ORIGIN - we said we'd only die of lonely secrets

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Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

strong language

FUCK YOU is what he wants to scratch into the disintegrating shingles 'til his claws have worn down to their quicks. Until all stone has been graffitied with the sugary residue of his too-thick, too-hot blood. Until he can see not a flickering memory of periwinkle dust through the run of sanguine. But, he's so god damned tired and it's all he can do to lament and fry in the scorching sun of his own, self-destructive rage for which there isn't enough fuel to sustain. The supply ran out years ago, and still there's fucking Damask stoking the pilot light. It was just a gentle breath, yet it was so harsh and loud like cacophonous thunder on a shut-in kinda day.

This something of his all fucking right.

There's another shift that's too quick for Eythan to catch and comprehend, but once again it's noticeable enough; a nickel for each time it'd happened, and he'd still be poor—but he'd be damned if he didn't have his ugly, ugly suspicions by now. What a li'l fuckin' asshole. Jus' like me, buddy! Like father, like son— godfuckingdamnit, like brother and sister, remember? Remember that nice little word? Let's remember that. At least siblings don't kill each other dead and smash their stones to oblivion with only a shimmering Sky as his witness— Hah, hah. Fuckin' wait 'n see.

It's cheating, what she's doing. Catching the reflection of his cards in blacked-out sunglasses (and after all that time spent trying to frost them over with spraypaint!) or counting them as they're shuffled by deft fingers so that the House always wins. Shotgunning them carefully and riffling them through sleight of hand. Eyeing the stack of chips between them, watching as they scattered when Eythan threw the first punch— or had Damask done that? Which of them started the cheap blows, undercutting shots? When had they started to squirm and howl face-down into the dirt? Which of them had decided to blow a Cuban smoke into the other's stuttering, wilting lungs?

In that instant, the gryphon decided he fucking hated calling Damask his sister, but that was the agreement and he wasn't about to shoot another chance of escape out from under his own four feet. They had an accord, and he was going to stick to it—sour taste on his tongue, ears momentarily pinning back and all. Even if he has to stand ramrod straight like a perfect little toy soldier to keep himself from collapsing then and there.

Eythan fucking wished he didn't have to partake in the charade of show 'n tell like some sort of fourth grader. Just leaving it hanging had poured enough cough syrup down his throat; burning and awful-tasting, drawing a hot peal of nausea up from his gut. He was sick with frustration, because it could not be as simple as him just winging away from yet another problem that he refused to address for fear of what horrible traumatic response he might spin on the wheel of misery this time. He'd rather rip his own claws off.

But, since he's a brother now, he tried—and failed—to school his features. Too forceful of a sigh passed through his beak, whistling on its way out in a single-note melody. Multicolored horns swing in a silent downward nod. Silent, because his voice might betray the simmering inferno that'd devoured what remained of his heart.

At least he could pretend to find a little bit of happiness and pride in the offering, presenting it like a neat little Christmas present with a northeastern tilt of his head. (And isn't that a funny comparison? Bringing a knick-knack to the relative you see once every seven years and pretend to know so intimately?)

His body fell head-first over the edge of the tower, and with a rolling twist of spotted shoulders, the kicking of hindquarters, he glided for just a heartbeat's moment. Pivoting in mid-air, Eythan swept beneath the eaves and alighted heavily. Feathers clattered as they rearranged themselves to slack position, pinions and quills knocking together at the end of his tail, smoothing to a deceptive sleekness. Crimson eyes dared to look for if Damask had followed, that contemptable— stop, stop, stop that thought right there.

Before all of this had been orchestrated (and subsequently fallen apart), Eythan had known that he would lie about its hand-me-down status, despite it never being used (and that was the tiniest shred of honesty that he had left to offer today); "it" being the claws he unraveled from their tanned hide confines. Polished, plated-in-gold—they were washed and clean, not a speck of dust on their honed edges except for what they'd collected during his and Damask's fun little song and dance along the fulcrum of a seesaw. They were like new.

"Something's—" aw fuckin' hell, don't hold that, DON'T— "called a li'l bit a'extra weaponry. Good 'n new. We'll have t'find someone t'size 'em for ya, maybe, but…" He trailed off, not for lack of words or nervousness about the white lie he spat out or the livid shakiness of his whole body that couldn't be smothered—

Crimson eyes indicated downward as he pushed the leather roll forward, out of his own reach with a backward step. Look at that nice, pretty gold edge instead of him, for once. Would be a damned shame if they ended up being used to slit your throat here and now. Although… if that gilt plating were sullied in red, it might look quite nice. Eythan blinked away the fantasy, forced himself back together at the seams.

Fuckin' familiar sight, eh? Knock, knock! It's the omnipotent past! Was a shattered pelvis next in this vicious cycle, or was this shitty little dowry just good enough like he thought it was?

@Damask

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