Work Text:
“[What are you drawing?]”
Soul’s shadow crawls over his face until his expression is dark and unreadable. He does not respond.
It has to be Whole - right? Mind just forgot before he asked.
But…
Mind throws off his covers, and leans over Soul’s shoulder. It’s a sketch of him. Him, laying on his side, mostly tangled in blankets but watching Soul with an intent gaze, his hair falling onto his pillow and haloing his head.
Soul immediately shuts the notebook, his knuckles white where he grips its spine. His fingers obscure the cover, long and thin and dainty, the kind you would expect of an artist.
“{You- you weren’t supposed to-}”
Mind reaches out.
Their hands are the same. It’s obvious when they’re overlaid. But Soul wears them better than he does.
Mind’s hands are a tool. Nothing more. Soul’s… he’s beautiful.
“[Give me your hand,]” Mind says. Soul doesn’t question it, just drops the notebook onto his table, so Mind can turn Soul’s hand over and trace the lines of his palm.
“{…Mind?}”
“[The drawing was good,]” Mind comments, noting the softness of Soul’s palm, how his fingers slowly fall slack, “[you should be proud of yourself.]” He interlaces his fingers with Soul’s and sweeps his thumb over Soul’s hand.
He’s warm, and Mind wants. Mind wants Soul to be someone he can appreciate, someone he can touch, someone at all.
Soul isn’t a good person. He knows that. Mind wishes he was as fiercely as when Soul stabs him.
“{Proud?}” Soul echoes. “{What do I have to be proud of?}” He rips his hand from Mind’s, but he doesn’t run away. His hand lies flat on the table, the back of his hand smooth, almost definitely as soft as the rest of it.
“[I just told you, Soul.]”
Soul stands up from Mind’s chair. Mind readies himself for Soul to run, but he doesn’t. He wraps Mind in a hug so unexpected that Mind stumbles over himself, toppling into Soul’s arms. His grasp around Mind is choking, like he doesn’t plan on giving Mind up. Mind isn’t bothered by that.
Mind buries his head into Soul’s neck.
Soul breathes in, shudders, and pulls away.
“{I’m not worthy of this.}”
“[What does worthiness have to do with any of this?]”
Their eyes meet.
“[Sit down, Soul.]”
Soul does.
“[Give me your hand.]”
Mind clasps Soul‘s wrist - and he wants Soul to remember this.
Remember him.
Mind parts his lips, and brings Soul’s hand up to his mouth. He places a careful kiss on the center of his palm. Then, he sets Soul’s hand flush against the table, resting down.
He summons his knife.
Slowly, deliberately, he runs its point down the length of Soul’s forearm - barely light enough that Soul doesn’t bleed. Soul shivers, but does not protest.
“[Raise your hand just a bit.]”
Mind memorizes Soul’s hand - arched and vulnerable, splayed out in the air just for him.
Soul’s hand before Mind…
Mind stabs through his middle. Soul screams, jolting against the table and the knife, and Mind is captivated. He is like an animal, shameless and weak. In this moment, as Soul writhes and blows his voice out - nothing matters besides this one action.
Besides Mind’s hold around his wrist.
Mind runs his hand down Soul’s hair, cups the back of his neck. “[It’s okay,]” he says. He twists the knife. Soul gasps harshly. He tries to scream but he doesn’t have enough air to do it properly, so he whimpers, breathless and desperate.
Mind unsummons his knife. There’s a hole directly in the middle of Soul’s hand, just as Mind intended. Blood pools around the wound [and, surely, on Mind’s desk] running in rivulets down across Soul’s skin, dripping paths down Soul’s fingers. It’s striking. Mind would draw it himself later, if he could.
Finally dropping Soul’s wrist, he again clasps Soul’s hand in his. Warm blood smears between their hands. Iron settles in the back of Mind’s throat like smoke. As predicted, his desk is a bloody mess - which he ignores, in favor of the bloody mess that is Soul’s hand.
It’s sweet to hold his hand, no matter how bloody it is, and it’s sweet that Mind did this to him - wrecked him so thoroughly, stained him with himself. Holding his hand is like caressing the jagged edges of a precious glass thing. It was beautiful before, but after it was broken -
That’s a bad comparison. Glass things are better whole. Soul, on the other hand -
Mind shakes his head, a smile teasing at the corner of his lips, and tells Soul he’ll be back before he gets the first aid kit from under his bed.
It only takes a second. He cleans Soul’s wound out while he squirms and pants for air he fails to get. And then…
“[I would stitch this, but it’s against the point,]” Mind mumbles. “[You’ll just have to replace the bandages every so often.]”
Mind wraps tight bandages around Soul’s hand and returns the first aid kit. He clasps Soul’s wrist. Soul trembles against him.
“[Soul?]”
Soul exhales, shuddering, and leans his head against Mind’s arm. “{Why… why did you..?}”
“[I wanted to show you my love.]” Mind laughs. He presses his thumb into Soul’s wrist, glad it isn’t wrapped so he can feel Soul’s false heartbeat flutter against him, like a parasite’s death throes. “[I thought you needed a reminder.]”
Mind’s fingers stray towards the bandage.
“[Now I can never leave you.]”
Mind ends up pushing his chair to his bed and leading Soul into laying down next to him, his head nestled into Mind’s chest. He barely protests - he’s not strong enough to, his words slurred and feeble, and when Mind lays down next to him he falls into Mind’s touch like he was made for it.
Mind wakes with Soul’s arms around him, like a melody he has finally recovered. Soul is still asleep, but Mind is content to wait for him, regardless of the time. Eventually, Soul cracks his eyes open against the sunlight, and attempts his name, curling tighter around him.
“[Soul?]”
“{…I think I got the bed bloody.}”
Mind reaches for Soul’s arm, casually checking the bandages. They bled through.
“[You can fix those while I make food.]” He hesitates, and adds, “[Call me if you need me.]”
Mind extricates himself from the bed, although it’s an effort, and heads to the kitchen. Soul’s touch lingers on his skin.
Mind doesn’t want to leave.
He forces himself to cook breakfast, as promised - Soul’s whimper echoing in his mind, a temptation. His mouth waters at it more than it does the food.
He’s already heard it, memorized it as much as he could. It’s not all he covets.
Maybe he can grasp the true object of his desire - maybe these fingers are more than a tool, just like Soul’s. They’re the same after all, even if Soul’s are crusted with blood.
He already has. He will never leave Soul, because that wound will never leave his skin.
Except - what’s stopping Soul from leaving him?
Mind considers it. He considers it until he finishes cooking and comes back to Soul.
“[Did you manage?]”
He sets Soul’s food in front of him. In front of him is on the bed, but Mind will make a single exception, just this once.
“{It was difficult with one hand, so I tried to layer some on top, but…}” The bandages are sloppy, to say the least. Mind huffs and sets his food aside. He unravels the bandages while Soul stabs at his food, and layers them back on. “[Is it alright?]”
“{Yeah. Both- things.}”
Mind nods, and they eat.
“[Soul… are you going to leave me?]” Mind searches for a monotone apathy to cloak his words with, but it doesn’t come through, leaving them unfiltered and pitiful. He shuts his mouth with a click as soon as he hears them, hoping Soul didn’t.
Soul’s fork clatters against his plate.
“{Mind, you think I can?}”
He moves both of their plates to the side of the bed, and scoots over, finding the edge of Mind’s shirt. Mind flushes, and raises his arms obediently for Soul to do what he will.
Soul tosses the shirt away, and smooths his hand down Mind’s torso, paying no attention to how Mind twitches under his hand, or how his arms hover in the air, waiting for the opportunity to cover his bare skin. Soul’s hands circle around his skin, coming to a stop on a trio of indents. It’s been so long since that one that Mind forgot what he did to deserve it.
“{There it is.}”
Soul presses his finger into one until Mind has to lock a hiss behind his teeth.
“{How would I leave you?}”
“[But that- wasn’t the same.]”
Soul hums.
“{You’re right.}”
He unsummons his trident, and, without fanfare, slashes a long line down Mind’s chest. Mind gasps, and the air is punched out of him so violently his eyes burn - along with his chest, a tide of fire Mind can only grit his teeth against.
Mind curls into himself. “[Soul,]” he pleads. He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for. He reaches for Soul.
Curling into himself burns. Breathing burns too, the most minute rise of his chest met with a shock of vicious electricity. “[Soul-]”
And Soul is there, knees pushing into Mind’s lap, chest to his shoulders. A hand entwines his own, fuzzy with bandages.
“{Mind. I’m not going to leave you.}”
His other hand cups his jaw.
“{You’re mine.}”
Mind sobs, even as it rips through him, because there’s nothing else he can do. He grips Soul’s hand like a prayer. Soul squeezes back like a promise.