(⚠️CW: mild gore (i guess??), verbal abuse, implied body dysmorphia. Viewer discretion is advised.)
Sunday, December 15th, 202█.
Four woke up from a dreamless night, staring at a ceiling not very unlike theirs. The first thing they noticed was just how warm it was in this place, unusual for both the middle of December, and their house. So if this wasn't their house, whose was it?
Turning their head to the side, they found the answer to their question: it was X's, and they were sitting far too close for comfort. Their hands scrambled to prop themselves up, but as Four tried, the muscles around the knife wound they'd forgotten momentarily about, contracted, and sent them back to the couch cushions below, hissing in pain.
As they made little noises to curl up like a dead spider and writhe, X's eyes blinked open, awoken by the first notes of pain.
"Hey, hey!" they exclaimed, reaching out a hand instinctively, before hesitating and deciding to retract their help. "It's okay, Four. You know, you're lucky I found you when I did. I doubt you would've survived this long without my assistance."
Their smile was warm, but Four's cold scowl was not appreciative of their endeavors. "Why am I at your house, instead of in a hospital, then?" they accuse, too weak to raise themselves up and point a finger at them, opting for squinting at them instead.
X hesitated on the answer for a moment. "Why don't I get you something to eat?" they deflect, making Four suspicious. "You must be starving, seeing as how you probably haven't eaten in... how long has it been, a day? Wow."
Four raised an eyebrow at how accurate X's words were, but allowed them to leave regardless. They couldn't exactly stop them in this state, so why bother objecting? They wondered for a moment where their jacket was, it always comforted them to have it around, especially in unfamiliar places where they had the potential to be touched in all the wrong places.
"Hey, where's my jacket?" they called out to their host, who popped their head out from the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, right. That." X spoke in a sort of caring, quiet tone, all the more proof in their mind that X definitely wasn't the lively, rambunctious kid from their past. "I put it in the wash, because it was covered in blood. Is that okay?"
Four didn't like that decision all that much. That jacket was a constant reminder of comfort and warmth, and it not being washed in the care of their own broken hands disturbed them deeply. "It's fine," they lied through their teeth, though they hated the thought, it wasn't really X's fault for not knowing that. "Just... give it back when it's done. It was a gift from my parents, and I'd rather not part with it."
X came back into the room with a plate of chocolate covered oranges, coincidentally, one of Four's favorite snacks for when they had the money. "Sorry I don't have much in the way of snacks," they apologize, sitting back in their chair and placing the plate on a table Four can't see from their laying position on the couch. "But a gift? Do tell."
"Oh. Uh, okay." Four wasn't expecting to have to elaborate on anything from their past today, especially on such a touchy subject like their parents. They adjusted the blanket they'd flung off themselves in writhing, covering up to just under their shoulders before giving an explanation. "It was the last gift my mother gave me before they left me the house in their will. It's nothing really special on its own, but it's the sentiment that keeps it dear to me."
They try to prop themselves up again, but just like last time, it's a failed attempt as they flop back onto their back, their wound now slightly opening as they feel the scab over it rip, to X's alarm.
YOU ARE READING
Written in the Stars
Science Fiction"If you love someone, let them go." A motto Four had always despised. After being abandoned twenty years ago to be subjected to the mercy of people who didn't care for them, they'd learned that that motto was a lie, a sham, a way to get them to shut...
