RELIGION OF THE MOON

all abrupt, sharp tension cracks his spine straight. the fingers that had found themselves curled over his thigh have an opposite reaction: they relax, flatten down until he can feel the thigh strap holding a KA-BAR against his palm. it feels a little like whiplash. marc’s behavior. frank’s physical responses. his confused defensiveness that swells when marc slips on an aggressive mask. it’s fucking frustrating. 

his eyes follow that finger. it has no business being as clean as it appears considering what they’ve done. no amount of healing can fix that. no amount of healing can fix you, he wants to snap back but only because he feels a wall dig into his shoulder blades and he’s losing his grip on remaining detached. it’s marc’s fault. marc did that. he somehow got under all of frank’s barriers, squeezed in through the smallest crack and stretched out enough to make a space that fit him. 

and god if frank’s doesn’t want to seal it up and keep marc there. 

maybe that’s the issue. maybe marc is actually on to something and isn’t just being led by his rushing emotions and babbling nonsense. he’s noticed frank’s willingness to wrap callused hands around his hip, but the second they both acknowledge it, frank yanks back. mixed signals. no wonder marc’s charging him head first. 

he doesn’t move, doesn’t lean forward to get out of his chair. it’d feel like giving up and proving all the unsaid shit right. ❛ something will change. ❜ whether or not that something is damaging is a clouded concept, but frank knows that if he wants to see that outcome, it won’t be one in his favor. that’s what he can’t deal with. he can’t plan for this. this is one of those rare times where he feels like a coward and he makes no effort to change course. he can’t. ❛ you make it sound like it’s so easy but it’s not, spector. nothing we do is easy. it’s complicated, and messy. ❜ 

frank sighs again and it’s quiet, like a whisper, sounding so tired and thin. he wants so bad it feels like a thirst. but marc’s a desert, there’s no water there. 

he looks up, isn’t sure when he looked down to chase that rolling bullet but he looks up like the praying would do. doesn’t help marc’s still in clean, beautiful whites. frank’s eyes slide over marc’s face; the agitation is gone and exhaustion has fit in it’s place. a twitching jaw. something thick in always-sad brown eyes. a knot suddenly forms in frank’s guts when he realizes that something already HAS changed.

        “i can’t.” artificial. automatic. he wants.

the moon has many faces, four of them live inside of him. the pathfinder, who directed his steps to frank. the watcher, who deciphered every word between them. the protector, who stood up in anger. the fourth one is stirring now-- the embracer, the one who mends. 

❛ frank. ❜ whispers marc. 

he wants to say that name again. prayers are an easy choice for him, his lips are shaped like a mantra already. another step, knees bump into thighs. frank, his mouth moves without a sound. frank is surrendering and if marc had any dignity left, he would just turn around. fine, you won’t see me again. you don’t want us, then i disappear. this city is big enough for us both.

marc should be walking away. he should let frank let him go. but instead he stays like a sickness.

he wishes he could lash out. vault his leg over frank’s thighs, sit in his lap, grab his hands, press them to his hips and hiss out accusations ( this is the only thing you want now, right? i opened your eyes, you sad closeted sack of shit--- ), but he can’t. marc should be angry, he has every right to-- but all his mind swims in is sand and pity. 

softness-- their world needs it so much. he doesn’t have much to spare but it belongs to frank anyways.

❛ you’re afraid. ❜

doesn’t matter why frank’s afraid. could be the vision of another tombstone, the limit on grief in one lifetime-- or it could be the threat of having to hold back, the fear of having to account for somebody else after cauterizing yourself away from the human world. or it could be fear of finally having to feel something else than the safe void. marc is forcing frank to look in the mirror and see more than the skull, feel more than the hollow bones. 

in a way, marc follows his god’s footsteps without even knowing it. his hands have resurrected a man who did not ask for it.

and despite that-- he grabs frank’s calloused palm.

sometimes frank is reminded that he’s never witnessed marc knocked down by wounded pride. even as he reaches, as he always does, as he does now, frank can deny and prove him wrong over and over again but he still tries. and it’s that type of tenacity that frank isn’t sure if he should label it as determination or desperation.

❛ mm. ❜ he shouldn’t rely on sullen, short replies or even his silence right now. but it comes out, a rough grunt that may sound detached when he’s actually trying to give himself some extra time to just. think. marc is talking, and make no mistake that frank is listening but he wishes this wasn’t a fucking conversation they were having right now. leave it to marc to open that door.

leave it frank to give him the key to it.

❛ i’d say we have a lot of problems if that’s the case. ❜ frank’s eyes leave the bullet, moving up to marc’s down-turned face. backed into a corner, frank’s jaw sets. he can’t avoid this, and perhaps somewhere inside of him he doesn’t want to break whatever was building between the two of them. they work well together; a seamless partnership that granted frank the opportunity to depend on someone to be at his back in the middle of the fight instead of behind a computer screen, calling the shots miles away. the professionalism is there, but it’s what happens when the mask and vest comes off that’s made this a mess.

his hands leave the table when he leans back into the chair. hidden from marc’s gaze, they curl over the tops of his thighs and squeeze. ❛ spector - ❜ last name, less personal. ❛ this isn’t going to end the way you want it. ❜ and maybe the way frank wants it to. the words that are leaving his mouth feel artificial. automatic. he sighs through his nose. ❛ what we do, what it makes us, we don’t get a chance to have that. ❜

❛ you think i don’t know that? ❜ something wakes up. ❛ i’m mentally ill, not STUPID. ❜

it’s not fair to get angry at frank ( he’s already put up with so much-- ). but marc knows what this is. an escape, last bullet, closing of the doors. he recognizes it because he’s done it so often before. 

❛ i don’t want to stop, i can’t stop-- ❜ he’s replying to a question that didn’t get asked. marc does that when his safe drowsiness gets chased away. he speaks out of turn and uses unwieldy phrases, he makes no sense and too much sense. the smile he wore seconds ago melts away, something snarling takes its place. wide, manic eyes-- too brown and too intense to belong on a human face. desert sand sloshes in his skull and he wishes he was still sleeping because awake marc spector is an uncomfortable skin to wear ( and a cumbersome sight to behold ).

he gets up, one hand points at frank with accusation, the other forms into a gloved fist. 

❛ you think i want to just-- what, settle down? with you? no offence, frank, but if i wanted somebody to heal me-- it wouldn’t be you. ❜ idiot, he almost spits and an empty beak rattles with laughter somewhere in background. sometimes he wishes frank wasn’t so important to himself-- maybe he would see more if he could look up from that skull shirt of his. marc exhales, his accusatory fingers relax. ❛ i can’t settle down. we can’t settle down. and it’s not what i want. ❜

he steps forward, walking around the table. one less barrier between them. his hip bumps into a corner, the bullet tops over with a clatter.

❛ i don’t want peace, i wouldn’t know what to do with it. ❜ marc chokes out. there’s more he could be saying. i want restlessness, i want to sleep only after the moon has drunk in its share of blood. i want stitches and gunpowder, i want jumbled bones and veins that skip a beat. i want to hurt because that’s when i understand. i want to be awake in the most wonderful and horrifying way-- and you’re the one who keeps my eyes open. 

   “Jesus, mom did like that.” Can’t tell if that makes his mom a nurse or Marc’s nurse his mom. It’s kinda funny either way. He laughs through his nose. “Let me get a bike though. Safer to ride than a man, you bet.”

“ yeah-- didn’t have much to jerk off to in a hospital. ” stupid. but at least he didn’t disclose what kind of hospital it was. still stupid. always talking about his woes-- it’s like he’s not even trying. 

you only know of my nature, frank wants to argue. only because he firmly believes that under white, chipping paint there is nothing left resembling the man who once smiled at his family. it changed when he turned away from them, and found himself preferring the comforts thick jungle leaves had to offer. it changed when empty air punctured by the sound of popping bullets became soft, quiet, relaxing, and the sound of his wife breathing next to him brought him sleepless nights. under the skull, intimacy has been forgotten. discarded like many of the frivolous items he deemed as luxuries.

you only know what i let you know.

but marc is seeking something. acknowledgement? possibly. frank can say his roll in this has been passive. that’s he has, under no circumstances, given marc reason to look deeper. and it’s so, so easy to shift the blame to someone who already looks at fault.

        ❛ what are you looking for, marc. ❜ hollow; frank still sounds tired. and he’s still trying to push distance between the two of them. regardless of the fact he invited marc in.

his eyes drop to the bullet; maybe it’s hidden there. maybe it’s a question they aren’t asking ( or are hesitant to ). a bullet by itself is relatively harmless. incomplete. take it, load it in its intended magazine, into a gun, and it becomes a weapon. viciously powerful. deadly. a divot appears between frank’s eyes; he doesn’t move to grab it.

he smiles a crooked and tired grin. 

❛ fuck, i don’t know, frank. ❜ marc’s gaze moves to left and right, as if his eyes needed a moment to themselves to dart around and not look at frank. this was bound to happen the moment he took off his mask. whenever people around him remember he’s a person, they always get restless. marc doesn’t blame them, his skull makes him feel the same way.

❛ i don’t know what i’m looking for and i don’t know if you can even give it to me. i don’t think you can. ❜ he’s still smiling like he’s in on a secret joke. maybe it’s something khonshu whispered into his ear, a funny little punchline. maybe he’ll share it the world someday. lines etched into frank’s face are sharp and unforgiving, but marc wears amused softness on his. a smile of somebody who thinks it’s really funny that their survival instinct is just no longer there. 

❛ you want me to tell you that i want a house in the suburbs, family dinners and fresh pie every sunday? ❜ it’s just funny. really funny. ❛ that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? just so you can say you can’t do it. you can’t do relationships, you can’t do commitment. ❜

marc cants his head to the side, brown eyes rest on the bullet. his smile grows mocking.

he turns his head to watch frank enter one of the many living rooms in the dust-covered mansion. 

marc puts a paint-stained finger to his mouth, presses it against the drowsy smile. shhh. 

time for words comes later. 

marc sits in the middle of a unswept carpet, crossed legs and bare feet. dust is clinging to his white shirt and sweatpants, various shades of paint are doing the same to his careless hands and exposed wrists. there’s a modest-sized canvas in front of him, safely perched on an tiny easel. frank stands in the ornate doorway, like a shadow that’s trying to decide what to do with itself. and then he walks over to the nearest table to busy himself with something. marc doesn’t react.

he feels good. he feels like himself.

so he puts the brush against the filled canvas again. slow strokes, languid pace. he paints a man laying on a grass, surrounded by picnic patterns. the man is hugging a beer bottle, his gaze isn’t directed anywhere in particular. white shirt. a beard. unruly brown hair. he looks either somber or just relaxed, marc hasn’t decided yet. could be both.

he hears the rustle of pages from frank’s journal in the background. marc’s absent smile grows.

they guard their respective silences for a few more minutes and then marc decides he’s ready to talk again. he doesn’t look at frank, just continues dabbing at the canvas, so proud of himself. look at him. he can be patient enough, he can be focused enough. he can create, not just destroy.

❛ i have a friend. they showed me the basics. it’s like drawing, but more. ❜ he likes it. he doesn’t need to be completely present for the process-- but the results are tangible. painting numbs him with comfort, it stains him and reassures his contours.

frank lifts up his head, recognizing the moment in which he can ask a question and get an answer.

❛ is that you. ❜ his gruff tone stands in contrast to marc’s soft and lethargic timbre. 

marc turns to him with a skewed smile. then he returns to painting after a while of just staring at frank as if to say ‘the answer is complicated.’

❛ it’s steven. ❜ he hums out after that pause. so yes, in a way, this is an autoportret. but it’s not.

after a few short strokes of light on the bottle, marc continues. 

❛ on coney island. me and steven used to go there a lot, every time i got a longer leave pass from the hospital. ❜ it doesn’t feel like he’s in a boarded up room in his mansion anymore. it feels like he’s back there, listening to people having fun and drinking colors straight from a glass bottles. he likes that. ❛ i’d sit somewhere on the boardwalk and wonder if people can tell. that i’m from a mental hospital. ❜

hello, i’m marc. i’m no longer from chicago, i’m from putnam hospital.

he shakes his head. no. today he’s feeling good and that’s what he’s going to stick to. 

❛ i saw a guy there once. i was... nineteen maybe, he looked my age too. i really wanted to talk to him, i didn’t even know why. he was reading a book and he looked like he’s written it, if that makes sense. ❜ marc thinks frank understands. ❛ but i felt that-- i felt that if i went to talk to him, it wouldn’t work out. no, it had to be steven. steven could talk to him. so he did. ❜

marc doesn’t even know how to describe those days. those few moments of freedom from therapy and blank walls of his hospital room. he felt like he’s been sneaking out of his existence and letting steven take over. every escape looked the same: meet on coney island, buy beer, talk about everything and nothing at all, look for a quiet place where nobody would see him and the boy with rounded glasses kiss.

it felt like being alive.

thanks to steven and coney island.

❛ and that’s the story of how i met my first boyfriend. ❜ marc finishes, pulling the brush away from canvas. the painting glistens with fresh colors and he tries to soak this in. these strokes will never be as vivid as they are now. 

❛ but they didn’t let me out too often. or not often enough. we never got serious. and then my dad died, i escaped then enrolled... you know the rest. ❜ marc sets down the makeshift palette ( a board from one of his crates which store untold egyptian riches ). 

he looks at frank with a grateful smile. marc hasn’t told that story to anyone, but now he has. furthermore, he managed to paint it. he made those rare moments tangible. those moments of his youth that felt just like that-- like being young and so full of life. laying on grass, thinking about nothing. steven had it all and that gave marc something to look forward to while he was closed in those walls that promised to make him better. promised to fix him. 

❛ i thought about coney island today. ❜ marc explains his motives behind the painting while getting up and stretching. ❛ i realized that i don’t have too many good memories from that period of my life... so i should... honor them, you know? capture that feeling. ❜

frank nods.

❛ remind myself that i can still feel like this. ❜ marc adds, absentmindedly. his gaze starts to reflect the gaze of his painted counterpart. he wakes up with a jolt of his head and beams at frank.

                       ❛  the gods are dead  &&  their children are but waking dreams.  ❜  her eyes for a moment find themselves hypnotized by the crimson drops falling from his weapon, each one akin to a flower petal in her eyes.  she is neither afraid nor on a hurry to run.  instead, foolish girl, she stands straight, speaking words she knows are  not  hers.   

                       ❛  i don’t feel guilty either, but perhaps it’s because my people are humans transfigured by the blood of the dead gods.  whatever deity you talk of though, it is no god of mine.  my god went  MAD  years ago, back during the war.  we are still searching for her heir, some say.  not that i care, this has nothing to do with me or what i do.  ❜ 

❛ we have something in common then. ❜ she has no reason to fear him. he wouldn’t harm a traveler who is forced to walk the same path as he does. ❛ changed by the gods who just couldn’t stay away. i’ve heard some say that this is the natural order of things. ❜ he looks up to the sky that almost got suffocated by tall buildings. his eyes locate the moon without the fail. ❛ mortals seek out gods, gods seek out mortals. they’re as weak as we are, if not more. ❜

he glances back at her. ❛ your god must be especially desperate. you’re too young for divinity in your veins. ❜ the knight says his verdict, disregarding the fact that the moon has been calling out to him even when he was just a boy.

They can’t quite figure out if they’re hungry or not, so having the decision made for them suits Kennedy pretty well. And it makes them look generous, sort of. It’s a win-win.    “Knock yourself out,” they encourage him, pushing the plate an inch closer to Marc with a welcoming flat-palm gesture. “I’ll probably just have some toast later, ‘m never that hungry in the morning.” It’s noon. They turn sheepish, maybe coy. “Thanks for like – staying for breakfast.” (… it’s lunch.)

❛ hm? oh. ❜ he chews on the bagel and elaborates with a still full mouth ❛ why wouldn’t i stay? sex was good, you have a nice kitchen and you got bagels. plus-- it’s not awkward yet. ❜

marc almost added ‘plus i’m lonely’ right after those bagels. now that would have been awkward.

an unmasked face exposes too much; frank sees the bruising smudged under spector’s eyes, brought on by unhealthy sleeping habits instead of a wild fist. he sees the start of an unkempt beard, and spector’s hair is simultaneously flat and disheveled. it’s easy to talk to a blank, faceless canvas. these details would be lost; the person loses what makes them a person. a sheet of cloth is pealed away and so goes any resemblance of professionalism. 

it’s hypocritical, really, to allow his thoughts to drift in the direction they’re going. as if the line hadn’t already been blurred – he knows the taste of marc’s mouth. 

❛ mm. ❜ hooking his boot around a chair leg, frank drags it away from a table cluttered with weapons and ammunition. he carefully sweeps his jacket to the side so it’s not pinned beneath him when he sits. distracted: that’s what he feels right now. distracted and stupid. motions lacking the usual mechanical fluidity he relies on, his joints rusted and noisy.  ❛ sit, ❜ frank says, nodding to an empty seat across from him. 

        ❛ need to ask: am i that easy to find? ❜

marc stares at frank, placating him with slow blinks. he gets like this-- when he stays quiet and doesn’t answer the question because to him it’s just obvious. and he gets lost in wondering why was the query asked at all? why the word ‘NEED’? it’s all pretty obvious.

marc is honest. and that’s his greatest downfall. he’s just really fucking bad at pretending. 

❛ no, not easy. ❜ there’s a dreamlike quality in marc’s voice, the rigidness of his holy mission is dissipating, seeping out of his pores. something tame and curled up is taking its place instead. marc blinks again, moves to carefully put his hands and elbows on the table. gloved fingers pluck out a single bullet like a shiny seed. ❛ not usually. it can get easy though. ❜ short, butchered sentences. each one of them quieter, GUILTIER than the one before it. he keeps toying with the bullet ( .308 ). ❛ when somebody gets to know you. when you let them in. ❜

he’s aware he’s painting himself a liability.

he thinks about frank’s hands. but not in their usual context, not wrapped around a gun or a knife. around his hips. 

marc can canonically see ghosts aint that fucked up