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neil

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It's easier to stay out of everyone's way than you'd think. You just call in sick as far as the building crew goes, you hunt a lot, you keep to your hut and yell at anyone who comes too close. He's barely even seen Eostre, though at some point he guesses he'll at least have to explain himself to her, if to no one else.

If Hobbes hasn't already told her.

It's early evening, and he has a fire going in the little circle of stones close to the hut, and he's sharpening his knife because it's helping him to not think. Not thinking is pretty much the other thing he does these days. He'd told himself that it wasn't a breakup, that it was a step back to get some distance, to allow himself to think more clearly about the problem, but thinking about the problem is exactly what he's not doing, because part of him is sure--so sure--that if he does think about it he'll have to face the fact that it's a problem without a solution.

He and Eostre work because there's no real demands, and not even that many expectations. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he really can't handle anything more than that. Maybe he was an idiot to ever think that he could, and Hobbes is the collateral damage.

He'd always liked to think he had better aim than that.

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He's close to actually opening his mouth to tell Neil to do just that, when it occurs to him that maybe he's actually sort of... missing people. Missing talking to people. And being left alone right now feels just about as bad as not being left alone at all.

So instead he says, "I think maybe I lost him," and leaves it there. Because there's really not a lot else to say about it.

It doesn't take me long to puzzle through that one. After the words come, it seems so fucking obvious. I get this flash of Hobbes at the waterfall, asking him if everything was okay between the two of them, and that nervous look on his face I thought I'd imagined.

"But you..." But they what? They were fucked, just like everybody else. I can't quite explain the sudden ache in my chest. It makes no sense at all. He's right, it's none of my fucking business.

"Please don't tell anybody," he says, staring down at the knife. He remembers Neil's face when he'd been talking about all the sympathy, the worried looks and the assurances that everything would be fine, and he doesn't want that. It's not the same thing, not even close, but he remembers looking out from behind a mask of skin grafts and pain at a cheerful nurse chattering about something, and wanting to grab her by the throat and slam her into a fucking wall.

It's better if no one knows. At least for now.

"I won't," I answer, the words coming quiet but without any hesitation at all, promising before I can even think why. I didn't get that luxury, spilling my guts to every fucking asshole who'd listen, only hours after I left our hut -- our home. Then, after that, there was no reason to keep the secret. Everybody on the whole fucking island seemed to know within a few days.

It sucked. It really fucking sucked, in a situation that was pretty fucking shitty all on it's own.

"When?"

"When do you think?" he snaps, and then realizes that hey, he'd mostly missed the truth thing first time around, maybe Neil did this time.

"Few days ago. He couldn't lie to me. Fucking Island did it." He smiles wanly. "Guess it was a little more honesty than either of us could handle." Which says... it says a lot about both of them, but he's wondering if it says a lot about relationships. If all that honesty and communication stuff is really bullshit. If the only way to be happy with someone else is to lie to them.

He's not sure he thinks it's worth that.

"Shit." Of course. I saw him that day. He was worried, said it'd be a fucking disaster if he ran into Mike, and I laughed. I made a joke out of it. Shit.

"Guess that's gettin' to be a pattern 'round here." Whoever said honesty was the best policy can kiss my fucking ass.

"I guess," he echoes, staring down again. It feels so strange to actually talk about it. Makes it real in a way it hasn't been yet.

"We just... we've been through so fucking much together. And now this. I don't even know what the fuck happened." He reaches up, grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Everything went to shit all at once."

It sounds too fucking familiar, but Logan and me probably didn't go through half what they did. And as for it all going to shit at once...

"Have you talked to him? Since that day?"

He shakes his head, dropping his hands again. "What the fuck would I say? Talking's what got us here in the first place." Most of him actually believes that. The rest of him suspects that it might be at least partly bullshit. Too late now.

He sighs, pushing through a sudden tightness in his throat. "This sounds so fucking pathetic, but maybe he's better off." He'd always suspected that. Maybe this is just proof.

"You're right," I say, turning to look at him, blank-faced and calm... but that fragile sorta calm that's right on the edge of being something else, "It's really fuckin' pathetic."

"He's not better off without you. He loves you, man, and you're --" It's not what he wants to hear, but it sounds too fucking familiar, and all the sudden it's all I can do not to punch him in the fucking face.

"And I'm what?" Suddenly he's close to angry again, a bizarre mixture of defensive and self-deprecating, because he knows it's true, he didn't do a lot of things right, but that could be all the more reason to cut it off now before anyone else gets hurt any worse.

"I can't open up and he can't trust me, and don't you try to feed me any bullshit about love, because love is not enough."

"You're an idiot," I snap. It wasn't what I was gonna say -- I don't even know what I was gonna say, but it's as close to the truth as I can manage right now.

"If it's not, then what is?" There's something like desperation in my voice, like I think he can actually answer that question. Never take relationship advice from Mike Pinocchio, he's fucked. But I need to know, and no one seems to be able to tell me.

And that, he actually wouldn't argue with. He shakes his head again and then it's like he deflates, all the anger gone and not much left. He's not even sure he remembers what it felt to not be tired like this, all the fucking time.

"I dunno," he says flatly. "Maybe nothing is."

I don't even know where I keep finding hope to cling to, but it's getting harder and harder. My face collapses and I look away, arms wrapped tight around my knees, holding myself together. It's selfish, what I'm feeling now, but I can't help it. It's been a month now, and I still can't get a handle on it.

Everybody's fucked.

"Maybe."

God, every time he opens his mouth. He looks at Neil's face, really gets past his own self-absorption and looks, and what he sees is almost enough to break his heart all over again.

He somehow hadn't realized that someone not even directly involved in this could be hurt by it.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Should've just told you to fuck off."

Shaking my head, I turn to look at him again, lips pressed in a pained smile.

"It'll be okay. You told me that, remember? Same goes for you."

"That's bullshit," he says, returning the smile. It almost hurts his mouth. "You knew it was bullshit when I told you." But he hadn't. Then, part of him had really believed that maybe things do end up okay, despite all evidence to the contrary, or at the very least that people learn to live with their scars.

He'd never learned. He'd just run. And he's been running ever since.

"Yeah, I guess I did," I admit quietly, the smile dropping off my face. Maybe I did, deep down, but I was still holding out hope. I wanted to believe him. Even if it was bullshit, it meant something, him saying it at all. 'Cause it sounded like he meant it.

His smile twists even more, into something close to a grimace, and he's reaching out and touching Neil's arm before he really knows it. "Don't look like that," he says. "God, don't make me feel like shit for the second time in a week."

"'s not you," I murmur, scrubbing a hand over my face and breathing out a sigh. My fingertips brush the back of his hand, just a brief, fluttering touch before they fall away and drop to my lap.

"'m sorry. I know it means fuck all, but I'm sorry."

"It does mean something." He breathes out a tight little laugh, eyes on Neil's hands. "Just to be able to tel someone. I mean, Jesus, I been carrying this around for fucking days now."

He closes his eyes in something like shame. "Not even Eostre knows. Unless Tom's told her." And she's not stupid. She must know by now that something's up.

"Lucky I stopped by, then," I murmur, lips pressed in a faint curve of a smile, something self-deprecating in my voice. I'm not good at this shit, I never was. But maybe that's the point. It's a surprise though, that Cutter doesn't know. I don't know how their friendship works, but I sorta assumed he'd be the one to tell over me.

Guess I'm supposed to be the neutral option. Whatever.

"Start tellin' people, guess it makes it more real." I lift my hand, hesitate, finally rest it cautiously on his shoulder. He's not the warm, fuzzy type. There's no fixing shit with a hug. It feels awkward, and apart from maybe a punch to the shoulder or two, I'm hard pressed to remember another time I touched him. But, I do it anyway.

Edited 2008-06-02 01:53 (UTC)

"I don't need it to be any more fucking real," he whispers, his face stretched into a wince. The touch almost makes him jump, and he realizes that it's been days... since that day at the waterfall, in fact, since anyone's really touched him at all.

It's strange how you can get to miss something like that. Just... contact. He's come a long way with being comfortable touching and being touched, here, but he's still a little surprised to realize that he doesn't actually want Neil to remove his hand.

He winces, and there's so much pain in it, I swear I can feel it. Hollow ache settling in my chest. Feels almost normal now, that feeling's made its home there.

"If I say it'll get better, you gonna hit me?" I ask, going for a tease but falling flat. I'm off my game, the smirks don't come as easy as they usually do. I don't move my hand. No soothing circles rubbed into tense muscles. No comforting pat. It just rests there, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath.

"Not sure I have it in me," he says, and he's only sort of kidding. A battalion of Guard could come charging out of the trees at him and he's not sure he'd do much more than sit here and wait.

He looks up again, meeting Neil's gaze, and he's not sure if it's comforting or just so much worse, the level of understanding he sees there. God, this is the worst kind of thing to have in common with someone.

"How the fuck do you do it? How do you... fucking get up in the morning?"