He Suffers You In Joy
@awkward-screeching‘s Sidestep walked into my house and ripped off my wig (they would never, but you get the idea), so I made my last written piece before I get absolutely wrecked by exams about them ;U;
n!Sidestep, m!Ortega, ~907 words.
Suffer me, suffer me, they suffer you and tolerate the husk of your mind, cradle the shattered shell flowing only with air beneath. Suffer it so you may remain in circulation - never outdated, upgrade the engine - they keep you around because you are useful.
Kerbside me, you’d ask, never out loud lest they hear - comply - but always letting the idea turn in your mind. A rotation of thoughts - chasing your own tail, watching it shorten, snapping at it with a broken jaw - you chase and corral your way into life. A semblance: you breathe, you eat, you go to therapy like a good little- Like a person who wants to get better. And you will - you’ll give it one hour to make it happen, to tear the orange from your body - you were always too blue anyway - and set yourself free.
Jailbreak from your mind, take the Rat but leave the withered plants as decoration, sabotage their escape by draining the roots. Hide the spiracles beneath the jacket - we’ll crush you like the insect you are - you’re above monologues, so you stop listening. You want to stop listening. You want out: out of the lies that became reality, out of the mind that hounds you to death, out of the body that feels neither right nor wrong but clings all the same.
Sometimes you do escape, allowing your psyche to curl up in Eden’s - dusty, sometimes, but soon becoming elegant and almost graceful. The body is beautiful - to you, to Mortum - it is smooth, unscarred, young and everything you knew would fix you if you could attain it. You curl up in Eden’s mind, and he smiles like no other - snark, but soft in its charm - he bewitches and bewilders, and for a few moments, you forget the bother, forget the mind that sees everything, and become Eden.
So it’s no surprise to feel the flesh cringing away from your skin as you stand, in all your magnificent, tiny, quivering fear before Ortega’s scrutiny. Judgement. Like you’ve handed him the axe, bid he have at it as if you hadn’t already cleaved and hacked at pieces of yourself in the hope that you’d rearrange, come back better than before, having fixed it all. But you’ve fixed nothing, stirring only the solution you’ve diluted yourself into - a quandary of pieces all belonging to different puzzles.
You’ve eschewed Eden’s panache, leaving behind only Chris. Chris, who kills the plants they touch because they cannot even care for themselves. Chris, who fronts with a joke every time lest you notice the pain beneath. Chris, who stands now in fear and in clarity, waiting for their antidote to strike them down.
“Hey,” soft, like mercy. “Chris, listen to me,” because honesty pays in what? Not in life, for this is just existence. Not in kindness, because you can feel it falling away. “Orte- Ricardo,” I am Saboteur. I am everything you hate. “It’s okay,” how? “I can’t say I understand, but I trust you.” Mistakes - you’re covered in them, Ortega.
“C’mon,” he coaxes you over to one of the sofas, and you let yourself remember where you are. Rangers’ HQ - had you hoped that in hearing you say those words, something somewhere would have ordered your demise? Guns in the walls, perhaps? Ortega himself? His mind buzzes beside yours as you join him, allowing a tentative arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. Like he understands. “Chris,” he repeats, and this time you find it in you to look at him. “Why?” He’s suffering you. For a moment, you think he may play dumb - but in faith, in confidence, he says, “Because you never killed,” low standards, then. “You never threatened, or even spoke - you came to the hospital, and,” a sigh, but it’s tired above all else, “And stupidly, I fell.”
You’d ask, but you do him a service in turn, reaching for the hand that hovers beside yours, pulling it into your lap for fear of. Of what? Everything? “So,” he’s patient - older, different, no less kind. “What now? I’m still… y’know.” he squeezes your hand - comfort, you take it. “Step by step,” he concedes, but you catch the corner of his mouth turn up at the inadvertent pun. Yours twitches too, and you manage a laugh - or a gleeful gurgle, mixed with unshed tears. You catch him looking at you - at the rare smile over your face - and you cover it sheepishly with your free hand.
“We need to see more of that,” his voice is hushed, but his hand tightens around yours - excited - thrilled. You smile again, and this time clasp both hands around his, letting him see that slow, precious grin once more.
Suffer me - he suffers you, gladly, and in his suffering he is full of joy. He cradles your hands in his, letting no air travel between, massaging the circulation back into your hands. He suffers, but you see it unabashedly this time - no pain, no struggle - this is not difficult for him. You’re not sitting on the kerbside, no longer chasing the tail of your errant thoughts. No, today you breathe, you eat, you go to therapy and let Ortega hold you for a little while. Today, you try to get better.
