By neko

Scene three - Synthesis

Soliloquy's back has only just disappeared down the hall when Monologue turns to confront the room's other occupant. Malevolence is still staring after him, just as he stared at the vivid mark on Soliloquy's neck revealed by his loose shirt.

Monologue suspects that his brother, usually covered head to toe, chose his clothes quite deliberately.

"Subtlety is not your strong point, it seems," he observes coldly.

Malevolence turns to meet his eyes, smirking unapologetically. "Surely I am allowed to appreciate beauty before me? Or will you deny me even that?"

"I don't quite trust you to appreciate only."

"Why is that? Are you so insecure in your ownership that you don't think it can withstand a challenge?"

"Not all things, Malevolence, need to be so completely owned."

"Then is that, Monologue," he parrots mockingly, "why you felt the need to mark your territory? Is it any coincidence that your jealousy fell there?"

Monologue silences his own angry denial before it leaves his lips. "Of course it isn't a coincidence," and he smirks, "just like it's no random chance that he decided to show it off."

Malevolence's eyes narrow.

"You asked about his scars. Did you really want to know, or have you just become bored with the ones you've inflicted yourself?"

"Sanguine has nothing to do with this."

"He has everything to do with this. Consider them, Malevolence: two damaged boys, scarred and lovely, both deeply and jealously attached to domineering and arrogant men. One's dark and the other is fair, one manic and one depressed, but both with an unpleasantly vivid knowledge of the real world." He laughs. "If our lives are a script, they're perfect foils."

"What's so funny?"

They both turn. Soliloquy stands in the doorway, taking in his brother's smug amusement and Malevolence's angry discomfort. Moving to his twin's side, he cocks his head in confusion.

From this angle, Malevolence can see the reddish bruise on his neck and, shining behind it, an unfamiliar network of familiar lines faded ivory and pink across his bared shoulder. The marks are uneven, haphazard, and inexpertly healed.

He stops himself before he can ask.

"Nothing," he says, and walks away.