#reality split

tw: death, gore, abuse, disassociation, emeto, blood, general thump. ask to tag "What the fuck did you do?" The voice is quiet. Barely louder than a whisper. The room is dark, Al hadn't tried to turn on the lights, but the voice is familiar enough. And it's tone is just about what he's been waiting for, really. Only a matter of time before the one person who'd never hurt him would raise a hand. He doesn't reply. Not worth the breath.

"Al, what the fuck did you do?" The light flickers on. Leon. Eyes more threatening than the blood which drips from his jaw, than the pistol in his hand, than his still bloody knife trailing crimson across the floorboards. Eyes which tell him immediately family counts for nothing now.

"Loyalty." Al's tone is flat and hollow. "I showed loyalty." If possible, this makes things worse.

He doesn't react as a rough hand grabs him by the collar, pulling him to his feet. Doesn't change expression as the blood smears against his throat, still warm from being separated from its body. His feet hit the ground in a slow heavy march as Leon pulls him along. Out of the shed, down the drive. There isn't a single syllable which leaves either of their lips and Al is shoved carelessly into the dusty back seat of Leon's car, and as the elder takes the driver's seat.

The engine rumbles.

"Where are we going?"

"Back." And that's that. The not-quite brothers are returning to his place of torture, not an hour after leaving. Al knows he should feel something about it. Terror. Dread. Betrayal. Maybe he will. Maybe he will when he feels connected to the body in the backseat, breathing, bleeding, and bearing his name. The engine rumbles.

"Get out." Al complies. He opens the door with numb fingers. His ripped sneakers crunch the gravel.

"Follow." He does. The only sounds are his own light controlled breathing and Leon's tongue clicking patiently against the roof of his mouth. They come to a stop before the main door.

"Why did you bring me back here?" Al hears his mouth producing the words, although he isn't entirely sure he decided to say them. Leon's face isn't necessarily unreadable, but he doesn't recognise the expression. Regret, maybe. Pity, even, if that wouldn't contradict the circumstance.

"Al.. I need you to understand what you did." He says quietly. "I need you to know what this cost us." "I got him back, Lee." Al says vaguely, looking absently around. He notes the wall is a lighter shade than it was in his torture chamber, briefly considering mentioning the decor.

"You didn't." The reply is simple.

"What do you mean I didn't?" His brain moves slowly, ticking through a train of thought at the speed of treacle.

"I mean," Leon stops himself, taking a breath. "I mean that we're down two." This one is enough to knock some feeling into him. His eyes focus, snapping back to his brother.

"Silas.. Is he.."

There's more of a pause than he would have liked.

"We don't know." "What do you mean you don't know?"  His voice is accusatory.

Leon takes a breath, letting his lungs fill with the emotion that's dangerously close to presenting itself. He exhales only the air.

"I mean, Al, that Silas is missing. He never came back." "Oh."

Suddenly, the shade of concrete becomes far more interesting again.

"Is that it? Oh?" Leon's tongue clucks in exasperation.

"Did you find..?" His voice trails off flatly. They both know what he's asking.

"The body isn't his, no."

This makes Al pause. His first thought is relief that Silas is alive, but it's quickly overshadowed. "The body?" "You need to see what you've done, Al." Leon's eyes are full of regret. And, he was right before. Full of pity, too. It does nothing to lessen the pit of dread forming in Al's chest, consuming his heart, then his lungs, eating its way through his body, though. He knows it won't save him from what's going to happen.

If Al's chest is sinking, Leon's is on fire.

"In a moment, I'm going to open the door," he says softly. "And you're going to see him."

Al nods, swallowing down rising panic. He still feels as though he's floating. Not connected.

Bloody knuckles grip the busted handle on the door, and as it's pulled ajar, Al takes a tentative step forwards.

"I didn't want it to be like this," Leon reminds him, urging him in. "But you need to understand. Actions have consequences."

The smell hits him first. It doesn't exactly break him out of his half trance, but it's one of the first senses to properly register. Something metallic and raw lingers at the surface, not quite hidden by the overwhelming scent of bleach and disinfectant. It's actually the disinfectant that sets him off in the end, out of everything. His next breath comes through his mouth to block out the smell, and rattles with the ghost of a sob.

"Leon," he gasps, reeling in the dark. "Leon, I really want to get out of here."

"Not yet," comes a reply through gritted teeth. Breathing faster, Al attempts to get his bearings, head spinning from the god awful smell of disinfectant. He can see it now, sloshing over the concrete, carrying away blood and sick as the uncaring men stood by, deciding how next to hurt them. To kill-

No. Shaking his head viciously in his panicked haze, his foot hits something and he sprawls over the floor, landing half over it.

"L-Leon?"

There's no reply.

"L-Leon, I fell, please," he hates how small and weak he sounds, but he can barely control his own breathing, let alone stand up. Too terrified and overwhelmed to do anything else, he just lays as still as he can in the dark, unable to see anything but the arm he used to cushion the fall. There's movement somewhere behind him, and he almost cries in relief when the lights flicker on, emitting a low hum. He twists awkwardly, desperately trying to look for Leon, to beg him to get them out of here. Unfortunately, he sees someone else.

A soft exhalation followed by a few seconds of breathlessness. A series of harsh shallow gasps. Then, he's pulling his legs off of it, kneeling on all fours, retching. There's nothing left in him  to throw up, but it doesn't change anything. When he comes to a shaky stop, he can barely bring himself to look at it. The word body hadn't fully registered to him in his trance, but it's hitting him in full now. The thing he'd tripped on hadn't been furniture, it was a corpse, still clinging onto a little warmth it had when it was alive.

Throat contracting, he shakily moves towards it, not daring to try to recognise the face. But he does. The gold and grey jacket, the pasty skin, and the long navy hair tied in a hasty bun.

"Jason?" He hesitantly reaches out to touch his stone-cold cheek, hardly aware of what he's doing. The feeling of the cold oily skin, like nothing he's felt before, makes him sob, and his eyes glaze. Maybe in another narrative, this would be the time when Leon would see how badly his brother was hurting and snap out of his own misery to comfort him. Unfortunately, this isn't another narrative.

"He's dead," Leon says gruffly.

"Can't be," Al chokes, reaching to brush a strand of Jason's dark hair out of his eyes. Harshly, a hand grabs him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him away so roughly that the fabric tears a little. Stumbling, Al wipes the tears out of his eyes and turns to face Leon, who's seething. "He can't be dead Lee," he half states, half pleads in a small pained voice.

"Look at him," Leon's voice is dangerously quiet, emotion threatening to spill over.

"I don't want to." "Look at him!" His voice raises to a snarl.

Al looks down at Jason's corpse, distressed and confused. "I, I am, why are you-" "Look what you've done!" He finally breaks, tears spilling down his face. "You're so fucking useless Al! All you had to do was listen. That's all you had to do!" "I-I'm sorry," he stutters, stepping back. Leon waits a few seconds before lunging forwards, fists curling in the neck of Al's shirt.

"I've done so much to keep you all safe, I had it all fine but you just couldn't listen, huh? You just couldn't."

"Leon, I'm sorry," Al's voice rises to a strained sob, hyperventilating as he looks between his brother's eyes and his hands.

"'Sorry' doesn't bring him back!" He half screams, dropping Al before punching him hard. His fist connects with his stomach and Al cries out in pain, stumbling with teary eyes. Leon is fully crying, no longer able to control himself, and he looks Al dead in the eyes before looking away and knocking him back again with another punch. "Please-" he barely manages to choke, doubling over in pain.

"He's fucking gone," the anger is still outweighing the sorrow, and Leon's eyes are closed as he slams his fists into Al again and again, each hit weaker than the last, until he's just standing there beside his brother's hunched figure, trembling. Mouth twisting into a grimace, he slumps to his knees. "He's gone.." he repeats, without a trace of fury. Just… hollow. Hurt.

"I'm sorry," Al whispers. They're there in the dimly lit room for a while, breathing heavily, until Al slowly takes a steadying breath, against his better judgement kneeling in front of Leon and hugging him fiercely. "I'm so sorry."

They call these noises The Call Of The Night.

It's when it's the darkest and the loudest point of the moons cycle.

I wake to this howling and noises most nights. When I dream I go to this world, and it's always morning when I wake up there. But right before I wake up in the waking world (real life) I hear the call of the night.

This world is opening... And there's no way out.

??/??/2022 It's hours before anyone bothers to find him. In the end, it isn't even by choice.

"Edwards? What the fuck are you doing down there?" A light filters through the now opened door, the disapproving figure of Roger outlined against it. 

"What do you care?" Silas tucks his head further between his elbows. He's well aware how pitiful it must look, him crammed underneath the shared desk between a basket of folders and documents and his rucksack. The least he can do is burrow far enough under his cloak to hide his tear stained cheeks.

"I never said I cared, I just asked you what you're doing," a sigh accompanies what he assumes is him folding his arms. "Do you plan on telling me?" "Not really, no."

"Well, do you plan on attending dinner tonight?"

"Roger, will you just leave me alone for once?" He groans, curling further in on himself. Unable to tell whether his clothes are still wet or if it's just his imagination, he's just praying his roommate won't mention the damp or his slight but uncontrollable shivering. No such luck. He sees Roger crouching down, but his fingers barely brush his shoulder before in a moment of panic, Silas lashes out, boot connecting with something soft. There's a harsh exhalation and the hand retracts.

"Silas.."

"Roger, you-" there's a significant pause as his breathing picks up, twisting around in the fabric which now seems more suffocating than safe.

"Silas, you're being irrational," he tries to continue, gently tugging some of the drenched blue fabric away from his face.

"Don't touch me!" It's immediately snatched away.

Roger sighs, running a hand through his hair, putting on a more commanding voice, almost like a headmaster disciplining a student. "Silas Edwards, you are making a scene and you are going to get out from under there right this minute. Or else." To his slight surprise, albeit shakily, his roommate almost complies, fighting his way out of the tangle of fabric and sitting somewhat pitifully with his back to the wall, rubbing his puffy eyes with a torn sleeve. To his even greater surprise, there are marks around his neck and across his face, scratches and bruises in the shape of fingers. On top of this, there's a black eye coming through.

"What the hell did you do?" He crouches, knowing better than to reach out and touch him again. 

"Roger, I asked you to leave-" his voice catches in a sob.

"And since when have I ever been marginally polite? What happened?"

"Have you, um, Leon. Have you talked- Leon," he manages, and is met by a shake of a head.

"I've been at school. Did he do something? Did he do that?"

"No, no-" he waves him off with a weak hand, squirming a little with discomfort at being cornered like that. "It was, it was some thugs, me and Al.." He becomes visibly more panicked.

"Alright, okay," Roger shuffles back. "How about we get you out of that footwell and, I dunno, to the nurses' office?"

Silas shakes his head vigorously, fingernails digging into his arms hard enough to draw blood as he tries yet again to take up as little space as possible.

"Damn tortoise," Roger mutters, rubbing his eyes. "Come on, at least get out from under there."

"No nurses- people," he speaks in starts, prompting yet another world weary sigh.

"I get it, I get it. Now, would you please crawl out before I drag you?"

"Roger, I don't-"

"Edwards, this is getting bloody ridiculous. You had a bad day, and now I need you to get over it and get out of there. I don't ask for things twice."

Silas just looks up at him with dopey, tearful eyes, willing himself not to shrink down again. He doesn't quite understand how Roger can just stand there, arms folded with an unamused scowl. Although, at the moment he can't understand a lot of things, least of all how people manage to breathe when the world is closing in like this. With a grand gesture of effort, he weakly shuffles feet first out of the space under the desk. For all it mattered to him, he may as well have moved into a space half of what he left. The light from the door and between the blinds is searingly aggressive to his watery eyes, and every beat of his heart feels like another harsh kick to his aching lungs. Roger must be able to sense some part of it, because his cold glare softens a fraction.

"I'm going to touch you in a moment, and you're not going to kick me, or else you'll be out cold for the rest of this."

"Okay-"

"Damn it Si, could you work out a little less?" He groans, struggling with the almost dead weight as he pulls Silas to a weak standing position before attempting to drag him to the closest bed, which happens to be his own. They're around the same height, and despite still being far underfed, Silas has enough muscle to make the job an arduous one. With him deposited, he shrugs him off and readjusts his scarf, neatening up the stacks of paper Silas had knocked over.

"Th-That's it?" there's a slight shake in Silas's voice. 

"What? You told me you didn't want me to care," he says flatly.

"No you asshole," he says with a little bit of exasperation mixed into the emotional petri dish of his strained voice."I said you didn't"

"You were right."

It's cold out. Edward presses his hands into his forehead, readjusting his glasses as he does so, and pulls his cardigan tighter around him, glad of the warmth. The study is silent aside from him; another thing he's grateful for. With three families living in the house, and a fourth who may as well be, things are getting a little too cramped for his liking. Hell, even his annoyingly large immediate family was bad enough before the others came. He shoots a glance out of the window at the pelting rain, smirking. It wasn't as though he didn't care for any of them somewhat. But if some of the younger ones happened to get caught up in a mudslide and didn't come back... Well he wouldn't exactly be complaining.

Still, he's three hours into trying to dissect a late night plan which he doesn't quite remember writing. There's a lot of mistakes, font changes, and a few pages written in something that looks suspiciously like Klingon.

"Remind me not to drink on the job," he mumbles, letting his head rest against the pixelated monitor, hair splaying out against it while he closes his eyes, trying to get rid of the dull ache behind them. The monotony and brewing headache make him almost glad of a loud, frantic knock on the front door.

"Matty, you get it," the bored voice of his roommate Morgan calls from the next door down.

"I will. I need a fucking break," Edward hoists himself up out of his desk chair.

"Cheers," his brother nods from the same room Morgan's voice came from.

"Whatever," he sighs, taking the stairs two at a time, ready to find a mud covered child or two at the door, begging for a towel or a plaster. Instead, he swings one of the double doors open to find the neighbour's kid in pastel wellingtons and a mackintosh. He scratches the back of his head. "You don't live here now, do you? I'm losing track these days.."

"No, no I don't." She's years younger than him, but has the voice of someone who's willing to boss him around. He sighs.

"You're, um, Mick? Milly?"

"Minerva." "Right yeah. Sorry, I don't think your friends are in right now."

"No shit," she snaps. He recoils slightly. "How old are you again?" "That doesn't matter, you have to come with me right now.

"What are you here for? Cause if this is just another weird game of secret agents, I swear I'm skinning Theo alive-" "Shut up and follow," she impatiently tugs at his cardigan with a muddy hand. He prys it off. "God- fine, let me get my shoes on," He rams them into a pair of boots which are probably his. There's what, eleven kids living here, the whole distinguishing things loses it's point when searching for your name in the soles takes more time than putting them on would. "Hurry up," She tugs on his arm again, and this time he follows, half skidding on the mess of mud which has become of their usually neat suburban lawn, leading him across the road to the woods. Perks of a rich neighbourhood is it borders a hilly forest rather than another set of endless cheap real estate lots.

Without hesitation, she jumps over a tree stump, fingers still tightly clutching the fabric of his shirt. The two of them stagger and trip down, until they reach the bank of a stream, where she stops.

"By the bridge." A little disgruntled by the ordering around, he huffs and turns in the direction he thinks he's supposed to. It's been a while since he came here last. "Were you listening!?" Minerva's voice comes from up ahead of him. "I told you to stay still!" "And I told you I could handle it," A slightly deeper voice retorts. At least Edward can put a name to this one, it's Peter, one of the other kids who moved in when their families decided to band together or whatever excuse his dad used this time.

"Alright, what's going on, he sighs, reaching the old wooden 'bridge,' setting his eyes on the two kids. Minerva is crouching by Peter, who's white pressed shirt is caked in mud, laying on his front. The tracks through the earth show he's dragged himself up the riverbank, and the fact he's soaked and shivering only aids this assumption.

"He fell from the bridge and hurt his ankle-" Minerva is interrupted by a heavy sigh. "I'm fine, just help me up already."

"Why the hell did you bring me out here if you're fine?" Ed crosses his arms, annoyed at the film of water settling on his glasses

"He's not!" Minerva insists. Edward rolls his eyes at her, offering Peter a hand. He takes it, pulling himself up but immediately buckles as soon as he puts weight on his left leg, gritting his teeth.

"Okay, hold still," Ed groans internally, grabbing him around the waist instead, annoyed at the mud being transferred onto his own clothes, but easily carrying him over his shoulder thanks to the five year age gap. "Put me down, this is fucking humiliating," he mutters, wiping the dirt off of his glasses. "Language, shortass. I'm more than happy to leave you down here to crawl home yourself." There's a moment of annoyed silence, before a hissed; "Fine."

Dragging the kid up the hill, all he can think about is himself and Matty at that age. It would have been the two of them in that same situation, the roles almost interchangeable.

By the time they reach the front door, tracking mud across the carpet, Peter is fuming.

"This is humiliating," he mutters. "Know what else is humiliating? Dragging you across the street over my shoulder. So shut up, shortass." "Edward, would you mind not swearing at the twelve year olds?" Morgan appears, leaning on the doorframe. "He's an ass," he shrugs, unceremoniously depositing him on the sofa.

"Case and point," They sigh, crossing the room and giving Ed a shove towards the door. "Maybe I'll take it from here."

This is in order of events. If you're looking for a specific character, search for their tag! :) Will be updated. The Greeves (2009) Somehow, the most dysfunctional family around gains ties to an experimental scientific lab. Problems ensue.

The Woods - In which Edward continues his distaste for. children. {TO BE REWRITTEN}

Shattered Past (2019)  Local tired shop owner Dimitrius Kerr discovers his roommate is involved in a few more murder plots than he previously thought.

Waking Up - In which Silas has a rude awakening. Falling Asleep - In which Dimitrius is out of his depth.

The Full Suit (2022) A home for neglected children turned minor crime ring is set up in the countryside. Unfortunatley, this isn't without consequences.

The song used is "Wrecking Ball" by Mother Mother. tw: violence, death mention, blood, implied transphobia, abuse

But as everything must, they do move eventually. Without a word, Leon rocks back on his heels, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Somehow, his face is absolutely expressionless, and he looks at his brother, not quite sure whether that had really happened. Al looks back at him, a clump of brown matted hair falling into his face. The small movement makes him flinch, and his eyes drop, looking at Leon's bruised knuckles, and his bloody sleeves. Neither of them look at Jason, discarded on the concrete floor.

"Should clean that up," Al croaks.

Leon glances up at him, breaking out of the glazed stupor he'd drifted into. He looks confused.

"Your hands," Al says with a touch of uncertainty. "Should clean them up."

"Right," he says dully, inspecting them. The knuckles are tinted blue and red, although he doesn't quite look like he's seeing them in 3D. More as though they're some kind of words he hasn't quite figured out how to read yet.

"You bruised them on me. Probably the ribs," he offers helpfully, as if trying to explain. Not a hint of resentment.

"Right," he repeats, not moving.

"Your hair's got blood in it," he tries again, as if the only problem were the conversation topic. "Should probably clean that too."

"Probably," Leon nods again, starting to rock back and forth, easing into a crouch.

"And your-"

"Yeah," he cuts him off, firmly. "You hungry? I'm starving."

"Not really, no," Al pointedly doesn't look at the body of his dead roommate. 

"Great, how about the cornershop?" Reaching into his pockets and taking out his car keys, Leon stands, sauntering stiffly out of the room, whistling a little tune as the metal of his keychain swings around his finger. Every time they clank, Al feels the need to throw up a little stronger and dazedly thanks whoever's up there that he hasn't eaten in so long. In a zombie-like state, he walks to the car in his brother's wake, fingers numb. He isn't complaining, it's an improvement to the constant dull throbbing, but it's odd, not being able to feel a thing in them all the same.

"Radio, brilliant," Leon announces, mostly for his own benefit, making a show of loudly turning it on. A song starts blaring, and he turns it up, tapping his hands on the steering wheel as he hums along.

The backseat, Al decides, is the best option here. He shrinks back into the dirty upholstery and tries to block out Leon's attempt at blocking out everything else.

'I throw my plates against the wall and give it all I got, but, I aim to break not one but all, I'm just a big ol' wrecking ball,'  Leon hums, backing the car out of the empty parking lot. Wondering who'll clean up the bloody mess they'd made, Al considers asking. But he'd have to raise his voice for that, and that's the last thing on his mind right now. As promised, Leon drives them all the way to the nearest corner store, gazing into the bright neon sign for a few minutes before cracking open his door. "Back in a few, eh? Want anything?"

Al shakes his head.

"Suit yourself." To his dismay, the radio continues to blare the song as his brother steps into the store and he's left in the steadily darkening car. Reaching up, he flicks the indoor car light on. It reminds him of being small, and feeling the excitement of being out at night with his dad. His real dad. He'd lift Al above his head to see the streetlights, and they'd eat dinner in the warm glow of the backseat overhead. There's something potently nostalgic about sitting in that orange pool of light. Quite out of place with the metallic reek of blood. He flicks the light off again.

'It takes a dedicated hand to put it through the wall.'

It isn't the first time, but as Al sits there, he feels the inescapable urge to tear himself apart, piece by piece.

'You gotta wanna break the heart of all those pretty porcelain dolls.'

Maybe he doesn't mind the music as much now. It feels messy, somehow. It feels like he does.

'You gotta want to be the drummer in the band, you gotta want to be a battering ram.'

For the first time since all of it kicked off, Al feels angry. Properly angry. Mad enough for something drastic.

'You gotta see the artistry in tearing the place apart with me baby.'

"Leon!" he roughly jerks the car door open, yelling at the neon lit windows. They're thin enough for his brother to hear him, and he tilts his chin up as Leon turns to look at him from the register. "Bleach. We need hair bleach."

To his credit, Leon doesn't question it, merely turning around and pulling out a few boxes, wringing them up too. Al is back in the car by the time he gets back, bobbing his head along to the music.

"Alright?"

He pauses.

"Leon, do you remember when I came out?"

"How could I not," he raises an eyebrow. "Got both of us kicked out. Me for the second time."

"Yeah, well," Al leans forward, elbows resting on the shoulders of the front two seats. "Remember how you cut my hair and yours? And how you dyed yours black to match me?"

Leon laughs nervously. "No offense, but I don't really pull off the black."

"No shit," Al nods. "You're kinda white and ginger. With a fucking ponytail to boot."

"What does that have to do-" He cuts himself off, humouring Al. Guilt, maybe. If he turned around he'd probably be able to see the marks he'd made.

"Bleach," Al says with conviction. 

"Excuse me?"

"Your hair. its covered in blood. Why the hell shouldn't we?"

"Because-"  he falters. It's been a long day, he thinks. Nothing comes to mind.

 "Fine, so what? We're going to bleach our hair. That's your answer to all of this?"

Neither of them miss the accidental raising of his voice. Sitting back in the gloom of the back, Al doesn't respond, arms folded. Leon jerkily starts the car again. A tremor flares up in his left hand, which he fights by gripping the wheel until his knuckles are white under the bruises.

"No," he eventually answers, trying but failing to meet Leon's eyes in the front mirror.

"Then what? Why are you set on this?" "Simple."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We might look completely different, but we're still damn brothers. May as well try to show it."

"That's the dumbest fucking thing I've heard," Leon laughs bitterly.

"Maybe," Al shrugs, leaning his cheek on the car window, looking out at the hazy stars. "It's not me who needs the reminder, though. Call it repayment."