Roadkill King

"Fuck," you groan, voice pitching high with pain.

"Shit…" The twins stare at you, motionless and waiting anxiously.

You stick out your tongue, flinching when the muscle comes in contact with the cut on your lip and your taste buds coat with copper. With gently probing fingers you tap your chin, prints coming away bloody. "...Don't follow me." You turn and leave the house and the door wide open.

It's a blur, getting to your bike. Once you arrive at the tarp covered mass of metal, however, you scowl and realize you don't have your keys. You spit a bloody patch into the dirt, thick with your body's attempt to clot, and continue walking down the main street. Every corner of your mind is screaming to hide hide have to hide have to get away have to be safe- but there's nowhere you feel safer than in Ambrose. So it's just a matter of finding the right corner to hole up in.

You've explored everything the town has to offer- by this point you couldn't know the ins and outs of a place much better unless you'd built it yourself- so you know where to go once you think about it. Finding somewhere to hide is something of a skill of yours. It's a leftover from your old life. Paranoia was a gift given to you at a young age that you'd been forced to nurture through fear and knowledge of what could be done to you even when you should have considered yourself safe. Safe was never a term with comfort. It just meant a step above dead in a ditch.

The home of the fake out old woman is your destination. For you she's a favorite. A spot that holds so much hope for those that are just passing through but a false prayer behind the curtains in reality. You settle into her unused bedroom, a pile of musty afghans left from the proper but no longer existing tenant and the makings of a wonderful nest for you. Once the town forgets your existence the squeak of the old woman moving and the buzz of her TV playing endless reruns of white noise cease and bring silence.

It's not that you intend to never go back to the house, or that you didn't intend to go farther away from it to start with. But there's no proper way to handle the situation and thus you find the best course of action is a decaying set of blankets in a dark and hidden corner of the town. It could be worse.

You don't realize you've fallen asleep until you wake to the call of your name.

"-gotta be somewhere. Bike's still here. Can't get far on foot." The sound of Bo's voice is muffled but audible until he passes by the old woman's windows. Before you realize it you've pressed yourself to the wall farthest from the windows with your heart rate spiking painfully. You don't fear being found, necessarily, you just fear the confrontation of it before you're ready to manage such an ordeal. The sun has gone down and you watch the directed beams of flashlights come through the curtains and move away quickly. You don't think they quite know where to look for you and it makes you relax a measure.

Lester's voice joins his call, sounding more frantic and strained than his brother's. "Can't believe you two. What happened? Did you do something?"

"I didn't do nothin'!" Bo shouts, now clear despite his distance. In your mind's eye you can see the tightness of his jaw with the outburst. The narrowing of his eyes. "I wasn't the one that hit 'em."

The pause following the words must have Lester gaping like a fish, you'd imagine. "Vinny hit- Y-Ya can't be serious."

"Not on purpose, but he did." You can just see how he pauses before he speaks again, likely clutching at his hair and tense as all hell. "Shit, we really fucked up. C'mon, let's keep lookin'." Their voices fade out and you sink back into the afghan pile, exhaling and letting warm tears flow down your cheeks.

You know he hadn't meant to punch you. That was clear; no arguing the fact of who the strike was meant for. But it hurt nonetheless. In more ways than one.

It hadn't started out as a fight. They were getting along, really. You'd been sandwiched between the two of them and dozing while something played on TV. You'd felt a hand slipping up your shirt but hadn't thought much of it- you don't mind a bit of groping from either one of them- and before you knew it you were jostled from your spot by their bickering. Vincent had a tight grip on Bo's wrist, staring him down while his twin snarled at him.

"I got just as much a right as you," Bo spat.

Vincent released him, though only to sign "You can't do whatever you want."

"Says you. Don't know about you but with me it's no holds barred." You blushed at the words paired with his signature grin. Vincent made a series of signs each less courteous than the last- a string of curses that even had Bo balking by the time he finished. "... Asshole," he retorted simply. "Got everything handed to ya and now you wanna take the one thing I got."

"Mine first," he signed shortly, movements becoming more agitated and, consequently, less coherent and complex.

"I'm not anybody's!" you cut in. But they ignored you entirely, standing and shoving at each other.

“Come on, then, freak- Take your best shot. Let's see you be man enough to have 'em,” Bo goaded, motioning with two fingers in a 'come at me' gesture.

You stood up to put yourself between them. “Don't you two sta-” You were cut off, rather abruptly, by Vincent's fist connecting solidly with your chin and mouth. Pain erupted across your face and you stumbled back, inhaling and holding your breath until the sting settled into something less harsh and insistent. The silence that followed was enough to make you think you'd gone deaf from the strike until you let out that single curse.

And here you lay, jaw throbbing and lip stinging with every twitch. It's hard to decide how to go back. Or if you want to go back. You're not sure what the alternative is- Yes, you were hit but it was not intentional and it was clear the brothers regretted everything about the incident from the moment it happened. You don't think it's entirely fair to pack up and leave for one thing alone. They're... belligerent about you and your status between them. Neither wants to give an inch but each wants to take a mile. It was agreed that they could be satisfied with your situation but clearly there's issues. Not that you didn't expect some, but this has escalated farther than is acceptable. If nothing else you need to talk. To both of them.

⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸

“Hey.”

Bo flinches, dropping his tire iron and spinning around with a hand dropping to the pocket where he keeps a small pocketknife in case he should ever need it. He sees you and stands at once, eyes wide. “Fuck, babe, you scared me. You know how worried I been? C'mere, I-” When he takes a step toward you, you take your own back and he stops. “The fuck are you doing? It ain't like I'm the one that hit ya.”

You scowl. “Because trying to get him to hit you was so admirable. I can leave if you're just going to try and badmouth Vincent so I'll be 'yours' or some shit.” You shake your head. “Maybe this was a mistake, I-”

“No! No, alright, I'll listen. Jesus, I'll listen just... Don't disappear on me again.” He takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender.

“... I blame both of you. For what happened. What did you want to fight him for, Bo? What the hell are you trying to do?”

“I don't... know.”

“Do you have a problem with me being with Vincent and you? I expected that you'd tell me if you do.”

“No. No I... I don't care that you're with him- better with him than anyone else. He an' I've always been close. 'N our own way. S'pose it makes sense I'd fall for ya if he did. Listen, doll, I'm willin' to do whatever it takes to have ya. I'd be willin' to let ya have a man for every day of the week if it meant I'd get ya even one a those days.”

“You be willing?” you repeat, smiling ruefully. “Fuck, Bo, you really aren't getting it, are you? I love you but I don't need your permission for much of anything. It's fun to do the possessive thing when we're fucking but outside of that? You can't act like I belong to you. Neither of you can. It's killing this. I can't do this shit. It's too difficult and petty and I just won't do it. Fuck that...”

He bobs his head for a while, shifting and finally nodding like he means it. “Okay, okay. You're right. This ain't the first time you've brought it up- shoulda listened. I dunno, I didn't think I was doing any harm." He shrugs half heartedly, sucking his teeth and nodding again. "Think I just like the way it sounded- sayin' you're mine. I don't hafta, though. I know I got your love, doll. That's more'n enough."

"It's not all bad- I don't mind the words so much, it's just how you two say it. Like I don't have a choice. I was hoping this could be civil, not a fight with me as the prize. I hate that part. I'd enjoy being yours as long as it's not all I am to you. Something you win. Something you own."

"With a spitfire like you? Shit, it was hard enough to win ya over. Don't think I could keep ya held down permanently if I tried,” he laughs lightly but sobers quickly to continue. “I'll tone it down, cher. Promise. Don't need to go losin you over somethin this small." He pauses, looking over you. "Can I fuckin kiss ya now?"

You snort, breaking into a smile. "Yeah, you goof." He embraces you and keeps you in a firm kiss until you're tapping at his ribs to give you some air. "Wow, you must've really missed me. I was only gone one night." The cut on your lip stings but you can live with a little pain.

"S'too long," he mutters. "My bed's never felt so fuckin' empty- knowin there wasn't a chance I was gonna wake up with you in it."

You soften at that. For all his hard edges there's a side of Bo he lets you catch peeks of and with every new glance you find he has a new way to show just how soft he is for you. There are moments when you doubt him- wondering if his instincts to be ruthless will cut through any love he holds for you one day and never relinquish their control- but when he tells you things like that it reinforces your certainty he can keep those dark things at bay if he has something or someone to do so for. “I can be with you tonight. To make up for it. I have to talk to Vincent before that, though.”

“Yeah... He... He really is sorry 'bout what happened. Hittin' ya. We never meant for things to go that far. 'M sorry I pushed him.”

“I know it wasn't on purpose. I don't doubt that. But I still need to talk to him.”

After you leave Bo you have an easy time finding Vincent. His workshop is his own safe haven. More so than anywhere it's where he's comfortable. He looks over when you come down the passage from the House of Wax but makes no move to approach you or let you know he's noticed you at all. You lean against his table, watching as he draws out what seems to be a dog or wolf with skin and muscle melting off its skeleton as it walks forward. After a moment of silence you speak quietly. “You used to tell me I talk too much and I should listen more. I'm listening, Vincent.” A beat of silence and you continue. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He exhales and puts down his pencil, leaning back in his chair. “I'm sorry.” His voice is quiet- raspy and harsh despite his volume. He swaps to signing; slow and deliberate. “I didn't mean to hit you. Are you okay?”

“It stings. That's not what I was asking for, though. What's happening, Vincent? You said you'd tell me if you had a problem with this.”

“I thought I wouldn't mind but every time I see him with you...” He trails off. “I get scared. That he's taking more of you every day. Eventually there won't be any room for me.” He shakes his head. “I don't think I can do it. I don't want you with him.”

“You really could have said something sooner. Before things got so serious.”

“I wanted you to be happy!” The signs are forceful. Angry but made with intent to show he's certain in what he's telling you.

“And now... What? I'm happy with both of you and because you're not the only one making me happy, you want to call things off? Do you really think I can just stop being in love with Bo because you tell me to?” He flinches at the word 'love' and you feel a rising from the pit of your stomach. You continue in acid tones. “We had this talk! I told you nothing about how I feel for you changes because I love someone else, too, and I meant it- I still mean it! I told Bo the same thing, though: you can't act like you own me. Being yours is not all I am but it's what you're making me into. I'm so sick of having to fight to feel like my own person again. That's making me unhappy.”

“Then maybe you should go back to being your own person.” He's rigid after the last sign, staring you down.

“What are you saying?” you breathe. Suddenly it feels like your lungs have been ripped out. It takes so much more effort to get your words out past the rapidly shrinking amount of air you're able to take in with the tightness of your throat. “Vince, you can't be serious. I love you. I told you I wanted to make this work- I didn't do this to make you mad at me or something. We can talk this out. Just let me know what I can do.”

“Leave,” he rasps. “You can leave.” He turns back and picks up his pencil, returning to his drawing.

“F-Fine... I'll get my stuff out of your room, too. Fucking... Let me know if you decide you'd rather talk than just start fights.” He doesn't acknowledge the jab or you as you leave.