Anaxagoras holds every part of him close. Like a child scared that any limb outside of the bed will be eaten my monsters. He hides away and protects from harm or getting hurt again. He forces himself to sit while his pains heal themselves: healing crooked and even more achy than before.

He hides the memories of his past behind an eyepatch, and covers his body in gold and tattoos: he covers his thin, hungry frame in a capelet.

So why, he found himself wondering, did he want to show you these parts of him? He was sure it was just a collection of chemical reactions, of hormones that left him craving closeness. Everything was, that's why he never trusted his emotions, the chemicals his brain shot unstably.

But this was unbearable. He wants to love without giving away any part of himself, so why does he want to put himself on a platter? It was like the way he would rush to tell his sister something new he learnt—

He hated that comparison. The only other person he had let in, that he let comfort him. No parents, just her, and the Black Tide snatched her away; the warmth she held...

To him, there had to be a correlation: who he loved, and who death chose. As long as he could bear, he'd not show you his ugly parts. Because perhaps the Black Tide was a mercy: that killed to help people forget... Him.

But, still... As long as Anaxagoras could tolerate wasn't enough. His heart was in your hand, so why not his left eye too?

He was sure it was an ugly thing. The man had a Milky Way in his eye, full of purple and indigo that stirred together like a cocktail. It was monstrous; it was filthy, disgusting. So if you saw that, you'd run. Obviously. He never regretted the mark either, which made him hate himself more.

The last thing he saw with two human eyes was his lovely sister, unspeaking, but there just barely for a dwindling goodbye, and that had been enough.

He trusted you with everything, he was a man besotted; and he trusted that was pathetic. He trusted you would tug him from delusions, but he worried that you would tug him from the delusion that he could one day be worth it, as well.

He was being stupid, he knew he was. That was the last thing he ever thought he would be, the last thing he swore he wanted to be. But Aeons, did it feel relieving. There was something almost breathable about removing the black eyepatch from his left eye. The thing was beautiful, yes, with golden patterns and a chain draping from it, but it got uncomfortable.

A rattle had never felt so loud. The metal garnishes on it made a soft ring against the wood of his bedside as he put it down after the first time in ages. He was sure it was loud enough to wake you from your sleep in said bed, but it didn't. He was sure what he was doing was a mistake. Blasphemy. How ironic.

He didn't get into bed right after that either. Anaxagoras found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror for a good while. He looked at his body, ran his fingers over the gaps in his ribs with disdain. He couldn't tell if he'd gained any weight recently. His skin felt less pale, like he was alive. Had he been eating more because of you? He couldn't recall.

He untied his hair too. Usually he was against touching his hair much, the stress he was suffocated by making it brittle and easy to pull out. It felt stronger: less coming out into his hands as he ran his fingers through it wordlessly. Did you do that too? He hated how human he felt if he ignored his eye. A human man. A little boy.

After picking his appearance apart mindlessly, he got in the bed too. He felt hypersensitive, hyperaroused and like he was about to crumble. What would you do when you woke up and saw a crumbling little boy in front of you? You went to bed with a scholar, and woke up with a sad child who missed his sister.

But for now, he drank in the feeling of the weight leaving his chest, even though he knew full well he would probably get a larger one pressed upon it very soon. For him to think in the present, was rare.

And Anaxagoras, a scared little boy, slept.