Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 14 - Ugly Love

String can't look at Paper the same way anymore. That's to be expected, after everything's that happened between them.

He doesn't see him as a boss, though every time he walks past or calls him into his office to discuss the proceedings of their latest cargo, he still bows his head, listens, as obedient as he'd be any other day.

He doesn't see him as a friend - friends don't do the things they do, though he still asks him if he'd like coffee or tea whenever he stops by the café. Paper has been doing that frequently, visiting him at this spot despite having expressed his dislike towards it in the past, and String would be the way he is every other day, with his dry humor and stupid smug.

He doesn't see him as a human, String knows ever since he's met Paper that human is beyond him. A part of him is conflicted whether what they're doing, what they have, is even real. For he's seen this play out before. He recalls Paper telling him he's never fallen in love, only ever pretending to, to get what he wants.

And there he becomes again, a dilemma, the dilemma. All the work he's done getting on his knees for this man for five loyal years, only for String to question himself, to question them.

He doesn't see Paper as a lover. Well, he does, he truly does. Technically. There is no denying that he is in love with Paper to the brink of insanity. He'd kill for him, bleed for him, die for him, willingly.

But he has a hunch that Paper won't do the same for him. Never in a million years.

And that's okay.

String is okay with Paper not reciprocating his feelings, with their relationship only revolving around him projecting a character, in a theatre play, in a game. String's never felt like he's truly deserved Paper anyway, although these past five years is him striving to earn his validation and his affections. He knows Paper long enough to know he is beyond human emotion, that he is no exception to this.

It's loveless. They are loveless. Whenever the café closes and Paper sits on top of the counter, with String standing in front of him, hands wandering, lips colliding, sparks igniting... he knows this is not real. He knows these touches have no weight, no meaning behind it.

Even so, time and time again has he made note of this he might as well rename himself: String is a greedy man.

It doesn't matter to him whether Paper loves him or not. String knows he does love Paper, and he's wanted this for so long, he isn't going to let the truth take that away from him now. He'd rather live this lie, this bliss, of getting what he's wanted in forever, than see the lies of their love beneath.

String would rather have this - the chance to hold him close and kiss him, pretending they are meant to be, like they're lovesick characters in a thousand dollar production, like a twisted, darker, more fucked up version of Romeo and Juliet - than come to accept the ugly truth, of their ugly love.

Sometimes, he forgets that. When he makes Paper laugh with his cheesy one-liners and stupid jokes, when they're out at the club drinking in celebratory of a successful rally, when Paper tells him of how his father used to teach him how to get away with gunning a man down, when he kisses him under the moonlight in the middle of the woods covered in blood.

He forgets this is not real.

And he prefers to keep it that way, he prefers living in a fantasy, living a lie.

As long as it's with him.

× × × × ×

"Talk about nostalgia," String marveled, scanning his eyes on the faded, peeled flower murals on the walls of the enclosed staircase, whilst his hand traced the rusting rails he remembers sliding down and thinking he was the hottest shit.