I HEAR THE TRAIN A-COMIN'

cont. from @theauthorlives​​

YANCY ... had been pretty skittish lately. 

IT WAS an understatement, actually, to say he’d been avoiding crowds. no, yancy had plainly been avoiding anyone - ever since mark had yanked him out of the little hidey-hole he’d made for himself, yancy’d been running himself ragged to lay low. don’t get attached. don’t get caught. he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong by just ... being alive, sure, but ... 

BUT FREEDOM was new. surely he’d get bitched at for something. 

GUNTHER WAS COOL. that was the only solid decision he’d made about anyone; laid back, inconsequential, gunther just did what he thought he needed to and didn’t make a fuss about it. it still took him three weeks to pick up the balls to approach him. 

YANCY DIDN’T NEED a light. yancy still had matches tucked in his back pocket. he forced himself to approach anyway, slow steps, like a cornered animal; he lit his crinkled cigarette, took a long drag, and sighed loudly in relief - hundred years without a smoke’ll do that to you. “hm?” he mumbled, finally taking a chance to meet gunther’s eyes, instead of staring at the floor with feigned interest. 

“ ... YEAH. S’BEEN long enough; you’d t’ink they’d invent a cig ‘dat won’t kill you anymore ... “ maybe that didn’t make sense to gunther, based on whatever scientific process had been made since the 1950′s, but he tried to hide his growing unease the best he could. “yeah. yeah, i, uh ... i know youse. i’m - ... “ he juggled his name in his head for a moment, trying to decide; this was a fresh start. he could go by his government name for once, instead of what the boys in the clink called him. 

YANCY PUFFED his cigarette in silence for what seemed like ages, though he was happy to do so. the taste was close to invigorating, a sparkle finally reaching his eyes for the first time in a long while - though that was neatly snuffed out at the mention of cryo. god, he never wanted to think of that stuffy fucking box ever again - a shiver shot down his spine, and he grumbled once more around the twig between his teeth. “ yeah, i - ... look, it’s a neat sentiment, but ... youse don’t gotta worry any. i’m a big boy, i can take care o’myself.” 

“ STARING. “   for sender to find receiver sitting alone staring at a wall, covered in blood, and to touch their arm . / @etvidentium​

THERE IS NO saving yancy. he’s known this for a very long time. 

HE’S LIVED IN this bubble for too long, he thinks; maybe a decade or two ago, sure, he could’ve been coaxed out of his den; a few before even that, he would’ve jumped for joy at the chance to get the hell out of these brick walls. before that, yancy admittedly has no clue what he’d want, besides revenge - besides his nails digging into someone elses neck. there was a time when throwing a dented baseball bat or a chipped knife down a ravine was a good stress reliever, when violence and tranquility went hand in hand. now, it just makes his heart pound to an unsettling degree. 

HE THINKS it might be ready to pop by now. does this mean he’s weaker than he once was, or that he’s come full circle? both ends of the spectrum bring adrenaline in spades. 

IF HE ENJOYED IT, yancy thinks, there wouldn’t be this heavy swirl of something sitting in his gut. his limbs wouldn’t feel like lead, his eyes glassy paperweights in his skull, set to bore a hole into the brick before him. he was tired. he didn’t feel like moving. tv was doing him a big favor by dealing with the dead weight on his behalf, the corpse of murderslaughter unceremoniously dumped in the back garden. he’d snapped. it didn’t matter, of course; murderslaughter wasn’t a real man, and the ghost that haunted that poor meat puppet was well and truly alive, making the prison boil and seethe around them. the walls were vibrating; or was that just his eyes. 

YANCY LOOKED DOWN. removed his hands from the stinging gash in his abdomen, black and red blood mingling among the wound. at least he could tell whose was whose. he hadn’t gone down without a fight, and maybe that was something for his conscious to grapple with later. 

HE REGISTERED tv looming behind him before he felt the hand on his shoulder. feeling was difficult right now; took up way too much of his energy. he looked up at them first, with big, bleary, saint bernard eyes, then looked down at where their arm was stretched out to, and gave the hand a tight lipped smile. whether it was to beckon him, or to provide an amount of comfort, he didn’t know. the latter was pretty hard to come by. 

“HEY, YOUSE,” he said, tone jovial but weak, as he finally relaxed into the chair. he tried to turn a tad, look tv in the eye, but the wound smiled and spat more blood onto his shirt and he had to pause and breathe instead. “all done? you’re a good pal, buddy, y’know that? I, uh...” 

HE’S WONDERED, timeline after timeline, if this is what death really feels like. if he ever becomes old and brittle and lies in an uncomfortable hospital bed, surrounded by family and friends, is this the same sensation that will haunt him? he likes to think differently; he comforts himself with the idea that a real death is like air. that, if he were to die for keeps, he would not feel his body - he would feel his last thoughts run thin through his brain like rain through a clean gutter; they would empty into his heart, flush out any last trace of fear, and water the grass and clover underneath. he’d die with a smile on his face, and nothing in his skull except pleasant hum. 

THIS DEATH, yancy thinks, is much too rich for his blood. it clogs his veins like honeyed wine, lures him in for another taste. everything, down to the words in his throat, is molasses thick and jumbled; he swallows, licks his lips, and tries to speak anyway. 

TV THINKS HE has a chance, and yancy has never been good at denying tv their opinion, but he tries anyway. “look at me, wynn. i - fuck, i can’t hardly see straight. i can’t do it this time.” his throat is dry and sticks to every syllable; eventually yancy has to cough, doubled into himself with a ragged gasp. even if he got out, he thinks, even if tv could get him past those gates, what good would it do him? was dying with fresh air in his lungs worth it when he couldn’t hardly breathe? 

YANCY TRIES ANYWAY. if it would make tv happy, he’d try anything, he supposes. he stands, legs deterorating beneath him, and he clutches the back of the chair for some much needed support. will he be able to walk, even after he’s gotten his legs firmly under him? one arm clutches around his middle, and he begrudgingly separates himself from the chair. his hand finds the wall, then tv’s shoulder; then he sags. 

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