(no subject)

[smokexscribbles]

He can see, very clearly, the light over the hilltops as the town burns to the ground. He shudders when the smell hits him -- Acrid burning hair, skin, woodsmoke, hot metal, paint, melting glass. He's never in his life considered pyromania. He fears fire, does not feel he could control it. When he sees a candle he cannot help but imagine dragging his sleeve through it and going up like God's chosen bush. He's never had a real burn, only held onto matches for too long, but still. Fire, warm and flickering, looks too alive to him, like a beast to be unleashed onto everything flammable, to devour, to destroy, to eat itself to death. He'd never thought he'd need to set a fire. He feels sick, lightheaded, as though he can't breathe in as deeply as he'd like. It'd be like inhaling a crematorium. He thinks of that, specks of dead people inhabiting his body, building a new town inside of him, and he wants to stop breathing, possibly vomit up everything he has ever eaten. So maybe the town got to him a little more than he expected it to.

There are bits of dead people inside of him now. How is he supposed to do anything with them as an audience? How is he supposed to sleep ever again?

this is all iambickilometer fault


Gregory wonders all the time about the town inside of him. He wonders when he's eating if everything is raining down on them, crushing them or maybe feeding them. He's really not comfortable with the town in his stomach, He's trying to figure out how to get it out of there. He thinks maybe he should see a doctor.

The doctor Gregory sees has an office full of books and promises to refer him to a specialist, a surgeon, but Gregory has to talk to her about the town first. He agrees, because why not? And she'll tell him everything, help him, he'll be able to sleep again when there's nobody watching him from the inside.

Gregory holds his stomach in his arms and leans forward in supplication, tilts his forehead towards the doctor's desk, says please, will she help him?

"Yes, Gregory, but you have to tell me what you did."

Gregory moans. He shivers, has the feeling that someone hidden is watching him. He has this feeling more and more lately. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Gregory," she says, iron hidden in her voice, "Please tell me. Otherwise I can't help you."

Gregory says okay, he'll tell, okay, but he has to whisper or write it down, because they'll listen, they'll hear him.

"That's okay," she says.

Gregory begins.

this is all iambickilometer fault


I went to the town (Gregory writes) because I was traveling. I was just looking for a place to stay, that's all. I found an inn in this little town. I was in the middle of nowhere, I don't remember where I was at that point. There are some things I can't remember about that town. This, well, this isn't one of them.

I spent my first three days there in an inn called - I don't know. It was tiny. Anyway, this inn, this town, they were both really quiet. I saw people from time to time, but they weren't talkative. They talked to each other a whole lot, but never to me. I assumed it was one of those things with outsiders in small towns, where if you go somewhere new you're kind of an intruder. It happens, especially in a place like that. Everybody knew everybody.

This story, I, well, it happened how I'm going to write it down. It didn't happen another way, and I'm not confused or upset. I'm maybe a little crazy. I'm not an idiot; I can tell that. But I'm not stupid. Never stupid. I remember exactly how this part happened, even if I can't remember the inn.

I was walking through the town square. It was June, really bright and sunny, warm. I was just enjoying myself. I think I was going to get something. Stamps, maybe. Or bread, or juice, or a book. I don't remember. I was going to get something on the opposite side of the square, which my room at the inn looked out on. There was this pile in the middle of the town. A pile of wood. And I asked what it was for, and the man who was making the pile, he was a police officer, asked me to come back later. Move along, you know. So I left. And I went and bought my stamps or my juice, bread, book, whatever the hell I was buying that was so damnably important. It took half an hour, I guess. On my way back, they were finishing the pile up. It looked so familiar, but I thought there was a reason. Some town festival, like Guy Fawkes day. I don't know. Anything. It's the 21st century, you know? You leap to different conclusions.

I was at the inn, writing at my desk. I think I was writing a letter, so I must have gone to get stamps. That's probably what I got. I was writing my letter to someone back home. There was red light reflecting off my window, and outside I could hear, well, nothing. It was eeriely silent, even for that crazy little town, even for that town where nobody talked to me of their own volition, it was creepy how quiet it had gotten.

I still don't know why I went outside.

All the people from the town were standing in a big circle around the pile of wood. The stake. Circled around like they were watching something. I could smell smoke. There were the beginnings of a bonfire flickering up from within the circle. I walked into the ring of people. They parted so I could get through, which was scary in and of itself.

There was a girl. Tied to the stake in the middle of all those people, this girl, this fucking beautiful girl with long hair down past her waist and huge, terrified blue eyes. She was gagged, and wearing a long, shapeless dress. It didn't suit her. It wouldn't have suited anyone. She was crying, but not screaming. Her hands were clenching and unclenching behind her. At first, I was too shocked to say anything. The people around me kept watching, impassively, as she struggled and jerked. The smell was horrible. The only person showing any emotion was a boy beside me. He looked to be about the same age as the girl, and he was being held by two men twice his size. One of them had a hand over his mouth. He was crying, too, as hard as the girl was. I want to say I went to help her then. I want to have been the hero, but I wasn't. I was so scared. I hate fire. I knew that if I got closer to it, that I would die, melt away, flare up. That it would be painful and awful. That none of these people would help me. Instead I asked the boy, "Who is she? Why?"

He bit the man on the hand and got his mouth free. "She liked it when I called her Melody," he said, "And because she's -- "

That was only the first thing I saw there.

this is all iambickilometer fault


They were encamped in the shadow of Captain's ship. Aiden was reading, Keith was trying to cook, Dev was actually cooking, Captain was cleaning her gun, and Anne was telling Constance about a gigantic, horrible monster that had lived in these very woods for hundreds of years. Con didn't buy a word of it, but was listening anyway.
They were five miles away from the nearest town and had been there for a few hours. Aiden didn't even look up from his book when he said "Someone's coming."

"Hey!" a girl's voice said. "Thought the ship looked familiar. Wonderful to see you again."

Anne say straight up and stared into the trees, looking more surprised than Con had ever seen her. "Is that -- "

The girl came out from behind a broad oak. She was, Con thought, extremely pretty. She felt significantly overshadowed, especially because the famously un-shockable Anne was sitting up ramrod-straight and looking like she'd seen a ghost.

The girl had brown hair in neat, loopy curls and bright green eyes that sparkled in a distinctly familiar way, a way that said: I'm having fun now, how about you? She had a round face and bow-shaped lips and a cute nose. Con couldn't even be jealous. She had to settle for humbly intimidated.

"Anne," the girl said. "How've you been?

Anne was, for once, silent. There was, however, the distinct, quiet sound of a gun being cocked. Captain looked more casual with her weapon than any reasonable fifteen year old should be able to. "Turn around, Clara."

"Cap! Wonderful to see you again."

"You've got to the count of zero," Captain threatened. "And use my damned title."

"Hold up," Anne said, finally emerging from her daze. "Put it down, Cap'n."

"What?" Captain sounded scandalized.

"Put it down. C'mon, Cap. Clara's not much danger, are you, Clare?"

"It's true," Clara said. "I'm about as dangerous as a rabbit. Mayfly, even."

"I don't want you here," Captain said brusquely. "For now, this is my crew, and Anne's not giving the orders."

"Cap, she's fine," Anne said. Captain glared at her, but lowered the gun.

"Thanks, Cap," Clara said, bouncing forward.

"I never said you could call me that," Captain growled. "I'm going to help with dinner."

She stalked off. "Hey, cutie," Clara said, standing over Anne and Constance. "Who're you?"

Con blinked. "I'm Constance."

"She's Con," Anne said. Her arm settled across Con's shoulder. "I made a friend."

Clara smiled warmly at Con. "That's wonderful."

"It is," Anne said.

"Isn't it funny, me passing through here?" Clara said. "I was thinking, we should catch up. Spent some time together, maybe."

Con said, "How do you two know each other?"

"Wouldn't you love to hear that story," Clara said. "I'll tell you, if you like."

"Yes, please."

"Wonderful. Do I smell soup?"

It was the middle of the night, chilly and pitch black, when Clara whispered, "Darlin', wake up, would you? Don't yell."

Con woke up, partly because of that and partly because there was something cold and sharp against her throat. Clara smiled warmly at her, eyes bright. Are we having fun yet?

"I'm awake," Con said.

"Wonderful."

Con tried to sit up and discovered her hands were tied. "What's going on?"

Clara stood up. "I'm catching up with an old friend. Anne, darlin', you're slipping. You didn't even think to be suspicious, did you?"

Con could barely make Anne out. The girl was in a heap on the ground, her hair obscuring her face, her body outlined by the dying fire behind her. She wasn't moving. Clara grabbed her hair in one hand and jerked her head up. Anne moaned quietly, Now that her head was off the ground, Con could see red in her hair, viciously bright against her scalp. Anne's eyes were half-closed and unfocused. "Anne," Clara said. "Darlin'. Tell me what you did with our haul."

Anne didn't respond. Clara released her, letting her head thump against the ground.

"Clara," Devika's voice said from somewhere in the darkness, "She's concussed. Let me -- "

"Don't make me gag you, too," Clara said. "I'm not unreasonable. I don't want you dead, or her. I just want to know where my treasure is."

"She could be really hurt, she could go into shock -- " Devika protested. Clara left the fireside and walked into the darkness until Con couldn't see either of them, could only hear their voices.

"Darlin'," Clara said, softly, nearly sweetly, "I told you to shut up." There was a loud crack. Devika whimpered. Con could hear Aiden cursing very quietly under his breath. "Look at this dedication!" Clara said. "Five minutes ago you were looking to negotiate. What'd you say? You're going to kill me? You didn't care this much when it was Anne's ass on the line, but one slap to this little lady and you completely lose it. Both you boys."

She returned to Anne. Con's eyes were glued to what little of Clara she could see. She knelt down and once again got a grip on Anne's hair, nearly pulling her into a sitting position. "Still doing the hair thing. You've got one hell of an ego, Miss White. You could be such a great thief, con artist, whatever, if you'd just be subtle, but no! You need them to write songs. You need the show. Always the greatest, always looking for adventure, aren't you?"

Anne blinked slowly. "I am."

"It's pathetic, you know?"

"It's not."

"Anyways, I'm not doing this with you. You love this part, where you get to be all witty and brave. We're skipping straight to the part where I say tell me where the treasure is or I'll get my cut from the reward when I turn you in."

"Clare, darlin', you wouldn't -- "

"Darlin'," Clara said contemptuously. "Clare. Don't you have anything that's just yours? Gotta take everything, even my pet names." She gestured at Con, who flinched. "You downgraded, darlin', really you did. Just look at her."

"Leave her alone," Anne said.

"You really do make friends fast," Clara said. She let go of Anne, who nearly fell again before managing to get up on her knees. Clara didn't so much as look back at her. She lifted Constance's chin, surveying her. "What's your story? How'd you two meet?"

"I-- I was running away from home," Con said. She felt that there was significantly less oxygen around her than she had started out with.

"Running away. Classic. That's wonderful."

"Clare," Anne said, her voice strangled and still slightly lost, "Please leave her out of this."

"Anne doesn't think I'll turn her in," Clara confided. "But she knows I'll hurt you. She should know she can't charm her way out of this."

Con couldn't find her voice anymore. The fire's embers were still stubbornly burning, and they turned Clara's knife orange-red, made shadows flicker across it. She couldn't stop looking at it.

"Clara, please," Anne said. "I'll tell you! But-- I have to tell you here."

"Why here?" Clara asked, eyes still fixed on Constance.

"I want my friends to hear. I don't want to keep secrets from them." Anne sounded so awful, so tiny. Con was slightly horrified.

"We're not playing this game," Clara turned around and walked back towards Anne, who was still on her knees. She leaned down to grab Anne by the shoulder.

Anne hit her over the head with a rock. "You're right," she said ruefully, "We're not." She stood up and very nearly ran to Constance. "You alright, darlin'?"

"Fine," Con squeaked. Anne was untying her hands in a quick, practiced fashion. "Anne, what she said -- "

"Oh, that," Anne said. She used the rope that had been on Con's wrists to tie and gag Clara. "She's a great thief, Clara is, but she's not much of a liar. All those things she said about me, you couldn't tell she was just trying to rile you? Con, really. I thought you were good at spotting that kind of thing."

Con said, "Did you hide the treasure?"

Anne rubbed at the heels of her hands. They were singed where she'd used the embers of the fire to burn the rope in two. "I gave it away, darlin'. I'm like that folktale guy with the feather in his hat. A real humanitarian."

this is all iambickilometer fault


Back To School Day is the worst day of the year except for exams and my brother's birthday. The thing on Back To School Day is that you have to meet all these new people and remember their names and meet a ton of teachers and decide if they're so horrible they're going to ruin your year. Sometimes you get homework and it's just way too soon. The thing on my brother's birthday is I have to pretend to be happy when he gets presents. The thing on exams is: They're exams.

One year for my brother's birthday I ate three pieces of his cake and threw up green. At exams once I studied all night and had a nightmare that I was bleeding to death from papercuts. This Back To School Day, I got my locker assignment.

My locker number is 207, which is above 206 and between 205 and 209. The problem is the kid who uses 209. His name is Sammy Quark. Sammy Quark is a very strange young man, my mom says, and a little funny, my dad says, and my class mostly says Sammy Quark is fucking crazy but I don't think I should put that in an essay.

On the very first day after Back To School Day, Sammy Quark looked at me. I know you can look at people if you want to, but Sammy looked at me, and for the rest of the day, I kept thinking about Sammy looking at me. My friend Veronica, whose mom is learning how to heal people with the power of crystals, said Sammy Quark probably likes me, and the burning desire in his heart made his gaze memorable.

Two days after Back To School Day, I was late getting to my locker, and I walked behind Sammy while he had his locker open. He slammed it shut so fast I jumped. I wanted to ask him why he did that, and maybe say that he shouldn't slam his locker shut, because a teacher might hear it, but he looked at me and so I didn't say anything. When Sammy Quark looks at me, it's really hard to think of stuff to say.

A week after Back To School Day, or about a week, I guess, I was in science class and I heard someone who was probably Sammy Quark slam his locker shut. The teacher started to look pretty angry, so I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Sammy Quark was weird, but he shouldn't have to be yelled at by Dr. Geove. I went out in the hall and saw Sammy on his hands and knees, trying to reach into the space right below locker 206. "Sammy," I said, and he didn't look at me, so I kept going. "Sammy, don't slam your locker. Dr Geove is really mad."

"Shut up," Sammy said to me, which was pretty rude. I was trying to warn him. He stayed on his hands and knees, one of his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, with his arm underneath the locker. There's supposed to be metal there so we don't kick anything underneath, but it was gone, so there were about two inches of space down there.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Go away," he said, which was pretty rude for the second time that day.

I crouched down next to him and tried to look under the locker, because I wanted to see what he was looking for, but he jerked his arm out and grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. His hand was dirty from being under the locker. There was dust smeared all over it and stuff under his fingernails. He looked at me in that weird way, and up close I could see his eyes were really pale, and that there were dark circles under them, and the white line running down across his lip. That was when I realized I that I didn't care if Dr Geove yelled at him, as long as he let go of me. I was scared of Sammy Quark. I pulled on my arm as hard as I could and stood up, then went back to class super fast. I could tell he was still looking at me. When I got back to class, my friend Lainey gave me this weird look. That was when I saw the gigantic dust-grey handprint on the arm of my shirt. I couldn't brush it off, so I had to go around the rest of the day with this big ugly mess on my sleeve.

After school, I went to the office to see if I could change lockers. Ms Remy, who works in the office, frowned when I asked to change my locker assignment. She wanted to know why I was changing it.

"Beverly," Ms Remy said, "I hope a girl as fortunate as yourself can be kind to someone who is a little different."

"I'm not being mean to him," I said, "I just want to change lockers."

"Beverly," she said, so I left.

I don't know how many days it was after Back To School Day when I saw something coming out of Sammy Quark's locker. The locker usually smelled pretty bad, and there was sometimes this noise that came from inside it, a buzz that got louder when I opened my locker up. Anyway, that day I saw something coming out of the vents in his locker.He wasn't there, and I wanted to get a better look, so I just kind of peeked. I wasn't snooping. But there were these gross black bugs coming out of the vents, and when I saw them I kind of freaked out. I jumped back right when Sammy was coming around the corner, and I guess he saw me looking at his bugs, because he came right up to me. He got in my face and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Beverly," he said, which was weird, because he'd never said my name before, "Were you looking at my locker?"

I shook my head but ended up saying yes. He didn't look too angry. He was just doing that thing where he looked right at me and made it really hard to think about stuff. I didn't like it when he looked at me that way. It made me feel weird, but not weird like Veronica thought. It made me feel like I did when I had pneumonia and couldn't think. Like my head was full of something huge and heavy.

"Beverly," he said, "Do you want to come by my house to study today?"

this is all iambickilometer fault


Rook could be good at dancing, perhaps, if he didn't grip Thom's hand like a battle, if maybe he didn't hold on so tight. He's got no tenderness in him, and even moments that look soft from the outside are, beneath the surface, just another fight. He cups the back of Thom's head in his hand and his fingers are secretly tugging at Thom's hair, pulling just hard enough that he can't move, not hard enough to make him really hurt. He runs a hand across Thom's back and there's poorly-contained energy in the movement, a quiet spring ready to uncoil, danger. Every time he kisses there are teeth.

Thom, for his part, is not a fainting flower, and mostly he pretends not to notice. When Rook claps him on the shoulder a bit too hard, he steps forward enough to soften it. Sometimes when Rook's grip on his hand is too tight, he simply shakes himself free. But there are also times when he reminds Rook that they grew up the same, and that he has teeth, too, and that when there was Havemercy he rode her as well, that even if it was just once, he stayed on.

this is all iambickilometer fault


Julian said, "It's just a stage rehearsal," and almost sparkled as he said it, which somehow convinced Evan that it was a great idea to go. And anyway, it was important, wasn't it? Julian had said just a stage rehearsal, but really it was a stage rehearsal that a fairly important theatre owner was planning on attending. Julian, who really should be taking it all more seriously, was possibly even more upbeat and colorful than normal. Evan nearly snapped at him one day, because he was trying to fix a tiny gear and Julian had insisted on juggling one-handed, which was distracting to say the least. He smiled at the bright little rainbow-hued balls as they bounced back and forth in his left hand, did something complicated and bounced one off his shoulder, moved them behind his back. He had a practically reverential look on his face, like he was amazed that he could do this, like this was the most beautiful that life could get.

He did this again and again over the course of the next week, and Evan actually did lose his temper once, because Julian was juggling three small clocks (which was, he knew, very difficult, because they were different shapes and sizes, but still!) and that was simply unacceptable. Julian apologized laughingly three times and seriously once, and then Evan had to forgive him, because he looked kind of sad.

Five minutes before the stage rehearsal, with the big theatre owner sitting by himself right up front, Julian pulled Evan aside and said, "My assistant's sick."

Evan was taken aback. "What?"

"The girl who goes in the box," Julian said.

"Which box?"

"The vanishing box," Julian said like Evan was three.

"What are you going to do?"

Julian shrugged. "I don't have a lot of good, big, stage tricks. I might not get the spot."

"That's too bad," Evan offered. It was too bad. Julian loved this. He deserved it. It was hardly fair that a sick girl, whose only job was to wear a sparkly dress and go into a box, was going to stop him.

"Unless," Julian said, that spark entering his eyes.

"Unless what?" Evan asked, then figured it out two seconds too late. "No. No. Julian, no."

Julian was already shuttling him along behind the curtains. "Come on."

"I won't look good in a sparkly dress," Evan said, panicking.

"You would look fantastic in a sparkly dress, but my assistant was sick all over hers, so you don't get to show off your admirable assets," Julian said cheerfully, still forcing him closer to the stage. "Don't be nervous, just go in when I say to and smile real big."

Evan tried to smile. He felt like he was going to be sick, and was turning vaguely green. "That's good," Julian said, "It makes your teeth look whiter."

The incredulous look Evan gave him was both perfect and entirely ignored. Julian put on his cape with a little flick of his wrist. He made his wand appear in his hand. He produced a top hat. Then he went out on stage. It was hard to hear what he was saying from behind the thick curtains of the wings, but Evan knew what it was in a general sense. Julian loved this part. He loved talking to them, saying "Hello, ladies and gentlemen! What you are about to witness may shock and frighten you, but do not be alarmed!"

Evan had no idea how he did it.

After about fifteen minutes (which felt like both two seconds and fifty years simultaneously), during which time Evan's stomach twisted itself around his kidneys, Julian called out, "And now, with the help of my lovely assistant -- "

That was when Evan was supposed to go out, but his feet were fixed to the floor.

"Lovely assistant," Julian said, and added, "Sorry, he's not the usual lady, and he's a bit nervous. Let's see if a little applause will help things."

Evan kind of wanted to tell him that no, applause would not help things in the slightest, but instead he gritted his teeth and went out on stage. Julian bowed to him, pulling a rose out of the air and presenting him with it. "For you."

He knew it was for the lady assistant, that the magician was supposed to sort of flirt with her and tell the audience how pretty she was and just generally be a gentleman. That didn't mean it wasn't the unholy summit of embarrassment for him.

"This box," Julian was saying, "Is solid, as you can see. You may inspect it if you like. My assistant is going to step inside." He nodded at Evan and said, very quietly, "Go on."

Evan gave him a Look as he began to close the door of the box. Julian sighed and raked a hand through his hair, then made as if to touch the side of Evan's head. "Look," he whispered, "I found this in your ear."

It was a silk scarf, and Evan held onto it when the door had closed and everything was black.

this is all iambickilometer fault


"We're lost," Susie said, slamming the map back down on the dashboard. "Lost lost lost."

"Nah, we're not lost," Calvin said. "This is another path to glorious adventure." He ducked quickly enough to avoid her fist, but hit his head against the window instead. She smirked at him, satisfied with that revenge.

"We ARE lost. And -- " She checked the dial on the dashboard "We're out of gas."

"This sucks."

"Any bright ideas, mister?"

"Of course," Calvin said, affronted. "We'll hitch."

She gritted her teeth, clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white, and let out a long, slow breath. "We can't hitch."

"Why not?"

"I like this car."

Calvin liked the car, too. It was a Mercury Cougar from 1989, a two-door coupe almost as old as he was. "We'll come back for it. Hitchhike to the next gas station and get them to come fix it. Sound good?"

Susie glared at him, but grabbed her stuffed-bunny-backpack from the backseat and got out of the car. Calvin grinned at her as he slung his own bag over his shoulder. "Don't forget to lock it."

"I'm not an idiot. You're the one who said we didn't have to stop at that last station."

"Sooz, are we really holding people accountable here? I mean, that's all in the past. Dust in the wind, as it were." Then, "Oof," when she threw their last bag directly into his stomach.

"I'm not carrying it. Let's go."

Calvin lifted it without (much) protest and together they began to walk back up towards the road. They had driven off the dirt road and into the trees, so hopefully the car wouldn't be visible from the road. The last thing they needed was for it to get stolen. Susie would blame him, for one thing. And they'd be stranded out here in the middle of… well, wherever they were. They'd been headed for Canada and had taken sort of a detour. It was possibly Wisconsin. "There are timberwolves in Wisconsin," he said. "Five hundred of them."

"I'm glad we're not in Wisconsin," Susie called back to him. "Catch up."

Calvin ran to catch up to her, although he slowed down every time she looked back.

They stood by the side of the road for almost an hour. Susie fumed for the first ten minutes, ignoring Calvin completely, but he kept talking regardless. "See this forest? There are dinosaur bones in here. There are gigantic snakes that can swallow you in ten seconds. Man-eating tigers."

Susie stared resolutely down the road.

"It's okay. You're safe from tigers. I'm a professional tiger wrangler."

There was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Calvin opened his bag up and pulled out the ancient toy tiger inside. He held onto its paws, making it creep across the ground towards her. "Look out, it's a vicious man-eating tiger! Run!" He jerked the toy back and started to wrestle with it, rolling across the dirt of the road. Susie watched in amusement. Finally he stood up again, breathing heavily. "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane."

Susie started laughing then. When the pickup truck that took them to the next town showed up, she was still laughing.

Later, in a motel room, when Susie was asleep, Calvin pulled the toy tiger out of his bag. "You doofus," it said. "You blew it."

"Well, what was I supposed to do, if you're so smart?"

"You should have kissed her," Hobbes said. "You've got the game of an antelope."

"She was really pissed," Calvin said.

"Look, old buddy," the tiger sighed, "Leave the women to me, and we'll do all right."
this is all iambickilometer fault


When Mattie comes home, he finds Rhys on the floor of his living room again. He puts his briefcase down. Rhys is stretched out on his back. His eyes, which are usually pale blue and kind of spooky, are closed. His hair, which Mattie helped him dye blue, looks like a puddle around his head. His chest is behind pulled towards the sky, his body describing a neat arc across Mattie's floor. Rhys is having a fit. There's not much Mattie can do to stop it. "Rhys," he says, "Rhys?" but Rhys stays how he is, back bowed, muscles knotted, eyes flickering behind his eyelids. His mouth moves in something like words, if the words were on a record that got left out in the sun. He speaks in gibberish and long vowels and repeats himself over and over again, he screams like someone is hurting him, he moans. Sometimes he says a real word while he's in the middle of a fit, and Mattie hates that because it scares him so much.

Rhys drops fully to the ground, which is Mattie's cue to grab onto his wrists and hold them tight. He convulses violently for several seconds, almost hits Mattie's ear, kicks over a planter and scatters dirt across the floor. Then he falls asleep.

Mattie stands up and gets a pillow off the couch, which he puts under Rhys' head. He drapes his long coat across him, too, and then goes to the kitchen to get the broom. He sweeps up the planter. He makes linguini for dinner.

He comes back into the living room with two plates of linguini about half an hour later. Rhys is sitting cross-legged on the couch pillow, drawing in his sketchpad with a green crayon. There are deep, dark, exhausted circles under his eyes. When Mattie comes in, he says, "My pencils are gone."

"There's a pen on the desk," Mattie says.

"I don't like your desk."

"Okay," Mattie says. "I'll find your pencils. Eat at the table."

Rhys leans in towards his sketchpad and scratches at the crayon. "In a second."

"Did you eat today?"

"Before the thing happened I did."

"What did you eat?"

Rhys thinks about this. " . . . Soup."

Mattie thinks about Rhys heating soup up on the stove, collapsing backwards, jerking on the kitchen floor as the stove burner sets the apartment on fire, and tries not to wince too visibly. "Great. And the fit was -- "

"Bright," Rhys says, "Loud."

"How long?"

He thinks about this. "I can't tell time when I'm like that."

"Do you remember what you were doing when it happened?" Mattie prods. He sometimes has to do this. Rhys isn't at his brightest or his best right now.

"I was going to watch TV. That show I like."

It's Thursday, so the show he likes comes on at -- God. Mattie grabs his shoulders and looks into his eyes, checking the dilation of his pupils. No wonder Rhys couldn't find his pencils. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Rhys says. "My throat hurts."

"Open," Mattie says. He obediently opens his mouth. His throat is red. There are bite marks inside his cheeks. Mattie swears under his breath. "Show me your hands." Just as he expected, there are bright fingernail marks across his palms. Mattie pulls out his cell phone and uses one hand to hit two on his speed-dial. The other one he uses to (very gently) lift up Rhys' shirt.

"Hello?" the phone says. It's a girl, young and cute from the sound of her voice. When did the church start hiring secretaries?

"Hi, this is Mattie. I need to talk to John Ginora? It's about Rhys," he says as he pulls up the white cotton "I Gave Blood!" shirt. He sighs. Rhys' back is rug-burned, bruised, and scraped. There's purple spreading across his shoulders. That's got to hurt. He touches one shoulder and Rhys makes a small, strangled noise. "Sorry," Mattie whispers just as John Ginora gets on the phone.

"What are you apologizing for, my child?"

This man sets Mattie's teeth on edge. "I wasn't. I'm calling about -- "

"About our prophet, yes. He's doing well?"

"Not so well right now, sir. He had a seizure."

John Ginora chuckles. "That's what he does, you know. And please. Don't make his visions sound like a disease."

"With respect, Mr. Ginora, his visions are never four hours long," Mattie says, a little triumphantly, because there is no way this can't be taken seriously, no dismissive answer Ginora can give him.

Ginora is silent for a few seconds. "Four hours? Are you sure?"

"Fairly, sir."

"Well?"

This wasn't what Mattie was expecting. He was expecting: The church will pay the hospital bill, I hope the ambulances are on their way. "Well what?"

"What did he see, boy? It must have been important!"

"Sir, he needs medical treatment."

"What did he see?" Ginora insists. He sounds desperate. "What did he -- " Mattie hangs up.

"Rhys?" he says, lowering the shirt. "Can you walk?"

Rhys shrugs. It's tiny, like he can't move his shoulders much. He tries to get up and falls back onto his pillow. "Maybe not."

Mattie grabs his suit jacket off of the couch. "I can take you to the car or call an ambulance."

"The car," Rhys says. Mattie helps him up, gets an arm under him, and helps him walk out of the apartment, down the stairs, and across the crowded sidewalk. It must hurt, but Rhys isn't saying anything. His eyes are fixed on the sky. Mattie gets him into the passenger seat, buckles him in, and practically vaults the hood, Dukes of Hazzard style, to get to the driver's side. They break the speed limit on their way to the hospital. Rhys stares at the sky through the windshield. He seems distracted even as he's put on a stretcher and taken deep into the hospital. Mattie tries to follow him, but a nurse blocks his path.

"Sir," she says, "I assure you he will be fine."

Mattie sinks down into a chair and covers his face with his hands. The nurse patted him on the shoulder. "Sir," she said, "I do need to ask you a few questions."

Mattie doesn't say anything, so she presses on. "Your… friend? Brother? Partner?"

"I'm his caregiver."

"He was admitted with serious bruising. We don't know the full extent of the damage yet, but we may be looking at a torn ligament. He has," she hesitates, "Bruising on his wrists consistent with being held down. And it looks like he took quite a spill. Just as a matter of procedure, I have to ask -- "

"I don't hit him," Mattie says flatly. "I held him down. He was having a seizure."

She looks uncomfortable. "Not all the damage is consistent with a seizure. He's severely dehydrated, for one thing."

"I would not hit him," Mattie tells her. "He is my job, do you understand? If I could stop the seizures, I would, but I fucking can't. He's been on every medication under the sun and then some. Don't tell me I did this to him, get in there and fix him!"

He's ejected by hospital security, and is called back in the next day when they're ready to discharge Rhys. He needs to be there because Rhys doesn't know his own social security number. He's probably not going to be able to remember it for at least three days.

this is all iambickilometer fault


Rhys is in Mattie's car, his feet on the seat, head resting on his knees. He's been out of the hospital for just a few hours. "Mattie," he says in a tiny voice, "I have to tell you something."

"It's fine," Mattie says. "It can wait. Let's get you home."

"In the vision, He said we should start a war," Rhys whispers. Mattie doesn't react. He keeps driving, staring out the windshield.

"I'll call Ginora when we're home," he says finally, still not looking at Rhys.

"Are you going to tell him?" Rhys asks.

"I'll call him when we're home," Mattie repeats, and all he thinks about is the road in front of him, asphalt, yellow lines, hardly any other cars, isn't it nice when things are this simple?

Rhys falls asleep within ten minutes of arriving home. Mattie, although he hasn't gotten sleep in the last twenty-eight hours, is awake for much longer. He keeps imagining the conversation with Ginora. Sometimes it goes one way, and Ginora says this is a total mistake, Rhys can't always tell what the visions mean, this is nothing to worry about. But mostly Ginora says that this is what God wants, that this is something beautiful. Mattie doesn't want a war. He doesn't want to lose his job, but it's not worth a war. That's all it boils down to, is he can't let them start a war. When he falls asleep, it's uncomfortable and restless and he's glad he can't remember his dreams.

He wakes up and Rhys is still asleep. He calls in sick to work. Mattie works a nine-to-five business job, doing accounting. It's boring, but stable. After he calls in, he makes eggs. Rhys wakes up around then. He wanders out of his bedroom in a loose t-shirt and boxers, his hair tied back in a bright blue ponytail. "You made eggs." He frowns and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm -- I'm trying to get it back, but it's confusing, everything is."

"Eat your eggs," Mattie says, "Don't worry about it. I need you to listen to me."

Rhys looks at him with the unerring full attention he can only give when he's at half-capacity, when he knows he has to pay attention or miss something. Mattie says, "Don't tell Ginora about your vision."

"Okay," Rhys says. That makes Mattie a little nervous, because usually Rhys has it more together by now. He frowns.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Rhys says again. "My back hurts."

"Promise not to tell," Mattie says, and Rhys promises, so Mattie goes and gets him three aspirin.

They're eating. "I missed church yesterday," Rhys says, "Will you take me?"

"Sure," Mattie says. "I won't stay."

"It's fine. I just don't, um."

He doesn't remember what street it's on, or how to get there. Mattie pretends not to notice. He drops their dishes in the sink. "Show me the picture you drew yesterday," he says. Rhys goes and gets his sketchpad. There's one big picture, with two (surprisingly detailed, for green crayon) armies at war. There are two shields, too, one on each side. One has the symbol of the Cilati on it. The other is the sun of the Edrinists, That's Rhys' church. The building has this sun on it, with the five rays twisting clockwise around it. Yeah, it was definitely a good idea, not telling anyone about this.

"Put your dress shirt on, if you're going to church," he tells Rhys, ripping the page off and tucking it into his pocket. Rhys goes off. "And brush your hair!" Mattie calls after him.

He drops Rhys off at church and goes to get a donut and some coffee. He had no appetite for the eggs and he has no appetite for his donut. Instead, he drinks coffee until his hands tremble.

Rhys is in church when it happens. There is light exploding in his mind, and he slams his neck into the back of the pew. He chokes out a moan and shudders as pain hits him in a wave, worse than any vision has ever felt before. He arches back and screams, not his usual muttering or broken-record babbling but a full-throated scream that echoes against the high ceiling, interrupting the sermon. "I'm sorry," Rhys says, but not to the priest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm so sorry." He shakes again, so hard the pew lurches backwards, and says in a voice unlike his own, "The Cilati have overstepped their bounds. Rally. Win. You must have faith." Then Rhys collapses, pain still screaming through every nerve, and slips off the pew. He falls to the ground, where he shakes and thrashes before falling still. Nobody makes a move to hold him down or stop him from hurting himself. They're all shocked, and the priest is just saying, again and again, that God has spoken.

Finally they pull him out into the central aisle, There's blood sticking his dress shirt to his chest. The priest opens it up, looking for where he's hurt, and finds the sun cut into his chest. It's already healing, the ugly beginning of scabs knitting across the raw cuts. He comes back to consciousness slowly, his eyes flickering open like someone coming back from the dead. He sits up slowly, although it looks like he is barely capable of that, and someone has to help him for part of it. There are fresh bruises on his neck, his tongue is bitten and bleeding, and he dislocated a pinky when he slammed his hand against the seat. He curls into himself and knots a hand into his hair. There are tears streaked down his face, disguised by sweat. He tugs on his hair and looks around like he has no idea where he is. He says, in a lost, tiny voice, "Where's Mattie?" like a small child, "I want Mattie," and finally, "I can't find my pencil."

It's his second hospitalization in as many days, and this time Mattie finds out that the head priest is Rhys' emergency contact when they refuse to let him into the room.

this is all iambickilometer fault