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@thom-freeman
lourdes-aradia:
Right.
[It was like being back home, or at least, it was like being somewhere she had been before. Thom was still the same.]
[It feels familiar to fight with her, too comfortable to just want to change it by kissing her. But he can't fall back into that, fall back into her. She'd leave again and it wasn't as if he'd do it right the second time around anyway.]
I'm sorry. I just don't... you don't need to apologise.
lourdes-aradia:
It doesn’t mean much now does it? [Because she’s nothing but dust and a soul, and he still had years to live- if she could help it.]
Lou, I don't wanna talk about it. It means enough, that's not what I mean. You just... it's fine. You don't need to say sorry.
lourdes-aradia:
[It’s the half smile that breaks her, because when she was alive she thought she wouldn’t see it again, only in memories and the fleeting moments within the darkness. In fact, it was his voice that brought her back. She thought it was brief insanity within the afterlife, but it brought her eyes open and she had found herself amongst the clutter of the Linden Basement. His voice echoing across the walls, swears, banging against her prison.]
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… For me. Is it possible to say sorry without asking for an acceptance? Because that’s what I’m doing. I don’t expect one… Ever.
Don't. It's fine. [Because if they don't do it, he doesn't have to face it. He doesn't have to listen, he doesn't have to pretend that everything is okay and that he's okay. He'd rather pretend it never happened.]
lourdes-aradia:
[Lou has to stop herself from laughing, from pouring out some sort of hysterical remark that would likely reveal her true disposition. Was she staying? Yes. But not in the sense that either of them wanted]
Thom. [The name feels heavy in her mouth, like tar, or molasses, too sweet and filled with unexpressed desires and concerns. Though she stops before she can say anything more. Trying out the technique he so readily used against her.]
Thank you. [Because she doesn’t deserve his kindness. Even if it was forced.]
[Thom shakes his head because despite that he doesn't know what she's thanking him for, he doesn't think he's done anything deserving of it so far. That and, she could be thanking him for the past, only coming here for a few days just to say she's found herself a cure, she's successful somewhere, and she's thanking him for whatever experience he gave. That'd be worse than her saying she's back here because she loves him.
Either one means he's gonna powder his nose in a few minutes by excusing himself to use the bathroom a minute. Despite that he shakes his head, he wants to get the "thank you"s over with so he attempts a smile and says,] Yeah, sure.
lourdes-aradia:
It’s probably better than me showing up here…[and finding no one. But maybe that would have been better. Maybe Lou could have sat by herself in the snow. She could have walked the halls in silence, visiting each room like a true haunting. Even now, watching as he sat- uncomfortable in all regards. She didn’t really know what to do.] and you being gone. I don’t know.
[It feels weird to say, was she dragged back to the house due to the door? Or due to Thom? Both were unfinished business, both were static, unchanging.]
I feel like I owe this place [you] something.
[He doesn't want to talk about it the same way that he never wants to talk about it, never wants to talk about anything. And he feels bad for it, but he redirects the conversation. He doesn't want emotions pouring out, even if there was any time to do it it would be now.]
Uh. Are you staying? I think there's a room open. No one's seen Rhodes around, though. You kind of just have to... y'know, fill out paperwork or something, from what I've been told. Talk to, uh, the realtor he's hired. Maybe.
lourdes-aradia:
[This was the moment she hadn’t thought of yet, because it was packed with far more questions than Lou could answer. Why was she still here. But it wasn’t something to address now. Not so blatantly in front of him. The old couch was a remnant of the past, a reminder of where Ben had spent the majority of the evenings, and she eventually had crept around him. Friends at some point, they had deteriorated like a seam ripping at both ends.
But they had all left by now, and it was eerie how Thom had stayed, he wasn’t trapped here like she was.]
I…I could as you the same thing [It’s an answer for an answer. A question for a question. The usual game they had played for her lifetime with him. Now, even in the afterlife, it felt necessary.]
I’m not really sure. I just had to come here. I had to see this place again. [She figured it was close to the truth, close enough that when she did finally tell him he would understand.] You just… happened to still be here.
Yeah, I haven't moved. [And he knows why, but he can't tell her. He can't bother to tell her that like a ghost, there's something he can't move on from. He can't leave the only place where he was ever on to something, can't leave the place where he met the people that have mattered the most in his life so far. And he knows that that leaves him with staying here, which is pathetic, snorting coke until he ODs one day, but it doesn't matter. Because if not here, then somewhere else.] Moving's just a hassle. [Always caught up in himself without being caught up in himself. Always selfish, but never can he talk to anyone about it, all these self-inflicted wounds.]
lourdes-aradia:
[Thomas’ reluctance is apparent, and it comes as no surprise to Lou as she hurries in after him, if she were alive, there would be some relief in leaving the cold winters night, but walking down the hallway slowly, waiting for Thom to gain his nerve to talk, there is none.
Her footsteps somehow feel hollow against the floorboards, like they rattled back her true nature. But she was solid as she had ever been when alive, more so even. For she could hold things without shaking, and dizzy spells and tight chests were things of the past.
Yet looking at Thom she felt as if she could crumble, his eyes downcast ready to reject her once again. Lourdes would give anything to take back all the things she said to him, or perhaps he had long forgotten her, and she was merely trugging up old memories for the sake of her lost soul.]
[Thom couldn't take her to his own room. It's a mess, but worse, there's a small mirror with white powder on it, a rolled up dollar that's been taped shut because of how often he uses it, and an old library card amongst all the rubble. Since Cormac left the room, he no longer had to care. He simply locked the bedroom door when he left.
So he leads her to the living room where the couch was inhabited by Ben for the longest time, and he never very much went down there. He and Ben hadn't gotten along, despite how he tried. He sits on the couch, closer to the end than the middle, then looks at her, letting out a long breath as his fingers come up and run through his hair.] So, uh... What're you doing here?
lourdes-aradia:
[She wants to take his hand and guide him into the house, let him sleep off the shock or fear and disbelief. Lourdes watches as the stub falls, burning into the snow until it’s extinguished, leaving just a small hole where it had melted it’s surroundings. Instinctively Lou moves, to follow, slowly at first, as trying not to frighten the stunned deer. The words on the tip of her tongue are: Of course I did. Though she doesn’t deserve to say them. Because why would she? Lou should have done it sooner, shouldn’t have taken so much soul searching across USA, down the Mexico. She’d died peacefully- or at least she hoped she did. Because she can’t remember the days prior t all that well anymore. But she can remember how to press her body against Thom’s in order to help him stand. It’s a struggle not to do so now.] I did. [It’s more reassurance, because he still doesn’t look like he quite believes himself.] Do… Do you want to go inside? I mean. Can I come inside?
[Thom's fingers are shaking and he wants to tell her yes, wants to tell her that he loves her just as much as he did when she left and he'd given up waiting for her to come back, assuming that she died as some point (and he wants to say that there was a day he felt like she did, where he was certain, mostly because of the drugs). But he feels like he can't. He feels like, as is his nature, he has to push her. Maybe it's for him, for once. Maybe it's because he can't go through that again.
But if she came all this way, he can't leave her out in the freezing cold, deny her a home that she once had.]
Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure. [He pushes the door open behind him and enters in it, holding it open for her. He's teetering between telling her everything and not saying another word.]
lourdes-aradia:
[Her smile fades almost as quickly he says her name, because it’s all wrong, all screwed up and wonky, like he had worn out saying it in his sleep, when she spent all her time away. Immediately she halts, bringing fingers up to her face to brush the strands from her vision. Thom looks worn out too, like he needs a warm bath and soup, and for once maybe she can take care of him, the way he wouldn’t let her when she was alive. But she can’t tell him that part yet, because he’s already looking at her like she’s a ghost.] Yeah. Yeah it’s me. [It’s strange to see him not angry. Not silently taking all the spiteful words she had said before she left the house the last time they spoke. They ring about her head in a rage so thick and heavy it makes he queasy.] I… This is weird isn’t it? I… I was in the neighbourhood and I thought… I thought I’d just see… But you’re…. here.[ The words are so contrived and false, because she’d been stuck there, she’d been dragged back by that fucking door and the sound of Thom when he swore at night. She wants so badly just to hold him, to brush the cigarette from his lips and take it into hers because it couldn’t hurt her body anymore.]
[Thom just stares despite her slew of words between space and pauses. He just stares. Because he's not sure why he never expected to see her back, but it doesn't make sense that she doesn't look like she's dying. Maybe she found a way to cure herself. Maybe she figured it out while he couldn't. He'd just chalk it up to the failure word he'd been tossing around when he was alone. And he doesn't speak or move until the cigarette burns through so short that his fingertips feel like they're catching fire and he looks down at the cigarette now in t he snow. And then he stands, slowly and careful to grab the railing (because the high always kicks in when you stand).
And then he stares a little more. He wonders if it's just a hallucination, if he's just finally fucking lost it.]
You came back.
lourdes-aradia:
[She’s been biding her time, trying to find the right excuse that might make an appearance warranted. But it’s harder than she thought, after a lifetime, and then another, spending her existence in the dark had become somewhat mundane. So when she fathoms just a few meters away from sight,the girl isn’t sure if she’s supposed to be surprised, or delighted, but walking up the drive to the old house, lights still blaring out the windows into the darkness. Like a beacon she supposed would guide her home. She could feel her non-beating heart caught in her throat, and the wind, if she let it, could easily pass through her.
Nearing the steps she stopped, making out the familiar occupant who she wished moved on like all the others. Thomas was stuck in static like Lou, but in so many different ways to the blonde.]
Careful, you might catch a cold out here.
[It wasn't like he didn't imagine her once in a while, but it was towards the beginning, before Hamish came about, and then before he pushed Hamish away. He would catch a glimpse every now and then out of the corner of his eye and then when he looked again, she was gone. But she never spoke, never smiled, never looked healthy like she does now.
But this had to be a dream or he was higher than he thought. And either way, his brain was playing a sick joke on him. So he just stares, just stares and blinks hard, waiting for the hallucination of her to be gone. He can't do this again. He can't be around her and then most likely just watch her die. He tried as hard as he could with ever spell and herb infusion that he could think of.]
[When she doesn't disappear, his tongue his the roof of his mouth as slow as it ever has.] Lou?
[Everyone was gone now. There wasn't a person left. Meg visited, but she moved on with her life. Cormac and Ben were off on some soul search, "killing all the bad guys," Cormac had told him just before he left.
And Thom was still here. Everyone would come to some reunion and they'd say, "Oh, remember when we used to live here?" And then they'd get to Thom's room and he'd be up there, snorting blow and pretending he didn't exist out side of having to serve drinks at the same strip club he'd worked at since the beginning of the Linden house. He'd done nothing but powder his gums at work and ring in lines so hard at home that his nose bled onto his sheets and he hadn't bothered to clean them.
Tenants came and went and for the first few new ones, he'd always ask where Rhodes was and when they'd last seen Rhodes, but he was nowhere to be found and nowhere traceable. The door hadn't been opened since and after the first two months, Thom stopped caring. He stopped trying to yank the handle and started ignoring the paranormal phenomenon. The ghosts gave up after a little while, tired of slinging beer bottles at the walls, done with being angry.
And so was Thom. Now was just him, the cigarette he's currently enjoying on the porch in the freezing cold, and his coke, waiting for him upstairs in divvied lines.]
Run by Daughter
While I powder my nose, He will powder his gums, And if I try to get close, He is already gone, Don't know where he's going, I don't know where he's been. But he is restless at night, Cause he has horrible dreams.
hamish-north:
[Hamish takes a teasing moment just to linger away from him, grin still plasted against his lips, like he even needs to contemplate his response to that. Before moving he steals another half kiss, breathing in the scent, it was more in haste to undress than anything. He looks down between them to unbutton his jeans, head moving back up to catch the man’s lips, he wants to distract Thom. He doesn’t want him to watch how nervous he was. How scared of his own flesh he felt. So he pulls Thom closer again, hands palming over the others pants, as he struggled to slink out of his own jeans. Soon enough they were off and cast aside, lips returning to the others, bare legs hooking at Thom so he could press himself again him properly. Hopefully he would forget about the shirt.]
[It's a strange order to get someone's clothes off, but Thom doesn't care. He focuses more on Hamish's hand and how his fingers have found their way down to his boxers. He pulls back from the kiss at that moment to stop himself from making any noises. Instead, he focuses on Hamish's shirt and he brings his hand up it, quickly so Hamish can't object because he knows he will. And it doesn't take him long to realise what he was hiding. He can feel the bumps, scars from when Hamish was alive. He can guess what they're from. Thom had his own form of self-mutilation. But he doesn't make a note of it, only allows his fingers to brush over his chest and stomach as he hovers his lips over the other's.]
hamish-north:
[Hamish likes the force, the way his body almost cracks underneath it. Hands lingering at first, unsure of where to go, or what part of the man to touch; hair, neck, chest. But he settles on pulling the man closer at the hips, hands sliding over the man’s body. With Thom there was always urgency, but never a cause, never a means, what did he want from him? What could he give? But just the simple action of kissing, bodies intertwining left Hamish unable to keep a train of thought longer than ‘No fangs’. Words he kept repeating to himself. But he has to pull back and let the other breathe. Let the human breathe. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to suck all the air out and breathe in everything that’s left, like taking up water.
Breaking to contact, he removes his lips from the others, and instead he presses them against Thom’s throat, just soft light kisses, drawing him back in. All the while grinning at the sound of Thom’s mangled gasp. ]
[Thom lets the feeling of Hamish's lips surge through him, a tingle at his neck that makes him pull back and connect his lips to Hamish's again, but teasing. They teeter between light kisses, quick, deep kisses, and soft and slow ones. One for every emotion: vulnerability, lust, and the ever-misinformed ego. Het gets a word in before he breathes out when he pulls back again.] Hamish, you're wearing too many clothes.
hamish-north:
[The abrupt stop to the sentence makes Hamish linger for a moment. He’s missing his chance and he knows it. Hamish realises he can probably get away with the shirt still on now, so he moves forward, his mind trying to catch up with the speed his body could exert just to get from point A, to B. Slipping his feet under the covers, and carefully positioning his body inches from Thom’s, recovering both their bodies with the blanket. Impulsively inclining his head to catch the others lips just as he settled beside him. ]
Nah. No. I want to. I want you. [Hamish says it because he can’t not. He wanted to come back. Wanted to know what it felt like to have Thom so close he could easily crush him the slightest movement. Hamish wanted all of Thom. Even when he was angry at him. He didn’t mind. Hamish wasn’t worth Thom’s time. He should be grateful for any attention.]
[Thom wants to utter out words like "I want you, too" or "I know" or maybe even some variation of that he's happy and he likes kissing Hamish and he likes how his fingers can just slip through the curls of the other man's hand. But he doesn't. He just kisses him. He just moulds into him, feeling a little but more now like he should have put a shirt on, but just not caring enough to do much other than reach up and grip the collar of Hamish's. He deepens the kiss, forcing them together like if he kisses Hamish hard enough, all of his emotion will pour out of him and into some other vessel. If he kisses him hard enough, Hamish will understand why he's been so cold. He challenges it now, kissing him harder and harder until he knows their mouths will explode and the breath he has to pull back to take soon will be too much like a gasp.]
hamish-north:
[If colour could drain from his face it would. Immediately the dread begins to set in, it’s intoxicating, more so than any other sensation, and Hamish is almost knocked down by it. He had thought it had gone with his humanity, with his ability to recognise, and then consider, the way Thom smiled at him. But the doubt was there with vengeance and already Hamish pulls on the edges of his shirt, anxiously looking over towards the empty space besides Thom. It’s inviting, the way his skin seems to almost pulse, and it causes his insides to set into panic. Hamish want’s nothing more than to hop in beside him, and press his lips to the mans flesh. But he can’t show him. Can’t let Thom see all of himself, it feels like he’s being dishonest, because he knows if Thom could see all the scars, and flesh, and the way his stomach and chest weren’t smooth like his, that instead they were like crashing waves, scars upon disfigured skin, and stab wounds, cuts so deep he thought he had found death between them. Because why wouldn’t he be rejected for being ugly. People were rejected for a lot less. All Hamish could be was ugly. Even in this state.] I… Uh. I’m cold.
[He's cold so he can't get under the covers? Thom looks away from him, his own face falling when Hamish's does, but he doesn't press it. He likes Hamish a lot and he's trying to let himself be okay with it, but the comfortability feels forced, like even if he tried to walk on eggshells for Hamish, he'd stab his feet. And Hamish would care, it seems. He'd help pick the pieces out and prevent infection with his feelings, but in the fantasy the eggshell white turns into a powder and Thom's the cause. But Hamish will blame himself.]
You don't have to. But I... [What? "Want you" isn't a way to finish that sentence. He leaves it open-ended, instead, shrugging it off.]
