Kiss me in the corridor
rating: 0+x

You wake in Casey's arms. Their body is so warm. Your head pushes against their boobs, which move slightly in response to your weight. Their skin is so soft. Your fingers wrap around their wrist. One warm. One metallic cold.

The gears click slowly, even without their active intention. The prosthetic is so complicated, and yet, it's damaged. They melted part of the forearm, choosing to ruin part of their body to conceal the insignia their former self had carved there. They must've lost some mobility for that, some flexibility, but apparently, it was a sacrifice they chose to make.

Their other hand is complicated too. Flesh. The veins beneath their skin pump blood through a network so intricate and detailed that no machine could ever really match it. The prosthetic does a damn good job at it, though. The clockwork is so small, you don’t even know how a person carved them, but you can’t feel magic in its construction.

The space inside of it is magical, though, in a twisted and mechanical way. The Madmen must've stole from The Church of the Broken God at some point. It's a cursed artifact— everything the Mekhanists enchant is— but it functions better than anything the surface world could come up with. And besides, the Madmen don't make things, not even to help their members. They steal. They destroy. They corrupt.

You know why they took this arm though, why Casey wears it now. You were there when they lost their flesh and bone one.

No, you don't get to phrase it like that. You were the one who took it, tore it off of them, feeling the blood splatter across your chest. They took the life of an innocent, them and that girl with her three red irises. You feel a discomfort in your skin. Like bugs squirming.

They’re the first person you’ve touched like this, who you’ve let touch you like this, since Allison. They haven’t slipped out, strange hat on their pretty little head. They’re still here.

You don’t hate this lover for what they did. You know you should. Like, ethics or whatever. You’re so tired of hating people for their ideology and of people hating you for the same reasons. No, you know that’s wrong. It’s not about ideals. It’s about actions, and their actions left them with blood on their hands, not that you’re much better.

Fuckers. Everyone. Allison especially. (LS especially).

You just want to rest in their arms forever, never feel the weight of infinite worlds on your shoulder. They make you feel soft, smoothing out your jagged edges and softening your points.

They stir slowly.

"Quetz," they whisper. You nod, slightly. They don't see you, but they feel your movement against their body.

You close your eyes again. You dreamed this night, dreamed of warm hands on your skin and gears turning. Girls with destinies too big for little warriors like you, only concerned for the fate of one world. Not even one world. A couple of friends. An alcove in a vast Library. Her.

All you know is the fight in front of you right now. You’d never looked to the future, never looked to the past, but Allison avoided living in the moment like it was the plague, and now she’s got you doing it too.

You feel Casey around you now. You hate them still, but you can’t help feeling safe inside their firm limbs. They’re like a tree. Sturdy. At their heart, though, they’re as fragile as you. You saw them bleeding, shaking, as their then-lover dragged them away.

You sleep again. This time, you don’t dream of the past. You just see their dark brown eyes and the beads in their dreadlocks. They were red when you met them, as red as their then-lover’s eyes, and they’re green now, as green as the hair that you don’t dye.

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