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Isaac sat with his knees to his chest as Emmett emerged from the window, carrying a small white box decorated with swirling red patterns. Turning his head, he gazed at the view—the flat, open plains of the city reminded him of Nevada. He hadn’t sat on a roof in a long time, he realized. He closes his eyes, trying to conjure the dull roar of the streets outside Marshal’s apartment.
His eyes snap back open when he feels Emmett settled next to him, leaving about half a foot of space between them.
“Nice, right?” Emmett said as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a white lighter, not unlike Isaac’s own. “Me and Lia used to come up here when my mom was being a bitch.”
Isaac nodded silently, watching Emmett produce two cigarettes from the small white box and offer one to him.
Isaac let out a soft swishing sound with his mouth before declining. “I probably haven’t smoked a cig since I was like 17,” he said, pressing his cheek to his knee as he stared at the oblong shape in Emmett’s equally oblong fingers. “Couldn’t handle a whole one. Makes me dizzy.”
He watched his response register on Emmett’s face before Emmett returned the cigarette to the box.
“That’s fine,” Emmett replied, placing the other cigarette between his lips and lighting it. The embers glowed bright orange against the thin white paper. After a small puff, he removed it from his mouth and turned it in his fingers, the filter facing Isaac’s tilted face. “We can share.”
Isaac snorted softly through his nose before leaning up to press his lips to the orange filter, never taking it out of Emmett’s hand. He exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke curl across Emmett’s lap before disappearing into the air. The cold wave of nicotine pulled him deeper into the rooftop beneath him.
Shifting his gaze to the setting sun on the flat horizon, he spotted a small apple orchard in the distance. Maybe when it got colder, he’d go there with Emmett. He wondered what kind of apples Emmett liked, how his fingers would look wrapped around one as he tugged it free from the branch of a possessive tree. How his lips would curl back when he bit it, exposing sharp canines and pink gums, the same way they did when he smiled.
“Do you wanna hear something stupid?” Emmett’s clean voice interrupted the fantasy, snapping Isaac’s gaze away from the orchard.
“What?” Isaac asked, trying to make his tone sound playful despite his low energy. He did, in fact, want to hear something stupid—something to distract him from… apples.
When he turned, he saw Emmett’s head tilted back slightly, the curve of his jawline to his Adam’s apple exposed as he looked at the sky. Emmett retrieved the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips before Isaac could attempt to avert his gaze and offered it to him. Isaac took it gratefully.
“For the longest time, I didn’t even like cigarettes. Well, I liked the way they smelled, but that was about it. I only smoked them to feel rebellious whenever my mom pissed me off.” Emmett huffed softly through his nose before continuing. “Me and Lia used to sit on the opposite side of the house, facing the pool. One day, a lone photographer caught a picture of me with a cigarette in my mouth. Within a week, it was everywhere.” He blew out another breath, taking a long drag. Isaac exhaled along with him.
“Was your mom pissed?” Isaac asked, trying to imagine what Marshal would have done. Probably yell at him, then ask for a cigarette to calm himself down from yelling.
Emmett released a thick cloud of smoke before answering. “No. She wasn’t. That’s the bullshit part,” he scoffed. “She wasn’t mad because Marlboro offered to sponsor her next show.”
Isaac looked up, his eyes wide. “You’re joking.”
Emmett’s reply was slightly muffled by the cigarette between his lips. “I fucking wish.” He exhaled another cloud of smoke, shaking his head. “After that, I smoked on the balcony every day so the fucking paparazzi could get their ‘mysterious bad boy’ glamour shots.” His sentence ended with an exasperated, throaty laugh.
The sound was new to Isaac, sending tiny pinpricks of warmth to his ears and forehead.
“And now I’m fucking hooked on them,” Emmett added, his tone turning slightly harder. “Like every other rich white bastard with impending lung cancer.”
Isaac’s thoughts wandered further. Could someone be watching them right now? Soon there would be rumors in the halls of Laguna about Emmett interacting with him outside of work or school. How would Emmett react? Would Isaac’s presence hurt his reputation? Another thought invaded Isaac’s mind, one he couldn’t push away: would people think there was something going on between them? Would they be right?
Isaac resisted the urge to lunge for the cigarette, now resting gracefully between Emmett’s fingers. Instead, he reached out his hand, and Emmett complied, handing it over with a hint of a smile.
“Do you care if I ask whether you and the Marshal are related?” Emmett asked, bending his head to scratch it. Isaac appreciated the change of subject but mulled over how to answer without confusing him.“Marshal took me in when I was fourteen-ish, legally it was an act of child abduction but my brother didn't give a shit enough to look for me.” He tried to make the sentence sound matter-of-fact but knew it would raise questions like it did with anyone else.“You have siblings?” Emmetts question surprised him. Considering it didn't mention child abduction, nor running away from home, but nonetheless it was welcome.
“Yeah, A sister and two brothers. I was the youngest.” He answered, All these things were true.“You gave me major only child vibes, I’m surprised.” Emmett responds his voice inquisitive“I'm appalled, what made you think that?” Issac scoffs with mock offense. his cigarette clad palm flattening on his collarbone.
Emmett lets out another throaty laugh at the response, Issac can feel his shoulders brush lightly against his.“Because you aren't pissed off all the time like me. You have the sort of oblivious optimism that exclusively belongs to only children.” Emmett looked forward, but Isaac could feel his sideways glance. He wondered how the green of Emmett’s eyes looked against the orange and pink sky but didn’t dare find out.“Maybe I’m just not an asshole” Issac laughs, taking the final drag from the cigarette before putting it out on his shoe.“Maybe’” Emmett answers, there's a smile in his voice. He flicks the cigarette butt off the rooftop and it falls into a bush somewhere below them.Isaac exhales the last puff of the cigarette into the air in front of them, it lingers, as if to stare back at the two men, before disappearing.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“What’re you doing for the project?” Issac turned to Emmett who was sitting cross legged on the floor in his room, the door was open wide enough that the studio and the bedroom seemed almost connected as one continuous space.
Issac wouldn't have dared to ask this question a few months ago, but as he spent more time at the Valentine house, he felt more comfort in asking Emmett seemingly pointless questions.
About school:
Where can I find a fabric with this pattern
About their classmates:
Do you think Wyatt likes kids or does he just look like that.
Today his question referenced the most recent assignment their esteemed (and increasingly demanding) Professor Malloc had proposed, an eight piece gown line that followed the theme of a specific mythology.
Issac had planned to do dresses inspired by the Mexican folklore he had grown up being utterly terrified of, more of a healing practice than anything. But he was curious about Emmetts stance nonetheless, as always.
Emmett glanced up briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Haven’t decided yet,” he said, but his tone suggested otherwise.
“Bullshit,” Isaac shot back, grinning. “You always have some big, dramatic plan. What is it? Norse gods? Some obscure French bullshit I’ve never heard of?”
Emmett snorted before throwing an open sketchbook in Issacs direction revealing figures in long white silken robes fastened by gold pendants, some with armor.
“Greek mythology?” Issac stood with the sketchbook in his hands studying it, he knew better than to flip through it, sketchbooks were incredibly intimate objects not to be prowled through without permission.
“We go to an art school;
everybody's
going to do Greek mythology,” Isaac remarked, closing the sketchbook and lightly tossing it back toward Emmett. The idea had crossed his mind too—godlike figures cloaked in robes tailored to embody each of their powers was undeniably appealing. But as soon as the assignment had been announced, he could practically read the room. The first thought shared by every aspiring artist in there was painfully obvious: art kids fucking
love
Greek mythology.
Emmett scoffed. “I know that. But just because they’ve all read
Percy Jackson
doesn’t make them fucking experts. They’re all going to come up with some slightly different versions of the same tired shitty ideas. I’m doing something different.”
“Then grace me with your ingenious idea” Issac mocked, rolling his eyes.
Emmett opened his sketchbook and started sketching idly
“I’m focusing on the stories that don’t get as much attention. The ones where the gods are more... human. Selfish and messy and ignorant.” He said not lifting his gaze from the sketches
It was clear where the inspiration was coming from: a pretentious commentary on the humanity of self-obsessed, godlike figures, from an equally pretentious and self-obsessed, godlike figure.
“Is the woven one with eight legged nightmare creatures for Arachne?” Issac guessed, “If so that's going to be really hard to do.”
Emmett curled his head up, ignoring Issacs comment on the difficulty “Not surprised you know that one.”
Issac grinned slightly at the seemingly random, but correct, assumption. “Athena would have
hated
me.”
Now bored with measuring and cutting the abundantly colored cloth he planned to use for his own project, Issac walked into the adjacent bedroom and plopped down a few feet away from Emmett. He glanced (rudely) over Emmetts shoulder at the elegant signature scrawled over each page.
“Do you love your name so much you have to write it on everything.” He snorted
“I hate my name, actually,” Emmett laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know where my mom got the idea to be quirky and pretty much give us all the same name, but I hate it.”
Isaac nodded. He understood the feeling—maybe not to the same bizarre degree, but he understood nonetheless.
“Why don’t you go by your middle name, then?” he asked. It was the go-to solution for most people who disliked their first names.
Emmett sighed and tilted his head back, exposing the sharp curve of his throat. “Because my middle name is fucking
Dior
.”
“Wow,” Isaac said, unable to hide the stunned disbelief in his voice.
In hindsight, it shouldn’t have surprised him. Everything about Emmett seemed branded—his clothes, his mannerisms, even the way he existed in a room. Suddenly, Isaac realized that not even Emmett’s name was entirely his own.
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Isaac began, “my middle name is literally the Spanish word for
balls
.”
Emmett snapped his head toward Isaac, his face caught between shock and unrestrained amusement. “What?” he managed to say, laughter spilling out between his words. “Whose idea was
that
?”
“Mine,” Isaac answered with a grin so wide it nearly split his face. “I named myself. Isaac Adam
Huevos
Raymond.” He spoke each word clearly, like he had practiced saying it a hundred times—which he had.
“You
named
yourself?” Emmett asked, confusion threaded through his voice. “Why would you—” He cut himself off mid-sentence as a sudden realization dawned on his face, coloring it with muted understanding.
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” Isaac huffed, his grin unwavering. “C’mon, dude, I don’t wear shirts half the time—you didn’t notice?” He laughed, the crunchy sound filling the room.
Emmett
hoped he couldn't see the heat growing pink in his ears. “I
knew
,” he mumbled, “I just didn’t—” He cut himself off, afraid of ruining the light mood of the studio— god forbid, upsetting Isaac.
But Isaac’s laugh came again, raspy and bright, carrying no judgment. “Maybe you can rename yourself too, if you really hate it so much,” he prompted gently, not really expecting an answer.
“Maybe,” Emmett said with a huff through his nose, his lips twitched upward. “Maybe I’ll be fucking Arnold Pussy Escabon.” He snorted at his own absurdity.
Isaac erupted into uncontrollable laughter, the sound infectious, filling the room. Emmett immediately joined him, and the two collapsed back on the edge of the bed, howling and slapping each other’s shoulders as if they were preteen boys.
For the next twenty minutes, they hurled increasingly absurd names at each other. Charles Titty Terminator, Daniel Dickdown Dubois, Sir Sphincter. Their laughter grew until they were coughing, choking, and wheezing for breath.
Eventually, they both ended up sprawled out on the carpet, heads pressed together lightly as if in conspiracy, their breath slowing to a shared rhythm.
“I think Emmett Dior Valentine is a fucking dope name, honestly,” Isaac said, breaking the silence. “You sound like a James Bond villain or something.”
“Isaac Adam isn’t bad either. You did a good job with that one,” Emmett replied. He tilted his head slightly. “Where did you even get that from?”
“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted. “It just kind of came to me.” He paused, then sat up, lifting his shirt. “I have an Adam tattoo too, but that came after.”
There, across his chest, stretched the iconic hands from
The Creation of Adam
, their details woven around the faint but unmistakable lines of two equally powerful surgical scars.
“That’s fucking amazing, Isaac,” Emmett said, his voice quieter now, reverent. Without realizing it, his hand drifted upward to trace the lines of the tattooed wrist. “That’s like… my favorite painting.”
“Uh, yeah” Issac sputtered out, Emmetts hands were extremely soft and this terrified him in an indescribable fashion.
His hand dropped from Isaac’s chest as if it had burned him, and Isaac, just as quick, tugged his shirt back down. For a moment, two red-faced men stared at each other,not knowing exactly had just occurred and not particularly wanting to. Before Emmett abruptly scuttered to his feet and over to the desk to continue surveying his work.
The tension lingered for a moment longer than usual, then began to fade, leaving something unspoken but not entirely unwelcome.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The brilliantly lit dining room of the Valentine estate suddenly clattered with the sounds of life returning to its well-neglected dinner table. Chairs scraped against the polished floor, and silverware clinked as it was set in place, the noise carrying faintly into the dim hallway where Isaac and Emmett descended the grand staircase.
“You seriously can’t remember the last time you all ate together?” Isaac asked, his voice quiet in the cavernous space.
“Not in the house, no,” Emmett replied, echoing the steps behind him. “Usually, we eat in our rooms. Sometimes we go to restaurants, but half of us leave before we’re even finished eating.”
Issac sighed, hoping that the family wont despise him for putting this idea in Angelica’s head.. Still, he hoped it would do some good. He couldn’t recall a single night he hadn’t eaten with Marshal back home. Even if Marshal was busy, he’d bring his meal to Isaac’s room, sitting and eating while Isaac worked. Coming to university had forced Isaac to eat alone for the first time in years, though his roommates often called him down to the kitchen to cook or simply share a meal. The contrast to Emmett’s family was startling.
As they entered the dining room, the scraping and clinking quieted. Isaac suddenly felt the weight of several pairs of green eyes fixed on him—five, to be exact. It struck him how uncanny it was, these genetic mirrors of Emmett staring back. How could genes that strong exist? At the head of the table, their white-haired matriarch, Angelica Valentine, glided forward to capture Isaac’s face between her elegant hands, her haunting lavender eyes alight with excitement.
“
Isacco, mia cara,
” she greeted warmly, squeezing his face gently. “Thank you so much for encouraging me to do this!”
Before he could respond, she released him and sashayed over to the twins, who were putting the final touches on the table settings.
“Excellent job,” she praised, resting a hand on each of their heads. “This looks beautiful.”
Her sudden display of maternal enthusiasm stirred a pang of nostalgia for a mother he barely remembered. How could Emmett harbor such resentment toward a family that seemed so full of warmth?
Then again, as Emmett had assured him, most things in the Valentine household were an act.
His suspicions were confirmed the moment Emelia strolled into the dining room, clad in a pair of mysteriously stained sweatpants. The serene mask of Angelica’s maternal warmth faltered for a split second as a searing look of judgment crossed her face. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced with the same polished composure as the rest of the family took their seats. Angelica disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the food, leaving the room almost silent in her wake, save for the hushed whisper of the twins and scraping of chairs. Soft classical jazz music lilted in the background, weaving through the tense atmosphere that often plagued the household.
They were all
really
trying to make this look natural.
The twins, per usual, sat together, their chairs scooted together as if in conspiracy. The second youngest, Emerald, sat halfway between them and Emil, who scrolled mindlessly through his phone. Emelia flopped dramatically into a half-pulled chair next to Emmett, who surveyed the room in silence, his eyes flickering over his siblings as if scanning for impending chaos.
Then his gaze flickered to Isaac and an empty chair beside him.
Heat prickled at Isaac’s forehead as he felt the unspoken command to sit. Emmett’s insistent need for order was evident, from the seating arrangements to the way his presence seemed to impose a quiet structure on the room.
As Isaac obeyed, he caught Emelia peering around Emmett’s rigid frame, her expression an unmistakable mix of mischief and dread. She flashed him a look that seemed to say,
Get ready,
before throwing herself back into her chair with a theatrical sigh.
Isaac couldn’t help but consider, for a fleeting yet genuinely entertained moment, that the Valentines might actually be vampires. The thought made so much sense that he found himself dissecting it as if it were a viable hypothesis. The Seemingly endless wealth, terrifyingly pale complexions, strikingly beautiful and also
insane
.
It was all too convenient. Maybe they were luring him into a false sense of comfort, only to suck him dry of blood in some candlelit corner of the estate.
His mind wandered to Emmett, the most compelling example of Vampirism. The gothic drapery of his room, the sunlight filtering through wine-red curtains like blood poured over glass. The haunting intensity in his every movement, every word, every creation. And of course, the way his ivory-white teeth might sink into Isaac’s soft, brown skin with the same precision he’d used to bite into those pale orchard apples.
Isaac realized suddenly that he was essentially writing himself into
Twilight.
The absurdity of the revelation made his lips twitch in reluctant amusement. The parallels were almost too on the nose to ignore. Emmett had even recommended the series to him once. Issac had joked about his obvious relation to Edward Cullen—obsessive, brooding, egotistical, with an equally bizarre ensemble of vampire siblings.
“Does that make me Bella?
” Isaac wondered, cringing at the thought. The hapless human drawn into a world she had no business being part of.
“God, I fucking hate Bella. I hope not.”
He paused, realizing where Bella might place him in relation to Emmett. The thought sent a hot wave of embarrassment through him, and he immediately pushed it out of his mind.
A loud clatter of porcelain snapped him out of his ridiculous vampire delusion. A platter was being lowered onto the table, its weight reverberating against the polished mahogany. Isaac blinked, the mundane reality of dinner pulling him firmly back into the present.
Isaac’s eyes darted toward the platter, its surface gleaming with an artful arrangement of food he barely recognized but assumed was absurdly expensive. Angelica stood behind it, beaming with pride, her delicate fingers adjusting the edges of the garnishes as if even the slightest imperfection might ruin the entire meal.
“Buon appetito, everyone,” she declared with a flourish, her lilting accent wrapping around the words like a silk ribbon. She glanced around the table, her gaze lingering on each of her children as though this moment of forced unity might last forever.
Isaac stole a glance at Emmett, who was still watching the table with a strange mix of vigilance and detachment. His expression was calm, but his knuckles were taut where they rested on the edge of the table. The tension was subtle, but Isaac knew it well by now—the unspoken apprehension Emmett carried whenever he and his family were in the same place.
Across the table, Emelia stabbed at her food with a fork, the clinking of metal on porcelain just loud enough to be passive-aggressive. She shot a challenging but playful glance at the twins across the table, who exchanged a look that Isaac couldn’t decipher but assumed was part of some private joke. Emerald quietly rearranged the food on her plate into neat, untouched sections,she hummed lightly under her breath. Emil, still scrolling through his phone, gave no indication he’d even noticed the meal had started.
Isaac leaned back in his chair, his appetite suddenly muted by the clear dissonance in the room. This wasn’t a family dinner; it was a performance. A tableau of connection staged for Angelica’s benefit, held together by forced smiles and simmering resentment.
“You should eat, Isaac,” Emmett murmured from his seat beside him, his voice low and barely audible over the faint clatter of silverware.
Isaac turned to him, catching the faintest flicker of concern in his eyes. For a moment, he thought it was a concern for
him
. But he realized that he was actively participating in this illusion, and by not eating he was forgetting his role.
Gingerly, he gathered an array of food onto his plate and began to eat, the combinations of flavors were unfamiliar, but thankfully delicious. After he had taken a few bites of his food, he looked to emmett to receive a look of satisfaction, before he too began to eat.
Like Emerald, Emmett had arranged his food neatly, each item separated to its own specific portion of the plate. As if it were a painter's palette, Emmett would pick a combination of the items, combine them carefully in the blank middle portion of the plate, then eat the product in one single bite before repeating the process. Issac watched his bizarre ritual before he was caught off guard again by Angelica.
“So Issac, Tell me, darling, how are you enjoying the University? Is Professor Malloc giving you trouble?”
Isaac blinked, his throat dry as he tried to summon a response. “It's good, Challenging, but good.”
he managed, glancing toward Emmett, “Ive been able to access a lot more material than I could before, now that I know the campus. ”
“Wonderful,” Angelica replied with a strained smile. “A good challenge builds character.”
“Speaking of characters,” She turns to Emerald with a bright smile.
“Did the directors get back to you on your audition at school?” she asks her daughter before placing a forkful of crab into her mouth neatly.
Emerald sighs using the edge of her fork to further separate her meal. She does not create a palette as Emmett does, but rather segregates the food groups.
“The Audition was
yesterday
, so I doubt I'm going to see the results until next week at the .” The girl responded. Annoyance, whether at her mother or the directors, powdered her tone.
It was the first time Isaac had heard Emerald speak more than a polite “hello.” Her voice caught his attention, carrying an unusual cadence—formal, measured, almost like something out of an old black-and-white film. It was oddly charming, if a bit affected, as though she’d been practicing it for years.
“I'm sure you did great, Mer. None of those other kids stand a chance!” Emelia pointed her fork at the girl from across the table, resounding with a mouthful of food. The always present playfulness saturated her tone.
Emerald responded with a self assured smile, scoffing under her breath before clarifying.
She scoffed softly before answering. “I’m not worried about whether I got the role,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “What’s annoying is how long they’re taking to finalize the casting.” She paused, tapping her fork rhythmically against her plate. “It’s not as though the decision is difficult. The other auditioners were... unfortunate, both musically and visually.” She ended her statement with a pensive smile, as if she were already imagining her name in lights.
Emelia sat with her eyebrows raised and her mouth slightly open in a half-smile of disbelief at the statement. She let out a huff of amused exasperation. “Well then,” she said, before glancing at Emmett. His eyes had narrowed, his expression sharp enough to cut through the air.
The silent glare he aimed at Emerald seemed to carry a single warning:
tone it down.
But Emerald, entirely unbothered, continued picking at her plate, her movements slow and deliberate, as if her brother’s disapproval was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Emerald turned her sharp, lidded gaze to her brother, her self-assured smile unwavering. "It’s not my fault if honesty doesn’t suit your delicate sensibilities."
Emmett finally set his fork down with an audible clink, his face calm but his eyes smoldering with irritation. “You might be surprised how quickly honesty turns to entitlement,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.
Emerald bristled, her delicate features hardening as she turned to face her brother fully. “And you would know all about entitlement, wouldn’t you?”
The room fell into a dangerous silence, everybody looked toward emmett who sat even more rigid than before, his knuckles white against the silver cutlery. His expression didn’t shift, but Isaac noticed the way his jaw tensed, and his foot tapped faintly under the table—a subtle giveaway to the anger simmering beneath the surface.
Angelica cleared her throat, her perfectly arched brows knitting together just slightly, a subtle warning to her children. "Emerald, dear, let’s not diminish others to elevate yourself," she said with a saccharine smile that managed to be both loving and commanding.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. "Confidence is important in this industry, cara," she said delicately. "But humility is what will set you apart. Always remember that." She faced her palms to the sky, as if gesturing to the invisible atmosphere of her fame.
Emelia let out a dry snort. “You’re right, Mom. Nothing screams humility like a 200-pound crystal chandelier.” She gestured lazily upward, her fork dangling in her hand. “Tell me, did you pay the kids mining those blood diamonds directly, or did you just funnel a few thousand into some tax-deductible charity in their honor?”
Her voice carried a dangerous edge beneath the humor, a fine line between sarcasm and outright contempt.
Emmett closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a tight line as if bracing himself for what he knew was coming.
Angelica flattened her palms against the table, the motion deliberate and sharp, echoing through the room. “Emelia, this is not a topic for the dinner table,” she said, her voice clipped with warning.
“Why not?” Emelia shot back without missing a beat, her eyes blazing. “Sorry, I haven’t had a family dinner since I was ten—I must’ve forgotten the protocol.”
Isaac glanced between them, heart pounding. The venom seeping into the room was palpable, and he fumbled for something to say, anything to cut through the tension.
“Lia,” Emmett’s voice sliced through the air, low and measured but heavy with irritation. He opened his eyes, fixing his sister with a gaze that seemed to freeze the room. “We’re not doing this. Not tonight.”
Emelia turned her glare to him, her voice rising. “Of course you’d side with her.” She leaned forward, her expression twisted with resentment. “The golden child. Tell me, Mett, does it ever get exhausting being her favorite? It must, seeing as you look like you’d snap if someone so much as breathed on you wrong.”
Isaac’s breath caught, and the air seemed to shift as Emmett finally moved, setting his fork down with calculated precision. He turned fully toward Emelia, his lips curling into a vicious, humorless smile.
“It does get exhausting, being liked. So maybe you should keep your mouth shut before you start talking about things you don’t understand,
Emelia.
”
“That’s enough!” Angelica snapped, her voice slicing, but it did little to stem the fire between her children.
Emelia leaned forward, glaring at Emmett with fury blazing in her eyes. “You’re such a hypocrite,” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “You think you’re better than everyone else just because you’re miserable? Is your control slipping? Maybe you should skip a few more meals and pull yourself together, Mett. Maybe you should learn that starving yourself isn’t a personality.”
“And maybe you should learn being a slut isn’t a career,” Emmett shot back without missing a beat, his voice cutting through her like a blade.
The room went deathly still.
Angelica slammed her palms onto the table with a sound that rang through the space like a gunshot. Her gaze locked on both of them, her authority crashing down like a wave. “Emmett! Emelia! Enough!” she snapped, her voice trembling with fury as she took control. “This is a family dinner. If you cannot behave like family, you can leave.”
With that, Emmett stormed upstairs, leaving the table silent except for the sharp scrape of Isaac’s chair against the dark hardwood floor as he immediately followed. He hurried up the stairs and down each looming hallway. Isaac shoved the door open to find Emmett standing at his desk, both hands planted firmly on the smooth tabletop.
Emmett turned his head toward Isaac, but his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were in pain.
“I told you it wasn’t going to work,” he said, his voice cold, but lacking the conviction he was trying to apply.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Isaac panted, ignoring Emmett’s attempt to scare him off. “Are you okay?”
Emmett sucked in a breath and blew it out, as if trying to prove his lungs were still functional.
“Yes. I’m fine, Isaac. Believe it or not, this happens a lot,” he spat, his eyes still shut.
Isaac exhaled a breath as well. That didn’t surprise him.
“Good. When you're ready to come down, let me know—”
“What?” Emmett opened his eyes, spotting Isaac standing by the still-ajar door, poised as if ready to march back down himself.
“What do you mean, ‘what’? You need to apologize.”
“I’m not apologizing for shit.” Emmett squinted as if Isaac had just asked him to do something absurd.
Isaac’s voice was sharp with accusation, loud enough that Emmett wondered if his family could hear him from downstairs. “You called your sister a slut, Emmett!”
“Because she is one,” Emmett scoffed, this time hoping they
could
hear. “Don’t try to defend something you don’t know shit about, Isaac.” He spat the words before adding cruelly, “She won’t sleep with you for that; I’m staying here.”
Isaac’s eyes widened, and anger visibly crept across his face, etching deep, unnatural lines and creases.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he yelled, his voice echoing down the hall.
Emmett turned fully around, stepping toward Isaac with purpose.
“My problem? My problem is that my family is made up of attention-whores without an ounce of dignity or respect for our reputation,” he snapped, each venom-laced word punctuating his steps closer to Isaac. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand that.” His lips curled into a snarl, his words a deliberate strike meant to hurt, to ignite a fire beneath Isaac's skin.
Isaac didn’t flinch. “No. You know what your fucking problem is, Emmett?” he fired back, his voice rough and cutting, his eyes ablaze with fury. “You walk into every room thinking you’re better than everyone else for something you never earned in the first place. You live off the backs of people who actually worked for what they have, and then have the audacity to complain about it. It’s fucking pathetic.”
And unlike Emmett’s accusations, every last one of Isaac's words was true. Everything Emmett had ever done—every photoshoot, every interview, every piece of clothing he’d ever sewn, every bite of food he hadn’t eaten, every hair on his carefully maintained body—stemmed from his mother’s fame. He supported a house he was born into, not one he built.
Meanwhile, Isaac had clawed his way up with his bare hands and pure talent, from God knows where, without a single complaint. His desk was never too small, his grades never unfair, his cloth never the wrong length, or his needle the wrong size. He simply worked with what he was given and made art. Real, beautiful, unique art, born only from the minds of real, beautiful, unique people.
Emmett would never make that art. Isaac lived in it.
But Emmett wasn’t going to let Isaac get the last word—not now, not ever.
“You know what’s fucking pathetic? Seeing you walk around here, on campus, basking in your fucking fifteen minutes of fame like you’ve actually earned a place in the world.” Emmett’s voice was sharp, venomous, but it wavered, betraying the cracks beneath his anger. “You think a fucking scholarship makes you better than me? You think being broke makes you some kind of saint?”
Isaac’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides.
“You talk about my privilege like I asked for it, like I don’t hate every fucking second of it,” Emmett spat. “You don’t know what it’s like to have every move you make dictated by what people expect. What the hell do you even know about me, Isaac? About the shit I’ve had to endure just to survive in a world that already decided who I am before I even got the chance to figure it out myself?”
Isaac’s gaze didn’t falter.
“You don’t know a fucking thing about survival,” he retorted. “All you know is how to take your pent-up bullshit out on other people. You can keep lying to yourself, Emmett. But don’t you dare project your shit onto me.”
He took a step closer, his voice dangerously steady. “And one day, people are going to see past this persona you put up. And when that image cracks—and it will—they’ll move on. Just like everyone else does.”
Emmett’s throat tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “At least I’ll still have a name,” he shot back, his voice faltering. “Nobody is going to give a shit about you once you vanish like every other nameless artist begging for a fucking inkling of recognition.”
Isaac did not falter, his eyes dark and piercing. “If I’m forgotten, at least it’ll be on my terms. Not because I spent my entire life living someone else’s.”
There was a silence for a moment, an indescribable, screaming silence.
“Get the fuck out of my house, Isaac,” Emmett said, his voice low and hoarse, dripping with feigned authority. He glared at Isaac, his disgust a poorly disguised attempt to make himself seem larger than he knew he was.
Isaac stared back, seeing directly through him as always.
“Fuck you, Emmett. I mean that. Fuck you.”
The words fell from Isaac’s mouth like cold stones, devoid of the warmth that usually colored his tone. Emmett tried to mask his shock, his mouth opening to say something, anything, to get the last word. But Isaac was already gone.
The room was quiet and dim. Emmett was, once again, completely alone.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Isaac didn’t look up from his feet on the way out—he didn’t need to. He had walked those hallways, down those stairs, and through that doorway enough times to do it blindfolded. Besides, he feared that if he looked at anything other than the smooth mahogany of the floorboards, he wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears in his eyes.Of course he was angry. This wasn’t unnatural for him. But how dare he cry now? How dare he act like this was the first time he’d walked out on someone like that? He didn’t cry then.All he wanted to do, all he needed to do, was get out of that fucking house and never go back—just like he had done all those years ago.He didn’t look up until he was released into the November air. It was frigid and he had no jacket, but he didn’t care. This wouldn’t be the first time he walked home in the cold. The cold was good, sobering in a way. When he arrived at the bus stop, he sat with his knees together and his eyes down. It was a Friday night, most people his age were getting off the bus and heading into the city, leaving him alone, save for the occasional straggler—a man, an elderly woman, and a son clinging tightly to her side. Isaac balled his fists and sighed in relief when he reached his stop.He decided he was going to go home to get higher than he had ever been in his entire life. So high, in fact, that he would forget his identity altogether and wake up a new man. He could forget about his scholarship and internship and return to his rightful place on the streets of beautiful Reno, Nevada, where he belonged. He would never have to deal with another pretentious, rich asshole again in his life because he was going to get so high, he’d forget the very concept of money altogether.Isaac reached the tall, looming brick building he had somehow convinced himself was home. This isn’t my home, he thought. This place is too nice to be my house. I should be in a dumpster right now.Regardless, he reached for the keys on his belt loop to unlock the door. They jingled softly in his hand, adorned with the keychains his friends had made him. Well, mostly his friends. Before opening the door, Isaac clenched his teeth, yanked the little soda tab man from the key loop, and threw it into the bushes. The motion hurt somewhere other than his hand, but he ignored it. It’s too cold to feel hurt right now.Finally, Isaac inserted the keys into the brass lock of the dorm and pushed hard—harder than he should’ve. The door burst open, and Isaac stumbled to catch his footing. A sudden clatter in front of him—too far away to be caused by his own sudden hatred for the physical realm—caught his attention as he held onto the door frame for balance.In front of the kitchen counter stood Noel, leaning against it. Surprise would’ve been written across his breathless face if it weren’t for the messy lipstick stains that adorned it. His usually neat hair fell over his eyes, his shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal how far down the lipstick marks really went, decorating his throat and collarbone.On the counter, however, was Noel's classmate—Isaac recognized him, he'd seen him tagging along with Noel in between classes. He was short, round-faced, with light brown skin. His face was overcome with sudden petrified horror, his mouth agape and stained with bright red lipstick that smeared across his face in various directions. A white suit jacket with more carefully, tastefully placed lipstick stains, layed neatly on the ground.Oh.“Shit—Noel, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to...” Isaac began before Noel offered him a soft smile and a sigh of forgiveness.Isaac said nothing more, too overcome with awkwardness and lingering anger to think of anything to say. He scrambled up the stairs, and with a deep breath, opened the door to his barren room.He didn’t bother flipping the lights on, he pulled off his shirt, throwing it on the ground before collapsing onto his bare mattress.Through the window, he could hear Noel and the boy talking outside, their voices urgent and slurred in the rhythmic cadence of French. Isaac caught the sound of the boy’s voice breaking with tears and instinctively propped himself up on his knees to peer out the window—just at the wrong moment.Noel was holding his classmate in his arms, speaking in his low, soothing voice—the kind of reassurance that only comes from people like Noel: truly kind, good people.Something tore inside Isaac. He fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, trying to suppress the indescribable pain building in his chest—not anger or sadness, but something else he never wanted to feel again.His gaze drifted to the jar of dried magic on the low table. It glistened faintly in the moonlight, offering the promise of escape. Isaac could forget it all now if he wanted to. But before his hand could reach for it, three tentative knocks echoed against the door. The sound of soft, firm knuckles on wood was enough to break his concentration and distract him from his self-imposed escape.“Issac?” The silvery French voice penetrated through the door. “Can I come in?”Isaac took a deep breath, closing his eyes, trying to steady himself. He couldn't say no to Noel. Not now. He was his friend.“Yeah,” Isaac responded, his voice raspy and broken in contrast to Noel's velvet tone.The door creaked open softly, and Isaac sat up, attempting to appear indifferent despite the anguish he was nursing. Noel entered and sat next to him on the mattress, the springs creaking beneath him as he did. Isaac watched as Noel gently wiped the scarlet hues of lipstick from his face with a wet washcloth, his movements tender and meticulous.“I’m sorry about that,” he began, his voice low and steady. “I thought you were going to be home later.”“It’s... fine. I’m sorry for... interrupting.” Isaac scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to ignore the latter statement.Noel responded with a hum of acceptance before continuing hesitantly.“That was Ira. He’s in my formal fashions class,” he said, attempting casualty as if he hadn’t just been caught making out with him on the counter.“Yeah,” Isaac sputtered quietly, “I assumed that, because of the jacket.”Noel huffed a soft laugh and tilted his head to look at Isaac.“Can I trust that I won’t be hearing about this from anybody but you?” he asked. His voice was calm as always, but there was a hint of concern in it. “Ira isn’t as... transparent about…” He paused, lifting the lipstick-stained rag suggestively. “This.”Isaac turned back to him, trying to look as reassuring as possible before answering. “Obviously, Noel,” he punctuated each syllable. “Who do I have to tell anyways?”Noel acknowledged this and paused, connecting invisible dots in his head before speaking again.“Are you alright?” he asked.Isaac knew he wasn't talking about Ira now. He simply shook his head and blew out a breath through his nose. The ache in his chest raged.“I don’t know,” he managed to push out through the flames.Noel hummed again, looking at the dusty floor in front of them.“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.Isaac nodded softly, knowing it wouldn’t offend him. He acknowledged the gesture and stood.“Thank you for your confidentiality.” He walked to the door. “Goodnight, Isaac. Sleep well.”Isaac sat there long after the door clicked shut, staring blankly at the spot where Noel had been. The room felt even emptier now, hollow in a way that made his chest ache even more. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the roots in frustration.What the fuck was wrong with him?His gaze wandered back to the jar on the table. It gleamed in the dim light like a promise, a whisper of oblivion that felt too tempting to resist. The weight of everything—the awkward encounter, the relentless ache, and that stupid, indescribable feeling—pressed down on him.But as his hand hovered over the jar, the sound of Noel’s voice echoed in his head. “Are you alright?” The words had been simple, but they carried a weight that Isaac couldn’t ignore. He clenched his fist and pulled his hand away.Not tonight.He laid back on his bed and pulled the quilt over his face, imagining the soft embrace Noel had held Ira in, one of forgiveness, acceptance. He would never feel that sort of touch in his life.“Not that you would understand that"He finally let the thought of Him rake through his mind, replaying the argument again and again in his mind, seeing his face contort with venom. There was something different there, something he hadn't seen before, a pain that flashed over the mask, a crack Isaac had made. He remembered other things too, his breath on Isaac's face, His teeth bared dangerously.Isaac clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut beneath the quilt, as if that alone could block out the memory of Emmett’s face—so close, so sharp, so raw with emotion. It wasn’t just anger he’d seen. No, there was something else. Something deep and unsettling, like a fissure in a polished marble statue, hinting at the fragility beneath.What was that?He dissected the argument, playing it slowly like a recording, pausing frame by frame to analyze. Isaac’s fists tightened in the quilt as the memory of Emmett’s breath, hot and heavy with rage, ghosted over his skin again. He could still hear the echo of his bared words: “Don’t try to act like a fucking knight in shining armor, Isaac. She won’t sleep with you for that.” The words churned in Isaacs stomach, is that really what he thought?It wasn't what he said, it was what he didn’t.The memory of Emmett, doubled over with laughter at the foot of his bed, invaded Isaacs mind. Emmett’s face, tight with contemplation, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he craned his neck toward the sky. Emmett asleep, relaxed and catlike on the carpet. The mask would soften, if only for a moment.Isaac wished he could reach into Emmett's skull, pry away the marble hardness, and look for something human beneath it. He wanted to nurture it, grow something soft to bury himself in.Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image, but it only made it clearer. Emmett, leaning in close, his breath hot and sharp with anger. His lips curled back to reveal perfect teeth, bared like a warning. His voice trembling, not with fear or sadness, but with something deeper. Something Isaac couldn’t name.“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Isaac whispered to the empty room, his voice barely audible beneath the weight of his frustration.The question wasn’t just for Emmett. Why couldn't he just let it go, couldn’t just leave Emmett behind like he’d left so many others? He’d always been good at walking away, at cutting ties and not looking back.So why couldn’t he do it now?He thought of Emmett’s laugh again, that rare, genuine sound that made Isaac’s chest feel ways he did not like to think about. He thought of Emmett’s quiet moments, the ones no one else seemed to notice. The way he’d stare off the roof for hours, lost in thought, or the way his hands trembled slightly when he was upset, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.He turned onto his side, clutching the quilt tighter, as if it could protect him from the mess of emotions swirling inside him. For the first time, the fabric offered no real solace, but maybe, if he cocooned himself long enough, he would emerge as something—someone—who knew what to do.
Isaac didn’t look up from his feet on the way out—he didn’t need to. He had walked those hallways, down those stairs, and through that doorway enough times to do it blindfolded. Besides, he feared that if he looked at anything other than the smooth mahogany of the floorboards, he wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears in his eyes.Of course he was angry. This wasn’t unnatural for him. But how dare he cry now? How dare he act like this was the first time he’d walked out on someone like that? He didn’t cry then.All he wanted to do, all he needed to do, was get out of that fucking house and never go back—just like he had done all those years ago.He didn’t look up until he was released into the November air. It was frigid and he had no jacket, but he didn’t care. This wouldn’t be the first time he walked home in the cold. The cold was good, sobering in a way. When he arrived at the bus stop, he sat with his knees together and his eyes down. It was a Friday night, most people his age were getting off the bus and heading into the city, leaving him alone, save for the occasional straggler—a man, an elderly woman, and a son clinging tightly to her side. Isaac balled his fists and sighed in relief when he reached his stop.He decided he was going to go home to get higher than he had ever been in his entire life. So high, in fact, that he would forget his identity altogether and wake up a new man. He could forget about his scholarship and internship and return to his rightful place on the streets of beautiful Reno, Nevada, where he belonged. He would never have to deal with another pretentious, rich asshole again in his life because he was going to get so high, he’d forget the very concept of money altogether.Isaac reached the tall, looming brick building he had somehow convinced himself was home. This isn’t my home, he thought. This place is too nice to be my house. I should be in a dumpster right now.Regardless, he reached for the keys on his belt loop to unlock the door. They jingled softly in his hand, adorned with the keychains his friends had made him. Well, mostly his friends. Before opening the door, Isaac clenched his teeth, yanked the little soda tab man from the key loop, and threw it into the bushes. The motion hurt somewhere other than his hand, but he ignored it. It’s too cold to feel hurt right now.Finally, Isaac inserted the keys into the brass lock of the dorm and pushed hard—harder than he should’ve. The door burst open, and Isaac stumbled to catch his footing. A sudden clatter in front of him—too far away to be caused by his own sudden hatred for the physical realm—caught his attention as he held onto the door frame for balance.In front of the kitchen counter stood Noel, leaning against it. Surprise would’ve been written across his breathless face if it weren’t for the messy lipstick stains that adorned it. His usually neat hair fell over his eyes, his shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal how far down the lipstick marks really went, decorating his throat and collarbone.On the counter, however, was Noel's classmate—Isaac recognized him, he'd seen him tagging along with Noel in between classes. He was short, round-faced, with light brown skin. His face was overcome with sudden petrified horror, his mouth agape and stained with bright red lipstick that smeared across his face in various directions. A white suit jacket with more carefully, tastefully placed lipstick stains, layed neatly on the ground.Oh.“Shit—Noel, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to...” Isaac began before Noel offered him a soft smile and a sigh of forgiveness.Isaac said nothing more, too overcome with awkwardness and lingering anger to think of anything to say. He scrambled up the stairs, and with a deep breath, opened the door to his barren room.He didn’t bother flipping the lights on, he pulled off his shirt, throwing it on the ground before collapsing onto his bare mattress.Through the window, he could hear Noel and the boy talking outside, their voices urgent and slurred in the rhythmic cadence of French. Isaac caught the sound of the boy’s voice breaking with tears and instinctively propped himself up on his knees to peer out the window—just at the wrong moment.Noel was holding his classmate in his arms, speaking in his low, soothing voice—the kind of reassurance that only comes from people like Noel: truly kind, good people.Something tore inside Isaac. He fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, trying to suppress the indescribable pain building in his chest—not anger or sadness, but something else he never wanted to feel again.His gaze drifted to the jar of dried magic on the low table. It glistened faintly in the moonlight, offering the promise of escape. Isaac could forget it all now if he wanted to. But before his hand could reach for it, three tentative knocks echoed against the door. The sound of soft, firm knuckles on wood was enough to break his concentration and distract him from his self-imposed escape.“Issac?” The silvery French voice penetrated through the door. “Can I come in?”Isaac took a deep breath, closing his eyes, trying to steady himself. He couldn't say no to Noel. Not now. He was his friend.“Yeah,” Isaac responded, his voice raspy and broken in contrast to Noel's velvet tone.The door creaked open softly, and Isaac sat up, attempting to appear indifferent despite the anguish he was nursing. Noel entered and sat next to him on the mattress, the springs creaking beneath him as he did. Isaac watched as Noel gently wiped the scarlet hues of lipstick from his face with a wet washcloth, his movements tender and meticulous.“I’m sorry about that,” he began, his voice low and steady. “I thought you were going to be home later.”“It’s... fine. I’m sorry for... interrupting.” Isaac scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to ignore the latter statement.Noel responded with a hum of acceptance before continuing hesitantly.“That was Ira. He’s in my formal fashions class,” he said, attempting casualty as if he hadn’t just been caught making out with him on the counter.“Yeah,” Isaac sputtered quietly, “I assumed that, because of the jacket.”Noel huffed a soft laugh and tilted his head to look at Isaac.“Can I trust that I won’t be hearing about this from anybody but you?” he asked. His voice was calm as always, but there was a hint of concern in it. “Ira isn’t as... transparent about…” He paused, lifting the lipstick-stained rag suggestively. “This.”Isaac turned back to him, trying to look as reassuring as possible before answering. “Obviously, Noel,” he punctuated each syllable. “Who do I have to tell anyways?”Noel acknowledged this and paused, connecting invisible dots in his head before speaking again.“Are you alright?” he asked.Isaac knew he wasn't talking about Ira now. He simply shook his head and blew out a breath through his nose. The ache in his chest raged.“I don’t know,” he managed to push out through the flames.Noel hummed again, looking at the dusty floor in front of them.“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.Isaac nodded softly, knowing it wouldn’t offend him. He acknowledged the gesture and stood.“Thank you for your confidentiality.” He walked to the door. “Goodnight, Isaac. Sleep well.”Isaac sat there long after the door clicked shut, staring blankly at the spot where Noel had been. The room felt even emptier now, hollow in a way that made his chest ache even more. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the roots in frustration.What the fuck was wrong with him?His gaze wandered back to the jar on the table. It gleamed in the dim light like a promise, a whisper of oblivion that felt too tempting to resist. The weight of everything—the awkward encounter, the relentless ache, and that stupid, indescribable feeling—pressed down on him.But as his hand hovered over the jar, the sound of Noel’s voice echoed in his head. “Are you alright?” The words had been simple, but they carried a weight that Isaac couldn’t ignore. He clenched his fist and pulled his hand away.Not tonight.He laid back on his bed and pulled the quilt over his face, imagining the soft embrace Noel had held Ira in, one of forgiveness, acceptance. He would never feel that sort of touch in his life.“Not that you would understand that"He finally let the thought of Him rake through his mind, replaying the argument again and again in his mind, seeing his face contort with venom. There was something different there, something he hadn't seen before, a pain that flashed over the mask, a crack Isaac had made. He remembered other things too, his breath on Isaac's face, His teeth bared dangerously.Isaac clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut beneath the quilt, as if that alone could block out the memory of Emmett’s face—so close, so sharp, so raw with emotion. It wasn’t just anger he’d seen. No, there was something else. Something deep and unsettling, like a fissure in a polished marble statue, hinting at the fragility beneath.What was that?He dissected the argument, playing it slowly like a recording, pausing frame by frame to analyze. Isaac’s fists tightened in the quilt as the memory of Emmett’s breath, hot and heavy with rage, ghosted over his skin again. He could still hear the echo of his bared words: “Don’t try to act like a fucking knight in shining armor, Isaac. She won’t sleep with you for that.” The words churned in Isaacs stomach, is that really what he thought?It wasn't what he said, it was what he didn’t.The memory of Emmett, doubled over with laughter at the foot of his bed, invaded Isaacs mind. Emmett’s face, tight with contemplation, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he craned his neck toward the sky. Emmett asleep, relaxed and catlike on the carpet. The mask would soften, if only for a moment.Isaac wished he could reach into Emmett's skull, pry away the marble hardness, and look for something human beneath it. He wanted to nurture it, grow something soft to bury himself in.Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image, but it only made it clearer. Emmett, leaning in close, his breath hot and sharp with anger. His lips curled back to reveal perfect teeth, bared like a warning. His voice trembling, not with fear or sadness, but with something deeper. Something Isaac couldn’t name.“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Isaac whispered to the empty room, his voice barely audible beneath the weight of his frustration.The question wasn’t just for Emmett. Why couldn't he just let it go, couldn’t just leave Emmett behind like he’d left so many others? He’d always been good at walking away, at cutting ties and not looking back.So why couldn’t he do it now?He thought of Emmett’s laugh again, that rare, genuine sound that made Isaac’s chest feel ways he did not like to think about. He thought of Emmett’s quiet moments, the ones no one else seemed to notice. The way he’d stare off the roof for hours, lost in thought, or the way his hands trembled slightly when he was upset, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.He turned onto his side, clutching the quilt tighter, as if it could protect him from the mess of emotions swirling inside him. For the first time, the fabric offered no real solace, but maybe, if he cocooned himself long enough, he would emerge as something—someone—who knew what to do.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Emmett doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen in place as though waiting for something. Waiting for Isaac to come back, to cling to his chest, to beg for forgiveness. But Isaac doesn’t come back, and Emmett stays there until his knees lock and his feet ache. He listens for someone coming up the stairs, for a door slamming, for laughter, yelling, or crying—but he hears nothing.Eventually, after an uncountable number of minutes, Emmett shifts his weight. He stumbles forward, feet catching him before he falls, he does something that resembles walking, past his bed.He does something that resembles walking past Isaac’s coat lying on the floor. He forgot his coat on the floor.He does something that resembles walking through the doorway. When he comes back I'll give him his coat back.He does something that resembles walking past the sink, He's not coming back.Finally, Emmett finds himself standing in front of the long, ivory-white bathtub. It’s spotless—so clean he could see his reflection if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to. Reaching for the handle, he decides he wants a cold bath and turns the faucet left. Through the doorway, Isaac’s coat is still on the ground by the bed where he left it. Is it as cold as the weatherman said it would be today? Emmett wonders.His shirt joins the coat on the floor, followed by his pants, then his underwear. Leather, cotton, and denim are left in a heap. Emmett doesn’t look at his reflection; he doesn’t want to. Right now, all he wants is to take a bath. Closing the door, he leaves the leather, cotton, and denim behind it. The tile is smooth and clean, and he is smooth and clean, and leather, cotton, and denim do not belong here.He steps into the bathtub. The water is cold, just as it’s supposed to be. The water is cold, the tile is smooth and clean, and everything is how it should be. Emmett sits with his knees bent, leaning his head back until his hair is soaked, his scalp chilled. His hair is wet, his scalp is cold, the tile is smooth—and Isaac left his coat on the floor. He’s not coming back to get it.Isaac left his coat on the floor, and it will stay there forever because he’s not coming back.He’s not coming back.Emmett curls into a ball in the bathtub and cries. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but the tears come anyway and he hates it. He digs his nails into his shoulders and knees and hopes they bleed. He screams into his arms, into the water, he screams and he doesn't care if people can hear him because they don't care anyways. He screams and cries and hopes he bleeds until his throat is sore and his eyes hurt and there are little moons pressed into his shoulders from where his nails were.He knows he can't hurt himself because someone will notice. Someone outside the house with a camera will notice and then everyone will know. Everyone will know, and everything will be ruined. People would pretend to care, but they wouldn’t. Not really. If it can happen to Lia it can happen to him too.He thinks about the brown scars that run the lengths of Isaac's shoulders, he doesn't want to think about it but he does. There's only so much you can cover with tattoos. But that doesnt matter to Isaac, because there are no men with cameras who notice him. Maybe one day there will be, but even then it won't matter. There are more reasons to take pictures of Isaac than the scars. The lines in his face alone tell ten times the story a scar could. But they won’t see it. They’re too stupid to see it.Emmett slumps further into the bath, water soaking his hair and shoulders. He tries not to think. Try not to feel.But Isaac’s coat is still on the floor, and he’s not coming back to get it.
Emmett emerged from the bathtub after an indeterminable amount of time, he didn't look at the pile of clothes on the floor as he passed them. But instead collapsed on his bed pulling the blankets over himself to ward off the chill that the November air had brought.The anger and sorrow had subsided for now, leaving him numb, but clean. And empty.He reached for his phone scrolling through contacts, girls he never bothered to know well, before landing on one he could vaguely remember the appearance of. Motionlessly he opened their chats and relayed an exact copy of the message he had last sent her – “come over.”She responded instantly but he didn't bother to open it, he knew the answer already.Reluctantly he rose out of his bed to clothe himself at least minimally, he didn't see the colors or textures of the fabric he held in his hands, only names.Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klien and Tory Burch met Emmett and Emmett and Emmett, until he appeared human. Then he returned to his well loved crater in his king sized mattress, lit a cigarette and waited.It took her 18 minutes and 43 seconds to arrive in his room. The door was already open, so he didn’t bother to rise and let her in. She stood at the edge of the bed and asked something he didn’t care to hear, her eyes peering at him expectantly, he did not meet them. He stood only to grasp her in any way he could and crush his mouth into hers which she obliged to happily.Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klien and Tory Burch met floor and Emmett and Girl with rainbow colored hair and dark warm skin met mattress. He closed his eyes and for 22 minutes tried to fill the emptiness that lingered inside him. For 22 minutes, he tried to ignore the missing pieces, the things he couldn’t touch. He closed his eyes and would only open them to grab a fistful of dark warm skin or rainbow hair and tried to ignore the missing tattoos. He did not look at her face because he knew there was nothing there for him, he did not look at her eyes.After 22 minutes he laid in his bed with a new cigarette and told her to leave, and she did and he was alone and the void was not full.He dragged a hand across his face and down his ribs before letting it drop off the side of the bed where he found leather between his fingertips.Slowly he ran his fingers across the smooth surface of the jacket, feeling every tear remedied by soft embroidery.He knew that embroidery so well.Slowly, shamefully, he lifted Issacs jacket off the ground and placed it on his chest, to run his fingers through the embroidery and leather, again and again.Before he could think to stop himself he crushed the jacket around his face holding it there. He breathed in the scent of sweat, earth and weed that four months ago he swore he hated. He breathed it in again and again and didn't even realize he had begun to cry.He held the jacket tighter, tears gathering and spilling over the leather with nowhere else to go, mingling with Issacs scent, earthy and raw, something that doesn't go away after a shower or a cold bath, something real.After a while, he finally fell asleep, curled up in the blankets with Isaac’s coat wrapped around him. He didn't move, didn't dream, just let the vacancy of sleep wash over him. Maybe that was easier than facing everything he couldn't fix. Maybe, for now, it was all he could do.