poison
Tala harbored no delusions that they were alike. At least by much. And he resented and hated Kai for the differences, for Kai's five years to his fifteen, for Kai's big house to his cramped cell, for Kai's blankets in the winter to his tingling red fingers because fuck it got cold in the Abbey at night. Tala hated Kai for the comfort he'd imagined the boy felt, at least sometimes, maybe not more by much, but he was damn near positive… sometimes. Kai felt fine.
Feeling fine—what a pipe dream. Maybe you had to escape before age 10. Maybe that was the cut off for relative normality. For knowing how not to lie and how to take people's hands when they offered them (Tala imagined Kai knew these things).
Tala also resented and hated Kai for the similarities people saw, when there was next to nothing—And Tala looked at him with such hate. Because he had ten years of suffering on that kid. And he didn't hurt or suffer half as much. And Kai didn't even remember his five stupid years. And Kai thought he did, everyone thought he did, but Kai didn't have a fucking clue.