There was a certain consistency to it, to the way he was – what you see is what you get, you know, no secrets, no deception, but no mystery either, just harsh and raw and Heat.
When all that you are is spilled out of someone's head, it's only natural that you try to think, 'Hey, maybe I'm really this other guy' because you know what was in his head, too, and it was easy to think that, easy to hold on to that reality and so he did. It was the same, all the same, hating him for a different set of reasons but the emotion was the same. Everything else was different but this was the same.
Yeah, and she was the same, too. She didn't love him or anything, he knew that. She was still a little girl inside, all wrapped up in the fantasy. It was worse for her because she could make her fantasies real, take them out of her head and fall in love with them. That's sick, he thought, that's fucking sick, and it made him sick, all of it did. That a little girl who was nothing but used would have to resort to her fantasy because she had nothing else. It shouldn't have been like that; he hated himself for letting it happen.
Maybe what he was had come out of her head, but he'd come out of her head right. She'd known him inside out, known what kind of guy he was, had learned him and given birth to him as the real fucking thing. None of those layers, none of those other selves.
She knew him.
There was a consistency to that too, to the way she stayed just a bit further away, and if she'd created him like this, loving her, then why did she keep turning him down? Was he the backup plan, something to turn to and someone to protect her if the mockery of her golden boy backfired? Or was he just there to console her, the one person who hadn't given her any bullshit from the start, the person who cared – but she wasn't gonna love him or anything, she just wanted him there to be her fucking security blanket. She wanted to be loved, but she wasn't going to give anything. Not to him.
God, she was such a child.
And a part of him hated her, too, the way a part of him hated everybody, whether that part was man or demon he didn't know but it was still part of him, inseparable – the man and the demon were consistent, too, both fucking angry all the time, just angry in different ways. At every fucking demon he could get his teeth in. At him. At her. At himself.
Not like any of it mattered. Not the hate, not the love – it was all about consistency, trying to keep the shit together, keep everything from splitting apart into halves. If it meant keeping everything together, he'd fight, he'd devour, he'd fuck, he'd kill, he'd follow every order and then betray everything –
Just to keep his head together.