“ i really want to ask what’s going on in your head right now, but I’m afraid i won’t like the answer. ” somehow kethren found himself staring the other down with a tipped head and someone's guts half dried across his jawline... but what was new, right? another day in paradise. / @wrothling
"Viscera," he answered, and the grin in his voice was clear, even as he stared outwardly from behind a mask warped into a mockery of agony. When he spoke again, it was in a less ominous tone that suggested horrors, "Among other things."
McDonald's Big Macs, for instance, which liked to sneak into his consciousness like an unwelcome rat. ( He craved one the way a shark craves blood. ) Or the knife in his pocket that needed polishing. Or the camera in another pocket which needed photos developed. Thought forms big and small, of little significance. Yet some that bordered on madness. These ones billowed about like a harem of locusts.
"You ever wonder what it would be like to kill a God?" he asked with sincerity. Did his mask look almost doleful? A mere trick of the light, surely. Vinyl was incapable of movement. "I don't think anyone could survive that."
@wrothling : “ if i ever raise a hand to you, to him... to her? put me down like the dog i am. don't give me the chance. ”
kethren @ thomas. ( & @johnnysslaughter for johnny <3 )
lil' commentary: was thinking back to how legitimately, it'd take either johnny or thomas to wrangle kethren having an episode or being blacked out as the hexenwolf. and how kethren would've told thomas [ mostly in dbdv, but also for tcmv potentially ] to kill him if he ever went for him, johnny, maria — to not blink. to take him out. to free him of the potential guilt or destruction. me actually on the ground because fuck —
memory had long found itself nestled into the finer cracks hidden within the walls and wood and very foundation of the hewitt home. tiny little things that settled atop kitchen cabinets where no one has peered over edge to take a glance at in a decade. or longer. memories cozying up to one another between the breaks in the floorboards underfoot — stepped over again and again, compacted deeper under layers of dirt and grime and spilled tea and beer no one had it in them to dig back out. memory lingered across the home as layers of dust and dirt, ghastly grey and fuzzed, speckled in browned droplets that once ran red. the hewitt home had its own history — of a bough of the family tree cut from the trunk and left to rot on its own — of the quiet, muffled, distant wails of throats no longer intact and breathing screamed out from down, down, deep in the depths of the basement, the tunnels, below the property.
the hewitt boy could never really recite if asked about the number of necks that their home has seen severed from torso. or the pounds of meat and organ — still warm. still fresh. — that have passed across the butchers' block below the kitchen. couldn't place names to faces, or explain which poor saps' eye stares back at guest from the jars upon the shelves in his workspace below.
wasn't like johnny that way. the attention to detail; the memories that filed themselves away carefully, neatly, to be recalled on a whim.
thomas wouldn't think himself as smart as his cousin.
his younger brother.
not by a long shot.
no — what memories passed by along thomas' peripherals rarely reminded him of the bloodstains that made themselves home in the ridges of fingertips across his calloused hands. the man was no stranger to the flashes of those who once treated him cruelly lingering at the corners of the eye, or in the dead of night, tossing and turning by feverish dreams that taunted as bad as the children in school once did, or the reminders of his father stuffing him into the closet beneath the staircase and locking him in the dark for hours, or charlie when he looked a little too much like dad in the way his face twisted in the same rage and disgust looking at thomas — no. as bad as those memories were, paled in comparison to the absence, the quiet, that filled the home now. paled, miserably, at smudging out the ghosts that still lingered under its roof.
loomed in kitchen doorway, thomas was. head low and silent. eyes refusing to stray too far closely, settle too far long, at the companion across the kitchen, stopped just beside the furthest end of the dining table.
don't worry, tommy. i trust him.
johnnys' reassurance, when he'd first brought the other this far out from the sawyer half of the property. and the man across the kitchen now still met, something like weeks, maybe months? later — uncertainty, in spite of the hollow nod of understanding thomas had given johnny that day.
eyes raised slightly, past sweat-thinned hair that rarely found itself anywhere else but stuck to brow, at kethren, as he listened. as jaw tightened at its hinge.
i trust him— johnny had said.
and yet here the strange, shorter man stood — just beside his ma's chair, at the end of the table. hand resting atop the crest rail, just behind where she would have been, had she been dragged into this place with them . . .
... tick ... tock ...
the silence after kethrens' voice was left to linger in the musty, half-molded air between the two of them. interrupted only by the old clock on the wall clacking quietly away; inner gearwork threatening to jerk the minute-hand forward again. and again. seconds-hand lazily crawling itself in its slow spiral around the clockface ... tick ... tock ... interrupted by the shifting, the settling of floorboard beneath their feet, above their heads ... tick ... tock ... the muffled echoes of voices, trailing in from the side door out into luda maes' old garden just outside — johnnys' voice, further out. his drawl carrying itself as if he were about to venture back inside any second. marias', softer, lighter, a humming carried in by the wind passing the house by.
the wooden boards groaned under shifted weight. passed through the doorframe from entryway into kitchen. quiet, otherwise, in his movements, thomas' eyes peeled over to the side door, at the voices trailing inside, before they flick back to kethren — fixated. not just on him. but on the last words spoken. allowed the quiet to stretch a moment longer. both for the discomfort that followed them — but also, to allow time to digest ... tick ... tock ... digestion for his own mind to sift through the layers, through the weight, hidden between the lines. register what it was kethren was referring to — and, what was being asked of him.
if i ever raise a hand to you, to him... to her?
put me down like the dog i am. don't give me the chance.
—for threat to finally click itself into place.
the threat that an unrestrained kethren posed to what remained of his family here, in this strange place — just himself, and johnny ... and maria.
trust.
nose crinkled at the word replaying in the back of his head. stare lingered on the companion. at the strange bits of metal littered through skin. at the ink etched permanently up and down his arms. at the way his hair splayed out like it did across his head; unlike the slickback of johnnys', or the receeding patches of draytons — kethren was strange, to him. inside and out.
yet, the strangeness in front of him, beside his ma's chair, was trustworthy. to johnny — to maria. else he wouldn't have been allowed to roam inside the fences of their homes, no?
thomas' pauses, once footfalls settled in the space between luda mae's chair, and the one to its left. kethren likely didn't know — the man now within arms reach from thomas, with strange hair and an even stranger way of speaking, accent unfamiliar to his ears — that the chair, carefully tucked in its place under the table, was his ma's sitting place in those early mornings. before the golds and pinks and blues of dawn began to warm the tattered, dinged curtains still pulled closed across kitchen windows; to her with her delicate, twice-chipped cup of tea in front of her, spectacles drawn low across the bridge of nose as eyes scanned across newspapers several weeks old, or, some stray book passed along the family tree.
blue-hazels tracked slow, back to meet kethrens'. away from the hollow figment that was his mother; her ghost sitting in that chair in his eyes. something of a taunt by the entity, now that he thinks about it ... brows lowered, darkening the glare — no anger to be found, looking back at kethren. it was heartbeats longer, before thomas' voice finally broke the quiet. muffled behind the half-mask ever-present, ever-shielding the lower half of his jaw, mouth, nose. words came out slow. careful.
man of very few words, normally. but for today? for the trust johnny, maria, seem to have placed in the person in front of him?—
a tilt of his head downward, to the side, chin motioning down at kethrens' hand, against the back of the chair. " ... ma would be sat there. every mornin'. bright 'n early. with tea. always. " eyes didn't stray this time. held the stare. watching him, as one does unfamiliar animal. " always said good mornin'. always smiled. " a hand moves from his side, stops with pointed finger just above the messily-sewn edge of the mask, just below his right eye, " with her eyes. too. not just mouth. " hand moves again, arm stretching out across the tabletop, directing itself to the side kitchen door that trailed out into the little side garden his ma used to keep up, back home — of gardenbeds full of what vegetables the family could keep up with — where, out of sight, out of earshot, maria was tending to still, just outside.
" like her. " voices remains quiet behind the mask. " johnny? my brother. more than my own was. "
johnny was blood even without their combined blood vessels having a single lick of similarity pumping through them. the closest person thomas could, would, consider as a brother every which way the word could be dissected and laid out across a butchers' slab between the two of them.
" helped us, even when it made his ma mad. even when his wanted more, and more from him. even when the sawyers' needed him more. needed more food. needed his strength. always made time, to check on my ma. on us. " hand points, again, in the direction of the side door. " her? miss maria? kind girl. sweet. ma liked her. alot. miss maria was gentle with us, with ma. helped her whenever johnny brought her home, cleaned, helped bake, helped in the garden ... " thomas remembered how fond luda mae was of the girl johnny brought over. saw the ghosts of them too some days, sitting in the livingroom. his ma rocking in her chair, maria with legs curled up underneath her in the loveseat across from it. both sewing, together. talking. she'd lamented to him, after a few of maria and johnnys' visits, that she'd hoped he'd stick with her. a daughter that the good lord hadn't wanted to grace her with, before. he seemed happy with her—
footfalls stop, until the dirt and grime and sweat off him was a wall wafting around the head of the table — beside luda mae's chair ... as close as he could get without knocking kethren flat on his ass— " don't care if you raise a hand to me. if you can choose who to swing at? you look for me. always. " hand trails away from the door, and finds the curve of kethrens' collarbone and digs itself just below it. point driven in. " you come find me. "
warning. but,
also, underlying the words — a silent plea. " for them? i'd keep you down until whatever the thing that plagues you passes. if it does not pass unless you find somethin' to bite on? then you bite on me. not them. never them. "
fingertip removes the pressure against collarbone and, instead, hesitantly, thomas' hand rests itself down against kethrens' shoulder. an attempt under its weight at reassurance, maybe.
" —if neither one works? i rip off your jaw. pull the spine out of your back. " a promise.
another pause, another tilt of his head, " ... johnny trusts you. and miss maria trusts you, too. i, too, will trust you. for them. " with that said, the weight of hand atop shoulder slides off and falls back to side as thomas steps way from kethren, past and over to the side door. just enough to peer outside a moment, eyes squinting from the sunlight out at maria pushing herself up, stretching her arms above her head. at johnny, further away from the house now.
" ... and— " averts his eyes from the harsh light, " ... dogs are good. even when they're cornered. scared. bitin' the air when you get too close ... they're good ... don't like puttin' them down. so, try not to make me do that to you. "
