forthedog | There's a point to all this dreaming

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

There's a point to all this dreaming

The metal clangs under his feet--he realizes after a few seconds of it that the floor isn't solid, it's grated, and under it there are hundreds of massive, turning gears.

They're standing over a giant meat grinder.

The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--

He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.

Quiet.

The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.

It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.

Fuck this.

He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He looks more closely at the plates as he takes the syrup from Neil and turns to set it on the kitchen table--they do, he supposes, from the vague flashes he can remember. Memories of the bar are full of odd little scraps of detail. The shine of the wood grain. The hum of a crowd of regulars. Sitting on the deck and smelling afternoon rain.

Fucking Neil in the kitchen, flour and palm oil on his hands. He grits his teeth.

"Be nice to have a place like that here. Have something to fucking do.

"Go ahead, man. Those are gonna get cold," I say to him, watching the pan on the stove so I don't have to look at him.

All I want is to fucking kiss him. It's stupid, but it's true. The fact that I can't seem to do that is driving me fucking crazy.

"Yeah, it would be. Wouldn't be the same, though. Maybe I'll just... do somethin' different. I dunno."

He glances back at Neil again, shrugs and finds forks and knives in one of the drawers, pulls out a chair and sinks down into it. In this close proximity to food, his stomach twists and he realizes just how fucking hungry he is.

When did he last even eat much of anything good? He's not sure. For the last few weeks eating has been just another thing he does to keep moving.

"Nothing's the same. Doesn't mean you couldn't still do it." Look at us.

"Yeah, but... I dunno. I kinda want to do somethin' different," I admit, my back to him but acutely aware of every single move he makes.

"Just don't got a fuckin' clue what."

"Tell you one thing you need to do," he says around a mouthful of pancakes. And then he has to pause and close his eyes, because... Jesus. It's not the best meal he's ever had, but it's real food, and fresh and hot--and it's fucking pathetic, but he can't pretend that its source makes no difference.

"You need to start fighting."

"The fuck are you talkin' 'bout?" I laugh, flipping the next batch over and glancing over my shoulder at him with a grin, forgetting for a moment how fucking hard it is just to look at him.

"You're good with the gun," he says. He's not grinning. It's harder saying this than he'd expected it to be. "But you could be better. And I'd feel better if I knew you could do some damage without it."

He sets the fork down and picks up his coffee again, looking at Neil over the rim of the mug. "This time won't be the last time shit goes to hell around here."

"So, what? Are you gonna teach me?" I ask, my grin falling but only by a fraction. Regardless, I'm not sure I'd turn it down. He's probably right, anyway.

This place isn't safe. I'm not sure the island was, either, we were just better at saying in denial.

"If you'll let me." He sets the mug down again and swipes a hand down his face, not quite looking at Neil anymore.

"It's not just this place. It's me. If I... look, I got no fucking idea why I'd come after you again. But if I ever did, for any stupid fucking reason, I want you to be able to put me down hard enough that I stay down."

"If you're the one teaching me, doesn't that kinda defeat the purpose?" I say, and it's all more than enough to knock the grin off my face.

Stacking the rest of the pancakes on my plate, I turn off the stove and head to the table, putting it down in front of the chair next to his. Standing over him, I only hesitate for a moment before pushing my hand through his hair, half expecting it to be unwanted but not really giving a damn.

"No," he says, his voice catching as Neil touches him. His eyes slip closed and he forces himself to not pull away, feeling both edges of it--the wanting and the danger inherent in the wanting, the side of him that still bristles with violence.

Love is violent. Maybe he understands that better now than he ever did.

He forces his eyes open again. "Can't think of anyone better, actually."

"Any excuse to touch me, huh?" I say with a cough of laughter. Touch me, for reasons other than what we both want.

"Fine, whatever."

I still haven't pulled away. It's like playing chicken with an oncoming train.

"I don't need an excuse," he murmurs, reaches up and curls his fingers around Neil's wrist. That's not what I need. Suddenly everything feels more dangerous. Suddenly the air in the room practically fucking crackles.

He doesn't remember things between them ever being this volatile. Then again, they'd pretty much always had an outlet.

He tugs Neil's hand gently away from him. "Neil. Your food's getting cold."

"I don't fuckin' care, Mike," I breathe, frustration finally seeping into my voice.

I know I should just leave it be. I should stop pushing, but this tiptoeing around each other bullshit is making me crazy.

"I do." His grip tightens, minutely. He should let go. He hasn't. There's something intoxicating about this, about lingering on the edging of keeping control and losing it completely.

And no one is even throwing any punches yet. Jesus fucking Christ, what have I gotten myself into.

"We had a great night. Let's not fucking push it."

"What the fuck makes you think that holding ourselves back is what we need to be doin' right now? One of us is gonna fuckin' snap, at this rate, and we both know what happens when it's you," I point out, glad that I can manage to scowl instead of outright pleading with him.

"I'm not gonna fuck you to make a point," he says. Something very strange is happening: instead of feeling less like the version of him that left the Realm and more like the version of him that died on a beach in a pocket universe--or more like one and less like the other--he's feeling more and more like both at once.

More and more like himself.

"And I'm not gonna fuck you for a safety valve." He releases Neil's hand, still gentle. And his voice is, too, but there's hardness behind it. "I'm not ready. Don't push me, Neil. Please."

Turning my face away, I slide into my chair, feeling an odd kind of heat in my cheeks, something inexplicably close to embarrassment.

I pick up my fork and start in on my pancakes, but they don't taste like much. Nothing here tastes right. Even the simple things. Milk, eggs, sugar. They're all imposters, somehow.

He watches Neil for a few seconds more before he starts eating again--and it might as well be sawdust for all the good it's doing him. His arms, the backs of his hands, his shoulders--all prickling with spent adrenaline, and the healing wound in his shoulder is itching, suddenly and fiercely.

And it just doesn't seem fair that nothing good between them ever lasts.

"We're getting there," he says finally, quiet. "It's only been a few days."

"It's been longer than that," I whisper, hoarse and my eyes fixed on my plate.

It's been a year of missing him, wanting him. This wasn't what I imagined our fucking reunion would be like. Sitting in a kitchen that doesn't feel like home, afraid to touch for what it might unleash.

"This was never gonna be easy." He could give in, shove the chair back, practically fucking launch himself forward. He doesn't even know what he'd do when he reached Neil; there is no quick way to fix this, not with sex or sleep or simple fucking touch.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to try.

"Can't you just--" He drops his fork onto the tabletop with a clatter--a spike of frustration and pain and regret like a physical cramp, there and agonizing and gone again. "Can't we just be together? Can't you just be with me? I know you fucking want more, I do too, but could that just be... enough? For now?"

"You're so fucking stupid, Mike. I don't want you to fuck me, that's not even what I'm talking about," I say, teeth clinching at the sharp clatter of his fork on the table.

"I felt you die. I fucking felt it. I don't know if it was real or not, but it doesn't matter. And now, I touch you and it's like... You hold so still, just waiting for it to be over. You come to my door in the middle of the fucking night, 'cause you've had a goddamn nightmare, and I'm the one that has to comfort you," I say, coughing out a disbelieving laugh, "Everything fucking hurts, Mike. Fucking everything. So, no, maybe it's not fucking enough. Just... Just shut up about how it's getting better and eat your fuckin' pancakes."

Laughter pushes up out of him before he can help it, so he doesn't even try. Every time. Every fucking time. It was absurd when everything began and it's getting no less absurd as time goes on.

Then again, absurdity was the name of the game even when things were good. Maybe the happiness was always the most absurd part of any of it.

"So this is what we get. Forever, maybe. Don't you ever get pissed at me for saying I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not." He swipes a hand over his face, wiping tears away--from laughter or not, he doesn't fucking know.

"I thought... for a while, last night, it wasn't hurting as much."

"Yeah, then the fuckin' sun came up," I mutter, and I try to be mad at him for laughing, but I can't seem to manage it. Every fucking part of this is ridiculous. I'm on the edge of laughing, myself.

"Anyway, I'll get pissed about whatever the fuck I wanna get pissed about."

"You always did," he murmurs, and reaches out over the table without hesitating--not giving himself time too--taking Neil's hand in his and holding on.

"I miss touching you," he says after a moment. "But it hurts when I do. Like you said. Everything does. Every time I do, I remember--" That part of me fucking liked it.

"I wanna make some new fucking memories."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject