Lies

Lies

Lie: (noun) 1. A false statement deliberately presented as being true; a falsehood.

2. Something meant to deceive or give a wrong impression.

Pytho sits in a chair opposite me, propping his feet on my bed to form a line perpendicular to my hips. There's a manic grin possessing his features, he's smoking a cigarette and telling me the nature of humanity as I bask in a delicate afterglow with my lover.

"Lies," the demon hisses delicately, the breeze of his breath forcing the smoke around him to dissipate, "are an intriguing necessity with you humans. You all lie; your reasons certainly differ, but it is in your nature to spin falsehoods; my superior's nature to damn you for it."

My lover sleeps now, curled around me, his head on my chest. I wrap my arm around his shoulders and play with his fringe, trace my fingers over his brow. Pytho gazes at us impassively and lights a new cigarette with the dying embers of his last before continuing. "There are different types of lies, even; lies that take shape and exist for different, sometimes better, reasons but are no less ugly beneath their altruistic fa*ade. White lies to protect those around you, keep them from harm, boost their confidence, make them favour you. All shades of grey lies, neither misguided nor inherently evil. And black lies, lies to hurt and bleed and deceive; to make you think yourself strong as you tear your opponent down. The darkest of lies, composed of words hurled like knives, like hexes, multi-syllabic weapons."

He is right of course. The serpent Demon of Lies wouldn't deceive me, ironic as it is. I lie compulsively - I'm a Slytherin, cliché though it sounds - I lie with the best. White, black, all shades of grey lies, it makes no matter. I lie from within, from the soul as though possessed by a demon, a snake, Pyro and Pytho themselves (though I can't be, I know, for Pytho sits by me now).

I prepare my lies as my lover sleeps (I cannot leave him in sleep - liar, you can), dust them off and take them from the shelf while considering the body lying before me. Reddened, swollen lips, slightly open in slumber, hover above my sternum. My lover rarely lies through those lips. He is terrible at it; too brazen and brave to consider how much easier his life would be if he told that. One. Little. Lie. He tries not to lie to others, but he does it anyway in the process of deceiving himself; telling his inner voices that I don't matter, my lies don't hurt. Holds himself in high esteem, he does, with the nobility. Nobles are above lies.

Pytho snorts. "Too bad nobility is a lie in itself," he muses, sensing my thoughts.

Damned nobility; I must lie to him - for both of us. I lie to protect, to save as my Gryffindor hero never could; to learn and deceive as a Ravenclaw never would; better, more skilfully, boldly than Hufflepuffs ever will. Fathers, mothers, professors, friends no one is safe from my lies (lies to keep them safe) least of all myself.

You must understand, though, that they're also a means of self-preservation, my lies. I don't always use them to hurt others, that's just a by-product of saving myself. And him. I'm terrified so I lie. Terrified of him, of me, us. I'm terrified that I can only really look at one person, that I care for him so much that my chest constricts (no, you don't) and that I'd do anything to keep him safe (lies; you mustn't worry about him) and that he'd do the same. Die for one another in a perverse parody of Shakespeare.

Machiavelli would be proud: my means, my lies, are justified by the protection they offer. And so I lie. I lie to save my lover from ourselves, what others could do if they knew just how deeply we were entrenched in each other's hearts. Lie to myself, to him, to the world who know nothing about us. I don't care; it's just for kicks... Black lies to hurt and bleed; black that fade into smoky grey, as they're cruelly kind and keep my lover safe.

I wait for the blood to clot and the black smoke to descend before I perform my greatest act of deception: I'm not lying. About anything.

On some level, the one I reach late at night as the smoky reality lifts and I drift to sleep, I know that he knows how I feel. We never say it - those three poisoned words; the truth - but we both know. Maybe, someday we could ... No.

I can't foresee myself telling him, not until the danger has passed. I'm not even sure what that danger is anymore, but it's my fault, certainly, and I'd die if he left me because of it. So I remain unattached; as unattached as possible - actions do not lie, after all. My actions love him, hurt him. Actions do not lie, so I speak through them, try to absolve the black smoke around us - me - and reassure him. Sometimes, in his arms, I nearly blurt it out - those words - but instead I manage to bite my tongue, his neck, our lips. We know our actions, we lie because they scare us. Tease us in sleep with dreams of happily ever after.

My lover stirs, waking slowly, and I crawl from beneath him to pick my clothes from the floor and dress. My lover watches me with sleepy green eyes in silence, I watch him from the corner of my eye, Pytho watches us both in bemusement through a haze of smoke. The sheets rustle when my lover pulls himself to a sitting position. I'm nearly out the door but, hearing the soft turn of fabric, I turn back towards the bed, accepting the offered languid kiss and sneering through terror at Pytho. Actions do not lie. We all know this, but I am scared and appearances are sacred. I cut the kiss short when he runs his hand through my hair and tries to pull me back to bed. Actions don't lie, but I do.

I stop, my left hand lightly clutching the door frame; feeling a pulling gaze I turn to face my lover. Pytho, still lounging in that chair with his feet on the bed, lights another cigarette, tosses the finished butt over his left shoulder and raising a challenging brow. My lover lies back in the bed and sunlight caresses his skin... I care more for him then than seconds before, less than seconds later; I lie for him.

'I don't love you,' I murmur. My love looks up and shocked eyes shutter, his lips part slightly and I ignore the hurt (it isn't there, you're helping him). I look away, watch the my through the veins in my hand as it clings (rests) to the door frame.

'I don't love you,' I repeat, more to reassure myself than hurt my lover. I can't even look at him to say it. It's too important, he can't know the truth now.

Wanly, my lover smiles. 'I don't care,' he returns, more to hurt me; there is no reassuring him. He is a terrible liar.

Pytho grins and draws on his cigarette, the embers glow bright in the morning glow. "Lies. All lies," he breathes through the smoke that follows me from the room.