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uncovering me in ways I despise,
you and your feline eyes.
I hope a fate worse than death awaits you,
as you are a man of an immoral attitude.
♤ perseid —
pretty girls like you are my world.
you’re a lovely woman, a cute hare,
and there’s something I want of you;
it’s purely a dare.
just give me a small kiss, une petite mort.
for pretty girls like you deserve a shot full of it.
— ocho ♤
Unsheath it.
Let the blade glimmer in golden light.
Los Angeles, California, was a busy city, and its streets were lined with many hotels, apartments, and the like. The late afternoon light filtered through the dusty blinds of Ocho’s motel room, the light mingled with that of the television, casting striped shadows across the cluttered coffee table, where three mismatched mugs and a teacup sat among scattered papers, obscene magazines, and forgotten takeout containers before the very couch he sat on. He had company, the usual. Vesper, Milan, and the most awaited, Perseid.
For Ocho had his eye on Perseid for a while now, ever since Milan and Vesper started dating, there was the most subtle, imperceptible shift in the Frenchman’s demeanor. Ocho loved a good stir of the pot, and even more so a taste of what was really going on, so—as the three stayed over for another bout of lunch—Ocho decided he’d try and weave his way under Perseid’s thick skin.
“Haven’t you the slightest feeling that perhaps you should tidy up your lodging?” Vesper’s voice cut through the overlapping chatter between Ocho and Milan as she nudged aside a carton of Chinese takeout that littered the floor with her heel. “It’s rather unbecoming.”
Milan looked to Ocho, and so did Perseid—shifting away from his brooding state for a moment—only for Ocho to bellow with boisterous laughter, startling the three as the couch shook from the way he kicked his feet and leaned back, holding onto Perseid’s shoulder for support before he slid off.
“Hah! Please, why should I care? You guys still stick around,” Ocho spoke between breaths, hitched from laughing. Vesper crossed her arms, growing distant in response. Even if Ocho rolled his eyes at this, he soon continued, with a gentler tone, “Hey, look on the bright side … at least I won’t forget our favorite orders!” Only to return back to his manic high.
Vesper sighed, sipping the last of her tea before getting up. “Now, I appreciate you inviting us, but I believe Milan and I must be going soon.” She threw Milan an expectant glance, and the actor subtly frowned, sinking into the cushions for a moment longer, “Do we have to? I’m sure your mother can wait; she seems like a patient woman.” They ruffled their hair, short black curls that curved towards their soft, tan features. Vesper only tilted her head, her vulpine eyes narrowing to an infinitesimal degree.
“Ooh, be careful, Milly, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to make your little Vespie angry, now would you?” Ocho redirected the tension to them further, and Vesper’s expression only made clear that it was her patience that Milan was testing. Ocho’s eyes trailed over to Perseid, who, meanwhile, was nursing a near-empty cup of espresso. Perseid tried his best not to stare at either Milan or Vesper, making do with his sentence of listening to Milan’s pleas and Vesper’s loud silence.
Milan eventually resigned, “Ugh, fine. Let’s go, doll.” She stood up, barely able to meet Vesper head-on. Vesper dutifully nodded, turning swiftly at a heel and stepping over litter.
“Hey, let us walk you two out!” Ocho said cheerfully, pulling Perseid up by the forearm with a single tug, strong enough to startle them and almost enough to spill their mug entirely. Perseid cursed under their breath, shaking off Ocho’s hold as they put down their mug. Despite this, he followed along as Ocho squeezed himself between Milan and Vesper, hooking his arms over both their shoulders. Ocho’s tail swished all the while happily, “Still, I really gotta thank you, guys, for coming.” He threw a glance at Perseid over his shoulder, flashing them a grin as his hand entangled itself in Vesper’s wavy hair. Perseid rolled his eyes, though the expression came slower than usual, dulled by the familiar exhaustion Ocho seemed uniquely capable of dragging out of him. The hallway outside the motel room smelled faintly of old cigarette smoke, dim yellow lights buzzing overhead as the group filtered toward the stairwell.
Ocho remained glued obnoxiously to Milan and Vesper both, all loose limbs and shameless affection, while Perseid lingered several steps behind with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He told himself the distance was intentional; mostly because it was.
“Y’know,” Ocho started casually, glancing back over his shoulder once more, “you always look like somebody just shot your dog, Perse.” Perseid’s eye twitched immediately. “Do not call me Perse.” Ocho grinned wider. “Ooh, touchy.” His words were laced with the remaining teasing laughter he still had in him. “What, only your little French lovers get to shorten your name?” Perseid’s accent thickened at the remark, “I do not have ‘little French lovers.’”
Milan snorted loudly. Vesper looked as though she already regretted leaving her apartment. Ocho, meanwhile, looked delighted. “And you know,” he continued conversationally while opening the motel’s front door, “for somebody so uptight, you come over here—to my so-called unbecoming mess—pretty often.”
“I come because Vesper invites me.”
“Mmhm.”
“And Milan.”
“Mhm.”
Outside, the city stretched around them in washed-out evening colors, the sidewalks still warm from the day’s heat. Cars hissed past on nearby roads while neon signs flickered themselves awake one by one against the approaching dusk. The four stepped out onto the dry asphalt of the parking lot. There was barely anyone there, save for the group.
Vesper adjusted the strap of her bag. “We should leave before traffic worsens.”
Milan sighed dramatically. “You say that every time we go anywhere.”
“And every time I am correct.”
“She is usually correct,” Perseid muttered absently.
Vesper glanced toward him briefly, and Ocho noticed immediately. Interesting, he thought. Very interesting. The catboy’s tail swayed lazily behind him as he leaned sideways against Milan, watching the tiny shift in Perseid’s posture after speaking to Vesper. The Frenchman always looked subtly less miserable around her. Still guarded, still tense, but quieter somehow. Softer at the edges. Not so around Ocho. Around Ocho, Perseid looked like a man trying not to bare his teeth. Which, naturally, made Ocho want to push further.
The group reached Vesper’s car, parked crookedly beneath a flickering streetlamp. Milan immediately moved toward the passenger seat, only for Vesper to stop them with a single look, “You drove last time,” she said with a tsk. Eyeing the misalignment of the car. Milan deflated, “Cruel woman.” Only for Vesper to tilt her head, brows furrowing subtly, “Correct woman.”
While the two bickered quietly, Ocho drifted back towards Perseid, close enough that the other man immediately stiffened. “There it is again,” Ocho murmured, stretching out his vowels. Perseid frowned, “Quoi?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you act like you hate all this, hate me.”
“I do hate you.”
Something about Perseid’s words sent a jolt of pleasure straight through Ocho; he loved getting on his nerves. Ocho laughed loudly enough to turn a few heads from passing pedestrians, enough for Milan and Vesper to even stop arguing—only to resume immediately after—and if one thing rang true, it was that … God, Perseid was easy to provoke. Not because he angered quickly—actually quite the opposite—Perseid restrained himself constantly, every reaction compressed behind tightly locked composure. Which meant when cracks finally appeared, they felt rewarding. Honest. Ocho liked honesty, even ugly honesty.
Especially ugly honesty.
“Hm.” Ocho leaned closer, grin turning slow and sharp with another idea simmering in his mind. “Then why are you blushing?” Ocho asked, almost comedically, like something straight out of a teenage drama. Perseid wrinkled his nose, frowning.
“I am not blushing.”
“You absolutely are.”
“…Even if I was—which non, I am not—it is warm outside.”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees, Fahrenheit.”
Perseid looked genuinely tempted to commit homicide, and for a brief second, Ocho thought he might actually walk away. Instead, Perseid exhaled harshly through his nose, already fishing a cigarette from the crumpled carton in his jacket’s pocket. The sound of them together—Milan’s dramatic babbling layered with Ocho’s sharp, delighted, barking laughter—echoed unpleasantly in the narrow motel parking lot, bouncing off concrete walls and old rusting railings. Los Angeles breathed around them in waves of traffic and distant sirens, the city felt alive in that restless way that made Perseid feel exhausted just looking at it. He struck the lighter hard enough to nearly snap his thumb against the wheel.
The flame illuminated his face briefly: tired eyes; hollowed, chisled cheeks; that silver piercing of his glinting beneath the flickering motel sign overhead. “Merde,” Perseid muttered around the cigarette as he inhaled deeply.
“You enjoy making people uncomfortable,” Perseid muttered.
Ocho tilted his head. “Only interesting people.”
“That is not flattering.”
“Hah! It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Smoke curled upward between them in the cooling, soon evening air. Perseid avoided eye contact deliberately now, staring somewhere over Ocho’s shoulder instead. Ocho watched him openly. Tall, tired, Severe. In the way old churches were severe. Perseid carried himself like someone perpetually bracing themself for impact. Even relaxed—which was rare—there remained visible tension beneath everything he did. Hypervigilance woven directly into his muscle memory. Ocho found it fascinating. Most people reacted predictably around him, eventually at least. They either leaned eagerly into his chaos or fled from it altogether. Perseid did neither. He stayed, resisted, and watched.
“One day, I will leave you three behind,” Perseid said, adjusting their beret.
“And what? Get a job? Puh-lease. Promises, promises.” Milan sighed theatrically.
Vesper merely adjusted the cuffs of her gloves, getting into the passenger seat as Ocho laughed again, shoulder shaking, tail flickering lazily behind him. The sight irritated Perseid disproportionately. Everything about Ocho irritated him disproportionately. The ease of him. The noise. The shamelessness. The way he moved through space was as if the world existed primarily for his entertainment. And worst of all, the way people adjusted around him. Like how Milan leaned unconsciously toward him during conversation, how Vesper tolerated touches from him, whereas she’d recoil from them with strangers. Entire atmospheres shifted around Ocho like gravity bending towards some reckless center point. Perseid hated that. People who entered rooms and changed them entirely.
“Hey,” Ocho interrupted suddenly, leaning sideways towards him. “Gimme one!”
Perseid exhaled smoke slowly. “Non. Get your own.”
“I’m out already!”
“That sounds like a personal issue.”
“C’moooon…”
The drawn-out whine grated directly against Perseid’s nerves. Ocho stepped closer without invitation, already reaching for the cigarette carton sticking halfway out of Perseid’s pocket. Perseid slapped his hand immediately. “Touch me again and lose an arm.”
“Ooh.” Ocho grinned. “You say the sweetest things, Seidi.”
“Kill yourself.”
“So sweet, you just love hanging out with us.”
“That is… Milan’s fault.” Perseid muttered hesitantly, already walking back to the motel’s veranda, leaving the parking lot as Milan began pulling the car in reverse, leaving the two behind.
Ocho trailed after him, hands close to his chest like a raptor. “Sure it is.”
Ocho’s eyes narrowed slightly then as they neared the motel—not threateningly, but observantly—in the way a cat watched movement beneath furniture. Perseid recognized that look immediately and hated it. It meant Ocho had noticed something. Again.
“Actually,” Ocho said casually, “I think it’s Vesper’s fault.”
Perseid went still against the asphalt, hand frozen mid smoke; it was a tiny reaction. Almost invisible, but Ocho caught it anyway. There it fucking was. “Oh my god,” Ocho breathed, delighted. “You do have a thing for her!”
“I do not.” Perseid retorted, a little louder than intended.
Ocho only snickered in return, “You absolutely do.”
“I said no.”
The denial came too fast. Perseid heard it the moment it left his mouth and immediately hated himself for how defensive it sounded. Ocho heard it too—of course he did—his grin widened, sharpening into something bright and predatory, not cruel precisely, but deeply entertained, like he had just found a loose thread and had every intention of tugging until something tore. His tail swayed behind him with slow, satisfied flicks as they stepped onto the motel’s veranda. The old wooden boards groaned beneath their weight, damp with years of neglect. Below them, Los Angeles stretched wide and hummed beneath the dawn’s dark, neon signs buzzing to life across liquor stores and twenty-four-hour laundromats, traffic murmuring endlessly down the boulevard like static.
Perseid wished, not for the first time, that he had never spoken.
Perseid climbed the shallow steps without waiting for Ocho. The motel parking lot had already emptied around them. Milan and Vesper had long since driven off, their departure marked only by the fading echo of tires on asphalt and the strange quiet they left behind. The motel’s outside smelled faintly of mildew and whatever cleaning chemicals management occasionally used when pretending to care. Ocho’s boots thudded softly against the old wooden boards of the veranda as he caught up, hands shoved into the pockets of his sagging jeans, tail swaying with visible amusement behind him. Perseid could practically hear him smiling.
“You know,” Ocho said lightly, “it’s kind of pathetic.”
Perseid exhaled smoke once more. “I do not need your comments.”
“No, no—hear me out.”
“I do not really want to.”
“You’re standing there,” Ocho continued, undeterred, leaning his elbows against the railing beside Perseid, snagging the cigarette from him. “All broody and miserable because you like a woman who’s getting her brains fucked out by someone else.”
Perseid’s jaw tightened immediately, “She is not ‘sleeping with someone else’.”
Ocho turned his head slowly, then grinned. “Oh, wow.”
Perseid closed his eyes; they had walked directly into that.
“You corrected the phrasing,” Ocho whispered, delighted. “That’s incredible.”
“Please die.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
Perseid exhaled sharply, blindly grabbing in Ocho’s direction for him to return their cigarette. Finally retrieving it, Perseid inhaled sharply through it. The ember glowed bright against the settling darkness. He stared out at the street beyond the motel lot—palm trees swaying faintly beneath streetlights, a car radio thumping somewhere far down the block, the world carrying on entirely indifferent to his irritation.
“I do not ‘like’ her.”
“Mm.”
“I am concerned for her.”
“Mmhm.”
“She deserves better.”
“Ah,” Ocho said softly, more so than intended, yet still carrying a teasing tone. “There it is.”
Perseid frowned. “There, what is?”
“That!” Ocho gestured vaguely in their direction. “That sad, French, little victim-savior complex.”
Perseid’s laugh came dry and humorless, His jaw tightening hard enough to ache. He should have left. Should have gone home the second Milan and Vesper drove off. Should have recognized the conversation for what it was: Ocho doing what Ocho always did, needling and prodding until he found something soft enough to bruise. And yet here Perseid stood. Still smoking, listening; still allowing it. A familiar flaw. People like him often mistake endurance for usefulness. Ocho noticed his silence and laughed to himself.
“Oh, this is bad, isn’t it?”
“Stop talking.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You’re insanely jealous. You literally just said she deserves better.”
“She does.”
“Than Milan?”
Perseid hesitated, for too long, and Ocho’s ears twitched once with visible delight.
“Or than me?”
Perseid finally turned his head, eyes narrowing. “You have… a very embarrassing—how do you say this—fixation, ouais. A fixation on assigning feelings to people.”
Ocho shrugged, “And you have a truly embarrassing fixation on denying yours.” The fluorescent light overhead washed Ocho pale, catching the sharpness of his grin and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looked too young in moments like this. Too reckless. Too beautiful in the same infuriating way wildfires were beautiful.
Destructive things often were.
“…Oui,” Perseid said flatly.
Ocho blinked, curious. “You really don’t like me.”
“I do not.”
“Because I’m bad for her too, huh.” Ocho watched him, not casually, either. Closely.
“You are bad in many ways.”
Perseid hated being observed like this—like some private mechanism that had been cracked open and was now being inspected for defects—most people looked away when met with his usual coldness. Ocho only seemed to lean further into it, fascinated by resistance itself. It was exhausting. Impossible to ignore. Ocho then sighed dramatically, straightening from the railing.
“You’re just jealous she trusts me.”
“You should not be trusted.”
Ocho smiled faintly. A strange, quieter kind of smile. Something that held no right to be on the youthfully eccentric face of his. The kind Perseid disliked the most.
“And what about you?”
Perseid frowned. “What about me?”
“Should you be trusted?” The question landed harder than it should have.
Perseid’s fingers tightened around the cigarette, and smoke drifted between them. For once, Ocho didn’t immediately fill the silence. Perseid hated that. Hated when Ocho stopped joking long enough to become difficult to dismiss.
“No,” Perseid answered after a moment. Honest, almost automatic; it surprised even him.
Ocho studied him for a beat too long. Then his grin returned. “Wow.”
“Do not.”
“That was kinda depressing.”
“I am leaving now.”
“Nope!” Ocho stepped directly into his path, and Perseid merely stared at him. “…Move.”
“No.”
“Ocho.”
“You know what you need?”
“Distance.”
“A drink!”
Perseid pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not drinking with you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I would rather bleed.”
“Perfect!” Ocho beamed. “That’s the spirit.”
“I hate you.”
“Sure, babe.”
Ocho pushed himself off the wall and brushed past Perseid towards his motel room, shoulder-bumping him deliberately on the way. Perseid stiffened immediately.
“Come on.”
“I said no.”
“And I heard you.” Ocho glanced back over his shoulder, tail curling lazily behind him. “But I’m pitying your pathetic feelings.”
Perseid made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a curse. “You are unbearable.”
“And you can forget it all for one night! We drink, mon amie!” Ocho’s grin returned, slower this time. The kind of grin that meant trouble had already made up its mind. Then his tail flicked once behind him, amused. “And if that doesn’t work…” He turned around just to stroll back over to Perseid, leaning in just enough for Perseid to feel his breath ghost warm against his ear.
“I’ve got better ideas.”
Plunge it.
Let the blood shed, slick upon both sides.
Ocho brought Perseid back into his motel room, interlinking their arms together. Perseid found this greatly bothersome, but couldn’t refuse at this point—as, despite Ocho’s lean stature, it seemed the catboy had thrice the strength he appeared to have—so Perseid could only accept his fate. Besides, he had realized his mother would certainly chew him out for bringing home nothing but another pack of cigarettes. The two crashed onto the couch as Ocho took the lead, firmly planting Perseid down by the shoulders. “OK! Stay. Here.” Ocho said, matter-of-factly. The Frenchman held no protest, merely crossing his arms with a sigh as the catboy wandered off towards the room’s small refrigerator.
“Do you prefer whisky or scotch?” Ocho called out from across the room.
Perseid raised a brow, fishing out his phone from a pocket. “Those are… the same thing, I think.”
“Seriously? Then why even bother with the name difference?”
“Do not ask me, that is something I do not know.”
“Oh, well, of course, Milan’s the real alcoholic. Sounds like another thing they have that you don’t!”
“Putain de merde, I thought we were drinking to forget.”
“Can’t take a joke, can you?”
Ocho walked over, balancing two stout glasses in one hand and handling a large bottle of sloshing amber liquid in the other. He sat down next to Perseid, settling down the glasses—but not before clearing the table with his leg—pushing aside the empty mugs.
“You are not going to wash that?”
Perseid’s words were met with a groan, with Ocho dramatically lolling his head to the side, before opening the bottle with a sharp twist of his index and thumb.
“Dude, do you clean your room?”
Perseid went silent soon after, merely throwing Ocho a stern glare. To which Ocho took lightly, giving a wide grin as he poured that liquid ambrosia to numb Perseid’s aches. Perseid was no stranger to alcohol; in fact, he indulged in it almost as often as Milan would—before Vesper came into the picture, that is—it was only the constant, though subtle, chiding of Vesper that brought Perseid away from alcohol. A couple of steps away, at least. For Ocho brought balance to the scales of their friend group, as chaotic as that balance may be.
Ocho slid the first glass over to Perseid’s direction, who caught it with a firm hand, before filling the next. The motel room was beginning to smell faintly of alcohol as the cheap drinks sat between them on the cluttered coffee table. As no amount of pushing aside could truly clear the overflowing ashtrays, half-dead lighters, and magazines. The television channel became a buzz that the two couldn’t bother paying attention to, and the room grew strangely still around them. Outside, the city glowed through crooked blinds in diluted strips of neon red and pale orange light that painted the room in bruised colors.
Perseid sank deeper into the couch cushions, with one ankle resting over his knee, cigarette balanced between two fingers, while smoke lazily curled towards the stained ceiling. Ocho lounged sideways rather than properly seated, one leg folded beneath himself while the other hung carelessly off the edge of the couch. He had somehow migrated closer over the past minutes without Perseid fully noticing when it happened—or perhaps he had noticed, and simply stopped objecting—either way, the pair were two glasses in, two steps closer before, and showed too few signs of stopping.
…
Ocho poured another glass with loose, haphazardly done movements, alcohol sloshing unevenly against the rim before he shoved it back towards Perseid. The marks of a third round.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “for somebody who said they’d quit drinking, you still drink like an absolute disaster. Way too quickly, even for my taste.”
Perseid took the glass without looking at him. “Hein? Me? An absolute disaster?” He spoke dryly, words laced with sarcasm.
Ocho barked out a laugh loud enough to echo slightly throughout the motel room. “You see what I mean.”
Perseid dragged slowly on the cigarette instead of answering. The alcohol had settled warmly through his limbs now—not quite enough to destroy judgment just yet—enough solely to soften the hard edges of his restraint. His shoulders no longer sat pulled tightly with constant vigilance. His speech had slowed slightly, too, his accent thickening through exhaustion and alcohol alike. Beside him, Ocho continued to watch with shameless interest. That was something Perseid hated greatly. Ocho watched people too closely. Not intellectually like Vesper, nor theatrically like Milan. Ocho observed the way stray cats observed movement—instinctively, hungrily—searching constantly for openings, emotional ones, and for weakpoints, for changes in the atmosphere. It made conversations with him feel less like talking and more like being dissected. And unfortunately, Ocho was very good at it.
“You loosen up when you’re drunk,” Ocho noted casually.
Perseid couldn’t help but snort, a smirk creeping up on him. “Bof. I am not drunk.”
“You’re smiling.” Ocho continued to remark, casting a quick glance at Perseid’s upturned lips.
Perseid’s eyes widened infinitesimally, his expression dropping immediately. The two stared at each other in silence; Ocho grinned, clearly pleased with himself. Perseid rolled his eyes. The silence settled briefly. It wasn’t uncomfortable for once, and that was perhaps the most alarming part. Perseid was accustomed to silence, feeling tense around other people, heavy with expectation or social pressure. Around Ocho, silence merely felt temporary. Like the pause between waves before another crashed in, the calm before the storm. And right on cue:
“You really think she deserves better than us?”
Perseid closed his eyes briefly. “That—..There it is.”
Ocho mimicked the same way Perseid had questioned moments ago. “There, what is?”
“You … circling around the same topic … like—like a dog and that trash can.”
“So yes.”
Perseid exhaled smoke slowly, before inhaling it through his nose—a small trick, though a little out of place for the moment. “She deserves stability.” The answer escaped before he could stop it, and Ocho tilted his head upon hearing this. Interesting, once more. Perseid stared down into the whiskey glass resting in his hand. Amber liquid reflected fractured motel light across his scarred knuckles while cigarette smoke drifted around his face in slow, gray ribbons.
“Vesper,” he continued after a moment, quieter now, “works—functions—because she controls everything around her. Routines. Schedules. Distance. Pre -- …Predictability.” His mouth twisted faintly into a frown. “And the three of you are like hazards.”
“The three of us?” Ocho caught wind of Perseid’s stumble, huffing. “You’re grouping yourself in here.”
Perseid ignored him. “She is exhausted all the time lately.”
“You pay attention to her a lot, huh?” Ocho said, muttering as he took another sip.
Perseid laughed once under his breath, without humor. “Someone has to.”
The room fell quiet again, and this time Ocho didn’t break the silence immediately. Instead, he leaned back deep into the couch and its cushions, one arm thrown over the top behind Perseid’s shoulders without quite touching him. Close enough to feel intrusive, but far enough to remain deniable. The motel air conditioner rattled unevenly somewhere near the window.
“You think I’m gonna ruin her,” Ocho said eventually.
Perseid looked over finally. The alcohol had changed Ocho’s face subtly, not physically, but behaviorally. His manic energy had dulled into something slower now; his gaze less wild, more direct. There remained amusement under there, yes, but also a sharper awareness underneath it all.
“You already are,” Perseid answered flatly. He could recount the many times Vesper’s boundaries were breached by Ocho, the times when, instead of scolding him, she simply let it happen.
Ocho only smiled faintly. “Maybe.” The casual acceptance disturbed Perseid more than denial would have.
“How can you say that so easily?”
Ocho shrugged. “Because it’s true sometimes.”
Perseid frowned, burying his expression in another downpour of alcohol. Ocho’s answer had come too honestly, without performance attached to it, nor any sign of teasing. It was just a simple acknowledgment that unsettled Perseid immediately.
Ocho reached for his own glass again, fingers loose around the rim, his smile softening despite his usual self. “People always act like hurting somebody has to mean you don’t care about them.” He swirled the drink absentmindedly. “That’s just total whoreshit.”
Perseid watched him carefully now—or at least as much as they could in the haze of alcohol—this was a side they had never seen of him. It was a crack in what Perseid could only presume to be Ocho’s facade; it was tiny, but surely real.
“You say things like that,” Perseid murmured slowly, “and expect me to believe you are not dangerous?”
Ocho snorted, rattling his drink. “I never said I wasn’t dangerous.” The bluntness of it made Perseid’s stomach tighten unexpectedly. Because there it was. Honesty. That ugly honesty; the kind most people buried beneath excuses. Perseid believed that in moments like these, it was within reason to do so.
Ocho tipped his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded now as city light bled across the sharp lines of his face. “Y’know what the funny part is?” he asked lazily. “I think you hate me because you get it.”
Perseid’s brows furrowed immediately. “Get what?”
“The whole…” Ocho gestured vaguely with his drink. “Wanting things—people—too hard.” Ocho’s grin turned smaller. Less mocking now. “You wanna save her,” he continued, circling back to the topic. “But you also wanna keep her.”
“I am not having this conversation with you.”
“But I’m right.”
“No.”
“You look at her like you’re scared somebody else will touch her wrong.” The sentence hit with surgical precision, and Perseid stiffened immediately. Ocho persisted nonetheless. “
Ocho noticed. Of course, he noticed. And suddenly Perseid became horribly aware of how much he had revealed tonight already. The alcohol sat heavy beneath his ribs now, blurring the careful internal filters he normally relied upon. Usually, he maintained tighter control than this. Usually, he didn’t allow conversations to wander anywhere near the softest parts of himself.
But Ocho kept dragging these secret things out of him anyway, like somebody picking locks for fun.
“Merde, you think too much,” Perseid muttered.
“Nah.” Ocho smiled faintly into his glass. “You think too little about yourself.”
“That does not make sense, that is a … crazy person statement.”
“Is it?”
Perseid didn’t answer.
Outside, headlights swept briefly across the motel window before vanishing again. The room dimmed. Perseid suddenly felt trapped beside him. Ocho studied him quietly for another moment before speaking again, voice lower now.
“But seriously, you act like you’re waiting for somebody to cross the line, like, all the time, too.”
The silence on Perseid’s end intensified; a cold, hard sensation shifted faintly beneath his ribs, causing him to move in his seat from discomfort. Ocho either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Like,” he continued, gesturing vaguely with his drink, “you flinch before people even touch you sometimes. Especially when they get too close, too fast.” Ocho laughed, thinking back to the times spent on Milan’s couch, Perseid always seemed so wary of their own personal space after Ocho would down bottles with Milan with ease. He found it funny in a way, and he couldn’t stop prodding at the fact.
“Like… What’s up with that? You a little scaredy-cat or something? Is all that muscle just for show? Do you think I’m that grave a danger? Huh?”
Perseid could feel themself slipping from the conversation as a coiling feeling grew in their chest, but they tried to play it off, laughing once under their breath. It was a dry sound. Utterly humorless. “Congratulations,” they muttered. “You have discovered trauma responses.”
“Mm.” Ocho swirled his drink lazily. He sounded like he was partly in disbelief. Perseid’s eyes narrowed slightly at this. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?” Ocho, in response, looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment. Then:
“You react like somebody who got treated like a thing too many times.”
The room went still, suddenly absent of noise. For Perseid, it was like time itself stopped; they seriously felt trapped beside Ocho, and Ocho continued talking anyway, seemingly unaware entirely of the precise nerve he’d just struck. “Like people kept deciding stuff for you.” He smiled faintly, searching for wording through the alcohol haze.
“Touching you however they wanted. Keeping you because you were useful, pretty, or convenient.”
Perseid’s breathing changed. Barely. But it was enough for Ocho to notice immediately, once again, just like he had before. Perseid set his cigarette down too harshly in the ashtray; his fingers no longer felt entirely steady. “That is enough,” he said quietly, his voice laced with hesitance.
But Ocho—drunk, curious, and relentless Ocho—kept going. He leaned in slightly closer now, keeping that oddly thoughtful expression rather than mocking. “I think you got really good at enduring the things you hated.” The sentence landed like a blade—or an axe—sliding cleanly into Perseid’s side, because it was true; painfully and hideously true. It was true in ways Perseid spent years refusing to articulate, even privately.
Suddenly, Perseid was no longer fully in the motel room. Their mind flashed violently through fragments instead. Fragments of hands gripping too hard, being held in place during arguments disguised as affection, being praised for tolerance while quietly disappearing inside themself, lovers treating their dissociation as obedience, and laughter. Laughter after saying no, like no meant nothing. Perseid swallowed hard; the whiskey in his stomach curdled unpleasantly. Beside him, Ocho’s expression shifted slightly as a realization began slowly threading itself together. It wasn’t a guilt of any kind—Ocho fondly thought that probing about in ways like these was a necessary evil, something akin to growth—but recognition, the kind where Ocho understands just how far he has gone with his words, and how it feels just right.
“Oh,” Ocho said softly, putting down his drink. Any softer and it could’ve been an enamored purr.
Perseid stood abruptly—too abruptly—the coffee table rattled hard as it was nudged by his leg, their alcohol sloshing from both glasses onto those old magazines and stained wood. They turned away immediately towards the motel window, one hand pressed hard against his mouth now like it was physically holding him together.
Embarrassing.
Fucking embarrassing.
Perseid knew they should not have reacted that strongly.
Ocho, on the other hand, remained seated for a moment, watching them carefully now. The usual amusement had vanished almost entirely from his expression. Not because he felt remorse—Ocho rarely regretted prying—but because he was interested, and that hurt worse. “You really did,” Ocho murmured quietly behind him. Perseid shut his eyes.
“Stop talking.”
“But I’m right.”
“That does not mean I want to hear it.”
The motel window reflected them faintly in warped neon light: Perseid’s tense shoulders, Ocho’s cigarette smoke curling around their silhouettes. Perseid suddenly felt exhausted to the marrow; bone-tired, just like Ocho said. Ocho rose from the couch at last; Perseid heard the floorboards creak softly beneath approaching footsteps and immediately stiffened again on instinct.
“Fucking hell, dude,” Ocho huffed, “you really expect people to take things from you.”
It was then that something inside Perseid abruptly gave way—without drama nor warning—a sudden, unbearable pressure behind their ribs that had apparently been accumulating for far longer than they’d realize.
Peresid inhaled sharply.
Wrong.
Their vision blurred almost immediately afterward. Then their posture curled in at once, jaw tightening hard enough to ache as they pressed the heel of their hand briefly against one eye.
Embarrassing. Again.
Fucking humiliating. Once more.
Ocho didn’t stop the approach. “…Perse?”
“Do not—do not look at me,” Perseid said immediately, voice rougher now. The words came out smaller than intended. Ocho didn’t answer. Perseid swallowed hard, shoulders pulled tight as they stared at the window. They could feel tears gathering despite every furious effort to suppress them. God, they hated this. Hated crying. Hated vulnerability. Hated being perceived while emotionally compromised more than anything else.
“Hey,” Ocho said quietly.
“Look away.”
Ocho didn’t, and Perseid could feel it; that unbearable attention, and it wasn’t mocking this time, worse, it was gentle. A tear finally slipped free, disappearing quickly into the dark fabric of his jacket sleeve beneath his eyes. Perseid laughed once under his shallow breath afterward, hollow and exhausted, and quietly furious with himself.
“Pathetic,” Perseid muttered.
“Nah.”
“Oui.”
“No,” Ocho repeated more firmly.
Perseid wiped angrily at his face with the heel of his palm, refusing to look at him fully. “Putain, I am drunk and emotional and behaving like a fucking teenager, crying with a man I actively dislike.” Perseid closed his eyes, and another tear followed immediately after. God. The motel room felt too small suddenly. Too warm. He became painfully aware of every ugly thing sitting inside him all at once: the paranoia, exhaustion, the endless vigilance that never truly switched off, the aching loneliness beneath all of it that he spent years pretending did not exist. And somehow Ocho had noticed anyway.
Taste it.
Let me wield the blade with you, with care, for once.
Ocho shifted, now standing beside them. Slowly this time; carefully enough that Perseid had plenty of opportunity to recoil if they wanted, and they didn’t. Ocho’s shoulder pressed lightly against theirs. Nothing more. Just warmth for the moment; just presence. Perseid’s breath hitched faintly. The contact should have felt invasive, but instead it felt quiet. They were close enough now that Perseid could feel the cold radiating faintly from Ocho from beneath the oversized jacket and cheap motel lighting.
Usually, Ocho weaponized proximity. He crowded people intentionally. Leaned too close. Touched casually and often, all careless intimacy and playful disrespect for boundaries. Most people eventually either melted into it or recoiled from it. Perseid always recoiled. That was part of the game between them, but now, Perseid remained still. Ocho’s expression flickered, just briefly. Perseid suddenly realized how close they actually were. Close enough to see the tiny scars scattered faintly across Ocho’s throat beneath the collar of his shirt. Close enough to smell that alcohol, smoke, and his signature synthetic vanilla perfume, all tangled together.
Close enough that Ocho’s voice dropped naturally softer when he spoke again.
“You’re not pulling away.”
Perseid looked at him tiredly, eyes tinted red. “You sound … surprised.”
“I am.”
The honesty of the answer sat strangely vulnerable between them, and for a moment neither moved.
Ocho’s gaze flickered once towards Perseid’s mouth. Instinctually. Automatically. Perseid noticed, frowning, and Ocho’s brows drew together, his eyes darting to the floor. A complicated feeling brewed from within. It wasn’t lust exactly, more so consideration, then, unexpectedly, restraint. Ocho turned away for a moment. “Mm.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Nah.”
Perseid blinked once. “Quoi?”
Ocho was avoiding all eye contact suddenly, which felt so unnatural that it almost alarmed him. “I’m … feeling nice,” He muttered vaguely.
Perseid stared, eyes boring into Ocho. “That may be the worst reason anyone has ever given me.”
“And we’re drunk.”
“That is not mutually exclusive with poor decision-making for you.”
“Yeah, but …” Ocho shrugged loosely, forearm brushing against Perseid’s. “Feels shitty.”
The sentence landed oddly hard. Ocho rarely sounded uncertain about physical intimacy. Usually, he treated attraction like breathing—easy, instinctive, and recreational—seeing hesitation on him felt almost disorienting. Perseid looked at him more carefully then. Really looked. And for the first time all evening, Ocho looked tired too.
There were no more demands nor seduction. Just another tired person standing next to them in the dark. Illuminated only by the rising moon. Ocho looked forward, too, now, instead of directly at them. Giving Perseid the dignity of not being watched head-on while they silently fell apart beside him. For several long moments, neither spoke. Traffic hummed faintly outside, and the television static crackled softly in the background. Perseid wiped uselessly at his face again.
“Mm.” Ocho tilted his head slightly, bumping the end of his headphones against Perseid. “I think we’re past ‘actively dislike’ now.”
Perseid almost smiled despite the tears. Almost. That frightened him more than tearing up. Because somewhere along the past few hours, the hostility between them had become threaded with something else. Quieter, yet much more dangerous. Perseid no longer felt merely irritated by Ocho’s presence. Now he felt aware of it constantly, from the warmth beside him, the sound of his breathing, and the way the room changed whenever he spoke. An intimacy through prolonged exposure. For humans develop attachment through repeated emotional vulnerability, even in adverse conditions. The thought surfaced automatically—something Vesper would say—and it only made his chest ache worse.
Ocho shifted beside him then. A small, careful movement. Perseid felt it immediately and stiffened on instinct before he could stop himself. Ocho noticed, again, but instead of crowding closer like usual, he paused. The realization startled Perseid enough to finally glance sideways at him. Ocho was watching him again now, though differently than before. Less amused, less predatory; the sharpness usually living behind his grin had softened into something strangely uncertain. And beneath the alcohol buzzing from within, Perseid realized something almost dizzyingly disorienting: Ocho looked worried.
The catboy’s gaze flickered briefly upwards towards Perseid’s face—specifically towards the tear tracks he’d failed to fully wipe away—then back up again. Perseid’s stomach tightened immediately.
“Non,” he asserted at once, voice rough with his accent.
Ocho blinked. “No, what?”
“I know that look.”
“What look?” Ocho drew out his vowels, just barely returning to his teasing mannerisms.
Perseid narrowed his eyes weakly. “The one where you are about to do something.”
Ocho snorted a sort of laughter. “That does not narrow it down at all!”
“You are … considering something very irritating.”
“Maybe.”
“Do not.”
Ocho’s mouth twitched faintly at the corners, and for a second, he said nothing, but then:
“You’ve got, uh, …the fuck is that—mascara?” Ocho tilted sideward for a better look at Perseid’s face. “It’s smudged under your eye.”
Perseid looked genuinely horrified, brows snapping together as he parted to speak. “I am going to kill myself.”
Ocho laughed suddenly—not cruelly nor loudly—just enough to break the suffocating heaviness in the room. The sound pulled something unwillingly warm from Perseid’s chest, something Perseid seemingly couldn’t hold back. “There you go,” Ocho cheered. Perseid exhaled shakily through his nose. The tears hadn’t fully stopped, though they’d quieted now into something more exhausted than overwhelming. His face felt hot with embarrassment, and his body felt wrung out completely, and still, Ocho remained beside him. Not leaving nor weaponizing this moment. That alone felt dangerously intimate for Perseid. Perseid watched him carefully now, exhausted suspicion still lingering beneath the alcoholic haze. Ocho lifted one hand slightly between them, hesitating halfway through the movement in a manner Perseid had genuinely never seen from him before.
Hesitation looked unnatural on Ocho.
Like watching fire second-guess whether to burn.
His claws flexed faintly once before retracting again. “You know,” Ocho said lightly, though the softness underneath remained impossible to miss, “there’s a normal person version of this where I wipe your face off, dramatically, right now.”
Perseid stared at him immediately. “Do not.”
“I said normal person version.”
“You are not a normal person.”
“True.”
Silence stretched on, and neither moved. Ocho’s hand remained suspended loosely between them now—not touching, merely existing there—close enough that Perseid could feel the cold radiating faintly from his palm. An offering. Or perhaps a question. It was in this moment that Perseid felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that he had been here before. An experience just like this one, where he was pushed to the point of vulnerability, only to be shown a semblance of care in return. Every single time, he regretted it. For every single time ended the same; it was only a momentary dullness to the aching void in his chest. So, as the two stood suspended in the moment, in a silence that stretched longer than time could count. Persesid thought it over.
Did he really want this? Was this all life could offer? A hand to cup his cheek, to dry his tears.
Ocho studied him on the other hand, taking in the sight of Perseid. The moonlight and neon signs layered over their jagged features, a shine upon their eyebrow piercing, and a little light in their narrow, damp eyes. Perseid looked breathtaking—Ocho had to admit—like the sight of a lake in the clearing, illuminated solely by the moon. Their eyes were as deep as dark water in the night. Ocho saw himself in the reflection of their irises; he couldn’t help but smile. Perseid truly was beautiful.
Tragic things often were.
As Ocho gazed into Perseid’s eyes, Perseid did the same. They saw the way Ocho smiled: slow and soft. Too gentle. Ocho had been too gentle with them ever since he saw them cry. It reminded Perseid of Vesper—or at least the way Perseid saw Vesper—as she, despite her aloofness, was a considerate woman. Perhaps—despite Ocho’s raunchy, sharp demeanor—Ocho, too, had shown Perseid this softer side of himself. It tempted Perseid, he’d hate to admit. It really did. In fact, Ocho had many similarities to Vesper; his hair was only two shades away from the same color as hers. They both had bright, brilliant eyes of a unique shade, eyes that narrowed their ways into slits like foxes and cats when they saw fit.
And so did Ocho, ever so slowly, like the affectionate feline he much was, he slowly batted his lashes at Perseid.
Perseid never thought much else after that.
…
They leaned into Ocho’s palm, closing their eyes with a kind of resignation. A blaze was lit within Ocho; he was back to his usual antics. The catboy wiped at the Frenchman’s tears with the pad of his thumb, doing so carefully enough not to scratch them. Perseid broke into a shaken breath before pulling Ocho in by the collar of his shirt.
Immediately, upon tasting him, Perseid felt that sting of regret, the taste of alcohol still on both their tongues. But that didn’t stop either of them. Not when Perseid was finally getting what he was looking for—a moment to forget it all—as Ocho pulled at his hair, toppling off his beret. They stumbled their way back onto the couch. Perseid didn’t once open their eyes—he didn’t want to break the immersion—instead, they held an even tighter grip on Ocho’s shirt. Ocho managed to get the two of them back onto the cushions, and Perseid pinned them down all the while they kissed. Ocho didn’t exactly have this in the plan; he considered it, but after seeing how pitiful Perseid really was, Ocho thought against it. In fact, he was wholly surprised by Perseid, and he wondered what went on through their head.
Perseid broke the kiss for a moment, face flushed and panting, before looking over to the drinks that sat before them on the coffee table. Ocho raised a brow, only to watch as the Frenchman fumbled for a glass, before changing their mind and taking a swig of the cheap alcohol straight from the bottle. Ocho couldn’t help but sputter with laughter. Perseid merely furrowed their brows, dropping the bottle onto the floor, and gripping Ocho by the throat. Perseid wouldn’t want to hurt Vesper like this, but he’s known Ocho had something coming to hit him. The catboy struggled and gasped, but he wasn’t at all discomforted; in fact, the sick bastard was into it, as he soon started stroking up and down at Perseid’s wrist.
“You prefer doing people drunk, huh, pretty girl?”
“… People prefer me to be drunk.”
Ocho faked a smile. Gods, how pitiful could this guy get?
pretty girl, I’d love to tell you something honest,
you’re too damn tragic for a man like me.
I know my worth, but do you?
I know my rights, but do you?
pretty whore, you know nothing,
you are nothing.
nothing but a rotten, bad, pitiful seed.
and I hate that I love it.
♤ ocho —
I do not know what you have done to me,
but it is irreparable in a way.
you’ve left me blinded; I cannot see.
you’ve left me speechless, I cannot say.
you’re the lightbulb to my moon,
the fakest sunlight of my day.
— perseid ♤