#arcvist

what makes jon think he’s not past the point of no return?    if it’s not one thing,    it’s another    --    watching his house,     recording their conversations,    twitching and skulking and entering rooms too quietly.    tim breathes in and breathes out and the anger goes nowhere.    he balls his fists and his stomach curls tighter.    it does not go away and it does not flinch.    “    for what?    ”    he sounds incredulous.    “    for you?    ”    for us?    the two of them,    the collective,    it was long gone.    maybe tim’s being selfish,    assuming this is about him.    he always was like that    --    arrogant and consuming.   

the good place starters.

@arcvist        &  *     from what i’ve seen so far, the good ones always seem to break. 

eyes closed , martin breathes slow and deep , steady despite the distant howl of outside horrors.   he guesses jon already knows , in that awful reflexive way of knowing , the answer to the question , despite his lacklustre attempts to feign sleep and put the other man’s mid at ease  –  a night , perhaps jon might think , of whatever brief peaceful slumber martin could manage with the world as it is.   just once without his every nightmare -- of thick , swathing fog and the cloying smell of rot and smoke , and the feeling of insects beneath his skin squirming and itching -- being broadcast straight into jon’s mind like some godawful guilt trip from the universe.

“  well , you’d know if i wasn’t , wouldn’t you.  ”   a slow sigh and martin rolls onto his side ,  offering his response not unkindly into the cool space between their bodies. he can’t see in the darkness if jon is looking at him , can only barely make out the long silhouette of him in the dull flashes of lightning or beholding which make up the skies now ,  still managing to penetrate the otherwise blacked out room.  their going to bed together is more habit than necessity by now , just some semblance of keeping time , keeping routine , keeping each other grounded. 

“only  you?”  an  AMUSED  sort  of  skepticism  is  laid  over  the  words,  brow  furrowing  briefly.  how  presumptuous,  to  assume  you  will  be  the  only  thing  left  standing  in  the  wake  of  fear;  she  has  seen  NOTHING,  and  there  have  always  been  others.  “now  that  doesn’t  sound  NICE  at  all.”  so  few  beings  actually  like  being  wholly  alone.  OH,  they  think  they  will,  they  may  even  think  they  do  in  the  first  moments  or  weeks  or  months,  but  the  gnawing  maw  of  loneliness  grasps  even  the  best  of  them  eventually.  perhaps  some  can  last  longer  than  others  before  the  keen  ache  of  being  ALONE  truly  sets  in,  in  all  of  its  terrible  glory,  but  pearl  cannot  fathom  anything  being  glad  at  being  UTTERLY  ALONE.

'        I DON’T REALLY CARE WHAT IT IS  ,       i just want it to leave me alone  .       ’        banshee  ,     are you tired of this haunt    ?       are you tired of the voices  ,         the ghosts in the walls    ?     perhaps she sounds snappish  ,     terror  -  volatile  .     forgive her  ,      that hiss  ,     the tight way she keeps herself contained  .     self  -  defense came in many forms  ,     after all  .        ‘    i’ve seen a lot of things  ,     but    —    ghosts  .     you’re serious    .    ’

         𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜  𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗  𝚊𝚝  𝚊  𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚢  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕,  reservation  coating  her  statuesque  stance.  it  crossed  her  mind  that  it  held  no  sense  of  surprise  for  anyone  to  guess  at  a  thing  that  she  was :    otherworldly!   something  of  an  odd  end  . . .    something  indiscernible,  difficult  to  look  at,  harder  still  to  think  about  and  speak  to   ––––   CERTAINLY,   DOUBTFUL  MINDS  HAVE  ONLY,  PRIOR,  TURNED  TO  SILENT  CONSIDERATION.   the  fact  this  man  spoke  so  boldly  was  like  to  cause  concern,  but  it  only  sparked  a  subtle  change  to  her  demeanor.  outwardly,  almost  inviting.  sweet.  the  corner  of  her  lip  twitched  to  a  smile,  and  she  held  her  gaze  on  him  as  concretely  as  a  predator  its  prey.

          “  and  i  thought  this  call  was  only  about  a  statement  . . .   ”   she  placed  her  untouched  tea  on  the  coffee  table  between  them,  something  she  had  brewed  the  both  of  them  out  of  the  understanding  that  most  beating - hearts  felt  further  at  ease  with  something  warm  to  hold  during  conversations.  she’d  regretted,  only  briefly,  making  him  so  comfortable.  but  she  knew  what  was  coming   –––   the  envisioned  inevitability  of  the  curiosity  of  cats.   “  i’d  think  i  would  be  the  one  –––   well,  no,  i  guess  it  doesn’t  work  like  that,  right?  i  suppose  this  was  a  little  necessary,  on  your  end.  that’s  alright.  ”   she  only  paused  so  much  to  allow  a  brief  silence  as  her  legs  crossed  and  she  leaned  forward,  inching  just  ever  so  closely  to  him.

          (   reluctant  truth  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  flickering  in  her  careless  gaze,  was  that  she  found  herself  happy  to  find  him  in  possession  of  a  good,  intuitive  mind  for  these  things.  otherwise,  it  would  only  make  it  terribly  one - sided.  it  was  why  she  hadn’t  invited  along  her  husband,  who’d  ultimately  have  only  molded  the  room  to  what  he  perceived  she  wanted.  but  this  was  too  interesting  to  leave  to  manipulation ––––   she  found  herself  another  cat  in  the  game,  but  far  less  afraid  of  death  than  any  other  player  might  be.    . . .    )