Chapter Text
dear diary
i hate the smell of blood
…
There's something about the way a smoker hangs a cigarette between their fingers that non-smokers will never understand.
Something about the way a bottle hugs the body of an alcoholic that is seen as life-wasting and disappointing.
Something about the tears that run down and the rush of blood to a drug user's head that gets them called insane.
And something about the way human skin breaks and allows for the deep flesh underneath to make its way out to breathe the air that makes Spoke smile more genuinely than he has in a long while.
…
It was supposed to be small. It started small, Spoke realises.
He still recalls the first time he ever did it. Properly did it, because he never counted scraping at his forearm with a ruler all that harmful.
It was the most particular time too; even now, he's confused as to why he decided that day would be it. Mapicc had just been over one lovely day, and they had a good time. Great even. It was one of the best days Spoke had ever had, and he really didn't know why he had to ruin it for himself.
Because as soon as his best friend left, the box cutter that was used earlier for crafts started literally screaming at him. He'd never done it before, never tried. And if he were to be honest, he was terrified.
He was terrified when people said they'd slit their wrists. He couldn't even hold out his wrists facing up in fear they'd be cut off.
Yet… yet…
…
"Stop looking at it, you idiot," he murmured to himself.
He is uncontrollable. He still reached for it.
"…Once. Just to know how it feels. Just to get this stupid pain out of my chest," he's unable to stop his legs from shaking.
The bedroom door was closed, and he kept multiple jackets, hoodies and long sleeve wear to be used one day at his disposal.
For the longest time, Spoke had suddenly, on one fine day, just… started worrying. Actually, worry itself cannot convey the sheer dread that he felt in the pits of his stomach. That one day he'd fall so far down, and no one would bring him back up. It was almost as fearful as picking up that blade itself.
Well, almost.
Carefully, a box cutter was lifted. Carefully, void-black hands slid the blade out of its holder, the noise crackling into the surrounding walls.
Carefully, it was poised just at a small angle against a blank slate. Carefully, eyes were locked onto his lower arm. His palm faced the ground, he wouldn't ever do it facing up.
He wasn't ready yet.
And carefully, very slowly, a metal's edge scraped across Spoke's skin.
It… was beading. Small, but beading. It was shallow; basically a paper cut. It wasn't even deep enough to be considered a cat scratch.
But it was red. It was red, and by the void, it stung.
It stung, and more and more he did. It stung, not in the way bees inject themselves and die, not in the way a maniac's eyes sting after an episode,
But in the way that burns. In the way that is sharp and prickly and light.
And nobody knew, he thought bitterly. Not Mapicc, not his dad, not his brother… No one.
Even with his father downstairs, even with his brother in the bathroom, in the same house,
Nobody knew an artist was making their first debut.
And it felt so, so good.
…
Spoke snaps out of it.
Spoke snaps out of it, looks down, and laughs.
Because it is hilarious, how much more clever he's become. How much more brave he's become.
It's making him brave. Stoic.
And tears stick themselves onto skin, in a school bathroom. The air is thick, the walls are mocking, and the lights are dead.
He can remember the placement of every scratch on his arm. The differences in depth, the different ways they slightly scar and how long it took for each to fade.
His phone barely holds on. Stupid argument, stupid Jamato, stupid friend group, stupid everything.
Spoke literally cannot go a day without messing up everything for people he actually cared about.
Honestly, every time it comes to this, to when he pulls metal out of his pocket and paints a picture of crimson with it, half the time it isn't even that serious.
Really, he's just being dramatic. It was just a stupid disagreement that broke an already-broken-anyway friendship.
It was more than friendship, dammit.
But he can't stop.
He laughs again, and slashes a snuck-in precision knife right across his arm, palm up.
The area suddenly turns blue. For a second, Spoke thinks it had carved an entire slit in there. His skin was the same hue as Jamato's cloak, and then purple, and then finally a familiar red liquid starts filling in the cracks.
His eyes widen in awe. Dots dance around his vision, and a breeze of light air caresses his body.
It went in deep. For the first time, it went in deep, deep enough to- to leave a mark.
Spoke feels he could touch the stars.
And for the first time in such a long time, there's actual hope that he can reach them in the first place.
And so he does it again. And again. Each time with the intention of recreating the same effect, to no avail, as he gets weaker and more hesitant.
It doesn't hurt.
Not yet. It will sting and it will burn. But for now, all he needs is the fact that he deserves to bleed.
Outside, he can hear kids scream and run around in joy and middle-schoolers gossip around lunch tables. He already knows the angsty teenagers who look for car after car, waiting to be picked up and brought back home.
A teacher on the loudspeaker calls his name.
Fuck. His dad is already here.
Goddammit.
Stupid school. Stupid time. Stupid life.
He can't bring himself to care anymore, though, as he rolls back up the sleeve. For the first time, he can feel the stickiness of his own blood clinging onto fabric, weaving itself through in a way that he'll have to wash himself.
It was supposed to be small.
But small was weak. Small meant fear.
Now, Spoke realises how not-so-small it's become.
And the realisation makes itself known with a small, twisted smile on the voidling's face.
…
He rushes himself up from the bathroom floor, and hauls the door open.
The blinding evening light hits him, and he can feel the aftereffects of what happened creep up his limb like a vine. Internally, his mind hovers joyfully back to the red, instead of the muted buzzing of a thousand notifications on his phone from a raging Jamato.
It mutes everything else. It makes him feel safe.
God, he is disgusting.
Fuck, he doesn't want to be like this.
But why bother?
"Spoke!"
He feels a wing wrap around his arm, and suppresses the urge to flinch.
Mapicc pulls him into a hug, like the little hug monster he is. Spoke can see his dad's car start to move forward in the line.
"Going home already? You literally just got here bro," his best friend pouted.
Spoke's lips naturally curve upwards. It's easy to make sure other people don't worry when you naturally have a good time around them.
"Sorry bro. I'll catch you up tonight, yeah?" He easily says back.
…But he can feel something wet.
And warm.
"Yeah, yeah, obviously… The same world tonight?"
"Sure," Spoke replies, "I'm gonna continue working on the base with Jumper, 'kay?"
"Man… when are you guys gonna finish that bro? I wanna go explorin'… When have you ever seen the farlands yourself?"
Mapicc's complaining is followed by a sly little grin. Spoke punches him softly in the shoulder.
"Bro how are you supposed to explore without, like, somewhere to head back? You stupid, or? And anyway, we make the best bases."
Mapicc rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah… Just wait 'till we properly loot the End. Then it'll just be the three of us with an enderchest and three pairs of wings…"
"Sure, buddy, sure… hey… you can go do that, right?" Spoke smirks. "Our base being in the farlands and cool and shit… but I think you haven't been contributing much… Ya gotta pay taxes my guy…"
"Hey!" That earns him a punch to his shoulder. He knows that Mapicc just delivered back the same gesture, but honestly, Spoke doesn't know if he's weak or if Mapicc just doesn't know his own strength.
"You guys are so mean……" Mapicc pouts, "You know I 'zon wanna go all on my own… That's boring man, I've done that a million times already."
"Heyy…. Jumper would've said something worse…… I'm second by a very far margin."
"You sure about that bro? All you do is bully me."
"What?! As if!" Spoke tosses his hair back dramatically, "I'd never do such a thing!"
He puts on the most innocent looking face he could possibly muster, and flutters his eyelashes at Mapicc. The demon hybrid in question doubles over himself in laughter, pulling out his phone.
"Bro!" It literally seems like he can't stop laughing, "Do that shit again. I'm dead… I'm recording that."
And as ordered, Spoke flutters his eyes again. While also putting on an extra few seconds to it.
Mapicc shows him the video, and Spoke actually realises how freaking ridiculous he looks. He's also pretty sure the rest of his grade-mates are trying to pretend they do not know Mapicc and Spoke at all.
His best friend's laughter is satisfyingly resounding, and he'd honestly trade it over the noise of anyone else any day.
Mapicc's eyes drift down, as he recovers from the laughing mess,
And Spoke feels something drip from his left arm.
His heart drops when he sees Mapicc's eyes widen.
"…Hey, buddy? You're- um. Kind of bleeding. Shit, that's a lot- Spoke-"
"Don't."
Mapicc suddenly stills. Spoke stares at him like a deer in headlights, as his voice suddenly drops octaves.
"…Spoke? What's wrong?"
"Don't."
"Hell you mean don't…? Bro, you're- you're bleeding! What even is- Did you even realise?! Stupid question. Clearly you have. What happened?" Mapicc starts to walk closer to him, and Spoke can tell he's trying to keep his voice steady. Even if he's struggling to.
"Ma-Mapicc. Don't." He can feel his pulse thumping to the sound of shoes sprinting past on the ground.
"Spoke. Spoke, listen to me, what the hell happened? Did someone hurt you? Was it science?
Dude, can I check? Please? That's a lot of blood. Holy shit, your entire palm is drenched. Bro. Bro- bro.
Spoke. Please talk. I'm freaking out- Spoke! For fuck's sake."
Mapicc breathes. Eyes gather together from others as if commanded to, focusing on Spoke as if they were lasers ready to be fired.
"Why the hell are you bleeding?! Spoke, plea- please. I can't- Spoke, Spoke, by the void, that's too much blood. SPOKE! Can you hear me?!"
His shoulders are wrung by sharp red claws digging in a panic. And suddenly, Mapicc is directly in front of him.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can't even look at the boy in front of him, the one begging for him.
"Please, Spoke- please. Stay with me here. Spoke! Don't do this shit- please! Answer me, holy shit, dude you're seriously FREAKING ME OUT. PLEASE, BREATHE."
He feels pricks around his eyes, and suddenly he realises that he's been gasping for air that won't enter his lungs.
He backs into the wall behind him, and scrambles down onto the floor. He tugs and wildly thrashes around like a rabid dog.
He needs to run. He needs to get out of here, now. Now. Now. Now.
"Spoke- Spoke please. It's okay- Please?! PLEASE?! TELL ME WHAT TO DO, PLEASE?! You're fucking freaking me- No- Sorry- Just- SPOKE!"
His lungs are fighting to breathe. Fuck, more air is leaving than is even entering. Fuck, it burns- it burns, his mouth is dry and his throat aches and scratches from how many pathetic gasps he's taking in-
Fuck, fuck- something else- anything else. Anything else but this pain, anything, anything else, something else that burns-
"WHAT THE FUCK?! What the hell- what- what the hell-" He can hear the panic rise even further in his best friend's throat, the claws trying to pin him down squeezing in, "DON'T DO THAT?! SPOKE! STOP!"
A sudden heavy weight crashes upon his body, as Mapicc literally pushes and pins him down onto the floor, trapping Spoke's arms.
It's suffocating.
He can't move. Fuck- FUCK. He can't move. He can't get out- Dammit- DAMMIT!
Holy- holy shit. His throat burns, he's all disgusting, and snot is running down onto his face. The floor is so weirdly fucking warm, and red, and wet, and he doesn't know where it's coming from- and- fuck.
It's from him- that's his blood on the floor, those are his claws that are dripping liquid, and that's his arm that has gaping-
He's going to throw up.
Lord- lord- he's never seen so much blood, even worse to know it's his, and-
"Spoke,"
Dammit- dammit… It's so loud.
"Spoke, I'm sorry."
It's so bright, it's too bright, it's so sticky.
"I should've- I should've realised the moment you stopped responding- Spoke. Please. Please, hang on, please."
Too fucking warm. And wet. And heavy. And small. And cramped.
And disgusting.
"No- you're, please. Ignore them, ignore everyone, everyone's gone, please. You're strong, you're smart, you're- Spoke. Don't you even fucking close your eyes on me. Plea-"
FIGHT. For fuck's sake, FIGHT. The world is folding in on itself. He's going to die.
He needs to fight.
But he's so tired.
…
dear diary
i hate the smell of blood
but it feels so good