Tempting Fate:
A Life Smudged with Facsimiles
There's a shadow outside his window, and he doesn't know where it came from. It's probably only a tree branch or a night-time insect, blocking the light from the only streetlamp that isn't burned out.
There isn't enough moon to cast as deep and precise a shadow as the one that's seeping into the pinstriped wallpaper.
The shadow is a small black stripe. He wants it to be Something Strange—something like he saw in the movies his mother doesn't want him to catch sight of, something that maybe Crime Scene Investigators would encounter. But he knows it's not. In a second he'll see what it really is and he'll hate the boring deception it played on him, but he can't stop trying to unravel its secret.
This is the curse of being eight years old with a vivid imagination.
Lately, Mom remarks to her friends when she thinks he isn't listening, that 'Alfred is eight going on forty.' Alfred likes that. If you're forty, you can do things.
If he was forty, Alfred could make his father come back from the business trip that never ends, he could get his mom to stop being afraid, and he could make the kids at school see the way he does.
People who are forty can make decisions. All Alfred can do is smile.
But he's not scared. He's supposed to stay awake and not be scared. That's how being eight works.
He wonders, faintly, if the stripe could possibly be a person. It could be the crazy homeless man near the Safeway, or a super-villain, or a Serial Killer. Someone maybe Superman would face. That would be so cool.
But it's not a person. It's as thin as a wriggly clay snake.
The green numbers on his digital clock flick from 1:08 to 1:09 while he watches. He doesn't like clocks. They're too rigid and regular to be interesting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred catches sight of the shadow moving, shifting, pulling itself apart into two sections. He can only see the separation if he tilts his head the right way, like mercury in a thermometer.
As he stares, wide eyed, the shadow springs apart like a pair of scissors, and throws itself into the street like a rubber band. Alfred rushes to the window, frantically casting his eyes about—but he sees nothing. The moon can't catch sight of whatever-it-was that he'd seen.
Whatever it was, it was Strange. It was Strange, and he'd seen it.
His heart constricts with emotion, and he almost doesn't notice the feeling of something shifting around in his chest. Almost.
As an older child, nearly eleven now, Alfred still isn't quite to forty yet. He's getting there, though, power-wise, at least. His classmates don't view him as a speck of dust anymore: he's now graduated to a dust bunny.
He sits at the top of a hill, looking over the playground. It's autumn, and he celebrates the change of the seasons with a new trick he learned: he makes kids trip and fall on their faces just by thinking. He decides it'll happen, and it does. They fall splat!- into the mud with their fancy pigtails all dirty and their squeaky tennis shoe laces in knots.
It doesn't work all the time, naturally; about two-thirds—enough that he knows it isn't just coincidence, or his vivid imagination. He thinks it should be strange, and he probably should feel guilty for hurting them. But they are the Them, so he doesn't feel bad. No one who isn't Them understands Them.
Besides, he doesn't see the Them as people anymore: all they are now are shadows on a wall. Like sock puppets, capering about for his amusement.
He wills the girl that pulled his hair in math class to trip, and she falls, bringing her friend down with her. Her yelp of surprise is tinny as it's carried up the lofty hill he sits on, high pitched like a dog whistle.
He feels a tiny release after stretching the Strange Muscle, like the feeling you get after scratching an itch that bothers you. Or maybe cracking a knuckle, or picking off a scab. Relief wrapped up with a little bit of pain.
He rolls his head around, stretching his sore neck. All his muscles ache these days. Mom says it's a growth spurt, and he agrees with her: only, he doesn't know if he's gotten any taller. But the smoky Shadow inside him has been stretching like a cat waking from a deep sleep, and he can feel its claws scritch-scratching in the confines of his chest cavity. He hates that it's started to feel nice.
A kid slips off the monkey bars, as he gazes balefully in his direction.
A year later and everyone in the school is a pimply mess with crackling voices and long, lanky limbs. Twelve, Alfred decides, is no good for someone with a boa constrictor in their chest. That's what it feels like, anyway: a snake made of shadow that constricts around his ribcage sometimes when he sees him walk by. Francis.
Francis has silky blond hair, soft green eyes, and a sharp, sarcastic wit that makes Alfred snort at inopportune moments.
Alfred doesn't even know the guy all that well—he has him in art class. Francis always smirks at him over clay and acrylic paint, and Alfred tends to wet his lips a little too often in his presence. It's a complicated acquaintanceship.
His hand doesn't tremble as he adds a layer of shading to the portrait in front of him. Painting is easy. Painting sates the Serpent, and allows him to rest while the snake takes over. It's relaxing, to have the boa loosen its hold.
He knows his Strange Muscle isn't really a boa, but it makes him feel better to give it a name.
The girls in his class have gotten increasingly strange the past few months; gloss has appeared on their lips and shadows on their eyelids. Everything about them looks about as false as he feels.
The other boys seem just as mystified, but they have begun to twist and morph as well, trying to disguise their pimples and ungainliness with sports and roughhousing, and the squeaking of tennis shoes on the basketball court.
Or the football field. Or the cafeteria.
Or the girls' locker room, which makes his cheeks go hot just from the thought of it. They've become obsessed.
And not one of Them has a boa in their chest.
Francis and his family moved to Vancouver two years later, melting Alfred's half-formed dreams of going to the same high school and continuing their complicated almost-friendship. Alfred felt his absence like a stab to the gut, even if he had only held a handful of real conversations with him—his boa constrictor gasped and floundered like a fish out of water, thumping its great tail like a stegosaurus against his ribcage every time he had art class.
He stopped painting.
The boa didn't like this much.
But this was the year he met Ivan, and the Strange Thing was startled into silence soon after.
Ivan was everything Alfred was not: tall, snowy hair—Alfred sometimes thought of him as an alien being whose feet never really made imprints on the ground. Ivan's iron eyes were filled to the brim with cool emotion—they were silvery pools with water lilies, they were smudged charcoal sketches of blood moons.
Alfred felt shivers trace icy fingers down his spine when he looked at those eyes.
It wasn't just that Ivan seemed different from the masses, but there was a strange sense of familiarity that whispered at the edges of Alfred's mind—it was such a relief to see something he understood.
It was a feeling of 'I know that!' and 'You're like me!', and it made Alfred giddy.
Alfred's mother occasionally asked how his friends at school were, and Alfred always answered with a monosyllabic answer of "fine" or "good"—he supposed it might be considered a lie, but he really did think that he was okay, despite there being no friends as such to talk about. Even if he wasn't exactly answering the question his mom asked him.
When Ivan slipped into his day-to-day routine, with his tide-slow smile and calm assurance, Alfred felt like he could finally answer her.
Every day Alfred jumped out of his bed aching to see Ivan again. His boa snapped and gnashed its teeth over the too-long weekends, irritable as a raccoon deprived of food in the deep night. Alfred lashed out at his family with an unwarranted anger when he was deprived of Ivan.
He painted with a fervor that frightened himself, and what he drew was bloody with shadows.
Ivan was the sweetest kind of relief possible, better than the tripping magic, stronger than the painting urge. Simpler, even, than the animalistic urge to eat.
Alfred's shadow ran along the brick wall as he sprinted towards his school, and he smiled at it once before pushing the doors open.
The boa coiled around his heart, purring.
Ivan was slow and deliberate whereas Alfred was impatient and electric-quick, and Alfred was surprised by how well they got along.
Neither liked to talk much, and most of what was communicated between the two was in secret smiles, knowing looks and brushes of fingertips across smooth palms—they could sit in Alfred's room for hours, just looking at each other, hearing the other's thoughts.
Ivan sometimes sat very still and let Alfred sketch him—the dips and hollows of his skin were carefully shaded onto printer paper.
If Alfred's shadow was a snake, then Ivan's was a bird, and it rested, fluttering, as Ivan's fingers twined in a nest around its trembling wings. Ivan's shadow was fragile, and as Alfred reached out a hand to touch it, his boa snaked its nose closer to taste the air between Ivan's fingers.
Alfred confessed his power to trip people, and the way he could cast shadows where shadows weren't supposed to be and how he could make people forget where they were going.
Ivan looked at him seriously and told him about how he could make insects fly in patterns for him and how he could make the air dance to the music in his heart, if he danced along, and how he could bend the weather if he wept.
Alfred felt wonder in his eyes, and saw it reflected in Ivan's dilated pupils.
When they kissed, Alfred saw out of the corner of his eye that their shadows kissed along with them as they were cast onto the drapes.
As time fluttered away, Alfred began to chafe against Ivan's bonds around him and their differing ideas about the Shadow; Ivan wanted to experiment, wanted to use it and wonder at it and show all their friends and family what they could do. Ivan really was a creature from another world—he wanted to mold the elements to his will, bend fire, steam the rain into mist, throw tempests into the world when he screamed.
Alfred didn't. He really, really, didn't. Normality attracted him, filled his belly with gnawing, aching want. He humored Ivan, occasionally twisting a self-cast shadow into a funny shape, or tripping the girl who sneered at them into the mud. At the same time, Ivan pursed his lips in slight annoyance and a less slight condescension whenever Alfred begged him not to tell.
Ivan had grand goals. All Alfred wanted to do was trip the idiots in his math class and go back to his reading.
Ivan didn't approve of the tripping—he'd said it a thousand times before—but he'd sometimes hide a half-formed smile behind his hand.
Alfred thought he might enjoy it too much. He punished the ones that looked at him oddly with vindictive pleasure, only stopping when Ivan forced him to. He hated being dragged back from his revenge.
Ivan was the only other person he'd found that was a Strange Thing like himself, but it seemed that they were far more different than either of them could dream.
Come out and play with the shadows, Ivan asked one evening, I want to sing in the snow.
Alfred stepped out into the icy cold reluctantly, if just to please Ivan, with his tide-slow smile and cold hands.
And Alfred did end up enjoying playing with the shadows, morphing them and twisting them like his boa. They were mere facsimiles of the real thing though—shadows of his Shadow. That made him laugh.
Ivan laughed as well, though he didn't know what was funny.
The storm had brewed for a long time before it exploded one boiling summer evening. Ivan and Alfred were in the street, wandering aimlessly as they tried to get away from some loud party with an in-house rock band, and between them, they remained a stubborn three inches from touching as they walked.
Under a streetlamp (and Alfred had a strange sense of déjà vu when he saw the cone of light and the shadows swirling overtop), Ivan finally yanked himself to a halt, pulling Alfred to a stop without even touching him. Alfred didn't like feeling like a magnet.
"I think I've finally had enough," Ivan said, angry as a hungry flame.
"What are you talking about?" Alfred asked, though he knew exactly what Ivan was getting at. Maybe if he played dumb, Ivan would forget about having this conversation.
But Alfred's words only seemed to make Ivan more furious.
"This is it," Ivan snarled, head bent as if he couldn't bear to look at Alfred any more. "We tell everyone, or we're done."
A sick feeling spiked in Alfred's stomach, and he said the words without thinking:
"I guess we're done then."
Ivan's head snapped up, and Alfred could see the shadow-bird flutter restlessly behind charcoal eyes. Ivan trembled wordlessly, shaking more and more violently.
"We both knew this was going to happen," Alfred said heavily, shrugging.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," Ivan whispered viciously, hot tears scalding his face in harsh tracks like streaks of paint. The wind started to rise in response to Ivan's anger, the humid air crackling around Alfred's ears.
"Don't tell me you don't need this!"
The wind howled Ivan's words, talons of wind slicing Alfred's nerves to shreds.
"Ivan, don't—"
The first drops of rain hissed and steamed into mist before they could hit the pavement. Ivan's hair twisted and danced in the turmoil, and Alfred saw him rise a few inches off the ground in a furious levitation, head thrown back and arms curling into fists. Fingers clawed the splattering rain as if to grab hold of something, anything.
Ivan's screaming sob was drowned out by a particularly loud drum solo from inside the party, but the echoes of it ricocheted around the surrounding houses. Rain plummeted from the heavens like each drop had committed some agonizing suicide jump from the clouds.
Alfred couldn't take it any longer.
He ran.
As he looked over his shoulder, Alfred noticed with panic that neither of them cast a shadow and the rain hadn't even touched him.
As soon as he realized it, of course, he was soaked.
The storm carried on all night.
There were bruises under his eyes, accompanied by a soft, frightening smile that stretched like sticky glue over his face. It dripped down his chin.
He felt vapid.
Empty.
Void.
And he liked it.
Gradually, he started to pick up friends, if just to ease the monotony. He and Ivan hadn't gone to the same school, but they'd seen each other practically every day— even after three years, he still missed the comfort of his old routine.
So, he made a collection of oddball party consisting of an eccentric group of outcasts: Kiku Honda, a stoic, dorky geek with a dark hair-top, the Vargas brothers- a pair of cowardly, uppity comedians with an unhealthy obsession with all things Italian, Michelle, the hearty, Creole country girl who has a habit of being a klutz, his twin and younger brother Matthew, the soft-spoken, talented playwright, and a handful of others he couldn't name without much effort.
He surrounded himself with their warm bodies, drinking in their love of life to keep himself from going insane.
Dark, ugly bruises bloomed on his arms and face—his mind was constantly elsewhere, and he walked into many walls and doors because of his mindlessness. It looked bad, he knew, but he didn't know exactly how bad it was until one day in the spring of his senior year, when his friends cornered him after classes.
"Look," Michelle started uncomfortably. "We understand why you haven't talked about it." She rubbed an inky hand, (where had that come from?), across the back of her neck- smearing her pretty figure with the red liquid. "Well, we didn't expect you to." He watches as her golden skin soon tightens with apprehension. "But," she paused, "but if someone's hutting you, like a bully, or- or someone at home- "
"Or, a berserk girlfriend," Vargas #1, Romano, interjected. Ever the tactful.
"Yes, or a girlfriend, then we reserve the right to know about it." Unlike the rest of the people there, Michelle had to be about the most familial person present. Acquainted with his brother, and former childhood friend Francis, Alfred had an inkling of a close bond with the young girl. It was understandable- with her being younger than he was, Michelle looked to him as an older-brother type of figure, no matter how much she opposed it.
Nevertheless, Michelle looked relieved that she'd finished her part. A worried frown-no matter how hard she tried to mask it-marred her rich brown face, turning it bronze with the blush that was rapidly spreading on her face.
"It's not good to, y'know, keep it all inside," Vargas #2, Feliciano imputed.
'Wise words coming from the lucky pot,' Alfred thought bitterly. It wasn't that the Italian wasn't a great friend- he was far from that- it was just that he didn't like the eccentric man. The boy- man, he couldn't tell sometimes- reminded him of his depressed state. While this man was happy-go-lucky wherever he went, horribly optimistic at times, Alfred was his complete opposite. He couldn't hold a fake smile like Feli did- (it was a wonder at times, how he was able to be happy all the time), nor could he bring out the good to everyone he encountered.
It sickened him.
But the man didn't stop talking. He continued in fact: "A person could go crazy, keeping a secret like that. It's no good, Alfredo."
It was really upsetting.
A slight shift to his right attracted his attention. Matthew looked like he wanted to say something, but his dignity prevented it. Matthew, Alfred's twin and adorably- soft-spoken younger brother, was always under the radar for Alfred. While he was normally loud and adventurous, Matthew was more reserved, providing warnings of caution to Alfred should the situation permit it. He loved his brother greatly, but he sometimes wished he could understand his nature.
"Let us help you," Kiku Honda said quietly, placing a cool hand on Alfred's shoulder, an action uncommon to the pale man. The action was startling to put it bluntly. If someone as aloof as Kiku, allowed themselves to purposely move outside their comfort zone as Kiku had done, he wouldn't have believed it. Still, the quick widening of his friends' eyes, and an intake of breath from an unfamiliar origin, proved this to be a warranted response.
Uncharacteristic? Yes.
Desperate? No.
Still, the attention was attention, and perhaps something of value could come out of this.
Something valuable indeed…
Kiku's action didn't go unnoticed by his brother. Also, very odd. Pretending to focus his vision to a small, invisible speck of light, Alfred let his gaze wander to another area of the hallway. If you blinked, you may not have noticed the slight shift of Mathew's feet towards his direction.
How odd.
Alfred thought he witness the day his brother and his best bud would develop a rivalry for his attention. It was marveling to behold. Both quiet, both having at first a rocky start with their relationship, and both, silently competing with Alfred in terms of "best bud", Alfred could've sworn that they were the same person. Though with Kiku, his aloofness and startled demeanor, made of himself a noble addition to Alfred's kooky bunch.
It was admiring to say the least.
He shook his head. He couldn't focus on these thoughts. Well, not now at least. He needed to concentrate on the issue at hand. He needed to say something- even if his normally prideful self vehemently opposed it.
"Guys," Alfred croaked, "It's not what you think it is."
Damn.
"That's okay," Michelle said, a little ruefully. What? She continued, not noticing, or perhaps intentionally dodging Alfred's gaze. "You don't have to talk to us. But just know that we're here."
Their job done, they all started filing out, breathing sighs of relief- though it might have been involuntary. Kiku looked over his shoulder, nodded sharply-though Alfred swore he saw regret in those black orbs-, and slipped out the door. Feliciano patted him on the shoulder and Romano punched him lightly on the upper arm, as if afraid he'd break him- he couldn't, Alfred reminded himself- and the two walked out arm in arm.
Now, it was just them three.
The air was no longer tense as it had been earlier, but the knowledge that his two younger siblings were now assuming the role of the eldest children, was not lifting his mood. He tried to calm his heartbeat, but it kept trying to burst forth out of his chest. Knowing his abilities, it wouldn't be that far-fetched.
The moment would soon be interrupted, not that he was complaining.
Michelle paused, bit her lip, then embraced Alfred, pressing a kiss to one of the bruises on his cheek.
"Just to make it better," she said, straightening Alfred's polo shirt collar.
It was such a show of motherly affection, that Alfred felt tears prick his eyes. Michelle smiled a wide, concerned smile, then strode out of the building without a backward glance, her pigtails bobbing behind her.
Matthew, being the only one left, slung an arm over Alfred's shoulders.
Such an action would be inferred as wanting to hang out, but this wasn't the appropriate time. This time, it was for comfort.
"…Wanna grab a soda?" He asked.
Any other time, he would have gleefully said 'Yes!', but once more, this is not have been the right answer. The invitation was harmless, yet the circumstance wasn't as innocent.
"Yeah," Alfred replied, glad for the distraction. He felt more alienated than ever before.
They all cared for him, so much that they'd organized themselves to protect him from some unknown abuse.
They didn't know that they cared for someone who Alfred wasn't.
He didn't know what he talked about with Matthew, nor did he know of Matthew's reaction when he had rushed home quickly, slamming their bedroom's door in front of his red-face twin. In the moment, he didn't care. He'd retreated to the darkest niche in his mind, where all he could see was the red thumping of his heart.
Months passed, and Alfred was bored. So horribly, agonizingly bored that he would have done nearly anything to rid himself of the black stagnancy that gripped him in a chokehold.
He had to resort to desperate measures.
Gazing indifferently around the room, his eyes lit upon and flicked away from every face that disappeared through the writhing crowd until he found his target.
Ludwig. He sat on a weary park bench, wearing a lime green coat and scrawling something no doubt scathing in a small burgundy-bound notebook. His shoes were laced up haphazardly and his hat was half blown off in the wind.
The stoic, domineering figure that was the German, was kind of handsome. Intelligent, quiet, commanding, the blond was the ideal person for anyone. Both sexes preferred a partner that had attractive qualities that Ludwig happened to possess. It was enticing…
And yet, he looked nothing like Ivan.
Alfred advanced slowly, sinuously rolling his shoulders back as he approached, twisting his hips just enough to hint at something sensual. The folds of his leather jacket were ink against his ice-pale wrists.
"What'cha working on?" Alfred asked in a playful voice, but his eyes were cold. Ludwig was a difficult catch, but that was the point; Alfred wasn't in it for something easy—there were dozens of guys he could fuck with a flick of his wrist, but Alfred was interested in the chase, not the final resolution.
Even if the end was sometimes satisfying, it was the approach that distracted him.
"Nothing of your concern," Ludwig replied without looking up, though he tilted the book upward, so Alfred couldn't read the writing.
Alfred poured himself onto the bench next to his quarry, and he only waited a moment before leaning forward to adjust Ludwig's hat. Ludwig jerked up in surprise, but didn't object nearly enough for Alfred to give up on a lost cause. Alfred let the tip of his tongue peek through his lips, and he knew Ludwig's eyes were on the flickering motion.
It was too easy.
But then Ludwig shook Alfred's hands from his head, scowling a bit.
"What are you doing, Alfred?"
"Your hat. Looked awful." Alfred smiled innocently, while his blood sang in victory. It would be more difficult that a dropped hint and a shake of a few choice body parts, then. All the better.
"A lie, not uncommon to you. Go away."
Ignoring the insult, Alfred stayed where he was. "Nah, I think I like it right here." Alfred raised an eyebrow, smirking unevenly.
Ludwig snorted under his breath and kept writing in cramped cursive. Alfred slid closer, an almost imperceptible amount, just slowly, just cautiously, until he was less than three inches from touching Ludwig's arm. He tilted his head back and let his breath fog in the cold sun.
When Ludwig packed up to leave, Alfred rose fluidly to his feet and followed, keeping the Shadow in check. He knew he wouldn't succeed in his goal without using the snake—he wasn't that good after all—but he liked to prolong the inevitable. It made the sticky end that much more gratifying.
"Are you following me home, then?" Ludwig asked acerbically, whirling around in the street when he realized that no, Alfred was not going to stop acting like his shadow.
"Do you want me to?" Alfred asked, dropping the lids on his eyes slightly to enhance the suggestion. He was so close to winning: the snake laughed silently, thrashing triumphantly in the confines of Alfred's chest. It wouldn't be stuck there for long, though.
The next moment hung suspended over the edge of eternity, and Alfred knew several things at once: one, that Ludwig was about to decide that he wasn't gay enough to indulge in the game anymore, two, that Alfred's Shadow wasn't going to let him hold it back any longer, and three, that it was time to stop prolonging the inevitable. Before Ludwig could turn his face away, Alfred let the Shadow reach out its hand to wrap around Ludwig's wrist.
Alfred felt a wave of pleasure shiver over his skin, it was black and viscous and disgusting. But it was pleasure all the same.
The Shadow slid its other hand between Ludwig's parted lips and then Alfred's ache for I want this to be mine mine mine, was appeased because he'd claimed the flesh in front of him for his own.
Ludwig couldn't deny him anything anymore, and he met Alfred halfway in a feverish kiss that lasted far too long, but not quite long enough to soothe the burn any.
Alfred could taste the Shadow on Ludwig's tongue.
They were interlocked all the way to Ludwig's house, and when they clattered up the stairs, Alfred thwacked his foot against the landing and was reminded that he was human. It wasn't a pleasant discovery.
But then Ludwig yanked him harshly through the doorway, biting Alfred's neck almost hard enough to draw blood.
As Alfred let the Shadow dig its fingertips into Ludwig's flesh, feeling the muscles contort under the thin skin, drinking in the severe sound of breath on breath, he allowed himself to be mildly disappointed.
In the morning, Alfred slipped out from underneath Ludwig's sleeping body and pulled on his blue jeans. He noticed the burgundy notebook from the day before lying askance on the floor, the thick pages bending—Alfred saw that every page was filled with Ludwig's callous, precise writing and with every turn of the page, he could make out pictures done in ink.
He idly flipped through the pages, but landed on the final entry when his eye snagged on his name.
There's something almost abhorrent about Alfred. Acting as if he is the sole guardian of an unfamiliar secret, it is in his own special right to act childishly and hold himself in his beguile. Still, I cannot understand the reason as to why I am attracted to this man.
Alfred grimaced, dropping the book like it burned his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ludwig sit up in surprise as Alfred shoved his arms noisily through the sleeves of his jacket, ignoring the puddle of his white t-shirt on the floor.
Neither of them made a sound when Alfred strode purposefully out of the room and into the street.
When he got home, Alfred discovered a mug of long-cold tea still steeping on the counter.
College slipped by like a ray of light under a door, and Alfred smiled a ghost of a smile at the meaninglessness of it all.
He passed his classes. He didn't know who was more surprised, himself or his professors.
Art school afterwards was a bust, and he soon found himself in a grimy one-room apartment with thirty paintings and a daily rhythm of sleep deprivation.
It didn't really bother him.
He drank himself into dark stupors, only realizing once he woke that he was half covered with paint and had ten more canvases to add to the stack. They were more bad than good, but what was good was—egocentricity aside—stunning. He had some of them displayed in cafes, and a handful of those even sold.
The pay for his art wasn't enough to support himself, of course.
He also worked a supermarket cash register.
The irony there wasn't lost on him either—his life seemed to be made of sarcasm. He figured he should be laughing a lot more than he was.
"That'll be thirteen dollars and ninety-five cents, sir," Alfred said to his next customer without looking up from the paper bag he was packing.
"Alfred?" The man exclaimed, and Alfred's head snapped up.
Ivan stood across from him, caught like a pinned butterfly between a wince and a smile.
Alfred couldn't speak. He walked around the register until he was within a foot of Ivan, reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch his shoulder, as if to see if he was real. Ivan smiled encouragingly.
Then Alfred reared his arm back and swung his fist to connect with Ivan's face.
Alfred apologized profusely, of course, and offered to help Ivan stand with an extended hand that Ivan refused. They both smiled hesitantly, warily, and agreed to get coffee the next morning at one of Alfred's favorite places.
And Alfred told himself he still loved Ivan. It made it easier to look at him without slashing his flesh to ribbons.
Their friendship was tentative, cautious—so much time had passed that they didn't really know each other, except for the history that whispered slander between them. They never apologized, for which Alfred was grateful. He wasn't sorry.
Ivan looked as though he might have had some regret at some point, but it was obvious he'd moved past the moment with the rain battering through their skulls. Alfred knew he never would. He didn't think he wanted to; the betrayal—be it him who was the betrayer or the betrayed—was an essential turning point in his life. A crossroads through the rain.
He'd made the wrong decision.
He had to make sure he never forgot that fact.
The coffee was perfect, as usual. It gave Alfred an excuse to do something with his twitchy hands, anyway, so he wouldn't really care if it was sludge—he'd make do with whatever he could take to fill the awkward silences.
If his hands trembled more badly than usual, Ivan didn't say anything.
"Painted much?" Ivan asked between sips.
"A bit. Selling some, too." Alfred tore off the end of a croissant with a forefinger and thumb. It was too sweet for Ivan, who was finishing off a bagel, but Alfred's sweet tooth was undeterred over the years. He used to sometimes eat marshmallows or cheese Danishes in front of Ivan just to gross him out.
That game had lost its charm. Right now, Alfred was just hungry.
"How's your—uhm—have you found someone else? Someone like us?" Ivan licked a bit of cream cheese off the tip of his index finger.
The end of the croissant crumbled into dust within Alfred's hand.
"There's no one," he said quietly, answering both questions at once.
"Ah." Ivan folded his hands over his napkin gracefully. Alfred sighed.
Ivan looked the same. Quite a bit older, sure, but the same. Still pale. Tall. Feathery snowy hair swishing over his brow. The same alien eyes. The same warped perception.
It unnerved Alfred.
"How about yourself? Do you have someone?" Alfred leaned his face into the palm of his hand.
"Not as of yet," Ivan said, smiling, as if that was going to change soon. Alfred was surprised by how much that didn't hurt.
"How's your sister?"
"She's alright, finally got engaged to her boyfriend."
"Give her my congratulations."
"I will."
"How's your job?"
"Excellent, really. I've been made assistant manager of the company."
"That's great, Ivan."
"I know. What about you, though? Is working at a supermarket making you happy?"
Ivan didn't even sound condescending, which made Alfred's cheeks burn more than the statement by itself would. Ingrained in his mind from his childhood, was the idea of 'get a good job' and 'work someplace prestigious and make your family proud'—he had done none of the above. Did Ivan have to bring it up?
"Doesn't matter," he muttered.
Ivan nodded in an understanding manner. It made Alfred want to punch him again.
The Shadow behind Ivan's eyes was fat and complacent. Alfred wondered why that was—what do you feed a shadow to make it slumber and purr like an overfed cat?
Ivan probably was in the midst of getting himself a boyfriend. That really should have made Alfred jealous.
"Well, I haven't destroyed my quota of canvases for the week. I'd better get back to it."
Ivan didn't smile at the joke, seeming to understand the way Alfred was trying to escape.
"Same time next week?" Ivan asked, folding his napkin onto his plate.
"Sounds like a date," Alfred joked with a pained smile.
"Not this time, Alfred," Ivan replied humorlessly and got up to pay the bill.
Two weeks later and they had a routine. Every Tuesday Alfred got up, did his shift at the grocery store, and met Ivan for coffee around one. Then they spent the better part of two hours skirting around their issues and focusing on safer, inane topics, like politics, or books, or the latest sci-fi show. They actually agreed on some of those subjects.
Then Alfred headed home, painted angrily for another two hours and collapsed on his bed, exhausted.
It was a fair shade healthier than his previous life, though that wasn't really saying much.
They continued for months, greeting each other like different species.
In a way, they were.
The meetings were a necessary evil—Alfred didn't like feeling tied to a person he'd given up on years ago, and he liked to think it was reasonable for him to have chosen to leave Ivan in the past. Or at least have the choice.
Sometimes, almost against his will, Alfred found himself looking forward to it—Ivan may not understand him, but Ivan knew what the boa was, and he knew what it did to Alfred's mind. It was nice to let his plaster-mask slip.
They never saw each other outside of the coffee shop, naturally. Alfred considered offering to take Ivan to his apartment and show him some of his paintings, but it sounded too much like a come-on for him to follow through.
Waking up earlier than normal on a Saturday morning—at eleven o'clock instead of noon—Alfred decided to take a walk and let the sun warm his face a little. He slipped into his wool coat that Ivan hated and stumbled down the stairs, grabbed his wallet in case he wanted a sandwich before he got back, and swung the front door open, eyes screwed up against the glare of sun.
Blinking, Alfred shook his head like a wet dog and grinned at the morning.
The man sitting on his porch steps grinned back.
"Hello Alfred."
Alfred couldn't put his name to his tongue, but the Shadow arched its back until it was swollen with something—he recognized him, barely, and it was a good kind of remembering.
"Uh, hello?"
The man looked at him confused for a second, but upon seeing Alfred's blank expression, smiled a little awkwardly.
"It's me, Kiku Honda. Um—you, do remember, right? It wasn't all that long ago…"
Alfred smiled in surprise, and skidded the rest of the way down the stairs to see him better.
"Keeks! What's up?"
Alfred tried to act natural. He really did. But it was a little difficult to do so—really, what are you supposed to do when a very cute man appears on your doorstep?
And Kiku Honda was good-looking. No long the scawny, pale-ridden kid that Alfred had been accustomed to in his youth, this version of Kiku developed tremendously, still cute years even years later. But he'd filled out (A med-school student, Alfred's mind supplied), gotten a pair of thin, sleek glasses and wore his now grown-out hair in a neat man-bun instead, of that godawful low top. And he'd gained about four inches in height too.
Not bad.
So, very attractive, especially when he blushed under Alfred's grin. The shadow preened, and Alfred felt the dreaded craving, the 'I want this to be mine mine mine.' Alfred shook it off. It was Kiku Honda.
"So, what brings you to this part of town?" Alfred asked, leaning back on the railing in a way he knew made him look good. He couldn't stop himself.
"Oh, nothing much, just finding out why an idiot friend of mine doesn't reply to my emails," Kiku smirked, and Alfred rubbed the back of his neck abashedly.
"Sorry."
"It is alright." Kiku Honda extended his hand, and Alfred recognized the beginning of their ancient high school secret handshake. Slowly at first, then faster as they gained confidence, they performed a flurry of claps and snaps and jumping of hands, both laughing like idiots by the end because they both remembered. It was a beautiful moment.
It was a human moment.
"C'mon, I'll take you to lunch." Alfred slung an arm around Kiku Honda's shoulders. It had taken ages for him to trust Ivan to even touch his arm, but somehow it took less than three minutes for him to laugh freely and crack lame jokes and be honest. With Kiku Honda.
It was refreshing, to say the least. And a little bit surprising.
"So… why are you here, really?" Alfred asked, taking another bite of pizza. "I mean, yeah, there's me, but you hauled yourself all the way 'cross the country."
Kiku Honda coughed awkwardly, and sipped at his beverage. Alfred didn't interrupt—sometimes Keeks just needed a few moments to work out how to say something in his head.
"My living situation now hasn't been… accommodating." "I've been having some trouble finding a place to stay. I remembered you saying in the only email you ever sent me, that you were in a horrid one-roomer." Kiku Honda smiled at the table, glasses glittering in the midday sun.
"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" Alfred smirked, unable to contain his excitement.
He coughed. "Well, I've got my eye on this nice little two-bedroom downtown, but I can only afford half the rent, so I was wondering if you would maybe like to split with me?" Kiku Honda said this all very quickly, and there was something other than sunlight shining in his eyes.
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes!" And Alfred hugged him over the table, getting grease on his elbow, but he didn't really care. God, if Ivan could see him now.
He awkwardly released himself from the embrace. "Well, let's check it out tomorrow before someone else grabs it," he announced adjusting his glasses' position on the bridge of his nose. Though, despite his increasing blush, he was smiling.
Living with Kiku Honda was turmoil. Beautiful, aggravating, turmoil.
Kiku Honda was damnably immaculate, and though Alfred was a rarely neat person in general, he couldn't help but feel a little ashamed when faced with the tidiness that Kiku Honda brought with him in a whirlwind of Windex and dust rags.
All Alfred could do was stand back and let Kiku Honda at it.
The new-apartment smell didn't last more than a day, and by the end of the week, they had reached a kind of equilibrium where Kiku's side could be as clean as he liked, and Alfred's could be as neglected as he preferred; though it never really happened that way.
Alfred's room only managed to stay vaguely presentable through osmosis, though Kiku Honda did try his hardest. In return for the guilt, Alfred was sure to dole out enough messes for them both.
(They decided to never talk about the dirty sock that wormed its way between two books on the shelf. Alfred never admitted to putting it there himself, but Kiku had suspicions.)
It was turbulent in more ways than one, however, not all were humorous.
Kiku steadfastly insisted on putting a limit on the amount of alcohol Alfred could consume during his more destructive painting phases, and continued to be adamant until Alfred had to give in and hand over the bottle.
It wasn't pretty, to say the least, when Alfred let the Shadow use his body to throw paint on some canvases sober for the first time in years. Alfred didn't remember much of what happened that night, only a dreadful idea upon waking that he'd hurt Kiku Honda in some way.
There was a foreign taste in his mouth, and the disturbing notion that perhaps the Shadow had swallowed his friend entered his mind.
"Kiku!" he called out, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood shakily.
No answer.
"KIKU!"
He stumbled forward until he was in the hallway, looking unsteadily around until he was sure Kiku Honda was no where in sight.
He half fell down the hall and into their small kitchen, gripping the doorframe hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. There was a note on the counter.
Alfred sat shakily in a rickety table chair, swiped the paper from the counter and stared for a long time at the crease where the lined sheet was folded over, at the squiggles at the edges that told him it was torn from a notebook. His left hand decided to finally obey him and flipped the note open, his eyes roving over the neat, looping calligraphy that Kiku Honda called sloppy.
Gone out for a bit. You obviously weren't exactly in your right mind.
Withdrawal or something. I'll be back tomorrow probably, hopefully you'll be okay by then. Don't forget to eat.
~Kiku Honda
Alfred couldn't feel all that relieved, even with the fact that Kiku Honda was obviously well enough to write notes. But there was an undercurrent of something horrible under the seemingly innocuous words—
(you obviously weren't in your right mind)
—that sent him into a sort of nervous frenzy.
He dialed Kiku Honda's cell three times before realizing the phone he was trying to reach was sitting on the counter next to his keys. His heart plummeted to reside somewhere near his kneecap, his Shadow wincing apologetically—
(withdrawal or something)
—but that didn't help him much, really.
He sat there until nightfall, watching the shadows lengthen over the dining table, waiting for something to make a sound—
(be okay by then)
—but nothing did.
When Kiku Honda sheepishly rang the doorbell the next morning, Alfred had made himself a resolution, and he was damn well going to follow it through.
Kiku Honda stepped inside, shucked off his coat (but placed it, of course, on the coat hangers he'd set up around the house in convenient locations), and smiled hesitantly at Alfred, who promptly burst into tears.
Kiku Honda caught him in his arms, murmuring soothing noises in his ear before easing them both into the dining chairs Kiku Honda really hated. But Alfred loved them, so they got them anyway. Kiku Honda was great like that.
"I've got to tell you something," Alfred said through the runny nose he'd developed.
Shoot, Kiku Honda replied, smiling slightly.
"I've got a—I mean I'm not really—that is, I don't—I'm—" Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, blood tingeing his cheeks pink.
"Alfred. It's okay. I've known for a long time." His smile grew a little bit. "Really. You don't have to say it if you don't want to."
Alfred's eyes widened.
What?
Kiku smirked. "I think I knew the second you started talking about Ivan. It was obvious you loved him."
Oh.
Alfred was still confused.
"It wasn't just me who figured it out, y'know," Kiku added.
"Huh?"
"…That you're gay? I mean, that's what you're talking about, no?"
Alfred's mouth opened and closed a few times.
"Other people know it as well," Kiku Honda added again helpfully.
"Uh, yeah," Alfred said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt. "That's what I was trying to tell you."
The Shadow wilted a little. But hey, that was half of the secrets Alfred held onto. One down, one to go—so what, it wasn't the one he wanted to get off his chest, it still was nice to get it out there.
Kiku Honda smiled widely, and Alfred's heart throbbed, reminding him of the 'want want want' that made his head hurt. He pushed it away again.
He had to keep trying—he was going to goddamn get everything on the table: including his Shadow.
"There's something else," Alfred began again, hoping that maybe he would be able to get it out without hopelessly stuttering again.
"Go ahead," Kiku Honda said, the expression on his face settling into a crease between his eyebrows.
"I haven't told you about it yet, not because I don't trust you, but you have to understand how personal a thing this is. I probably wasn't ever going to talk to you about it, but after last night—"
"Wait, how much do you remember?" Kiku Honda interrupted, brow furrowing.
"Not much. I think you deserve the truth, though."
Kiku smiled tightly, eyes averted. "That would be nice."
"Uh, what exactly happened? I mean, that might affect how I phrase it."
Kiku wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, his hands in a knot on his lap. The Shadow was a coiled spring.
"You—well, you, ah, you tried to kiss me. And—stuff."
Alfred's heart dropped to the floor. "Oh, god," he moaned, his head falling into his hands.
"You didn't get very far, if that's any consolation, and I didn't exactly help you with the leaving me alone business. You actually kind of collapsed on the floor." Kiku sounded sheepish, like it was him who was embarrassed. Alfred groaned again.
"I'm so sorry."
"You should be."
"I didn't mean to."
"Obviously some part of you did."
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
"…alright."
"Do you want the truth now or what?"
"Go ahead."
The Shadow filled Alfred's mouth, but he didn't let it escape past his lips.
"I have this Shadow. But it's not like other shadows. It's locked inside my chest—"
Kiku was quiet for a long minute after Alfred finished. A slick uncertainty gripped Alfred's stomach with long fingers. His heart thudded every now and again as he clenched and unclenched his hands.
"How many people have you told this to?" Kiku said at last, as he took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.
"Only you and—uh, Ivan." Alfred decided not to tell Ivan's secret. It wasn't his to say.
"Well, it's probably best if you don't mention this to lots of other people. The government will want to, I don't know, test you or something. Make you into a secret weapon."
Alfred felt a smile burn into his face.
"Like Wolverine from X-Men?"
"I am not familiar with that cartoon. But, if you what you just said is like the answer I was looking towards, then that is correct."
Ignoring the comment about X-Men being a cartoon, Alfred leaned back into his chair.
Alfred, for all the talking, was still working through the daze that filled his mind with a light buzzing sound.
"…Does this mean you believe me?" He asked, more unsure than he expected.
'Yes," Kiku Honda replied, looking at Alfred like there wasn't any cause for worry.
Alfred exhaled slowly, his smile softening. God, how had he gotten through life before Kiku?
"Uhm, can I, y'know, see it?" Kiku Honda asked, awkwardly sort of twitching in his seat.
"Sure."
Alfred slowly relaxed his palm, letting his fingers roll outward until they were flat, and then he let his Shadow catch a glimpse of Kiku Honda for the second time. The Shadow curled in the air, coiling proudly as it slithered closer to Alfred; it looped itself around his neck like a collar.
"Oh, my."
Kiku Honda extended his hand to run a finger down the Serpent's nose.
Something white-hot and mostly pleasant filled Alfred's belly, and he had to cross his legs to conceal his growing embarrassment.
"What does it—what can it do?"
Alfred breathed deeply, focusing on getting the blood that had rushed downward back into his brain.
"I know it helps me paint. Dunno if I'd be any good at it otherwise." Alfred smiled a self-deprecating smile, and Kiku shook his head indulgently.
After taking so much touch by Shadow-persuasion, which was almost force (but not quite), it was incredibly, fantastically, frighteningly—and he couldn't help but think this last one in his head, because it did scare him—relieving to have someone want to touch him. He didn't know if he'd ever been touched like that. He doubted he ever would be again.
"Also"—Alfred began again, deciding on the fly to tell Kiku Honda everything—"I can trip people. And, uh, convince them. Persuade. But it's hard to control."
Kiku Honda looked up from where his eyes had been locked on the Serpent.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why is it hard to control?"
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, his paintbrush calluses scritch-scratching across his skin.
"… I don't know. It just is."
He nodded, though it was obvious he was just as confused as Alfred was.
Kiku took Alfred's hand, thumb stroking his wrist. It was such a natural form of comfort that Alfred didn't say anything; he just squeezed his fingers back in return.
"Is the Shadow a part of you? Or is it a separate entity?" Kiku Honda asked after a few moments of silence slipped through their fingers. Alfred's Shadow had coiled back into his chest and curled into something like sleep.
"Both" Alfred answered, and Kiku nodded in understanding.
"I think everyone has a part of them that isn't exactly a part of them," he pointed out with a smile that showed Alfred he thought he was being clever. Alfred found it unbearably beautiful.
"Wanna make out?" Alfred blurted.
Kiku Honda's eyebrows raised, then he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
All was quiet for a few agonizing moments before Kiku Honda formed the words he wanted to say.
"I like you, Alfred," he replied carefully, "I like you a lot. And I'm not going to say I haven't fantasized about that for quite some time now."
Hope inflated Alfred's chest.
Kiku Honda breathed softly. "But I don't think either of us is ready for that kind of thing yet". He looked up and squeezed Alfred's hand once before putting his own back in his lap.
"Oh," Alfred replied intelligently. He couldn't decide if that was a rejection or not.
"Now, I'm sure you could convince me otherwise"—Kiku Honda glanced pointedly at the space where the Shadow had disappeared through Alfred's chest—"but I'm asking you not to."
"I would never"—Alfred started.
"I know. But people act funny when they want something." Kiku Honda folded his hands in his lap, though he couldn't hide the way they shook.
"I'm sorry." Alfred was. He really was. He hadn't meant to say anything at all, and certainly not in that cavalier manner.
Kiku Honda stood and kissed the top of Alfred's head, hand closing on Alfred's shoulder.
"I'm making myself tomato soup with grilled cheese. Are you interested?"
Alfred smiled in a twisted, wobbly way. He nodded.
"We'll be talking about this later, when we're a little more ready," Kiku Honda breathed in his ear, and Alfred was damned if that didn't send a shiver of anticipation down his spine.
Alfred couldn't look Kiku Honda in the eye for the next couple of weeks—blood would rise to his face, then he'd start to stutter wildly, his tongue fluttering over half-formed syllables like it was made of rubber. So he mostly avoided other living beings and hid in his room.
Brave was not a word that came to Alfred's mind.
But neither was stupid.
He painted a still life, just for fun, just to see if he could do something without the Shadow. What came out in the end was nice, but he thought about it too hard and knew he'd never really be happy with it. But still. There it sat, drying in the breeze that came through the open window.
He began to realize, as he gazed at his work with a small degree of satisfaction, that it was almost completely devoid of life. Alfred felt a pang of regret. It was so shallow—only a reflection off the surface of some greater work that he knew could cast itself on the canvas.
He wasn't anything special without the Snake—he couldn't even paint a fucking still life if he wasn't half passed out. That was baby stuff, and it looked like shit.
Alfred wanted to punch the wall, but he got the feeling that his hand would be hurt more than the recipient.
Goddamn it.
He couldn't avoid humanity for eternity, he knew that, so when he felt it would be the least humiliating, he stepped into the kitchen with his head held high and his dignity as intact as he could make it. Kiku Honda accepted him back into reality with a mug of tea and a smile that sent tendrils of gratitude swimming through Alfred's stomach.
It was times like those that made Alfred remember exactly why he loved Kiku Honda.
And he did love Kiku Honda, but it was more complicated than a yes or no answer.
So, my birthday's coming up, Kiku Honda said slowly as they snacked their way through lunch (neither of them could make themselves prepare anything more complicated than crackers and peanut butter). Alfred's head snapped up; crap, he'd forgotten.
If he'd ever known, that is.
"You're turning 24, right?"
"Yep."
"That's rather exciting, huh?"
"Not really. Just another year, yeah? But I was thinking that maybe we could, I don't know, go out to dinner. Or something."
Alfred's heart lurched.
"Are you asking me out…?" He asked, his voice petered out at the end—hope squeezed the breath out of his words.
Kiku Honda smiled. "If we're going to do this, we're going to take it slow. Understand?"
Alfred smiled back. "Do you have a restaurant in mind?"
Kiku Honda winked. "Surprise me."
"Close your eyes," Alfred ordered as he led Kiku to the car. Kiku had saved up and bought it as a birthday gift for himself, and though it was ugly and slow and belched smoke whenever they started the ignition, Kiku had decided he loved it and eventually convinced Alfred to come 'round as well.
It wasn't a far drive, but whenever Alfred realized that yes, he was on a date with Kiku Honda, the anticipation gripped his stomach in his fist and clenched. Or maybe it was the Shadow. At this point, Alfred couldn't tell.
"Where are you taking me?" Kiku Honda asked, eyes dutifully covered with the palms of his hands.
"Somewhere special," Alfred answered, trying to keep his voice smooth when he wanted to giggle from pure excitement.
"It better be," Kiku Honda said with a giddy grin that Alfred chuckled at.
They arrived, and after some finagling, Alfred wriggled the car into a parking space. When Alfred slid Kiku's hands from his face, the laughter that exploded from their chests made Alfred's heart hurt in a mostly nice way.
Alfred offered his elbow to Kiku and escorted him into the fanciest restaurant in the city. Kiku clung to his arm, a disbelieving smile on his face—Alfred doubted either of them had been to such an expensive place ever. And Alfred couldn't help thinking that this was one hell of a first date.
"No wonder you asked me to dress nice," Kiku Honda whispered as their waiter seated them at a small table.
"I got you something," Alfred said once they were waiting for dessert.
Kiku Honda smiled. "You didn't have to do that."
"It didn't cost anything. I made it myself."
Kiku Honda's smile grew the way Alfred's apprehension did the same—it quirked at the edges then expanded, stretching to fill what little space it could with tingling breath. Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled out the box he'd been fingering throughout the meal.
"Here. It's 'not much, but I hope you'll find it okay."
Kiku Honda accepted the box, a small thing covered with intricate designs that Alfred had etched on with a safety pin. When his long fingers flipped the lid, Alfred's heart jumped to his throat: "maybe I guessed wrong what if he thinks it's trite, but I really meant it seriously—"
"… Alfred-"Tears sprung to Kiku Honda's wide black eyes, and Alfred allowed himself a smile in victory.
Nestled inside were all the notes they'd ever passed back and forth, the little "god this teacher's boring" and "can't wait for Iron Man to come out" and "your hair looks funny today". The pictures of Wolverine and Spider-Man and the women Kiku Honda was pretending to be interested in at the time.
"You kept these." Kiku Honda's voice was thick.
"They're precious to me. I know they were precious to you."
Kiku looked at him with something deep and unreadable on his face, black eyes filling and emptying down his cheeks.
"You're so bright, Alfred. Sometimes it's hard to look at you. Sometimes it's hard not to."
Kiku Honda smiled suddenly, wiping his face off with the palms of his hands.
"Good thing I wear glasses, hmm?"
They returned home in relative silence, and by the time they'd pulled up into the driveway, Alfred had watched Kiku doze off several times. Alfred thought he looked beautiful when he slept.
Kiku slipped off to bed with a lingering touch to Alfred's shoulder and a dopey smile that was far too endearing to be healthy, his hair swinging behind him like a flag. He smiled again with a little wave before he shut his door.
So Alfred was left alone in the room, watching the dust motes swirl around under the overhead light and feeling so very unfulfilled.
He's in the car again, and he doesn't know how he got there. His hands are on the steering wheel and his foot has floored the gas pedal and he's laughing and laughing and laughing with a voice that he doesn't remember ever having. It's so free—so unburdened—contented, almost.
He's got the windows rolled down and the convertible top is off and the radio is blaring like it's screaming with joy and he's so happy to be out, out of the confines of his chest, out of the confines of humanity—
He strides into the club like he owns the place, and every head turns like he's got strings attached to their faces. It's satisfying to watch their eyes widen. His eyes wander, surveying the dancers and the lone drinkers and the people on the sides eyeing other people up. He slides onto a seat at the bar and orders the first drink that comes to mind.
He drains it.
He winks at the bartender, who blushes but says nothing, and even if he did, who could hear him over the pulsing music?
His eye catches on a wallflower with short black hair in careful spikes, one of the "eye-ers" who longingly watches a man in skintight leather pants shimmy with a woman who appears to be more in lingerie than real clothing.
Alfred hones in on his target, another drink in hand.
Kiku was screaming at him, voice high pitched and thin. He'd been yelling for over half an hour, and if Alfred had been more coherent, he would have started yelling back fifteen minutes earlier.
As it was, he waited until Kiku had to pause for breath, and then he calmly stated that he would be happy to hear Kiku argument at a later time, but first he had to throw up.
Alfred bent over the toilet, stomach heaving up contents that he didn't remember ingesting. Kiku held Alfred's hair back, anger still apparent on his face, but his touch was kind. Loving.
"You told me you were "on the mend"," Kiku accused. "You told me you were controlling it better than you ever had."
"I thought I was," Alfred protested before doubling over once again.
"Maybe"—Kiku bit his lip. "Maybe you should stop trying to fight it."
"Are you crazy?" Alfred grunted.
"Well, what you're doing right now isn't working so well!" Kiku exclaimed. "It's time to try something else."
Alfred responded with a hiccup that was so pathetic sounding, that Kiku smiled despite himself.
Alfred looked dubiously at Kiku Honda, his heart fluttering with nerves.
"This is a bad idea."
Kiku looked up sharply.
"Look. If you expressed this part of yourself, it wouldn't explode like it did last night." Kiku Honda shrugged one shoulder helplessly. "It's at least worth a try."
Alfred nodded once, gulped the rest of the glass of ice water in his hand, and squared his shoulders. He let out a breath slowly and closed his eyes, counted six seconds pass. He could feel his heartbeat thwipping madly against his ribcage, but behind it—around it—he could feel a second heartbeat. Serpentine, slow, and steady: the heartbeat of his Shadow was smooth and smug compared to the staccato rhythm of his other heart.
"Relax," Kiku urged, hand on Alfred's knee.
And Alfred does. He feels the walls he built up tremble as he prepares to allow the floodgates to open. There's no going back, after this—once he's released this final measure of safety, he'll never be the same he'll be smoky and thin and where did he come from—
"Alfred?" Kiku Honda asked. "You can open your eyes now."
Alfred's eyes snapped open on command. Kiku's face stared worriedly at him, the black eyes wide and flecked with gold. The world around him seemed so bright, so full of color—it was as if he had been peering through water; a film over his eyes had been lifted and now he could see.
He was still himself. And he still had a Shadow in his chest. But now it was different: the niggling sensation in the back of his head that he was forgetting something was gone, as was the urge to trip. Perhaps his obsession with making people slip was because he'd always had an urge to fall, fall away from the world's expectations, fall into a pair of warm arms that maybe could distract him from the fact that he was uncomfortable with his life.
Kiku Honda was stroking his face, and Alfred realized he was wiping away the tears that ran down his face in rivulets.
"You okay?" Kiku murmured, tucking a strand of Alfred's hair behind his ear.
"A little closer to fine," Alfred answered with a smile that felt radiant.
"Quit quoting the Indigo Girls", Kiku muttered as he embraced Alfred. The laughter that followed was more rich than Alfred had ever heard. From either of them.
"Uh, do you want to, you know…" Kiku jerked his head in the direction of his bedroom. Alfred found himself nod, his mouth gone completely dry. Kiku Honda rubbed the back of his neck nervously, took off his glasses, stood there twitching for a couple of seconds, then smiled timidly at Alfred with an extended hand to help him out of the chair.
Alfred accepted it and marveled once again at how freckled the long fingers were. But then his eyes traveled up the rest of Kiku's body and rested on his heart-shaped face, and when he kissed him, it was as natural as the breath of the tide.
More so, even.
They moved like waves.
It was awkward at first, all fumbled belt buckles and stepping on toes and putting elbows on hair, but then… but then…
It was difficult to retain a coherent train of thought.
Someone was playing loud music outside their apartment building, but the sound of Kiku heartbeat drowned out the noise. Alfred didn't know what to think. He didn't know if he was even able to, period. The fingertips that trailed down his arm were very distracting, though not in a way he particularly minded.
Kiku pushed damp hair off his forehead, panting.
Alfred kissed the side of Kiku's neck, worrying.
Kiku Honda made interesting noises, when he was like this, all jumbled and quiet and gut-punching in their stark honesty.
Alfred didn't know how he could possibly match that.
But then Kiku Honda moved in just the right way and the shreds of doubt were obliterated for a moment.
Kiku Honda's hand gripped Alfred's shoulder, mouth open in a wordless exclamation.
Alfred kissed him again and again and worried and worried some more but then—but then—
The silence struck him as he cried out.
Alfred woke slowly, almost languidly. He could feel the sunlight on his back. He was warmer than usual—he had a tendency to kick off the covers during the night, but there they were, bunched up around his waist. Probably Kiku's doing.
Kiku Honda.
Kiku Honda.
Alfred's Shadow shuddered slightly, and his eyes snapped open. Kiku sat next to him, glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, an opened book resting in his lap. It was a rather large book, and Alfred could only read half of what was probably a very pretentious title.
He grunted a bit as he heaved himself into an upright position, but he gave up after a moment and decided to just collapse into Kiku Honda's lap instead. The book his head fell on wasn't the most comfortable of pillows, but it was worth it to hear Kiku Honda's squawk and the indignant expression on his face.
"Mornin'." Alfred mumbled, his voice sleep-hoarse and husky.
"Same to you", Kiku Honda reproached, looking down his nose at Alfred's tangled mess of hair that obscured the page he was trying to read.
Alfred curled up into a horizontal ball and dozed off again to the feeling of paper against his cheek and the sound of Kiku Honda's exasperated sigh that puffed on his face.
God, it felt good to be wanted.
"I'm afraid I want to settle down with you," Alfred remarked later that morning over their cups of coffee. The Shadow was squirming, and Alfred placed his hand over his chest to feel the double heartbeat through his t-shirt.
"Don't be silly," Kiku Honda replied, looking over his newspaper and glasses. "You did that ages ago."
Alfred paused, eyebrows creasing together. He supposed that was true; he and Kiku Honda had lived together for over a year, now, and they'd been partners for seven of those months. They were paying rent together. You can't settle down much more than that.
"You're right," he laughed. Kiku Honda smiled and got up to make toast.
Alfred finished his coffee.
The days go by quickly now, and Alfred almost has to wonder how he used to be so bored.
The soft moonlight that works its way between a crack in the curtains licks a stripe down the middle of Kiku Honda's face. Alfred watches it with some fascination, watches the way it illuminates one eye from the rest of his face, the way his hair looks black except for that one lock caught and revealed to be brown.
There's a Shadow in his chest. It still feels odd to say it, even after all these years, so he reminds himself every now and again that yes, he has a Shadow. Yes, it takes him half a step away from the rest of humanity. No, it's not going to go away.
Some part of him, the part that he dislikes the most, waited his whole life for him to turn normal—no, actually, what he's been waiting for was for the whole world to be different like him. When everyone is different in the same way, doesn't that make it normal? Of course he doesn't he really wants to be normal. He wants to be understood. That isn't the same thing at all.
The moonlight doesn't touch him. It seems like a hell of a coincidence—moonlight shying away from a Shadow—but he knows it's just chance. The light isn't sentient, after all—it's just a stripe.
Alfred puts his head on Kiku's shoulder and closes his eyes.
Somewhere, far away, he can hear music. Or maybe it's just the tune of his heartbeat—and the Shadow's—thudding along in time with his sleeping partner's.
A/N:
Well, I started something diferent. This is my first fic with Ameripan and a joint-collarboration with Ameripan and Rusame. I hope I did this well.
Any comments on what I could improve on, or what I missing [in terms of grammatical errors], is always welcomed. Thank you for the read.
Have a good day, a good Halloween for those who celebrate it, and a happy future for the month of November!
~Enchanting Grace