Kill Me, Kiss Me

THIRTY TWO

    THEO slept fitfully. He'd taken half the night just to fall asleep, and even in that dense darkness, he seemed to be able to sense every shift and breath besides him. In the moment where his eyes blinked open the still greyness of the air, he even wondered whether he'd slept at all. It certainly did not feel that way, the passing of the night pressed too clearly on his consciousness.

    He pressed a hand against his eyes and sat up with a groan. Massaging his brow, he dropped his hand to the stark figure of Keir sprawled in the chaise lounge. The man was already dressed, however instead of his usual attire of a shirt and suit pants, he was dressed in a sweatshirt and loose joggers, albeit still black. The rustle of paper fluttered through the dull space as Keir's fingers played with a page of his documents.

    "Go back to sleep."

    Keir did not even lift his head to look at him.

    Theo found his gaze drift over the man even though an ache built at the base of his brows. The white heart was slightly depressed at a 50%, and still the man did not look at him. It was strange. Seeing his face would inadvertently raise Keir's liking to him, but it was as if the man in question himself didn't want to look at him. Surely if the only quality you liked about a single person was their face, you'd make the most of it? It made Theo doubt whether Keir's childhood crush was really a hollow idol instead.

    An idea that made his childhood seem slightly bearable, but an idea nonetheless.

    Keir knocked a rhythm against the page with the end of his pen and finally looked towards him, a small furrow inching its way between his eyebrows.

    "Don't look at me like that."

    "Like what?"

    Clack, clack, clack, clack went the pen against the paper.

    "Like you..." He started and stopped abruptly, withdrawing his gaze.

    The crisp cry of the metal pen cap continued to fill the hazy silence.

    "I should be the one saying that to you." Theo broke through.

    Keir's fingers stopped, and he whipped his head towards Theo with a ferocity Theo hadn't seen for a while.

    "Don't forget—"

    Again, Keir's voice seized, and veins surged against the thin skin of his wrist. 'Don't forget who you are.' Theo could guess exactly what he was going to say. He met Keir's stare calmly. Who am I? He forced through his gaze. Who am I? Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

    Who am I?

    Keir stood, papers dropping to the chaise lounge with a dead thump.

    "Let's have breakfast." He left to the air, "Yes, let's have breakfast."

    The glaze was back again, the facade, and Theo had to applaud him. It was brilliant, how well Keir's acting was. You'd never have thought he'd be a bloodthirsty serial killer, this gentle, firm, grounded character. All this love, it actually seemed quite warm; it fucked him up.

This was not real.

Keir pulled the same shit at breakfast, putting the food in front of him, pretending like each item was supposed to be his ultimate favourite. Perhaps, they were supposed to be his 'ultimate favourites', but the ache pounded worse in his neck, and he couldn't find it in him to pretend even remotely. This time, Keir did not seem put off in the slightest. The smile remained present, and even when he wasn't smiling, his face remained warm, completely devoid of the usual apathy.