#ihdrabbles

Jake’s head tilts up, chin jutting forwards ever so slightly, as though readying for a fight.

the thing is, jake is really good at talking marc and steven down from panic attacks, but he never quite figured out how to do it on his own, for himself. (it’s rare he gets worked up enough to have a full blown attack, anyways) so when he gets home to the apartment and the door closes behind him before he can flip on the light switch it hits like a tsunami wave he never saw coming. the heavy wood of the front door is pressed against his back and his eyes are wide and unblinking in the enveloping darkness- his lungs freeze up and his heart starts pounding out a great and terrible drumbeat against his chest and his vision begins to tunnel and darken around the edges it only serves to send him spiralling deeper. he squeezes his eyes shut, he tries to focus on counting out his breaths- he fights for the control slipping through his fingers like sun-scorched sand-

‘Oh wow-‘ says a voice, steven’s voice, and jake flinches, eyes snapping open. ‘You.. you must be the other one. I- oh wow, I’m- my name’s Steven-‘

He’s… in the middle of a panic attack, and steven grant is.. introducing himself ?

‘Marc said.. he said there might be another-‘ steven’s voice trails off as jake attempts to pull a rattling rasp through his teeth as he fights the black spots in his vision. (he may actually not survive this one, he thinks bitterly to himself)

Except, the next time Steven speaks, it’s much closer to where Jake has slid to kneel on the floor, hands pressed to his chest. ‘Hey, mate, you all right? No offence, but you don’t look too hot.’

His next inhale is stuttered around an unexpected huff of laughter. Without thinking, he shakes his head, unable to form enough coherent words to string together in a sentence that makes sense. ‘Don’t … like..,’ he grunts, and shakes his head again, ‘it’s- dark. It’s too dark- no puedo ver-‘

he can barely make out the way steven’s head tilts to the side, too distracted by the way his lungs are screaming for air and his head spins. his eyes slip closed once more and he desperately tries to convince himself that that’s the reason it’s so dark, cos his eyes are just closed-

-that he’s not in a coffin, a casket, a sarcophagus to be buried beneath the earth and forgotten, left behind-

‘Too- too dark?’ steven parrots, seeming confused for just a moment before there’s a sort of tugging sensation way back behind their eyes and Jake’s hand moves as though controlled by puppet strings, reaching upwards and to the right-

His fingers brush a light switch and it’s like his brain comes back online. He flips the switch and electricity buzzes as the apartment is no longer pitch black. his lungs expand almost to capacity as his chest heaves, inhaling greedily.

Steven is looking at him from the mirror beside the door, hair tousled from sleep, eyes bright. When he notices jake returning his gaze, he gives a little wave. ‘I don’t much fancy the dark myself,’ he says, explaining, ‘i always trip or stub my toe when i can’t see where I’m going.’

I know, jake wants to say.

‘But! That’s what night lights were invented for. I know i have some extras stored away somewhere..’ steven taps his lower lip in thought. ‘I’ll find them, and keep one on by the door for you, yeah?’

Jake swallows, still rubbing at the leftover anxious ache in his chest, but then he smiles softly and nods. ‘That.. would be nice.’

‘Excellent,’ steven responds, and he’s nodding, too, around a muffled yawn. ‘Then that’s tomorrows plans sorted.’

‘Thank you, steven.’

The gift-shopist looks slightly surprised by his gratitude, as though he hadn’t been expecting it, but his smile grows wider and he shrugs it off. ‘Ah, shucks, mate.’ he says, and then brightens once more. ‘Oh, right- what’s your name, by the way?’

‘Jake,’ jake replies, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s wondering if maybe this is all just a dream. ‘Jake Lockley.’

marc spector you forget to see the beauty. in your hasty scurry for your safety net you miss the way the sunlight feels on your skin. in your rush for protection you neglect to take deep breaths and feel the oxygen swimming in your head. In your need to keep others safe you forget to save yourself.

marc spector, you are the most infuriating sort of sightless. you see the kind pieces of other human beings and you refuse to acknowledge the gentleness of your own hands. You see love reflected in the eyes of your friends and you turn your gaze away, you don’t look. you don’t see what you in turn have to offer.

‘give me your hands.’

they are dripping with crimson that sears his knuckles, staining deep into the marrow of his bones, inked into the layers of his skin since… as long as he could remember.

a long time. long time.

give me your hands

he would rather retreat, would rather recede, would rather retire / he’s so tired , when can he rest, when might he rest? his feet, that used to run, that used to flee, to fly, now drag and shuffle and stumble and he cannot seem to quite keep pace anymore. he feels as though he’s fallen behind, falling apart, unravelling at the seam.

give me your hands.

these hands? these hands, that have stolen breath, taken life, spilt blood, broken bones? these hands, that have destroyed, that have hidden, that have betrayed? give these hands ? hands that only know cruelty, that only know pain, that only know to tremble in the face of kindness? These hands, that are meant to be gloved, to be covered- these hands, that are meant to be a sheathed like a weapon, like a blade-

Steven’s panic attacks always hit like a bullet to the chest.   He knows exactly what that feels like, now; he can adequately relate the metaphor in context and it’s extremely applicable here- his ribs creak as he struggles for breath- wheezes.   It was just a nightmare.  It was just a nightmare. (Then again, he’s always struggled with realising the distinction between his dreams and reality.) 

she reads the texts with bleary eyes- and her heart drops

it’s just a bit past three in the morning. she hasn’t heard from Marc in weeks. In her tired, sleep addled state, she almost instinctively presses the green button when her phone starts buzzing in her hands, but stops herself just in time.

It rings.

And rings.

Then falls silent. she swallows back panic.

ding

Her fingers tremble as she slowly raises the device to her ear. the screen goes dark and there’s an awful, icky feeling stuck to her ribs like oil. She has one new voicemail.

‘Layla.’ Marc’s voice is soft, and all he says is her name, at first. her eyes are on the numbers ticking down on the far right side of the voicemail. she wonders just how many precious seconds marc will waste this time on silence.

Too many. The message is two and a half minutes long, and Marc doesn’t say anything else until there’s less than thirty seconds left. she can hear him breathing- panting. there was a time she knew his sounds better than her own, but right now it feels like listening to a stranger.

‘I- imsorry.’ It’s comes out in a rush, sudden and loud enough she pulls the phone away from her ear for just a moment. ‘I’m sorry i didn’t call. i wanted to c- I’m sorry. Layla, I know you can’t forgive me-‘

Was he drunk??

‘-I know it’s too late for that, i… already sent them. but it’s- best this way. better. it’s better this way. i-‘

Marc’s voice is quieter now. Layla’s wipes her eyes quickly and is somewhat surprised when her fingertips come back wet with salty tears.

ten seconds left.

‘I love you, Layla.’

there’s a smashing sound somewhere in the background. She hears Marc inhale through his teeth, air whistling, feels her own heartbeat quicken even though all she’s doing is sitting in bed listening to a voicemail.

‘I’m sorry.’

her hair smells like flower petals and earth.  her eyes light up when she talks about art theft.  her smile is brighter than a thousand suns.  warmer, too.

the thought that his messy life could splatter and stain hers has always haunted him, but it’s muffled, forgotten and muted by the time he has spent apart.  it’s been weeks since he’s heard her voice, weeks since he’s had time to check his voicemails-

and seeing her now, sitting across from him as the boat sways and bobs softly on the dark waters, it’s like he’s falling in love all over again.  it’s a struggle to remember the distance he’d forced between them.  it’s a struggle to stay away, when her gravity pulls him in so softly.  welcomes him. 

sometimes, he thinks he catches her staring at him.  

sometimes, he wonders what she could possibly see.

he’s not sure if where he is could be defined as ‘hell’, but it’s definitely terrible. it’s also cold- and that was rather unexpected. he hadn’t been prepared for a cold that burns, that blisters, that steals the breath from his lungs and freezes his ribs cage and-

‘STOP THE BOAT!’ a distant, familiar voice is bellowing, begging. ‘STOP THE BOAT!’

the cry echos across the unforgiving dunes and for some reason it’s terribly hard for Steven to catch his breath (it’s so cold- how could sand be this cold??) and even as he’s rising to his feet they feel full of lead and it’s quite the task attempting to find balance.

Right.

He’d forgotten he fell.

That’s- that’s probably why his joints are so sluggish and sore- probably. He just has to.. get back to the boat-

There is sand between his teeth, thick on his tongue, like a sheet of ice.

‘Wait!!’ He cries, but when he manages to raise his head, the enormous ship had already passed him by and his words are lost to the bitter wind though he screams them with all the air left in his chest. His legs won’t obey him and his heart skips a beat as his gaze is drawn back down-

Steven Grant falls to his knees in the duat (the icy sensation has spread now, he can’t feel his feet and he can’t feel his fingers and if it was hard to breathe before, it’s getting very difficult to draw breath now but he gives it one last shot).

‘M- Marc-!‘ he gasps. and then goes still.