To Death

FAY

Aflower that grows from ash...

Never purchased. Given. Worth in heartbeats, Tyke's gift are the most precious, be it a polished seashell, a collection of wooden dragonflies he carved himself, rubber bands... I pull back a chuckle, even if it was soft, to know Tyke believes them to be trinkets.

"It wasn't supposed to look like that," he says, scratching behind his neck.

"Tyke." I wipe some remnants of tears away and, leaning into him, whisper, "It's real. It's raw. It's perfect."

How he looks at me. It's like someone scrutinizing a wild animal, sizing me up with his gaze. And I don't mind; his parting lips don't hurt, either... I trap a smile between sucked cheeks, contemplating him in return. And I fight a frown. Blood––wiped, not gone, as if he washed his face in haste—stains the upper arc of his eyebrow. A cluster of small pigments dot the right side of his chin, bloating down his throat. My consciousness burns at this detail, worse, the question 'what happened?' hanging at the edge of my lips. Five times now, I asked about his missions when he returned from service. 'Can't talk about it,' kept coming like an automated answering machine. So I won't ask, won't tire him with it. Cuts and bruises... they never stay far from Tyke, anyway. It's all part of the game, police and all, right?

"Fay?" The number of times I've patched him up, knowing the police don't handle his medical care when wounded during service. In exchange for serving, they let his kind die in a corner. The irony.

"Bug, where are you now?" It bites at my nose bridge, and I tilt my head back to realize Tyke's teeth nicked me. "Don't faze out. Stick with me."

"Present."

"Where is your bag? I'll get it for you while you change." Tyke scans the flat and pauses on Deon's spear, thoughtful.

"Can we talk a bit?"

"Later," he says, eyes still resting on the weapon.

"Please. Things have been happening lately," I say as I look down at my flower. It has hardly any petals left, smashed, so mangled that its black and red color stains my fingers like blood.

"And they'll keep happening, bug."

A violent tear wants to burst forth. I don't want another war. I don't want another war. I don't.

War. Quince. Blood. N?—

"Bug. It's okay to cry." Tyke's skin is warm. I know this to be an actual fact, because his hand is suddenly pressed against my chest, an arm under my T-shirt. "Calm down." He seems to know precisely what I'm thinking because he keeps his hand there, reading my pulse, trying to measure my heartbeats: the way orcs are taught how to read their loved ones.

My wings tingle, a curtain of tight-knit pixie dust thickening between us. But even as they come down—not as waves, not as levitating particles, but as round stones of light—I see him. I see him whole. Black gold sifts through my eyes. Soon, streams of gilded metal fall like rain, sheeting down through my very being until there's nothing beyond it for me to grasp. All I can discern is relief, and for a moment, my anxiety leaves.

"It's the fumes. They've been irritating my eyes. These pesky things keep sneaking into any crack of the flat, pricking my sight, and it's stressing me out," I titter.

"Pesky things..." Tyke takes his hand back, taking a glance at the sheet flagging in the wind. He frowns. Guess he spotted the blood splattered in the street...

"Anything I should know about, aside from werewolves glassing fairies?" he asks, probing his bulletproof jacket for the third time, always on the left side, consistently below the ribs, jaws tensing as he does.

There's an antiseptic in the bathroom...

"Riots. Fights at every street corner. Buildings in flames. The military shooting at the very people it's supposed to protect... Tyke, this cleave, it grew bigger. I was wrong. Nothing will change and I'm so sorry." I take a jerky, deep breath and leave it inside me.

"Sorry about what?" Every expression line of his becomes hasty, twitchy. "Bug?

"Yesterday... I—" What a great idea, Fay. Just tell him you shot someone. He'll take it well. "Yesterday what?"

Let's switch gears. Pull back the tears. Smile. "Yesterday, I went to visit my mother and—" "How's she?"

Despite this heaviness in me, my eyes droop at his persistence in asking how my parents are doing. "She's good, but everything felt out of place. Her way of talking, how they just flew away on vacation." I roll my shoulders.

Tyke's eyes are glowing strangely. I don't know if it's from deep concern or rage. "Was Deon there?"

I suck in a quick, very short breath, knowing he asked Deon to watch over me. Better cover him because he wasn't. "We made our way back home together."

Tyke wets his lip and exhales, eyes back on the spear. "Where is he?"

"In my bedroom."

"Where's Donna?"

"In my bedroom."

Tyke's eyebrow furrows.

"Yes. It's a weird story. Anyway..." I really don't want to talk about them. "Listen, something doesn't feel right to me, like something's not clicking. My mother was acting unnatural. And the holiday thing was like they were blatantly lying to my face."

Tyke hunches, drops his elbows on his jittery thighs and clasps his fingers, these jerking on his mad lap. He's nervous. "What's the issue? It's perfect timing when things go bad where you live, right?"

"They've never been on holiday. Never left me. And, Tyke, it was so unexpected. I mean, they forgot about it. Forgot!" I raise my hands, a couple of fingers quoting as I mock, "Dear gods, we have to get ready. We're going to be late!"

Tyke's smile broadens, fireworks exploding inside me to know I made him laugh inwardly. "You haven't called lately. They made plans. Can't be mad at them for that."

"I know."

Tyke wraps his hands in mine. They're warm, meddling his fingers into mine and the flower. "Fay."

"Yes."

"Is your bag ready? Did you do what I told you to?" he asks, fidgeting with a piece of unbroken stem.

"Yes."

"Were you paying bills? Electricity, phone?"

"Cash only, and the phone was pay-per-use."

"Good."

"Why have you asked me to do all that? Your questions... Are you in danger?"

He cradles my head, and I shyly gasp to find static black eyes drawing closer. "There is a vampire out there who is?—"

Vampire...

Vampire!

"Shit."

"What is it?!"

"Nothing. Something that's no longer relevant, anyway. Was supposed to meet someone today... His name's Vym. But it doesn't matter." I release an exhale. New Orc got me. "Let's leave. I'll get the others."

Tyke stiffens, the last remnant of the stem snapping in our—his—tightening clasp. His chest puffs, his teeth snarling. "Vym?"

Gods, what follows is bestial. It's the thrum of a beast that elongates through his lungs so much I'm unsure what is happening.

"He's a friend."

Tyke's face darkens oddly. "Friend?"

"Yes. And he's a vampire, too."

This time, he cocks his head sideways.

What's the deal here? I place a hand on his jittery thigh, feeling I should clarify. "A friend friend."

He glances away from me, shaking his head.

"Bear. He's just a friend or was... It's not like I'll be seeing him now."

I lay a couple of fingers beneath his chin. He plays the game, knowing well I couldn't force any of his head sways without straining a finger. He bites his lip, the bulge in his throat wonky and twisted. "He's already been here."

I can't believe it!

My sharp tone is perfect, my gaze slicing as I grind, "Yes."

He shuts his eyes into tight hermetic lines as if I said something stupid, leaving me with an unconfident pout. I hate jealousy, even more so when I see it in Tyke.

"Fay, your wild heart is bigger than anyone in monsterkind, and I love you for it. I'm not trying to chain you up, but if you see a vampire again, I will."

I frown, I fist, I... I'm just gonna leave, in fact. "If you knew the demons in me, I think you would let me go altogether. And maybe if you're going to react like that, you should."

Clamping down on the ledge, I prepare to get up and stop a second from pushing myself. Hesitation is nailing me to my seat, and I loosen my hold, my mouth dry. Don't run from this damn conversation.

A finger curls under my chin. "Let you go..." he says with a cold snigger.

Tyke's glower encroaches into mine, and I flinch, gazing away at the opposite building and the clothes rack on the sixth floor balcony. "You would," I mumble.

"Fay." My gaze swivels, bending inward toward the shadow cast by his lean body. Tyke's solid frame comes down on me, hands propping on the thick wooden window frame at my back. His face halts at hand's length from mine. I try to remain unfazed—a joke—as I watch the tension building in his jaws; skin taut, clenched muscles continuously rippling beneath his skin. And I blink. Again. And again, unable to shape a word. My flutters settle and to this, Tyke nods askew, instantly pulling his gaze down. As he does, he tsks, almost as if to himself.

"My turn to ask a question," he murmurs. "Would you let me go if you knew my demons?"

My stomach somersaults. How could he even think to ask something like this? My molars grind as I scorch the crown of his head with a glare I wish he would confront.

Tyke's head turns up as he stares at me, and my so-called glare jellifies. "Will you?"

With his hands still propped behind my head, I hear nails scratching the wood. And as I turn my neck to the sound, I find his fingers folding on themselves, knuckles white.

I look back at him, my bottom lip disappearing in my mouth. Tyke's trying not to grimace, his nose wrinkling slightly. "You don't know, do you?" he asks.

My mind bleeds with agony, shame, pain, to the unthinkable possibility of him questioning whether I could ditch him because of his struggles. How can he doubt me!?

Then a furious envy to laugh awakes at the bottom of my throat, but I trample it with a swallow that sticks. Of course he thinks that way. It's the reminder of the elephant in the room––of how selfish I am. For me, Tyke never had any demons. Nostalgia, sure, and pain, well it often comes hand in hand. But demons? I never asked. And I regret it because I want them all. "The day I leave you will be because I'm dead."

"Don't say that." He draws in a breath, but it splinters from a quiver. "That wasn't my question."

"There is not one part of you I would leave behind!"

The cool morning air hits us as I pant, not holding my tears back but my kisses. He releases a quick exhale, almost like a gasp.

Birds in the background chirp, the only sound echoing in the street reminding me not how empty it is but of the undesired silence there is between us.

"Then you have my answer, bug."

My shoulders relax, and I simper, leaning into both the thought and the action to press my lips against his.

"But you've got to understand." I come to a stop, halted by the frost in his voice as he steals a glance at me before turning away. "I know your demons and I'll find them. As for those of uncertainty, consider them dead. The unwise ones? I'm going to grapple with them right now. You stay away from vampires." His grip flashes at my wrist. "Away. From. Them."

My mouth snaps shut. Never have I seen him like that. Bloody wings whirr and without control, I start to lift from the windowsill. Mr. Grumpy doesn't release his hold and ships my ass right back where it was. "You stay right here, and your demons too," he grunts before glancing at his intimidating military-style watch.

"The quick fuck on the kitchen counter was great, but being scolded by a giant orc-baby... not so much."

Tyke's contact leaves me, heat and touch included, and I'm left in an icy situation, temperatures falling beyond subzero.

"You tell me you made friends with a vampire, despite being aware of the fae murders."

"No mention of vampires as perpetrators."

"Well, now you know."

Revulsion just bubbled up his throat. It was rugged and broken and clawed at my blood enough to raise my skin. Still, as for Vym, I remained staunch in my position. No sign shows him involved in anything.

Tyke's rubbing his face like I'm overwhelming the crap out of him, and I'm pinching my lips so hard, I'm damn sure I look like a toothless old lady.

Once again, he catches my hand, and his fingertips begin to knead.

"Tyke, are you okay?"

"Don't go near vampires ever again."

I wrench my arm free from him. "I don't need your permission to choose who to hang out with. What I need is your trust."

"Would you please stop pulling away from me." His hand shoots up to my wrist, and with more tenacity this time that I can't shake it off. "I trust you. And you know it." This word––trust, coming out of his lips suddenly heals a land of ache in me. Yet, why does it feel like I'm in shreds? Maybe because based on this amazing reunion, I'm, again, missing the point of something. Then, why would today be any different from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that...

"Tell me the issue, then!?"

Again, another twist of the wrist, another glimpse at the time.

"Fayra, listen! What I'm asking is simple: don't go near them."

My eyes glisten with fury as I engage my jerky yet hostile left arm for a slap. Tyke is trying his best; any cost to watch me cross that one fucked-up line.

He spots my move. And almost like possessing me, he commands, "Do it."

I strike him. But not in the way either of us expected. My hand glides down his cheek. Because, shit, I could never hurt him. Tyke latches on it, layering his hand over mine.

I stare at him, the expression on his face sinking into mine. And when his lips turn into a rictus of suffering, pain hits my chest. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong!

A glance around the flat is all I can muster, anything to dodge his watery gaze.

Eventually, he gets tired of my cowardice because he rectifies my gaze trajectory, pressing his fingers into my cheek.

I lash out. "Tyke, he's a friend! Why are you acting out? I'm not meeting him, anyway. And even if I was, can't you see things have changed between us?"

The tear he sheds drowns me so much that my arms jump to his neck.

His lips tremble. "Amwaki."

"Tyke, what the hell is wrong!?"

"Losing you would?—"

I cling to him, settling my forehead on his. "You won't lose me."

His voice is no more than the weakest of murmurs, a slight jerk from the throat. "You're not safe."

Gently rubbing my nose against his, I whisper, "Where is all this coming from? Is it because of what's going on in the country?"

Tyke grunts, "From now on, never leave my side. There's no wall I can't break through. You run; I'll find you. I'll always find you."

I should red-flag this, but I won't, clearly suckered by the thought of Tyke running after me. Pretty sure I'd be giggling as I tried escaping him.

"Well, I hope so." My lips slant upward, and I kiss his eye, inhaling the distinctive scent of his dark crown. It's a floral fragrance with a punch of masculinity and, no doubt, a recent mission... "By the way, may I remind you, you're leaving me for your missions, not the other way round," I add as I kiss his other eye, the Orcish signature of couples.

A sound, closer to a whimper than a grunt, seeps into my heart. I confessed to him in Orcish, and now he's acting as if it hurts him. "Tyke, did something happen?"

He clamps his hands around my head. "There's a saying among orcs that goes something like this: Kroh'En hail Mar Hel. Kroh'En Hail Mar Shti. Kroh'En Hail Maren Helshti. Jarek Sluhn Mar Hel, Jarek Sluhn Mar Shti."

"Fate... yours and mine? I don't understand. I'm sorry," I admit.

"Your fate is woven in mine. My fate is woven in yours. They bind us together like a cloth that will never break. But turn your back on yours, you turn your back on mine."

Is he doubting my feelings for him? Are we tied together in some mess?

"Tyke, are you in trouble?"

"Trouble..." His voice is as far as his thoughts are. Again, this––now concerning––habit of flicking his watch returns as he breathes, "I need a cigarette."

Okay, he's on edge. Clearly, the mission went awry...

I force a smile, a bundle of fingers sliding down his temple. "Are you worried about us? Every day and night, you're on my mind. And whatever reason I can find to be by your side, you'll always have?—"

He flicks his watch for yet a fourth time, and I wish I could rip it off his arm. "Fayra, we have to?—"

"Shh."

No 'we have to'. I woke up this morning knowing this was the day. We might have two different types of blood, but so what? Mixing them up never felt so right. He strips me bare, takes me from what I am. Shit, I mean, I've got so many bodies in my closet, I can't even remember their names, but he does, digging their graves for me at any time of the day. And no matter how messed up I am, Tyke ditches all the ugly shit stuck in my psyche. The two of us are meant to be, and I can't keep trawling him in my clutter. Words have to come out. I owe it to him.

"Your turn to listen" I stand on my bony knees, arms lunging around his neck, a savage need to kiss the tips of his tusks and the corners of his mouth, the scar under his eye, the deep black lashes, his aquiline nose, everything bony, flesh, pulsing, warm, breathing.

Clasping his cheeks, wanting more than his skin, more than his heart, more than his blood, copper burning strong will ever be, I melt at the edge of his mouth, trying to gorge myself with whatever he gives me: the silk of his lips, shut or not.

And I lick them, nibble them, my tongue snaking around a tusk, a mess of my fingers forking up his scalp. And I wish I could fork for more, enter his being, split him open like a book, jump inside him... "You might think I'm crazy..." I whisper.

A row of fingers delicately fans out and comes probing my lip. "Why are you trembling, bug?"

I take his hand and bring it to my chest. "No. Listen to me, will you?" A piece of me is begging to be let free. "I've had some time to think."

My lips bury in his, assaulting them, and a frustrated mewl escapes me. My tongue wants to fucking go to bed with his, but Tyke won't let me in and keeps his lips sealed. I watch him close his eyes, taking in my want, taking in my love, so fucking desperate to merge with him. I keep running over his lips, taunting, trying to seduce them open.

"Let me in," I mutter, shrinking under the shadow of rejection.

Tyke envelops my waist as my tongue melts against lips that refuse to yield, enticing me to press closer until my chest swells against his.

I struggle to maintain eye contact—eyes close in submission whenever Tyke's skin is too close to mine. His own, deep-set in mine, are scolding me for something I don't fucking know.

Tyke slowly blinks at me, and I'm about to say something, but his groan is faster. "I'd kill for you."

My heart is going up. Too high, and then it goes down, too low. I can't breathe. And high off what Tyke said, I rush out, "I love you."

His breathing stops. But I keep going, can't stop. "I love you so damn much I forget to think, breathe, eat..."

My lungs cease and desist. Tyke's not reacting. And I tumble down my hill of courage, straight to the pit where ruined expectations decay. "I went too far. I didn't want to scare you. I said too much. I'm sor?—"

My neck is yanked, a whisper rushing by. "Sweet fuck, Fay. Till never be enough." Tyke's lips scrape against mine, his tusks herding. He ravels away with his tongue, aggressive, wild, trying to trap me inside, sending a tingle down my collapsing spine.

"My axe is yours. Do whatever with it, kill me, and I will never be so grateful."

'My axe is yours.' The most desired words of endearment. Since they're spoken so sparingly, their importance is immense. If my heart could fly, I would be dead at this instant.

I repeat what he said to me in Orcish, feeling a little hot on the cheeks because my pronunciation sucks. "Na'ma Ker Shy. B'hear Kat. Kiroz Mog Iram."

He chuckles. "Irem. Irem means grateful. Iram means flat."

What was a matter of state not a minute ago, no longer seems to be worth anything.

I giggle, our lips wavering as one.

It hurts. It's good. It's never enough. Everything is mine, from his mouth to his chin. It's messy, and I'm desperate. More so as he works my every lip, tightly clutching my hair. Fucking possessive, demanding.

In a manner worth dying for.