The Reciprocity Principle

ginger biscuits and lying to yourself

It was final. He'd purchased the tickets, and they were to be on a flight to JFK airport at the end of the week. Black had bought a little Cessna on an impulse three months before, but it probably wouldn't be very comfortable or fuel efficient for intercontinental flights, so they opted for first class. White had suggested they fly business so they could write it off as a business expense-maybe he had a meeting with his PR company in New York. Nevertheless, Black claimed the champagne was better in first class, so they were stuck with over a thousand dollars worth of air fare between the two of them. (And it was all the same fucking champagne). White was notoriously frugal, but he lived like a monk in comparison to Black, with his chauffeur and the airplane he can't fly and the sports car he bought three years ago that's left the parking garage exactly twice. He was like a more attractive Edina Monsoon-a comparison he proudly toted. But here he stood, packing all his shit into a suitcase and a single carry-on while Black still had two cases, a carry-on and a small backpack sitting empty by his bed. He never packed until the day of, something his roommate found maddening. Additionally it meant they couldn't buy tickets for flights before noon. Meanwhile, Black himself was flipping through old fashion magazines on an online archive and even reviewing portraits of European royalty from the 18th and 19th centuries for 'the right silhouette'. He twisted a lock of hair around his finger and stared drearily into his PC monitor, watching decades of aristocrats dance by in all their finery with dead eyes. White popped his head in.

"How's it going?"

"Absolutely dreadful," he mumbled.

"You want some tea?"

"Oh god yes," he sighed. White returned holding a tray aloft, laden with cups, their favourite ginger biscuits and a pot of chamomile. Black kept his knees pulled to his chest and sipped his tea over them. White sat with his ankle over his knee, relaxed. He offered the plate of biscuits to Black who took two which he nibbled at, then devoured.

"How long's it been since you last ate?"

Black looked away.

"Dinner."

"What'd you eat?"

"Thai food. You were there."

White frowned.

"Black that was two days ago."

"Thought it was last night."

"Last night you were already in bed by the time I came home."

"I was tired!"

"Your blood sugar was low."

"Fuck you, White."

"And now it's a little higher. See? Don't you feel better?"

Black cut him a glare and put his half-eaten biscuit back on the plate.

"Please get out. I have to work."

"I'll be quiet."

"White-"

"Fine, I'll go. I've got homework anyway."

"Yeah. But erm-thanks. For the tea."

He smiled and left it all there, on his desk. To nobody's surprise, six of the biscuits were gone and the pot had been nearly emptied by dinner, after which Black decided to take a shower; it'd been two days since his last one and he'd just been stewing in his study all day. White cheered, and was promptly flipped off. Black trudged up the stairs and into his bathroom, where he turned on the shower, dropped all his clothes on the floor and stared at his reflection. His body was bruise-free, break-free and wound-free. He still had that weird clicking in his hip when he moved it the wrong way, the aching in his ankles and wrists from too many sprains and twists and breaks. His ribcage still creaked with every shuddering breath and scars lined his body messily. It didn't look quite right, like the backside of embroidery. Maybe he was beautiful on the inside, but somewhere along the line, he got flipped the wrong way. Black poked and prodded his chest and ran a hand over his sharp hip bone. He didn't know why, but it always made him feel peaceful. The designer turned away once the mirror fogged up and felt along the edge of the cabinet for the razor he'd taped there. He kept sliding his hand along and began to worry White had found it, but sure enough it was there, somehow comforting. He picked at it with his blunt nails and peeled back the tape, pulled the blade out into and slid it neatly out of its little brown paper sheath. It glinted in the cold bathroom light in a way that sent flurries of fuzzy familiarity snowing down the slopes of his soul.

Hey old friend, he thought. Long time no see.

Black crumpled the tape and the paper up in a tissue and threw it in the garbage, then set the razor down on the ledge inside the shower. A solid stream of water hit him straight in the face and burned his eyes behind their lids. He pulled away and immediately squirted some shampoo into his hand and massaged it into his scalp, combed it through and washed it out, then soaped up his body and sprayed himself down. With nothing left to do, he stared blankly at the razor on the shelf.

I don't need it. Hawk-man is gone, Yaldar is far away, White's back. I don't need this.

But it called to him nonetheless. His wrists always looked horribly mangled and scarred, but now, it was as if empty spaces had opened up and were announcing themselves in pale, virgin skin. He gulped.

It would feel so good...

He groaned and gripped the razor between his fingers, held it hovering above his skin.

Hmm...

A pale patch of skin lay far enough up his forearm that it wouldn't be revealed if his sleeve slipped. He made it his target and let the blade dip into his flesh like fondue. The sensation took a second to creep along his frazzled nerves, but as soon as it did, his arm lit up in pain. It was like seeing a secret colour of his own, a colour he only saw here and now, doing this. He whimpered but reminded himself, I like this, I deserve this, this is a good thing, this is a good thing.

Like magic, those thoughts turned the pain into pleasure and he grinned like a maniac, tipping his head back into the shower spray. The blood began to clot and he grit his teeth before shoving it under the searing hot water, gripping his wrist and biting back a cry. It was by far the most painful part of the process. Panting, he sat down on the little bench in the corner of the shower and propped his head up with one hand, the razor between his thumb and forefinger.

C'mon, one more time...

He grinned and started to swipe the razor across one more time when-

"Black?"