Waking up this morning feels only as different from slumber as opening your eyes: everything below your skin is still slowed to a crawl; heartbeat and breathing and thoughts, time passing like thick paint down a peeling wall.
You’d hoped by now that your most recent memories had been nothing but a dream, that sleep would have patched up your leaking center, that the warmth of home would have filled up up to full grit again.
But it plays on before your eyes still, as real as flipping through pictures in an album, frames passing in quick succession, taking you back to last night...
You’d tracked down your pitch partner fast enough, pinning him to the wall of his garish office with no word spared or long entrance pleasantries. You had to fight him to get him to half-assedly cooperate with you, but you were expecting no less. Both glitter and plain blood smudged up your faces, his desk, down to his floor, until you managed to hold him there, chests heaving, his sharp teeth grinding against your foot, hands bound in yours, tight and taut. Only then did he spit at you the promise of taking you to see him.
Consistent reminders of him had been the whole reason behind this downfall of yours, and you knew it. Or perhaps it’s an excuse you’ve given yourself multiple times before, to deflect the truth that you never truly overcame some of the deeper wounds at all. You no longer miss your first partner as such, and you can truthfully look at all the best parts of your aborted relationship now, while admitting it was a good thing, in the long run, that it ended. That it would have anyway, with the way communication between you died at his doorstep. You are happier now than ever, wrapped in a love that comes as natural as breathing, through each wonderful phase, through each difficult period. Loving Daven flows in your blood and, were you coded like your pitch partners, you’d say with no hesitation that you were written in the stars.
But not wanting Dave back hasn’t erased the fact that he still left, that he still forgot you. Most of all it hasn’t erased the sharp claws sunk at the nape of your neck, vile words dripping into your ears. He abandoned because he regretted being with you at all, he never talked much because you were nothing but a pretty nuisance, he forgot you to be free, and if he ever remembers he’ll be relieved to be gone.
And coming from the first person who ever embraced the whole of you after your isolation, who encouraged you to be yourself and find your worth, who motivated you to stick around...
If he gave up on you then it means he shouldn’t have bothered to help you at all from the start. It was a mistake that you were back.
That you shouldn’t be here. That everything you’ve managed ever since is stolen, the home who shelters your life and elates your heart, the support network that’s allowed you to grow so much, none of it is rightfully yours, and you should give it back to someone who deserves it better.
Your heart was lead in you as Warhead had tracked him down, to a different universe, to an unknown city. You hadn’t spoken to him in ages and that hadn’t been your purpose either: just to know if he still remembered.
You phased into his workplace, and Warhead brought you close enough to watch him, far enough not to be spotted. In the chaos of his workplace, you were safely hidden, yet attentive to all. You’d almost cried right there, at how easy it’d been to get to see him again, and a part of you wanted to make sure he was ok, that he moved on at least half as well as you, that he was looking after himself, but you couldn’t. That wasn’t the point. Warhead punched your side into focus, and off he was, set to figure out the truth.
You couldn’t tell exactly how he’d managed it all, but you watched in anxious awe as Wardhead approached Dave, zapped into his phone, and returned with an armful of papersheets but seconds later, stockful of text messages and Google searches and url entries you had no painful interest on, until pages of a scattered diary fell through. You pointedly ignored most of the swarmy words Warhead aimed at you, hands covering your face, begging him to only say something if he found any mention of you. When they came, you were hit with the truth of his memory recovery. Of knowing he’d actually remembered all of you. That he even knew where to find you and how to get through to you. But how he chose not to, without as much of a second thought, or intended goodbye.
The world spinned and the ground was no longer solid, and your nails kept digging at your face, as fear violently settled all around you, your new reality.
If you’d been this easy to discard then it meant he shouldn’t have befriended you at all, it meant you should have never gotten out of your isolation, none of these three years were real or yours to hold. You should let them go.
You don’t remember most of Warhead’s words, but you remember how much they drilled into your skin, tore up more holes to go with the gaping wound this revelation had given you.
you’re so fucking pathetic for letting this get to you, how much of a moron you have to be to think this matters at all in the long run, do you really believe you’d be any less disgustingly insignificant on a personal level LET alone on a Universal level if he’d given you closure?
But only one sparked a reaction out of you, brought your hands to clench tightly shut fingers around his neck, silencing him instantly: like human’s dumb-dribbling excuse for love is worth anything to begin with, maybe if you drop your sad excuse of a mortal fucktoy and go bury your dick into the nearest cow you’ll feel less whiny and leave me the fuck alone.
Unexpectedly, this had made him smile, maybe you’re not so hopeless after all.
But he wasn’t done, and as he brought you back to his office, his would be the words you’d carry till now, and further on.
You’re still an ungrateful spoiled brat, wasting your time chasing after pointless cosmic justifications, like red herrings in your brain, while real life happens around you. The multiverse doesn’t give two shits on where you go, when the time comes I’ll eat you whole whether you’re a hermit up some mountain again, or counting your blessings while your goldgutter of a boyfriend screws you to a wall. But every step along the way is yours, and you are responsible for it, even if the earlier bridge crumbles. Hold onto what you have and don’t take it for granted. There are no cornerstones or flawless bridges, and if you can’t acknowledge this then maybe you really don’t deserve these at all.
Your only, defeated reply had been a frail, “Maybe I really don’t.”
As he left, grinding his teeth again, you’d dredged back home, your core in shambles.
You still feel no different in the morning, and against your efforts tears are already prickling behind your eyes. They have no chance to come out, however.
Sunlight stirs all around you soon after, red curls brushing along your collarbones and neck, and your heart skips out of its stupor by instinct, meeting him halfway into a gentle kiss.
There’s no way to hide your train of thought, nor would you want to - he sees right through you in either case. You almost flinch at his hands on your face, for fear of corrupting something so gentle and good with the taint of your darkening insecurity.
I don’t any deserve this at all.
He apologizes right away, thinking it his fault, and the guilt of your own unfounded fears hits you again, before you vehemently reassure him he’s done nothing wrong, apologize for making him think so even for a split second. He’ll never be able do hurt you on purpose.
But this morning, you don’t follow him out onto the porch, your legs won’t take you to go praise the sky, and he still he understands. Take as long as you need, I won’t be far.
The Fuckhouse comes to life outside as you remain motionless under the covers. You hear the kids complain about your absence at the kitchen, and you hear Daven, as wonderful as always, telling them the truth, about how you’re not feeling well, about how sometimes people get sad to the point that it makes them feel sick, and need something extra to feel good again.
I don’t deserve any of you.
They chatter between themselves, wondering about what’d made you sick, and then Ornias bellows, well above his siblings, “Of course Grandpa John wouldn’t start eating gems again!!! He’s already pretty on the inside.”
Breath catches on your throat, and no amount of pushing back stops the tears from flowing down your face.
I don’t deserve to belong here at all.
And yet, in their voices, you find there’s still hope for you.
