Bella has a 50/50 guess of which scar he's talking about - the only two she bears showcased by the soft summer dress she's wearing. After all, there's no need to hide the startling coolness of her skin with the boy tucked into her side.

"I got caught in the sun," Bella raises a hand to trail fingers over the marred skin of her left shoulder, trailing down that arm. The other scar, of course, being the ugly bite marring the other side of her throat - a self-explanatory visual. "I was younger, and careless, and in bed with a man. I hadn't thought to check the curtains were closed properly before the sun rose and I got caught by a tiny sliver of light coming in." She remembers hearing the sizzle - smelling the burning flesh. The panic on the face of the man the moment he realised she wasn't human. Inconsequential, now. "I've been much more careful since."

In a careful, gentle motion, Xeno lifts his hand and traces his cold fingers over the edge of Bella's shoulder—around the scar, not over it. There is a slight dip in his brow, formed as he thinks of the sun's cruelty and the man's panic. He hates them both.

"Fuck the sun," he says, keeping his voice light, playful, for her. "Who wants a giant ball of heat hanging in the sky anyway? Not me. I'd banish it forever for hurting you if I could." And the man, who he hopes is long dead now, because Xeno has known men like that as well. Ones who claimed they wanted a fantasy, not a freak.

"I've got a scar on my shoulder too," he says quietly. "The right one, though. Should've gotten it on my left so we could've matched."

Toby's shock mirrors his, for a moment, it is nothing but a pure old-fashioned shock. While Xeno still goes through it, processes and works his way to see the truth for what is it, her shock blends into nausea. Stabs its claws into the linings of her stomach.

It is inevitable now. She can't run any longer nor she can hide from the problem. The problem has found her, it's shivering and scrawny and a shell of its former self, but it's standing in front of her.

No more excuses, Toby thinks, they'll know if you make excuses. They'll feel the lie from your bones. They want him.

But I want him. I want what we had, but they'll take him apart, hurt him and there will be no Xeno left for me.

Toby belches, bolts for the door as the mixture of sweet snacks demand to get out.

Toby is there, and then Toby is gone.

Xeno is sluggish, too high to process anything in real time. There is a delay before he blinks and understands they are running—running from him, a reverse of the memory that haunts his mind, when he was forced to turn his back on them.

It takes a moment for his brain to deliver the message to his feet to move, move, fucking move. He nearly stumbles in his hurry to follow them out of the door, trying to catch up to Toby as the world tilts underneath him.

"Toby, Toby, Toby—" A useless, desperate plea, drowned in the fear that he's made a terrible mistake already, pushing her away before he even got a chance to hug her close again. "Please don't go! I'm sorry!"

he'd always hold my head under the water a little too long. 'cause he wanted me to be all guts no glory; "all survivor, no guilt" he said.

indie multimuse rp blog. escapees from an evil science lab, survivors of a cult, current members of a different cult, and other people just like you and me.

currently featuring androma.che of scythia, ale.x mane.s, and (modern, canon divergent) mercutio.

rules. roster. template credit.

It was lucky that Callisto was up late in the workshop, given how little she'd expected - well, anyone to be knocking at the door.

To be met with Xeno and the balloons and the cupcake and his beaming grin, Callisto feels her mouth drop open.

"I-Xeno-what?"

She reached out to take the wrapped gift from him - partially to free up his hands, but also so she can invite him in. "Yes, I'm completely - wait, you made this?" The gift hasn't even been opened yet, but she still strokes reverent fingers down the outside of the wrapping paper. Normally Callisto's a tear-it-in-two seconds girl, but this needs to be something savoured, she thinks.

And once the gift is open, she's glad she has. Eyes dart over the painting, drinking in every detail before they rise to meet his - and oh, they're watering, bottom lip wobbly. "Is this me?" It's a question that doesn't need to be asked, but she does anyway. "I-Xeno- it's beautiful. Thankyou. For all of it. No one's done anything for me like this in..." The sentence trails off, but he can probably pick the point where things like this stopped. Taking a deep breath, Callisto scrubs at her eyes before they return to the painting.

"Wait, more? Xeno, you really didn't have to."

At her invitation, Xeno steps through the door, the wide grin still bursting across his face as he watches Callisto with his mismatch collection of presents. If he had her gifts, he would magic up even more presents, a never-ending parade, so it's probably fortunate for her workshop that he doesn't.

"Yeah," Xeno says softly, unable to take his eyes off her as she looks at the painting, almost nervous while hoping that she likes it. "It's you. Your power." When Callisto says it's beautiful, there's a visible moment of relief, a weight lifted off his shoulders. All he wanted to do was create something that she would like, and scrape together the little he has to find a way to put together a birthday that would make her happy.

He can guess at the end of her sentence, his grin dampening as he notes her watering eyes. Even seeing Callisto close to tears has Xeno's own eyes getting watery. "Hey, it's okay—you don't have to thank me. I wanted to do this for you. Really. I'm lucky to know you, you know, so fucking lucky, and I wanna celebrate today with you."

And with one hand free now, Xeno pulls the little wooden cat figurine from his pocket, holding it up for her to see. "I tried to make it like the one on your tattoo."

the corners of her lips tug slowly upwards into a surprised smile. "my, my. if i'd have known you were an artist..."

then she folds one leg over the other and feigns as though they are in serious negotiations. "it depends. what'll the medium be? don't think i'd look good in charcoal."

xeno sits up straighter, easily stepping into the role of an artist seeking to please a client in their negotiations.

"charcoal isn't good enough for you." he hums, as if he needs to think about it, though the answer is right there. "i'd sketch you first, but—oil. oil paints. i'd like to make an oil painting of you." only the best for nettie. he searches her face, his own eyes bright. "will you say yes?"

#lifeforms: a private and selective portrayal of dc's lana lang, first established in 2018. 21+ only. ©

"Okay, sure," Flynn laughs. "I don't know any better, I'm sure you could beat up my professor." All things considered, the fact that he doesn't know Xeno well should be worrying, but Flynn's simply not. He thinks Xeno has good vibes, so whether he beats up his professor or not is none of his concern.

Flynn hears the other's hesitation in answering his question, and puts it down to the other not really wanting to give out too many personal details. Which was sensible, if it were true, and another unfortunate trait that Flynn didn't share.

"Yeah, let's go. If you wanna come back to mine, that is. We could do somewhere else but..." Flynn trails off with a shrug. Fact of the matter was, Flynn felt best in places he knew - and the place he knew best was home. By now, he's all packed up and ready to swing the backpack over his shoulder.

At the very least, they can start walking and decide later, since if anything Xeno sounded pretty keen on moving. "My aunt might be home, if that's like. A problem. Running into other people. But she won't be weird. Or she might be too weird. I don't bring friends over often." Flynn makes a face as he thinks about how overly friendly Elara might be. "Actually how do you feel about climbing up a fire escape?" He's joking, but only just.

Xeno snorts, entertained by Flynn's laughter. It's nice that someone has faith in him, even though he can only get away with this tough guy act because Flynn can't see his skinny bird arms and alarming lack of muscles.

He's grateful that Flynn doesn't seem to have any reservations about inviting him back to his place. The area is new to Xeno, and the only other place he knows is a shitty motel nearby. Not exactly a place he wants to take Flynn to.

Standing up, he sets his backpack over his shoulders, stepping over the bench and stretching his arms up. A yawn presses past his lips, which he quickly smothers, not wanting Flynn to mistake it for boredom. Friends. He can't help but smile, giddy at being included in that category, before he pulls himself together.

"Climbing a fire escape?" Xeno fails to catch the joke, instead just humming in agreement. "No problem. I can do that. I don't mind running into your aunt, though. Honestly, you have no idea the amount of weird people I deal with. I bet your aunt is, like, super normal compared to them. And super nice, if she's like you. So." He hesistates, then blurts out, trying to turn it into a joke, "I mean, she's not a cop, right? She's not gonna, like, arrest me for—uh, being your friend?"

Now he's being weird. Xeno grimaces at himself, then turns his attention back to Flynn. "Do you wanna hold onto my arm? While we walk?"

It's not something that Zahrosa has had much reason to speak on, truthfully. She doesn't think she's told anyone about any of the periods of time she had given up, at least not in those terms. Her reasons for sharing tend to be strange and clandestine— just as they are now.

"I have," she confirms, squeezing the water out of the cloth a final time. "I have laid in the ground and let it slowly swallow me, but my mind endured. I have shred every scrap of humanity and become a skeletal wraith wandering the earth, but I was drawn back to the warmth of the fire." Briefly, a smile appears again, strange amusement beneath strange eyes. "It is invariably a waste of time. If you feel the need, however, I recommend planting your body somewhere with an interesting view. Undeath is extremely dull."

She doesn't regret those times, but she hasn't been there in a many, many years. She has come close. But there is always something to do.

Zahrosa dips her finger into the jar and begins to carefully smear it on broken skin, gently as it is possible to manage in the circumstances. "I believe that it means..." Zahrosa wants it to have meaning, much as the reasons behind that are painful to her. She wipes the remnants of the salve onto the cloth, cleaning her hands as she stares distantly at the opposite wall. "We are drawn to those who share a scrap of our nature. We recognise our kin, blood or otherwise."

She blinks, and looks back to him. Suddenly she is critical, eyeing him as if sizing him up. "My boys were not as tall as you, but I believe I have some clothes that may fit well enough."

A waste of time—she's right and he knows it, even if the knowledge is a wound ready to fester in his chest. Time should be impossible to waste in a life like theirs, and yet still it manages to turn them into thieves. He wants to disappear, to be nothing, but he doesn't want to just waste away, trapped with nothing but his mind and a dull view.

So Xeno shakes his head. "Being alone with my mind, even in nature—it would just be another kind of prison, wouldn't it?" Dark thoughts tainted with dark memories, and yet he allows himself the faint sketches of a smile, "And I'm really bad at staying still. Even with an interesting view."

All his energy would have to go somewhere, and he doubts the earth wants to absorb it. Besides, if he was to sink into the grasp of undeath, he wouldn't get to sit here and talk to Rosie. That would be a loss.

He chews on his lip while he watches her tend to his broken skin. He cannot shake the strangeness of someone cleaning and caring for his wounds, overwhelmed with something he cannot name, holding his breath before she says we recognise our kin, blood or otherwise.

"The ties of nature," Xeno says softly, a scrap of hope in his voice. "I think—I think they can be equal to those of blood." Says a boy with no blood ties. He glances down at himself as though he might also be capable of measuring himself against Rosie's boys (though he notes the were in her statement, before looking back to her). "Anything you have is more than I can ask for. Do you, um—your boys, I mean... are any of your family still alive?"

BURNS IS A CRUEL PERSON WHO COMES FROM A CRUEL PLACE, WHO WAS RAISED BY A MAN WHO PERHAPS WOULD HAVE BEEN CRUEL ALL ON HIS OWN. All that to say that, when Xeno flinches, a sick satisfaction floods Burns, and he's imagining Xeno with bubbling injuries and white scars for the rest of Xeno's shitty immortal life.

It's a calming image. If Xeno didn't look ready to chew Burns's head off, Burns would probably retreat, let his flames extinguish. (He doesn't realize that they're flickering in his palms already, subdued by Xeno's anger and abilities.) Instead, he stands there—somewhat passive, but ready to strike if Xeno get any fucking closer.

But Xeno is too stupid and too cowardly to fight Burns like Burns wants to fight him. Instead, Xeno continues to spew meaningless bullshit.

For one single second of your life, maybe you should think about why they had to run.

This should be profound. This should give Burns pause. Instead, he laughs over it.

"You are so—fucking—STUPID!" They didn't have to do anything! Harris gave them the whole fucking world! Harris welcomed Spirit back with open arms! Harris has saved all of their lives multiple times! XENO NOLASTNAME DOESN'T KNOW SHIT!

Now, why would Burns actually say any of that? He, hand flaming, sucker punches Xeno instead.

Xeno Nolastname knows how to take a hit. He's used to turning his body into a punching bag, because isn't it better if it happens to him, a boy who can heal from any injury, than anyone else? The point is: Xeno thinks he's prepared for this.

If only a flaming fist was anything like a bare one.

He doesn't feel the strength behind Burns's hit as much as he feels the flames: fire, punching a crater into the side of his frozen face, the ugly hissing sound of ice cold skin melting. Xeno's whole vision turns red with white hot pain, his mind briefly thrown back into the facility—limbs strapped down, gasoline poured over his body, a match lit. Pierce's voice over the intercom: Now.

There is a strangled scream, and then Xeno is yelling. "FUCK—WHAT THE FUCK—" His hand flies to his face—his cheek on fire, melting, a thousand times worse than a bruise. He smothers the red, bubbling flesh in ice, but there's no quick fix for the damage done. (He will suffer for days until his body completes its cycle of healing.)

For now, there is agony—and anger.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Xeno yells, still clutching his cheek as he looks at Burns, his gaze alight with hate.

Seething, hissing from the pain, Xeno throws his free hand out to the side, then drags it down. With the motion, the room plunges into the depths of winter, all warmth obliterated. It is a small taste of a strong power, a power Xeno does his utmost to ignore, suppress and bury. Until now.

And then there are knife-like icicles, formed out of thin air, launching at Burns. Sharp blades that stop just before they strike his body. They hover in the air, one an inch away from stabbing Burns's throat.

"I should fucking kill you."

he ejects a sharp, whooping bark of laughter -- he wasn't trying to associate xeno with gay paris, but. you know, if the boot fits.....

"i could eat a snail," he boldly counters. "if i had dipping sauce. barbecue, or something. something to cover up the slime. but it wasn't the snails that taught you how to play piano, was it? was it? now that's a story! man, you'd learn, like--" and he's losing it again, "a key a week!"

"but they're just slow little guys! what'd a snail ever do to you, huh? imagine if some superspeed giant suddenly decided he wanted to eat you—" well, the giant would no doubt swiftly get his comeuppance if he tried to digest funke, but still. xeno can't keep his snail defending up though, because he's soon snorting along with funke.

"a key a week? that's ridiculous! c'mon, obviously i was taught by a whole gang of snails. we did a key a day. much more realistic."

here, perhaps, is what everyone is waiting for.  a rumble to devestate the city, brought on by two teenagers attending the school in the clouds   &   their feuding families.  it's a tale as old as time,   &   who are they to try to change it?  it's all written out for them somewhere, she must've heard the story   &   its iterations a hundred times.  then again, historians often say that you study history to avoid repetition, literature included.  it's a generation long game of minesweeper, trying to avoid all of the bombs that would trigger an explosion from wanting something you can't / shouldn't have.

there's a strange flutter in her chest, however momentarily, when he speaks.  she purses her lips, annoyed though it's more at herself than him.  she wouldn't know how to explain the feeling,  a runner's high while sitting down.  he triggers her fight or flight response but somehow she's frozen to the seat, unmoving yet continuing whatever conversation they're having.

“   you must be really determined to piss your foster parents off,   ”   she says, eyes squinting at him as if she were trying to uncover his true motive.   “   &   mine.  well, there goes that lesson on not negotiating with a terrorist.  but you do know my parents aren't letting you step foot into our house, right?   ”   then it occurs to her.   “   you don't really wanna study, do you?   ”

"i'm not doing this 'cause of them." it slips out before he can stop it, words laced with a soft defiance, fractured by truth. they say there are two sides to every story, but xeno can see his split up in a kaleidoscope of confusion, colours bleeding together and bouncing off each other. too much for one mind to work out, so he's left to pay attention to the one thing that remains the same: the steady beat of his stubborn heart, the one that races when he's around olympia. they could have said anything in that room and his answer would have still been the same; an arrow leading straight to her, its path as certain as a shooting star.

still, it's not like he can blame her. that's how enemies work, isn't it? they use whatever weapons they have at their disposal, sharpening people into knives ready to be wielded. that's what his foster parents wanted him to be, even if they won't admit it. he was chosen to complete the image of their charitable, caring cause. maybe olympia just thinks he's a broken tool, useless to his foster parents and everyone else, swinging wildly through the air without a care for who becomes collateral damage. but it's not true, he thinks. i don't wanna hurt you.

"i mean, technically i don't have to step foot into your house. i'm pretty good at climbing, you know. i can crawl through your window." his smile grows, eyebrow cocked in challenge. he wants to be dared. he wants to stop thinking about lucille and william and whoever the fuck he's supposed to be now. and it's electrifying, how she sees through all his bullshit. "see, i knew you're the smartest person in this school."

tempting.

"nothing just, fucking, invasive questions, as always."

"fucking assholes."

"want me to cause a scene while you sneak out?"