arthur meyers .

RHYS .

                                                      balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,                                                      raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,                                                      leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

                                                     leaving the page of the book carelessly open,                                                      something unsaid, the phone off the hook                                                      and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

(flashback, america, 2002 + @oblvvicn​ )

twenty-six years old and living off american dollars for a year now, learning the smell of pastels and the colour of t.s. eliot’s pieces in the morning. twenty-six years old and living away from the land that shaped him, molded his white skin as if another work of phidias. twenty-six, and learning how to unlearn himself.

this whole thing was not supposed to happen.

a distraction, that was it. for him and for the world, as the kingsbury name would get dragged into the mud, implications heavy and dangerous after his father’s funeral. grieve, they told him to lie. a mask would suffice for the prying eyes, to hide away the rotten work of a vengeful son. so be it, rhys had nodded, and the seas took him. the shores had brought him here, a year later, in nathaniel’s apartment.

learning, and yearning; this softness that took root in his heart with a dangerous hunger.

the letter, a tad wet from his previous walk, was not trembling in his hand. it was still, even though its content was stirring unease inside of rhys. unease at what? returning home? leaving america, and all of its dangerous fruit? there, sitting on the edge of nathaniel’s bed, was a young man who never had to look at his own vulnerability, never had to admit to have one. men who killed in cold blood, satisfaction boiling low in their gut after the act, men like these did not deserve the hopeful what ifs. the what ifs that came with the letter’s implications.

europe in his veins, calling him back to the motherland.

stolen away from his thoughts, rhys’ attention was suddenly to the door, its usual creaking announcing the presence of nathaniel. delicately closing the letter, placing it back in its guarding enveloppe (took a time to gently let his thumb caress the two lions insignia adorning its front, symbol of success, getting back on the top chain) getting on his feet swiftly, rhys met the young man in the middle of the kitchen. “hey,” shoulder on door frame, he took in the sight of him. broad shoulders, flopping hair, wet from the pouring storm outside. advancing calmly, his fingers helping the jacket to come off, brushing against the sensitive skin of nathaniel’s neck. he held the dripping jacket away from them, pressing a fleeting kiss to the other man’s shoulder. “you’re late.”

not that rhys cared much, glad to put an end on those horrendous thoughts. “how was your day?” voice low, following the overall mood of the weather, rhys knew that nathaniel would think he just woken up. maybe he would like this alternative better.

Skies foreboding grey, suffocating any sign of the sun that rested behind the dense clouds so full of sorrow. A boy too aged in his expressions, dashed through the rain, the budding glow lamps that lit the streets. He was Nathaniel here. But that name claimed him for years now. Settling into the name like a crescent moon, it gave shape to the still too young man. All the documents said he was twenty five, he’d let these things ring true until they were. Nathaniel was good at that, at repeating things enough times that even he himself could begin to believe them. Tendrils of lies shaping him into something that can forget the shadows that cling to his shoulders, and lurk in his bones. 

“You look like the sky, Rhys.” It was easy to look at the bot before him and see not the cold steel, keen with hunger of blood; but rather the soft budding fingertips where no talons grow. He takes his hand and brushes it against the side of Rhys’ face, an act that has become so tender in the time they’ve known each other. Rough and calloused his own were, with blood staining when he looked at them too long. In the same way if he listened to the rain on the roof too closely he’d know the mud in his boots, and silence on the night with the iced winds that knifed his exposed skin. 

It was dangerous, to be this close to another. The safety of Nathaniel distant and lost to their hours of honestly in the forgotten hours of dawn. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, we had to finish reading everyone’s essays around the lecture before we were allowed to leave.” Drenched, Nathaniel could feel the puddle forming beneath his feet, and the way his clothes clung to his body. Chills would set in, goosebumps across his skin, but he’d press closer to the boy with the poignant misery in his eyes and kisses his neck.

“I’ve got to have a shower, if you join me I can make it up to you.”

Fletcher felt numb, like someone had pushed his head under water and the rest of the world was above the surface, so close he could touch it, but unable to break through the surface. It still hadn’t sunk in, the truth of the matter: that he and his department were so incompetent they couldn’t even keep a dead body safe. He was in a daze, going through the motions with Robbie at his side – interviewing the Johnsons, interviewing the Kanes, interviewing everyone around them. And through it all, Fletcher felt as though he’d floated out of his body, like he was watching his life happen to him as a passive participant rather than someone in control. He could hear himself ask all the right questions – did you hear anything suspicious? Did you see anyone behaving oddly? How long were you away from the casket? – and he could see the way he nodded carefully, the way he wrote notes in his illegible scrawl, but all he could feel was the throbbing of his head, the sweat on his back, and the way his heart spasmed like some sort of broken, exhausted thing, like a dying horse collapsing to the ground.

It was sweltering and muggy, and he could see heat coming off of the pavement in rippling waves, could see the way the air warped around him, almost shimmering, slick like an oil spill. Fletcher thought, with bitter bitter skepticism, that maybe Wade was his own personal Hell: so hot he couldn’t breathe with a case he’d never be able to solve. His badge felt heavy on his chest, like it was sinking into his skin, tearing through to his heart, and he just wanted a fucking drink. And then–

There was it was again.

Cutting through the white noise of his brain, magnified with alarming clarity, juxtaposed to the haze of the world around him, it was the voice that had haunted his dreams for weeks, the low rumble that stirred its way through him, made him hollow like a reed. The voice that conjured those hands that burned his skin to touch, those eyes that carved away everything about him that wasn’t real and left him harrowed, this defenseless, weak pathetic thing that could crumble to dust if pushed too hard. Now, with time and hindsight to be objective, he realized one thing and one thing alone: this man was not real. He couldn’t be. Fletcher was exhausted. He was hungover. He was dehydrated. He was grieving. And if he was going to be haunted, it was now, at his lowest and weakest, just as he’d been the last time this man had appeared.

For one brief, fleeting moment, he thought, if he ignored the man, this specter would fade away into the rolling heat and humid sky. But then, Fletcher turned and looked at him, and he was right back at the basketball court with his heart in his hands, holding it out to this man, powerless to stop himself from letting all of it come tumbling down at just the sight of him, and god, it made anger spike up within him because none of this was real. Because every time, he was going to wake up, alone and in pain, with the taste of this man on his lips as he gave everything he was to a fucking shadow of a person.

He made a rash decision, making some excuses to whoever he was talking to – he didn’t remember what he said, but did it matter? This was a dream, a hallucination, some last crack of his shattering mind, so he had no reason to observe decorum – and wrapped his hand around the man’s arm, around his bicep, dragging him forcefully towards a secluded spot, away from the crowd, in the shadow of a large white oak tree. Once they were alone, Fletcher thought he’d be able to breathe again, but somehow, it was worse, like this man had his hands around his throat, and Fletcher would never ask him to stop.

“You need to leave,” he hissed, words twisting together, practically stumbling over them, in his haste to get them out. People would notice if he was missing. People would come looking for him. And if they found him mumbling to himself behind a fucking tree, the talk of the town would be Sheriff Wright, finally cracked under the pressure. “Go back to whatever hellish corner of my mind you came from and let me do my job.”

Fletcher squeezed his eyes shut, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his mind. And yet, the man stayed right there, unmoving, looking as real as the night they met, his hand still clenched around the other’s arm. He released him, palms pressed flat to the man’s chest, ignoring how solid he felt under his hands, instead pushing him backwards, venom in his eyes. “Haunt me another time. Find me in my dreams. Make me miserable then. But now? Those people? They’re all looking at me to have my shit together, and I can’t be here, chasing ghosts.”

To be someone when masses surround, and when eyes drift over those pristine monet you paint before them. Lined in gold, placid blues and beige paint- Arthur was someone to be admired before the eyes of others. It was easy to be this man, the one he’d learn in sacred walls with bruises ripe on his skin- one he’d learn from too rich boys in college with not a worry in the world. Each time he picked up the pile of bones he’d come to call his own, he’d find these traits of others he admired. Longed to be.

He wasn’t expecting it all to shatter before him by the grip of a ghost searing into his flesh, and flooding his insides with the taste of that ever burning fire again. Bruises he’d hope would be left from his tight grip because that would show they both were here- together. Wherever here was, Arthur was unsure. Anywhere but the living.

But then, why did the living look at him so? And why could he feel the gentle vibrations of another missed call silent in his pocket as he stood under the encompassing shade of the oak tree.

The strike to his chest like dangerous waves crashing against a graystone cliff face, desperate, fumbling. The man today would be the wine dark sea, ruinous and drowning in his own waters, and Arthur wanted to open himself and allow the man to pour his floods into him. A dangerous thought he’d allow himself to have.  “I’m afraid you’re not in my dreams,” His tone itself was instead like the calm before the storm- dangerously calm. He couldn’t admit he didn’t think this man was real, he couldn’t admit again that he didn’t consider himself to be real. No matter how much the other’s words convince him with each addition- Arthur had to remind himself that he was standing here. Feet in the mud, his hands shoved into his pockets as he fears if they’re not, he’ll reach out to the other. “So we’ll have to make do with a morbid setting if that’ with you.”

It was this point which Arthur realised- he had no plan on what he was going to say to this man now they stood facing each other. He could endlessly list all the things he didn’t want to say to him. But after approaching him, seeing that perhaps he is something solid standing here with dirt on his boots and sweat on his back, Arthur had nothing to say. It was a mistake, a poorly thought out mistake to hold the other’s heart in his hands and not give it back to him. Because he wanted it- he wanted this.

“I’m Arthur, and perhaps if you’d like I can help you find your footing. But I’d like a name, if that’s alright by you, Sheriff?”

Chattering masses gather under a sodden sky, washed with greys and blues that swallowed the sight of the setting sun. Darkness would begin to fall behind the unruly clouds, threatening floods to pour from the sky once again, just as it was that morning. The sleek shimmer still left everything in sight damp, and the humidity crawled from the earth and sprawled sweat clinging to the back of Arthur’s button-down. At a funeral for a woman he’d never met, shoes damp, soaked through from the grass of greening pears. He thinks it’s the polite thing to do, to show up even when he knows no one. Or perhaps because he’s expecting to look inside that casket and see himself lying there, palms turned towards the sky in black boards as dark as the earth. 

They’re told to leave. A demand he’d never thought he’d hear spoken to a lawn of the community, waiting to say their farewells in a pristine home that resembled something of a sanctuary. He waits, it doesn’t feel right to leave, not just yet. So he places a cigarette between his lips, and he watches to the wading mass of residents eager to flock to the next big tale. His eyes that of the setting sky, skimming each person with such curiosity. 

He could have been a ghost standing there, amongst whispering crowds, smoke trailing from his lips where it promised his own dissipation. Rolled sleeves to his elbows, his jacket draped over arm, muggy air clinging to his lungs with each breath he draws in. Then he sees him, a man he thought died before he met him, standing in the daylight with a badge over his heart that glistened like the soaked surroundings. It’s not too late to leave, to slip out of the crowds and pick up from Wade. He still had everything to return to- unanswered calls buzzing in his pocket, a job waiting for this month’s derailing to be done with. To leave the place a man adorned in uniform, with a stern expression painted across his brow knew everything that crumbled beneath his mask that was so feint to trace. But god he was too drawn to the man.

Flicking his cigarette to the grass, embers dusting against the grass- he grinds the last of it into the gravel and one cautious footstep after the next, he approaches the masterpiece of the man that wears his own mask untraceable. Arthur’s attention isn’t even divided to those the other man speaks to with the notepad in hand, his hues search the sight before him. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt anything of importance.” Careful his words are, they’re always careful when he’s Arthur. He wonders if it’s the same for the ghost before him. “If it’s not too much to ask, Sheriff, may I steal you away?”

oblvvicn·:

Red ashes smouldering, flickering ember reminders that caught in Arthur’s throat and burnt away his breaths. He didn’t know how much it would hurt. To loose the man’s touch after it seared into his wrist- feeling the packed earth beneath his back, and the poison in his veins turn to stars. Aching for that feeling to return, to have the other’s hands on his wrists again, against his skin. 

You are alive. 

Arthur tells himself. Even though his head spins with whiskey haze, and the ghosts of the night settle into the two men’s shadows. And the cavernous insides of a man contained a creature he feared to let into the world. Heavy, with this marrow born dance. He watches the other, the ache deep in the pit of him for anything other than this numbing chill that settled into his bones once more. He’d watch him move through the night’s air, like if he moved any faster the man that was Arthur would dissipate beneath him like fog that breathed bleak winter mornings. There’d be nothing where a ghost should have been.

And Arthur thought perhaps the same would happen when he felt the other’s fingers brush against his neck. Wind breathing kisses against the exposed skin, the other’s touch was light and yet seared white-hot. But he was still there, his breath still in throat and eyes like they’re staring into the sun as they look back to the man that stood at the edge of the cliff Arthur promised. Looking down into the abyss that swallowed everything, for it was all it knew to do. Consume until nothing was left. And he dived right into it.

Parched, he kissed the man that ached like the starry dark. Greedy, the thing he knows that begs for more kisses back- carving its knife into the fruit before him. Tearing open the sky, he could taste the revenant on the man’s tongue. Cosmos dust, and bubbling rivers, he was alive.

Arthur felt the clawing in the chest- begging to be freed. His hand presses to the other’s chest, where he wants to sink his fingers into his flesh, and dig into his insides. And god, he wants to allow himself to be dead with this man, buried in the dampened earth where forests can grow alive over their bodies, and rivers can carry their spirits. And their bones, left bloodied and ingested, porous as they are dissolve. But this dream won’t end like all the others, he won’t allow it. To have this man nothing more than a fractured boned carcass left with the poison Arthur fed it, rotting with the buzz of flies like static rooms. Crimson dripping, torn. Ravaged. 

He pushes. Hand flat against his chest where he wants to harrow, he parts their lips and is left staring at where his hand holds the warmth of the other’s chest. Where his hand that feels the heartbeat flush against it is still real, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t.

“We should get you home.”

Fletcher wasn’t sure when his lips on this man’s mouth turned from being some kind of salvation into being a curse. Just like that, the whole night shattered into pieces, with the feeling of a hand on his chest, putting space between them, with the feeling of the air between them filling with the truth of the world, the fact that they were both real in all of the worst ways and that reality filtering into all of the cracks and fissures between them. Fletcher felt like he was trying to stop sand from escaping between his fingertips in a gust of wind, as though he was chasing something unknowable and intangible, and he felt the space between them become this cavernous, impenetrable thing.

 We should get you home.

You could throw a rock and hit his bedroom window from where they lay here. Home was an excuse, home was a shard of glass in his heart, home was everything he felt – or thought he felt – right here, with this man’s hand on his chest and his mouth crushing Fletchers like grapes to wine, and he thought of everything he’d forsaken for this one stolen kiss: his morals, his dignity, his truth. And now, it seemed, all of it was for nothing.

Or perhaps it wasn’t for nothing. Perhaps Fletcher wanted tragedy more than he wanted love, perhaps he wanted someone to break his heart and kick his teeth in, and this, well, this was that. He’d tried the kind of love that filled you up and left you warm, and he’d broken it. Now, he was ready for something different But that didn’t mean this didn’t fucking hurt.

We should get you home.

He’d never heard words he hated more. He wanted to rip them from the man’s mouth with his teeth, wanted to taste his blood on his lips, wanted to howl at the moon and fucking rage because it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t meant to be this way, if he thought this was how it would end, he never would have gotten in the man’s car in the first place.

(A lie – there were infinite universes out there, and in every single one, Fletcher would have gotten in that car, Fletcher would have kissed him, and Fletcher would have been left, alone, with the taste of a ghost on his lips)

We should get you home.

He pulled himself away, finally, unstuck from the moment. Rolled back onto his back. And then unsteadily jerked himself to his feet. He turned back to the man, words on his lips, but they died in his throat. What was there left to say? He didn’t know. But then–

“I wish you were real,” he sighed, quiet, so quiet the night may have swallowed it altogether.

And then, heavy footfall after heavy footfall, he walked back to his house, slamming the door behind him, locking it, slumping against it, a shaky hand unbuckling his trousers, his eyes fluttering shut, picturing the man on top of him, the moon hanging over one shoulder, the stars twinkling above the other.

FIN.

“sorry, what did you say? i was not quite listening.” he was, but to the voice and not the words. words were meaningless, at this time of the night. empty and devoid of true intentions, usually. this time of the night was not reserved for words, he thought as the tips of his fingers brushed against the other man’s arm. soft, and seemingly pliable. the man’s cologne was faintly discernible behind the heaviness of the alcohol fumes. removing his finger, he drummed them against the countertop, humming. remembered the man’s voice. low and precise, the kind to provoke goosebumps down his back.

remembering and not remembering something his brain wanted him to know. he tried to sharpen his stare as his head turned once again.

“you can’t visit other bars,” the barkeep pushes another drink his way after his other hand waved at him. “here, i mean. this town …” rhys licked his lips, chasing after the taste of this cheap whiskey. he really ought to request the owner a better stock. slowly watching the liquid slosh around the glass, rhys narrowed his eyes at it. wondered how much time would it take for the town to become a ghost of it previous self, transforming into something better. “… it’s empty. devour us poor souls, judges our impure thoughts and condemns us to relive our fears. it’s tartarus, and we’re all sisyphus here, sentenced to roll a fucking boulder for eternity.”

rhys would admit later that he was, maybe, a bit too high and drunk to engage in any conversations with anyone. he never did quite make sense, in this state. still, right now, it seemed like his mind didn’t quite get the memo yet, as he turned once again to the man next to him. “men like you, they don’t belong here. you’re too sharp.” sniffing, rhys scrubbed his face, exasperated in the next seconds. his mood swings never did reconcile very well with drugs, and really, he should leave the pretty man alone.

“too pretty.” rhys looked over the stranger once again. perhaps if men like them could be here, discussing in the fanciest bar in wade, maybe there was a chance at redemption for this town. “unless you’re here for business, that is…” a hand gesture at himself, as he shrugged at the same time. “and really, that’s a compliment, if i wasn’t forward enough.” god knew some residents in this town were not too fast with subtleties.

Men like you, they don’t belong here. The other’s words rang swamped his ears, and drowned out the white noise of meaningless chatter that coaxed Arthur into the timeless lull he’d fallen into tonight. Taste of whisky coating his tongue, swimming in his veins. The words beat, and demand his attention. Wade. Here. In a town that sunk into his flesh, and sunk talons into his ankles. Maybe it’s the intoxication that sings belief that maybe the other is right, this is Tartarus. But he’d not yet crossed through the river.

He was right. Arthur was all too much of a man built for the city, with lies forming lives, and silk thread linings of suits holding together matted messes of beings. Phone calls still unanswered, from a wife he’d left behind. Why hadn’t he thrown out the phone yet?

Lies, even to himself. Arthur says he won’t stay here, not for long. Why didn’t he believe his own voice.

And maybe it’s the same amber liquid that mixes his blood to ichor, that brings the laugh to his lips as he listen’s to the other man’s words. Bright, there’s something daring to the full bellied laugh that’s dull like a ringing gunshot. Ironic it was, that he’d grown up on the outskirts of a town just like this. Swallowed in too green grass, and soil on his hands. Clothes with patches he’d sew to cover the seams that tugged at the fabric. He’d stitch something of himself, a boy too young. A boy that would learn to devour the world. “Here we both are- men like us that is.” The words taste of dew, cool to his tongue. Sweet almost, even at this hour. 

“I’m here for work, but that’s not the same as business. And yourself? Do you find yourself with company such as tonight for business or pleasure?” 

Fletcher heard the man as though from far away, so faint over the way his blood was fucking roaring through him, ringing in his ears. Whatever he said, it didn’t fucking matter, and whatever he meant, Fletcher didn’t fucking care. This man, over the course of one night, he’d stolen Fletcher’s breath and his heart, and still, with his hand on the stranger’s pulse and his eyes locked on his throat, Fletcher couldn’t tell whether this person was made of skin and bones and sinew or whether his mind had concocted the closest thing to divinity it could muster. And if this man was simply a trick of the mind, of course it was him. All Fletcher had wanted, his whole life, was to dive into the void and see what was at the bottom, and here he was, this chasm of a man that Fletcher could drown in, this person he could pour all his feeling into, this being who could be his own custom made swan song.

He could feel how fast the stranger’s pulse was beating, like a hummingbird trapped between his thumb and forefinger, and he could feel the way his own heart modulated to match, and the whole night, he hadn’t been able to quite catch his breath, but now, god, now, he felt like it had been ripped from him, and he’d never get it back, so the only way was for him to steal it, to press his lips to this man’s mouth and swallow every shallow gasp of air that sputtered from his lungs.

Fletcher couldn’t resist any longer.

He moved slowly, as if he was trying not to disturb the air around them, dazedly, as though he was in a dream. His grip loosened on the man’s wrist as he shifted onto his side, letting go completely as he propped himself up with that same hand, that hand that felt like it was on fire, like it had just been coiled around a fucking star, pulsing and spitting and snarling with energy. Here, his head tipped downward, he could see everything: the lines around the man’s eyes, the strength of his brow, the jut of his adams apple, the angle of his jaw, the shape of his lips.

Using his free hand, the hand that wasn’t supporting him, he reached out, again landing first on the lapel of the man’s shirt, because the thought of touching him, of feeling his skin under his fingers – he couldn’t bear it. He needed to ease into it, the way you eased into an ice bath, the way you eased into a coffin. And from the man’s collar, Fletcher’s hand is on his neck, at his jaw, tipping his head back ever so slightly because yet again, for the second time this night, he’s reached a point of no return, where he’s willingly hefted himself off a ledge, thrown himself off a cliff, just to chase after this feeling, and he’s tumbling through the air, the world spinning around him, and all he can think is to close his eyes, drop his head, and kiss this man breathless.

He’s hesitant at first, cautious. Because what if this isn’t real? What if he just poured himself into a ghost, or worse, the walking dead? But then, he realized, it didn’t matter because he was incapable of stopping himself. There had been a precipice, earlier that night, and Fletcher had either been too drunk on whisky or too enamored by this stranger to notice that he’d thrown himself over it without so much as a second thought, and now, hurtling through space, all he could do was listen to the blood in his ears and the thump of his heart, urging him to fall deeper, fall faster, not brace himself for the impact. And then, he felt his own mouth go slack and pliant, kissing the man with feeling now, because once you realized there was nothing left to lose, anything was possible.

Once you realized that you’d found your heart, staring at you from the bottom of a well, and that well was a man in a suit who tasted like midnight fog and the ocean tide and a cold winter night, there was no stopping you from throwing yourself over the edge and seeing what it was like when you eventually hit the bottom.

Red ashes smouldering, flickering ember reminders that caught in Arthur’s throat and burnt away his breaths. He didn’t know how much it would hurt. To loose the man’s touch after it seared into his wrist- feeling the packed earth beneath his back, and the poison in his veins turn to stars. Aching for that feeling to return, to have the other’s hands on his wrists again, against his skin. 

You are alive. 

Arthur tells himself. Even though his head spins with whiskey haze, and the ghosts of the night settle into the two men’s shadows. And the cavernous insides of a man contained a creature he feared to let into the world. Heavy, with this marrow born dance. He watches the other, the ache deep in the pit of him for anything other than this numbing chill that settled into his bones once more. He’d watch him move through the night’s air, like if he moved any faster the man that was Arthur would dissipate beneath him like fog that breathed bleak winter mornings. There’d be nothing where a ghost should have been.

And Arthur thought perhaps the same would happen when he felt the other’s fingers brush against his neck. Wind breathing kisses against the exposed skin, the other’s touch was light and yet seared white-hot. But he was still there, his breath still in throat and eyes like they’re staring into the sun as they look back to the man that stood at the edge of the cliff Arthur promised. Looking down into the abyss that swallowed everything, for it was all it knew to do. Consume until nothing was left. And he dived right into it.

Parched, he kissed the man that ached like the starry dark. Greedy, the thing he knows that begs for more kisses back- carving its knife into the fruit before him. Tearing open the sky, he could taste the revenant on the man’s tongue. Cosmos dust, and bubbling rivers, he was alive.

Arthur felt the clawing in the chest- begging to be freed. His hand presses to the other’s chest, where he wants to sink his fingers into his flesh, and dig into his insides. And god, he wants to allow himself to be dead with this man, buried in the dampened earth where forests can grow alive over their bodies, and rivers can carry their spirits. And their bones, left bloodied and ingested, porous as they are dissolve. But this dream won’t end like all the others, he won’t allow it. To have this man nothing more than a fractured boned carcass left with the poison Arthur fed it, rotting with the buzz of flies like static rooms. Crimson dripping, torn. Ravaged. 

He pushes. Hand flat against his chest where he wants to harrow, he parts their lips and is left staring at where his hand holds the warmth of the other’s chest. Where his hand that feels the heartbeat flush against it is still real, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t.

“We should get you home.”

“ah,” robbie pauses from his close up observation of the tire to look at the other man, and tilted his head. “you’ll definitely get that around here.” if robbie had been privy to the rumour mills recently, other than to put out feelers regarding the whole town’s reaction to josie’s investigation, he might have heard of this new hotshot city teacher starting at the school. but robbie was nothing if not consistent with his displeasure of listening to gossips, so he’d missed out. a lot of new people in wade recently, though. that he noted. like moth attracted to flames. robbie only hoped none of them would get burn by the current town’s dramatic events.

his fingers spotted the nail, and the deputy was relieved. that meant that something could be done temporarily for arthur’s tire. soon enough, robbie had gotten some tools from his trunk and was sitting on the ground, trying to tape it and push it down. “so, the high school. you’re a teacher, i guess?” the man’s elocution was too good for him to be a mere janitor, and his posture seemed to show a certain ease that small town people did not have. a…business kind of ease.

“in any case, i admire your courage and bravery. working with teenagers…phew.” truth was, robbie also worked with teenagers in his line of work, if arresting them in the middle of the night for trying to investigate cryptids and ghosts could be considered as working with them. he doubted it was. “god knows some of them needs good leadership.” robbie would never draw any names, but he knew who he was talking about. “alright, i think that’s it man. just need to pump some air and you’ll be good until tomorrow, at least.” up to his feet in an efficient move, robbie cleaned his hands on the back of his jeans. a bad habit from usually working on his bike in old rags. “i can give you directions to gabe’s for tomorrow.”

Arthur should have known he never truly would have been able to blend into Wade, not like he did in the city. With thousands of faces passing everyday, masses gathering and disbanding through the streets, he’d be nothing more than another man in a suit. There was peace found in that, in not being noticed by people with more interesting lives without you in it. Wade was small enough, the streets he’d drive through that all look the same even in sunset. And faces of residents, all staring, searching for something to pry into. He’d be far from invisible, so he had to be someone no matter where he walked. He had to cover the cavern of nothing that swallowed him whole.

“English for the most part, unless they need subs elsewhere.” He’s taught his words to come more naturally over the years, from when they once caught in his throat and failed to find their footing in the world. He learnt to mimic horns at dawn, and crisp breeze on the horizon- the blue wafts that promise day to return. But all this, it’s unnatural in Wade.

Perhaps he made a mistake.

“I guess I haven’t gotten to know them well enough, always on their best behaviour the first few weeks aren’t they?” It had been just over a week since he first stepped into the desolate town, not barley enough to know anyone yet, and not nearly enough to know if he was going to stay. The plan after all was just to continue driving- but he’s here. Offering a smile to the deputy with a hand on top of his car’s roof, “I can’t thank you enough.” He holds out a hand to shake the other’s, a proper thanks he’d been taught years ago.

“Would you let me buy you a beer tomorrow maybe, after Gabe’s? I’ve got to get back to grading tonight- otherwise.” 

Where: Red’s Diner When: April 26th, 2:36pm

“I was thinking of starting a list.”

Waverly spoke without provocation in the middle of her meal, turning to the person sitting next to her at the counter. “A rotation, of sort. Everyone could sign up for certain days, that way the burden doesn’t fall all onto one person. Bringing things to the Johnsons. You know, groceries, supplies, maybe even just a friendly face to say hello and check in.” She frowned, eyes flicking down to the floor. “It could be stupid. I don’t know.” The sincerity was surprisingly devoid of true care. She was bored and needed a project, and it seemed that she was trapped here forever in this hell, so might as well spruce the place up. Kindness could look good on a town like this at a time like this.

“All I’ll say is this: I think we could all use something uplifting in our lives, no one more than Red Johnson, and what better way to soothe the collective heart than to soothe his?”

She glanced over at her companion, eyes flickering up and down the person’s face. Waverly was a social animal, struck up conversations with anyone who stepped within a ten foot radius of her. Whether she enjoyed them or not was an entirely different question, but that didn’t stop her from speaking to every person she came in contact with until she found someone who didn’t bore her.

However, this particular conversation, this particular day, she was playing a game of hers that had only begun after the McDermotts had moved to Wade, a game that had become a recent obsession––

Who here, in this place, has fucked my wife?

Without a real stove, or oven, or even a fridge that was more than the height of his knees with rust eroding the outsides that attempted to be covered with pamphlets of nearby pizza joints, and tourist attraction magnets- Arthur was left without a proper way of acquiring a meal in Wade. That was of course, without visiting Red’s Diner for the fifth time in a row. He wished he could say it was for their chips and steak, or the gravy that smothered the top- hell even a decent coffee. But unfortunately it was none of the above. He was frankly just thankful for a warm meal that wasn’t microwaved, and that should have been enough.

Barley over a week in Wade, he was already beginning to realise the certain suffocation of familiar faces when the brunette beside him piped up as if they’d been friends since as long as he could remember. Waverly he’s certain her name was, he’d remember her at services bright eyed and adoring. But it was her wife he knew better, by whiskey kept hours, and conversation that never lead anywhere between them. Always dancing around things unsaid, they were good at not saying a thing. Let alone enough to give the other an ounce of what they meant.

“I have to say I’m surprised,” He offered the other, careful with his words. “I didn’t think anyone was Red’s biggest fan by the sounds of it.” Arthur was unfortunately roped into community values at home, his wife would say it was good for them. Dinner parties, and barbecues to catch up, let the kids run in the yard with the couple from a few doors down. But they would never dare dream of helping each other, that didn’t seem to be the way from where they were from.

“That sounds nice though. Will the residents here go for that kind of thing?”

TIME: Early afternoon, after Josie’s “funeral” LOCATION: Quick stop convenience & gas STATUS: Closed, @oblvvicn

DJ felt stupid —- she shouldn’t be feeling sad, pitying herself that she felt sick over there being no body in the casket at the funeral. And yet, she was at the convenience store, a bottle of cheap white wine as her one and only goal for that evening. 

Hours and hours after the whole ordeal — yet another one attached to the Johnson family name; if DJ didn’t know better, she’d wager that family was somehow cursed — DJ found herself stopping by the convenience store before heading home. A detour she shouldn’t have taken but did anyway. 

As she walked in, DJ saw a man struggling with the drinks machine. For a few heartbeats, she stood at the entrance, looking at the alcohol shelves and him, trying to decide what to go for first. With a small sigh, DJ walked towards the machine and the man struggling with it. “It’s an old machine,” she began, before she hit its side, “it has a few tricks. Plus, the buttons are not installed right. The whole thing is basically upside down. So, if you want 1, you have to click 7 instead.”

Such strange things had been happening in a town that appeared quiet enough to hear the coyotes howling as they come from the outskirts of town, and the car leaving the garage a block away at eleven o’clock at night. He’d showed to the funeral today, not because he knew the woman, or anyone in town that needed his presence there. Rather he gathered on that front lawn, too green grass beneath his feet, waiting in that searing sun and humidity, just to pay his respects. Where sweat made his shirt cling to his back, and he gathered with the rest of the town, he was surprised to uttered away after their waiting.

Never had he attended a funeral that was canceled right before everyone stepped into the viewing room. 

Questions were ripe on everyone’s lips, and he guessed rightfully so. But the man didn’t have anything to offer, conversation, stories, gossip- wonderings of what happened. So he left, it felt the appropriate thing to do. Down at the quickstop picking up some more smokes and a something sugary he was relieved to hear a voice chime behind him.

“Old? This thing’s decrepit. You’re not about to tell me my soda will come out rusted as well, are you?” Listening to the other’s advice, Arthur pressed the 4th button down and heard the rattling inside. “Can I get you one?”

He felt the wind knock out of him, felt hollow as a reed, laughter going through him like a breathless sigh because…was that a joke?

Fletcher felt giddy, dizzy, drunk, and not off the whisky, off whatever it was sparking between them. There was no way he was imagining this, no way this was all in his head, because how could he have thought up such a person? One moment, he felt like he was looking into a mirror, the next, like he was looking upon something, someone so bright he felt like he was looking at the sun or a planet, exploding into bits. And normally, all he wanted was for the feeling in his chest to stop, to numb to a quiet roar, but right now, he couldn’t imagine anything worse, couldn’t imagine anything more tragic. But perhaps, this, in itself, was a tragedy because Fletcher had never wanted to be happy, not really, had just wanted to rough him up, bruise his lips, and break his heart, and here he was, his every desire delivered, and there was nothing saying that this man, this perfect creation of his imagination, was anything more real than the stars in the night sky, stars that had already moved out of their orbit, and all they were looking at were the afterimages, the relics of something lost, something gone.

For the first time since coming to this place, since finding this court and lying on the concrete, feeling the way his heart hammered against his ribs, against the ground, he found something he wanted. He found something that made him, even for the briefest moment, forget about the scar tissue in his shoulder, forget about the meanness in his belly, forget about the missed calls from his mother burning a hole in his pocket.

“I hope you’re real,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, refusing to look at the man, keeping his eyes pointedly fixed at the sky. Fletcher was willing to look down the barrel of a gun, but he wasn’t a brave man. Staring death in the eye, that didn’t take courage. That took chaos.

And he prayed the man didn’t hear how want made his voice sound so twisted, so unlike himself. But how would he know what Fletcher was supposed to sound like? And who was to say the Fletcher that put himself together in the mornings, that scrubbed his skin raw, parted his hair to the left, buttoned his shirts all the way up to the throat, and tried not to crumble under the weight of his badge, who was to say that was the real him? Alexander, he hadn’t thought about him in a while. The young boy he’d once been, with enough sadness to fill an ocean. Perhaps that was the only real version of himself there had ever been. Perhaps Fletcher was the one who didn’t exist.

But Fletcher was all he had.

And he needed to know.

They were close, him and this stranger, not too close, but close enough that, if he inched his hand to the right, he could touch him, could put this to rest once and for all. One swig of liquid courage later, then two, then three – god, the world was spinning – and finally, he was ready to do what he’d wanted to do all night.

Hand trembling, he reached over and found the man’s forearm, feeling the linen of his shirt under his palm, feeling the way his heart stuttered in his chest at the very touch. But this, it was mere lead up to the grand event, and now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop, blustering ahead, sliding his hand down lower, where his skin was no longer sheathed in clothing, and, taking a deep breath, curled his fingers around the delicate bones of his wrist. He was expecting some sort of shock when their skin touched, some sort of spark, because isn’t that what was supposed to happen when you found someone like this? But no, he felt the swoop and sputter of his heart, the way his blood rushed to his cheeks, and most of all, he felt the way the man’s blood roared, the stranger’s pulse thrumming against the pad of his index finger. This man was as real as he could be, so real that Fletcher could feel the life thrumming through him, and he’d never felt such joy as this.

He couldn’t stop himself. The night sky held nothing for him now.

Before he could second guess himself, he turned his head. And there, lit by the moon, with his head turned up to the heavens, with eyes he could drown in, with his void of a heart, with the thrum of life against the tips of Fletcher’s fingers–

He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Stars flickering and fuming for their place in the sky, burned the same as the last time he’d lie on his back and stare up to them. His shadows are ghosts, threatening the truth of the men he’s been. These stars were just as he remembered them when he was too young to know their tales. Too young to taste blood in his mouth, and the dizziness of never sleeping right again. Memories long lost to a boy that Arthur never was- so why here, tonight, did he know them so vividly.

Dirt caked beneath his back, stale earth that held the weight of aching men, and deep belly laughter as they spin tales lustrous to the night. Giant monsters, with tales dripping in venom and skeletons too tough to pierce- destined to chase figures in the sky for the rest of their lives. And men who bring tales of ease, returning to their mothers warm embrace where they smile down. And of those loyal enough to spend eternity along side their companions. 

The boy who was never Arthur would listen to men who’d count stars, and make up their own for where their friends now lie. While the boy wondered what it was like to touch them. Death was all too familiar, but at night when silence settled around the camp, and men drunken on the sense of being alive laughed at stories of those who’d left the world too young- they thought they just might be alive forever.

He was back there tonight, a teen too young to know himself, yet old enough to accept such things. Someone who’d have a stolen name cursing their tongue with men who said it with the sorrow it held. 

Stuck in these memories he tried so desperately to forget.

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest as he felt the other’s fingers on his clothes. Back he was under streetlights and stars, on a basketball court in a town that could help the world forget him. He thinks for a moment, that if he looks across the other will no longer be there- but he can feel the warmth coming from his body. He can hear his breathing in the silent night. He can feel his cool fingers wrap around his wrist, shackling him to this earth. Iron bound, Arthur was alive.

Thrumming- his heart races in his own ears, or it the wingless creature in his chest that longed to be freed. Beating, it grappled with his insides. Tore, and Arthur could feel his seams splintering. The stitched that hold him together fraught. He turns his head, and it’s like the beginning again. He’s hungry, to love like a creature begging to be freed. Beating against this tether the other man places around his wrist, and ready to split his bones wide open, and bare himself before the other.

He wanted to taste the stars.

His head turned, he’d stare at the other. Dark hues tracing the scars on his face like constellations, wondering if this burning at his wrist was what it felt like to be alive. To have the universe ignite his insides, and replace the black hole that demanded- with the stars he stared so greedily at. He’d look at the man the same, hungry for the beating in his chest. Hungry to rip into flesh and bone, and life until there was nothing left but a carcass of the stars and that ache left lingering.

Instead he finds words to fill his lips, almost a whisper to the air. “Do I seem alive to you?”

where: conifer lounge when: april 22th, 12:59am who:  @oblvvicn​

the plan had been simple, get them around town, show them what they were working with, what they already made, showcase wade’s investment potential. the basics of a successful, was to make sure that the financial risk was not entirely dropped onto kingsbury incorporated. the governor’s had been favourable to his efforts, as well as many other businesses in illinois. if wade was a success, other towns might be interested in his developments. it was a simple plan. get them in, show them the good, new parts of wade but then …

then they wanted to see the old part of wade.

wanted to feel the classic americana feel that made the town so authentic, wanted to see what the brochure promised, back in 1972. that was obviously a mistake, as rhys did not think that older wade had much to offer beside a dirty dinner, a shady roller-skating thing and the motel that probably had more sanitation hazards than third-world hospitals. really, a quick tour and rhys knew the men were not much impressed, but they understood his mission now. and whatever that had took, it needed a celebration. and the only place that could offer some solution to this particular issue was the conifer lounger. it was not really fancy, with all its patrons preferring cheap beer to refined alcohols.

but that would do.

they found a booth, in the back. well, they displaced some people, for the booth in the back.

soon enough, minutes transformed into hours into too many shots and coke lines.

the life of the rich and powerful, some might say. rhys thought that this particular mix would perhaps help to tolerate his new business partners (how many contracts could one sign while absolutely drunk on tequila? a question for the lawyers) but of course, his luck had run its course for the day. “gentlemen, i think we need, to get you home.” home was the private jets, private cars, waiting for them on a private parking. his words were slurring, but his smile was still as charming. a few minutes, rhys was finally alone with himself and he made his way to the bar, ready to settle the bill.

and maybe, if rhys had taken another line, another shot, maybe his perception would have played tricks on him and he would have missed the man at the bar. alone. extremely attractive. drumming his fingers on the surface, he zeroed in on the brunette, paused when only a seat kept the distance between the two. “this suit is the best thing i’ve seen today.” his hand hovered over the fabric, not quite touching the man’s arm. rhys couldn’t quite believe that he finally found someone with a decent fashion sense in old wade.

Music low stirred the air of a stale bar that simmered in low lights that distorts its patron’s faces into things of the dark, that even the warm hues don’t mask. In this late hour though Arthur isn’t looking around, he doesn’t much care for the guests still left that are surely the same ones as last night and the night before that, and the night before that- as if they never leave this space and rather just exist as decoration for the bar. Perhaps this is where he could dissolve into the town of Wade. Washed in crimson that painted the whites of his clothes, and stained the colour of the amber liquid he drank. And while the hue strained his eyes, he came to accept that he quite liked the lighting that drenched everything it touched, for even he might be painted as something alive in so much colour.

Arthur hears the voice before he realises it’s addressing him, prying his eyes from his drink they meet a man like the ones he used to know. Men with the moon in their mouths, saturated with sharp edges and that crisp coolness. Arthur would know to mirror such things, from boys in boarding schools that knew too little, and men in the world that glistened like rain touched streets. Such magnetism it held, that Arthur hadn’t realised he’d missed in Wade until he was faced with the bared teeth of a wolf that promised to leave him splintered.

He offers a smile in turn, and straightens in his seat, composure taking over as that ingrained habit that sank into his bones. Perhaps there were some things that stayed true no matter who he was. “Your company didn’t seem too far off the mark tonight themselves,” Barley two weeks since he’d settle in Wade, and yet the sharpness in his own voice still sounded a shock to his ears. That same voice he had before, in the life he’s still clinging to like his promises ever meant a thing.  “I didn’t know Wade was a town for such corporate company. Or have I just been visiting the wrong bars?”

Arthur Charles Meyers - Character Development

Who are you?

Fletcher didn’t realize he was still holding onto the whisky until it was gone from his hands. It wasn’t the bottle he missed, it was that his hands were empty, and what was he supposed to do with them? Because now what was stopping him from taking those very hands and raking them through this man’s hair, from roughing him up and pulling him close? Nothing, but his own terror at being seen, nothing, but his own panic at being known, and that cowardice burned more than any drink he’d had all night. His whole self had gone still when this man, this figment, had reached across to him, and for one fleeting moment, he thought maybe, but it was just a shadow on the wall, and he felt the disappointment so viscerally that he knew, already, he was done for.

If this was all in his mind, then what was stopping him from reaching out himself? The prospect, however slim, that this was real and that he’d ruin it by pushing this too far. That he’d ruin it with his bruised, aching broken heart that wanted too much and felt every breath he took like a fucking spasm of agony.

He felt as thought they’d driven off a cliff and into a lake and the car was filling with water, but it was simply filling with everything he wasn’t saying, and the silence stretched and stretched as they drove and drove down winding roads that where the trees blurred into one amorphous blob, where every house looked exactly the same, where the stop lights and traffic signs became mere suggestions rather than rules. Fletcher found himself smiling, euphoric laughter bubbling through him every time they ran a red light, every time the car drifted in and out of its lane because there was risk, there was danger, and there was no one here to fucking see it. No one here to answer their challenge to the universe, no one here to strike them down for being so bold as to think they could defy death.

Unless they were already dead…

It was like resurfacing, a sudden clarity finding him again after what felt like an eternity of being stuck underwater. Fletcher sat up straighter as he recognized the house at the end of the street, the lemon tree at the corner, the playground off what felt like at the edge of the horizon. And as he realized where they were, he was struck by an idea, something that felt so important he was, finally, after all this silence, compelled to speak.

“Pull over,” he said, and even he was surprised by the commanding edge to his voice. Normally, when he got drunk, the parts of himself that laced together to make Sheriff Fletcher Wright fell apart, but now, he was fucking brimming with suggestion, with the idea of what he wanted to do next, and nothing, not even this beautiful stranger could sway him from that. When the man complied, Fletcher turned to him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks and a mouth stretching wide into a Cheshire Cat smile. “Come with me.”

He was out of the car in one fluid, swaying motion, and then crossing the street without any care for oncoming traffic, heading with a singleminded purpose towards a basketball court across the way lit by flickering street lights. Fletcher’s house was right next to it, and maybe, he should have just thanked the man for the ride, closed his door, crumpled on the floor, and spent the rest of the night alone with his hands.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he had it his way, this night would never end.

Fletcher didn’t know if the man was still following him, didn’t dare to look back to see if he was. He remembered being in high school, learning of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, and not understanding that temptation, that need to turn back. He ruined his life, ruined hers too, broke both of their hearts, and all for what? One last look at his love? He couldn’t imagine it then. But now…

“I come here to think,” he said, finally turning, feeling his heart stick in his throat when the man was, in fact, there. “Or. No. I come here not to think.” And then he turned to the spot at center court where he’d lie, not because he thought the night sky was particularly captivating, but because this was the closest he’d ever come to being able to imagine what it must feel like to be in the ground. “Grass is too soft, too comfortable. Because, see, packed dirt, it’s fucking hard. Rock hard. And all of this, it’s not supposed to be comfortable. Why should it be?”

Exhaling a sharp, heady breath, he moved to the center of the court and lowered himself to the ground, the way he’d done more times than he could count. Slow, measured, the way someone would lower a coffin into a grave. And then he was lying there, his shoulders, his back, his heels, his palms, his neck, his head, pressed against the ground, and it was cold and remote, sucking up all the feeling in his chest, and for the first time that night, Fletcher felt fucking calm. Like he was back in control, like this man hadn’t totally and completely knocked him off his axis. His heart steadied, instead of rattling around in his chest like some caged bird, and as his pulse slowed, he felt his head spin, the stars spinning with them.

“I should have died in Chicago,” he said, voice resonant. “I’m not supposed to be here. So. I come here to remind myself of that.”

Inky black stretched endlessly into the horizon that at this hour showed no promise of dawn, or a rising sun, or wafts of blue settling into the edges of the earth promising something brighter. Tonight it was just the two of them sitting in this car that seemed heavy with all the things unsaid between strangers that existed nowhere more than in this liminal space that swallowed them whole. It seemed driving past the brightly lit houses, and through the patches of passing street light that would illuminate their faces for just a moment, nothing around them was real. Which meant Arthur didn’t need an address for the man, he just drove.

Through red hues that cast a pigmented glow flush against the other’s cheeks, as they drive. He drives straight through any obstacle that stays in their way tonight. They’re leaving he tells himself, they’re going anywhere but here. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t want to. Foot flush to the flood he’d going too fast for this town, but if they’re both already dead- it shouldn’t matter.

Whiskey drenches his tongue, and warms his throat as he puts the bottle to his lips. It’s almost half gone by the time the man in the seat beside him speaks again. And Arthur listens, to the words that soak the air of this drowning vehicle, and allows them to guide through the night. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been driving in this dream, or how long ago they should have left purple hazed suburbs- but that doesn’t matter. Such was the way in dreams- you drive and drive, the wheels pulling at the road and you don’t listen to the rules as the gravel disappears beneath you. And you drive without a destination, without plans or fears, and yet you still end up there. Where you’re meant to be. 

So he pulls over. And he’s left staring at that bright eyed command. The other’s words coaxing him, with temptation on his tongue. And perhaps they weren’t alive, and perhaps this other man wasn’t real, nothing more than a matted mess of his drunken thoughts during this endless hour. With his smile that sunk into the sky like the moon, with the same cool warmth to it. He wants to taste the words that leave the other’s mouth, and the honey nectar they swim with. He blinks, and the other’s out of the car, and Arthur’s eyes are left following him before he’s drawn out of the car himself.

He follows the man that could be leading him through this sea of souls neither of them dared acknowledge. Handing the oar to the other, he let himself be guided- coaxed into the afterlife so willingly. He follows, and feels his heart still as the other turns to meet his gaze in a way that not even the possibility of crashing at the next street lights had promised.

“I always imagined freshly turned soil soft and crumbling around until you sunk into it.” There’s nothing else to do but lie beside the man, and look to the stars. The stars that have been staring down at them all night with hushed tones. He couldn’t focus on them anymore, instead he’d admire the way they danced in the sky, in and out of focus with their tangerine glimmer. He leaves the bottle of whiskey between the both of them, resting on the concrete for the other man to grab. Arthur would think about handing it to him for a moment of time, passing the bottle and letting their hands brush just to touch something that could be real about tonight- to remember that feeling of something calloused. But he fears that his hands will find nothing but air where he expects there to be a man.

So he stares at the stars. And let’s them laugh at the sight of a man who’s come to the basketball court at night, wondering if this is what the afterlife looks like.

“I don’t think you can watch the stars when you’re six feet under. I didn’t even think you could see them in Chicago.” 

“not your luck tonight, old gabe’s garage closes at 6 and it’s the only place near here. sorry.” robbie looked down at the tire. “you mind if i take a look? i’m no expert but in my experience, majority of flats can be fixed, at least until you get to a garage.” if war hadn’t found him those many years ago, if he hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps instead of focusing on what he really wanted to do in life, then perhaps robbie would have liked to have his own shop. where he could fix things. now he only had an old bike he kept destroying in fits of anger, and then kept trying to fix as if it would also remove the guilt from his chest.

there was something inherently peaceful in handling tools and getting his hand dirty while working on his bike, his mind turned off, focused only on parts that were broken before, that could now be fixed.

a foolish hope that it could be the the same with his head, perhaps.

without giving much option to the stranger, robbie already decided he was helping him. a minute later, he was in front of the tired, running his hand on the rubber to see if he could find a nail somewhere.

“i’m robbie, by the way.” elevating a look toward the other man, robbie only offered a smile instead of dirty hand before turning his attention back to the work before him. “i don’t think i’ve seen you around. you’re new or just passing through?” the tone in his voice didn’t hold the same pressure it did during interrogation, interviews. just a regular meet with a stranger in the middle of nowhere. robbie did hope the man was just passing through, he’d hate to tell him how life in wade isn’t like the brochure says it is.

It had been a long time since Arthur had his hands covered in grease for days on end, unable to wash it from his hands and where it stained shirts. Those few shirts he had to keep clean for he couldn’t afford more. Since he was asking to be taught the difference between each part of the car with the dream that one day he could fix them himself- the time that a future where grease on his forehead, and grime staining his jeans seemed like the only option for him. A future, just within grasp.

But that wasn’t him. Or he wasn’t that person. Not anymore. That could have been a lifetime ago.

So when the other man knelt down before his tire, he didn’t have much protest to the matter. He kneels down beside the other, as if perhaps he may be able to help. But no, those hopes were long lost to forgotten memories he didn’t much care to dig up. “God, where are my manners. Arthur, I’ve just started down at the highschool.” He offers the other a smile where the words leave his lips, he knows the next question. It’s always the same when he says it, new. The fresh meat on the block- something thrilling to gossip about. They always ask why Wade?

He doesn’t have a fitting answer, he never does. Because it was there? He’d want to say, like it was that simple. But he can see it, on the other’s expression. And so Arthur offers before he even gets the chance to ask, “Nice change of scene out here- you know to the city.”

Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was dead. Who fucking knew at this point? All he could focus on was this man and his words and the feelings they stirred within him, agitating every part of his heart, his mind, his body. Fletcher, he’d only been brave enough to look death in the eye once, and it had sent him back howling, screaming, burned, but this man, he’d done it. Over and over again, and he tried to get a sense of what that did to a person, tried to seek out the truth of it in the driver’s eyes, but there was just…nothing. And perhaps that’s the penance you paid, the toll you gave the grim reaper. If death was the absence of life, then perhaps that’s what he was seeing in those brown eyes, and god, he wanted to drown in them.

But the man wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the road. And all Fletcher wanted to do was for the car to swerve, for them to drive off the road, and as they careened through the air, the man would look at him and see him, and then he could be at peace.

He came back to himself at the man’s final assertion. It crawled under his skin and left him uncomfortable because it wasn’t true. And wasn’t that the whole point of tonight? To throw away all of the assumptions the world made about them, to just be, no matter how ugly, how warped, because the very honesty of it all would be enough to make them perfect? And so, Fletcher let out a laugh, sharp and humorless, puncturing the relative quiet of the car.

“You’re not looking close enough, then,” he said.

Underneath the crisp white of his linen shirt, there were three puckered scars on his chest, two a palm’s distance apart on his shoulder, one off center on his abdomen. He remembered, in vivid detail, the way the whole world had tipped sideways, and he’d been lying there in the dirt, his hand pressed to his stomach, and it had taken everything left in him to raise his palm to his eyes so he could see the truth of what had happened, so he could stare at the blood staining his skin red. Because that was the whole fucking point, seeing what it was that coursed through him, feeling something to remember he was alive, truly alive, even if just for one moment, and he’d be wasting the one perfect, real moment of his life if he let it pass without experiencing every detail of it.

“I was shot,” he said. He didn’t think he needed to say anymore. People without a death wish, they stay away from this kind of violence with everything they have. But god, staring down the barrel of a gun, daring the universe to smite him where he stood, rolling the dice on his own survival, god, that shit was better than heroin. They needed to bottle that kind of adrenaline and then sell it to poor fucks like him, who just wanted to live life on the razor’s edge between feeling everything and feeling absolutely nothing at all.

“I didn’t get shot. It’s not something that happened to me, passively, accidentally. Some tragedy out of my control. I put myself in front of that gun. I sought it out,” he corrected himself because it felt important, because they were being honest, and that meant even striking lies of omission from the ledger. What do you do when you outsource your own suicide, when you think you’ve gotten away with sparing your friends, your family that kind of pain, and then you wake up and you made it?

Through the liquor induced haze, Fletcher realized two things: one, he had no idea where they were going. Two, he never wanted to leave this car. Because god, it felt so good to throw off all the pretense, all the agony it took him to pretend he existed, to pretend he enjoyed it. “I’ve never– told anyone that before,” he said slowly, honestly, not with any sort of regret.

Then, the question that had plagued him all night slipped through his lips, surprising even him: “Are you…real?” The edges of his brain had blurred, had been blurred for years, and ever since he came to Wade, it had only gotten worse. Waking up places he’d never been before, closing his eyes and losing time, appearing in his office, in the middle of the woods, outside of the Johnson’s house with no memory of how he got there. It would only be fitting that his mind showed its one final party trick in the form of a man who could undo him so fully and completely without even Fletcher knowing his name. People like this person next to him, they didn’t exist. Or they were like Fletcher, so well hidden that no one would ever be able to find them.

And Fletcher had found him.

If none of this was real, if they weren’t going to wake up the next morning, there was nothing stopping him from pulling the man’s hands off the wheel and putting them on his heart. There was nothing stopping him from reaching out and tracing the hollow of his neck. There was no obstacle in his way preventing him from kissing this man until neither of them could breathe.

A gun in hand, Arthur can see it now. Lifeless, dangled over the floor awaiting its next order. Moonlight washes through the window, kissing the shoulders of the seen- pooling blood glistening from the crack in the door where he stood. No- he saw the gun in hand. Finger on the trigger, still warm with smoke. This one’s pointed at a man who has his own blood pooling around him. But there’s no gun in his hands. There’s grime on his hands from where he’s buried himself in the earth. 

Ringing still swells in his ears- why are they ringing? He forgot long ago, that gun. That hand. Weathered from years, and wrinkled in the sun. The venom that dripped from it’s fingertips- he’d forgotten. Memories replaced. Guns with endless stretches of dirt, and mud on his face that’s been there for days. And he can hear the shots, he can feel the sweat cling to his back, and sun beat down on his forehead. He thinks of blood on those around him, or his own blood staining his arms. He looks to hands, and he sees his own. Dawn would always rise, after the nights that froze his bones, and stiffened his shatters. Dawn would rise on crusted blood, and salvation. 

Memories forgotten- replaces with others. Before inevitably, the lies built him whole and he could forget it all. 

So why was it all so prominent tonight?

Dark hues turn to the man in the seat beside him, and he swallows the sight of him like he swallows the stars. He can feel it, the furnace inside him that boils- like he can feel the thing beating inside him. And he laughs- he can’t help it through the honesty. The lingering truths they promised each other in their intoxicated hazes. “Then why do you look so alive?” Just like the laugh, the words sound hollow- echoing even as they leave his mouth like there was never substance to them to begin with. There never was.

Are you real.

Arthur takes the bottle from the man’s hands. Cooled to the touch, like the night air that brushes his cheeks and wafts the scent of sweet nectar through the car. Spilled blood and a field of flowers. He asks himself the question, hears it repeat in his head.

“I don’t think I ever was.” Truth pours from the man, and it swirls into the night sky. Amber ignitions vibrant above them, twinkling in the night. But there’s no mourning in his voice, for a man that died before he was born. Sadness was long lost to the words, they just were. “I don’t think I ever will be.” And for some reason he hopes the man in the seat beside him is just the same, so perhaps they never have to leave this night.