Epicaricacy

Tim doesn’t have enough tears left in him to cry, but he still feels choked up by what comes down on paper in front of him. The apology, the helplessness - so familiar and so fucking painful. He swallows even though his mouth is dry and looks again at Brian’s face, not sure what Brian expects from him but knowing he’s both too tired and upset for it.

And there’s the nausea too, that guilt that makes his insides churn in an uncomfortable, horrible way when he watches Brian and keeps seeing the mask.

In the end all he can manage is a painful sort of weird laugh. Or maybe it’s a dry sob. Maybe it’s both.

“Right, yeah, we all did, I … now what? If you’re going to disappear again I’m going to scream.” 

Tim laughs - if that's what it is - a grey, tired sound, and there it is again, in Tim's cheeks flushed from crying, in his lop-sided sort-of smile, torn up in every imagineable way. The tide of emotions rise within B, threatening to spill out of his eyes, even though his lips do pull up into something that’s maybe a smile, for a moment.

In some distant corner of his mind he can barely make out the shape of a person he used to be. A shadow of a life that doesn't feel like it ever belonged to him. So far away and even though the medication makes the shape clearer, it never brings it closer.

Jay. Alex. Himself, too. They're all gone, and when Tim catches up to speed that B is just a facisimilie, just the mask even if he no longer wears... It would be better to cut to the chase. Save him the gradual disappointment, the sleepless nights, get out of his life to let him move on.

But... B's tired. More than tired. Exhausted. From all the years spent running, hiding, scrambling to be one step ahead. From all the crying and from feeling, a throbbing headache creeping up over his forehead.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just breathe easy for once.

"why would

@skadeglad asked: 📚

“Dead is dead, but moved on is better.”

It seems obvious to say, but Markor probably needs to hear it, anyway. Dan smiles faintly, a little sadly, as he looks at the wraith of a kid–and he is a kid, compared to Dan. His ability is… sad.

But he shines, on some level.

“Can you see them? The dead?”

"No. I don't know."

Sometimes, maybe, he thought he did. Shadows of people that looked vaguely familiar, like someone he'd seen in a dream, or passed by on the street. In his heart of hearts he knows what they are, but if he keeps pretending, keeps denying, maybe it'll hurt less.

Hi, sorry I caused your untimely demise, I didn't mean to do it. Now let me help you move on from the life I viciously tore you away from.

God no, he can't do that. So he keeps ignoring them. Keeps putting his head down whenever a pair of eyes just too pale for this world meets his.

When he speaks again, it's a bark, an accusation almost.

Jessica is slow to wake, given the circumstances. At first she could have sworn she was dreaming–she isn’t sure about what–but then she notices she’s kind of cold. And upright, against something uncomfortable.

She opens her eyes and sees the shadowy figure before she even registers that she’s no longer in the hotel.

She screams and shoves at him immediately, trying to get him away. 

He muscles through her shove, not cause he’s got much strength to show for it anymore but cause there ain’t much power in it yet, still sluggish from the sleep. The hand not holding the camera lashes out to cover her mouth. Cut her scream, short. A sharp, admonishing “sshhh!” tearing out of him.

Of course she’d freak out and try to get away. But they really can’t afford to panic right now, sensible as it would be to do so. If he could put himself in her shoes. Distantly, he gets it.

But he knows best and if she gets with the program she’ll go along quietly.

The woods are dark around them for now, only the night vision on B’s camera to guide them. He knows the woods well enough, they can’t risk a flashlight if Alex is out there. And there’s no time to waste.

“Could Jesus?” 

It’s an easy thing to shoot back, since religion seems to affect this man more than reason alone does. Adam’s tone is still tight with restrained anger, but he’s trying to find the loopholes in this man’s faulty logic.

“He was divine yet mortal at the same time, and could not prevent his crucifixion.” 

Hmm, a fair point. Jesus did take three whole days to get back on his feet after being strung up on that cross though. This thing did it in just about three seconds. Clearly he’s got something of an advantage in the divine powers department, perhaps through infernal encouragement. It sure does reek of it.

“Sure.”

What does that make him, then? That pontius guy? Come to think of it, does he not share his name with... someone important? There’s something here he should remember but the edges of his mind are still muddled, still buzzing at the fringes no doubt because of  the superhuman presence before him. He can’t remember.

… well, that’s a vivid description and it actually makes Adam smile, caught off guard by the childish, almost innocent explanation. From the mouths of children and drunkards, isn’t that the saying? 

“Unnatural, then”, he summarizes with some amusement and takes a sip from his coffee. “Not difficult per se but not entirely easy. Is that right?” 

It is, he’s sure, but it helps to have Markor say the words himself, to talk about it. He’s the image of uncertainty right now, not quite hugging himself but not sitting entirely straight either, but that uncertainty wasn’t there when he was rotting the plant. 

“I guess.” He shrugs, the very image of smoothly dodging the question. He’s scratching idly at his arms now, his skin tingly all of a sudden, and his leg bounces restlessly under the table. The worry is setting in again.

Unnatural. Hm. That sure is a word and the implications of that word sits about as right with Markor as trench foot. That his natural state is to be, in essence, a parasite. Sure, by virtue of being an unemployed teenager he’s a parasite on society already but being a straight-up lethal parasite of life... No, wait. That's not a parasite.

That's a predator.

i continue to feel like an uninspired garbage writer heughghfh. I feel like i’m just recycling the same words and formulas and sentence structures over and over again with no variation or interest.

I read some old tags from like a year back and they’re pretty good, they’re interesting, they got character, and what i write now feels flat and lifeless in comparison. Now it feels like all tell, no show, and like it’s got an air of lofty pretentiousness without even being good. When I read them later they’re okay enough but I hate every word i put down while I’m writing them.

And this is not just.... oh woe is me im having doubts (but make no mistake, i AM having doubts) but most if all it’s a point of frustration and anxiety cause I feel like all my words are slipping away from me. Like my conscious word bank is actively shrinking, like the part of me that deals with creative writing and language and words is deteriorating and honestly that’s really scary.

When I write it feels like I have to squeeze the words out. I find myself knowing there are words with definitions that would fit but I can’t for the life of me remember what the words are and this particular thing happens SO MUCH. and not just when I write. It happens all the time when I talk too, that I just can’t find the right words even though I know they should be there and it makes me stop and stutter in ways I don’t think I did before and it disrupts me so bad.

Grass and dead leaves and dirt and twigs and rocks, all of it scraping at their clothes and hands and hidden faces. T feels like a bolt of lightning - unstable and chaotic and about to be unleashed when he tries to get the upper hand.

B’s not as strong as T is. It should be easy. But T’s still weakened from the convulsions that happened to the other him, his muscles are sore and spent and he’s bone-tired, but he’s still making himself do this, be this. 

B has betrayed him. Again.

T doesn’t really remember when they were last together or what happened then, but the angry, spiteful and hurt feelings come easily regardless of what memories he still has. And he has something to fight for in a way B doesn’t. 

His teeth are bared under his mask when he struggles under B’s grip. B knocked the breath out of him but he’s breathing quickly and he’s going to get back up, and he’s going to let B answer for what he’s done.

All T knows is a consuming anger that makes him twist and elbow and kick, and he moves to try to get the upper hand.

The intent this time is not to have T return to him again. No, this time it’s for something else, for another - as much as he hates to even think it - more important cause. But it’s been so long and there’s is some time to waste before the lanky self-proclaimed investigator will get B’s message and come looking. B needs to be around when he does anyway, to rein T in a little bit and keep tabs on the whole situation. As he always does.

So for now, the forest night is punctured with their breaths and growls and grunts. Under any other circumstances T would have him hard against the ground already, but even in his weakened state B has to fight for the control.

An elbow connects with his brow and his vision blots out for a second. The woods spin around him and his back meets the ground, but his hands find T’s collar almost automatically and he pulls to flip them back around again.

“It doesn’t help if you go!” 

Tim lets go of Brian in a rough sort of way, the way that’s part shove and part fine, but he stays close, not sure if he’s threatening him or pleading with him or both. Suddenly and without Tim’s control there are tears in his eyes again, stinging and warm, and he swallows against the fear that’s only just popped into his head, the one that he makes into words:

“I can’t be alone with this, okay? I don’t want to be alone.” 

He’s been alone for so damn long, for most of his life. Brian was the first person to truly break that streak and when he’d disappeared … when he’d disappeared - Tim doesn’t remember much of that, anymore, because that was taken from him, but he knows he must have been upset and in pieces because that’s how he feels now. 

Brian looks at him with an expression that’s unreadable despite his efforts and Tim feels like he’s choking. “I don’t know what your new problem is with me, or– or how you felt when we were both running around in the woods, or why you’re so fucking conspiratory with Jay but I– I miss you, okay? I missed you and I can’t do this alone again.”

Tim is so close and his voice is shaky now, losing its footing with every word and B can’t help but remember the fight in the parking lot and the rant in the burned out hospital all at the same time but now it’s all turned to him, and there is no grand scheme to hide behind.

He’s face to face with all this emotion and there’s a flash of dreadful dangerous doubt that B can’t allow himself to feel because doubting for even a second means death, but it’s overpowering him now. It washes over him like a tide and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do, scambling for the metaphorical surface - the clarity - but it’s already too far out of his reach.

“Oh... kay.”

He’s not sure what he means, even less sure of what he actually wants, can’t think straight. He should go to protect them all from... it, and from himself and what he is now, spare them the burden. Gathering up like this only makes it worse, only makes it more likely they’ll all have to suffer again, will draw it back to them, won’t it?

But Tim is crying now, pleading, and something beyond the physical in B is aching.

God, he’s missed him so much.

It was necessary to bring Jay and Tim together back then, even though it meant never seeing Tim by his side again, but it hurt so much. More than the stealing and the goading and the threatening, it hurt cause he was all alone out there forever now and that’s the way it had to be, but that didn’t change just how much it hurt to have to do it. Messed up as they were back then it was someone to be messed up with, someone to rely on in the deep static of that existance, and he had to cut that away from himself for the sake of everyone.

But he’s here again, now. Tim is here and the difference this time is that he’s asking, begging for B to stay, and the doubt and the ache flares stronger and he’ll lose no matter what he does.

There is nowhere for him to go out there. Away is a place he’ll die trying to find, but wasn’t that what he was supposed to do?

“I’m... ssorry.”

He’s got to go. Should go. But he can’t move right now, so he takes the third option and reaches out. Takes Tim’s hand in both his own and holds it there, gaze down, just to feel it again.

Jay feels weird about it. They’re not really friends, even if they’re allies now. They hadn’t been friends before. But Brian saved his life, and that’s a pretty good start to starting something new.

All that to say, the hand on his is a weirdly nice comfort. He doesn’t know how to take it, but it’s comforting nonetheless.

“So–what now? I mean… can I ask you about something? About what you were doing?”

He doesn’t want to corner him, but he’d also really appreciate some answers.

Of course Jay has questions. Who wouldn’t.

To try speaking doesn’t cross B’s mind anymore, the figurative cobwebs so thick over his throat that’s forgotten if he even can. Instead he reaches for the laptop. Pulls up a text program, Notepad or whatever simple one Jay has on here, the more basic the better. Writes:

“Oh, god”, Tim says back with a playful groan. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” 

He says it like a joke, but he realizes he’s serious. Shit, he’s never dated before - or sure, yeah, Jasmine, but that was four whole dates that were all awkward before they just kinda stopped talking and that was it. So okay, he’s never liked someone before, not like this. Which means he’s also never been liked back. 

There’s something insecure that comes with that realization too, about Brian. And Tim feels bad for doubting him, but Brian’s a notorious … not a player, exactly, but he’s flighty. His relationship don’t last more than a couple months and he never seems too broken up about it. So this could go the same way, right?

And another voice in his head is whispering something about curiosity and experimentation and Tim suddenly wants to vanish, wants to go back to this being one-sided and something to laugh about instead of something to actually unpack.

He kicks a rock ahead of him, pops his lips when he opens his mouth, and looks at Brian in a way he knows will probably read as … shy, or insecure, and he never liked either of those looks on him, but okay, here goes or something.

“So you were telling me about your whole emotional revelation, or whatever?” 

Is he going to ruin this? Is he going to destroy what he had with Tim because of this? Because of this idea of novelty and curiosity? What if it isn’t real? What if it’s going to run out into the sand just like Sandra, like Kathy, like Emily, and then Tim will be hurt and gone because he is not like them, and will Brian care, then?

Wow, he just can’t stop thinking about this, huh? Can’t just enjoy the moment of being freshly in love without this dark cloud hovering above him. It’s not like him to worry like this and is that... a good sign?

Whatever. Take it easy now. For real this time, cause now Tim’s got all these little tells and they set off a small yellow (not red, not yet) light in Brian’s head and he latches on to that right away. A problem to fix, and oh no, are they gonna talk about Brian?

“Oh, yeah, that. You know, I was just soul searching a bit, thinking about what you said and - now we’re here!“

Quite literally, as the pale brick building with the green and white Shamrock’s sign on top comes into view down the street like a savior sent from above, and Brian skips ahead one two steps.

Isaias feels weak. Somewhat frightened. But he tries to stand firm regardless.

He shakes his head.

“That’s not it. I just want you to go into this with—with a clear head. I don’t know if your ways are the right way. I want you to be sure.”

Are you a coward, Isaias? He asks himself. To pretend there is any way you can condone this?

“It’s—if you kill, is that not damnation for your own soul?”

There’s the notion to rein himself in just a little bit - the priest doesn’t know better, certainly. Most of those who proclaim themselves good, holy men don’t understand. It makes sense after all, now that he thinks of it, that they wouldn’t, protected as they are in their churches and their monasteries with their sermons and gatherings.

Judas is the protector in the dark. He who fights monsters.

So when he speaks again it’s a growl, the rage within him under tenuous control. For now.

“I was damned, but found redemption in the blood of sinners.”

In the blood, the gunpowder, the mortal wounds, and the explosions that rocked the colossal warship.