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"Do you hate me?" you ask Kite. He frowns. He looks adorable when he frowns. Almost lovely enough to bite (you wonder if this is going to be your first reaction to everything pretty for the rest of your life. Take a bloody piece out of everything. Make the whole world bleed to death). "Why would I hate you?" "Because I'm trying to kill myself in front of you." You really are. Metaphorically, though. You're always trying to metaphorically kill yourself. The day is so blue above your head. So blue. The sunlight is trying to kill you. The sunlight is giving you a sucker punch. Kite shakes his head. His hair sways in the wind. "It's okay. You're not the first." Your upper lip twitches. You hate not being special. You stole Ging's first kiss when you were fourteen and he was sixteen-almost-seventeen because you couldn't bear the idea of not being his first in every way. He slapped you afterward. The two of you haven't stopped kissing since then, except when he's mad or you're having an episode or when he's not around. You've known Ging for a long time. You've broken his heart in all the ways you could think of. He's left you in all the different ways known to humanity. Kite is different. Kite's a recent event, a pretty, shy thing who hides his face behind his beautiful hair and snarls at you when you get too close. You wonder if he's going to bite your finger off if you try to touch him. "My mom did that," you say. "Did what?" "Killed herself in front of me." "Did she?" "Metaphorically." He nods. "Oh, yes." You two stay silent for a moment. You wonder what he thinks of you. You want people to be always thinking of you. You wonder what's going on in that beautiful head of his. You wish you could crack it open. Behead him and keep the head in your office. A pretty souvenir. You wish you could keep his baby teeth in a wooden box, like the stuff of curses. You don't have an explanation for this. "Where did he go?" he asks you. You think about buying a bright red popsicle. You saw this metaphor somewhere before but it does sound nice. Sounds bright and warm and psychotic like a summer day. Sounds like all your dreams can come true and your nightmares are biting at your ankles. You dreamed about killing your father, you dreamed about smoking, you dreamed about a train that goes down and honestly, honestly, this isn't stuff that should go here, is it? Come on, now. Be stable. You sick human being. This is getting crossed out later. Crossed out due to public indecency. Stick to the red popsicle. "He went swimming," you answer. A dog barks on the street. A child yells. Children are always yelling. You wonder if you could fall in love with something. "Was he the one who saved you the first time you tried to kill yourself?" he asks. "No. Only the second time." You remember it clearly. Texting him, the pain - it hurt so much, so much, it felt like the first real thing you'd felt ever since you were born - the blood. So much blood. Bright red. The scar is never leaving your neck. Ging will never stop looking at you as if you're always a step away from dying. You wish you were. You wish dying was that easy. You tried and failed twice. It's too far away. Life won't let you have this. You kiss bad boys with unsteady feet and pull girls' ponytails and starve yourself as revenge. "Who was it, then?" "No one. I just failed." The bright summer day feels like a headache. Kite steps closer to you and hugs you. He smells of the sun. He smells of loss and longing and something sweet, like honey. He's just the sweetest thing. - When Ging gets home, he grimaces. "Leave the keys on the dinner table," you tell him. Ging always misplaces the keys to the front door and then no one can find them. He throws them carelessly. The sound of metal against glass is irritating to your sensitive ears. "Did you fuck Kite?", he asks. You sip your soft drink through a straw. The bubbles make you happy. You like sweet things that can get a reaction out of you. You hum happily. "Answer me, you psycho," Ging says. You put the Diet Coke can down on the little center table and spare a glance at Kite on the couch. He's wrapped in blankets, despite how warm it is outside - he gets cold easily, you learned. He shivers throughout the night. He's naked because he fell asleep almost immediately after he came and you didn't have the heart to wake him up. His hair is fanned out on your expensive pillows. He's lucky you have such a comfortable couch. "I mean," you start. You can feel your lips forming a smile. You don't belong to the class of people who have flight or fight reactions. Your first reaction is always to smile. This used to earn you slaps when you were a kid. Now it just makes people scared. "I think it's pretty obvious." Ging and Kite have been in your penthouse for a week or so, now. Kite is doing paperwork for his first star, and Ging is being coaxed into putting some effort to get his second. You love having them here. You love having your boys under your roof, helping out with the groceries, lounging in the balcony early in the morning. It makes you feel like you own them. It makes you want to bend them under your leather handmade shoes until they break. "I can't believe you," Ging says, and he actually sounds insulted, which is a disappointment. He should know by now that he doesn't get to put anything above you. Keep up, baby , you want to tell him. Step up the game . "You wouldn't do it, and he's so pretty it would just be a waste." You can't stop smiling. Ging sighs. "Fucking hell. You always have to make everything so hard." He steps off his boots - he always remembers to take off his shoes when he gets home after you screamed at him for bringing dirt into your perfectly polished white tiles the day before yesterday. Ging's an old dog. Your smart grumpy puppy. He learns quickly. Kite whimpers in his sleep. You shush him and caress his hair. "There are some leftovers on the fridge from last night, if you're feeling hungry," you tell Ging. Ging walks to the fridge to heat up the leftovers. "God," you say, following him into the kitchen. "You really just don't care, do you?" The microwave beeps. Ging crosses his arms as he waits. "I care about things I can change. I can't change the fact that you had sex with my student." "He just wants your attention," you tell him. Ging sits down on your table to eat lunch. You have a childish impulse to kick the chair from under him. "Oh, don't pretend you suddenly care about Kite's feelings." You put a hand over the heart you don't have in a mockery of emotion. "Of course I do. Kite is a sweetheart." "Stop lying to me. I'm not interested." "He calls your name during sex, you know." Ging's fingers twitch. You smile at having gotten a reaction. "Fuck you, Paris." "Later, yes. Now, finish your lunch, your little kitten is waking up and he'll want a kiss." - Kite is smart. He's smart in the way traumatized people are smart. He knows when to lower his voice, he knows when to stand on his feet, he knows when to lift his hands to block a punch, he knows when to break a kneecap and run away. He sits very, very still on the big bed of the master bedroom as Ging holds you back in the balcony. At some point, you stopped staring at the large span of blue sky and now you’re staring at Kite. Ging still has his strong arms wrapped painfully tight around your middle. Kite doesn't stare back. You had a nightmare. You always do, but some of them are more violent than others, some of them reach inside your body and break your ribs and stab your lungs, and you woke up crying and your sobs woke Kite up (he's such a scared baby, such a light sleeper) and you ran to the balcony and Ging flew out of the bed and ran after you and grabbed your wrist and now here you are. Ging is used to this. You have known each other for a long time. Ging has terrible bedside manners and can't comfort a person to save his life, but he can deal with emergencies, and your entire existence is an emergency waiting to happen. It's a beautiful balcony. Your father is dead. Look at that very green tree over there. You killed your father and dumped his body in a formaldehyde tank. Kite looks upset. Your father hated it when you smiled your psycho smile up at him when he was in your bedroom late at night. Once upon a time, you thought your father was a merciless, bloodthirsty god. You became the devil himself. Your sobs are painful. Breathing hurts. Ging won't let you go. “It's okay, Paris,” he whispers in your ear. “I'm here. We're okay.” he presses a kiss to your cheek. “I'm not letting you go.” “I thought you didn't love me,” you say. Your voice comes out rough. You wish you could rip your vocal chords out of your throat. Such a beautiful voice , your grandma used to say. He sings so well. Pretty little bird. If anything, you’re a shrike. A particularly murderous one. You feel another kiss, closer to your lips. “I love you,” Ging says, and you don't believe him, but it's nice to hear it. Kite gets up from the bed very slowly. You watch his movements. He moves like a dancer who's terrified that someone will trip him up. He looks at you. His eyes are beautiful. Big and honest. Ging holds you tighter. “Kite-” he starts saying. “They can’t get you now,” Kite says. His voice is so eager it’s shaking. You can tell he probably means that as much to himself as he does to you. “They can't. I don't know who they were or what they did to you or what they made you do, I don't know what happened, but it's over. You won. They will never touch you again.” It comes out in a single rush of breath. Kite slaps a hand over his mouth, shares a look with Ging, and leaves hurriedly. You want to ask him to stay. You want to ask what happened to him, what they did to him, what they made him do. You're morbidly curious like that. You just want to understand. You want to see what it's like when it's someone else. The moment is passing. You turn in Ging's arms, look at his handsome familiar face. “Kiss me,” you say. He does. You forget everything. It's better this way.