(NOTE: These two are absolute trash and I love them...I regret nothing)
It was an accident when they met.
They weren't even friends to begin with.
Trip had just started following him around for no reason whatsoever—not that he minded, it was just weird—but Virus shrugged and adapted, originally with the theory that if he ignored the boy, he'd go away.
He didn't.
They rarely talked, and merely wandered about the facility together when they felt like causing a bit of trouble. Most of their communication, early on, was in the form of silent questions, of a raised eyebrow here, of a rare flicker of a smile, of an offer or a gesture of the hand.
Virus often kept his room locked, partially out of habit. It prevented unwanted interruptions, and kept those he didn't want out—except for the men in the white coats, who had access keys to every room on every floor, even the ones that Virus had only heard of. They could get in whenever they wanted, and when they did, it usually meant trouble, or something that unwillingly came with a sterilized smile and a syringe in his arm.
Other than those instances, he never let anyone in, until Trip came around.
He never knocked, but would rather pound on the door, or kick it. When Virus didn't open it and let him in, Trip would sit against the door until Virus came out—he had to eventually—and some days he would even fall asleep there in the hall, head settled against the white-washed door. Virus would forget, sometimes, and would swing the door open, sending a scruffy red-headed boy falling against his feet.
He finally decided that, rather than let Trip stay in the hall all night, he would let him in. The boy would still remain quiet, sitting silently in the corner of Virus' room and entertaining himself with daydreams or one of Virus' books—none of which he could really read, though he had a good idea of what they all meant.
When Trip wanted in, after they became closer, he would make his way through the too-silent halls of the facility, and he would knock twice on the door with one tiny fist.
"Knock twice on the door so I know that it's you," Virus said to him, when he finally decided that it would be more convenient to let him in, instead of having Trip leave scratch marks in the door until it was opened for him.
So Trip knocked twice.
His eyes were gone.
Trip had watched when they did it—it's what they had wanted, those sick bastards—and they'd popped them out as if they were no more than...he couldn't think of a solid metaphor for the careless way they'd gone about the procedure.
They'd done it so calmly, as if it were normal.
They had scooped Virus' eyes out and Trip thought he was going to be sick when they did.
They dug them out, and he'd never thought that someone's face could look so empty, with those big black empty holes in the way.
He cried a little, because he was scared, because he knew that he was next—and that's why they wanted him to watch, he realized later when they'd drugged him, put him to sleep, and then put him under the knife.
Virus was the one who had brought him down, though, bringing him along and then going his own way while the surgeons sedated him, and Trip wondered to himself, did Virus know that they were going to do this?
He must have, at least a little. But he had taken Trip by the hand and pulled him along through the winding corridors that they lived among, and he had not flinched. He hadn't said a word, hadn't cried, hadn't panicked.
He was so strong.
Now, for the moment, Virus was first, and Trip was the one who was settled down in a hard plastic chair of the viewing room, to see what he'd be going through two days afterwards.
They put new ones in, then: pretty, bright blue eyes.
Trip vaguely wondered, for a moment, if Virus would like the color.
He hoped so.
He was left to his own devices for an hour or two before they would let him into Virus' room. Trip wrinkled his nose, because the room smelled so strongly of antiseptic and painkillers—something all too familiar to him, he thought bitterly. When the doctors had gone, he had walked over to the edge of the bed, only just able to see over the high edge.
Tufts of messy blonde hair were draped carelessly over the edges of sterilized bandages, and Trip could make out small dots of blood here and there on the clean white wrappings. Virus was propped up lazily in the bed, and Trip leaned forward, waving one hand wildly over his face. He couldn't tell if he was awake or not.
He took a step back, and knocked twice on the hard wooden foot of the bed.
"Virus?" he said softly, as if he were afraid that someone was still outside the door, that someone would hear. "Knock twice if...if you're okay."
Virus reached blindly for the side table, knocked twice on the wood, and smiled.
They ended up getting into far too much shit when they got older.
Ninety percent of their early escapades had involved Trip starting unnecessary brawls with Rib players three times his size—he picked fights with whomever even thought of looking at him funny, once they'd hit the streets. Out here, there weren't any nice men in white to sedate him if he started throwing punches on a whim.
More than once did they wind up half conscious on the pavement of a back alleyway, with the taste of liquor still on their tongues, as well as the fresh blood from wounds that, judging by the pain, would take some time to heal.
Virus thought that it couldn't be as bad as their first week out, when Trip's bar fight had involved in three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a twisted ankle between the both of them.
He still had a tendency to get them into similar situations, but the damage since that instance was never that bad.
Virus licked his lips, tasting the blood and the dirt, still smelling like cigarette smoke from the cheap bar they'd stopped by an hour ago. Trip, in worse shape than he was, was sprawled across the concrete just some feet away.
"Same shit, as always," Virus mumbled. He tried turning his head to glance at his partner in crime, but winced at the sharp pain in his neck, and remained still. With a smirk, he reached over, and knocked twice on the pavement.
"Knock twice if you're not dead yet."
Trip groaned, and knocked twice.
They'd been in prison plenty of times before this since they'd taken to prowling the Old Residential District, and this certainly wasn't the first time that something like this had happened. They weren't too worried, of course—the bar fight had been worth it, and this time, they hadn't started it. Someone always managed to post bail for them, anyhow—and they never asked who, of course, figuring that some things were simply better left unknown.
Perhaps the police were confused or just cautious in having put them in separate cells, but either way they sat quietly and didn't put up too much of a fuss.
Virus picked at the miniature shards of glass still embedded in his palm, and hoped that they wouldn't have to deal with assholes like these again.
Trip ignored the dull pain still in the back of his head, and laughed to himself when he thought about how many stitches the other three guys would be getting right about now. He'd never seen a kneecap twisted that way until tonight, come to think of it.
Virus sat back on the wooden bench in his cell, resting his head against the hard wall. It was concrete, or something like it, which was surprising, considering the year. He figured that they'd have found something newer, something better, by now.
He spoke loudly enough so that his voice carried into the cell across the narrow hallway, but not so loud that the guard on night shift, half-awake at his desk, could hear.
"Knock twice if you're looking for a drink after this."
Trip smirked, reached one hand just above his head, and knocked twice on the wall behind him.
Sure, they'd been beaten and bruised before—plenty of times inside Toue's laboratories, too—but Trip couldn't remember the last time that one of them had been so close to death before. Granted, they'd gotten into their fair share of scrapes, a broken bone here, a black eye there, but this was more blood than he'd ever seen before, more gore than he'd ever wanted to see.
All of this...all because Virus couldn't listen, couldn't understand when it was better for him to stay back and let others take charge of the fight.
"I could've taken those guys down easily," Trip said, half to himself, kneeling on the floor of a bar they often tended to stop by. "But you couldn't swallow your pride and back down, huh?"
Virus laughed, but it was hollow. His hand was still settled on his chest, fingers draped over exposed flesh, his palm stained with blood. "I didn't expect those assholes to bring a gun to a fistfight."
He sighed, raggedly, and closed his eyes. Trip bluntly flicked the side of his head.
"No. Eyes open," he commanded. "You're not dying on me."
"Hurts like hell. Won't make any promises."
"Well, make this one. Just this one. For me."
All that Trip could think, as he sat, waiting, for police and paramedics that some bartender had called for ten minutes ago, was that Virus wasn't going to be happy when this was through—and not because he had lost. He'd probably be most upset because this suit was definitely going to have to go—you couldn't wear one with bloodstains, let alone with a gaping bullet hole through the chest.
He'd never had to try a hand at CPR before, but he learned quickly enough, when Virus ended up gasping for breath, half-conscious beside him. Twenty-five minutes after they were expected, he could finally hear the sound of the paramedics' footsteps on the wooden paneling, and he sat back out of their way, as much as it hurt him to do so.
He kept his distance, but he got close enough, for a brief moment, to whisper in Virus' ear.
"Tap twice if you can still hear me."
With the bar spinning before his eyes, Virus moved his arm stiffly, and rapped twice on the floor beside him.
Perfection was such a complicated thing, when you found yourself displeased with nearly everything, nearly everyone. Perhaps that was why Trip had decided to dye his hair as well—there was something so perfect, so lovely, about Virus that he couldn't help but try to reflect his appearance. It was like a mirror image, some days, and it felt so right.
Having someone nearly identical to you was beautiful, because it felt like being beside yourself—and you could never leave yourself.
Trip would never leave.
That in itself was something Virus knew without asking.
Their relationship was such a complicated thing, because they found themselves displeased with nearly everything, nearly everyone. Each had those sweet somethings that the other lacked, and they fit together like the last two parts in a puzzle that had lost all of the other pieces.
They didn't remember when it became commonplace to wind up in bed with the other—the cheap women on the streets were nice on the odd Friday night, but they grew boring, like everyone did, eventually.
Being with the other always promised the chance of something new, something different.
And it was beautiful.
And so they slept with each other when it was convenient, and when it was appealing. Always, no matter what the circumstances, there would be a brief pause before things got heated. Trip would pause, Virus' legs thrown over his shoulders, and he would look up for only a brief moment, whispering in the quiet atmosphere of the room.
He would always ask permission first.
"Tap twice if you want me to go ahead."
And when Virus tapped twice on one muscled shoulder, Trip would continue, reaching back with one hand to draw the silk curtains around Virus' bed shut.
And for one night, they would only have each other.
The nightmares came more frequently than they would have liked, but it was hard to forget the trauma that multiple years of experimentation and near torture brought on. Some days, they would look in the mirror and simply stare, remembering long-buried memories as they ran their fingers over old scar lines.
And some nights, Virus would wake up screaming, with the blankets half off of the bed. He would sit in the darkness, trembling, and would jump ever-so-slightly when Trip reached for the light.
"You alright?"
He had these too, some nights, and he always asked, even though he already knew the answer.
On the better nights, Virus would be fine with just that.
"Yeah. I'm fine," he'd whisper, collecting the comforter and rolling back over in bed.
On the worse nights, he'd sit, shaking, either burying his head into his hands as if he were trying to hide, or sitting stiffly, gripping the blankets in sweaty palms and staring blankly at the wall.
Slowly, cautiously, Trip would crawl up in the covers, and he would just hold him.
Virus didn't cry. He didn't. On the worse nights, he did. Trip would just hold him, pressing kisses to his cheek, because he knew how it felt. When Virus had finished, his sobs reduced to tired gasps, he would kiss him again.
"Tap twice if you're okay."
Curling up in Trip's embrace, Virus would reach around and tap twice on Trip's back.
And some nights, Trip would wake up gasping for breath, the covers tangled about his legs. He was more quiet in his fear, but he had the tendency to throw things. When Virus came to check on him, after hearing the shatter of a vase or old clock against the wall, he didn't have to say anything. He knew.
On the better nights, Virus only had to crawl into bed beside him.
On the worse nights, he'd wake up screaming, suddenly backpedaling until he fell off of the bed, or clawing desperately at the headboard of the bed if he found himself tangled in the bedsheets. Then, Virus would sit beside him and hold him close as best he could, wrapping his arms around to trace the hole on the back of Trip's neck, the circular indentation and the pinprick inside it that matched the one on his own neck—the hole where too many needles, too many spinal taps all were pressed.
The holes ended up failing to heal, and eventually, they just stayed.
Virus wouldn't say anything until he was sure that it was alright, until Trip stopped shaking in his arms.
"I'm here," he would whisper, leaning against him. His smooth voice was almost warm in the cold bedroom. "It's okay. I won't leave. Tap twice if you know that."
Trip would sit back, flash him a smile, and tap twice along Virus' collarbone.
Some nights, in their beds that were too big for even the both of them, burying themselves among the blankets to lie, warm in each others' embrace, was simply enough. Virus, leaning against Trip as a headrest, idly flicked through the novel he read, another long fiction with too many chapters and print that was too small.
Trip was content to lie there and take it all in, to feel the body lying against his.
In the quiet of the room, he spoke softly.
"Knock twice if you love me."
Virus smiled, and pressed a subtle kiss to Trip's cheek.
He reached over to the headboard, and knocked twice, even though he figured that Trip already knew the answer.