Commitment

by justsomewords

What have you done?

Virus had it done years ago. He'd mentioned it a few times when it became topical again, when someone else was getting it done, when there was some new breakthrough in their methods. It wasn't something that bothered him, just something he occasionally mentioned in passing.

'I don't know why they've bothered making improvements,' he remarked, seemingly to the air itself. 'I've had it done and there is nothing wrong with how it was finished with me.'

That much was true: Virus suffered no ill effects that had surfaced from his treatment. He had the same exact treatment as Toue himself, after all, and if it was good enough for Toue, it was more than good enough for him.

Trip knew what the improvements were. He'd made sure to find out. He'd listened, eyes narrowed, close enough to eavesdrop but out of reach to become involved in the conversation. He knew they were waiting for him to get older, for his eyes to finally equalize. They said that there were issues and complications that could arise from those who had the surgery and weren't finished maturing. A lack of vision, poor vision, vision changing over the years. They said it couldn't be fixed, if it was done too early. He had to be patient.

In the meantime, he'd spent his days trailing Virus like a puppy, slowly moving from a mis-proportioned adolescent to a lanky, leanly muscled teenager. Virus seemed to like him more the longer he followed him, though why, exactly, was hard to pinpoint. He'd begun changing himself rather quickly, performing a haphazard bleach-job that the natural blond immediately detested. His eyes widened and deep grooves appeared on either side of his flared nostrils. He'd fixed it himself; the first movement toward accepting Trip into his life.

That moment had been a turning point. They scarcely spoke before then, except when Virus seemed annoyed by him. 'Why are you even here?' he would demand, his tone conveying his distaste despite his voice otherwise failing to reflect the outrage he felt. 'You say nothing to me but follow me day in and day out. When will you attack me as you have everyone else?'

He never answered, just watched him flatly, brows furrowed and pink lips pressed white. Sometimes it seemed Virus would finally lose his temper, would give in to the faint tension in his balled fists. Then he would collect himself. He wasn't a child, after all. Trip was. Trip was behaving like a child, which is to say, as he was expected to. There was nothing to be done. It couldn't be helped.

But that bad bleach-job. That could be helped. That could be fixed.

His fingers had altered the course of their trajectory, his moment of weakness allowing Trip to attach himself permanently. His fingers had tangled in his hair, pulling it apart to find the untouched patches of ruddy brown roots that shown through his brassy locks. His fingers had produced the money to pay for two of the purple and silver packets of bleach and toner, the bottle of 40 developer and the mixing tray and brush to apply them with. His fingers meticulously sectioned his hair and splattered the caustic chemicals on it, the smell of ammonia and grape filling the room. His fingers combed it through, his fingers took hold of his chin, his fingers moved his face side to side to evaluate his work.

Two hours later, they were the same pale blond, their hair nearly the same length and cut without further effort. He'd watched their reflections move in the mirror, watched Virus appraise his own skill. It was flawless, and he knew it. They were flawless.

And so it had come to pass that they were properly intwined, and Trip came to respond to the thoughts Virus aired in his presence. It was a habit he'd already formed in an attempt to fill the awkwardly silent space between them, and it startled him when he finally received an answer. Then another. Then more and more, Trip began to respond, and then to make his own quips, trading fast fists for a quick tongue.

Virus liked him more then. He was more at ease. He feared him less as the days passed and the conversations grew longer. He became accustomed to his presence and energy, and found him to compliment himself more and more. They'd started getting comments, too, that they looked like siblings. They were quick to shoot it down.

Trip rather liked that they were mistaken for twins, as it meant he was successful in paying homage to the only person he cared to be around. Though it annoyed them, he has satisfied that his transformation was on track.

He was happy when puberty carried him to Virus' height. For a few months, they looked wonderful together, both thin and long, the perfect height and the perfect hair. They were almost undistinguishable, especially when he wore Virus' clothes. He looked wonderful in them and for a time they were the perfect fit.

Then the unthinkable happened. Then his socks begun to peek out between the hem of his slacks and the tops of his shoes. Then his waistband was a bit too tight and his shirt strained against his arms. He grew too much.

Virus had consoled him without realizing the cause of his distress, having clothing tailored for his new proportions, matching but different, better suiting his bratty style. He distanced him but kept him close, he made him separate but kept them whole. He never noticed how the proud boy begun to slouch, hands thrust deep into his pockets, whenever they stood side-by-side.

It was too much to say Virus was fond of him, despite the occasional fluttering contact he made with his protégé. It was a product of his own idiosyncrasy, a tactile obsession that he never sought to correct. It was never more than an errant brush here or a momentarily press of his palm there, but it was enough for them both.

Those were the things that Trip longed to feel for those days he was bedridden, a mask pressed tightly to his eyes. It was hard not to fight the nurses, not to lash out when people made conversation in his room as if he wasn't even there. It wasn't until someone came without a word and trailed a light touch against his leg through the sheet that he knew he could be at peace. Virus had come to be with him.

They didn't really talk much during those stays, though Virus occasionally made a small noise at whatever he'd brought to read. The faint flutter of pages or a small series of idle shoe-taps were all that changed when he was there. Sometimes his fingers moved when he toes did not, and his blunt nails raked feather-light over the back of Trip's hand, just to reaffirm he was there, both to Trip and himself.

Then came the day he was to be set free once more. Virus had arrived to collect him half an hour early, just before the doctors were set to remove his bandages. They seemed fairly confident there were not going to be any complications, boasting that the new methods were vastly improved once more. Virus rolled his eyes slightly, but remained silent and out of the way. Though he certainly wished Trip no ill fate, he also would have had great satisfaction if this 'new method' was a failure.

"One, two, three," they counted aloud, the gauze finally lifted. Trip's eyes remained closed for a few moments though the lids flickered, the skin around his eyes painted with fading bruises. They were both scared in their muted way, afraid of what would happen when he opened his eyes.

"Go ahead," the doctor urged, stopping himself just short of nudging the boy where he lay. His hands wrung together instead, smile forced on his lips to hide his unease.

The world was brighter than he remembered, the harsh, white lights of the hospital seeming to burn through the lids themselves. Slowly, tentatively, his lashes would part, letting it in, letting his pupils remember how to narrow against it. A lump rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He wouldn't know, but Virus found himself similarly tense, arms crossed and brows furrowed as he tried to see around the medical staff.

Then it happened. His eyes were open, his vision clear, if not a bit painful, and Virus realized just what the 'improvements' they were talking about had been.

There, where Trip's gold-flecked green eyes had been, were his own bright blues. They stared directly at him, boring into him with their intensity. He felt emotion well up inside him, sending his fingers twisting into the fabric of his wool coat to stop their trembling. It caught him so off guard that he had no time to stop his reaction before it started, eyes wide in disbelief, in anger and upset, in outrage and fear.

The doctors had already started talking, quite pleased with their results and with their patient, unaware of the state his guest was in. Virus could scarcely hear their words individually, the room muffled and slurred around him as his heart pounded in his chest.

"Out," his voice interrupted, sounding on its own in a single cold, hard syllable. They stopped, turning and looking at him, confused and concerned. He would not look at them, his eyes transfixed on their double's. "OUT."

They obeyed him, scattering like roaches under light, filing out of the room to continue discussing the discharge, and whether or not there was something to be done about the elder boy. Virus' hand pressed the door shut once the last had passed him and with some amount of quiet menace, he descended on the boy laid out before him.

"What have you done," he demanded, his tone bewildered and incensed, voice kept carefully low. "You obsessive freak, what have you done."

They were back to where they had started, Virus combing critically over him, looking for any hint of reaction, Trip staring back with furrowed brows and pressed lips. But those eyes, they were different. No, he looked unnatural, he looked strange. His features were wrong now, the boyish charm of his pubescent body diminishing with each passing second. Had he found him attractive? He scarcely noticed before now. Before he was repulsed beyond all imagining.

Trip did not answer and Virus felt the bile in the back of his throat. How dare he. How dare he take his eyes. Hair could be shorn and left to grow in anew, clothes could be shredded and burned, his body was already disproportioned and lips too full, but this. This was irreversible. He knew that from all the discussions he'd heard.

"Answer me. What have you done," Virus demanded again, venom on his tongue. Any fondness he'd had was surely washed away now. Any moment of tenderness, any shred of camaraderie, banished forever.

"I made us match," came his reply, flat and bored, as if it were so mundane a concept that he could not fathom it needing to be said. In truth, Trip was equally upset, though he was sure that short of death, he would not leave Virus' side. "My eyes weren't right yet anyway, so now they're perfect."

The very idea that that was permissible was enraging. They were perfect eyes, but they were Virus' perfect eyes. He had not consented to this and did not consent to it now. With only a moment's search, his fingers closed around the bandage snips where they'd been abandoned and he leapt onto the bed. He mounted without effort, forearm pressed across Trip's clavicles, the snips held delicately out of the boy's reach.

"I will take them back from you," he threatened, his voice cold and sharp. "They are not yours to possess and they will be returned to their rightful owner." He moved quickly, diving toward Trip's face, stopping millimetres from plunging directly into his altered pupil. Had Trip flinched or fought, even the slightest grimace or attempt to dislodge his assailant, the snips would have skewered him. He did not move, however, even as the blunt-ended blades trembled just before his eye, too close to focus on even if he tried.

"Then take them," he replied, voice impossible to read, flat and bored as always.

Virus' hand began to tremble more and he pulled back, palm keeping the larger boy pinned as he sat back against his hips. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't reacting. Was this a bluff? Was he going to throw him off any moment? Were they going to end up tangled on the floor, scratching and biting and stabbing and punching until one of them died? The adrenaline coursed through his veins, though he swallowed it back, stilling his breath, firming his resolve.

"You're insane," he found himself saying, head shaking ever so slightly in disbelief, eyes never leaving his captive's face.

"I'm devoted," Trip corrected, still unmoved and unmoving.

Virus could scarcely grasp the concept. At what point had the boy that followed him become the man who stalked him? At what point would it end? How had he missed this change? Or had he noticed and merely ignored it?

"Devoted," Virus repeated, voice carefully drained of energy. "And what happens when your devotion fails you? What happens when you come to hate me, just as you hate everyone else? What will you think of your perfect eyes then?"

Trip did not answer. After a moment's pause, Virus continued.

"You'll hate yourself. You've made this irreversible. That's a commitment."

"I am committed," Trip assured.

"You're defective," Virus corrected.

At this, Trip shrugged. It wasn't as if he didn't consider such things on his own. Virus' condemnation only did to confirm to him that he had a long way to go. He remained unchanged.

After a moment of silence, Virus reached down, taking Trip's hand in his own. They were so much bigger now, less delicate and fine boned but just as soft. He pressed the snips into his hand, a move that required unspoken trust that they would not be used against him. His eyes were narrowed critically upon him, his heart racing.

"Then do it. Take them out."

The order was firm. Virus knew this would be the end of the charade. The devotion would end here. He would not do it to himself, even as he insisted he would submit without fight to his living deity's assault. His eyes flicked between Trip's face and his fingers, watching as the snips turned this way and that. He was going to fold. He was hesitating.

And then, the snips found the proper position.

"As you wish."

Before he realized what he was doing, Virus had caught Trip by the wrist, knuckles white with effort, forearms shaking against the pull of Trip's. He had committed, had swung his arm toward his face with intent to impale his new eye on the snips, remained shaking with the blades just centimetres before his narrow pupil. He still strained against Virus' grip, feeling his palm slipping, threatening to allow the arc to complete.

"Enough."

With that, his arm relaxed, leaving it hanging by the wrist from Virus' vice grip. Virus would not release him before collecting the snips again, tossing them behind him with little regard for where they landed. It was over. The standoff had ended. Virus had lost.

There were no more words spoken between them as Trip re-dressed in the clothes Virus had brought him. He slipped into his matching wool coat, tucking a long scarf into it before buttoning it up. They said nothing during the discharge process, nor when they approached the waiting car. Virus had calmed, had tugged his hair into place reflexively as he caught sight of himself in the waxed quarterpanel. Then, without hesitation, he turned to Trip and did the same, fussing with his bed-mussed hair to make it more presentable, for whatever that was worth.

They rode in silence, neither mentioning what had happened nor making small talk. They understood the silence, and how they were shifting back into place. While it seemed everything had changed, in reality, they knew nothing had. Once their emotions flatlined once more, they would have no further issues. By morning, they would preen side-by-side again, Virus fussing over him before allowing him to leave.

In the meantime, they would allow it all to settle, and as they reached their destination, Virus' fingers would brush against Trips, touching at the fingertips for a split second.

For the first time, he felt Trip flex back, curving against his and locking for the most fleeting of moments.