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The heat warps the bars. Lava licks the floor below.
It bubbles like something alive, orange veins pulsing with a rhythm too close to a heartbeat. The metal beneath Ten’s feet is already blistering. The cage sways slightly, suspended by something too thin, too fragile, like it could snap at any second.
Fourteen is across from him, eyes wide and gleaming with that sick fascination he never bothers to hide anymore. He's barefoot, pacing in tight circles, steam rising off his skin in ghostly coils. “I think we’re sinking,” he says, almost dreamily.
The bars glow. First red. Then white. Then, transparent with heat.
Ten tries to scream, but the air is so thick it coats his lungs like ash. His throat closes. Every breath tastes like burning pennies. He claws at the bars, but the moment he touches them, his hands blister and split open. He hears meat sizzle and realizes it’s his own.
Lava licks the base, setting the floor ablaze.
And somehow, impossibly, Fourteen lifts him.
Ten is only half-conscious, but he remembers the way Fourteen’s arms locked around him, how tightly he was held. Not gentle but desperate. Teeth gritted. Face streaked with smoke and grief.
Ten wakes with a gasp like drowning. His body jerks forward, then slams back against something soft. Not lava. Not void. Not metal bars.
Just a mattress.
A real one.
The ceiling above him doesn’t breathe like lungs. The air doesn’t scream. It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He’s sweating. He thinks he’s sweating. He hopes he’s sweating.
The memory clings to him like smoke.
Ten lies motionless on the mattress, trying to steady his breathing, but his body won’t listen. His heart’s still racing. Fast. Too fast.
Too fast. And it’s not just the nightmare, not just the scent of scorched metal clinging to his skin, or the phantom heat in his legs.
It’s Fourteen.
It’s the image of him, framed in firelight, arms wrapped around Ten like a lifeline, hands burned raw just to reach him.
Ten’s stomach twists. Not from pain. From something worse. Something softer.
It’s adrenaline, he tells himself. Classic textbook response. He knows the theory, he’s studied it before (what can he say, psychology is a very interesting topic to get lost in). The suspension bridge effect. Heightened physiological arousal, racing pulse, sweaty palms, and breathlessness are easily mistaken for attraction. When you narrowly survive something, your brain scrambles to make sense of it. If someone’s with you in that moment, you connect it to them.
Even if it’s someone like Fourteen.
Especially if it’s someone like Fourteen.
The room is still dark when Ten hears the creak.
It’s subtle. Soft. A whisper of weight on old floorboards. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But Ten does. Of course he does.
He doesn’t move. He just breathes, slow, shallow. Eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
Another creak.
Then silence.
Then
Click
The door closes.
He exhales through his nose. “You could knock.”
A pause.
Then: “I could,” comes the voice. Quiet and playful. Like smoke slipping under a door. “But you wouldn’t open it.”
Ten sits up slowly. The sheets fall away, sweat-cooled and crumpled. His room is lit only by the faint blue of dawn creeping through the curtains. And standing in the corner, half-shadowed, is Fourteen.
His shirt is half-buttoned, stained. Bandages peek out from under the sleeve. His posture is casual, but his eyes are sharp, drinking in every inch of Ten like he’s checking for injuries. Or maybe he’s just hungry again.
Ten swallows.
He should be angry. He wants to be angry. “You broke in again.”
Fourteen shrugs, stepping closer. “I saved your life.”
“That doesn’t give you the keys to my house.”
Another step. “No,” Fourteen murmurs, smile slanting. “Not like you lock your doors anyway. It’s almost like you want me to come in.”
Ten exhales slowly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. His skin is clammy. He doesn't want to think about whether it’s sweat or something else.
Fourteen stands by the door like a stray dog let in too many times. Like he’s waiting for Ten to throw him out again, daring him to.
Ten doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches him.
Fourteen watches back. Head tilted slightly now. His hands twitch at his sides like they miss the weight of something warm. Flesh, maybe. Or someone else’s throat. The bandages on his fingers are coming loose. There’s something red dried under the nails.
Finally, Ten says, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” Fourteen says. “I came anyway.”
“Why?”
Fourteen’s eyes flick to the bed, then back to him. “You woke up screaming.”
Ten stiffens. “You were already here.”
“Duh, I like being around you.”
That should unsettle him more than it does. Maybe it does. Maybe he's too tired to feel it right now.
Ten leans back into the headboard. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. Not tonight. His pulse is slowing, but everything feels off-balance, like the room is still swaying above molten rock.
He closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t sneak in.”
Fourteen doesn’t answer. There’s the sound of something shifting, his footsteps, the whisper of fabric, and then the weight dips the edge of the mattress.
Ten opens his eyes again.
Fourteen’s climbing in like he’s done it before. Like the bed belongs to him, or Ten does. He stays on top of the covers, curling on his side, back to Ten. He breathes deep, slow, like he’s listening to the room through his ribs.
It’s strange how normal it feels.
Ten turns his head slightly. Watches the rise and fall of Fourteen’s breathing.
“You burned your hands,” he says after a moment.
A quiet laugh. “I noticed.”
“You’re not healing right.”
Fourteen shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
That makes Fourteen still. Just for a second. Then: “You care about me?”
Silence again.
The blue light of the moon edges brighter. The room smells like gauze and antiseptic, old smoke and sweat-soaked sheets. Ten’s body is aching. His leg, where the scars are still tight. His chest, where the fear won’t leave.
Fourteen shifts slightly, settling deeper into the mattress.
Ten lies back again, staring at the ceiling.
Neither of them says anything else.
But neither of them was thinking of sleeping.
Fourteen doesn’t move again, but Ten knows he’s awake. He can feel it, the way tension hums low under the quiet, like a taut wire strung between them. Every breath between them feels synchronized. Off by a beat. Too aware.
He glances sideways again, just barely. Fourteen’s curled tighter now, almost protectively, like some part of him still thinks Ten might vanish in his sleep. Or like he’s the one who’s afraid.
It’d be easier if Fourteen laughed again. If he said something deranged or bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, just to taste the copper. If he leaned in too close and whispered something like “I want to eat your skin.” Something he’d normally say.
But he doesn’t.
He just stays still. Present. Breathing.
Ten’s throat tightens.
The logical part of him screams that this is the effect. The suspension bridge effect. Stress-induced attachment. Misfiring dopamine and cortisol. Bodies tricked into intimacy by fear. He knows this.
Textbook trauma bonding. Burned into him as clearly as those scars.
But none of that explains why he doesn’t want Fourteen to leave. Not really.
Then, maybe because the quiet is too much, or maybe because he doesn’t trust himself to think anymore, Ten half jokingly, half seriously spoke, “Are you gonna eat my skin anytime soon? Not the best to keep me waiting.”
Fourteen doesn’t laugh.
At first, there’s just the faint rustle of sheets as he shifts, still turned away, like he’s considering it.
Then, softly, too softly, he says, “Nah, not hungry right now.”
Ten blinks.
“Also,” Fourteen continues, his voice oddly thoughtful, “I think I like you better with your skin on. ”
Ten snorts despite himself. “Really? Thought you only liked my skin.”
Fourteen hums low in his throat, amused in a way that makes Ten’s skin crawl and settle at the same time. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I do like your skin. A lot. It’s soft and chewy and tastes like spices and is very delicious . ”
Ten raises an eyebrow, turning his head just slightly.
“It’s the texture,” Fourteen says, almost musing now. “Soft. Smooth. Easy to bruise. Like fruit that thinks it’s safe in a bowl.”
Ten grimaces. “That’s probably the worst compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“I’m not trying to compliment you,” Fourteen says, finally turning his head slightly, just enough for Ten to catch the edge of his grin. “I’m trying to explain my thought progress.”
Ten rolls his eyes and mutters, “I think you mean thought process.”
Fourteen hums again. “Do I?”
Ten draws in a breath and exhales slowly. “You're not going to leave, are you?”
“Nope.”
“You’re just gonna keep sneaking in whenever you want.”
“Yep.”
Ten rubs at his temple. “At least try the front door next time.”
“Hmmm, I’ll consider it.” Fourteen stretches, lithe and catlike, then flops back down. “But I like it better when you’re not expecting me.”
Ten glares at the ceiling. “That’s not healthy.”
“What about our relationship is healthy?”
Ten’s heart skips, and he hates that it does. He hates the warmth crawling under his skin, even now, even after everything.
Ten wishes he could say something sharp. Something cold. Something that would put space between them, the kind that wouldn’t melt under the weight of Fourteen’s presence. But the words never come. His throat is tight again, and the warmth won’t leave. It’s burrowed deep. Beneath the bruises. Beneath the fear.
He turns his head and watches the ceiling until the lines blur.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” he says again, but this time it’s quiet. Less of an order. More of a confession.
“I know.” Fourteen’s voice is muffled in the pillow now. “But you didn’t stop me.”
Ten closes his eyes. “I should have.”
Another pause. Then: “You don’t want to.”
Ten stays still. He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t move, not even when he feels the shift of the mattress again. Fourteen rolled over to face him, quiet and slow, like a creature approaching prey it doesn’t want to scare off. Ten doesn’t look at him, but he can feel the heat of his gaze. Feel the weight of it. Heavy as always.
The room holds its breath.
Then, softer than before, Fourteen asks, “Do you think I’m a monster?”
Of all the things he expected him to say, it wasn’t that.
He turns his head, finally meeting Fourteen’s eyes. They’re shadowed, still glinting faintly in the dark, but there’s no grin now. No bloodlust. Just something raw and brittle, hidden under the usual veneer of mania. Like a child asking a question he already knows the answer to.
Ten swallows. His voice is hoarse when he says, “You’ve eaten my skin before.”
Fourteen nods slowly, like he knew that was coming.
“But,” Ten continues, “I don’t think you’re a monster.”
That stops him.
Fourteen blinks. Once. Twice. Then he breathes in, sharp and fast, like he’s been punched in the ribs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Ten says honestly. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
Fourteen doesn’t speak for a long time. The silence stretches again, but it feels heavier now, like something trying not to break.
Ten’s fingers curl slightly in the sheets.
He exhales, slow and deliberate. “It’s probably just the adrenaline,” he says, his voice steadier now, but still low.
Fourteen watches him without blinking, like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he moves.
“I read about it,” Ten continues. “How trauma messes with perception. You feel close to whoever’s there when it happens. Even if you shouldn’t. Even if you know better.”
Fourteen’s gaze flicks down for a beat, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “So, you don’t like me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sounds like you did.”
Ten sighs. He brings one hand to his temple, rubbing small, tired circles like he’s trying to iron the thoughts flat. “I said it might be. I said I don’t trust it. That’s different.”
Fourteen’s voice goes quiet, almost cautious. “Do you want it to be fake?”
That question hurts more than Ten expects.
He turns his face away again, staring up at the ceiling. “I want it to make sense,” he says, after a pause. “I want to understand why I don’t hate you.”
Fourteen doesn’t respond right away.
Then, with the soft rustle of blankets, he lifts his hand and places it on Ten’s chest. Light at first, just fingertips, but there’s something almost reverent in the way they hover there, twitching slightly like he’s debating whether to press harder. His bandaged thumb traces a lazy circle just over Ten’s heart.
“I can feel it,” he murmurs. “Beating.”
Ten stiffens under the touch, but he doesn’t stop him.
“I used to think,” Fourteen continues, low and far too calm, “that the only way to keep something precious was to take it apart . To feel it, warm and pulsing, and know exactly how it fits together. Organs. Veins. Teeth marks.” He grins faintly.
“I don’t believe in souls, but if I did… I think yours would be soft. Like jelly candy. Peelable.”
“Math’s sake,” Ten mutters, flinching, but still not pulling away. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I do, ” Fourteen says cheerfully. “That’s the fun part.”
He leans in now, the barest breath from Ten’s face, voice dropping to a whisper. “But I don’t want to take you apart. Isn’t that odd?”
Ten glares at him. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“No,” Fourteen agrees, eyes gleaming. “It’s better.”
He lets his hand drop, then tugs gently at the collar of Ten’s shirt like he’s peeking under wrapping paper. “But if I ever change my mind…” he adds softly, “I bet your ribs would snap like candy canes.”
Ten slaps his hand away.
Fourteen laughs, sharp and delighted. He rolls onto his back again, hands behind his head, grinning at the ceiling like he’s just won something.
“You’re insane,” Ten mutters, heart hammering too hard.
“And you still don’t want me to leave,” Fourteen sings back.
Ten doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
The silence says it all.
Fourteen turns his head again, watching him. His smile is gone now, not gone like sadness, but gone like hunger waiting behind glass. His eyes track Ten like he’s memorizing him. Committing every detail to some internal catalog. A collector cataloging the one piece he’d kill to keep pristine.
“I think about your skin a lot,” Fourteen says softly.
Ten closes his eyes, not again. “Don’t.”
But Fourteen doesn’t stop. He never does. “Not just the taste,” he continues, almost thoughtfully. “I mean, yeah, that part’s good. Really good. Warm. Soft. A little salty with the spices. You always taste like you’ve been running. Or scared. Or both.” He breathes out through his nose. “But that’s not it.”
Ten opens his eyes again. Regret, instant and sharp.
Fourteen is still watching him. He shifts closer, one arm curled beneath his head, the other stretched just enough to brush against Ten’s arm. Barely.
“It’s the feel of it. Under my hands. The way it moves. The way it marks. Bruises, scratches, and heat. It’s alive.” His voice drops to a whisper, reverent now. “And it’s yours.”
Ten’s throat works around nothing.
Fourteen licks his lips absently, almost dreamily. “Sometimes I think about peeling off just a little. Not to eat. Just to keep. Dry it out. Flatten it between pages like a flower.”
“You’re disgusting,” Ten whispers, but it comes out too quietly.
Fourteen hums. “You let me stay.”
“That doesn’t mean.”
“You let me stay. ” His voice curls around the words like they’re sacred. He inches forward again, and this time Ten feels the bandages on Fourteen’s fingers skim his wrist. Still damp at the edges. Still sticky with something old and red.
“I could take such good care of it,” Fourteen murmurs. “Your skin. You wouldn’t even need to die for it. Just a little at a time. Just what you don’t miss.”
Ten jerks his arm back, breath catching. “Stop.”
Fourteen pauses. Then, oddly and obediently, he pulls away.
But he’s still smiling. That faint, pleased, possessive smile. Like he’s already imagined it a thousand times, and now he’s satisfied just to be close.
“You’re not going to throw me out,” he says, almost kindly.
Ten doesn’t respond.
He can’t.
Fourteen settles back beside him again, hands folded neatly like he’s finally calm. Like he’s been fed something, even if only in theory.
In the quiet that follows, Ten stares at the ceiling. His chest is tight, his skin tingles with phantom teeth, and the bed feels too small.
And yet.
He still doesn’t ask him to leave.
Ten exhales through his nose, long and shaky.
“I think something’s wrong with me,” he says quietly.
Fourteen stirs, tilting his head, eyes catching the faint moonlight. “I could’ve told you that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Fourteen blinks, slow and deliberate. “What part are you worried about? That you’re letting a cannibal sleep in your bed? Or that you don’t want me to leave?”
Ten doesn’t answer right away. His hand is clenched on the sheet. His chest feels too tight.
“I think I stopped being afraid of you at some point,” he says. “And I don’t know when.”
Fourteen hums, pleased. “That’s good.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it means you got inside my head. And now I can’t tell the difference between being safe and just… getting used to you.”
“Same thing,” Fourteen says simply.
“It’s not.” The words come out sharp, raw around the edges. “It’s not the same. I know how this works, this trauma bonding thing. You break someone down, and then you offer them a hand right when they hit bottom. That’s how people like you get in. You slither under the skin and nest in there like a parasite.”
Fourteen grins slowly. “You said under the skin. ”
Ten closes his eyes again, jaw tight. “Math’s sake, you’re impossible.”
“I just think it’s poetic,” Fourteen murmurs. “You talking about me being inside your head. Inside your skin. You know, sometimes when I dream about you, it’s not only about eating you.”
Ten flinches.
Fourteen continues anyway, low and tender, almost affectionate: “Sometimes I dream about wearing you.”
Ten turns his head slowly. “What?”
Fourteen’s smile stays, soft around the edges, voice musing now, like he’s speaking a fantasy aloud just to enjoy the sound of it.
“Not like a costume. I mean like… if I could unzip you and slide inside, like a sleeping bag. Or a shell. Just… be you. Feel what it’s like. You feel everything so loud. I want that.” His voice drops, reverent. “I want to feel the world the way you do. With your nerves. Your breath. Your skin.”
Ten stares at him. His mouth opens, then closes again. There’s no good answer to that.
“You’d look good on me,” Fourteen says after a beat. “We’d be beautiful together.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” Fourteen rolls onto his back, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling too. “But at least I’m honest . You’re the one lying to yourself. Pretending you don’t like it.”
“Like what?” Ten’s voice comes out thin.
“The way I look at you. Like you’re something I want . Something I could break apart or hold together with the same hands. You like it. Not just because you’re scared. But because no one’s ever wanted you like this before.”
Ten’s throat closes.
The worst part is, he can’t argue. Not fully. Not tonight. Not with Fourteen so close and real and breathing beside him
He says nothing.
Fourteen lets the silence settle.
Then, softly, he adds, “I wouldn’t wear your skin without permission. I’m not a monster.”
And Ten’s stomach flips, because it sounds genuine.
Like that was meant to be comforting.
Ten doesn't move.
He should. He knows he should. Every survival instinct he’s ever had is clawing at his spine, begging him to leave the room, to scream, to do something , but he just lies there.
Still.
Breathing.
Listening to the sound of Fourteen beside him. Listening to the hum in the air that isn’t quite silence. Like the static before a lightning strike.
“You’re not a monster,” Ten says, slowly, as if he says it carefully enough, it might make it true. “You’re insane.”
“Mm,” Fourteen hums. “That’s what the last person said. Before I bit their fingers off.”
Ten swallows.
Fourteen sits up suddenly, fluid as a puppet on strings, and turns to face him properly. His silhouette is long and sharp against the moonlight. “You want to know something else?” he asks, head tilted.
Ten doesn’t answer.
Fourteen leans closer, just slightly, and murmurs:
“I don’t only dream about wearing you!”
Ten’s breath catches.
Fourteen’s smile is small. Barely there. “I also dream about keeping you. About folding you up neat and careful, like linen. Putting you in drawers. Freezing pieces of you in glass. Not dead. Never dead. Because I like you, Tenny.”
“You-” Ten starts, but his voice breaks. He licks his lips. “You like me?”
“Yeah,” Fourteen says. “I need you!”
Something is horrifying in the way he says it, raw, helpless, almost childlike. As if the word carries weight too big for the sentence. As if he’s trying to hold it all in his hands, and it keeps spilling out, dripping down his wrists.
Ten shakes his head. “You don’t know what that word means.”
“Maybe not,” Fourteen says. “But I know how your blood smells when you’re afraid. I know how your voice sounds when you lie. I know how you breathe when you’re trying not to cry. And I know I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. ”
He shifts forward. Just a little. Just enough.
Ten flinches, and Fourteen pauses, freezes in place, watching that reaction with hungry fascination. Then, softly:
“You want me to hurt you.”
“...”
“You want to know how far I’d go.”
“...”
“You want to see if I’d stop?”
Ten’s voice is hardly audible. “Would you?”
Fourteen’s grin comes back, slow and strange and utterly unhinged. “Why don’t we find out?”
His hand comes up, not fast, not threatening, gentle, even, but when his fingers brush Ten’s jaw, Ten goes rigid. Fourteen watches that reaction like a scientist dissecting a heartbeat. His touch is warm. Too warm. Calloused in places where it shouldn’t be.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs. “You bruise like overripe fruit. I could push right here,” his thumb drags slowly across Ten’s cheekbone, “and leave a mark that stays for days. I could bite your shoulder and you’d feel it every time you moved.”
“Fourteen,” Ten whispers, but he doesn't pull away.
Fourteen leans closer, his breath fanning hot against Ten’s ear. “You’d remember me. Every time. You’d wear me like perfume. Under your skin. In your pulse.”
“Stop.”
“I could skin you inch by inch and make you thank me for it.”
“ Stop! ”
Silence.
Ten’s chest is heaving. His fists clenched the sheets. Fourteen is still close, but not touching anymore.
“I would never do it without your consent,” Fourteen says softly. “But if you asked,” he breathes in, sharp, shuddering, “if you begged , I would peel you apart like fruit. Worship every layer.”
Ten’s heart is thundering.
Fourteen shifts back, just enough to give him air. But his eyes stay fixed, glowing with something too much like reverence. Like a devout man before an altar.
“You don’t get it,” he says. “I want to be inside your thoughts. Under your fingernails. I want your skin on my tongue and your voice in my head until I can’t tell where I end and you begin.”
Fourteen breaths out, long and low. The smile slips, softens. Becomes something else. Not quite sorrow. Not quite satisfied. Just… quiet.
He sinks back down beside Ten, careful and slow, as though whatever passed between them might shatter if he moves too fast.
Ten lies frozen, staring at the ceiling, chest still rising too quickly. His pulse is thudding in his ears.
“I scared you,” Fourteen says. Not a question. Just a fact.
Ten doesn’t answer.
Fourteen shifts again, more subtle this time. The barest lean toward him, his voice low as if seeking approval. “You asked me to stop. I did.”
Ten closes his eyes. “That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
A pause. Fourteen watches him for a while. Then, softer: “You’re still here.”
Ten opened his eyes again and turned his head slowly toward him. “So are you.”
Fourteen lets out a small laugh. “I always am.”
They lie like that for a long moment. The room is cold, but the bed is warm. Fourteen's presence is warmer still, too warm, maybe, like the edge of fever. Or fire.
“Sometimes,” Fourteen spoke again, almost lazily, “I dream you’re small enough to fit in my hands. I carry you around. I wrap you in gauze. I keep you safe.”
Ten stares at him.
Fourteen smiles faintly. “Not in a cage. I wouldn’t need to. You’d stay.”
“You think that’s love?”
“I think it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten.”
Ten doesn’t know what to say to that.
“I don’t expect you to feel the same,” Fourteen adds after a moment. “You’re not like me.”
“Then why are you here?”
Fourteen’s gaze returns to him. Steady. Honest in a way that makes Ten feel like he’s being dissected. “Because I can’t stop coming back.”
Ten swallows, throat dry. “That’s not comforting.”
“I’m not trying to be comforting.”
Another silence.
Ten’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I think I’d miss you. If you stopped showing up.”
That makes Fourteen still. Entirely. As though the words hit him somewhere vital.
“You would?”
Ten nods. Barely.
Fourteen’s eyes soften. Just a little. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
Ten shifts on the bed. Finally, his shoulder brushes Fourteen’s. Just a little. Just enough to ground them both.
Fourteen doesn’t reach for him again. He doesn’t have to.
Ten closes his eyes.
“It’s late, we should go to bed.”
“Goodnight Ten”
“Goodnight Fourteen”