Nobody with any sense lingers after Cinderella hours. But Beckett's got the confidence of—(or no, not confidence, not under Beckett's skin)—the reliability of the undying. What's there to fear when there is the fire? What's there to fear when there is. Always. Always is. Unending is.
“Why don't they just change the name of this place to Happy?” Maybe then the shores will remember the sun. The bones will remember joy. “Manifest good vibes, or whatever.” Or call this place Death, and let it sink. Call it Atlantis. Call it Gone. “I think whoever named this place Misery set us up for failure.”
Okay? Oh-kay. It always took a minute for his brain to wrap itself around words again, after he got his brain back. Was he okay. Beckett was there, Beckett had come, like he always did, somehow. And Beckett was okay. Somehow.
Feverish forehead pressed to the cool concrete, Ollie felt his throat tighten, tune. Like his voice was a fiddle somebody forgot in the back of their closet, or down in a cellar like this one, until an occasion rolled around. Time to remember how to play the damn thing, and hope the strings didn't snap. "Yeah." Easy answer. He gave it all the time, or used to, when his not being okay had been new enough that anybody around school, or Misery, really, wondered and asked. But, then, welling up sharp and acrid: the answer Beckett, only Beckett, had to be used to by now. Ollie gagged, and barked an elbow as he braced himself for a hard heave. The Beast of Misery had a hell of an appetite, which meant Ollie always had a hell of a morning after. Whatever the Beast hadn't broken down itself came up darkly red, thick. Meaty. More brisket than prime rib, lean, with some gristle at the end. Somebody's skinny little dog, maybe. Fuck.
The retching done at last, Ollie spat, pinkly. Then pushed up, hands pawing for that blanket, holding it closer as he sunk away from whatever'd been dinner, into the nearest wall. "Sorry." He sounded it, a raw croak. Must look it, too: a sweat-soaked, sallow-faced apology, still trembling. "Wish I'd... called you for nothing. Sucks to be right." And wow, was it terrifying. Or comforting? And comforting? Undecided, but leaning towards terror, Ollie pulled the blanket tighter. "I just. Felt it. All fucking day, I..." Like the Beast was digging holes right through his otherwise unremarkable Sunday. Totally unremarkable, besides - the Tide. Marlow. That. "Sorry," he sighed, head back. "I'll... make breakfast? If you want. In a. Minute..."
“Me too,” came out Beckett's mouth before he really knew what to do with it. More knee-jerk than a proper response. Though he was sorry, even if it made little sense in his own head.
The upchuck was... would it be cruel to say nasty? To say gruesome? Only it always looked... grotesque. But it might be unkind to have thought that about himself. If it was himself. The red was always so red.
But it didn't sit well with him, the idea that he didn't sit well with Oliver. That his stomach, or whatever part of him pulled it all back up, couldn't keep Beckett down. “Sorry.” Don't I go down easy? Don't I taste good? He looked away for a moment. Didn't I do well?
“Nah, man. You look.... uh.” He paused. “Tired. You just rest. I can handle breakfast.” Another pause. “Probably. Don't actually cook much.” Third and final. “Are you... hungry?” Still?
He's never asked her. He almost did, once, when they were children. Then it felt unfair, because why should she be able to hear the voices of his parents when he couldn't? So he doesn't. Likewise, she won't ever ask him to die for her either. Even though he would, and they both know it.
It must some kind of relief, to know she'll never have to hear him like the others. Maybe that's why she keeps him around.
“Everything in here's so flammable.” Beckett hunches in on himself as he drifts after her between the shelves, eyeing all the cracked spines and yellowing pages with a frown. “Freaks me out.”
He stops in front of a slightly worn Alice In Wonderland. He has vague memories of someone gifting him a copy, once. Can't remember who, though. Or which birthday it was. Things changed so often they almost felt exactly the same, and now no one memory feels distinct enough from any another.
Not unless he's hurting. Or dying. Or both. “Think we'd make for a good story?”
the storm was comforting, almost. something that keeps the thoughts from getting too loud. he likes it, loves being consumed by something much larger than himself, even for a few moments. work had been slow, and so long as people kept a handle on their cars while the downpour continued, it would remain that way. he didn't love the fender-benders that always seemed to crop up after this kind of stuff, anyways. too easy, and too quick — he didn't even want to be a mechanic, but that was practically menial.
Sparrow scares the shit out of him.
"goddamn, you're quiet," he says, trying to recover from the jump he'd done, "what, you don't like 80's corvette lover chic?" he sighs, and looks around. the place is drab, with plenty of weird posters and everything that the old man had on the walls whenever ezra took over, and he doesn't really have the cahs or the temperament to change it up, at this point, "it's fine, though. not supposed to inspire people to stick around — in fact, i discourage it, unless the rain's forced you inside."
She laughs. Loudly. Wandering a little closer just so it's clear she isn't quiet. She doesn't like to be anything anybody says she is. Probably something to bring up with a therapist, if anybody in this town cared for that sort of thing. Which they don't. Clearly.
Prime examples of that are standing right here looking at each other.
“Does anybody?” She wrinkles her nose a bit, swivelling her head around to give the place another good look. There doesn't seem to be anything of Ezra in this place at all, which she wonders about briefly before she realises that's probably the way he prefers it. “No, I actually came 'cause I loooove scrap metal and the smell of grease and your incredible social skills.”
That being said, the company could be worse. “You're lucky I'm here now to rescue you from what was bound to be an extremely boring afternoon.”
The cocktail fuzz makes everything seem sweeter. The dim lights, the distant chatter, the cracks in the old leather seats by this side of the booth. Jersey's shoulder. A little bony, not nearly comfortable enough to rest her head on for long. But under her slight buzz it's almost familiar enough to enjoy.
“D'you ever think about leaving?” It's hard to remember now what her dreams used to be like—when she used to imagine herself on stage, all dazzling lights and stardust. All she sees now when she closes her eyes are shadows. “Some people make it seem so easy.” Like they don't have family here, waiting. Like they don't have a sister begging to be found. Like it wouldn't cost them anything to let go.
After this long and Beckett still hasn't mastered patience. The same second ticks by again and again. He still feels the same. A fire under his skin, death at his back, the clarity of being conscious.
“I don't think this stuff's working, man,” Beckett complains. Or whines, more like, something eternally childlike trapped in the back of his throat. Sometimes he thinks time got stuck when he first died, falling because he was trying to fly. “I don't feel anything.”
Except for the fire. Burning, always.
“Y'know, you always felt more like a fox than a wolf to me.”
There's nothing like the cold. The chill after the heat disperses, after the fire is extinguished. Beckett picks himself up off the ground, trembling, ash in his mouth and smoke in his lungs and death still stuck to his back teeth like caramel.
Across the floor, is the b—is Oliver. Oliver, who's going to start changing back any minute. Nothing seems to satisfy the thing in him, whatever's in charge once the sun goes down, like blood. Like a kill. Like sinking his teeth into Beckett.
He ignores the inappropriate little thrill he feels at the thought of being desired, even through appetite, even through sharp teeth, as he shuffles over to where he keeps the spare clothes. (Being a beast's favourite meal is no blessing. Now if only he could get himself to believe that.)
The ash is gone by the time Oliver, the thing underneath the other thing, resurfaces. There's a blanket on him, and Beckett crouches by his side, concern running along the tight line of his jaw, as Oliver comes to.
he doesn't look up right away . nope , he lets sparrow get settled first , lets the smell of the coffee reach him before the sight of her does , because if he looks up too fast she'll see exactly how tired he is before he's had the chance to arrange his face into something more presentable . “ get off my desk … ” kai murmurs as he reaches for the cup like it's the only important thing in the room . “ you've been told a hundred times, sparrow. i've got a chair . two , actually , if you count the fucked one in the corner that nobody ever wants to sit on . ” he doesn't actually make an effort to shoo her off . instead, he makes a gesture toward the chairs with his free hand .
“ i'm eating fine . ” a pause , sip , the smallest wince - perhaps the coffee was too hot , or maybe kai's just bracing himself for his next admission . “ managed to put away half a bag of lays standing over the sink at eleven last night , that count ? ” malakai leans back in his chair , and for a second the weariness slips through anyway - his shoulders drop an inch as he studies the other over the rim of the coffee cup . “ haven't you got some work to do ? ‘cause if you don't … there's a storm drain out past the pier that’s been clogged for a damn month . reckon the volunteer list’s got your name on it if you keep on botherin' me , sweetheart . ”
She slips off the desk. But not before first telling him, “yeah, well, your chairs are ugly.” She hooks a foot over a chair leg anyway, tugging it closer before dropping down onto it, just to end up leaning all the way forward, elbows on the desk, scrutinising him with narrowed eyes. Overall assessment is: rough.
“Lays?” It's unclear which she's more scandalised by, the chips by themselves, or the brand. Both, most likely. “We're fixing this,” she announces, right as she whips out her phone and begins typing away, mostly just so she doesn't have to acknowledge the rest of what he says. Storm drain? Ugh. As if.
She gets a response within ten seconds. “There! Someone's bringing... something, from the kitchen at The Salty Seal. Not sure what, but at least it'll be real food.” Nobody really delivers in a town this small, but Sparrow's not above manipulating a waiter that's got something of a crush. She'll turn him down gently when he gets here. Her second good deed for the day.
“You'll hurt my feelings if you put it like that.” She juts out her lower lip and blinks her eyes, the picture of innocence. Or something. “I just couldn't focus on work since I was so worried about you, you know.” Which is one way of putting it. “And I'd feel too bad for Cassandra if you took the storm drain away from her. She was just telling me how excited she was to handle it all by herself! Just wouldn't be fair to give it to me.”
Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, it's... quiet. Somewhere in the blank space between pleasant and unpleasant. Typically, Sparrow would have no business being inside Glaucus, not since she drove her dad's crappy old Toyota into a ditch. (Ezra was there for that, she thinks, telling her the car was beyond saving and politely ignoring the way she burst into tears after.)
She has a bike now, and her own two legs, and a face and an ability to sweet-talk that convinces most people to pick her up and drop her off wherever she needs. But, well, there's not much any of that can do against a storm. And shelter is shelter, even if the interior is a bit... drab, for her tastes.
“Ever thought about redecorating?” She asks to the room at large. The smell of grease makes her nose itch.
She doesn't bother to knock. Hasn't, since, well... since the beginning, really. Malakai knows better than to be surprised by this point, looking as weary as he always does when he's hunched over his desk. Problems, problems. And never any solutions that seem to fully satisfy anybody.
“You look bad,” she tells him, as she slides a cup across the desk. She doesn't bother asking for thanks, or to inform him that she's only giving it to him because the barista got her order wrong. “You eating enough? Getting enough sleep?” Sparrow sits on the edge of the desk, 'cause she knows she shouldn't, 'cause she suspects Malakai likes telling her off for stuff as much as she likes to be told off for them. “Eating all your fruits and veggies?” Grinning, she relishes in the mirroring of their typical dynamic. “You've gotta take better care of yourself. Wouldn't do to have our big strong mayor getting sick now.”
Sparrow drums her nails impatiently against her desk, waiting, waiting, waiting. Until—aha. The rain finally comes to a complete stop, and she pushes away from her desk with a triumphant huff, getting to her feet and sweeping everything into her bag before lifting it over her shoulder.
She's about to set off, already turned towards the door, when she catches a glimpse of Cassandra across the room. Papers in her hand, furrow on her brow. Hm. Sparrow watches as the furrow only becomes more pronounced with each passing second.
“Cass! Cassiiiieeeee!” She sing-songs, as she edges past her own desk and starts making her way towards Cassandra's. “Are you sick? You look a little sick. I think it's all these papers,” she gestures towards towering heap. “You can develop a real serious allergy if you work with them for too long, you know. You need some air. You need to relax.” She nods, as if confirming her own assessment. “All this stress is gonna give you premature—” She pauses briefly, taking proper stock of Cassandra's face. Okay, a little too late for that. “Well. Anyway, it's unhealthy. And I'm sure Mr. Mayor can handle things on his own for one day. So c'mon, ditch with me. You know you want to...”
It breaks through the mist, the slow crawl of Misery's dawn. The sun's been lost to them for years now; Sparrow's been chasing shadows since she could walk. She squints through the grey at a man she hasn't quite learned how to forget, yet. It almost seems easier now that he's actually here.
The house is dull, now. Devoid of. Family peeling off like old wallpaper. It's not him, she's thinking. No room is ever full, anymore. Simpler, to pretend that he too, is just another body. She's gotten used to those. Gotten good at those.
“My sister's...” She stops. In her dreams she isn't ever herself anymore. Just running, just scared, just the woods. Yes, a body would've been much better. “...gone.”
Her head turns. “You're a pretty lousy consolation prize.”
height, 6'. hair, sandy blonde + shortish. tattoos, none. scars, none. style, comfy casual. the type of guy to layer a hoodie jacket over a flannel over a t-shirt. has like two pairs of jeans he really likes that he just wears on rotation. scuffed converse and the shoelaces come untied all the time and he is simply never bothered to re-tie them.
... 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬,
after the fire. you remember life mostly as an after. an addendum. after the fire, which you remember by scent and feel and fear and comfort, nobody knows what to do with you. miracle baby, the papers said once. abomination, the people used to whisper. firebird, the island names you.
everyone raises you. nobody raises you. they pass you around like they're playing a game of hot potato. mrs. abernathy thinks you're darling until you climb up the curtains, until you fall off and crack your head open, until you wake up in a burst of fire and ash and smoke, whole and unscarred. after that, not even your uncle's lavish spending can convince anyone to keep you for longer than a couple weeks.
there's no height chart to be found in shepard manor. nothing to indicate that anybody lives there, that anybody loves there. all there are, are the x marks. an 'x' on the floor by the window where you die for the first time. an 'x' over the big tree in the garden where you discover you're allergic to wasps. an 'x' over the driveway where a car accidentally backs up over you while you're ant watching. an 'x' at the bottom of the pool where you try to break the world record for breath-holding.
you're good at coming back, at the re-life. but better, you think, at dying, at the surrender. you're not sure where the distinction is, only that it exists, that it feels real to you.
it's why you flee home, because you fear it's the only thing you'll be good for, and you don't want it to be true. it's why you come back, because what you want doesn't always line up with what you know. and what you know is this: misery likes when you burn.
and what misery wants, misery gets.
ㅤ ... 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘,
1992 - the byrd family welcomes their first and only child, beckett byrd.
1996 - the fire of '96 burns down the byrd family home, and the byrd family with it. the only survivor is little beckett, only three at the time. nobody knows what to do with beckett, the byrd that shouldn't have survived, until news of beth byrd's death reaches her brother, w.l. shepard. while he doesn't ever appear in misery himself, his presence in the town is felt through the cheques he sends down, for whoever is willing to put up with beckett for the week, or month, or year.
1999 - shepard manor is built. the biggest residential property on misery, looming over the other modest, suburban houses. whoever's taking care of beckett for the time being can now do so from the comfort and luxury of a grand, sprawling manor.
2010 - beckett leaves misery for college on the mainland. with no true goal or dreams in sight, he blunders through, coasting on nothing but his uncle's money until it eventually dries up and w.l. shepard cuts off all communication, refusing to bear the burden of his nephew any longer.
2014 - beckett returns to misery, tail tucked between his legs, trying out different jobs.
2017 - he's eventually given the keys to the inn and told to make do.
... 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥,
he's like if a sad wet dog was a man and also a phoenix. doesn't feel like he's good for/at anything so whenever someone asks him for something he's like okay!!!!!! i'll do it!!!!!!!! yay!!!!!!!!!!!!! and then sits and waits patiently (and a smidge desperately) for praise. surprise surprise the orphan who hasn't had a stable parental figure in his life will do anything for praise...
the amount of times he died growing up would imply he's clumsy but he's reeeeally not, the deaths were mostly just a case of neglect from whoever was taking care of him at the time or just bad luck (i think misery finds it funny when he dies, so it happens a lot).
it hurts every time btw, dying. he doesn't like it, never has. but if someone needs him to do it he will. cause it's something only he can do. something he might even be perfect for!!! imagine that... beckett byrd, being perfect for something!! sometimes he does angst about it in secret, wondering if it even counts when he's not actually doing anything, but then he wakes up the next morning and resigns himself to it anyway, because he thinks it's all he's got.
something of a people pleaser cause of the aforementioned lust for praise, but he's pretty chill with it. just an approachable guy. i think you kinda get his whole vibe the second he opens his mouth. mostly sweet, a little stupid, kind of a doormat, and just happy to be here.
ㅤ ... 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗,
someone who finds him really weird n unsettling to be around and he just goes around making this face 🥺 at them every time they ignore him, enemies >:), casual hookups, maybe a previous one night stand that it's really awkward to be around now, an ex, an ex friend, etc etc etc.
click here for a couple more formal/detailed connections :3
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