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cages and cases
of starving birds and dead things
no longer look anything like they did
when they'd been living
the things you love
you put into cement
in order to keep them
they have to be dead
Clear's room at Oval Tower has a lot of space for him to store and display his collections. He wasn't permitted to collect his old glass baubles from the home he once shared with his grandfather, but it's amazing what people just throw out here in Platinum Jail. He has covered the plain white surfaces in a mosaic of glass shards in every color, interspersed with rainbow sheets of translucent cellophane.
On one wall there's a silver cascade of layered scales cut from discarded drink cans, framed by curlicue springs saved from damaged machines. At night, while humans sleep, Clear spends hours tracing the polished spiral shapes and making up stories about whose body might once have contained them. In his mind they are the last remnants of others like him, or of Allmates discarded when their owners no longer found them of use. They may not have been loved in life, but they're okay now; Clear will protect their bones.
Another wall is plastered with flowers and feathers painted over with enough varnish to make them all gleam. He remembers once trying to touch the feathers that Mink-san wore in his hair, only to be blocked and frowned at and told that they were something too special to play with.
If Clear had understood humans then the way he does now, he'd have said: of course they're special, and I love special things. I take such good care of them, and that's why I should have them.
He caught a real bird once, out on one of Oval Tower's high-up terraces. The bird was small, its feathers shimmery in an oilslick way, with shades of green and gold and blue. It had felt warm and frantic in his hands, delicate and crunchy, and its heartbeat fluttered like a machine wound up too far.
When it had stopped moving, he'd placed it on the highest shelf in his room, so it could look down and feel as though it were still flying.
A few days later, a smell started to come from the bird, and Clear understood that it was dead. He wasn't bothered. The lifeless were as important to him as the living. Also, the bird had grown many small white worms, which wound their way in and out of its feathers. Clear wondered if, given enough time, they might turn into butterflies with wings the same shade as the shimmering feathers had been, before they went dull.
But he never got to find out, because it seemed that the smell offended humans, one of whom entered his room and took his bird away.
He thinks of his bird very often, on those nights when the living things sleep. He hopes that it feels safe and comfortable, wherever it has ended up. It hurts him in a way that seems very human to think of the things he has loved – his bird, his master, his old home – feeling lonely and used-up.
you think that he's yours
but it's only in your head
his coffin is not your arms
his grave is not your bed
Clear is so happy when he is first brought to Aoba-san.
It's scary to think that he was right. Aoba-san was alone and discarded in this bland and boring hospital room, cared for only by humans, who take beauty for granted, who throw away lovely things. Clear cradles Aoba-san's fragile body close and promises to never again leave him.
There's something troubling about Aoba-san, though. It's as if the tedious, unattractive white shade of the operating room has bled into him. At the roots his hair is coming in white, just like Clear's, and the pretty golden-brown has halfway faded from his eyes.
It's not fair that Aoba-san is becoming less beautiful. If Toue were not Clear's master now, Clear thinks he would badly hurt him for making this happen. But Clear is good, and thoughtful too. He will keep Aoba-san by his side no matter what, even if – like the bird – his sparkle fades, and he goes limp and grows butterflies.
Until then, he will save what he can. With renewed determination, he carries Aoba-san into a nearby room and places him onto a table. Aoba-san's eyes are a pale shade of gold now, but they are still beautiful, like goldfish scales peeled from a corpse and set against the sun. He'll preserve them before they can rot.
He takes up a scalpel and marks the places where he'll cut with a touch from his lips. It will hurt, so he says that he's sorry, but surely Aoba-san understands that there's no other way for Clear to keep him forever.
Using his imagination helps to drown out the screaming, so Clear thinks of the future, when Aoba-san will be bleached white all over. It is sad, but then they'll be the same. They can be together for real, as equals, the way Aoba-san said he wanted when he asked Clear to stop calling him Master.
And they'll share a room, and they can play with Clear's toys, like the glitter-ink pen that stains your skin in sparkling red, looking all at once like blood and like nothing a human would ever bleed.
lockets and caskets
full of garbage and ashes
nothing but collections of nothing
you've been protecting
Clear is not permitted to spend all of his time with Aoba-san just yet. He is told that there are still tests to run. It's not so bad, though; Clear has a lot to think about now, and he also has other friends.
Trip is a good friend to Clear. He brings Clear candies sometimes: sugar-dipped jellies, silvery nonpareils, and once, a yellow lollipop the size of his head that he could see right through. When Clear ate it, it felt like eating a star. But then, he was sad it was gone.
Once, Trip took Clear to an aquarium located in Platinum Jail. At the entrance, they bought balloons in the shapes of brightly colored fish. Clear tied the string around his wrist, but Trip let his go immediately and watched it float up, like a dead fish rising slowly to the top of its tank.
The fish had been beautiful, but Trip got bored quickly, even watching the sharks circle around in pursuit of nothing at all. Trip had even less patience for the jellyfish, which he said looked more interesting to eat than to watch.
Clear disagreed, of course. To him, they were magic. They were not colored brightly, but they danced everywhere they went, and their malleable ribbon-trailing bodies caught the light. He and Aoba-san would be that way too, once they could be together. Clear promised himself that he would find a way to make it happen.
He had asked Trip then if they could return one day, and bring Aoba-san along with them. Trip had nodded and smiled in a funny way, then led Clear down a corridor that looked empty.
Trip took off Clear's pants and pushed him flat against the glass of a tank that housed one single manta ray, then put something big inside him from behind. It hurt, so Clear just watched the manta ray swoop around as if it thought that it weren't swimming, but flying. He wondered briefly if fish could fool themselves.
When Trip finished, pulled out of him and left him wet and dripping, he had smiled, because he understood then what living humans must like to feel.
So, because Trip was a friend, he was the first one Clear asked for help with preserving Aoba-san's eyes. Trip had needed to ask Virus to help explain, but eventually, they learned together about fixatives and specimen jars. In exchange for the help, Clear allowed Trip to roll one of Aoba-san's eyes around in his mouth for a little while, and told him he could come visit them any time he pleased.
taking baths in concrete
harbor a love for things that don't exist
try to set into stone
but you can't
he's made of bones and flesh
It's almost over now. Everything about Aoba-san is fading. The tests that others inflict upon him have nearly come to an end. But while there is still some humanity left in him, Clear would like to give him a small comfort, a gift.
He wants to do to Aoba-san what Trip did to him, but he can't bear it. He loves Aoba-san too much to look at nothing but the back of his head, where the white color has already crept to his neck. Instead, he gently places Aoba-san down on the bed and moves both palms across him.
Aoba-san does not move or speak much lately, but right now, he shudders. It's visible through his whole body, as if his skin is trying to jump off of him. It looks nice, so Clear does it again, until it stops happening.
He pushes his tongue into the empty indents where Aoba-san's eyes used to be, one after another. He's not sure if the way they pulse around him is voluntary. I love these, he says. I'm so glad I got to keep them.
Clear is fascinated to learn that tears can still come out of Aoba-san even now. They catch in his white lashes and sparkle in the light. It's a delicate kind of beauty, a little like insect wings or lace. He should have known that Aoba-san would still be beautiful, even after becoming blank.
Aoba-san's teeth are hard like pearls, his skin dry and thin like paper pressed over the spidery threads of blue-red beneath. Clear will have to find a way to scar his own painted flesh, so that both of them can be flawed. For now, he just skims his lips over all of it.
Aoba-san's fingernails are not so lovely. They've yellowed and grown brittle. Clear halfway peels one off with his mouth. It snaps between his teeth like the shells of the multicolored chocolate candies Trip shares with him. Aoba-san cries out in his scratchy, underused voice, which sounds almost metallic. Clear smiles, pets his hair, and closes his lips around the finger to drink up all the blood.The rest can come off later.
Then the only part of Aoba-san left to touch is the part between his legs, which is almost identical to Clear already. It's smaller, and it doesn't seem to get hard as easily, but it makes Clear feel close to Aoba-san anyway. When he touches it, a thin whine comes out of Aoba-san, as if it's painful, and he tries to squirm away. Clear rolls him over then, onto his front, and pins his hands behind his back. This will be the fun part for Aoba-san.
Clear pries his way into Aoba-san's little hole with one finger. He gasps; it's so pretty, like a pale pink flower bud. He wants it to open up for him. Trip rubbed spit into him the time at the aquarium, so Clear leans in and runs his tongue over the soft folds, then swirls it around. It must feel good, because Aoba-san whimpers. He pushes the tip of his tongue deep into the center, then skirts the edges again. He thinks he can feel Aoba-san softening up.
They'll do this every day, when they're together for good. It is its own kind of dance. Aoba-san tightens and contracts around him, making the same motions jellyfish do when they swim. They'll cut each others' skin into patterns of thin scales and slide slick and raw together. They'll roll in shattered glass and come out studded with color. They will wear wide measured grins and, hand in hand, they will be perfect.
Clear wants Aoba-san badly now. There is an ache for it in his body and also in his heart. He does as Trip did; he forces his way in all at once and grinds Aoba-san hard into the bed. He hears muffled moans. His hips know how to move, as if they were made of flesh. The head of him rubs deep inside Aoba-san somewhere, and the heat of the friction creeps up through him.
Clear comes just as Aoba-san stops fighting. All the warmth of the sun washes over him, and with a smile, he sinks to the bed beside his precious limp-bodied Aoba-san. He has kept it a secret from Aoba-san so far, but tomorrow is the day when Toue will allow him to perform further operations. It was good to get to do this first.
I love you so much, Aoba-san, he says. He moves Aoba-san so that they're face to face, with their foreheads touching. Aoba-san has broken a sweat, and Clear wonders if there is any way to remove that particular function. It doesn't feel very good on his skin.
Clear asks, Do you love me, too?
Aoba-san says nothing, but that's okay. He doesn't seem to like using his voice any longer, or even replying to questions with nods. He won't have it for much longer, anyway.
The wonderful part about not being human is that thoughts stop being clouded with so much unpleasant emotion. That's why Clear still likes his name. He is clear, he is pure, he sees everything. He wants only to keep the beautiful things in the world as close to his heart as he can. Someone must love them; everyone needs love, and humans can't be trusted to give love unbiased.
Which is why Aoba-san will have to do without his voice. If he kept it, he could issue complaints or ask for help, and he's far too human to be trusted with that power. Even without Scrap, Aoba-san would not understand what is truly best for him.
Clear presses a tender kiss to each of Aoba-san's sunken eyelids, and then a third against his throat.
Don't worry, he says. I know what's best, and from now on, I won't let you be alone.