Lovely Humanity

Clear confesses to you in an alleyway. And as strange as that is: stranger things have happened. (like you getting abducted by morphine or finding out your voice has the power to control people. you’re used to strange – you’re used to the unexpected.) Besides the confession isn’t what’s really freaky here – it’s that you said: me too.

Me too? What were you thinking? He’s a robot for Pete’s sake, and as uncaring as you like to present yourself, something about this is crossing the line. Especially when you have plenty human suiters banging away at your front door; the fact is that you have options, and yet you choose this. Choose the robot with the human emotional state and psychopathic robot brethren intent on wiping out the failed first prototype, the outdated older brother whose a shame to the project because instead of hating humans he’s fallen in love with one. And a male one at that.

Jesus.

This is all types of messed up. And you know that; but, somehow you don’t care. Clear has that effect on you – the weak kneed, starry eyed, vomiting butterflies effect that people call love. You love him. So even though Trip and Virus and Noiz and Koujaku have made it clear how much they love you (how much they’re willing to give up for you), you choose Clear.

You choose him because in this grimy, filthy alleyway where the gutters are barley collecting the rain pouring from the sky like the tears streaming down your face: Clear is dying for you. Getting oil all over your favorite jacket, sparking and twitching like a machine on the frits.

Sure Trip and Virus and Noiz and Koujaku love you (love you enough do some really outlandish things) – but you don’t know if they’d die for you.

Clear is.

The least you could do was say ‘me too’.



You drum your fingers against the table. A steady rhythm that makes Trip and Virus cringe, and you’re not sure why until Trip nudges Virus and the bleached blonde bites his lip, harsh enough to break skin.

They’re uncomfortable.

Virus only bites his lip when unsure how to go about something, a rare display you’d usually delight in – seeing the spirited man uncomfortable is something you never get to see, and you’re wasting it. Drumming your fingers against wood and glancing towards the staircase, panicky about being out of your room so long – you’re wasting it.

Trip, perhaps unable to sit in silence any longer nudges his brother once more, giving him a pointed look, eyes pleading. Virus stares back, tense shouldered and speechless. You watch faintly curious about what this is, Trip and Virus never visit. You’re friends, but only the type of friends that run into each other on the street sharing hapless anecdotes about the time gaps between your little run-ins. House calls are non-existent, something really must be wrong.

Trip tries again; nudging the other so hard you can hear the impact. Virus grimaces, raises a hand to caress his injury, and looks at you. Cerulean eyes encased by feathery lashes. Soft check bones, papery skin – he’s a dream, enteral like a fairytale. Both brothers have a sort of beauty that makes you imagine werewolves and vampires; tree nymphs and drowsy princess that await slayed dragons and first kisses.

“Aoba-san,” Virus’s tone is muted, a noticeable curve from his usual confident discourse. “Is something troubling you? We’d like to help. If there’s anything we can do let us know.” Virus looks hopeful, his perfectly arched eyebrows rising quizzically. You can tell the next words out of your mouth are going to crush him.

“What are you talking about? Jeez, it’s no big deal.”

You watch Virus’s happiness deflate and see the lines in Trip’s forehead deepen, yet even more worrying then their evident sadness is that you’ve been out of your room for ten minutes now. Ten minutes you’ve left Clear alone.

“You’re destroying yourself, Aoba.” Trip’s voice is as deep as always.

You ignore him.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Because this is improvement. When you first got back from saving the world, tear stained, favorite jacket missing among others things like your shirt and pants – God, you were a mess, vividly cracking at the seams like an unskillful lie – you refused to leave your room. For anything. Food, water, bathroom – everything seemed mundane. You weren’t hungry and you weren’t thirsty – you longed for something, but it wasn’t food or drink.

Clear, broken like a porcelain doll, pieces of him chipping away and sliding through the cracks in your fingertips – of course, you weren’t hungry or thirsty. You were breaking right along with him. Fragmented and shattered just like Clear’s mainframe. You were dumb. Not smart enough to understand the data broken within Clear – not smart enough to fix the glitches or stop Clear’s skin from chipping away and revealing the inner wires you’d been dumb enough to ignore before. Clear acted human, felt human emotions, loved like a human – but he didn’t heal like a human.

And you were dumb, for just a second, hopping he would.

So what’s it matter?

(what’s it matter if you destroy yourself? there is no you without Clear – each and every one of them; why doesn’t any of them get that?)

“I’m fine,” you tell them.



(the city’s streets were aglow. fluorescent lights lit the way like torches and you traveled the pavement, the torches guiding your way. you recount the steps in your head, turn left when you reach the waterfall, right when you reach the hotel with golden doors. you’ve only been in the city for two days but the way to your honorary guest apartment is like a roadmap painted before you in red ink. its 2AM, not that the permanently black sky is any hint to the approaching dawn. fact is the artificial moon makes you realize that this town doesn’t have a concept as concrete as time – it’s always nighttime here. only a blanket of black and the moon exits. you miss the stars. you miss the sun. it doesn’t matter that it’s 2AM – dawn will never come. there is no escaping this. you’re on your own. you trudge past the soulless bodies lining the street, each identical face a blur of alcohol and the happiness of never ending night. you tighten your grip on clear’s waist, use your other hand to clutch his lax left arm draped over your shoulder.

“almost there, clear.” your words are little more than a whimper,
he doesn’t reply)



When Koujaku shows up at your door, you almost feel bad for not picking him – your poor nomadic hairdresser. Oh, how he loves you. You take in the bags under his russet eyes and the unkempt hair unbecoming of someone in his profession and realize these last few months haven’t only been tough on you. It’s been tough on the people who love you, the ones who realized you weren’t ready to face the world and let you shut yourself. Allowed you time to cypher and work on coding, allowed you time to try and fix your mistake.

Koujaku blushes and you’re sure it has to do with the fact that you’re only wearing boxers; the aged fabric hugging your hips and dipping lower than necessary on your malnourished frame. This is where you’d make a smart comment about timing and your statement of belief that bars you from being presentable till at least twelve, but Koujaku’s gasp stops you.

You’re sure he can see your ribs. In fact, you’d gamble the horrid state of your body is what put the shaken look on his trusting face. Koujaku blinks, hesitantly stretches out his hand and runs it along your abdomen. His fingertips burn. His touch is like adding firewood to a dwindling flame – you hadn’t realized how cold you were until he touched you.

You shiver.

Koujaku’s eyes glisten.

“Aoba,” he says.

You turn on your heels, retreat deeper into your room; deeper into your illusion.

“Aoba, you can’t go on like this. Don’t –” no. no, no, no, no.

“I’m fine.” You snap, eyes glowering, and slam the door in his face.

you can still fix this.



(it’s like easing off a high. all that adrenaline, that addicting epinephrine, is seeping from your system like sand through the gaps in your fingers. you can’t do this you think. not like this, not tired, not alone. you’ve had enough. help isn’t coming. clear is dying and you’re still nowhere near the apartment, nowhere near anything. salvation is a long ways away. so it hurts; the realization that your heading in circles without a plan does nothing to help. yet this isn’t about you. it’s not about the cold air caressing you like whispers on the wind or the ach in your feet – it’s about clear. about the man that loves, about the man you love. so you quicken your pace. because this isn’t about you. it’s about something precious.

“hang on, clear. almost, we’re almost there.” and dear god, you hope that’s true.)



Your room is a cluttered mess of computer screens and software manuals among other things. The casual disarray is something you’ve grown used to over the past year, the unusual careful stacks of cds and books are sprayed across the floor, and you navigate it easily, stepping over empty water bottles, dirty clothes, and wires running through the room like veins in a body before you come to a standstill before the closet.

Everyone has skeletons. But perhaps yours is a bit extreme.

Opening the closet, running the sliding door along its plastic track, your breath catches as you take in Clear. He’s a mess of circumstance. A painting with some of the paint chipped away. You know even if he were awake he wouldn’t eat, not really, but somehow he looks thinner – the princess whose prince never came.
You sink down to your knees, slither into the closet until your body fits into the dips and curves of his own and rest your head against his chest. You’re not sure what you’re hoping to hear, but Koujaku’s eyes sunken with pity flash across your mind. Your eyes shut – and you listen

for

just

the

slightest

sound

Listen for a sign that you can still fix this.

- but somewhere deep inside you know waking him up this time won’t be as easy as the first -



(you get back to the apartment, and jesus, you don’t know how. somewhere along the way left and right ceased to existed, up and down weren’t directions, but pieces of your heart that fell out of your chest – bright red against the concert – and led the way, your north star. the world is a strange place – you can’t think straight. you lay him down on the floorboards and breathe, your first breath since this whole thing started. it stings, expands, and disappears as you exhale.

“clear,” you touch his porcelain face; run your fingertips over the mole that marks him as special among his identical robot brethren and choke on thin air. he’s like a masterpiece; unmarred and carved to perfection, even the chipped parts – the pieces of him crumbling to the floor – make him seem matchless. you don’t understand why he hid his face from you so long under that mask. he’s beautiful.

“clear,” you repeat brokenly, tears streaming down your face. your fingers pass the mole and travers to his eyelids, and you think of the soft violent irises buried beneath like gems in the sand. “clear,” you plead, and there’s a twitch. his velvety lashes, like feathers ruffling on a bird preparing to take flight, flutter. sluggishly, his eyelids pill open, and then your favorite shade of violent stares up at you through the cracks in your fingertips and you laugh. a hysterical, breathy sound.

the world is a strange place.)