[ Sky – Master Post ]
Title: Blind With Stars
Warnings: Self-inflicted violence
Notes: Arkady's never really been quite happy. His parents love each other, he's well provided for, he's got a best friend who loves him like a brother… but none of these things give him peace.
At sixteen, Evan had started shaving his entire body, with a straight razor. There was no reason not to — Liz said it made him better-looking, and he was always looking for a good reason to keep a razor on hand. He was, and if all went well, he always would be, gloriously beautiful. It went beyond just 'pretty'. Wasn't related in the least to 'handsome'. There were women in the world who would have sacrificed an eye to look like Evan Newkirk.
And in a lot of ways, that was his problem. Being not just 'one of the beautiful people', but 'that drop-dead gorgeous person' was not as easy as it was made out to be. Especially the part where everyone thought he was Liz's sister, at first glance. He adored being irresistible, but he could've done without the persistent, insistent feminisation. It wasn't even that he didn't appreciate how good he looked in drag — and he did look good — it was that he was tired of getting it when he wasn't in drag. He was sick and tired of getting punched in the face, every time some shithead tried to feel him up, despite his protests, and ended up with a handful of cock. In fact, he was just sick and tired of getting felt up, regardless of the gender or expectations of the person doing it. He loved being beautiful, but he hated being publicly available for other people to inflict their fantasies on him.
It was the beginning of his junior year, when he made the shirt that said simply "Don't Touch". It bore a handprint surrounded by a circle with a line through it. He had lost faith, by then, and he'd begun going shirtless, when the weather permitted, to at least keep the grabby hands feminine. Liz bought him a black parasol, to keep the sun off his shoulders, and he loved both it and her.
And that was the thing — he did love her. First, as his sister. She was unconscionably cruel, in that way that only teenage girls can be, but in her mind, she was the only one allowed to hurt him, and she inflicted her blazing-suns wrath on anything else that dared to try. But, they'd had a bit of a something else, the year before. They didn't date — dating was that thing that losers did to try to declare rights and ownership. They'd just … had a bit of fun. But, she'd gotten distracted, and he'd gotten so paranoid about being touched, that they'd drifted back to friendship. But, he loved her: truly, madly, stupidly. Blindly, even. She was her own creature, and she always would be, but he belonged to her.
Sometimes, there were other girls, and he was kind to them, but he couldn't approach them, the way they did him. They wanted someone to hold on to, someone to keep. He just wanted someone to enjoy, someone to bury his inadequacies and disgust in.
He was sixteen, the first time he opened up his arm. It started as an accident — he pulled his hand out of his pocket, and the razor caught in the bracelet on that arm, flipped open, and cut him as it dropped to the ground. The pain was a shock — a refreshing, cool shock against the muffling humidity of a sky waiting to rain. His blood was a brilliant hue against the dulled shades of the damp world around him. The chill rush… the red splash… He picked up the razor and wiped it on his pants, checking the blade for chips. It seemed to be undamaged, unlike his bleeding forearm.
Twisting his arm, he licked at the slender, freely-bleeding cut. Copper, salt, and ozone poured into his senses. He stood on the asphalt, staring blankly into the sky, embracing the reality that he was flesh, and it was what he had to give. He was smart, but not smart enough for it to pierce the smothering veil-like expectation of stupidity that came with his looks. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't much of a lover — he couldn't fall in love, except with Liz, who hadn't been sufficiently impressed. He was flesh and blood, and it was all he had to offer.
He fitted the edge of the blade into the mark it had already made and continued the line, winding three times around his arm. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man," he quoted, with a grim smile. "A god among men, I shed my own blood. Who comes to take it from me? This is all I have to give…"
He watched the blood run and drip, occasionally chasing it with his tongue. The sky cracked open, and he tore off his shirt, in the rain, staring up at the clouds above, one hand full of blood and the other holding the bloody razor.
"This is all I have to give!" he screamed, and stood, dripping blood and water, until Liz came to take him home.