Again, this is paired to the first chapter. Subsequent chapters are not necessarily related or in any recognizable order. This is just much cleaner and neater than dumping all my short work in separate pieces.

He's a particularly nasty thorn, deeply buried, twisting down through sensitive flesh. No one should speak of tragedy with such mirth in his eyes, no one should have that undercurrent of pain and fear. He thinks his mask if perfect, but I see him flinch from the others, I see the instability under his overconfident stories. And I begin to suspect he hides it even from himself.

And I don't want to give in. Maker, is he amazing, the way he carries himself, the way he moves, that laugh, when he means it—but I don't want to take advantage. He's offered himself after a fashion, but he does it as a form of repayment, I think. He's the one good thing I have in all this darkness, the one point of brightness, the only person here who doesn't care so much about the Blight—well, excepting the mabari. His advice is sound, and whenever I've grown too absorbed in the darkness he taunts one of our companions or offers me some amusing anecdote.

I don't know if I should even try to fix him. Would it be wrong of me? Should he stay broken? Is he really broken, or am I simply misinterpreting his life? I've had my fair share of pain, but not like him. I don't think I have a frame of reference to judge properly from.

So I turn him down. I pretend I'm not charmed by his shameless flirting, by his sharp wit and his quick tongue. Best to keep my distance, and figure him out first. At least, until he asks, so frankly, so vulnerably, where he stands.

So I say something dumb. I hate seeing him upset, and respond as he would. I let him see just a little of what I feel, even in a joke, and in his surprised reaction I worry that I've done the wrong thing.

I begin to understand that, yes, he is broken, but not the way I thought. The pain and fear are real, but the mirth and the irreverence don't simply cover it up. He's learned to make the best of life, in spite of everything that's happened to him, but he is convinced he is alone against the world. I have been wrong, robbing him of confidence, of something he thinks will help him gain better control over his situation. So I try not to seem like I'm taking advantage of him, but I'm a little forceful when I ask.

He seems better, afterward. Like he thinks he has a claw in me. I'll let him dig all his little Crow talons in if it stabilizes him. But I need him to understand... there is more to this. I ask no commitment, because that's not what I mean. I just need him to know its not about the physical release, not with me. He's not a thing to be used, more than just a warm and willing body.

So as soon as I think I'm able, I give him what he gives me, this total attention. And, painful as it is, I deny myself release at the end. He doesn't understand, and I don't know how to explain without using words he'll misinterpret, words that will chase him away. This isn't love. This is...

Clearly, we've both know pain, and we've both been trapped in beautiful cages most of our lives. There's so much common ground between us that I feel I've known him for years already, and I want to show him something genuine. Something true. He deserves one beautiful thing in his wretched life, and while I'm not pretentious enough to think I'll be that thing, I can maybe help open his eyes for when it comes.

And as we leave the surface world behind, the way he looks at me changes, the tone in his voice when we speak... I think he's beginning to understand. And I need to stop fooling myself.

The relevant lyrics are from Muse's "Undisclosed Desires":

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart
I want to recognize your beauty's not just a mask
I want to exorcise the demons from your past
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

You trick your lovers
That you're wicked and divine
You may be a sinner
But your innocence is mine