cmo isley

Jesús struggled to keep him upright, shifted so as to not fall from the bed, but his shaking hands were keeping him close and the scraping of the chair had ceased, so that was better. It was happening too fast, tumbling over them endlessly. It was a wonder he had yet to break. And then-

He’d heard it before, but there was just no comparing to this. He wished —God, he just wished the timing had been better. But as always, he had no such luck.

How could he love him when he had done this to him. He cupped his face, touched his head and rested his palm just above his nape, careful of reaching anywhere near the front of his neck. The blotches were now closer for him to see. Mocking.

He didn’t deserve him. “I love you too,” he whispered. And he meant it. Even if Jude didn’t listen, or if by the next morning it would all be left forgotten and the crack on the window and every stupid little thing they had done came back with a force. He meant it, and he did not regret it. “With all my heart.”

That shouldn't have made it worse, but it did--he settled his head in his shoulder and leaned into his touch, his cheek fitting right into his palm, the texture of the scars sensitive on his neck. He'd started to breathe again, but it was harder, still choked up with tears and exhaustion.

It had been a long few days, that was for certain. Eventually he slid out of the chair and leaned heavily against the bed, partly on his knees, the rest of him clinging to his waist with all of his strength. His ribs ached, still.

He couldn't say anything. Jesús had promised to protect him--and look where that had gotten them. There was too much irony in the whole thing to even say a word, so he only held on and hoped for it all to pass.

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Sufjan Stevens - Futile Devices

and when i sleep on your couch, i feel very safe and when you bring the blankets, i cover up my face. i do, love you. i do.. love you.

#bye

But Jesús was quick to grab his hand, then his shoulder, until he found himself with an armful of him and wincing because he didn’t trust his hands but, he was there, wasn’t he.

Jude had told him he was okay, when he’d woken up. Perhaps he would’ve believed him in another time and another place.

Don’t be sorry don’t be sorry just “Breathe,” he whispered, then, a little bit louder as he held him. That was all he could do, now that he had permission to touch him, if only for now. ”No, Jude, hey, hey, you didn’t —I did this —I hurt someone I love and you didn’t— breathe, you need to breathe, I’ve got you.”

Jude struggled at first, then wrapped his arms around him. He noticed vaguely he was half hanging off the chair, the rest of him in his arms--and he felt safer, he realized. Not better, but safer. Like he'd been slipping and he'd found something to hold onto.

He could hardly hear him over the static in his own mind, but the word love was in there somewhere and it only really made it worse, instead of reaffirming it. He didn't know why he did, but now he couldn't let go. And his heart sank like a stone.

"I--I can't breathe." His voice was muffled against him, thin and choked, and his hands gripped in anything he could find. He felt the other's shirt wet with tears, the sound of his voice.

He was so close to just falling out of the chair, and wished the tears would stop, wished he could breathe and tell him with a clear head. But it didn't seem likely later that he'd ever spit it out. "I love you."

As the room slowly became inundated with the sound of his sorrow, all Jesús could do to keep himself from running to his side and startling him was closing his eyes.

But then, he finally turned to look at him, and his face twisted with pain. No longer could he focus on his own tears anymore. God, and wasn’t it always like this, that he put himself aside in favor of Jude. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He had known that if he faced him then it would all worsen, and it had indeed. Because he reached out, and his fingers ghosted over his arm. But he didn’t dare touch him. And this is what he’d brought upon them both.

"Jude," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away, even if that meant having his heart torn to shreds. That’s what it felt like, the hurting in his chest, what kept him from breathing. "Jude." Please.

Jude heard the chair scrape against the floor when he moved it forward. He shook, almost violently, with each little sob, incapable of any composure. It didn't matter where he was--in that moment he couldn't have done anything but let go.

"I'm sorry." He covered his eyes with one hand, and reached the other out to find his arm, his hand, anything. His face was red and soaking wet--he was there he could have killed him why hadn't he and yet he was certain then and there.

That was what love meant, then.

He bowed forward and tried to find him, but his vision was blurred, and his whole body wracked with hiccuping sobs. "I'm so sorry."

He bristled, turning to look at him but quickly averting his eyes to the wall in front of him. He wanted to grab his shoulders and look him in the eye and—and do what? Jesús couldn’t even put himself together, how could he possibly help Jude right there and then.

"No. No you’re not." His shoulders sagged, heavy with everything that had transpired between them. Exhaustion settled in, despite that he hadn’t moved from his spot.

"You’ve given me… so much more than anything I could’ve possibly asked for. Your job’s to save lives, and you’ve—"

His fucking voice wouldn’t stop breaking. Curling his fingers into a fist, he licked his lips before he could speak again. ”Ever since I’ve met you, I’ve felt saved, Jude. I feel safe.”

(But he guessed he’d broken that the moment he wrapped his hand around his neck.)

Jude realized then that he was shaking, shaking too hard to breathe. He wanted to touch him, needed to have him there again, but he could only remember what had happened the last time he tried, the bruise around his neck a testament to that.

He thought he'd break the minute he touched him, that everything would shatter and fall all at once. So he didn't. He just looked at him, his eyes dull yet brimming with tears and anger and all those stupid memories.

He wanted to thank him, but only a choked noise left his mouth, so he just put his head in his hands and wept.

Of course she had. Of course of course and to blame her for doing so would be completely illogical. It wasn’t like he had been his, for starters. He had been her friend, too.

He clenched his jaw, ran a hand through his messy hair and sniffled. For once, he forced himself to have the guts to speak of it. “Peter King. He was my best friend.” And he had thought they’d have forever. That they would be invincible and, God, he’d wanted more. But had settled for what he had. And then, what he had was nothing.

He wondered, for a second, what it would’ve all been like had he been alive. Awful, probably. That made him laugh, although the tiny noise was dripping with grief. ”It doesn’t matter anymore. But I’m telling you because… because it’s right.”

"I'm sorry," just because he couldn't think of anything else to say. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then pressed his fingers to his temple, back down to his neck.

Jude still couldn't really move. He wanted to sit back in his chair and tuck his knees to his chest, just disappear. But he couldn't, so he just sat there stiffly, realizing there were angry red marks in his palms.

"I should have died," he murmured, mostly to himself. And he laughed to himself at the irony: "I'm fucking awful at my job. I just...hurt people."

Then he glanced at him again, even though it hurt. Hellbent on believing he didn't deserve any of this. "I guess we all do." He furrowed his brow, and then added: "Because what's right?"

When he said he pretended, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in his arm, pulled his legs closer and bit on his tongue until he tasted blood. It hit way too close to home. He knew what that felt like, but he’d left it behind, and so far it had worked out.

He had to stop thinking. Had to stop listening to the sound of his breathing and focus on the feeling of the IV on his clenched hand, only for a second, and then he’d be fine.

The eyes burning into his arm were not helping.

"Nothing that hurts you like that can be that meaningless." He turned his head, spotting him from the corner of his eyes, still refusing to meet his gaze. Otherwise, he would be undone. "It’s okay. It’s okay. I— I understand."

#c: jesus #event5 #this is gonna hurt a lot

His expression didn't change--he was certain if he did so much as move an inch he would fall apart. There were tears that clung to his cheeks, or rolled down to his neck from his inability to wipe them away.

"It hurts me because it's meaningless. I didn't mean anything. If it had been me, he wouldn't be like this." Jude was nothing, a straggler in the back, avoiding the gaze of a grieving mother. He wasn't supposed to have him. He didn't deserve him, and so it made sense he'd been struck down the moment he'd thought he might. "Susana said that..."

No, he shouldn't have told him that it was her. It wasn't like she'd said much, other than something had happened. But he didn't really want to know. He'd already said too much.

"...She hardly said anything. Just that you lost..." he paused, and realized he'd only make it worse. "You don't have to tell me about it."

He tensed. Listened with wide eyes that could not stop shedding tears no matter how hard he tried. All this time he’d been left with his incorrect understanding and nothing else, but most importantly all this time he’d been so wrong and to think he had fallen into something as ugly as anger, jealousy; he didn’t know then, he didn’t want to know now.

He took in a breath, sharp and broken. And all he could say, as he felt his sleeve become stained with wetness, was: “it wasn’t your fault.” Jude would never let anything like that happen. End of story.

But, it would have been a lie to say that Jesús hadn’t wanted that to be Jude, for a moment. That moment.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I should never have —" but he did. He’d been stupidly selfish. “Not your fault.”

Jesús hadn't been there. How could he know that it wasn't his fault--how could he still want to sympathize, or tell him that he hadn't hurt him. He kept rubbing at his eyes, knowing they'd go red.

"Everyone says that." He just wished he could have believed him, that his affirmation fixed everything. But it just made his chest hurt more, made him want to curl up upon himself, as always. "But I could have done more. I could have saved him, done something, but--"

He'd tried long enough not to cry, but he choked back a sob anyway. Fuck it. Fuck him. "But then what? It's not like we--we loved each other, I just--I just pretend we were. I didn't mean anything. I didn't meet his family until his goddamn funeral. I..."

He trailed off, staring down at the floor, trying to distract himself with the patterns in the tile. "He would've just left," he said, softer than before. Almost to himself. "Then..."

Then he wouldn't have him. Yet here he was, at the end of the line.

Jude finally looked to him, his face frozen in that moment--desperate, on the verge of crumbling. He couldn't say anything else.

Well, he did. Every word, the way he’d said it, and how it all echoed in his head subsequently. “It’s okay. I didn’t really expect you to.” Or demanded for him to remember. That wouldn’t have been fair.

Thing was, there was no way Jesús could forget that.

He’d mulled over it. No wonder the Captain had hesitated when she’d picked him, but never mind that. He’d plucked at every thought that originated from those words, tried being rational but that really never worked out for him.

Then he’d come to a realization, too. One he wasn’t afraid of admitting, but of saying out loud. So he’d swallow it back, before he fucked things up even more.

"Worth asking," he murmured, resting his forehead on his arm. "Sorry."

Jude sat there in silence for a few moments, then blurted it out: "He's dead."

That was the extent of what Susi had told him. God forbid there was something else in the confines of his mind that he'd told him. "Simon. He's dead, I--" he covered his mouth, coughed, tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. "If that's what you're talking about."

The irony hardly surfaced. "I lost him, and it was probably my fault. And I thought you--I don't know what I thought. Whatever I said, I..."

He leaned forward and rubbed at his temples. "It wasn't me, either."

"No."

He said it too quickly, didn’t become fully aware he’d even said that until he held his breath and did not hear the rustling of clothes or the chair scraping on the floor. So he swallowed, exhaled shakily, and did everything in his power not to turn his head.

"No I don’t want you to leave." If anything, that was the very least he wanted Jude to do. God knew what would happen with the both of them now. He prayed for a miracle. Anything, anything, but him leaving.

But at the same time, he was lost, what should he do, what could he do—dammit. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, his nose wrinkling.

"Do you remember," he whispered, hoping he wouldn’t be heard but knowing it was useless to look forward to that, "what you said to me? Before I left."

"Okay."

Ask and he'd oblige, with almost anything. He turned back towards him, removing one hand from his side to hook around his neck. His heart dropped at the question--of course, what did he expect. Jude had hurt him too.

It seemed like they'd been doing nothing but that, hurting each other, for a long time. He had to honor that, a bit, in that pathetic moment of deliberation.

"No," and he shook his head, speaking just as quietly as him, despite the rasp in his tone that came from it. "I don't remember anything."

Insisting on something even he was too reluctant and horrified to admit would be useless. It didn’t change the fact that it was difficult to believe him, given all he saw, from the moment he gained consciousness, was the evidence of the damage he’d caused.

This were his consequences to deal with.

The pilot blinked. And pulled his legs up to his chest, and looked away, just in time to hide the tears. The way he saw it, the only thing that mattered was that Jude was alive. That was it. That was everything he could think of.

Hell. Even their last encounter, before he had left with the rescue party, seemed so distant, faded and unimportant.

"I’m sorry."

He didn't know what to do with tears. Some things he couldn't take care of. Jude hugged his arms to his chest, angling himself away from the bed.

There was so much ground to cover, on them, what had happened, and he didn't have any strength to start. He remembered what Susana had told him, the words that brought him some comfort from the Captain and Mr. Kent, but--

Now he was just sitting there, struck dumb. It wasn't him that had him against the window, that had almost snapped his neck. But that hardly mattered. It still had to be accounted for.

"Do you want me to leave?"

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Old College Try - The Mountain Goats

I will walk down to the end, with you If you will come all the way down, with me.

#lmao #music

"…my fault?"

Jesús froze. He couldn’t force himself to utter anything else. He couldn’t, because his throat had closed and all the air in the room had been sucked away.

For a moment, he wished he’d woken up alone.

Yet, somehow, he found the strenght to hoist himself up, and yes, yes now he could see the darnkess wrapped around his neck, the crack on the window made sense, and every second that ticked away the pieces fell in their spot. And that made him feel fucking sick.

He’d promised he’d protect him—

"I did that to you?” the wavering voice finally broke through the silence, his voice too loud, too horrendous. If he had leaned away as realization fell over him, he hadn’t noticed. “I could’ve—”

No, no no no. His mouth shut before he could even finish that thought.

"It's not your fault," he repeated, "it wasn't you." Now he had nothing to hold onto, so he just folded his hands in his lap and watched them slowly clench, nails digging into his palms.

He hadn't prepared himself for the way Jesús's voice faltered, the final acknowledgment that he could have. And he tried to. If the Captain hadn't been there, in that moment--

Jude let out a terse sigh. Fate had yanked him out, and given no guidance as to what he was supposed to do next, other than pick up the pieces and start again.

He wished he was dead. He wished they were both dead.

"What matters is we're both alive."

He noticed the way he cringed right before he spoke. If anything, it made him uneasy; so many questions that wanted to spill from his mouth and yet all that came out was an inaudible sigh.

"I, ah, I’m trying," to make some sense out of the blank spaces. Some…some things he managed to remember, the pilot doubted they had even been real. "I’m trying."

Confusion was written all over his face. “I remember Lt. Crosby yelling. The Captain was there too. Then —” then he might as well have labeled it all as the most agonizing, blinding pain he’d ever went through. Then nothing. Nothing, and more yelling, and —

Fear took over, as he licked his lip and looked back at the window. At him. “What happened?”

The mug of coffee shook in his hands, and he put it up on the table. The last thing he needed was to spill it on himself. One way or another, he'd have to tell him. Tell him everything, probably.

It made his stomach churn.

"You..." Jude cleared his throat and scratched at the back of his head, trying to ignore his eyes on him. "They got you. I--we got the implants out. But it didn't work the first time."

And there he was, living proof. He couldn't have hidden the bruise on his neck, or the cracks in the glass--things that would fade, and be repaired, but never hidden.

(There were marks he'd let him leave. It was a sick fucking joke.)

"It wasn't you." He wasn't sure how he could really convince him of that. "It wasn't you that did it. It's not your fault."