stargazing {nemo and tate}

The kid climbs up next to me and I can't stop my head from tilting to the side; much like it had when I was a child who'd been reprimanded for something I didn't understand. My brows knit closely together and I look at the boy in black for longer than I should. I want to laugh, or perhaps to hit him. What kind of idiot was this? I'd not been friendly, I'd sure as hell not invited him up here, but here we are sitting next to each other like old friends enjoying the night's mystery. I'm not relieved, definitely not grateful, but I'm not really angry either. I drop my head once more, counting the seams in my dirty pants, taking staggered breaths of frosty air as I desperately attempt to gather my wits.  

It isn't often that I'm taken off guard, that someone finds a chink in my armor. And it's certainly not often an annoying kid dressed in black with problems taking a hint. Nonetheless, I scoot over, making more room for the boy without a single word. It was something to intentionally fall of a bridge, but it'd be embarrassing to the both of us if one took an accidental tumble. Until today, I thought I'd seen it all and maybe that made me ignorant. I wanted to think that there was nothing so despicable I hadn't experienced it, that the bad in the world was no longer a surprise. But this, this wasn't bad or good, not the black and white I'd sorted everything into as of late. I'd forgotten that such thing as grey even existed. And it annoys the fuck out of me. 

My fingers have melded to the iron, even removing them from their place around the chain is painful. One hand now rests against my pocket, taking comfort in the familiar weight resting there. I hadn't lost it in these long hours, at least something was still the same. I wasn't going to kill anything tonight, I decided, at least not the kid. The taunting innocence in his voice intrigued me as much as it angered me. Given I could have slipped off the railing right here and now, left the idiot where he sat to whatever business he had in the middle of the night. It was as much my business as mine was his. I didn't want to, however. I'll play the game for now, one I haven't played for a long while. It's crushing to think how long it's been since I've even seen someone who was not connected to the gang, let alone spoken to them. I have a lot of friends back home, but they mean nothing to me. They kiss my ass so that their ashes aren't the ones I'll be cleaning off of the floor come morning light. The word friends has lost its meaning. 

"If you're going to fucking lie, at least do it well," my voice is hoarse from constant sobbing, deeper and rougher than normal. "No one in their right mind goes for a walk on this bridge in the middle of the night just for the sake of it." It's true enough. This might not be the slums, but it ain't the rich part of town either. People die here and it's no secret. Hanging around is fucking stupid because one of my men will mug you or another gang will do the same. There's no mercy in this district, you don't walk without a purpose. You don't stop, you don't pass go and collect two hundred dollars, you get to where you belong or you die. 

I don't peg this asshole for a crazy, despite how tempting he makes it. There's a kind of intelligence behind his words, like he knew exactly what he wanted to say and exactly what he was doing. I've had a lot of crazies under my command, and been on the receiving end of their abuse a few times too. The kid is different because he was purposely being an annoying little shit. 

He kicks his feet like a child being pushed on the swing. His face consists of two white orbs with dark brown hues gently applied to the middle. Maybe he'd be pretty if I could see the rest of his face, but it's hidden behind thick cloth. It's difficult to peg his age exactly, they say the eyes are the window to the soul but I can tell jack shit about this asshole other than he has pretty eyes. I can't make out the shape of his face, or his nose, I can't tell if he has a pointed jaw or high cheek bones. There's no way to tell what color his lips or his hair are and it frustrates the fuck out of me. It doesn't seem fair, as I have nothing to guard my identity. I can't hide the fact that I've been crying and I don't think I look anything short of a pathetic bitch right now. 

My lip curls and I turn back to the moon, awaiting an answer. 

I'm furious, but somehow it takes all I can to repress a smile. It tries to force its way onto my lips, tries to sneak onto the corners of my mouth when I'm not paying attention. I lock my jaw instead, the boy having caught my full attention. I didn't care if I was staring or what this kid thought of me. I don't pay attention to the fact that it's the first genuine smile I've felt in months either and I don't even know why I even feel like smiling because this kid has only pissed me off. Underneath that damned scarf I can almost see the self-satisfied grin as he revels in his own lame pun. I already despise that scarf. 

His question means a lot more than he intended, however. I search the sky for an answer but all it gives me is sullen silence. What mind am I in? One that'd push me off a bridge? One that was desperate enough to see my brother I'd willingly throw myself into the Detention Center? "To be honest, I think I'm out of it." my voice is softer, it's a tone I've only ever used when talking to my brothers. It wasn't the icy whisper I used to intimidate, nor the angry growls which had torn through my throat only minutes ago. It was genuine. I wasn't often genuine. 

So I'm most definitely out of my mind, I decide. I should have punched this kid as soon as he sat on the railing, I should have just left right then and there because he was insufferable already and we'd barely said two words to each other. But I don't. I sit and a move my numb fingers trying not to focus on how much it hurt or how terribly my palms were cut. "But I don't have to worry about the night's dangers- why don't you?" my hand hovers awkwardly for a second and I'm honestly not sure why it's even raised to begin with. 

Never in my life have I felt this flustered. 

Most people were easy to understand. They did what they had to to survive because that's what humans do. At least a thousand people want to see me and my family dead, at least a thousand people probably sat on this very bridge crying the very same tears. I knew how these things worked because I've seen it all. Everyone is selfless until it comes to sacrificing yourself. No one wants to give their life for someone else. We're all selfish bastards underneath. I knew that. I could understand people because of that. 

I can't understand him. He could have walked past. He could have left when I told him to fuck off in far too many words. He should have been afraid that I yelled. He should have done a lot of things I was used to. Instead he sat next to me and cracked one of the worst jokes I've ever heard. One that made me so angry I wanted to smile and to laugh. It fucking frustrated the hell out of me and so I forced my hand to my hair instead, careful to keep the blood away from the stray locks as I brushed it down absent-mindedly.

What the fuck am I doing? Biting the side of my cheek hard, I place my palm upon my knee, still looking at the kid with an expression of disgust because it was quite actually the worst joke I've ever heard. I'd have buried my face in my hands if that wouldn't have hurt so much. And if that wouldn't have sent me falling back on my ass. 

He seems rather free, eyes wrinkling as he no doubt sports a shit-eating grin. I'm tempted to pull down the scarf and force him to say it to my face. But we'd just met and that'd be rude. 

My standards are a bit lopsided sometimes. 

I wonder where he lives, what his life is like. I'll likely never see him again and I'm not going to fucking ask, but I like to imagine. Maybe he's a happy kid from the richer part of town, one with a dad and a mom and a younger sister that looks up to him. Maybe he had a family back home that was still in tact and that loved him as much as I loved my brothers. Maybe he's a good kid with a good life and a good family-

that wanders around the district in the dead of night. 

Sometimes I forget there's really no such thing as a happy ending. No one here has a good life, no one here is going to amount to anything but a factory worker or a criminal and that's that. No matter how free this kid looked, there had to be some dark secrets underneath those black clothes. Not that I cared in the slightest. 

Sometimes I just like to imagine.

He's making fun of me. Maybe I was a bit proud to announce that I had nothing to fear in such a fashion but that in no way gave him the right to make fun of me. My look of disgust becomes almost a pout as I regard to goofy boy through narrowed eyes. "Sure." I grumble, "It's easy to laugh behind that thing." I gestured toward the scarf that I already despised. I was far to curious for my own good, really. He had such pretty eyes but I wondered what he looked like beneath the cover. 

I knew far too much about masks. They were easy to create, simple walls built out of straw that threaten to blow over in the slightest breeze. Over time they get stronger. My mask was once made of twigs and then brick and now it's made of something much stronger. Something that I've managed to hide behind from all of my demons, from myself. So that I can truly be a monster when I have to even if it has never been who I really am. But I honestly have no idea who I am anymore. and that's why I'm here. That's why I'm wiping bloody hands on my pants and trying not to wince because it hurts a lot. I think that's why I want to protect Teddy so much, maybe I see myself in the kid and it scares me shitless.

The last thing the world needs is another Tate running around, this one was enough of a fuck up. 

I'm not a vain person. I appreciate beautiful things, yeah. I don't fuck for the sentimental value and I've found both men and women beautiful. I didn't get attached to them, I've never even been on a proper date before. Love is a dangerous thing, when you're like me. There are too many bastards out there who want an eye for an eye. I've taken so many loved ones away but I couldn't stand for my own to be treated the same. And so I don't care unless I have to. 

I love my brothers. I love Calcifer. But I know it'd be better if I was alone. If there was no emotional baggage nailing my toes to the ground because I could never be hurt and no one would get hurt because of me. 

And for some reason that really, really hurts to admit. Who wants to grow up loved knowing that it'd be better for them to have never met you at all? 

I decide that this kid could look like a god underneath the scarf and I still wouldn't care. He'd be an annoying asshole that I'd never meet again. But whatever smartass comment he's going to make next, he's going to say it without the mask because I didn't have mine and it was only fair. 

A crooked grin has broken onto my lips, heart racing as my hand finally finds meaning in moving towards the boy's face. I haven't said a word, not planning on explaining what I was going to do and give him time to get out of it. This asshole teased me and therefore I would show no mercy. The cloth is soft upon the pads of my fingers, I rub the black cloth between them before pulling down hard upon it. "How about you say all that to my face asshole-," I begin, far too satisfied with my own bravery to think before I sound like a raging douche bag.

The first thing I notice is how well his eyes match his cheeks. His face is shaped like a diamond, jaw sloping to meet his chin at a perfect angle. Everything about him is bright and soft. My eyes are glued to his for too long before the venture to the other side of his face. 

And tears make their way to the corners of my eyes. Fast and warm, they push through my walls because an innocence was ruined. Every mark tells a story, every burn that has permanently turned parts of my hands a ghostly while reminds me of what I've don to others. The gash along my collar bone reminds me of the first time I'd ever tortured an innocent man, one who became a monster by the time I was done with him. They say he was a gentle giant before, that he'd never have hurt a fly. But his son had failed to pay his due and well-

I'll never forget the savage look in his eyes as he tried to draw that blade across my throat. 

This is a mark of pain. One of remorseless cruelty, of torture. It's a mark I'd have given one of my victims before dousing them in gasoline and leaving them to scream and cry until they were nothing but ash upon the floor. 

And I'm going to be sick because I don't care how dangerous this kid is. No one deserves this. 

He doesn't look away. his eyes stay locked upon mine until the first tears fall. I can't often help myself but I'm not ashamed that I cry. I'm not too good at words, see? It's hard for me to understand what I'm feeling, let alone convey it to another. I think I've only told my brothers I loved them aloud a handful of times in seventeen years. That doesn't mean I don't but it's a hell of a lot easier for me to say "You're a fucking idiot." than "I love you." It means the same thing anyway. I barely know this boy but I'm tempted to pull him into a hug and apologize right then and there. Scars mean fuck all to my family, no matter where they are. (Teva is constantly bragging about his ass scar anyway.) 

When he speaks it makes me angry. Is that what people told him? Was a reaction of disgust commonplace? He was still really, really pretty. It wasn't the scar itself that made me cry, it was the meaning behind it. The suffering it entailed, what he must have gone through while it was healing. Scars itch and burn while they heal, they can get infected and around here that's really dangerous. When you treat them it's no better, and a wound like that needed stitches. I couldn't imagine a needle forcing its way through the sensitive skin around my cheek. We don't have good medicine in nine and I doubt we have a professional to deal with trauma either. 

"You can shut the fuck up." I snap, grabbing at the pretty boy's jacket to make him look at me. "That shit doesn't make you ugly to begin with." I bite my bottom lip, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand. "I'm just- I'm angry you had to go through something like that, it's bullshit." I don't care, I promise I don't. It only affected me because I've seen it- hell I've done it, I've heard the cries of pain and the begging and I've seen the blood. There's always so much blood. 

I'm tired of the railing, I decide. It's only that and not the burning of my cheeks that makes me move away, throwing one leg onto the bridge and then another. My hip rests against it now, head falling upon the support and arms crossed. I should've dressed warmer, I decide. The plain t-shirt provides little to no warmth against the misty wind and I'm definitely feeling it now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight on end and goosebumps line my skin. I'm lucky my face is burning, for some reason, or else I'd probably be an ice cube by now. 

I exhale dramatically, puffing out my cheeks as I do so. My eyes fly about the bridge, desperately searching for some way to assure him that I didn't really think he was ugly because I wasn't that much of a shallow asshole. I don't care what he thinks of me but I don't want him walking away with the wrong idea. "I uh... I don't really think you're ugly at all. I like your eyes." It's only after I've said it that I realize how utterly pathetic that sounded and I shut my eyes tight, pressing the back of my hand against them and silently smacking my head against the wall.

I most definitely do not have a way with words. The kid might be more offended at my compliments than an insult or else he'll get the wrong idea because I was in no situation to be trying to flirt with him or anything. Hell, I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing right now apart from looking like a complete fool. 

Fuck's sake I murder people, my brother has just been arrested, this kid has just found me about to throw myself off a bridge and I'm more embarrassed by the fact that I've just accidentally hit on him than anything else. If any of the guys saw me right now I'd never be taken seriously again. And quite honestly, after this I don't know if I should be. 

"I mean not only your eyes - I mean you don't look all that bad- I mean-" I can't stop talking, I can't shut the fuck up when I really need to. I'm not normally like this I'm really not. I don't care what he thinks of me but I still don't want him to think I'm some shallow asshole who thinks he's ugly because of a stupid ass scar that wasn't his fault. But I don't care what he thinks. I don't even know his name. 

I want to ask him where he got it, and if the asshole who did it is six feet under like he should be. Scars are a sign of battle, of a struggle that you won despite probably getting the shit kicked out of you. Back where I grew up, no one let you off with a warning. When you showed up with a new wound the other guy was worse off because you're still standing. Every scar is another battle wound, as good as proof you've killed someone because no one just cuts you and lets you go. Especially not a wound like this. He's not one of ours and he doesn't look like the others. I'm not too sure what to make of him, right now and it annoys me. 

But he's seen it, I think. What we've seen. The destruction of life and the innocence ruined by it. I don't see it in his eyes, they're too bright and too human but I see it in the way he hold himself. My eyes have traveled the length of his body a few times over now and I'm sure he's not one of the rich kids. I'm sure he's like nothing I've ever seen before. 

There are so many unanswered question that I will never voice.

Because I don't care. 

I promise.