hung up in the ivory {teva/cal}

"Come on baby, just one more turn for me," he says to me and I turn my face away to hide the disgust that becomes more and more present each day since Teva found out my secret. The man's been watching for a long time and each time I jerk my head in his direction to get my manager's attention, to let him know that he's a real creep, the bastard just shakes his head. 'He's a friend,' he mouths at me and I want to punch him right between his stupid eyes. As if I care about that. I don't want him watching me anymore.

I guess it doesn't matter what I do or do not want.

I grit my teeth, trying to let the anger seep out before I begin. It's easier said than done with a weirdo like him watching but I do it. It's my job after all. I wrap my leg around the pole to get a grip, placing each hand on the warmed up metal. One on top of the other provides the support I need to hoist myself up and begin a routine. The band is still going strong despite the late hour and it doesn't seem that this prick plans on leaving anytime soon. I wish he'd just take his greasy head of hair and shove off but that feeling doesn't stop me from leaning low over the stage to let him tuck dollar bills into the tight waistline of my pants.

As I spin on the pole, I take a quick look around the club, checking once again to see if Teva's come. I keep expecting that I'll see him there, in one of the large lounge chairs, watching me perform. Now that he's found me out I expect to see him everywhere. I keep waiting for him to turn off. In the times that I've seen him since that night, I've been waiting for him to tell me to fuck off, but he hasn't. Not once.

It was weird waking up in his bed.

Panic had gripped me for a long moment, I hadn't known where I was. Sleep clung to my limbs and made me lethargic as I turned my head to see him sleeping on the floor beside me. I couldn't recall how I had gotten back to his place in the first place. All I could really remember was a feeling of safety, of warmth. Then it went dark and when I woke up I was in his bed, uncertain as to the time. I knew I was probably late for school, despite the fact that the moon was still out. Which it shouldn't have been. Then I noticed how much higher it was in the sky than when I'd left the club.

Then I realized that maybe I'd slept a tiny bit longer than I thought I had.

Then as I lay there in a panic I'd worried that maybe I'd slept with Teva. For a full two seconds I lay in silent shock and horror, eyes wide and unfocused. Then my brain had caught up with my idiot self and told me that I was still fully clothed and he was on the ground, wearing clothes and the worry left.

I fell back asleep after that and ended up sleeping another full day like a first class idiot. God only knows how sore Teva was the next few days. I was ashamed for taking his bed from him but I hadn't slept so well in so long. There was a feeling that I'd actually had some rest for once after I woke up in his room.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been going back there to get a couple of hours sleep before school. I told him that he wasn't allowed to give his bed up for me anymore. I pull the window open and if he's asleep then I flop down beside him on the bed and wait for morning to come for me and drag me back out of his window. I don't know why I've grown so attached. Maybe it's because he makes me feel like myself again. Maybe it's because I no longer have any secrets from him.

I get off of my shift faster than usual, mainly because I'm still pissed about my manager's stupid creep of a friend and I can be a diva when I want to be. I stomped my foot like an infant and told my manager that I had homework to do and I was tired of his shitty friends with their stupid wandering hands and gross lack of hygiene. So he let me off early. It's a thursday night so the club was pretty quiet anyway and there's a day off at school tomorrow so the teachers can finish their marking. I won't have to get up at the crack of dawn.

I swear that when I left the club I was heading off back to my place to forage for a snack and some much needed sleep but I guess that in the recent weeks my feet have decided on a new path. I'm halfway to Teva's house before I know it. I stop, turning on my heel, knowing that I shouldn't bother him, that I should stop interrupting his sleep but my home is cold and quiet and sad.

So I turn again and let myself go there. It's not like I'm doing anything really bad by going to his place. Maybe I'm indulging myself a bit too much, he's going to get annoyed with me and tell me to stop coming over eventually. Until then though, I'll milk it. I've never really liked being alone, my hands and feet are permanently cold and sometimes I think I hear things in the night. I've been sapping Teva's body heat by pressing my cold hands against his back and pushing my feet against his legs, making him suffer so I can have his heat.

But when I pull the window up and slip in, I can tell that something is wrong. Sometimes teva waits up for me or he's fast asleep but it's never like this. There's something in the air, a quiet tension. A lack of sound. Teva isn't sleeping and he's not smiling either and he's not doing anything, Teva is dead-

-ly quiet.

He's got his face shoved into the pillow.

I look around the room as I shrug off my coat and leave it in a heap on the floor. I don't notice anything out of the ordinary that might give a hint as to why Teva is trying to drown himself in feathers.

I slip off my shoes and get ready to flop down beside him when my eyes catch something odd on the bedside table. Curious, I reach down and pick up a syringe. When I tilt it, a little drop of blood runs around the inside. I tilt it slowly, spinning it, watching as the blood leaves a neat little spiraling trail around the inside. Lowering the syringe I look behind me at Teva, who's body is tense and he is shaking slightly, like he's stuck. I let my eyes wander over the smoothness of his bare back marred only by a scar here or there in true Teva fashion. He's slick with sweat and the room smells off slightly.

A lot of the patrons of the club like to get high too.

Quietly, I turn back to the syringe. After a moment of consideration, I place it gently back on the bedside table, and let my head fall onto the pillow, pulling my legs up as I do so. I'm silent as I roll over to look at Teva's tense and sorrowful form. My brain is spinning as I try to work it out. I don't know if he's gotten high before at all, I'm trying to think about what he was like the other night when I was here again. I think he was normal, bright-eyed, grumbly Teva but now I can't recall. I wasn't looking for the signs.

"Oi," I whisper, fingers curling up softly as I keep myself from reaching out. "You're going to suffocate if you do that," I tell him. I'm afraid and so my face has slipped back into that bored expression, my tone is seemingly neutral even though I want to reach out and pull him towards me, just to check if he's still even breathing.

"Look at me."

I watch as he shifts slowly, raising his face away from the pillow only slightly, but in the wrong direction. He's hiding from me, sure as anything. I don't know why. He's seen me at my worst, snot dripping out of my nose and everything. As I recall, some of that snot even got on his shirt. My cheeks flush slightly at that memory. I didn't really care much at the time, I was too worried about the fact that he hated me more than anything else. With time to think about it, it's eaten at me. I've never come off as anything less than perfect but that moment was low for me. I've been careful in the past few weeks to stay calm, diligent with my emotions.

Teva does the same for me.

I guess ever since his mom died and he and his brothers have turned to gang violence. He didn't tell me that, what they did. I found that out a couple of weeks ago too. Turns out the Seraphims were more of a closed book than I thought, Teva especially so. He holds my secret now just as I hold his. That connects us. I don't have anything else left to tell him, my life is laid out on the space of the bed sheet between us for him to see.

"No," he says to me. He sounds like a little boy. Honestly, the tiniest bit pathetic, not that I'll ever tell him that. He's stubborn and defensive. I can hear the ache in his voice though and the way his shoulders are tells me that this is something that he wants to be left alone with. He's like a dog with his tail between his legs and it's ears flat against his skull. Dad always said to be careful around dogs when they're like that; they'll bite.

I consider this.

On one hand, I could turn over and get some sleep. It's not like I don't need it. True, that mini coma I was in a few weeks ago really helped but it's not going to keep me going forever. However, tomorrow is a day off and I don't have to go to work until the evening. I can do this all night. Teva Seraphim is known for how stubborn he can be, but when I want something, no one denies me it and that's for a good reason. I know how to deal with people, I've had more than enough practice, haven't I?

If Teva bites then that's alright.

He took care of me back then, so I can take care of him this time. If I have to be forceful about it, then so be it. My voice is cold, dangerous and I narrow my eyes in a foreboding manner at the back of his skull. "I said look at me Teva," and it isn't a question, it's a command that I expect him to listen to. There's no room in my universe for him to refuse. It's either he looks at me now or I reach out and turn him over with my own two hands.

I hate the feeling of not knowing.

The reason I am able to survive is because I know what is happening around me. I wouldn't be able to take the harsh reality of my job if I didn't understand exactly why I had to do it, or what I had to do. With confusion there is disorder. Confusion comes along when something is thrown out of place. Like the factories that populate this district and keep us running, I am useless if I'm missing even one cog. Teva being sad is like a cog being out of place because Teva is never sad. Teva is Teva, strong, loud and obnoxious and so ridiculously present that when I'm around him it's as if the entire world is painted a fluorescent pink. Not knowing why this sadness is gripping him is scary. It must mean something really bad has happened and I don't know if I can take bad news.

One thing that I've always liked Teva is just how invulnerable he really seems to be. I know it's bad to put anyone on a pedestal but sometimes I think that the entire world could turn to dust and he'd still be standing there on his little patch of earth, shaking his fist at the world. I like that. I know that I'd let myself turn to dust too. It's be good to finally rest, to stop struggling along like this. However, I know that even the strongest people in the world have their unbearable weights that keep them grounded. Like Atlas, we all have to carry our own worlds on our shoulders but it's always easier with a friend.

He finally turns to look at me and his eyes are cloudy from tears. It's odd seeing Teva cry. I've seen Tate cry loads of times. He cries a lot. You'd think it wouldn't be much difference seeing it on Teva's face seeing as they're nearly identical but it is. It's a little bit shocking, like the world has tilted that much more to the side while I wasn't paying attention. They might have the same face but it's different. Seeing Tate cry is a normal thing. I don't like seeing Teva cry. It makes my chest feel weird, like I'm sick or something.

I'm quiet for a moment, my eyes searching his features to gauge the damage. He's really pale and he's sweating too. It isn't that hot in here and his covers are all kicked off. In fact, it's a pretty cold night. I'm shivering slightly even in full clothing. Worry flickers across my spectrum and I bite at the inside of my lip. At least I know why he looks like shit. That doesn't make me any happier though. Yes, I know why he looks like shit, what I don't know is the other why, the one that pertains to why he shot up heroin in the first place.

A stray tear slips out and I can tell that he's trying to hold them back. 'Big old tough Teva can't be crying because that's not what he does.' The effort he's putting in is going to make him explode. I know that his glare is meant to put me off but it's such a glare of minimal effort that it only serves to worry me further.

I reach out slowly, I know he's got good reflexes and I don't want him to break my arm out of surprise, and I use the pad of my thumb to wipe the tear away before it can go anywhere else. "There," I say softly in response to his turning to face me, "Was that so hard?"

He tells me to go to sleep and that is a command that I do want to obey. Maybe I would be more willing to do so if it weren't for the fact that I know that something is pulling him apart so easily. I don't want to just go to sleep. I won't be able to, not when he's like this. I wish I knew how to make things better but I can't do shit if he doesn't tell me anything. I know that he isn't just sick. If he was then I would just go to sleep after making sure there is nothing I can do for him. This isn't sickness though. This is him coming down hard from a high that he went on because something was bothering him and I don't intend to leave him alone until he tells me.

"Hah. No," I drawl out, smirking slightly at him from my spot on the bed. My grin is half-assed and languid. I'm not going to let him see just how much finding that needle on his bedside table bothered me. For all he knows, I didn't even see it. I'd like to keep it that way. I'm not judging him for what he's done, I don't want him to think I am. There's something about Teva that makes him impossible. He can't do anything wrong because whatever he has done is meant to be. He's just following his storyline and I'm just failing to rewrite mine.

My hands are still freezing, as are my feet but even brushing my hand along the top of his cheekbone I knew just how hot he was. It's slightly worrying. I need to get him cooled down and I need to heat myself up. I can explain what I do next away as entirely selfish if I wish to. I press my hands flat against his chest, long fingers resting delicately against the heat of his skin. It's incredibly warm and my smile widens in appreciation. I push my feet against his legs, searching for that same heat.

Teva must be really thankful for a good friend like me. He's lucky I'm always cold because he must be really hot right now. How lucky. "What's wrong?" I ask him, voice still low because despite not knowing whether Tate and Tripp are about, I know that Teddy has got to be home. Tate would never let him out this late, especially when the night is so cold.

My eyes search his for an answer but I look away again. There's something scary in them, something sadder than usual. Maybe it's hypocritical of me to feel this slight twinge of disappointment over what Teva has done tonight. It's not like I'm an angel. My job entails sleeping with men and women, sometimes both. I've seen needles, lighters, bongs, all of it and it's not like I'm new to that scene at all. I've drunken alcohol before, even gotten drunk. I just draw my line at drugs. I guess that isn't where Teva draws his. That's his choice.

"Tell me," I whisper.

I stare intently at my hands on his chest as he speaks, ears straining to sort out his words. It's a lot to take in, a lot more than I was expecting. I can't think about Teddy being arrested, the idea is unapproachable, unfathomable. I don't want to believe that he is anywhere but in his room across the hall, sleeping safe and sound, a book fallen open on his chest or some cute shit like that. Teddy is literally a Teddy, the little brother who's been following use around ever since he learned how to crawl. He called me 'Big Bro' once by accident and it made me so happy that I nearly actually smiled. Quick little flashes of memories crawl through my brain, of long summers spent exploring, him tagging along on one of the triplet's backs, sometimes even my own. They can't take Teddy. That's gotta be illegal.

With the mention of arrest, my father walks through my head, unbidden. He smiles, winks at me. He doesn't ever speak. He's tongueless, he cannot. I don't want Teddy to be tongueless too, bright-eyed little Teddy, the boy with a thousand and one thoughts. That idea hurts. I shut my eyes for a moment at the image, of them taking out Dad's tongue and leaving it on the front lawn. I don't want that for Teddy. It makes me feel sick.

I put that away, all thoughts of it, to save it for later. Later I can take the idea that Teddy is gone out and look at it fully but right now, Teva is the one who needs my attention. I open my eyes again and narrow them at his chest, as if I'm zeroing in on the pumping of his heart. I don't want him to see the worry over Teddy in my eyes. I'm good at hiding emotion in them, my manager calls me 'his cold little bitch'. Teva's always been good at spotting them though, like he's got some weird sixth sense for me. So I hide from him on occasion. I don't want him to worry about me too, he's obviously got enough on his plate.

I listen to the rest of his words. Tate's disappearance is slightly shocking. Only slightly. He's always been oddly emotional, of course the loss of Teddy would do this to him. It makes sense. It doesn't keep a quiet ember of anger from burning in the pit of my stomach. I'd expect tears from Tate, even a breakdown over Teddy. What I wouldn't expect is for him to blame Teva and make him feel horrible for it, like Teva would tell Teddy to attack a Peacekeeper. I've always respected Tate for the way he treats all of us like his charges, and I've recognized that it must put a strain on him. Blaming Teva is just childish and hurtful though. I'm not impressed.

My gaze is drawn to a blemish on his skin. He's got quite a few of course. I knew about the one under his ear and I knew he had more scars only based on the fact that it's Teva. I haven't seen him without a shirt on for a long time though. Summers spent carefree at the swimming hole ended long ago. I move my hand along a slightly puckered line that runs along the left side of his chest. "So what's this from then?" I ask him.

I'm a single child. When I was younger I never really understood why this was. I thought that it was weird because there were so many of the Seraphims and their house was always bright and loud but then I'd get home and my parents would be both out working, it'd be so lonely. I asked my mother once about why I didn't have brothers too and she said that it was because they couldn't afford to have more than one kid. Even if they'd wanted another, they'd have to put him up for adoption because they wouldn't be able to care for him. I came to the conclusion that you had to be rich to have siblings so I opened a lemonade stand.

I wanted to make sure that I didn't have to be alone. I wanted someone to share a home with too but when I presented my mom with the dollar I'd made from the two cups I'd sold to Teva, she sat me down and told me that it was never going to happen. She wasn't able to have anymore kids because an angry bug had climbed inside of her uterus and made it so. I took this news with disappointment but with the same calm demeanor that I have with every disappointment in my life.

I just spent as much time with the triplets as possible. It wasn't the same but it was close to it.

It's crazy to think about just how long I've known them. Since before we started Kindergarten I think. I don't remember how we met, I just remember all the times that came after. I can't imagine a life without any of them. Things would have been bleak.

My fingers trace the scar again and again and I marvel at the fact that he isn't dead. A cut like that must have been deep to leave such a scar but he acts like it's nothing to survive something like that. He sounds nearly nonchalant as he tells me it's from a knife fight. It makes me curious.

"Because I want to know," I say in answer to his question, that same bored expression painting my features over in a similar fashion like the same old forest green that the neighbor across the street paints his fence over with every single year of my life. My expression is 'same old' and comfortable. Maybe it comes across as me ignoring his hurt, ignoring the problem but I'm an excellent essayist. I'm working my way up to my main point.

My eyes catch on a scar that runs angry and pink over the top of his hip. I move my hand down to trace that one too. "What about this one?" I ask him, fingertips running lightly along the pink.

My hands should be warmer by now but they aren't. I feel like I'm getting colder by the second. I want to ask Teva to be more specific but at the same time I don't. It's hard to think of him desperate, rolling in the mud with blood running down his side. I don't think Teva is the type to give in too easily and I like to think I'm that way too but taking a knife to the side is a good excuse. Maybe bleeding out in some dark alley somewhere doesn't sound all that great but if it happened to me then I wouldn't have to go to work the next day. Maybe never again. It's stupid to think about, so fucking stupid. I don't want to die but I also don't know how much I'd mind it.

I'd miss Teva though. I try and think about anytime I saw him, if he looked particularly wounded. There was that one time after they shot his mom where he could barely breath from his broken ribs. He was all white in the face and I remember that I was so afraid that I laughed. I'm weird like that, sometimes it's like I don't know how to properly react. The day I got home from the public execution I laughed so hard that I started crying. Mom says it's nothing to be ashamed of, that I'm just hysterical and that's why I laugh. She says it's because I'm so upset that I can't cope. When Tate let me know that Teva had woken up after getting beaten to shit by those Peacekeepers I laughed too.

I can't think of any other time that I saw him looking in so much pain. When I think about Teva, he's immovable in my head, like a rock. Nothing gets around him, nothing stops him when he wants to do something. That's how it's always been. That's what the scars are. Maybe one day I'll sit him down and I'll make him give me the full story of each. Scars are important, they tell stories. There's a gap in our history where we fell apart because of my job and his job getting in the way but I'll be friends with the triplets for a long time. It's about time I started working on that friendship harder.

My hands travel back up his chest, to a slightly more faded scar that doesn't look like it was any kinder to him. His skin isn't cooling down at all. It's like he's a furnace and that can't be good for him. We had this customer once who was always shooting up and he'd grip my arms, calling me love. He'd warm the whole place up. One night he overdosed in the back room just before he was about to have a transaction with Jessie. She got to go home early and we never had to deal with him again which was nice. He was dead.

I've seen dead bodies before. My job isn't kind to the likes of me. One time we had a particularly aggressive customer who took a girl called Tara into the back room. When the screaming stopped we found her, throttled on the bed and him gone. Her neck looked like someone had put it through a wringer and I remember I stood staring at her for too long. She could have been me. I take home bruises sometimes, sometimes a split lip or a black eye. That's just how some customers are. I don't have many scars though. That's the rule. Never leave lasting marks on the merchandise and management won't mind what you do.

I trace the scar with one finger, the rest of them splayed across his chest as if to leech heat from him better. "This One?" I ask.