3-

 

His apartment wasn’t as much an apartment as a room with a bathroom and kitchenette shoved in there somewhere. A dingy brick-and-piping room, it had two windows- one that took up most of the room’s outside wall and looked out on an equally boring building, and another in the bathroom so small that even Locke himself probably couldn’t have gotten through. Regardless of his own criticisms of the apartment he’d broken into earlier that night, his own was just as sparse. However, his was from Vascun’s prominent and all-too-familiar poverty. To make up for it, every item in his room was an almost painfully vibrant color. His bed was bright red, his sheets were bright blue, his single rug was a rich patchwork of browns and greens, and the single piece of artwork was a swirl of pinks, oranges and yellows, a brilliant sunrise over the ocean. Although it hung in the neglected kitchen, it was still the most outstanding item in the entire area.

 

But, when Locke finally stumbled in, crushing his cigarette in the near-empty black ashtray he kept right near the door, he noticed none of this. He flung his jacket onto the cushioned wooden chair that sat patiently next to the table, kicked his black shoes into the bare center of the room, and started stripping.

 

First came the knives, the only things he didn’t just toss aside. He pulled each out of its hiding place, then pulled the sheathes out, and efficiently stored them in rows along a shabby dresser drawer, keeping one next to him as he pulled off his unorthodox green shirt, trying to ignore the spasm of pain the action sent through the shiny white ring of scar tissue around his neck that never seemed to truly heal. That garment he hurled against the wall, where it violently rebounded onto his dresser as he unzipped his pants and jumped out of them. Picking off a sock, he then grabbed his pants with that same foot and kicked them up to his own level, grabbing it with one hand and quickly tossing them onto his dresser as well, finally pulling off the other sock. Tying them together in a loose knot, they were pitched into the always-open bottom drawer of his shabby dresser.

 

With a sigh, clad only in his boxers and the tiny, tight ring he could never remember being without, Locke clambered into his bed, barely noticing the routine’s completion when he slid the knife under his palm. His eyes shut, and he grimaced, settling down for some hard-earned sleep to last what remained of the night.

 

He could tell it was another one of THOSE dreams as soon as the fog came.

 

He stood on the familiar yet unknown charred land that seemed to constantly be the setting for these strange imaginings. Hands immediately going into his pockets and slouching lazily, he started forward. Maroon eyes swiveled around, searching for the identical figure waiting somewhere on the field of ashes.

 

“Hey! Other-Me,” Locke snapped as the minutes wore on. “I don’t have all night to wait around for you…”

 

“Really now? I would’ve thought that was the EXACT amount of time you have,” his own voice drawled back, and with a roll of his eyes Locke pivoted.

 

His own face gazed disinterested down at identical fingernails. The only differences between the two were eyes- Locke’s remained an annoyed maroon while Other-Locke’s were a burning red- and clothing. While Locke wore the identical outfit as that evening, Other-Locke wore what could only be described as flowy clothing. Loose red pants made of a thin fabric seemed to billow around just as much as the near-transparent black and gray shirt, a thick black band surrounding the scar tissue both Lockes shared.

 

Locke was used to seeing himself like this. Far too used to this. It seemed to happen every time he…DID something. Glaring, Locke crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did you have a point to this little chat, or did you just need some spiteful banter?”

 

Other-Locke grinned slyly at him. “As if you didn’t know what this is about.” Chuckling madly (for, Locke had ascertained, Other-Locke was indeed insane), he took a step backwards, the fabric of his outfit swirling madly in the nonexistent breeze that seemed to follow the altered version of him around. As he took another step, the image of the not-corpse man, slouched and bloody on his kitchen table, was drawn up from the soot below. Other-Locke’s head tilted to the side, a devilish smirk on his lips. “Gotta say, not many people can pull off the bloody look, but holy shit can this boy.” He snapped, and the image’s eyes flickered open.

 

Locke rolled his eyes. “You honestly pulled me over here to talk about THIS?”

 

“Patience, child, patience,” Other-Locke chided, that smirk still on his lips. “Is it my fault I need to get out more?”

 

An eyebrow quirked up. “Yes.”

 

Other-Locke glared. “Fine, I’ll get down to it.” He snapped again, and the image swirled to that of the not-corpse man later that night, smiling softly in the alley. “This guy’s important, Locke. Not just to our hormones, kid, but to US.”

 

Locke frowned. “What the hell’s that mean?”

 

“It means,” Other-Locke said slowly, “that you need to not kill him like you almost did earlier tonight.” Forceful, surprisingly lucid and serious red eyes stared into his own maroon. “You make him explode, implode, or go squish, there’s gonna be a hell of a price to pay.”

 

“…why?”

 

And with a growl, Other-Locke tried to slap him.

 

Locke just smirked as his antithesis’ hand passed straight through his cheek.

 

“…damn annoying brat,” Other-Locke grumbled, then sighed. “Just do me a favor this once and DON’T kill him, okay?”

 

Locke frowned. “Why would I kill him, anyway?”

 

Other-Locke smirked. “Well, you have a bad habit of getting defensive, and from what I’ve seen, he tends to offend you pretty damn easy.” His head tilted to the side, smirk widening. “Then again, not much doesn’t.”

 

“Shut up,” Locke groused. “Of all things, why did I get stuck with a cynical, bitchy, horny inner voice that likes to wear tissue paper?”

 

Other-Locke’s expression dropped, blatant confusion usurping his usually devious expression. “Inner voice? What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Locke snorted. “What’d you think you were, a goldfish?”

 

And then the familiar old smirk burst into being again. “Locke, you are without a doubt the most forgetful man with a photographic memory I have ever met.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Locke deadpanned, nodding sagely. “It’s a gift I hone nightly.”

 

“Bet that’s not all you hone, you naughty boy,” Other-Locke insinuated, and Locke rolled his eyes.

 

“That was weak even for you.”

 

“That’s not what your mom said last night.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure, right after she appeared from the unknown in a poof of glitter and ribbon.”

 

“And leather. Don’t forget the dominatrix outfit.”

 

“Believe me, I try. It’s a gift, remember?”

 

“I’ve got a present for you…in my pants.”

 

“Stop. Now. You’re painful to listen to, and I don’t want to die of mental anguish hearing this all night long.”

 

“Well then, you could always entertain my mouth in other ways.”

 

Locke snorted. “In your dreams.”

 

“In YOURS, actually…”

 

The banter continued on through the night, Locke parrying all of his double’s immature sexual remarks with practiced ease, taking the time to bask in the familiarity of their childishness. It was only when the single thread of sunlight had multiplied into an angry beam of brightness that Locke emerged from the ashen home of his counterpart. Growling, he slammed the blinds shut, and climbed back into bed, determined to get at least some semblance of peaceful sleep that night.