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──── ' there's a mannequin in my trunk '──── [CH. XII] ✦ ˚
"awh, boo hoo, five's in loooove"
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Extra Ordinary — Vanya Hargreeves CHAPTER II: Number Zero
THE VAMPRESS, OR AS THEY WERE NAMED, OPHIRA, WAS FATHER'S FAVOURITE. They led the academy with full stride, the bearing responsibility never seeming to weigh down upon their shoulders. The only exception was that Ophira didn't ask to be the favourite, they didn't ask to be the leader unlike Luther, whom he had an increasing rivalry with.
They were perfect, to say the least. The centre of attention during every single one of Father's parties and meetings. They could control their abilities perfectly and withheld a perfect mix of chaos and calm that made everyone adore them.
But the moment Five disappeared, Ophira did too, leaving us to fend alone for ourselves. Little did we know, they were suffering under Father's neglect and manipulation like the rest of us.
Their scars are enough to show.
"Oh! My eyes... my poor, little innocent eyeballs..."
"I'm just stitching up my wounds, for Christ's sake." The words flow with a tinge of prominent bittersweetness as Five talks. The elongated surface of his fingers loosely hooks onto the few unbuttoned buttons, sewn tightly against the pearly crisp fabric of his button-up. His hands tug against it the slightest, sleight of skin underneath a mere mockery.
Ophira's silhouette eases at once, their figurine relaxing back into the surface of the cool, rigid wall they press against. The few wrinkles prominent in the centre of their forehead ease completely and only a half-hearted snicker draws from their captured breath.
"Curse me for giving you a little privacy," Ophira retaliates, sarcasm lacing their tone undoubtedly as they speak. Their back strains, feet pressed against the ground as they push themselves off the wall. Movements a mere glide, Ophira finds themselves merely a couple of footfalls away from the entrance of Five's room. They cozy themselves against the nook of his doorway.
Five was sat down on the edge of his childhood bed, the teal sheets tucked underneath his long, slender silhouette. His button-up was cast aside, more specifically, bundled up a couple of paces away amongst the thickness of his bed's comforter. Five shoots them a swiftly hurried glance before inching back over his shoulder, peering down at the sleight of skin that wasn't covered by the grey tank top loosely adoring his torso.
"With the amount of skin you show daily, I thought you'd be desensitized to someone in a tank top." Five merely claims, in the cocky, matter-of-fact tone Ophira loathed, as every syllable that slid from his lips was a gift from God himself. The familiar, conceited, self-assured laced into every tone, every pitch, every groan that vibrated from the back of his throat as a silver-prepped needle sank into the tan sleight of skin above his wound. The gash, crimson-shedding and opened, separated across the density of his arm. Ophira wouldn't have noticed it if he never said anything in the first place. "How's your shoulder?"
