Within/Without

chapter thirteen.

Simon - present day

Being in my old bedroom should be comforting, or at least nostalgic, but instead it's really, really weird.

I wake up sometime in the middle of the night, and the house is still. I ease myself upright, scrubbing a hand through my hair and blinking into the dark. In the shadows, I can make out my cork board, littered with postcards and snippets of poems I never finished. There's my trophy case, which is relatively bare, save for some first grade soccer participation awards and a spelling bee trophy. Then there's my bookshelf, which I pretty much scraped bare when I left for university, save for a few framed photos. My face varies in these photos. The only constant is my family, really.

My mind is awake and kicking, so there's no way in hell I'm going back to sleep. I don't try. I just swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the bottoms of my feet meet cold, cold wood. The air conditioning is whirring, faintly, and when I step out into the hall, it smells like lavender air freshener.

My body carries me in the right direction before I very much know where I'm going. I pass my parents' bedroom, Abbie's bedroom, Noah's bedroom (whose door is wide open, for some reason). At the end of the hall is a rickety staircase, closed off by narrow, yellowing walls. Sawdust scent twitches at my nostrils as I climb the steps on the tips of my toes.

At the top, I pause. A cool breeze wafts in from the open window, pricking goosebumps on my skin. Sitting before the window, as if soaking in the moonlight, is my brother. He's criss-cross applesauce at the sill, half his body leaned over it. Beside him is what looks to be a mug filled with tea, the tea bag's label dangling over the cup's side.

I smile a little to myself, switching it on. Stretching my fingers till they're as long as Noah's. Shortening my hair, bleaching it blond. Squaring my shoulders, lifting myself a little taller. Giving myself a slight, sun-kissed tan, puncturing a dimple in my cheek.

Then I say, in Noah's voice, "Boo."

Noah jolts, turning around. He squints at me for a moment, then says, his voice trembling a little, "Simon, you asshole. Stop that. That's creeping me out."

"What?" I say, leaning against the doorjamb. "You're just talking to yourself."

"Yeah, but that's—that's my face. You're wearing my face and you're talking to me and it's weird," Noah says, cringing away from me. "No. Scratch that. You're wearing my skin. My voice. Me. And I did not consent."

"Fine," I say, and catch Noah let out a breath as I morph back to myself. It's certainly more comfortable. My body feels strange when it's as tall and broad as Noah's. "I was just joking with you."

"Fuck you," Noah says, though he scoots over to allow me space beside the window.

"Careful," I say, resting my hands on the sill. The moon is a waxing crescent tonight, a sliver of white that somehow seems bright enough to blind. "If Mom hears you talk like that, she'll kill you."

"Please. She'd understand as soon as I told her how you were messing with me."

I chuckle. "That still bothering you?"

"Yes," Noah says, throwing up his arms. When he looks at me, his eyes are wide, more a pale gold than brown in the washed moonlight. "It's hellish! Demonic! Have you ever had someone that looked like you that wasn't you talk to you?"

"No."

"Well, it's weird."

"I'm a shapeshifter," I say, more to the sky than to him. "Everything I do is weird."