Night's Children: De Rerum Natura

Part Two: Logos

Slice, clomp, stab, chomp. The knife sliced through the substance like it was butter, the fork stabbed it with an unnecessary amount of vigor, and the mouth clamped down on the rubbery substance, tasting nothing. The egg was ground and swallowed, but he ignored the sensation of bile creeping up his throat. A sip of water, and the process was repeated.

Across from him, on the opposite side of the booth, emerald eyes watched the boy cautiously, not liking the viciousness behind the rhythm of his cuts. Art sighed slightly as he watched Zahi devour his food and pretend that nothing was wrong.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and the pair had just sat down at a local diner for breakfast. Neither wanted to be in the apartment, so when Art had finally pried himself out of the bed and into the real world, Zahi had asked him if he wanted to go grab a half-decent meal. He had stared at the mess in the kitchen and sluggishly nodded.

And now they were here. Art stared at the older boy with concern. He was hiding, the former servus could tell, the hands that were clutching onto the cutlery so desperately were shaking, after all. The signs were there, Zahi had not blinked, spoke, or looked up from his plate since they had arrived.

Art just shook his head, trying to ignore that foreign feeling that was making its way into his throat, chest and stomach. That constricting, painfully beautiful emotion. It felt like a hole, and he noticed that he wasn't able to breath quite properly this morning.

A rather loud screech brought Art's attention back to Zahi, who had scraped his knife across the plate, his brown eyes looking determined.

The process continued, Zahi slicing at something that wasn't there, while Art tried to avoid the urge to break down and clutch his head in his hands until everything went away. It was unbearable, smothering. Art felt his vision begin to get blurry, but he forced their incriminating presence from his eyes. He refused to be the one that broke first, he didn't want to be the vulnerable one.

The tension in the air escalated, and finally, the youngest of the once three couldn't take it anymore, "Why are we here?" He eventually asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Silence reigned, and Art felt something within him deflate, knowing that Zahi had chose to ignore him.

But just as he was about to give up hope, he heard a soft response, "Because I can't be there."

Art swallowed, and it felt like tacks, "We have to go back eventually."

Zahi slammed his knife down on the table and sent him such an intense, warning glare, that Art's next words faded in his throat. "I'm not an idiot." Was all he said, sending a vicious stare to the untouched hash browns on Art's plate, "Eat your food."

He wasn't hungry, "Fine." He muttered, as he copied the process Zahi had been undergoing.

The check came. They paid, with a tip. And life seemed to go on for that fraction of a second, despite the bitterness that was beginning to fill in one, and the hurt spreading through the other.

OoO

When they finally mustered up enough courage to retreat back to their home, the first thing Zahi did was mechanically pick up the shards from the shattered cup on the floor. Art watched him for a few moments, wincing whenever a shard caught on Zahi's careless hands, leaving a trail of red that disappeared almost as instantly as it had come. The French teen ignored the boy and his sympathy, but when he could no longer bare the stare, he tossed a wet rag at him. Art caught it effortlessly and began to sop up the sticky juice.

His hands dug at the unrelenting floor until he realized that he had scrubbed hard enough to remove some skin from his knuckles. Red and puffy, he gazed at them, until he despondently dropped the rag onto the floor and sat on his knees, staring blankly.

Zahi had finished cleaning up his mess long ago, but continued to toy with the tiny shards of glass he had in his hand, twisting them absently. "I suppose…" He started, his voice as flat and calm as it always was, "That you need to talk about it?"

If it had been any other person, they would not have picked up on the irritated tone that slightly clung to his words, would have missed the hesitance and disgust that came. But Art wasn't any other person, he had lived with Zahi for five years, worked the labor pits of Nefandus with him. He knew when he was upset, "I would." He whispered, his hands curling into a fist that gave him such a reliving feeling of pain as it irritated the newly-acquired sores.

Zahi just nodded, resigned, "I'll make coffee."

Sluggishly, he stood up and gingerly placed the broken glass pieces into his pockets as he stood up and fell back into his routine. His terribly comfortable routine of being the older brother, the responsible one, the rock.

And Art fell back into the routine with him. Back into being the naïve little boy he was five years ago, constantly looking for reassurance and guidance. He too got to his feet, and made his way over to their table, sitting and trying to convince himself that he was real. Not just a shade, even if that was how he was feeling.

Moments later, Zahi sat across from him, carefully placing a mug in front of him. Milk, no sugar. Art cringed a bit inside when he remembered that he always had sweetener added to the bitter drink, and that it was Trysten who hated sugar. But he didn't have the heart to correct Zahi, nor did he have it in him to drink it. He simply settled for tracing his forefinger around the coffee mug's rim, absently dipping his finger in accidentally. He didn't feel the burn.

Zahi kept up the trend of the coffee just for appearance's sake, as he too lifted the mug, didn't drink, and then set it back down. "What do you want to know?" He finally stated.

Art just shook his head. Silence reigned and he finally managed to choke out a single, "Why?"

His counterpart snorted, "Why else? Inner pressure. Weakness. Surrender." He sneered, "It happens all the time."

While his words stung, Art cleared his throat, "That wasn't what I was asking." He clarified.

Zahi sent him a questionable look.

"Why did you throw his cup at the wall, Lance?" Art questioned as cautiously as he could.

"Don't call me that." He muttered, "It's not my real name."

The younger boy shrugged, "It's Lance who saved me at Nefandus, and Lance who helped Trysten and I avoid Followers for five years," His green eyes darkened, "I don't like Zahi."

"Lance is dead, he burned up with Trysten in that fire," Zahi scoffed.

His words were meant to be cruel and cutting. They served their purpose, as Art fell silent.

"Lance is the one who promised a dying goddess to protect her son." His tone darkened, "Zahi is the one used to letting people down." The bitterness was almost tangible as he continued, "Zahi's a failure." His fingers clenched around the handle, blanching his skin.

Art twitched slightly in his seat, not knowing how to counter that. When he spoke next, it was hesitant, "I miss him already."

Zahi flickered his eyes from the coffee mug, "I miss Trysten too." He whispered.

Art shook his head yet again, "Not just Trysten. I had meant Lance, and I miss-"

"Get used to disappointment then," Zahi spat, sitting up abruptly as he took his coffee mug and pitched it into the kitchen sink, the hot, brown liquid sloshing all over his hands. He turned and faced Art, "I'm going to go out and get drunk." Was all he stated, flatly and casually, as he stormed out of the apartment. The door echoing from the heavy slam.

The boy who lost two brothers watched him leave before he exhaled to himself, cradling his head in his hands, "I miss having a family." He muttered.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

I hope I'm making these scenes realistic. I've been drawing from my own experiences, so I know not everyone will think these reactions are honest. But … meh….

More Zahi introspection up next. And a little insight elsewhere…

Thank you Shadow Goddess Akhet you da bomb!

One more chap left for this, then back to Cetera Desunt.

Till next time!

!nym!