An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
âThanatophobia is like a light in the middle of the night that spreads its flames on the objects it will soon consume.â-â Louis, chevalier de Jaucourt, for Diderot's EncyclopĂŠdie
A study in death anxiety between two men who keep dying. A lot.
A Kingfield fic because Iâve lost control of my life. I should be writing my papers.Â
Fic under the readmore because it be like that sometimes.
Between the howling and the haze of the storehouse, the distant squeal of someoneâs breath being ripped from their lungs, and the paranoia that any time spent not in motion would greet you with a crown of corvids; Macmillanâs home gives way to a fear that does not force you to scream. Rather, Macmillanâs home fosters the sort of enveloping anxiety that can only spawn from the entity. Whoever begged it for the fog, however, could fuck right off into the spider-legged abyss.
 It isnât the creeping dread that gets to David, but whoever was erratically blowing the generator on the far end of the property. No matter who it was, theyâre about to either have a faceful of bonesaw, or a faceful of fist. Forget that he, himself, had been bleeding since the start of the match. A handicap unto himself for the sake of adrenaline and adrenaline alone. Whoever was inconveniencing him, was about to have a much worse time. That much was simple. He knows damn well that there are only two left, and the kickback of a failing engine grates on him more than the actual sound of the nurseâs wheezing.  Itâs simple. You repair the generator, leave, repeat. Â
 Another miss, the generator crackling with all the mechanical dysfunction it could muster. At this point, whoeverâs wasting time is either an idiot or deliberate. But judging how David had previously seen Meg hauling ass out of the storeroom, and Aceâs luck seemed to have entirely choked early match leading to a pitiful escape attempt, thereâs only one answer.  Sputtering a string of incoherent swears, David slinks along the back wall of the property, keeping an eye out for any possible streaks of white or screaming. At any particular noise, he stops, dead in his tracks. Another screech, and he moves.
 Another miss, yet again, and heâs standing behind Dwight, who has yet to look behind himself, David still keeping an eye on the nurse, whenever she did blink into view. The lack of care, or blatant distraction was starting to get to him.
 âYou enjoy fuckinâ around with your life, Fairfield?â A blunt statement, loud enough to hear over the manual cranking of the gaskets. Dwight starts, shoulders going tense, only to have David reach over him and press his hand against the generator to avoid another eruption. âThe fuckâs with you?â
 Thereâs silence, only collapsed by the near shriek of the nurse and Meg yelling some chain of expletives in regards to âTeleporting-through-trees-fucking-bullshitâ. In any other case, David might have barreled out into the open himself, cackling about Megâs agitation and âBagheadâ being seemingly off her game. Instead, he draws his hand from the generator and presses his hand against the concavity between Dwightâs shoulder blades.
 âYouâre bleeding.â Dwight finally mutters, hands finally becoming more still. âHow are we supposed to get out if you basically stab yourself the second you get in the lot?â
 âYa do a generator, then ya leave.â
 âShut up. You know itâs not that simple.â
 David draws his hand back, only to crouch on the other side of a generator, prying at old wires and waiting for a further explanation. A generator in the distance howls with a newfound power, only to be followed by the a distant wheeze and Megâs yell- finally hit. David flinches prematurely, and Dwight flings his hands up as the sparks fly. The heartbeat never comes. David continues, staring down at his work.
 âYou ever think one of these days weâll die and thatâll be it?â Dwight mutters, barely audible under the clattering of metal. âLike, maybe Ace isnât back at the campfire, but just. You know.â Â
 David doesnât look up. âDonât be a right fuckinâ idiot about that. We always come back.â
 The cranking stops, and David peers over to see Dwight still crouched on the floor with his hands on his knees. Prayer-like. Meditative. As if heâs trying to center himself in the oppressive fear of death. David knows the nurse has this effect on people, but fears be damned if it didnât drive him mad with a weird aggressive sense of superiority. Or some miasma of despondency.
 âLook, ya always tell people ya need them to survive so you survive. Youâre fuckinâ lucky I happen tâ be someone damn capable of keeping people alive. Have some faith.â
 âDonât be stupid.â Dwight shoots back, fingers tracing the underside of the generator. âYou go looking for fights, and consequences be damned if you get hurt. As far as Iâm aware, youâre more help off a hook than on one.â
 Thereâs a vague pulse, and David stands; not so much insulted by being told to shut up, but impressed. âAâright, ya made your point. Now get thâ fuck outta here.â
 âWhat?â
 âI said get out.â
 Thereâs a beat as Dwight stands, only to be shoved out of the ring of debris as the nurse enters the ring, Meg bolting after her and gesturing to the generator. Between Dwight and Meg on opposite perimeters, David realizes heâs in for an awful fucking match. Her saw raises, still covered in what he assumes is fresh gore, and barely misses. David darts from the ring, towards the storehouse, trying to drag her as far from the gen as possible. Muscle memory from  bar fights and debt collecting, he knows damn well how to run and evade like a madman.
 Consequences be damned.
 He runs through the storehouse, spiraling between shelves of materials and a lit generator, hoping to lose her by the third blink. If the gates open, the other two can go. Thatâs all he needs, right now. For people to get the fuck out. He manages for three cycles, only dizzying himself slightly in the mess before launching himself out a broken window on the side of the storehouse. A lethal mistake, knowing damn well he couldnât remember if she had blinked twice or three times before clattering out the windowpane.
 For the record, he assures himself as the bone saw cleaves through his shoulder and his face hits the dirt, it was two.
 The generator sputters to life around the same time he lets out a bark of pain, rolling forward with his elbow as the nurse watches, lifting herself through the window and pulling him off the floor. David hisses through his teeth, wriggling in her grasp and driving the heel of his palm into the back of her neck. The whole cycle is graceless as she hovers about the side of the building, only to return inside and descend the staircase. Another hard smack to her neck, with no luck. David curses himself in the red haze of the room, flung haphazardly onto a hook in such a way that the rust and blood finds its way back into his shoulder through the previous wound. The yell breaks into an agitated howl, throwing his leg out in an aggressive kick towards the nurse as she vanishes up the stairs.
 Somehow, the bullshit of it all reminds him of another bar fight, the feeling of being clobbered over the head with a bottle of scotch in the moment you think youâve done enough. You made a point, and now your point is laying with you in the starry haze of your own blood. If they knew anything about anything, the other two would leave. Appease the stupid god of the woods with some flesh and blood, lick their wounds, and get a good nightâs sleep. He knows what itâs like to be taken apart and wake up reassembled under the willows. He can take it.  Thereâs been worse.
 His body goes limp on the hook, somewhere between resignation and the forced self-assurance that the others are smart enough to leave and carry on. His eyes close, ready for the event to end and the entity to scramble to collect whatever it desires at any second.
 âTo quote someone I know, the fuck is with you?â The whisper comes as a shock, and David is quick to open his eyes and stare down the man in front of him. âSince when do you just sit there-â
 âGet me down or leave me, donâ sit here anâ lecture me when sheâll be back any second.â David is quick to interrupt, teeth gritting as he feels the subtle rattling of the hook. âFuckinâ- pick one.â
 He barely has time to gripe before Dwight is grumbling underneath him, heaving him off the hook and back onto the floor of the basement. David stumbles, nearly collapsing into him with all the grace of a pile of bricks. He reels back, planting his feet firmly on the ground and giving Dwight a look that only dared him to make some comment about blood loss, near-death-ness or whatever the hell the lesson was. When nothing comes but an exhausted look, the two bolt out from the basement, Dwight seemingly convinced that David should stay a pace or two behind him.
 They follow one another, silent up to the nearby gate, Meg already long gone. The exit is clunky and awkward, but fast all the same.
 The terseness of the air is oppressive.
-
  The campfire is crowded as usual, stories being passed around as a cheap cover up for the ever persistent feeling of doom. Save for two survivors, on the outskirts of the woods. No words come, for awhile. They stand, backs to the camp, staring into the vast nothing of the Entityâs realm. The wind howls, something like a warning to turn back. Go sit at the fire, it warns. No philosophising. Donât dismantle your dread.
 âYou know, I ended up here because I got left in the goddamn woods.â Dwight admits to nobody in particular, cleaning his glasses. âLeft to die by some drunk co-workers.â The spite is raw in his throat, and David knows that vague sense of shame. The abandonment.
 âLeast you didnâ jusâ wander in like a right fuckinâ idiot.â He laughs, trying to give some kind of support. Dwight gives him a look, but it begs for nothing other than the joking to stop.
 âYou think about it too, donât you.â  Dwight says firmly, still facing the horizon. âAbout dying, yâknow, for real.â
 âPretty sure Iâm already dead âfor realâ.â David states bluntly. âFar as my mates are concerned, I got brained out in some fight with some punks, anâ outright ghosted after that. Nothinâ left.â Â
 âSo you think weâre all dead?â Dwight asks, finally turning to face David, whoâs staring at him fairly hard. As if he doesnât want to be having this conversation for some collection of reasons. David realizes he must seem outwardly put out by the whole deal upon hearing the tone question. Worry.
 Why the fuck does he have to worry?
 David sucks air through his teeth as if heâs been punched in the stomach, looking away for a moment. âI didnâ say weâre all dead. Said I think Iâm dead.â
 He looks back to see Dwight closer, brow furrowed. Itâs not long before thereâs a hand on his face, tracing the scar on his lip with a cross between nervous curiosity and a vague sense of outright compassion. Itâs out of left field, almost. Davidâs hand settles barely above Dwightâs hip on reflex, keeping him within reach.
 âYou donât feel more dead than anyone else.â Dwight states, quiet. âDepressed, maybe. Not dead.â
 He nearly flinches at the accusation, but finds himself standing still. It occurs to him that the two of them have seemingly skipped some sort of steps, cordial friendship or whatever the hell preceded emotional support and post-near-death preening. But, here they are, assuring one another about their existing mortality and their personal downfalls. Frankly, David prefers this over all of the exhaustive repetitive bullshit. When youâre dying with people every night, small talk is pointless.
 âYou scare thâ shit outta me, sometimes.â David mutters, a half-laugh that only exists for a few seconds before being mentally strangled from existence. âWatchinâ you put your hands on a generator? Feels like Iâm âbout tâ witness someone  lose their fingers.â Â
 Dwight rests his head against Davidâs collar, hands falling around him with a sense of exhaustion. âTake it up with my anxiety, then.â His voice is quiet, with the same bare amusement. Â
 âThought anxiety gets worse with thâ crowds.â David says, hand ghosting over Dwightâs back.
 Dwight sighs in response, still pressing close. âYeah, if itâs social anxiety. Or claustrophobia. But, I just donât like thinking about dying- or other people dying. I freeze up.â
 âSounds like you donât really fancy beinâ left alone.â David says, fairly quiet. Being insightful was never his strongest suit, but he knows a problem when he sees one. It doesnât take much for Dwight to agree with him, either.
 âI hate it.â
 A longer silence, the two keeping close and fixating on the fact that whatever baggage theyâve been carrying around has been laid at each others feet. Maybe itâs the exhaustion from the dredging of emotion, maybe itâs the sheer relief of letting go. David canât quite make out why Dwightâs hands begin to shake- grabbing at his sweater with some ragged desperation.
 A panic attack?
 No, not enough curling in on himself, his heart rate still arguably low. He shudders at the touch on his back, and David knows damn well this is the same erratic state he found him in earlier. Except more vulnerable, somehow. He presses his mouth to the top of Dwightâs head, reflexive in his protectiveness. Trying to keep him close and away from whatever eeking panic was trying to make its way through to them.
 âCalm down.â He states, albeit vaguely gruff and unhelpful.â Iâm here, so you know damn well youâre not alone.â Â
 âI-â Dwight starts, hands tensing. âI get that. I know that. Just. Prove to me weâre alive, then. Anything. Show me that despite everything, the shitty booze, the hooks- weâre alive.â
 The command is desperate in itâs tone. Begging for some vindication to snub the irrational fear that trails along with each round of the entityâs game. Desperate to prove thereâs hope, or light, or anything that isnât the unforgiving reality that the loop will never yield. David, for once in his life, is speechless. At least for a few moments.
 The decision to kiss him was another haphazard combination of a sort of adrenaline-drunk and underdeveloped sense of touch starvation. Garnished with the idea that maybe there was something endearing about the smaller, quasi-neurotic man in his arms. The drive to want to do something stupid is there, however, he finds himself trying to do anything to make himself feel alive, too.
 It doesnât help that heâs a little too into the feeling of tense hands vaguely scratching at his back, like Dwight considers scrambling away. When David pulls back, heâs only met with another, desperation sinking in. David only slightly stumbles forward, an attempt to brace himself against a tree with Dwight between him, slightly pinning him. Thereâs a small whine, but Dwight keeps particularly close, content enough to relax when David pulls away to get another look at him.
 âAlive enough?â He asks, his tone conveying a bizarre loudness without the sound. He seems proud, almost. Impressed with the energy and the motion of the entire act.
 âFor now.â Dwight says, quiet enough to only barely be heard. His hands have stopped shaking, sliding away from Davidâs back with slight hesitation as he pulls forward. The two let go of eachother, but still stand in close proximity, staring at the small blaze of light flickering between the trees. The silence loses itâs tension, melting into something comfortable. A state of understanding and acceptance in the moment, with fear finally subsiding.
 For now is the state of life in the entityâs realm, where the wind stops howling, for now. The campfire is lit, for now.
You may have seen these fliers going around on social media and just to be safe Iâm warning you all that this is false. It was posted maliciously on reddit and spread around to get undocumented immigrants to disclose their documentation status. Likely thinking that some would get reported on or whatever intentions that were had here.
Itâs spread so much that Starbucks even sent out memos to all their stores about this rumor. Spread the information that it is FALSE.
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Thank fuck, someone explained this more eloquently than I could.
(Though another reason this galls me is that Trump should be impeached because he has violated more laws than any president in our history. He needs to be punished for that. Saying that he shouldnât because you donât like the guy who comes next is attempting to game the system in much the same way the Republicans have been. Impeachment isnât about trying to get the president you want. Itâs about punishing the ones who break the law.)
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