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But I could see for miles, miles, miles
In the end the anger is directed--finally and completely and as it always should have been—inward.
He knows what he’s hearing before he’s even really conscious of it. He lies in his bed in the dark, that fucking wall so near his head, and it’s very faint but he can hear it and he knows its source. He knows those sounds.
It’s a distant memory now, but he knows what Neil sounds like when he comes.
He lies there in the dark and he feels fury roiling through him and transmuting into misery so deep it literally shakes him, wrenches at his muscles, and through it all he’s achingly, shamefully hard. He fists his hands in the sheets. Doesn’t drop them below his waist, where he wants them, because it would mean a few seconds of relief and he can’t allow himself that. This is torture, and it’s his torture, and he thinks that it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
But all at once he thinks of Sam, all that weight on his shoulders, the way he doesn’t seem to want to let it go, and Neil’s hollow eyes. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start.
And somewhere in that darkness something breaks open.
The next couple of days are a blur.
He isn’t drinking—at least, not much. But he also isn’t really home. Somewhere in there, he remembers staggering back and sleeping for a few fractured hours before he leaves again. He doesn’t want to see Neil. He’s not ready. Later he remembers the park at sunset, approaching the burn scar of the World Tree at last, making a long, slow circuit around still-charred ground. The ashes have been blown and washed away. He can still see that spike of green in the midst of all the death, small and defiant. He goes no closer. It’s enough to know that it’s still there, but it’s not his. It doesn’t need him.
This is about need. This is about needing.
It feels like time is twisting in on itself. It feels like some giant hand has hit rewind and he’s being swept along with the blur as everything loops backward. And at the same time he knows he has a choice. That he chose this. That there was never an excuse, that all of this has been his choice: Death and pain and evil, and once he chose something else, and now he can make that choice again.
So he stands at Neil’s door and knocks, and it’s firm but it’s not pounding. The terror feels burned out of him. So does the rage. What’s left is desire so intense it makes his hands shake. The desire is what’s done the burning.
When fighting and running are off the table, you give up. You surrender. You lay down your arms.
He knows what he’s hearing before he’s even really conscious of it. He lies in his bed in the dark, that fucking wall so near his head, and it’s very faint but he can hear it and he knows its source. He knows those sounds.
It’s a distant memory now, but he knows what Neil sounds like when he comes.
He lies there in the dark and he feels fury roiling through him and transmuting into misery so deep it literally shakes him, wrenches at his muscles, and through it all he’s achingly, shamefully hard. He fists his hands in the sheets. Doesn’t drop them below his waist, where he wants them, because it would mean a few seconds of relief and he can’t allow himself that. This is torture, and it’s his torture, and he thinks that it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
But all at once he thinks of Sam, all that weight on his shoulders, the way he doesn’t seem to want to let it go, and Neil’s hollow eyes. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start.
And somewhere in that darkness something breaks open.
The next couple of days are a blur.
He isn’t drinking—at least, not much. But he also isn’t really home. Somewhere in there, he remembers staggering back and sleeping for a few fractured hours before he leaves again. He doesn’t want to see Neil. He’s not ready. Later he remembers the park at sunset, approaching the burn scar of the World Tree at last, making a long, slow circuit around still-charred ground. The ashes have been blown and washed away. He can still see that spike of green in the midst of all the death, small and defiant. He goes no closer. It’s enough to know that it’s still there, but it’s not his. It doesn’t need him.
This is about need. This is about needing.
It feels like time is twisting in on itself. It feels like some giant hand has hit rewind and he’s being swept along with the blur as everything loops backward. And at the same time he knows he has a choice. That he chose this. That there was never an excuse, that all of this has been his choice: Death and pain and evil, and once he chose something else, and now he can make that choice again.
So he stands at Neil’s door and knocks, and it’s firm but it’s not pounding. The terror feels burned out of him. So does the rage. What’s left is desire so intense it makes his hands shake. The desire is what’s done the burning.
When fighting and running are off the table, you give up. You surrender. You lay down your arms.
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"He hasn't been taking me down there so we can fuck. It's like, one of the only things he gives a damn about and he went over a year without bein' able to get it to work."
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He pushes himself up suddenly, grips Neil by the shoulders and shoves him into the mattress, body half draped over him. The kiss is hard, fierce--but not really violent. There's a hint of playfulness in it, a softness behind it.
"I'm not freaking out," he says when he breaks it. "Promise."
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"I don't wanna quit goin' down there with him, but I don't have to keep fucking him. That's why I wanted to tell you."
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They're not everything for each other. They can't be. Not here.
"I won't ask you to. Just be careful." He presses his lips to the corner of Neil's mouth, almost chaste. "I will too."
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"His apartment looks like a fuckin' serial killer's."
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He rolls onto his back again, one arm slung across his forehead. "I remember him. More all the time. But he's like me, isn't he? He's not the same. Not even fucking close." He turns his head, looks at Neil. "He's not gonna want to let anyone help him."
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"I went over there to see him today, and he couldn't figure out why. Like, he doesn't even get that he could have a fuckin' friend or whatever."
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"In the Realm, no one ever just did shit for anyone else. Without wanting something back." He half smiles. "Except Florence, but you know she was like... every kind of exception. But I never really called anyone a friend until Hobbes showed. Never wanted to give a shit. It was safer."
He lets out a slow breath. "It's... a hard fucking idea when you're not used to it."
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"He's in there somewhere, you know. He knew my name. Did I tell you that?"
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He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Neil's jaw. "So he'll come out of it eventually. Part of him, anyway. If I did, anyone can."
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I shift closer to him, if that's even possible, my arms around his shoulders, holding him close.
"I love you," I whisper, and I think, I feel lucky, which is beyond stupid. Anything could go wrong at any second, not to mention everything that I've lost. This isn't luck. I don't have a word for what this is.
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Fragmentary. They're still missing something. Someone.
"Not gonna leave you." He closes his eyes, feels Neil breathing against him. "Not ever."
And he says it like a promise. But part of him still feels like it's also a threat.
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No one's vanished, yet, as far as I know, but I'm not stupid enough to think any of us are safe.
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Fuck knows what I'll do to you when I do.
He kisses Neil's jaw again, careful and slow. "Get some sleep."
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Too much wasted time. Too much chance that I'll wake up in the morning and this won't be fucking real.
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He doesn't honestly see how he's ever getting out of this bed again.
"I'm not going anywhere." He smiles faintly. "Not even in my fucking head."
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My chest feels cracked open, raw and bleeding, but I think sleep might come easier than I'd thought.
"Whatever," I mutter, just this side of petulant, but I'm hiding a smile against his skin, my hand blindly finding his in the dark.