o4 | acidic (part two)

SCARLET STAINS THE BANDAGE ARCHER has wrapped around my arm.

After my breakdown in the art room, his first thought was patching me up, before he got me to a sitting position against the wall, knees pulled to my chest and face clear of makeup.

I don't let anyone see me without makeup. Archer is the first, but he doesn't comment on the dark undereye circles and the pallor of my skin or how much better I look with it on.

He doesn't say anything at all as he sits with me, completing his painting beside me and waiting for me to speak first.

For the first few hours after midnight, I don't say a word. There's little to say, and I'm more focused on my breathing and my hands, and the fact that Archer has always seemed to be one step ahead—he knew everything before I did, and if I had listened, maybe things would be different now.

I let my gaze fall to my fingers. The angel-wings ring. Rebel has the other one, the devil horns, and it has never been more fitting.

But mine feels foreign on my hand. A happy sixteenth from Rebel—a reminder that threatens to drown me; to submerge me with the promise of no survivors. In one burst of defiance, I tear it from my finger and throw it at the window, watching as it trickles down the glass and disappears into the shadows.

"We had a fight." My voice breaks the silence, broken glass at our feet. "Rebel and I. She replaced me as a Witch. Then I told her I didn't even want to be an IP."

"I thought all this hierarchy bull meant something to you." His words are tentative, head bent so he can conveniently choose not to meet my eyes. "You wore the title Witch like it defined you. Maybe it did."

"I can find myself," I say stubbornly. "I thought I really was a Witch, but then again, I also thought I was Rebel's friend before I got replaced by a firster. There could be other things that I am that I don't know about because she never let me. I want to find them."

"Before I first properly spoke to you, I wouldn't have thought you would. You never seemed like you had much of a personality," Archer swallows, but this time, he allows his midnight eyes to fix on me, seeking my gaze like an eclipse shadowing all in its path. I let myself get lost in them, just for a moment, because at four AM on a sleepless night, they're the most beautiful thing in the world. "But, Ivory Blue, you have some fight in you."

"Yeah." My voice is an echo, bouncing off of the walls. "Thanks, Archer."

"You're welcome." He pauses, starting to pack up his stuff. "You live in the city, right?"

"Yeah. An apartment in Northacre. I need to be getting back there, my brother has no idea where I am."

"Okay." Swinging his bag over his back, Archer beckons me after him. "I'll drive you. It's been a long night."

I nod, following him out to his car.

Sleek and jet-black, it idles in the car park. The silver of the moonlight piles onto its surface in glimmering layers of jewels and silk, adorning the vehicle as it roars to life; engine purring like a pampered feline.

He takes the driver's seat, swinging it around on his index finger as he gestures for me to enter the other side. I slip into the passenger, wrapping my arms around myself as my body sinks into the ice-kissed seat, submerged on all sides by leather that feels as though it has never felt the warmth of the sun.

"Nice car," I comment, between the slight chattering of my teeth.

"Thanks," Archer smirks; one half of his face etched in blank strokes, painted with the embers of orange and the pale silver of the morning behind him, unfurling in pitches of black and navy. "Are you going to call ahead? Your brother might be worried if he's even awake."

"He won't be," I lie through my teeth, the instinct jarring. It's all too obvious he will be, but the real question is how happy will he be to see me? "There's no point."

"Suit yourself," he says, effortlessly gliding out of the car park.

Despite the cold searing my skin, I jam my finger into the button until the windows fly down and silver beams of flickering moonlight ripple through the glass. Ice shatters against my collarbones, my ankles and the contours of my face, numbing each nerve on my body threatening to set me alight—in the cool, estranged depths of the morning, the conflicted tumult of emotions raging through my body are the fires of the sun before the sky supernovas into a satin darkness.

The silence drowns us permanently, and while I am content for water to fill my lungs until I can no longer breathe, Archer treads water; breaking the surface.

"...Are you okay?" He sounds distracted, turning dials and flipping switches, but the fact his attention is diverted is comforting, somehow. Any more pressure on me, and I feel as though I'll shatter. "I know you've had a rough night, but you've been...kinda not yourself."

"I'll be fine." I toy with my hands in my lap. "I just need sleep, and a day in, and to prepare for school on Monday."

"Yeah." He turns his head, glancing at me for a split second. "You do that. Also...we're here."

The thrumming car falls to a standstill, and the windows drive up all at once, stilling the glacial air around me. I open the door and step out, my legs unsteady in supporting my weight as the soles of my shoes meet the ground.

"Thanks." My voice sticks in my throat, deluged in the thickness of tears I can't quite shed. The night is beautiful, but arresting, and the thought of staining it with the misery that threatens to choke me is a hard one to swallow. "Really. And—sorry for being the way I was. You know. Before."

He shakes his head as if to dismiss my words, slamming the driver's door in his wake as he strides towards me.

Jerking his thumb towards the door, Archer extracts an unintelligible sound from the back of his throat. I translate it as apartment number and hold up eight fingers in response.

A nod and a beckon, and I'm following him to my apartment, falling into step only to unlock the door. I turn to face him in the minimal light.

"Thanks again, Finley," I say, but the words don't even begin to encompass the extent of my gratitude. Fisting the hem of my dress—crushing Mr Rose's gaze and the feeling of it edging up my skin—I add, "Do you want some coffee or something for the ride home?"

"Yeah." Midnight eyes seek mine. "Sounds good."

☆☆☆