and when it’s hard, i’ll place your head into my hands.
(hurt/comfort! i love these guys dearly. these guys being vani (my malevolent sona) and jarthur. this is after they save everyone from the mines in addison!)
she was scared.
she had been since they’d left the dreamlands.
she held hatred and resentment to that damned plane, but it was familiar.
it was predictable in spite of how odd it was.
thinking that just goes to show how long she’d truly been trapped in there.
familiar.
“c’mon,” she whispered aloud with no one to hear, no one to care. “c’mon, mr. lester—”
she said his name like she wasn’t scared of him, too. a man too brave, too determined, too motivated to fit into his own skin.
and what he did to uncle solidified her fears.
that man, with the king’s eyes, sobbing, looming over a corpse he’d just maimed.
the image burnt itself into her memory.
a fresh scar.
but, oh, how she yearned for him to be safe, for him to return from those mines unharmed, that same spark twinkling in “his” eyes.
something drew her in, made her feel safe in his presence. actually, no, that wasn’t it.
she never felt safe with him.
she felt protected.
similar, but not the same. just because arthur protected her didn’t mean she felt safe.
but he still cared enough to try.
in the prison pits, even at his lowest of lows, arthur tried.
he sang to her those nights, simple lullabies and melodies. but they helped.
even with his hands stained in blood, that of which belonged to a man he had to kill, he had assured her, he offered comfort.
and she soaked it all up. every last drop.
even when the blood of that man, mr. faust, stained her cheek, she accepted his comfort.
he cradled her face when she wept and wiped her tears as they fell. he brushed back her hair, soft kisses pressed to her forehead.
that was why she cared.
that was why it didn’t matter who he killed or how scared she was of him.
because he tried.
because he made an effort and treated her with such care. a kind she never got to experience.
she exhaled a shuddering breath, where was he now, is all she could as herself.
and she hears something. from the pantry.
she rushes in, door creaking loudly on its rusted hinges as she flings it open.
standing there, recently emerged from the trap door, was arthur lester. he was alive.
and she was beside herself with her relief.
“hello, vani.” he said, smiling. john must’ve told him it was her. god, john.
she approached them, slowly. merely an instinct at this point, like if she moved too fast arthur would dart.
and his shirt was stained in blood just as it had been back then. in the pits.
it drew her in.
“hey,” she muttered back, standing in front of them, looking up at them. “nice to see ya alive.”
arthur chuckled.
“you have john to thank for that. patched me up with a hand and a dream.”
a silence stretched on between them. what had happened down there?
“i missed something again, didn’t i?”
arthur paused, again, analyzing the question, listening to whatever john might be suggesting they answer her with.
“n’ don’t lie.” she started, only to round it off with; “please, mr. lester.”
a defeated sigh was the immediate response.
“the beast had me for a moment back there, pierced right through my stomach.” she fought to remain quiet as he explained.
“but, i was not joking, john saved me. no matter how vehemently he is denying it.”
“i almost lost you both?” her voice was small. her voice was meek.
it made arthur flinch.
“yes, but—” his words waver as he speaks. “but you haven’t. we’re still here. we didn’t give up that easily.”
standing there. that’s all she was doing, really, facing the only two people who mattered in her life at this point.
she’d left her mom back home forever ago by now. god, she hoped she was alright.
but that meant there was no one around to scold her for seeking the approval of arthur lester, a dangerous man, a murderer.
there was no one around to see her as she was now, clinging to his torso, pressed up against where a fresh scar lay.
where this man was held together by, in the most literal sense imagineable, friendship.
no one could see this.
no one outside of her and john, really.
but it was arthur who pulled her closer, it was john who laid a hand on her back, it was arthur who cradled her once again, and it was john who rubbed in a circular motion, soothing her.
and it was her who drank it all in as she had before. as she would for as long as they allowed it, for as long as they let this happen.
she was tired. and hungry. and so scared.
but they made it a bit more manageable at the very least.
“c’mon,” arthur finally spoke, “let’s get you a meal and some rest, alright? we can leave in the morning.”
she nodded, reluctant let the comfort slip away again. she let herself speak instead; “alright.”
so, with vanity bundled in his arms, arthur walked into the kitchen. seems he wasn’t ready to leave her either.
he was still trying.
he was still fighting and adjusting, perhaps for her sake, perhaps for john’s sake, but he was still going.
he was growing.
and she was there to aid him.
in some manner or another.
perhaps kayne was right, they were similar. they were destined for this. whether he had meant it as a cruel joke or not.
Created for @creative-life-event as propaganda to get ya’ll to join the server!
Notes: I'm just playing a character here, any worrying about being selected or any insecurity talk is just for dramatic effect and character roleplay, I don't actually take the application process of events this seriously and I’m emotionally fine and healthy irl (it’s for the ✨theatre✨)
Trigger warnings: Spiders, being stared at by thousands of eyes, morally dubious characters, (morally dubious watcher moderators), severe self esteem issues, chained up against your will, existential dread, thoughts of death, decent into madness, swearing
The (SUPERIOR) AO3 version [if you wanna read this in it’s full formatting glory]
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The audition was supposed to have started by now. This should be the right place, that’s what it said on the flyer. But it's been fifteen minutes since I arrived backstage, and no-one has called me out to perform yet. In fact, I haven't heard a single sound in this place apart from my quiet breaths, the rustle of the curtain behind my wings and the gentle gust of wind from outside.
Slowly, I peer through the curtains with my head barely peeking out from the stage walls in order to look out to the audience.
Or at least, where the audience should be.
Though the auditorium was filled with rows upon rows of seats, there wasn't a single person waiting for me. I'm not entirely sure if this place has ever had visitors.
Most of the seats have something wrong with them; loose stuffing, tethered strings, maybe even a splintered frame or two. Part of the roof had been broken down, the paneling that fell from it still scattered across the floor with frayed timber and shaving dust filling the walkway. If you look up, you could still see the moon shining from above, its gentle rays making the auditorium glow with an almost ghostly white.
There were cobwebs lining the ceilings and covering the floor, probably from one of the several spiders crawling around in the darkened cracks, their twisted limbs intertwined to the wall like tangled ivy as their bloodshot eyes stare at me, bright but unmoving.
I let out a shuddered breath. The atmosphere of this place is no better than a rotten graveyard, I can smell the stench of death and ash in the troubled air.
How many years has it been since someone was last here? I didn’t think it’d be so desolate.
Then again, I probably should have expected this when I decided to impulsively run away to the abandoned theatre out west from an address I've never heard of before just because I found the event I saw on the one flyer interesting, but I'm not too worried. This isn't my first rodeo with sneaking out from my village. Though, none of the places I ran off to have ever been as sketchy as this
Sure, call me a fool, but it was better than filling out a written response. I might be careless, but I'm not stupid. As if I'd trust that if I drop a written form in a half broken barely standing mailbox that there's a chance that maybe someone will decide to open it and then maybe they'll find my application in the sea of the other hundred, thousand something letters.
Like I'd believe that.
And besides, I've never been good with words. Those that know how to weave their words with their thoughts, that can carve out their ideas and feelings onto pen and paper, that can carefully mould emotion in lines and prayers that touch the hearts of those that read it, will forever have my respect. But whenever I try to replicate them, to untangle the mess of my mind, force out my thoughts and shove it onto a page, my words always fall short.
Simple, pathetic, unnecessary.
My words have never been good enough, never been worthwhile. I’m not going to let myself throw away my shot like that. I’m not good enough to be listened to anyways
It’s much easier for me to speak my mind, to let my head spill over, to run my mouth wild without rhyme or reason. Even if the words I perform are an incoherent mess, at least I know they’re loud enough to be heard. What’s the point of pretty words and a clever tongue if it can barely make its way past the muffled whispers from one’s mouth? At least while on stage, even if I make a fool of myself, I know I’ll have a crowd.
That’s what I thought but…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I know there’s no-one here. I can’t see anyone, I can’t hear anyone, but then why do I feel like… someone’s here. I feel, something watching me— someone watching me, like thousands of eyes staring down, like daggers piercing through the back of my head.
Something inside me shivers, a chill crawling down my neck. My heart beats, it trembles, it plummets.
I’m not alone here, am I?
…I’m going crazy, aren’t I?
I breathe once, then— fuck it. It’s not like anyone’s going to show up here soon anyways, and if they do well, there’s nothing wrong with performing a test run. Carefully, I force myself to stop cowering behind the curtain, and I walk towards the microphone, my every step ringing in my ears.
The presence feels stronger. I feel more eyes. There’s something heavy in the air, like weights dangling from my shoulders, a thickened fog engulfing the stage.
It’s suffocating.
It’s fine.
I tap the microphone and the feedback reverberates across the walls.
In a single moment, the world turns to static.
Strange, there hasn't been any true noise since I’ve arrived, yet only now does this place truly feel quiet. The auditorium was silent before, but this feels different somehow.
It feels focused, deliberate. heavy
I ignore the sinking pit in my stomach, breathing one last sigh before grabbing the mic.
“Gre–greetings!” My voice breaks as I speak, but I force my butterflies down.
Breathe Uxini, You’ve played this part before.
“As you know, I wish to partake in this death game of yours, but I’m well aware you already have several other applications, so what makes me so different?” The words feel hollow on my tongue, but I don’t let my smile wither.
I clap my hands twice, causing my hands to turn blue for a brief moment, before summoning a few pictures onto the stage.
My ‘art’.
“I created quite a few pieces before this.” I flick my finger and the images spin, a standard practice I do whenever auditioning. It makes the pieces feel more alive than they actually are.
I flutter my wings, and then take flight, circling myself around the carousel of drawings.
Carefully, I take one in my hand.
“I know my style is different from what you usually take, It looks atrocious but I think it would provide some diversity into your cast. If that’s not to your liking, well…” I clap my hands again, but only once this time, causing passages of text to float to the other side of the stage.
“I’ve also made written works. Simple. Pathetic. Unnecessary. So I’m sure at least one of these pieces will catch your eye.” I sing my words with the manufactured cadence I used for all my other auditions.
These performances all feel the same. And yet I’ve never been accepted before.
“Now I understand this is a lot, so please take your time and–”
The sound blares into my head like a mallet and for a moment I fall, but just before I hit the ground, my wings catch me.
I was right. I’m not alone.
I tried to focus on what the noise sounds like. It was discordant, almost like several different voices, each with varying pitches and timbers, overlaying on top of each other, the result a most dissonant choir. I could barely understand it, it felt like radio static and garbled noise and it was
Ļ̵̈́Ő̵̧̳̻͐͛U̵̻̼̟̒͛̎D̶͖̈́̆̕
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurtsit-
I hold my head.
Calm down, you can’t falter just yet. Just keep smiling.
I think back to the words they said.
Don’t understand? Don’t understand what? What am I missing?
I try to regain my composure.
“Why if it isn’t my audience! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you! This is anything but a pleasure. But I must ask, is there something about my work not to your liking? Am I not good enough? Whatever it is I’m sure I can make it up to you if—”
I feel something akin to acid burn against the back of my throat.
“I…see.”
I didn’t actually think it meant it.
On the flyer, just beneath the audition dates, was a note.
‘You will not be rated/rejected based on your works. This is just to know about you.’
I scoffed when I first read it. I thought it was a joke. All auditions are the same to me, show off your pieces, act like you’re better than you actually are, watch the judges pretend to think about the decision, then get discarded, Rinse and repeat.
It’s a lie all these places tell, in the end they always accept the ones that have the talent, and toss away any that don’t. And I’m one of the people that don’t.
It’s easier for them, and it’s easier for me.
It’s easier to accept rejection when they are just judging me for my pieces, but when it’s me as a person being judged on the stage...
What do I even say?
What’s there to even talk about?
I’m not an interesting person.
I’m selfish, I’m desperate, I’m clingy, I’m impulsive, I can’t do anything right, I can’t make anything special. I don’t understand what's there to talk about when it comes to me, and if I do get rejected, well what does that mean? That I’m not good enough as a person?
I know that’s not what this is, but I just can’t see what everyone else sees in me. In this world there are people who are special, and interesting, and talented and I….
I’m just not one of them.
There’s nothing special about me, so it’s easier to pretend I’m something I’m not, to hide behind a mask, to put up fake bravado and perform a show. Sure, the mask shares some similarities to my face, but at the end of the day it’s just the same as any other mask.
Plastic, hollow, empty.
It’s easier that way. It’s better than seeing the broken shell of a person underneath
I try to change the subject.
“I can see where you’re coming from, but are you sure that this is necessary? My pieces reveal more than enough about me so maybe we can come to a compromise?”
The audience doesn't reply, and yet the empty silence is more deafening than any noise could ever be.
“Okay then.” I bite my tongue.
It's for the show.
“I came here because I found your concept interesting, you know? It’s quite an entertaining premise and I just, um…”
“I’ve always liked stories. Fairytales read to me when I was a little kid, DVDs my mum bought for me with the latest serial, the plays performed out on the streets. I really loved them.”
I hate this. I hate feeling so vulnerable like this. I feel like my broken, bleeding heart is exposed for all the world to see. But I can’t stop, because this is what they want to hear.
“And I’ve seen stories like these before, this game of life and death. I loved watching them. I loved watching players form alliances, I loved watching them interacting with each other, I loved watching them laugh, watching them fight, watching them get betrayed, watching them fall, watching them triumph…” I swallow.
“I’ve always been just watching.”
Their gaze is stronger now, I can feel it.
I’m being judged.
“Now, don’t get me wrong! I like watching, really I do, but is it wrong to want to be a part of that story too?”
Just, be honest.
“I want to experience a new world for the first time, to make friends despite the risk of losing it all, to create a home even when it could be burned or destroyed, to have the chance to fight for what I believe in.” to be noticed
Breathe, it’s almost over
“I’m… willing to break hearts for this.”
Just say what they want to hear.
“I’m willing to break my own heart for this. I know I’ll get attached, I’ll get hurt, betrayed, killed whatever. I don’t care what happens to me, I just… want to be able to create something. So please…” my limbs shake, I feel like falling over, I feel so weak, but I don’t break.
Instead I lower my head, and force myself to bow.
“Let me be a part of a story worth telling, just this once.”
I breathe one shaky sigh of relief. All the tension weighing on my shoulders seems to dissipate for just one moment. I prepare to flap my wings to leave and—
My wings.
They’re not moving.
I can’t fly.
Why can’t I fly?
I try to move my wings forward, but all I feel is a visceral singe across my spine, like something pulling against them, pulling me back. Every time I try to push myself away it feels like I’m ripping my wings from my very flesh.
I try to turn around, but I can’t move my body either. I try moving my arms, my hands, my waist, my legs, but I feel the same pulling sensation whenever I try to move.
I open my eyes, and then I see it.
Strings.
There are several purple strings around my body. One from my ankles wrapped up to my knees, another was firmly tied to my waist, one starting on each of my wrists and twisting themselves until they reach my shoulders like vines and I can just barely feel the itch of one coiled around my neck.
The only thing I’m able to move is my head, I slowly raise it and the sight before me made the pit in my stomach worse somehow.
I can finally see them.
I can see their eyes.
I can see each eye on every surface, on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor. I turn my head to the left and I see more eyes, I turn to the right and there are still eyes.
There are eyes everywhere. Hundreds, thousands, millions looking at me, watching me, each one glowing with the same haunting purple. Never blinking, never looking away.
“STOP IT PLEASE.” I try to scream out, but the pain consuming my entire body feels louder than any sound that escapes my mouth.
“LIARS.” I shout. “What more do you want from me? Why won't you let me go? I completed the audition didn't I?”
I want to fight back, I really want to, but every little move I make, a twitch of the arm, a fidget of the neck, a twist of the ankle, every little thing sends a sharp tug across my every nerve, like thousands of needles pricking against my bare skin, engulfing my body in this paralysing agony and it hurts.
It hurts so much.
It makes me afraid. It makes me afraid to move.
I don't want to be afraid.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. But what else can I do?
I should have left. I never should have walked over to that microphone. I should have left the moment I realised this place was empty. No, I should have left when I saw how decrepit this building is. Even better— I should have never even come out here in the first place.
Why did I read that stupid flyer? Why did I decide to trust it? Why didn’t I see the signs? Why couldn’t I be happy with where I was? Why do I feel the need to seek out something more? Why do I always run away like this? I already have a good life, why couldn’t I just settle for that? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?
Now look where I ended up at.
Nobody knew I left.
The village doesn’t know where I am.
Do people even know this place exists?
They aren't going to let me go, and they will never come back for me, and I’m never going to be found. I’m never going to be able to leave this place.
My heart seizes.
I’m going to die here
I’m going to die here, and no-one will know. I’m going to die here, and it’s all my fault. I’m going to die here, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about it because no matter where I look there are only eyes, eyes, eyes.
So, I do what I always do when I can’t do anything. I lie to myself. I lie to myself and pretend I’m fine. I slip on the same tired mask, and force out that horrible, horrible smile on my lips.
This is just a snippet for all the lore shenanigans cl!Uxini is gonna get into. There’s gonna be a lot more lore for this character coming up so if you want to learn more about her story or learn about all the other AMAZING players and watchers and watcher helpers who are creating character lore of their own come join as listeners and you get to see first hand all the drama!
And if you’re not a roleplaying person, there’s still tons of life series and other Mcyt fandom content being brewed for this event so there’s still stuff for you too!
I am really loving this little community and I hope more of you can join us!
"You are the most perfect thing I have created." He smiled, taking the recluse's hand in his. Wrapped in both of his hands, his smile could only grow wider.
...
"You're quiet, bitter, and truly a ghost," he described.
...
"Yet, despite that. It all adds to the thing I can admire you for!" He added, his hands trembling as a toxic sense of elation coursed through his very body.
...
"You're flawed, gray... and human."
...
"All the things I can emulate. But you are something... something that I could never, ever truly be. Never in another millions of years "
...
"You are..."
...
His smile vanished, his expression painted with crooked awe.
Kind of tired/sleepy & ramby words on ASCII waking up for the first time / it's first experience with existing :)
You are a parasite 'built' to live inside the code of others. you essential spontaneously spawn into existence. before this you were just a normal computer virus. now you live (kinda of) inside of the 4th wall.
you have no memories of your own. barely any code of your own that isn't keeping / making you alive. all you can scrape together is the fragmented memories of the 'host' you now inhabit.
Eventually (whatever the passage of time means, you're not sure), faces come to surround you. What even is a face? how do you know what that is? What it means to have one? How do you know who these monsters are when you don't even know what you are? What it means to 'be'?
given the experience you later gain, you now know what you did was panic. at the time? you had no clue. what it was you were feeling, what it was you were doing. how could you? you've been nothing, up until now.
(tw for murder. liam kills his dad. because good lord i WISH. oh and deadnaming yada yada one of my alters already HAS my deadname im going to type it. and gore ofc theres gore)
“Here ya go, Willy boy!” A gun. A small thing. A pistol, maybe? “Can’t have this going down without you standing good chance, can we?”
It rest heavy in his palm, nonthreatening at the moment. With the safety on and everything.
He clicked that off.
He clicked that off immediately.
And his eyes narrowed, turned, stared up at his father. His own flesh and blood.
Not his dads. Not his Arthur nor his John.
Hell, not even his Noel nor his Oscar.
No. This man was different. With his short brown hair and too angular glasses. With his button-ups that he wore to look sophisticated.
Little did he know they just made him look like a stuck up bastard.
“Well?” That shrill voice. That voice that came straight from the man in the center of this— Arena? It had been a stage a moment ago.
Kayne stood there, red flag held in a tight grip. His manic smile had yet to falter.
And still Liam stared at his father. And, sure, the man stared back, right at the gun he held, in fact, but he wasn’t scared. Not this time.
Not ever again, actually.
“M’ ready so long as you are.” He damn near growled, forcing his tone deeper, forcing that gruff tinge into it, forcing his vocal chords to their absolute limit.
“Oh, Artie! You’ve really raised him well, huh?” Right. Yes, Arthur and John are still here.
He lets the weight fall from his shoulders.
And there, from the first row, he sees them. He sees John’s ever-searching eyes looking down at him. Worried, he thinks.
He shouldn’t be that way for long.
“Just hold out hope there’ll still be someone to raise when we’re finished here.”
There will be.
“Liam!” It was Arthur, this time. He turned his head back towards the stands, back to where two hands gripped a stone edge and shook.
“Aim for the head, alright?” Oh, he would. With his own manic smile, one that likely mirrored Kayne’s, he offered his dads a nod.
Then the flag rose.
And he was free.
Like a bird torn from its cage, a bullet left its chamber. It clipped his father on the leg, the kneecap, right where he’d been aiming.
And the sound of that man screaming had never been more wanted. Not directed at him nor his siblings nor his mom nor his step-mom. Just pure and guttural agony.
He stalked forward, light as a feather on the tips of his feet, feeling for all the world like an animal approaching its prey.
That’s another thing he used to be told off for.
The tip-toes.
He wondered if his father would do the same now. He wondered if he’d try.
Then he was right in front of the man. The man who had chased him away and drove him to where he is now. The man who had made his life misery for so long.
He realized how pathetic his father truly was by now. How desperate he had been to be a good dad and how he had failed as a result.
How deeply he had scarred his favorite ‘daughter’ in the process.
“Abigail.” The man spoke. For the first time since they’d wound up here, clutching his leg.
“Why are you listening to them? Why are you doing this and why do they keep calling you Liam?” He laughed.
“Why wouldn’t I? After everything?” And he just kept going. “Just a reminder, you drove me away. You are the reason I left. The reason I never came back home.”
“We looked for you.”
And, oh, this was priceless. His father, crumpled on the floor, bleeding from his knee.
“I know. And I hid. I hid so well that I got all the way to New York. Funny how that works.”
“You won’t kill me. You may not like me, but you still love me. I’m still your dad.” Did he really? Did Liam really love this man?
“No. No, I actually—” He took a knee, mayhaps just to spite his father one last time, to pour salt in a very wide open wound, and pressed the barrel of the gun to his head.
“I’m done letting you tell me what to do.” And he pulled the trigger. He felt as the gun shook with the effort, propelling a bullet straight through his father’s skull.
There was blood. Clearly. And bits of what he could only assume were once brain scattered about the floor near the body.
And there was cheering. Mostly Kayne’s loud whooping, but he could hear Arthur and John very faintly.
Right.
Why not make a show of it, eh?
He emptied the rest of the bullets into that body. Each gunshot ringing loud and proud in that arena.
It was therapeutic, almost. Like jabbing needles into a pin cushion.
But his father was finally gone. He no longer had to run from anyone.
(aka uh. just me fuckin around with me n arthurs father-son dynamic. i do NAWT care if theyre out of character. period typical trans/homophobia be DAMNED.)
“A bit to the left, Arthur, closer to his head.” Scissors brushed against, now shortened, locks, taking them between twin-blades like a dog crushing a bone in its maw.
He’s done this to himself a few times by now. A choppy haircut with whatever blade he could get his hands on, usually a razor.
He hoped for Liam’s sake this turned out a tad better. He hoped John’s directives would be enough to spare him any embarrassment.
“Almost done?” A slight waver in the adolescent’s tone. Ever so slight.
“Back to the right.” John, much to his surprise, had been rather cooperative in this effort. Not so much as an attempt at arguing.
The scissors moved back, strands falling in place and—
Snip.
“There. That should be fine. You’re finished, Arthur, well done.” Another hum of acknowledgement, preening at the praise. He had done well, hadn’t he?
“Done,” And he noticed the weight of the scissors still in his palm, metal and heavy. “Would you mind showing me where the—”
A sniffle followed.
Then another, and another, and then the sound of a bitten-off sob, choked down. Masked.
“Arthur, he’s—”
“I know what he’s doing. I can hear him.”
“Of course. He’s rubbing his eyes at the moment, as if to drive away the redness in them. His cheeks glisten with tears and he stares back at himself in the mirror with something akin to relief. More likely joy.”
Well, there’s certainly a way to help, right?
He tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder, leaning forward a little. Just praying he was in the direction of the mirror.
“Are you alright, William?”
“He’s nodding, still wiping away his tears, but he seems calm, if a little elated. He looks as if he’s struggling to get his words out.” John paused for a moment. “Ask him again.”
And, so, Arthur cleared his throat and tried again. More timid this time, soft spoken.
“Are you alright, Liam?” He heard a hitch in the adolescent’s breath, swallowed his sobbing.
“Y—” A stutter, voice watered down. “Yeah. M’ fine. Thank you, I’ll take the scissors. Set ‘em down for you and everything.”
“He’s holding his hand towards you patiently. In spite of that, he remains facing forward. He could be avoiding turning around.”
Oh dear.
What more was there to do? The scissors found themselves in Liam’s waiting palm, cool metal against flesh, transferred to old wood.
It was a simple vanity. A mere accomodation, nothing lavish in the slightest, but Liam studied it, etched it into his memory.
“Did we mess something up? Is something crooked or, or—”
“No! No, it’s fine, Mr. Lester, really.” That tone said otherwise. As did the slight stirring of John, likely about to comment on it.
Since when had he been able to feel John? At least in that particular manner. He could always feel his presence, but this was more like—
A weight. A shifting in the hollow of his brain.
He’ll bring that up with John later.
“Arthur, he seems to be waiting for your reply. Expectantly. Ask him,” Was it more so odd that he could tell John was choosing his words carefully? “Ask him if he’s upset.”
“Are you upset?” He allowed himself a pause, only vaguely aware of his left hand joining the other in gripping Liam’s shoulders. “John’s asking. If you want to share, of course.”
Then something warm and solid wrapped around his torso, holding ever so lightly, as if Liam was worried he’d shatter.
“Thank you.” Breathless, muffled in his chest, but heard all the same. A hug.
Well, that was odd. His heart swelling, singing, and bowing all over a simple curtosey from this child. Accomplishment, he presumed.
But, no. No, no. This was different, wasn’t it?
This was pride. He was proud.
He is proud.
He carded his fingers through aburn strands, that of which reminded him so fondly of Faroe, surprising even himself. A fond memory tied to his daughter. No longer tainted in guilt and regret. Wasn’t that a miracle?
He delighted in ruffling Liam’s hair, messing up all the effort they had put into brushing it out so it cut properly, ignoring the simple protests the kid made between laughs.
“He’s smiling, Arthur. The light catching on his teeth, his cheeks upturned and eyes squeezed shut. He’s practically glowing.”
And who wouldn’t be?
After what they had just done? Turning a scared, anxious boy into this bright young man was a feat worthy of excitement.
“Of course. We owed you one, didn’t we?”
“Huh. He seems to have tensed, turning his gaze up to ours and tilting his head. Confused, from what I can tell. Maybe conflicted.”
Must it be his turn to flounder so soon?
“Oh— No, I just meant with the, the tips you gave us for getting around. For staying out of sight. We owed you.”
“His eyes widen, still locked with ours. His hair is a mess and the corners of his mouth crinkle into a smile at the moment.” A smile?
“That’s not the reason I asked you two in specific to do this for me.”
Ah. Understood. There were a plethora of other reasons, weren’t there? Barbers might turn him in after realizing he’s on the run, he hardly knows Oscar and Noel, and—
And it clicked. The pieces slotting into place as John jumped in to voice his own thoughts on the matter.
“He trusted us with this, Arthur.” John was in awe. Or at the very least sounded like he was.
He found it hard to blame him. Truly.
“You—”
“I trusted you. I can tell John picked up on that, wide-eyed and all.” Breathy chuckles sliced through his tender words. Trust.
Was he even worthy of that trust? Such a fragile thing in Liam’s case. A display of the teen letting his guard down, letting them into the barrier he’d made for himself.
“Come here.” Is what he ended up muttering, arms held wide in spite of John curling the left hand in his confusion. “C’mere.”
Liam collapsed against his chest again, curling into Arthur like one would a blanket. He was more than happy to enjoy the silence. More than happy to let the kid bask for a moment.
A warmth brewed in his lungs, contained just behind his ribcage. It shone bright in these moments, sunshine trapped beneath flesh and bone. He swore Liam shared that light.
No, he knew he did. His was— His was in his presence. In the comfort and humor and joy he carried with him in spite of what the world gave him. In spite of what he’d been through.
And as his left hand trailed to the small of Liam’s back to gift it with a firm pat, he knew John shared it too.
“We are proud of you, Liam.” The voice was not his own. The voice belonged to the very being he thought of, echoing in his mind.
A cough into his free hand.
“We are proud of you, Liam.” And then a pause, waiting for a continuation. A proceeding.
“We are glad you gave us this responsibility,”
“We are glad you gave us this responsibility—”
“Even if Arthur here was shit at following my instructions during the process.” Bingo. There was the John he knew. The sap.
“Even if— Oh, fuck off.” Playful malice, much unlike their poison-filled arguments from mere months ago.
Oh, how the tables turn and whatnot.
And Liam simply laughed, burying his face in Arthur’s neck. He felt safe. Seen and loved for the first time in a long while.
That was a feat in and of itself, huh?
Arthur “I made the mistake of neglecting my daughter and her life was lost as a result.” Lester and John “I’m a fragment of a literal God. I have killed people, but I’m learning to become human.” Doe taking care of a teen.
And they were somehow on the same page in that regard. They somehow agreed on keeping Liam’s trust close.
They somehow agreed on keeping Liam close.
Even with knowing that his life is in danger anytime he is with them, they couldn’t bring themselves to push him away.
An issue for another day, then.
A yawn sounded from Liam, short and muffled, but he felt and heard it regardless. The fluttering of eyelashes on his neck was unmistakable as well.
Seems they were stuck here for the time being.
“Goodnight, dads.” Drooping, sinking, falling down to his stomach went his heart, seizing over that simple phrase. Dads.
“Good— Goodnight, Liam. Rest well.” There was no need for a stutter. Yet, he couldn’t seem to drive it away. Dads.
Dads, dads, dads. Plural. Both of them.
“Arthur?” A questioning hum in reply. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts, a whirlwind of emotions he was only on the precipe of solving.
“You should sing to him. A, A lullaby, right? Those help.” And, truly, what a fantastic idea that was. John had his moments.
“Right, yes, they do.” The chair they sat on tipped back as he cleared his throat once more, phlegm shying away with a simple cough.
And he set about singing. What else is a man to do when he’s trapped on a chair until further notice? Pinned down by the weight of a boy he had only known for a short period of time but who he’d kill for regardless?
He simply sang his heart out, lullabies and melodies flowing from his lips. Golden tunes falling in line with that warmth the three had sewn betwixt themselves.
Comfort in its purest form, shown in this brief reprieve where they faced no life threatening circumstances.
(bleleleleeh! go my selfship stuff. fluff of my sona, guest1337, and 007n7. cause i HATE YOU ALL!)
“Just breathe for us, ‘kay?” Simple instructions, wrapped in a soft tone. Meant to be gentle.
Breathe. Okay, yeah, she can do that. Ve does that all the time. She does it in ver sleep! This should be no different.
In, her chest rising as ver lungs fill.
Out, a steady collapse.
In.
Out.
In.
“OW!” Well, she had done as ve was told. It just hadn’t worked out in her favor.
Nor in Guest’s, judging by the wounded sigh he let out. One he tried to muffle, but was audible nonetheless. This room was rather quiet.
007n7’s grip tightened, holding ver hands steady. He was here for her.
“Sorry..” Ve was, she really was, ve just wished she could promise that would be the last time that happened. The last time ve thrashed and squirmed as her wounds were tended.
A calloused hand found itself on ver shoulder, squeezing tightly. Oh, two hands, actually.
“Here, how ‘bout I try something. Is that okay with you, Vanity?” Guest’s voice sounded near as delicate as 007n7’s.
Go figure, the man she’s known for years rubbing off on the man ve’s known for however long they’ve been stuck here.
“Yeah.” And she had to ignore how ve croaked that out. She had to ignore how ver nerves made their presence known, how her trust in Guest wasn’t strong enough for this—
Ve felt another pair of hands on her face, guiding ver to just look ahead.
Seven’s eyes. Those warm amber irises.
Those shockingly soft palms that cradled her chin. Just enough to keep ver grounded.
She exhaled, shaky at best, but ve managed to ease some of the tension off. She hoped that was enough for Guest to— To understand.
Ve was trying to let her guard down.
“Atta girl.” Then those hands previously on ver shoulders dipped lower, tracing just above where they’d been trying to bandage.
She hissed through ver teeth. A warning.
But 007n7 drew her back in, bumping his forehead against ver own, just enough to distract her.
Christ, ve felt like an overanxious shelter dog.
Guest was the poor vet stuck with ver, trying to take care of something so very scared and defensive.
That made Seven her emotional support animal, maybe? Someone to regulate ver, keep her from snapping all too hard.
An unexpected groan tore from ver throat, spurred on by something. What—
Oh.
Guest was massaging her back. And it didn’t hurt? Somehow? But, he was— He was right on the areas of infection how could—
With a sigh, ve eased up, shoulders drooping, muscles falling lax for the first time in god knows how long. It felt nice.
“There ya go.” Something in her basked in the way Guest cooed at ver, the sound of his voice rolling over her in waves. Knowing ve was doing something good.
And she fell right into 007n7’s waiting palms.
Ve’d fall over and over again for him, always for him, it didn’t matter the situation. She was lovestruck, plain and simple.
It was nice knowing he cared for ver in the exact same manner. That he loved her.
“Trrrrrrr..” The trill slipped before ve could even stop herself, before ve could even process—
“Feelin’ any better?”
Just a gentle voice, humming, pressing into her tense shoulder blades. Ve felt like a spool of yarn, tugged loose and unraveled.
She chittered again. Fuck words.
Seven chuckled in front of ver, his thumbs brushing along her jaw in slow motions. He was practically petting ver.
Not that she cared.
“Can we try and bandage them again?” 007n7 asked this time, carefully suggesting rather than demanding it of ver.
She nodded, albeit hesitantly, but ve was relaxed. She was hazy, head in the clouds.
Ve wanted more affection from the two.
But she wouldn’t be asking for it.
The next 20 minutes went rather well, resulting in Guest’s first success in bandaging ver up. And she felt loads better already.
Maybe it’s because ve almost fell asleep leaning against the man behind her, Seven sitting comfortably on ver lap. They were both so warm.
At the moment? Guest’s head rest atop her own, 007n7 sandwiching ver between the two.
Maybe this place isn’t so bad.
She’s finally at peace with ver friend/crush of over ten years and she even has a few new, uhm— “friends” by ver side.
in other words me n my husbands tma sonas because im normal and well adjusted.
The crashing of waves surrounded him from all sides, overtaking his senses.
Filling his ears with a gentle thrum as they smacked against the sand, seeping into his lungs via salty air carried through the fog, splashing his skin with water so cold it seemed to chill his very bones.
How long has he been cold?
Better question, has he ever been anything else? Has he ever felt anything outside of that chill that numbs him so thoroughly he finds himself struggling to move?
Doesn’t matter now. Nothing really matters here. Not the faint tense of his muscles, not the feeling of his own arms wrapped around himself, not even who he was. What he used to be. Not here.
Where was here? Could he even remember?
The answer is no. The fog that pressed in ensured that. Flowing in through his ears, clouding his brain, taking any semblance of himself he had left one wave at a time.
He had a name, didn’t he? Of course he did. He knew he did, he just couldn’t seem to find it.
Doesn’t matter. He could always choose a new one. Or not. Not like anyone will be using it where he is. Not when he’s been left like this.
A shiver wracked through his already shaking body, almost enough to draw him back. Almost.
It’s difficult to move when you can’t tell where you start and where your surroundings end.
Weird, huh?
The fog wrapped around him so completely, so perfectly, he couldn’t even tell where he began. Let alone how to get his limbs to work with him.
He still watched though. Couldn’t take that away from him fully. Even as he steadily forgot himself. Even as he let this happen. Even as the murmured “I belong here, don’t I?” left him.
He watched, eyes shining a dull green in the haze. The halo over his head carried that same purpose, much better at it’s job than who it belonged to.
It gazed into the waves, the fog, unblinking, cataloguing every bit. Every small detail.
It tried in vain to share what it found out with the child, scrambling and forcing fact after fact into a mind over taken with a haze so thick it was rather futile in the end.
“William!”
That was new. An echo. A name? A person? Here of all places?
“Will!”
He thinks it’s getting closer. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. When he thinks about it for too long it gets disorienting.
The fog draws in, as if to cover him protectively. He could be frozen by this point. That would definitely explain why he can’t move outside of shuddering, breathing, and blinking.
Was he even blinking?
“Jesus- WILLIAM!”
That was louder, wasn’t it? It definitely felt closer. Wait..
He could feel that. The slight shifting of the sand beneath his shoes, the obvious presence of someone else.
Whoever it was, they were real and here.
His eyes grew blurry with tears, reacting when he really couldn’t be bothered. This person didn’t know him. They weren’t here for him. They’d check who he was and simply move on.
He was meant to be alone and forgotten, right?
The person got closer, battling their way through the gloom. He could feel them standing there. Just looming near him.
“Hello, Will..”
Oh. They were talking to him, weren’t they? Why did they sound so familiar?
William.. Was that his name?
• • •
He has no idea how long it has been since this person has showed up, much to his dismay. Disappearing only seemed to slow him down and he was always found in the end.
Oh, yeah. He found out who the person was. Randal. The name fit a hazy figure his mind held close. He knew this person.
And he knew William.
This go around, a hand settled on his shoulder, so hot it almost hurt. A tingle ran through where he was touched, the chill rapidly retreating from the area.
This is how Randal tried to get to him. He figured that if he managed to warm Will up enough, he’d be able to get some sort of response.
He’d been unsuccessful thus far. Trying his hands only earned him that same teary-eyed, blank stare, trying his chest only made him fade back into the fog, hell, he even tried his neck and ankles out of desperation.
This time, he lingered on his shoulders, smoothing his fingers over them and pressing in close. He didn’t miss the slight twitch William gave in response. Good. It was progress.
He moved up, cupping Will’s face with a reverence that dripped from his very soul. He needed this to work.
“Come on. I- I know you’re in there. Come on.” Randal’s tone dipped, laced with exhaustion and distress.
He got a sigh in response. He wasn’t annoyed by Randal, not in the slightest, even when this action went against his very nature, he found himself at ease in the other’s touch.
The warmth of it was too much and not enough all in one. Comforting and terrifying. He leaned into it, his halo shuttering close.
The sob that left Randal was truly awful. A pathetic, emotional sound William should’ve shied away from, but, no, he found himself drawing in his own shuddering breath.
“M’ here..” He found his mouth moving, instinctively. Mumbling, stuttering out the same phrase over and over; “M’ here.”
And he was. For the first time in God knows how long, he was there. He was in his body. In his mind. William was a person again, not just a name called out into a haze.
He still felt blurred around the edges, dazed and blanketed, but he was there. He knew who he was. He knew who Randal was.
He moved slowly, but he found himself with his arms around the other’s waist before he could really process. Sniffling and burying his face Randal’s hair the second he was capable.
He couldn’t seem to stop talking, babbling nonsensically as he ran his fingers through Will’s hair. He held him like he’d vanish if he let go. Like he’d turn back around and back into the fog.
Which is fair considering William had been considering it up until this very moment, but now? He wouldn’t dream of leaving this warmth. Wouldn’t dream of leaving him.
Never again.
“I’m so proud of you, Will, I missed you so much, oh my god-” His voice was hushed and shaky and Will all but revelled in it.
“I.. I know. Missed you too..” Hoarse. Hoarse and scratchy and nothing like how he normally sounded, but it was still him. It was still William.
“M’ sorry. M’ so sorry-” He was crying a bit louder now, heaving breaths and grasping hands all taken by Randal. All shushed and lulled by him.
“It’s alright for now, we can- Let’s talk about that later.” He exhaled softly, still petting Will.
“For now, what do you think about getting out of here? Leaving this place?”
The thought scared him, honestly. Not that he was going to outright say that, but it did. There was somewhere outside of the waves and the fog? Outside of himself?
“I don’t.. know..”
“That’s alright. We’re here together now, aren’t we? I’m- here. Can you help us out?”
A prickle off in the distance. A sudden, overwhelming pressure weighing on his frontal lobe, impossible to ignore. He could help.
The halo behind his head snapped open, his eyes glowing a familiar neon green.
“Yeah.. I think- I think I can.”
A hand intertwined with his own, a reassuring squeeze tugging a smile from the corner of his mouth.
