A History of Glitter and Blood (19 page)

He left Beckan holding the meat and went to the other side of the elevator and slammed his fist against the bars. “Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck, this hurts.”

She didn't know what to say.

They were perfect. They had nibbles in their shoulders, but none of them had really been touched. But Scrap's pant leg was torn, and what was left was dark and wet with blood. It wasn't an enormous bite, but it was a piece of him that he would not get back. Fairies are good at healing—it would close up and close over—but it would never, ever grow back.

“Fuck, I feel him chewing it.” He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. “I have to harden up,” he said. “I have to harden up.”

“No,” she said. But not because she wanted him to be soft. Because she honestly didn't believe that he could be any harder. His
hesitation hadn't been tenderness; it was panic, it was hunger, it was delirium, it was fear, but it was nothing that the war could squeeze out of him, because he didn't have anything left to squeeze. She had never known a sweet Scrap—from diapers he had been pragmatic, fixed, counting out pieces of candy to make sure everyone got the same amount. And she didn't love him, how could she? How could anyone love him?

He came home only to clean his leg with the first-aid kit and finish off his share of the meat.

I don't want to write about back then anymore.

But now I don't know what else to write about.

Cricket, Cricket, Cricket.

A few weeks before he died it was grimy and awful and he was with a skinny gnome he didn't know, and he was surprised when the gnome brought him down to Crate's chambers with Scrap. He'd never been in there before. He'd never imagined the golden walls, the carved marble bed, the smell of earth so much stronger here than anywhere else.

But the strangest part was seeing Scrap. They were used to being separated the second they came down. Of course he knew what Scrap did.

Of course he was curious how Scrap did it so much better than he did.

But he did not want to see this. Scrap making noises in his throat, twisting his hips against the wall, accepting everything, his hands above his head grinding his pelvis into Crate. He was smiling up at him and making his eyes bright and whispering in Crate's ear. He was urging Crate's clothes off, aiming him toward the bed, waiting for the part everyone knew he was best at, when he could moan and move at the right time and think about all the reasons he was doing this: for
Cricket's smile, for food, for notes slipped under her door. He knew why he was here.

And then Cricket was kissed, roughly, and a pill was slipped from the gnome's tongue onto his. He swallowed and turned his head in time to see Scrap accepting an identical pill under his own tongue.

It made Cricket immediately woozy, and Scrap turned and looked at him, his eyes so big.

So Cricket took care of his boy. He put on his big-brother voice and said, “It's okay. We're fine,” because Scrap hated being drugged, even after all this time. Scrap had to be present.

Cricket would have rather felt none of it.

Oh yes, write that instead, you fucking genius. Brilliant.

Beckan brings welded trinkets to Piccolo and comes home with a feast for dinner, and she and Josha and Piccolo and Rig and Tier all chatter to each other while they wash stalks of imported corn and the gnomes debate whether they should give in and try a vegetable, if their stomachs could take it, and Piccolo prods the meat that they brought and wisely does not ask what creature it used to be.

Josha is wearing Piccolo's jacket.

“Here, try these,” Piccolo says. He grabs a handful of pea pods from a basket and rinses them.

“Raw?” Beckan says.

“Best that way. C'mere, I'll show you.” He backs her against the fridge and dangles one over her lips.

She laughs, low, and snaps at it.

Tier and Josha look, together, toward the bedroom where Scrap is reading or writing or something.

Beckan groans. “Oh, guys. Seriously? Give up.”

Piccolo says, “What's going on?”

Beckan stands on her toes and kisses him. It isn't comfortable. They haven't been touching nearly long enough for it to be comfortable. It is new and passionate and hot enough that she can imagine steam coming from Piccolo's lips. He is always hot.

“They have a crush on Scrap and me as a couple,” Beckan says.

“Oh . . .”

“Which we never were and never will be. Seriously, guys?”

Josha shrugs one shoulder.

Beckan goes back to the sink, munching on the rest of the pea, and rinses potatoes. “There's too much,” she says. “Too much stuff. Too much bullshit and . . . history.”

“You just described Scrap,” Josha says.

She shakes her head. “Me and Scrap.” And she goes back to Piccolo and kisses him again, and he puts a hand on her back and a hand in her hair, and he is the perfect height for her, his chin on the top of her head, she fits into him like a glove, and she smiles and is happy.

Josha goes to get Scrap for dinner, and they sit at the table, suddenly quiet with their new addition, exchanging glances as they scrape at their plates. The gnomes try the vegetables and Piccolo tries the meat.

He wipes his mouth on his napkin. “Scrappy,” he says.

Scrap is so confused by the nickname that it takes him a minute to look up. Beckan chews on her lip and tries not to laugh.

Piccolo doesn't seem to notice. “Have Josha and Becks filled you in on our plans?”

Beckan says, “Oh, I don't think Scrap's interested—”

Scrap looks at her, steady. “I'm very, very interested,” he says.

Piccolo smiles brightly. “Great! We've turned up some great stuff. The gnomes aren't great at security, y'know? They're useless without a king, really.”

Tier drops his fork, and Scrap picks it up before Tier can. They exchange a glance and a nervous expression—a chewed cheek, a raised eyebrow—when Scrap hands it back.

Josha and Beckan aren't the only ones who can have secrets.

Piccolo says, “And the tightropers aren't much better, especially with me on the inside.”

“Are they planning something?” Scrap says.

“No, they're idiots who think the war is over, but they're also not planning to leave any time soon. That's their weakness; that they're not expecting anything. Between their . . . what's that word you used, Becks?”

“Complacency.”

“Yeah! Between their complacency and the gnomes' need to rely on a king they don't have, we have two huge groups that are totally disorganized. Three if we're counting your fairies who aren't here. It makes us six the most cohesive group in the whole city.”

“But you're just kids,” Scrap says.

Piccolo grins. “That's what makes us so cohesive. We give a shit about each other. That's a kid thing.”

“But . . . there aren't very many of us. Of you.”

“Not yet, no, but that's always how revolutions start.”

Scrap lowers his water glass. “Revolution? I thought the master plan here was finding Cricket.”

Piccolo says. “Beckan's been making us some really fantastic armor, and what we're going to do is literally bring the tightropers to the ground.”

“Tear the ropes down,” Josha says.

Piccolo nods. “As safely as possible, of course, but we need to make sure that we're protected in case
they
start any violence. Plus it sends a good message, you know? They can't just hang out over the city and expect us to be fine with that.”

“You're on the ground all the time,” Scrap says.

Beckan says, “It's a metaphor.”

“Yeah, I'm sure they're gonna be thinking metaphors when they're falling off their ropes,” Scrap says. “And what about the gnomes?”

“Without a king, they're immobile.”

Scrap says, “But you should have some measure against them, just in case they figure out a way to organize. Or in case they find out the plan somehow. If you guys weren't as careful as you think you were sneaking down—”

Josha says, “I told you, we were really careful.”

(They were running around screaming Cricket's name.)

Piccolo says, “Rig and Tier told us that there's no way they can all come together without a leader. I'm not trying to insult anyone, it's just the way their species has been taught to behave. This is the horrible thing about their organization, you know? They're so isolated, they get into this behavior and then they believe that it's something they can't live without. Right, Tier?”

Tier says, very carefully, “No, I don't think there's any way the gnomes could possibly put together any kind of powerful resistance if they didn't have a king.”

Scrap tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling.

Piccolo says, “Yeah. So we'll of course keep all of our eyes open for any kind of gnome strike, but it's not our major concern. We need to focus on the tightropers. But you're right, Scrap!” He smiles at him, big. “You're absolutely right that we need to be prepared for everything, which is where Beckan comes in. She's our diplomat. Keeping us all safe, making sure this all stays peaceful. And we'd still love to have you on board.”

“What do you need me for?”

Piccolo's smile fades, just a little. “Oh, Scrap, we don't need you
for
anything.” He gives a small laugh. “You think I hand-selected these bastards for their special sets of skills or something?” He slings an arm over Josha's shoulders. “We like you. It's nice to have friends, yeah? God knows I've been lonely, up there with the fucking soldiers.”

“Not literally fucking,” Josha says.

“No, no, that would have been much less boring. Except I would have to clean up after all of it. Fuck, do I hate tightropers.”

Scrap says, “I guess I have reading to do. Sorry.”

Beckan says, “No, Scrap. Come. We're planning tonight and then we're doing major Cricket searching.”

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I'm just so tired.”

A minute later, they're all set to leave, but Beckan and Josha tell the others to get a head start while they clean the kitchen. As soon as Piccolo and the gnomes are shoved out the door, Scrap says, “Guys, please? Don't do this.”

“You should come,” Josha says. “I mean it. This is the last fucking helpful thing I'm going to say to you if you keep just giving us that tortured-martyr face.”

“Oh, that was helpful?”

“It's been three months, Scrap!” Josha says. “I know you loved him.”

Scrap whispers something that sounds suspiciously like
I loved him most
.

“But fucking find something else to think about. That's what we're doing.” He throws his dish towel in the sink and heads outside. Beckan fishes it out of the water and makes a face.

“So what about you?” Scrap says.

She doesn't look at him. “There's nothing
about
me.”

“Are you doing this for the same reason he is? Looking for a distraction?”

“No. I don't need a distraction. I dealt with Cricket's death when it happened and I was broken down to pieces and I am still sad every day, but I am actually dealing with it, okay? And Josha isn't looking for a distraction, he's looking for something—someone—to put his faith in, because the only two anythings he ever looked up to have fucking bailed on him. That's Cricket and you, if I'm not being clear enough.”

“He didn't look up to me.”

“Quit being obtuse.”

“And I didn't bail on him.”

“Bullshit, he was hurting and you couldn't handle it and you hid in the basement and told me to take care of him.”

“I made him breakfast,” Scrap says. “I went in there some nights without you and held him. You don't know everything I've done. And
what about you
, okay?”

“I didn't bail on him!”

“I know you didn't bail on him. I mean you. And Piccolo. Why are you doing this?”

“I don't know!” She turns to him. “Because it's not a big deal? Because maybe we'll get some of Cricket out of it? Because it's nice to not be so alone? Because I
don't want the tightropers to start another war?”

“They don't have any plans to! You
just found out
they don't have plans!”

“As soon as the gnomes get a new king, this is all starting over again. You heard them.”

“Yes, I heard them,” Scrap says. “I fucking heard them. Okay. But this is . . . can you please trust me?
Don't do this
. Someone is going to get hurt. You're going to get hurt. Fuck, everyone is going to get hurt.”

“You're being paranoid. Just because Cricket—”

“Don't do this.”

“—it doesn't mean Josha and I are suddenly more fragile than we were. Or you. You're not fragile. Stop talking like you think you are.”

“Don't do this.”

“We're not doing anything!”

“You shouldn't be getting involved.”

“Scrap, how the fuck am I not supposed to get involved? It's happening in our city. What the fuck is my other choice, stay here and watch you write and let the only Beckan who's doing anything be the one in your little stories?”

“Shut up,” he says. His voice is so quiet.

“Do I even get to do anything? Because pretty-storybook-Beckan probably stays home and never causes any trouble, right?”

“You think that's how I think of you?”

She turns away and rolls her eyes. He's not worth it.

“I love this about you,” he says. “That you care.”

“No hero of any book ever sits around and doesn't do anything. So pretend I'm doing this for you and your book if that helps. Just leave me alone.”

“Are you doing it because of him?” Scrap says.

“What?”