The words Chibi spits are sulfuric acid; they sizzle against the edges of Qilby's consciousness and curl up the ends, eat at his brain for long after they're spread. Things like you're sick, you only think of yourself; even with the full knowledge that Chibi doesn't mean them, that they're born of frustration and rage with the burden they both bear, they make him sick with doubt every time he swallows them. After all, what if he is selfish? What if he is only rationalizing his sickness?

The words Qilby spits are sodium hydroxide; they burn Chibi to the bone, stick there long after they've been washed away in the tides of his anger. He can't stand to be called a child, not with the responsibility he keeps on his shoulders, and every time Qilby accuses him of naiveté he screams out not just from frustration with those sick words but with the thought in the back of his head that maybe he is a child. What if he doesn't really know? What if he will never understand Qilby the way he yearns to, the way Qilby yearns to be understood?

It's only after the fights that they balance, the way acids and bases do, and the salty water from the combination emits itself in the tears that wash away their doubts.