THIRTY-FOUR
Dawn dyed the forest in colors of the softest russet and gold.
The air felt crisp on the tip of his tongue, wood smoke and pines and the musk of freshly turned earth.
Blood stained the leaves and glistened in small pools, a red so deep and dark that if one dipped fingers into it, they'd touch another world.
He'd covered the hole with soil, packed it down hard with his palms before brushing leaves on top.
The box cutter had been buried as well, resting gently on the notebook that held all his most decadent and lovely, and cruel and macabre stories.
That notebook was his everything, his most precious possession, his heart made paper.
Before him, the Wildwood tree looked like an old white oak again with branches stretched in a wide, leafy arch, thick whorls and knots in the bark at the perfect height for handholds if one dared to climb. One branch was broken.
The forest had never been so still, so peaceful.
It had fallen asleep, worn to the weary bone.
He sat very still among the roots of the oak, his skin still covered in cuts and bloody letters from a story now too smudged to read.
Rose petals flaked from his left eye, and the thorny vines had gone brittle now that there was so much less blood to drink.
His bare skin had turned to cold alabaster, his long, delicate fingers absently tracing the branches grown from his split-open stomach.
"It will stop hurting soon," he said to the quiet between the trees.
They didn't answer; they were just trees again. All that was left of the monsters were broken wishbones and carved-out teeth scattered among the roots.
They'd devoured each other in this forest, these boys so ravenous and defiant and tearful, they'd not known how to stop. The way Andrew loved Thomas was terrible and eternal, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever said that out loud.
"Remember you love me." His words felt so small and sleepy against the forest's dawn. "All my stories are about you. They will always be about you."
He ran his fingers through Thomas's curls, his movements slow and careful so he didn't disturb the careful way he'd arranged Thomas's head in his lap. They were both so tired, they needed this moment just to rest.
He carefully slipped his hand into Thomas's and laced their fingers so they fit, scarred knuckles against freckled ones, both stained with forest dirt and blood.
He kissed the back of Thomas's hand, tender and aching.
They were beautiful together; they were magic and monstrous, and they had created a whole vengeful world between them.
Andrew lowered his head so his mouth was close to Thomas's ear. "Wake up. I need you to tell me if we're real."
Thomas didn't open his eyes, but his face had gone soft; all that fierce anger and lonesome fear slipped away.
"Kiss me," he said, low and sleepy. "Then you'll find out."