Silver Tongue, Silver Eyes

I'm About To Cry

The rain ran slick against the window pane, cold against his cheek as it pressed on the glass; his hand shakes too badly to hold his mug so it sits on the edge of the window sill, the tea inside still steaming. Some spilled when he made it and the skin stings with the burn- he wouldn't have made that mistake, usually he's much more careful, but he'd been distracted by the thunder that rocked the sky. It rattled inside his skull, too close to the center of his brain, too close to his nightmares. It cracked like a whip, split the air in two, and in that one crucial second, where the sound shot down his spine, all Pickle had been able to think about was her.

She stood in front of him, shadowy and faceless, even inside his nightmare. The suitcase she held left a bitter reminder, the steel darkened by her greedy hands. It made his stomach twist into sickening knots just thinking about it. Bile rose in his throat, cutting off his air and his eyes burned in response. He choked it down, shaky hands quickly picked up the cup but they could barely hold the handle. The tea sloshed against the rim as he swallowed down a mouthful, the drink sharp as it washed away the lump. His eyes still stung.

He missed Knife.

He shakes his head but it doesn't work, everything's still half-real echoes, like the world has been set underwater while he had his back turned. From his room he looks down on the lights of the hotel against the trees and they seem wrong, blurring together like running oil paints. His head is spinning, dizzy, and he has to lean against the window harder, his heavy breath foggy against the skeletal frame looming over him, cold and unfeeling. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to set the world back in focus.

Knife. God does he miss him. It was selfish, but sometimes he wishes Knife would lose, just so he could come back home. Come back to him. Fill the ache that dug itself under his rib cage. 

Sure, he saw him often enough on the tv but it was never the same. Knife was sharp. Sometimes it was a little too much and he could see it set everyone else on edge, but to him, Knife makes him calm. He's kinetic, sucks up all the energy in the room and leaves him feeling like he finally has room to breath. The last time he felt his head was clear was when MePhone was arrested, and that was ages ago.

He exhales, but there's still a heavy weight against his chest. He grunts in frustration, his forehead thunking against the window, the cold glass a slight relief to his cloudy head. He repeats this pattern over and over again, softly thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
He pauses.
That... wasn't him. He smears away the fog gathered on the window and peers outside. The pouring rain clouds together a hazy veil but he can make out a figure standing outside his window. There's another forceful whump that makes his stomach skitter, was that a rock? His eyes strain in the darkness, face pressed fully against the window pane. Pickle's heart stops when he recognizes the familiar silhouette in the downpour and when a stone smashes right through his window.

"...knife?" He threw his broken window up, the quiet reverence still on his lips. Knife is standing out there, hair darkened with rain and clothes clinging to his skin. He drops the rest of the rocks and they fall to the ground with muffled thuds.

"Hey there, Romeo. Do you think I can come in?"

Pickle feels like he's been sucker punched, all his air leaving his lungs in a gasping, stuttering breath. He feels like words will fail him so he just nods, and he can almost see Knife's face brighten. His room isn't far off from the ground, but it still surprises him when Knife clambers up the wall with ease. He watches him pull himself up onto his window sill and he still feels like he's dreaming. Even through the numbness at the relief of seeing him is enough to send Pickle to his knees. He half collapses against the side of his bed and then sits there with his trembling hands pressed over his eyes. He can hear his name being called and listens as Knife's footsteps get closer. Despite himself he has to glance up again to make sure he's actually there — he is, a second a brightness in the dark of his room. Knife calls his name again, wide-eyed and entreating.

He can't make himself answer.

He can hear Knife scramble to kneel down beside him. Pickle reaches out, blindly, running his hands down his arms, his sides, and finally cups the side of his face, just trying to convince himself Knife was actually in his room, not some figment of his mind. His hands come away wet. The icy feeling of Knife's skin shocks him from the stupor, he feels like the stinging metal of a blade.

"Are you cold?" He asks, but his voice sounds hoarse and strange to his own ears, "I can get you a blanket."

Knife pushes wet hair from his face, he never realized how long it was down, confusion on his features. "I-what? Are you ok? Did I, did I come at a bad time?"

Pickle scrubs at his eyes, his pulse sluggish in his veins,"I'm- I'm fine. Just tired." His hands fall back into his lap and he slumps back against the post of his bed. His eyes meet Knife's and he sees the dark circles under his eyes, it was way too late for the both of them.

"Man, why... why are you here? It's like, 2 am."
Knife sputters, tearing his gaze away to look at the carpeted floor. Which was now sopping wet, water dripping off of his clothes and hair. Oj was gonna be pissed.

"I was walking around before the storm rolled in. I, personally, don't want to sleep in a tent while it's pouring outside. I was closer to the hotel anyways," he hesitates, looking at the wall, "Sorry... about your window, by the way."

"It's-it's fine, really. I'll OJ it was the wind, or a sock or... something.." He manages, but it's hard. His lungs feel like they have finally stopped pretending it was worth it to keep going — some part of him has just forgotten why he should now that he knows how.

"Pickle."

He winces at hearing his own name, feels a deep urge to flinch away from his own body the same way.

"Pickle do you need some space? I can leave-" he starts to stand and it sets off an electric current of fear in his chest; without thinking his hands shoot out and grab onto his arm, clinging to him more out of instinct than dignity.

"No! I-"

"Hey, hey it's ok." He voice is warm, reassuring.

"Please... don't leave." Knife is freezing but he can't make himself let go.

"It's ok, I'm not going anywhere." He settles back down, his hand a solid weight on Pickle's thigh.

"God, I'm sorry, it's just..." They look at each other and Pickle feels like sobbing. Knife's eyes are like a mirror, so solid, so bright, and so so beautiful; the exact color of ashes smoldering in a fire. They're kinder than anything he's ever seen in someone else's eyes.

He sucks in a breath, and it parts a clearing in the confused storm of his head, "It's her, I can't stop thinking about it, about everything," he sighs, a mixture of frustration and ever present dejection, "I know you told me I need to move on but, it's hard. It's so, so hard Knife. How do you even move on from something like that? Move on from the person who you thought was your best friend but used and dropped you the first chance she got?" His eyes felt heavy with the sting of brimming tears; he sniffed and rubbed them away angrily but the all too familiar lump still rose in his throat, threatening to choke him out again, "How do you move on from that? How, Knife, how?" He can hear his voice crack, and it comes out like someone else's, raw and weak and raspy.

Pickle watches him hesitate, his expression indescribable.

"I- c'mere." He says quietly, and opens his arms. Pickle doesn't wait, letting himself be tucked away, his face resting on Knife's shoulder.

It's nice being held.

He can feel Knife rest his chin on his head, and he feels the scruff of his stubble against his skin. He's rubbing gentle circles on his back when he says,"I don't know Pickle. I can't even imagine what that would be like," his breath hitches, like he's carefully picking out each word, "But... we can go through it together. I won't let you go alone, ok?" He presses a kiss to his forehead as the final word, and the soft touch startles Pickle right out of his line of thought. His voice is strangled by his constricted throat, so he nods a simple yes and leans into Knife's chest. He's still cold but he doesn't even care anymore, he's solid and real and there.

When the first sob tears from his throat, it doesn't surprise him. The release sets off something inside him though, like someone gutted him from the inside out and tore open his rib cage and soon he a heaving mess. Fat teardrops roll down his cheeks, the muscles in his chest trembling as he sobs. His hands shake as he knots his fingers into the fabric of Knife's shirt, the world melting away into mottled greys, washed away by salty tears. He hates it, he hates it so much, and so he buries his face into the crook of Knife's neck. He can't remember the last time he cried, but Knife presses his lips to the crown of his head and holds him close, his hand gliding through his hair ever so gently.

"I got you," he hums, "I got you. It's okay. Just breath."

Pickle does.

———————-

He wakes up the next morning warm. He's still on the floor, and his back aches like there's no tomorrow but he's warm. He can't remember falling asleep, but the warm morning sun streaming through his broken window dictates otherwise. It bathes the room in a hazy glow, the birds outside lazily whistling their songs. Strangely enough, they're accompanied by the subdued breathing of the body next to him. It almost surprises Pickle when he realizes Knife is still there, and that he's still gently tucked away in his arms. They're under one of Pickle's thick blankets that's been dragged off his bed, the comforter wrapped around them carefully.

His throat is raw, his eyes puffy and red, and his entire body feels like it's been gutted, but he's never felt lighter. He smiles, a real, genuine grin, against Knife's chest, and curls up closer to him. He closes his eyes again, taking in the sun's soft rays against his face and the soft rise and fall of his chest. He breathes in, and it's clear, and for once, he feels fine. Everything's gonna be fine. He can't help but smile again.

His tea is still in the window.