it’s not tangible anymore. A little strength returns to his limbs, settles like weight.
“Wilford?” prompts the reverberating voice. The shadows deepen, and the color of the room drains. It’s always fascinating, watching the saturation shift. It never happens the same way twice. It fish-eyes, ripples. Sometimes it’s like disco lights- or is he remembering disco lights? When was the last time he went dancing? It feels recent. Does he own a shirt the color of the one in the memory? Is that a memory or something that hasn’t happened yet but also has?
“Sorry, dear, I lost the thread.” Oh. He’s holding a knife, when did that happen? He flicks it open, closed. Repeats like an off-beat.
The house creaks.
There was another house. Somewhere. Looming and heavy and- a red silk dressing gown? Laughter. Cruel laughter.
Something closes around his wrist and Wil startles, drops the knife with a clatter and blood begins to fall.
Dark’s standing over him, edge-lit and monochrome, black eyes watching the red drops dripping onto the floor one by one.
“What did I-“
Dark presses a thumb into the slice in Wil’s hand.
Did he grip the knife too tight without closing it first? He hisses through his teeth. Feels the skin knit back together. Like a zipper. Hm, he really should check the-
Dark’s still staring at their hands, and the echo of blood found in the droplets that don’t vanish. He looks pale. Well, paler, if grey can be called pale. Just certain shades of grey? Or all of it. Ash after a fire is pale, like the color the moon is if you take a photo of it with the brightness down-
“Darky.”
Dark shivers. Wil can break his grip any time he wants to- he doesn’t. Why is he looking like that, again? Did Wil say something? Usually he says something, but if he already did-
Focus. The lucidity is slow, like tar, and Wil slips his other hand up to rest on Dark’s arm. Static crackles. The table cracks, glass tinkling to the carpet.
“Sit down,” says Wil, tugging.
Dark folds, lets Wil guide him down to the couch beside him. His suit is charcoal and his tie is red. He doesn’t blink, but he doesn’t let go either, just adjusts his grip so it’s not digging in anymore.
Where their skin touches there’s a feathering of color and absence. Grey against tone and a fuzzing as neither side wins. A mess without rules or order.
Dark stirs, and something in his strained face eases a little, like a pin in a balloon. “You-“
“Gripped the blade by accident, I know.”
A flare of red light, twitching. A wet crackle when Dark’s neck snaps.
What… What is Wil doing here? Where did-
He shakes his head, not now, not now, just a little longer. There’s a name for the expression on Dark’s face, the softer lines of- the way his grip loosens further, how the blue outweighs the red.
It’s a name Wil can’t remember.
There’s a bar, or is it a club? He’s dancing, lost under neon lights. No- it’s a-
Wilford feels himself slipping, like scrambling to avoid a mudslide. He watches Dark pick the knife up. It’s pink. That’s good- he likes pink. Why is it open? The blade gleams. Dark flicks it closed, sets it on the table.
“Nicely done,” says Wil. His voice sounds cheery again, more than it did before. Why did it sound different before? The smallest hint of a smile plays up the side of Dark’s face. He looks tired. Is he tired? Maybe it’s something familiar. Maybe it’s the Mark shitshow again. Wil doesn’t know who Mark is, just that he keeps hurting Dark. That every time Dark thinks he has him, he doesn’t. There’s scars under the suit, rippled and ropy. There’s a crack on the wall- Wil squints at it. It moves. Maybe. Maybe it’s just the light.
“Tired?” says Dark. Intent and shadowy. There’s pain in the lines of his face now- like his body’s being cruel to him. Rude of it- oh question first, right-
“A little.” He reclines. “How did you know?”
Dark doesn’t answer. He just leans back against the sofa, gaze a little distant. He’s warm when Wil slumps against him, head on his shoulder. He smells cold- like secrets and snow and trees in a frozen landscape-
Why does that sound fa-
This is nice. There’s an arm around him, thumb rubbing circles over his ribs. Why is there glass on the carpet? The table’s broken. There’s a knife on it. His knife. He’ll have to remember to pick it up again later.
Wil closes his eyes.