These Violent Delights

You don’t need me, you never did, you just get off on knowing you could kill me and I’d thank you for it, it’s a story you can tell yourself whenever you want to feel special

He felt gentle and endlessly patient; if Julian had asked, he would have happily cut his chest open and handed over his heart, his lungs, every part of himself piece by piece

What a lonely, dreary thing it is to know the truth. What a relief it is that now neither of us has to be alone in knowing

It was because he was certain he could only feel whole again if Julian gave him a reason to show up on his doorstep and slit his parents’ throats

The real violence was in how gentle Julian was—how near his reassurances came to absolution while stopping just short of granting it

He couldn’t bear to look at Julian, so he looked

They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.

But when they were alone, he could promise himself that he and Julian were each other’s birthright, and that the only unnatural thing was the fact that their blood was divided between two bodies

“Tell me you love me, at least,” he said quietly. “Please. I need to know somebody does.”

When Paul shut his eyes, he could pretend someone else was speaking. Someone he hadn’t become yet; someone who deserved to speak.

“I love you,” he said, and once he’d spoken, the words took hold of his tongue like a prayer. Julian pulled him nearer, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. I love you. I love you. I love you

Beautiful things are supposed to hurt. It’s what I was saying earlier—even if you don’t know how you’re going to create something that matters, you can still want to do it so badly you can barely think about anything else