Tasmanian Devil

yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

FUCKIN YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

no BULLSHIT I KID YOU NOT! Look what I found while walking Home…..

OH MY GOD

OH MY F*CKIN GOD

THIS POST FUCKIN WORKS?!?!?! THIS IS PAST A COINCIDENCE NO WAY!??! NO FRIGGIN WAY!!! 

yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

FUCKIN YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

no BULLSHIT I KID YOU NOT! Look what I found while walking Home…..

OH MY GOD

OH MY F*CKIN GOD

THIS POST FUCKIN WORKS?!?!?! THIS IS PAST A COINCIDENCE NO WAY!??! NO FRIGGIN WAY!!! 

Anyone with a name that starts with a “Z”, ends with an “i”, and isn’t some kind of Italian pasta, IS SERIOUS

I am risking nothing

I AM SORRY FOLLOWERS, I LOVE MY MOMMY

Will not risk.

And blocked

And reported

[He’s gritting his teeth. His whole body is grit. Dirt and stone and blood and bone. 

This is the way it has to be.

In any other arrangement, in any other universe, maybe they make it this time. Here and now, Evan scuffing along the floor of the hallway. Denver half out of his mind in circular anger. 

But Denver is helpless as he watches Evan recede into himself, a feeling he is so utterly unfamiliar with that it threatens to overrule all other logical thought.

They cannot be anything other than what they are.

An escort and his employer.

A murderer and an innocent civilian. Likely to be caught in the crossfire.

He’s lost to the inevitability of reality. And it’s the first time it’s ever deeply mattered.  

I’m just bein’ stupid, yeah? 

Of all the words in the english language. Stupid. Stupid does not encompass the complexities, the sheer art of Evan’s bright naïveté. And that’s what drew Denver to him, isn’t it? Someone who wrapped themselves in light, even when the edges of their vision were just starting to tatter with hints of the world’s darkness. 

And yet moments ago Denver had accused him of just that. Stupidity. 

Evan was not owed this. This was Denver’s selfishness. Drawing this boy out of his constructed shell only to shatter any fragile hope under an ugly boulder of Denver’s own reality. 

God, it leaves him raw. He cannot help but let it ridge under his skin, that Evan has no idea of his own value. And that’s the bloody crux of it, isn’t it.]

Evan. [And he doesn’t know if he’s allowed this any more.] 

Don’t. Don’t slip this on as an excuse.

You owe it to yourself. [Stop asking this from anybody else, to be a hero, to make The Apartments feel something other than paper thin and transactional. 

Nobody can give you that. You have to take it for yourself, if you think you deserve it. 

But Evan is on a shifting tide even Denver cannot reverse and there is the murmur. The head tilt. Whiskey eyes go a little duller. The space between them becomes immeasurably wide. The word ‘professional’ dropping from bowed lips like punishment. Like a bruise. 

The shame will come later. Once Denver’s simmering, prickled hot anger over his own shortcomings or his own lack of heroics dies down to coals. The shame will roll in and over the fact that Denver let his bullheadedness get the best of him. That Denver only saw his own dark shadow and was blinded by it. 

But he cannot be this. 

He was never born to be the hero, and has been molded by his life into something warped closer to villainy than anything else. 

Months of calling this boy by his real name, months of peeling back personas and etiquettes, months of something other than a whore and his paying customer does not unmake that.

Evan is not his.

And he will not be Evan’s illusion of a hero.]

Go home, Evan. 

taz–wolfe:

[ Denver’s words left Evan’s bones deflating and sagging at the corners. He wishes that he knew what to say, but he doesn’t. He’s left bared and vulnerable, desperately grasping at the fragments of his resolve the best he could. 

He wonders if he could ever build himself back up. He spent so long crafting another persona that he barely knew himself, and that was killing him. His father used to say, ‘as long as you know who you are, you’ll be fine’. And l Evan didn’t know who he was, and he was absolutely wasn’t fine. 

Just breathe, Evan. 

Breathe. 

Evan wonders if he could afford to pretend. Does he deserve to? 

His first answer would be no— he doesn’t. He’s been running away from his problems for so long that now when it’s looking him in his face, all he could do was cry. It was pathetic.  ] When I started workin’ here, I thought I could—afford to pretend. 

[The laugh that escapes him is more sarcastic rather than genuine, but it makes him feel better nonetheless. He’s rambling and he doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know if he could. ] I thought it would be easy to act like everything would be okay, ya know? 

[ Evan was desperate, and he was tired of being desperate. 

Just breathe, Evan.

You’ll be fine.] 

Ya right, I don’t know anythin’ about ya and I kinda wish I did. [Evan rubs the back of his neck, slowly rocking on the back of his heels. Things felt too real for Evan’s comfort and he didn’t know how to handle it.]  Ya know my name…no one knows it, ‘cause no one cares to know it. It’s a whorehouse for christ sake. But ya did—

[Evan doesn’t know if Denver really cares about any of what he’s saying, but he knows that he has to. If anything it was more for him than it was for Denver…maybe it could be for the both of them.] Maybe in a weird, fucked up way I do think you’re a hero. [Evan pauses] For me anyways. ‘Cause ya wanted to know me and it meant something. I wasn’t just a whore, I wasn’t Taz…I was Evan —and I’m not allowed to be that. 

[He knows he waits too long. Caught up too much in the swing and crash of the moment, and unwilling to close his door in this boy’s face. He’s encased in the moment, twisted and tangled in his own truths and how they are choking the life out of what surrounds him. 

This isn’t Evan’s choice. To let Denver ruin him. Evan had no idea what he was consenting to, the first moment Denver’s lips touched his skin. 

The least he can give him is the courtesy of illusion. As hollowed out as it makes Denver feel, as much as he clings to the denial of an impossible happy ending, the least he can do is let Evan absorb himself in it. Let Evan pretend, if he wants to. 

Denver hasn’t taken a breath, feels the knife grate against the bones of his ribs as he inhales. 

It’s full static up his spine when Evan laughs, chilly and wet. And he turns, finally, unable to keep the distance that his back affords them. He’s across the threshold of his own apartment, Evan hovering on the other side, pulled tight and shivering. He could close the door if he could get his arm to bloody move. His hands are clenched so tight on the frame he can feel the wood grain setting into his fingertips. But he’s transfixed by that slim tipped nose, the watery bright tracks across mole-dotted skin.]  

You’re better off than most. [It’s a whisper, shadow light, and he doubts Evan even hears it under the next tight wave of words.] 

[He can’t take his eyes off him. And yet, he knows his own go cold. Flecks of flint and arctic sea glass. To be a hero for this?] You deserve more than that rubbish. Someone who sees through the gossamer nonsense of ‘Taz’ is a foolishly low bar to set.  Don’t paint me a hero for giving you basic human decency. 

[He folds his arms, closed off, standoffish, the word ‘whore’ echoing like tin in his head. Not out of disgust, but the knife is slipping out and he can feel his blood dripping on the floor. He’s too sentimental. 

Too stupid, these days. 

He’s slipping. Grits his teeth. He can’t teach him. He can’t tell him more. All he can do is leave the boy with some semblance of wisdom he hopes he’s gleaned from his own ashen life.] 

If you’re going to pretend… you owe yourself a better fairytale. 

[Enough, Evan. 

Stop.

The words play themselves like a mantra over and over in his head until he starts to slowly get a grasp of his emotions. Closure wouldn’t come for him—not that he expected it, but there was still the little voice in the back of his head that hoped for it. That hoped for the happy ended that was never meant for him to have —that hoped he deserved it. 

Stupidstupidstupid

There was an annoying nagging reminder of how much of a fucking idiot he was. He didn’t think; he never does and that was his main problem. Evan always thought that he was fucking invincible and that nothing could ever hurt him, and that simply wasn’t the case. Had Evan just fucking thought about what the hell he was doing then maybe all of this could have been avoided. 

He eyed the way Denver’s arms crossed themselves, almost as if he was tired of dealing with their trainwreck of a conversation. And maybe he was, Evan couldn’t exactly blame him. 

When Denver’s words came, rejection left an acrid taste on his tongue and Evan just wanted to sleep. To slide under the cool sheets of his bed and act like nothing ever happened. Denial was always there when no one else was.

His lungs felt too tight, causing Evan to open and close his mouth twice before he could find the words he wanted] ...Yeah, I get it. I’m just bein’ stupid, yeah?

[He trailed off with a shake of his head, a hand coming up to tug at the chestnut strands of his hair, pulling until they prickle. Evan was trying to save face; trying to save himself from going through anymore embarrassment.]

Ya don’t owe me anythin’. It’s not my place to ask that of ya.

[Run.

Leave. Now, you’ve made a big enough arse of yourself already.

taz--wolfe:

[’There are never happy endings’ the words hit Evan harder than it should have. For someone who talked so much, he had never been more silent—he was speechless.Evan felt the emotions that he tried so hard to contain, seep into his core, transforming into a storm he couldn’t control. He could almost feel his eyes widening, from the slight raise of his eyebrows to the watering forming along his bottom lashes.  

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid 

You’re so goddamn stupid, Evan. 

All at once, his anger quickly turns into exhaustion and he can almost feel his body release everything he’s been holding in for three years. Evan quickly bites into his cheek, the sudden sharpness should make him flinch but he doesn’t move. He tries everything in his power to shove the sound that attempts to force its way out of his throat—and effort succeeds for a moment.

Until it doesn’t.

He almost freezes as he feels the slow moisture roll down his cheek. He’s never allowed the facade he’s spent years on making waver for a minute, and yet it’s shattering like glass. 

He can’t let this happen. 

Quickly as he wipes his eye, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to get it together. Not because he wants to, but because he had to. 

He couldn’t look at Denver anymore, and a watery amber gaze divert their eyes to the small creases near the bottom of Denver’s shirt. It was too much, and as shaky fingers pinch at the seam of his jeans, Evan was tired.] Is pretending such a bad thing? [His voice sounds weak and he feels pathetic]

[There’s the snick of a safety unlocking, and then there’s the slide of a knife between the ribs. One leaves your whole skin on alert, the other bright sheer agony in a place you know you can’t reach.

There’s a pendulum of a moment, where everything is in upswing and free fall, where Denver is simultaneously outraged at himself for seeing them as anything other than a transaction, and outraged at Evan for buying into the lie of goodness just as much. 

And then it all crashes. Slow motion jerks on the downswing, and sends shards scattering and violent in every direction on Evan’s choked inhale. And Denver knows, without turning around, can hear the wetness of it, can hear the harsh abrasion of Evan’s hand on his own cheeks as he wipes away an errant sign of weakness. 

Denver has always destroyed everything he’s held in his hands. 

And now Evan too. 

He’s utterly, preternaturally still. Barely breathing as he surveys the damage behind him. The wreck he’s made without even using his fists. 

He will punish himself later. He will run until his legs go numb. Will work through defensive drills and offensive hand to hands until he can’t stand up straight, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything at all. Will drink enough whiskey to quiet the world. His rage isn’t always outward. 

Is pretending such a bad thing?

Is it? 

Pretending gets you killed. Pretending is a death sentence. Or something far more sinister. 

Pretending leaves you hollow. Empty and constantly ravenous to keep up the illusion. Until you start to believe it, and then you’re utterly vulnerable. You’re perched atop a house of cards, poised to tumble and never recover.

But god, Evan deserves to pretend. Evan deserves whatever illusion comforts him, not what rancorous truth Denver was trained to break apart with his teeth. 

His shoulders are bedrock. His jaw clenched, his ribs creak. The boy behind him is crying, and Denver cannot look him in the eye. The knife between the ribs is slowly killing him. The truth is killing them both.]

Some of us… cannot afford such a luxury. 

[ Denver’s words left Evan’s bones deflating and sagging at the corners. He wishes that he knew what to say, but he doesn’t. He’s left bared and vulnerable, desperately grasping at the fragments of his resolve the best he could. 

He wonders if he could ever build himself back up. He spent so long crafting another persona that he barely knew himself, and that was killing him. His father used to say, ‘as long as you know who you are, you’ll be fine’. And l Evan didn’t know who he was, and he was absolutely wasn’t fine. 

Just breathe, Evan. 

Breathe. 

Evan wonders if he could afford to pretend. Does he deserve to? 

His first answer would be no— he doesn’t. He’s been running away from his problems for so long that now when it's looking him in his face, all he could do was cry. It was pathetic.  ] When I started workin’ here, I thought I could—afford to pretend. 

[The laugh that escapes him is more sarcastic rather than genuine, but it makes him feel better nonetheless. He’s rambling and he doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know if he could. ] I thought it would be easy to act like everything would be okay, ya know? 

[ Evan was desperate, and he was tired of being desperate. 

Just breathe, Evan.

You’ll be fine.] 

Ya right, I don’t know anythin’ about ya and I kinda wish I did. [Evan rubs the back of his neck, slowly rocking on the back of his heels. Things felt too real for Evan’s comfort and he didn’t know how to handle it.]  Ya know my name...no one knows it, ‘cause no one cares to know it. It’s a whorehouse for christ sake. But ya did—

[Evan doesn’t know if Denver really cares about any of what he’s saying, but he knows that he has to. If anything it was more for him than it was for Denver...maybe it could be for the both of them.] Maybe in a weird, fucked up way I do think you’re a hero. [Evan pauses] For me anyways. ‘Cause ya wanted to know me and it meant something. I wasn’t just a whore, I wasn’t Taz...I was Evan —and I’m not allowed to be that. 

[Hot bitterness leaves in an oceanic rush with only an ache left behind. Something smoking and dark that Denver doesn’t want to delve into. What is he even doing here. Evan doesn’t belong to him. Evan has barely let Denver touch him, has spent a handful of nights in Denver’s bed. Evan doesn’t wear his marks, doesn’t still under his hand, still has no idea what he is capable of, still spends nights wrapped up in other’s sheets. 

It’s caustic and harsh truth that Denver has deliberately been ignoring with this boy, but Evan is an escort, being paid to perform a service. This is nothing more than being paid to cook him dinner. To wash his auto. To press his clothes. The intimacy is a lie, a better way to sell a product and Denver truly has become soft if he’s let his vigilance lapse. 

Evan is an escort, who performs his service beautifully. But it is a transaction, nonetheless. And Denver cannot keep him. Not without a price.]

You’re right. It’s your decision. I hope you get the appropriate compensation for it.

[The words leave his mouth like ashes, like limestone and bile, dead as they hit the floor. He’s turning to step into his room, to shut the door as quietly as his rage will allow, to drop into a training routine that will exhaust him before he smashes something else in his flat, when Evan spits out that last sentence, the bloody needle under the armor, in all the wrong places, and it’s like the click of a safety. All the hairs on his neck stand up at once, his body primed and balanced to lash out. He refuses to turn around.] I’m not who you dare to think I am. I am not who you want me to be in that bloody foolish head of yours. This is not a fairytale, or a comic book, Evan. Nothing is simply tied up with a bow and a joke and everybody gets to go home. I won’t be saving the goddamn day. 

Don’t project safety onto me. Don’t be so stupid. 

There are never happy endings. 

[His knuckles are bone white in that toxic rush of rage around the doorknob. Evan hasn’t the faintest fucking nuance of an idea who he is. Who he truly is. Who he has chosen and shaped himself to be, in a mold so splattered with violence and viscera that it’s become fused with his soul.

And the most sickening part of it all, the part that makes the air in his chest roll and go hot and tight, is that he wants.

Just for once. He wants to keep. He wants to be someone’s safety.

The sentimentality of it all makes him sick.]

[’There are never happy endings’ the words hit Evan harder than it should have. For someone who talked so much, he had never been more silent—he was speechless.Evan felt the emotions that he tried so hard to contain, seep into his core, transforming into a storm he couldn’t control. He could almost feel his eyes widening, from the slight raise of his eyebrows to the watering forming along his bottom lashes.  

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid 

You’re so goddamn stupid, Evan. 

All at once, his anger quickly turns into exhaustion and he can almost feel his body release everything he’s been holding in for three years. Evan quickly bites into his cheek, the sudden sharpness should make him flinch but he doesn’t move. He tries everything in his power to shove the sound that attempts to force its way out of his throat—and effort succeeds for a moment.

Until it doesn’t.

He almost freezes as he feels the slow moisture roll down his cheek. He’s never allowed the facade he’s spent years on making waver for a minute, and yet it’s shattering like glass. 

He can’t let this happen. 

Quickly as he wipes his eye, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to get it together. Not because he wants to, but because he had to. 

[He turns to the tight sound of Evan’s voice, strained in a way he’s never heard it before, and despite the sour flare in his tendons, he faces Evan head on, a contemptuous look etched into his face. It’s easier to show contempt than vulnerability. He leans against the door frame, the jab doing nothing but hitting muscle and bone, and Denver glances down at it, a scoff carried on his breath. Until Evan hones in, buzzing around the poisoned tip of the argument between them and Denver narrows his eyes. Bitter and guarded.] It’s not like you very well gave me a choice. 

[He momentarily curses himself for being so petty, but it’s too late to take it back. Still, a part of him would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him feel better. Denver was one of the few people that made him feel like he was something more than mere currency, but now Evan wasn’t so sure about that...and he hated it. He hated the consistent reminder that he was something inferior—but that was no one’s fault but his own. At the realization he feels like he can’t breathe, like a ton of weight has been placed on his chest and he can’t move it.] It’s my decision to make. [For a moment, it seems like he was talking more to himself than he was to Denver. Maybe that was the problem, Evan had inadvertently made Denver his ‘safe space’. A place where he didn’t feel like a whore and didn’t feel anything less than what he wanted to be. Maybe Evan had placed Denver on a pedestal that he didn’t ask to be on—and Evan had to take responsibility for that.]

[Evan’s mouth curls in frustration as he listened to Denver. Choice? What did that have to do with anything? If anything, the whole foundation of their ‘relationship’ was about choices.] That’s a bunch of bullshit and you know it. I never forced you into anything. 

One day at a time, yeah?

One day at a time, yeah?

“Love is like a sin, my love, for the ones that feel it the most. Look at her with her eyes like a flame, she will love you like a fly will never love you again.”

Evan’s first love was toxic. 

Her name was Torrance Mason and the girl was gorgeous. Short, cropped brunette hair that curved under the angle of her jaw in just the right way. She had been older than him by a couple years at least, always having a confident smile on her face.

Funny enough, their first conversation was an argument. They saw each other from time to time, but never really had a solid conversation with each other that went past, ‘What’s the answer’ and 'Do you have the time’ but this was different. Torrance had pulled up a seat next to him at lunch, giving him a once over before sliding closer. 

“Bambi.” Torrance cooed before patting his leg, the way his mom always did when she was going to hit him with a sympathetic but stern lecture. “The whole 'woe is me’ thing is gonna get played out real soon.” It wasn’t a secret that the Wolfe family was still reeling from the lost of their most important family member, so much so that unless they brought it up, it wasn’t talked about. And for Torrance to come out of the blue and give him a lecture about his actions was almost like a slap in the face. 

“Fuck you” The words are harsh and cold, not even bothering to look up from the crappy lunch food on his tray. The only hint that he was affected by the words was the tightening grip that he had on his fork.

“Fuck me” She repeated. A wicked smirk made its way across her lips and Evan should had known then.

It’s dark inside

It’s where my demons hide