the second anthony's eyes tiredly flutter open (  and yeah, they flutter, the sissy  ), dennis doesn't hesitate. delivering a swift flick to the middle of the younger's forehead before leaning closer. the rockstar is lazily sat upon his roommate's bed, straddling him and still missing his pants ; though his shirt and leather jacket remain, having the habit of sleeping in them. he'd just barely got up in time to out-wake the morning bird, so excuse him if he didn't get all fancy for the occasion! when their noses brush, nothing but hot air wafting onto freckled cheek, dennis smiles serenely -- though the second his lips falter, tugging into a more natural smirk, he then shouts at the top of his lungs, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANTHONY!” directly into the birthday boy's face. he cracks up the second the shout leaves him, jerking back to hold his stomach when it flips with a sick kind of happiness that can't be beat. maybe he bursted the loser's ear? christ, he hopes so. anthony spending the day at the doctor's would really make today something special. // happy lame ass boyfriend day! my one dennis ask was sweet last time so now he's a nuisance <3 love wins

though  harsh  december  drafts  torment  anthony  all  night  long,  he’d  been  firm  about  staying  in  his  own  bed  tonight,  what  feels  like  a  world  away  from  dennis.  the  clarkes  have  never  really  been  one  to  do  something  like  breakfast  in  bed  —  not  unless  anthony’s  the  one  spearheading  the  operation,  like  he  does  on  select  mother’s  days  when  he’s  feeling  particularly  sentimental  ( pays  a  trip  to  the  little  hope  museum  to  offer  well  wishes  to  amy  lambert  too,  even  though  he  knows  she  never  had  children,  never  was  a  mother )  —  though  he’s  still  paranoid  that  someone  will  decide,  since  it’s  anthony’s  big  day,  to  impulsively  burst  in.  see  what  the  clarke  boys  have  made  of  themselves,  all  tangled  limbs  and  warmth.  it  had  been  rough  getting  to  sleep  the  night  before,  but  anthony  reminded  himself  over  and  over  that  he’d  be  back  in  his  roommate’s  bed  again  before  long.  probably  before  the  day’s  even  up.

neverending pain blooms around a board chest, although said chest never moves an inch. an inconsolable ache that sprouts downwards to curl around the mangled skin of his thighs and naval. throbbing in tandem to the drawled words that come from the other ( much older ) man beside him. he pays it little mind in the moment, all too familiar with the fate he’s been dealt and too enamored with the sudden warmth that bathes him to care. chasing it recklessly with every shift on the ground. trying to, desperately, scoot closer with every minor movement in order to breathe in what he’s been missing all this time. only now does his chest move, lifting only to fall again due to natural order, as he reminds himself to inhale. lips dry with blood parting to suck the air in. fruitlessly hoping to taste the strong smell of alcohol in the air over his own rot … but nothing comes of it. no amount of sniffing brings that acidic burn to his nostrils, or the age old dizzying spell to his foggy head. a failure that would have frustrated him to the point of a fit only brings a creak to boney knuckles now. brought on from the way he digs blunt nails into the flesh of a frozen palm ; fist pressed into the side of worn blue jeans. a gesture bred from years of instinct. a body ( now corpse ) moving all on its own, like it always has. what’s left of the mind focusing on what’s being said, playing it on loop so he can understand. it’s been so long …

glazed eyes remain casted downwards, bruised all around in a ghouly purple. self control strained with the desire to look. to lift a square chin up and fixate his stare where he yearns to. allow himself more than scraps when it comes to pinning down every new detail to memory, to trace the contour of anthony’s thinned features with dark orbs and recognize him under the wrinkles and heartbreak. but whatever selfless part of the rockstar that still holds on forces him away. bowed head, completely ignorant to the way stray strands ( some curled at the ends, unruly / some matted with blood ) tickle large brows, an act he doesn’t immediately correct. after all, he can’t feel the slight tickle or irritation of the brush anyway. doesn’t feel the rising urge to get fussy over the way it falls in front of his brooding eyes. it all barely makes a difference to his blurred sight. edges all dulled down around the former rockstar, like he’s stepped right into some oil painting ; the kinds you’d find in little hope’s freaky witch museum. thoughts scatter at the drop of a hat, intensity drained from him like the blood spilled on bent fences, but he tries. catches some by the sleeves and reels ‘em back in. it’s too easy to get lost in the fact he’s here with anthony. anthony who can see him, who looks at him with a tired smile and responds. he has to focus, make the most of this. what did he even say? feet in the hallway … feels like childhood, from the way it knots in his chest.

a flickering image in his mind spurs on from the older man’s recollection. vivid in color and the way it makes dennis smile to himself, yet the mouth trembles in an act of fragility. thriller jacket smothering instead of a homely shadow. back then, he’d been nothing but a boy ; a troubled one, sure, but just a kid regardless. still trying to maintain an image he was too big to fit into. dennis remembers more than anything how the night air would prick at his arm and cause the hairs on them to rise. the way anthony would always whimper, smooth jaw clanking from the cold. it’s so cold dennis, he’d hear back then, prone to scowling in response. crazy how he can still hear it with perfectly clarity now too. words that were viewed as pathetic at the time, no matter how eagerly he always exploited it. ushering a shivering form, limbs too spindly even then, into the enclosed space of his too warm bed. insults bleeding from a barbed tongue all the while. as if dennis loathed every second he spent being generous to the younger, acting like it was just so goddamn agonizing. now all he can think of is how much he misses it. hearing the quieted pitter patter of anthony’s bare feet against the old floorboards. being able to feel anybody close. anthony was always a cold child, cruelly deemed jack frost by dennis for it, but dennis had always run hot. running too hot whenever anthony threw an arm around his narrow waist and buried his head wherever he could. dennis’ blood would boil, and he’d run a fever, and sweat, and it would be miserable … but dennis never stopped loving it. craving it to the point he graciously forgave anthony for his accidental rejection and chased them both into his bed again. lips buzz with nostalgia as dennis thinks : yeah, we were some crazy kids.

it’s not what anthony wants, though, and he reminds himself of that. trying to lock away the growing grief hissing rising up his stomach in the name of focusing on the good times. when things weren’t muddled and complicated and so adult. smile more wooden than real when he croaks his agreement, “two years is a huge difference, 'kay? i was the man of the house since i was five! which you knew.” and disagreed with, always james’ undeserving number one fan.

a quiet sort of pride swells within him, washing away the temporary bitterness. always impressed by his self sufficiency even when everyone thought he was too small. nobody raised him to be strong or brave or capable – that was all dennis clarke. nobody else could’ve survived the shit he trudged through. and there had been a stretch of time where he’d been envious, anger a permanent state of being for him, that other kids could live their whole lives naive and lamb skinned … yet in all the time he’s unfortunately spent reflecting, he can’t stomp out the rewards of self raising. who would’ve played hero for anthony? who else could keep the creeps off of tanya? it had to be him. there’s no cost he wouldn’t pay to keep them safe through the means of excessive violence. a fact he’s eager to share, to remind anthony what he owes, though his mouth only opens a fraction before it closes again. shut with a sudden frown, uncertain and shaky. struck with the realization that his brutal upbringing didn’t save him from an untimely end, didn’t save anyone for that matter. embarrassingly axed off by a misstep and the fenced maw below. failure eats at him, not for the first time, and leaves him powerless to do anything but force a joke. power through the immediate uncomfortableness. “not the only thing i rubbed in your face either, jackass.”

piece by piece, he comes alive under the company of his roommate. mind whirling and a sense of self awakening in response to shared memories and want. the ghost he’s been turned into begins to ebb away. passiveness switching to aggressiveness. if there was any life left in the shell he stays in, dennis is sure it’d glow in his eyes or bleed into scratchy cheeks. for now, however, he lets himself just be content with it. always the star ; thriving under millions of eyes and the fluorescent lights. never feeling himself unless he’s captured some sort of attention. stolen under whatever guise that’s desired so he can selfishly keep going. he doubts anthony minds it, considering the way the older man laments about change and how much he’s glad that dennis is here. being missed is something he’s always wanted, although now that he has it … it hurts. solidifies what’s lost and what dennis can’t ever take back. self control wanes as the brunet glances over, eyes snagging on the way skeleton fingers wrap around the bottle. widening to the size of saucers when the blue in anthony’s veins pop amidst deathly pale skin. taken aback by how frail the hand looks, how wrinkled. one sign of many that shows the passage of time that dennis can’t keep ignoring. his boy wonder isn’t exactly a boy anymore, is he? not eternally young like the rockstar is. never in all his years did he think he’d mourn something as unfathomable as this. but how can he not? when dennis allows himself a quick glance up, taking in the balding scalp and warped face, all he’s feeling is a tug at his heart. hollowed body filled with the frightening desire to grow old with someone. to look as decrepit as his roommate and to intertwine sore fingers together, too weak to untangle them until hours later. the ability to waste away with a loved one. willingly give up the freedoms of boyish youth to experience such. jagged pieces of bone stab at his tender guts and he looks away again. ashen face scrunched – pained.

“i’m always here.” is what he manages after a beat, feeling his non-existent heart roaring in bursted ears. overpowering his own bruised feelings in favor of consoling anthony. he’s mourned himself long enough ; has drowned in the childish tears of self pity. no point in focusing on himself, right? didn’t care about himself before, so why start now? it’s about anthony’s needs and what’s good for him. something dennis has always been an expert at judging. “i … yeah, i miss it too. gave you a hard time over it –” countless memories come to him then. sadistic pleasure embedded in every beating, prank, and insult. he could blush from the crushing shame of it all now, if he had any blood left for it. “but i liked it. sharing it with you. more than you know.” tone is lowered, a mere wisp and pronounced with hesitation. proceed with caution! you’re dealing with anthony clarke, the number one crazy! he thinks about trying to lighten the somber mood. trying to shake out of the funk that threatens to bring him down, burdened on him like bloodied bricks. sharp canines having to drag along the inside of his bleeding mouth so he doesn’t fuck up! so he doesn’t spill his guts ( not literally this time 'round ) and drag the other kicking and screaming from the clouds in that freaky, blank mind. everything piled to high heavens on the dead man’s plate, and he wouldn’t have it any other way no matter how he tenses under the pressure. he might not know much, but he knows enough to get that dodging landmines is a good thing. won’t get anthony blown up, at least. and he’s all that matters now. the sole survivor of the clarke fire. dennis’ last tie to the living world. the last piece of living proof that shows that the clarkes existed.

but it’s hard not to get anthony killed when he says things like that. so confidently wrong that it makes dennis insides scream. every vein tightening at the way he’s been dismissed in the circus act that’s anthony’s explanations – the stories. how could you miss someone and want them gone at the same time? why her? why the fuck was it always her? deep in the caverns of himself, something thrashes and howls. ramming into already agonized sides and getting louder the more dennis has to sit like he’s comfortable with it. slowly taking in every word just like before. having to roll it around in his head as if it’s church of terror on loop. worsening with each unnecessary breath he sucks in to try and steady himself, an action that reeks of helplessness. hand cupping his chest to soothe himself with the only touch he can feel. ice on ice, shudder on shudder. in the moment he can’t help it, the impulsive way he scoffs and stomps a foot. pressing out with raw venom, “finally? christ, you’ve never stopped being weird about tanya and i, have you? fuckin’ creep – !”

tongue burns from the way he holds it, pinning the wiggling appendage down with teeth. letting the guilt hit him now instead of later ; saving himself the work of digging a deeper grave to claw out of. anger dulls into a mere throb that circulates around the skull, washed out by the vast hurt that comes to replace it. was that his happy ending to anthony? someone easily dismissed? makes him want to tear at ruffles of brown hair ; to grab those broadened shoulders and shake some sense into the man. look deep into those once baby blues to see what the hell dennis clarke looks like now. having anyone speak for him, deciding what he wants, is enough to make him lash out … though it mostly raws and aches. knowing he’s spent hours fantasizing about the very thing anthony said ; running off with his favorite girl to hold her hand in public somewhere, anywhere she wanted to go. gloss imprints emboldened on his toned skin. hands forever catching thin strands of mauve hair. and shit, he misses her. wants ( wanted ) exactly what anthony’s kindly given him in his mind. but he can’t help the way he tries not to think about it or the endless dread that withers under. he hasn’t seen her since … that. doesn’t know if she’s alone somewhere else and scared, or what happened to the object of his teenage affections at all.

( did it hurt? the dramatic final track of his own life was nothing but shrieking notes , all rumpled bloodied pages. can’t think about if hers was like that. he just knows he couldn’t take it if it was. or the fact he can’t change it now )

yet it’s all doubled because his throat is scrubbed raw by the way he wants to say i don’t want her, i want you! the hurt heavier and extreme to the point of numbness that crawls up the nerves in weakened arms. an underlying bitterness souring the taste of copper on his tongue. dennis, in an act of pure selflessness ( of love ) , attempts for the last time to push the baggage back. fighting tooth and nail for it to be abandoned at the shadows of himself so he stops acting stupid. this isn’t about him or whatever he still feels. it’s about anthony. a repeated mantra he tries to hammer into the split ends of his soul. get a firm grasp on because he can’t fuck up any of the time he has left … who knows when anthony will forget him again? pretend he’s never heard of him in his whole much longer lived life? dennis wants to make the most out of this still ; and as much as he wants to shatter the picture perfect fantasy his roommate’s constructed around himself, he knows what might happen if he does. not enough of a hero to take the sacrificed time in the name of anthony getting better in the long run. he needs this, needs not wants, and will take it and hold it close. keep it like a promise for something more than what he’s been given. nothing more is said of the girl most important to them, with dennis purposely trying to avoid any more mentions of the name. he shoves it all in a bottle and keeps that inside, too.

instead attention is brought to the offered beverage. can already see the shit smells wafting from the wetted rim given how grimy the bottle looks. don’t think about it, he tells himself, just be in the moment. no more past. an impossible feat since that’s all dennis is anymore ; to the world, to the false god, and to anthony. a reminder in the way he reaches out an oddly steady hand to ghost a finger along the sturdy glass. imagining the surface of it beneath his fingers. creative mind knowing no bounds even after the brain’s died. it’d probably feel cool and wet, slick to the touch from droplets of sweat sliding down. he can see the condensation enough to picture it. tries to remember how cheap beer tasted in a mouth like his, but he had never been a drunk enough to know from just a glance. naming label doesn’t ring any bells either. is it spicy or just bitter? dennis’ jaw clenches and he withdrawals his hand. self consciously wondering if the apartment’s dingy lights caught more of his face. something he doesn’t worry about for long, not when a reckless need hits him again and he just ruins everything by saying it out loud. “bring it closer,” and then in a confessional rush, because of course he’s thinking about it. how could he fucking not? thinks about it more than he is when it comes to the feel of a drink against his lips. “i miss kissing you.”

dennis has always been messy, a broken thing taped together by faux smiling parents and their shitty cult community. though at least then he had some brains to protect himself. fenced away after one lousy heartbreak and mouth stitched closed. channeled all the childish urges to be loved into violence and starvation. but he’s been gone a long time, told by the very aged beauty anthony now stands for, and he’s lost himself. aimlessly wandering and passively watching. it changes you, death changes you. and he can’t protect himself when there’s nothing left worth protecting … and he can’t protect anthony from what he wants, because dennis can’t bring himself to care. no matter all his efforts pushed to try, and definitely no matter how much he lies to himself and says he will. he just wants and wants and wants more than this. more than haunting a vessel who can’t even miss him. figures, he thinks while instinctively curling in on himself from where he sits on the floor. hiding. figures that someone as rotten as him would be subjected to this instead of the pearly gates of christian afterlife.

veiny hand outstretched, anthony sees the world in a hazy sepia tone, faded photographs and dennis’ skin unblemished. he gets the occasional sense that the rockstar must be tired, purplish tint to his exhausted eyes. anthony doesn’t think he’s young and pretty anymore, can’t stand looking in the mirror. beer belly growing more pronounced, most likely, and tanya would say he looks and smells like a rat. funny of her to do that, when it was her who ruined his life to begin wi —

that’s unfair, he tells himself sternly. she and dennis are the loves of each other’s lives. not her fault you were never a part of that.

resisting the urge to take the beer back and take another swig himself, the bus driver trains his gaze steadily onto dennis. pupils wavering back and forth with an unconscious movement, a result of a head trauma he doesn’t remember suffering. he remembers the bandages, tight against his forehead and messing up his hair. no, but he never had any bandages on… did dennis push him down the stairs again? typical.

unlike dennis, so used to shouldering heavy burdens, anthony pushes away anything that feels too difficult, mind easily shuttering it out and obscuring it from view. it doesn’t even happen consciously, it’s so automatic. no hurt displays on his face, only a weary sadness. he feels like he’s been impaled on a — drowned in a river, he mentally corrects, chasing away something far too painful to voice or even think about. it feels like he’s bleeding out, slow and painful, being leeched of all the world’s warmth and replaced with a numbing cold. (you don’t bleed out when you drown, comes dennis’ sharp pointed voice, and he ignores it.)

he watches as dennis traces the glass, imagines how the condensation curls around his fingertips and drips down. he follows the movement with his eye, notes how the droplet splashes against the ground. and then dennis whispers, raw against the air — i miss kissing you. anthony shivers. bring it closer. i miss kissing you. crowding around his foggy head like a terrible mantra that makes him want to scream. memories of their lips locked together, lazy afternoons where dennis would bring him to the coveted attic and bruise his lips for hours. whispered sweet tones of a budding love. how the chain of the handmade necklace tickled anthony’s fingers. red and a matching blue. together forever. a home in a broken ribcage with a screaming heart. just dennis being dennis, a smug smile, before dennis went upstairs, hey bigfoot! mind the goddamn —

“stop, stop it!” he drops the bottle to cover his ears, and it clunks to the floor, spilling the beer in a semicircle. acutely aware of the sound it makes as it rolls. anthony has to work hard not to start crying, breathing heavily as he forces down the memories he doesn’t want to revisit. i miss kissing you. i miss you. i miss everything about you. “you shouldn’t have left!” he says it accusingly, daggers in his tone like he’s throwing darts at a board. “i miss you too, idiot! every day! look at me, i’m — !” ugly! old and washed up!

he takes a quiet, shuddering breath. “i’m nothing without you. you and tanya? i just gotta be happy for you, i guess. always knew it would happen. sucks for me, but… it’s what you both always wanted. i never saw her happier than when she was with you, you know.” he picks up the bottle and swirls the remaining liquid around. takes a long swig. “and you… she’s the love of your life. i’d never get in the way of that.” forgetting that dennis was the one who offered, that tanya isn’t even here right now. he snuffs out his anger quick, because getting angry and resentful never worked. always earned him the ire of both tanya and dennis, so he kept his mouth shut.

anthony’s chest puffs out easily with pride, a closed-mouthed grin spreading across his face. he’s a simple guy, easily taken apart by praise from his favourite people in the whole world. sure, he’s pretty sarcastic by nature and doesn’t show emotions a lot, but when he does, he’s a little smug, contented nature radiating off him like the cat who got the cream. the cream in question, obviously, being tanya’s hard-earned praise.

cause it is hard-earned. she doesn’t mince words or give out unnecessary compliments, always preferring a razor-sharp edge over something embarrassingly mushy. and with her smiling like that and nudging anthony with a proud older-sister arm, he feels like he’s on top of the world.

“i didn’t...” andrew starts, brow furrowed and his head swivelling around to look around, as if john could be talking to anyone else. maybe it’s the concussion talking, but he doesn’t remember... ever... taking sides. he’s not even sure which sides are there to take, or if he ever picked someone else over the professor. trying to think about it leads to him coming up empty, so he just fidgets, leans a little further in as if the proximity will lend itself to some kind of clarity. “did i pick sides? i mean, i try and be nice to everyone, but... i don’t really remember any of you. you all seem pretty trustworthy.”

it’s said with a somewhat dazed expression, though his voice is low like he’s telling a secret. and now that john’s remarked that things have changed, andrew starts to worry. had he been biased? are the others mad at him for something? maybe he picked sides a long time ago, or something...