Rebel Red Carnation {Kiribaku}

VIII

Immediately, my frame stiffens, my eyes narrowing. "That's not a good idea," is my automatic, knee-jerk response.

"Why?" he asks. "I know you've already told me about it and stuff, but I feel like I gotta see and experience it for myself to truly understand it."

Though something about his words strike me, I hold my ground. "Because showing your face around there will start a fucking riot. People down there hate the royal family, Eijirou, and I can't even begin to imagine what the fuck those assholes back in the palace would do to the people they already cast aside if you got hurt or killed or someshit."

Nothing about that scares him, though, and he reaches for his pillowcase again. He pulls it open for me to look down in, where among the bandages and medicinal things he brought to help me with, plus some other packages of food, there are clothes. Commoner's clothes, I think. He shuffles around it and even pulls out a dark wig.

"I'll be in disguise," he says, all too confident. "You can help me to fit in, and then we'll tell 'em you ran into me on your way back home and brought me with you."

My eyes narrow. "...you're gonna make up some shitty story about being homeless?"

"Sure, if that's what I gotta do."

He's... he's fucking hopeless, to the point where even I smile. What good will taking him down there do? So I'll show him how fucked it is where I live, where people die of curable diseases and hypothermia for no good reason, and then he'll go home and feel fucking sorry for us? Is he not the one who just said his parents are closed off from changing their ways? What, does he think he has some kind of powers of persuasion?

"You're fucking serious," I mutter.

"As serious as I've ever been, man."

And how the fuck can I not believe him, with his eyes trained unwaveringly on mine? He's a stubborn little fuck, I'll give him that.

"...fine," I mutter. "But this better fucking work, or a lot of people will be seriously fucked—including you."

"Don't worry, I'm a pretty good actor," he assures. Something about his grin—full on now—is too cocky, but I let it go.

So we get to work finding the cheapest-looking clothes among the shit he grabbed, which is pretty fucking hard, considering he's had seemingly infinite money available to him for his entire life, which has resulted in some pretty expensive shit. I settle for a cotton sweater, another fleece jacket and a pair of jeans, all of which have to be ripped up and dirtied to pass off as old and cheap. I remain in my spot by the wall as he stands up to change—the jeans first, and then the sweater. I must be tired as fuck, because I catch myself staring unapologetically at his torso, smooth and just very lightly toned, clean and—

"Shit," I hiss, making myself move to my feet despite my every move causing my back to sting. "Holy shit."

Eijirou pauses in adjusting the shirt to pull over his head. "What?" he asks, looking up. I don't have to answer, though; he sees where my eyes are pointed, unblinking, while my heart is fucking pounding, my back throbbing in time with it, because there it fucking is. The scar. The one on his right shoulder, just a hair shy of his collarbone, lighter than the rest of his skin and slightly puckered—the spitting image of the one on my right shoulder.

But I don't want to believe it, so I look, yanking up the stupid, soft and warm sweater covering mine. I'm much skinnier than he is, many of my ribs visible beneath my skin, but the scar is there, the same shape and everything, just barely poking out of the bandages.

This... can't be fucking happening. A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I'm glad for the sturdy brick wall behind me to keep me from falling on my ass, again.