#wizardphyyk

[zazzerpants]

Red Wires / Blue Veins

I hear you pacing Back and forth Talking about how to "Fix" me

It's eating away at you More than me And you talk like chickens with their heads cut off All that's left is blood

I'm not broken, I'm perfectly fine It's you, with your tongue in cheek Need to just give it a rest You're not even lost.

I'm not the robot. You are! Because you're left at a malfunction When there's no direction in that list Tasks, from some unknown god.

You're broken, you're fucking broken You're not even lost. You've had the map the entire time And you never took a single Step

And where does that leave me? "Fixed"?

[zazzerpants]

SysRq

A collection of five drabbles centered on Mark and Eduardo of The Social Network. AO3 mirror here! -----

An arrow that splits is an arrow unneeded Don’t slow down. It’s a rule Mark is determined to live by; when you slow down, you mess up - even worse, you don’t mess up at all. But if you move fast, and break things, you have just as much of a chance to fix them. In most situations. He’s seen it in Eduardo, the aftermath of slowing down. It leaves Mark unhappy, and while he wishes he could say it’s the sight of his friend under such duress that makes him feel this way, as would be the case for any good friend, it turns out Mark is not the greatest friend. Instead of that very human empathy, the “your pain is my pain”, he gets a near-unbearable irritation for several reasons. One, because Eduardo brought this on himself, through the way he feels, absorbs responsibility, and lets his own childishness shine through when he can’t deal with things anymore. Two, because this affects everyone around him, and hinders their ability to manage anything involving Eduardo without kid gloves. Three, because as general productivity and adult conversation lessens, Mark grows frustrated; his frustration stems from both his own inability and inactivity - Eduardo would probably react strongly to an offer from Mark, be it positively (accepting his help) or negatively (pushing Mark back, so far away - saying there’s “nothing he can do”). Either way, Mark’s own failure to react in time to Eduardo’s needs is usually the end of these things. The thing about Mark’s rule, “don’t slow down,” is that you don’t slow down. He can’t. Not for himself, not for Eduardo. Especially not for Eduardo. But it works out; Mark takes off ahead, always at a run, and when he looks back - the few times he does, the few he allows himself - Eduardo is there. And Mark would be lying if he claimed after the first time, he began to expect the pleasant surprises. He never turned around. But it was alright, as long as he didn’t stop, and Eduardo kept following; and Mark stopped looking back - each glance made him more nervous, and while that shadow of himself, of Eduardo, trailing in his footsteps, gave him a greater sense of security than it ever should have, facing forward did not delay the problem, only the reaction. But it works out, and it worked out; it worked out until Mark turned back and Eduardo wasn’t there. It worked out, until it didn’t anymore. And from there, Mark drove it into the ground. From there, Eduardo stopped trying to keep up, because he just couldn’t, anymore. - Move fast. Break things. And sometimes, stop to fix them - if you can. But only when there’s really no other way. Or else you’re just caring too much. Is he caring too much? - But if he slows down, and can’t keep up-- Well, there’s just no point, anymore.

Question the Sun Do feelings die? Eduardo is learning the answer - or answers, especially ones that contradict. The key, theoretically, to killing a feeling, is distance. Creating a distance severs that bond, that attachment-- That vein of unbidden emotion that Eduardo can live without. Feelings are hot, and warm, and burn as long as you let them, but they do not die. They are not rekindled. There is a science. In people, and emotion - it’s all within the brain, part of a science, some great plan. Eduardo is a scientist, but one with finities, finalities; Eduardo is a scientist, but one without closure. And he knows his own feelings, until they change-- Gradually, and then suddenly. - He understands it a little more when he sees Mark again, for the first time. In fact he understands it so well, he loses some understanding of himself. He’s drawn, and itches to gravitate, if only out of habit. Maybe he should be ashamed - a year, a life built on being Mark’s satellite. Eduardo begins to hate - not Mark, no; Eduardo begins to hate how he can’t hate him, ever, ever. - Mark leans into him, and Eduardo’s grasping at straws. You don’t hate me. No, he chokes. But I tried. Mark is silent then, tenses, then shakes it away. At least you did that, he concedes, after a long while. - Eduardo looks on, like maybe this isn’t real, none of it, if only out of habit. (During the deposition glass walls valley larger than his life could afford hoodie strings Beck’s beer losing breath to the wind) Mark has to remind him, quietly, wordlessly: I saw you, thinking, waiting, thinking. I heard you.

Stop Still Eduardo dreams in daylight. These dreams are not clear of shade and shadow; sometimes he sees an absolute nothing, it’s so dark - but he can feel the presence of a floating warmth, long as it lasts, long as he remembers. Sometimes he thinks of Mark. He is not dreaming of him, per se - rather he is invaded, hacked into - in his head, his mind. Again, he’s lost control. If he had it at all. He doesn’t know exactly when “you never asked” became invalid. - Mark hears the rain come before he sees it. First timid patters against the glass, begging permission; he completely misses their transformation into savage, haphazard bullet rounds, scattering amidst the closing sky, frustrated by Mark’s lack of response. He bears through, keys clacking at the same sinister rhythm. Not now, he tells the rain. I’m locked in. - There were plenty of occasions in which Eduardo had asked for Mark’s clarification on things: (Wardo, I need you. Wardo, we did it. Wardo, you’ll get left behind.) The last answer was one he waited for, but rejected both inside and out. Even after, even now, he is small. - (Don’t tell him I said that.) It was a small thing - the words, his voice - and Mark could feel himself collapsing beneath it, going quietly, horribly unnoticed. Who was left to notice now, really? And even then, Mark felt him - dragging them down, holding a high bar, dangling a prize in front of their noses. But he wouldn’t shut him out, and even then, he asked of his Chief Financial Officer: Don’t tell him I need you here with me. - Eduardo defined a broken heart as this: loving someone you can’t trust, anymore. Mark describes the wound inside like so: empty, and unimpressive, and numb until he feels it sigh. They can’t promise things will be the same, but broken pieces yearn - and love - to come together. They’re mending, and building, something incredible, something brilliant.

mousepad, mousetrap Mark is not a robot. Dustin knows this. Eduardo knows this. Most obviously, Mark knows this, but he lets people believe he is one. Mark can feel, just like anyone else. He just doesn’t know what to do with that, most of the time. So he feels. He’s laughed, he’s cried. He’s burned another, and burned himself. Best of all, he’s wanted. He has wanted things, and he’s a little wanted, maybe. - Eduardo has wanted. He has ached, he has hurt, and he has known the loss that comes with wanting something so desperately. Eduardo knows what wanting feels like. It’s only working for what he wants that is so unfamiliar he could die. So he wants, and waits, silent. He knows things won't just come, if he waits for movement, but he hopes. He feels like anything he’s worked for, he never wanted, maybe. - They learn a little, in their time apart. Mark gives names to his thoughts, and thoughts to his voice, again. Eduardo chooses to want, and to work, and to fight for himself, again. And they hope with all they have that they’re changed - Not too much, not too little, but enough - enough to fight.

[zazzerpants]

An arrow that splits is an arrow unneeded

[zazzerpants]

I wanted to break you, bones cracked, sanity splitting.

I wanted to nurse you, back to health, make you mine.

Set you in your gurney, drag you to your deathbed

Fingerpainting, dirty the walls

Much too simple a word.

Exhale

Deflate

This is where you end

I begin

Suffer

Swallow

Sleep.

[zazzerpants]

A Response to Inertia

Surprisingly, no, this wasn't inspired by 'Mad World'. Inception drabble, Arthur-based. -----

He has always wanted something more in life. He finds it in creaking veins when dying is closest to falling off the edge of a dream. Arthur dies; it’s essential to their situation, and then he comes back, just as infallible and permanent - he thinks it’s pragmatic at best, and trivial in those effortless moments when everything swims, including him. The drop in his stomach and reverb in his ears do not stop coming back. Death does not get easier, and it thrills him enough to scare him, too. With a brain like this, Arthur could have done more. He could have gone farther on his own legs, but he found it, he found it, and it wouldn’t let him go, not this easily. It grabbed him by the lapels, and he’d give his intrepid, reckless, paper-thin and compromised life for it. It’s only in dreams does he live for dying, and he’s dreaming all of the time.

[zazzerpants]

In between two bright keen eyes

Losing yourself in the perfect disguise

Overtly soon, cleanly timed

Vicious heart, troubling mine

Eclipsing stings falter in this sigh

Your counterattack leaves two mouths dry

Occam's razor unsatisfied

Uselessly starstruck and reaching, blind.　

[zazzerpants]

And we write like no one's listening

And we write like no one cares

And it's beautiful and creative and sodding desperate

Goodness me, we're in love.　

[zazzerpants]

O darling, we are always hurting

L.A. NOIRE DRABBLES. Jack Kelso-centric because I cannot control these feelings. Shippy if you squint but maybe kinda sorta not totally unintentionally idk? But whatever. Written for a V.I.P. "Titles" are quotes pulled from famous noir movies.

Five of 'em, count 'em, five.

Let the hurting begin.

I’ll never think of our moments together without nausea. ~ [ Context Notes: Flashback pondering, Jack meets Hank and Cole on the way to OCS. Hank is a friend, Cole is a rival. Cole was nicknamed ‘the Shadow’ for his rumored stealth and precise actions, along with his determination to do things “by the number.” ] - Jack often wondered how different things would have been, had he not gotten on that bus for Camp Elliott. He would not have met many, and seen so many go. His mind goes through a checklist of possible outcomes, categorized by the catalytic element, and by the time it reaches “Hank Merrill” or “Cole Phelps” it stops. It pulls the plug and says no more, because it’s pointless, useless subjunctive, and nothing would have changed because it can’t; it’s already happened. At times Jack wonders if his mind is a separate entity. If Jack said he wished he never got on that bus, he was lying. Imagining what could have happened only made him focus on the lit path, anyway. But if he had known what he knows now? Cole Phelps would not have been more than a shadow. They’re floaters. Not much more than a suitcase full of nothing between them and the gutters. ~ [ Context Notes: 34-year old bachelor. Put his uniform away without trouble. Ensuing solitude. ] - It’s when Jack is lying on his sofa and naming constellations in the popcorn stucco of his living room ceiling that he understands raw quiet. The open area reeks of tobacco, stagnant at the source but wafting through the kitchen. It’s been maybe an hour, maybe fifteen minutes since they cleared the room, an unfinished poker game scattered across the unpolished mahogany tabletop. Everyone has a home to get back to. Maybe Jack forgets that, among his pals, beside his buddies, amidst their camaraderie. Maybe he forgets that his gear is in his footlocker, and all of his collective pedestrian thoughts can be found on the edges of a crinkled grocery list. And suppose he’s forgotten he’s too old to be single and too young to be lonely. Somewhere along the winding line, he’s gone and made a mistake. What I like about you is you’re rock bottom. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack rushes away from Monroe’s goons, headed for Elsa’s apartment to confirm her suspicions and get her to safety. Elsa screams, alarmed to see a battered and bloody Jack at her door; Cole hurries out with his pistol, only to find Jack on the other end. Jack limps into the foyer, quips a tired “So you’re still carrying that army .45, Cole,” then collapses. ] - The orchestrated din and clamor tightening his chest kept warmth in Jack’s hands, telling him to fight. His pursuers were far behind him now but he continued to run - the abandoned sacrificial Fleetline was just as distant. Sprinting to Elsa in his brown oxfords, Jack counted four years between the last time a dangerously right man or woman got his heart running its own marathon, and him taking the stairs to Elsa’s floor two at a time. And when he stumbles past the threshold (Elsa’s white dress fits her wonderfully, but it’s still unfitting, he notes through a loaded heartbeat) Jack has to smile, or give his drained attempt at one. It’s short and smart and he can only name what he sees: Cole, his toy soldier, clinging to that fucking .45, and when Jack closes his eyes he sees the Emperor on his knees. What a child, he thinks, and even the darkness blurs. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack wakes in a clinic bed, upright; the room is brightly lit and white. Elsa is sitting on the window sill in her casual outfit - striped blue pants and a yellow blouse. When she notices Jack is awake, he says, “You look lovely, princess,” and she smiles. ] - Scratchy flannel, muted sunlight, anxious honking, and the faintest wisps of iodine, isopropyl, and an iris perfume. These are some of the things that register in Jack’s hurting head when he comes to. He’s still groggy and pliant when he exhales the fresh truth in his mind and Elsa accepts it with her caged bird grace. Jack knows what she is, and he has to ask himself, how many have looked at her that way, and never saw past the stage? And she’s humbled herself to come here, a far cry from debutante gloves, shimmering dresses, and morphine-addled sighs. Jack wants to love her, but Cole’s still comparing scars. He privately concludes that Elsa is always singing for someone else. And Cole; he’s always trying to hum along. It’s a bitter little world. ~ [ Context Notes: Jack’s returned to his office to review Buchwalter’s case file after Benson hinted to some key clues he was missing. Moments later, a secretary brings Cole to his office. They begin abrasively, but Cole sits down and edges an apology; Jack dilutes it with a heated speech. The two settle what they can of their differences, and plan their moves with professionalism. ] - Cole is in Jack’s office, and Jack can feel the crumbling remains of Phrygia, dusting the case file in his hands. There’s something about the conversation that feels pre-determined; pored over repeatedly before it solidifies, and even then it’s cracking, and they’re retracing steps like they’ve done this before. It’s all too natural, and greater men would feel ashamed. Distance, time, and proximity seem more and more relative, and Jack is losing their meanings; fewer words are lost on Jack, and Cole won’t stop goddamn thinking. The downhill battle moves far too slowly. Neither one is surprised. And Jack slouches, slurring strategy; he sees the pages turning in Cole’s head and Jack numbers the reasons Cole Phelps is here, still here. L.A. will never be big enough.