worn out.

G for Galliamaufry

There is something like candy on his lips.

He's asleep, Atsu knows that much. This is a dream―he knows that because he's sitting over the ocean and Nachhan and Ame are laughing. (It's a sweet sound, dipped in tooth-rotting honey and a hazey joy.)

One becomes two, becomes three. A pattern―Atsu has always been good with those. A jigsaw puzzle with twisted pieces and gnarly limbs. He's mismatched―yet when he looks down he is whole. Scratches lay umuck on his limbs. There are no scars, just scabs on sickly pale skin and straight fingers. He remembers he might have looked pretty like that. Porcelain skin that's just barely cut, doe eyes and rosey lips. Soft words etch onto his very being before they are carved out with the bloodiest insults his father came come forth with, and passive-aggressive unpleasantries that spill like liquor from his mothers tongue. (Sharp mind, sharper tongue. It runs in the family―before he'd learnt the consequences of talking back.)

And so, he watches as waves drift ever kindly to his feet―how the skies glow a cherry pink and he feels his lips (not chapped, never bleeding) tilt over their axis. He might've been smiling, but he doesn't remember. It's like fog, really (he knows the roads well enough).

The world melts, he hears screaming. His mother snarling, his sisters weeping, his father's drunken slurs and finally there's one he's never heard. He turns on his tail and he's met with a mirror (mirror on the wall, is it him, who is the fairest of them all, with eyes like gold and hair like wine. Please, oh mirror, make him mine―). It is not him in the reflection.

No, it's a distortion, his hair stains red and he's taller, eyes like flanex. The sun shines brightly on his carmel skin and he leans in with a thumping heartbeat. Wanted to kiss his own reflection (is it him, it looks familiar―or mayhaps he is just Nacissus, a fool falling in love with the sight of themselves) and bask in the warmth of the shining in his eyes.

Atsu touches the mirror and the glass shatters, he falls right through. He wakes up with a gasp.

The dream fades away like a broken memory.

(He wishes he could remember, it seamed so pleasant.)

_

Karma is sly. He knows that much. Cunning and manipulative and so touch-starved it hurts―but he doesn't want this to turn out like it did with his parents, leaving him alone for months on end. So he does what he does best and keeps everyone at arms length and hopes that they see through his mask or run away. Whatever is best (he'll keep texting them until they fail, fail, fail) for him. His expectations curl higher and higher, until the pedestal is impossible for any mere mortal to reach.

Summer is disturbing warm, sticky sweat crinkles his eyelids shut and he can't help but give into himself. To his thoughts and prayers―shooting a bullet through his real-teacher (not a fake like the ones on the main campus, no! This one cares, he's real, he's going to leave, too) and crying as his world crumbles. Then-after, thereafter, someone holds him. Karma opens his eyes fast, too fast. Because he doesn't want to know (even if there's a pooling in his foggy head that tells him he likes the curve of black eyes and he wants to trussle midnight hair) if all he think is true.

His bones ache and his lungs scream―but he does not want to breathe just yet. Maybe he'll stay like this and avoid it all. Karma, as he's learned, is a master at twisting his problems into solutions, or simply avoiding it all together. Breaking glass when he hated his reflection and starving himself when he got sick of eating. Hurting others when he was scared to hurt himself―it's imbedded into his deep, dark soul now. A shiver and a groan of joy at the fear dancing in people's eyes, because who would love someone they fear?

It's easier to control himself that way.

That's what he's always been worst at―'cuz he's a delinquent at heart and a demon on soul. He's fire and pain and sadism stirred into an abandoned body of a corpse-child. Once, maybe, he might've been special, might've been loved. Might've lived for his mother's strict no-nonsense praise and his fathers rare talks and rarer headpats. Now, though, now he's all grown up. He's snug in this corpse―he thinks maybe he was once human too. Before he got scared that it would all go to shit like it did with Miss Mom and Dear Dad. When people he should know (or they should know him, shouldn't they? The only thing they know about him is his birthday, he's got too many cards and not enough candles) inside and out are nothing more than strangers.

Karma thinks―ever-so-vaguely, that he might've liked it if he could just touch someone without them shaking. It's his own fault, really; he's not denying it, he's not oblivious (not like Nagisa is to his mother's behavior). Maybe that's why he took a shine to the boy of black and white. Because he's not scared, and some primal part of Karma want to test that. To watch something his might-maybe-someday like-love burn to cinders. It'll hurt less and less the earlier it happens.

It's not like he could like Karma back (even if he was gay), being shoved into a body of water while you can't swim typically does that.

There's something he's supposed to do, but he can't-won't-will-not remember. Like a ghost of a mother's touch or the aversion of his father's eyes; it's all too much and he can't remember what they look like either. Voices fade and he doesn't remember, why can't he remember? Static curls like bile in his arms and legs (sprawled on his soul like a prayer to the gods he doesn't believe in).

And he laughs, licking the blood off his lips like it's sugar.

G is for Galliamaufry;

Black clouds swirl on crimson skies

Honey dipped in the sweetest lies.

|  ：𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙪𝙨𝙩  ：|

Bittersweet and sorrowful goodbyes

Waving his hand and tearing from his eyes

This is the day she dies.

*「𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴』*

He stands over her grave and cries

Wishing hoping to cut all his ties

So he grows out his wings and flies.

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∆Į̴̨͙̺̗̗̳͈̫̼̔̿͐̊̐̀͗̍ ̴̘̱̫̹̤̺̦̊̈͐̋͂͌l̷̙͎̮̮̙̟̹̭͚͊ö̷̖̝͓͓͍̣̞̮́̉̐͆̓͘̚͘v̵̰̫͔͍͉̘̺̽̾͆̈e̷̖̜͂͐͐͒͑̽̀̎d̵̼̫͕͓̳̮̪̫̈͐̈̓́̎̋̌ ̸̢̢͕̮͙̤͋̏y̵̠̼̝͋̂ơ̸̰̥̩̻͍͈̓̏̆̀̆̀̉ư̸͙͂̎̍̀͒̈́̂̅̚∆