How long had Eurydike been staring at the closed door of his apartment, his hands shaking, his eyes narrowed and burning, his jaw screwed shut so tight it ached?
Get out.
Had he meant to say that? - had that been his voice?
Why had he said that?
Logan.
He couldn’t get the sound of Tolliver’s broken voice out of his head. Couldn’t forget the look on his face when he’d said it. Not anymore than he could forget that Tolliver hadn’t been Tolliver when he’d said it.
No - I was trying - please, I was trying to protect you, I was doing this for you, Logan -
I was doing this for you, Logan -
- for you, Logan -
He whirled, suddenly, his eyes briefly wide and desperate, almost frantic as they scanned their - his? - sad little apartment from wall to wall. Everywhere he looked, he could see him, he hear it, Tolliver - Cerussite’s voice reminding him, soft and broken and afraid, that he’d done this for him.
A howl escaped him suddenly, and if Tolliver had been there to hear it, he would’ve known the sound too well. This time, though - this time, a scream wasn’t enough. Misery and rage bubbled up in him uncontrollably, contending for dominance - and in the end, this was a battle in which his rage failed to yield. He didn’t think. He just moved.
Food and drinks laid out over the table, ready for a completely childish game, a ploy to get to know each other better and that’d ended in delicious filthiness, and really had bought them closer, laughing and curled into each other before the night was through.
Eurydike knew he was stronger as a senshi… but he’d been knocked around so many times by bigger, badder officers of the negaverse that he could almost forget how strong he was supposed to be. He remembered now, though, in that moment as he hooked a sandaled foot beneath the table and sent it flying with a roar. There’d been a bottle of bourbon settled on the top - it spilled, not the first puddle of alcohol this floor had seen. He grabbed the bottle without missing a beat and hefted it against the nearest wall with a resounding shower of glass. It reminded him of the time he’d hit the mirror, still fractured even now. It’d bought him… not a moment of clarity, no, but a chance, a chance for bitter misery to take hold in the wake of the shock of pain.
This time, he felt nothing. He didn’t know if that was better or worse.
His gaze turned to the couch, Tell me somethin’ else. Anythin’., and choked on air. So many times they’d sat there, laid there together. He’d opened his Christmas presents there, broken into sobs that he desperately tried to hide behind his hand because it’d been the bes ******** Christmas he’d ever ******** had in his life. He’d never had a day like that, and now, now Tolliver was an enemy, and now, that might be the only one, it was supposed to be the first of many, Tolliver had promised him, he’d <******** promised him.
I was doing this for you, Logan.
You weren’t good enough, Logan.
I had to do this because you were too weak, Logan.
The couch was pushed over, falling dully with a thud, and he thought he heard a crack - it was an old, ratty thing after all, hardly built for much. It’d always creaked beneath them.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
Books clattered to the floor as he toppled a shelf. There was more breaking glass as he flung pictures that he’d never be able to replace, his mother’s face staring back at him, jeering, taunting, this is what happens when you’re a ******** queer Logan, do you see what ******** happened to you and it was broken now because the pictures were broken but he could still hear her voice, or did he even know her voice anymore, he couldn’t listen to it anymore, he didn’t ******** know -
Pots, slammed into countertops until one of the surfaces yielded. Glasses, thrown and shattered with the rest of the mess. Tolliver was trying to make pancakes here, pancakes that weren’t, he’d promised to teach him how to cook, they’d tried to make cookies here and Hitch had distracted him and - The dresser for Tolliver’s things that special drawer at the bottom for his things, he pushed and tilted and hit until it fell splintering onto the mattress they’d said I love you there, and whispered things to each other by cigarette light, and - and -
His cheeks felt wet and hot.
But he didn’t stop.
His gaze turned on his drumset. It had started there. Not really. It’d started in the street by Tolliver’s home. Or had it started in the bar? The store? The New Year’s party where Tolliver had followed to see if he was okay even if he’d hardly known him at all?
"Sorry," Tolliver murmured, face aflame, and the admission came out of him, in spite of him trying to stop it, shame and awe and embarrassment all ebbing into his tone. "Not...not trying to be all wonky on you, it's just...I don't think I've ever done anything with that much passion in my life, it was...quite amazing to watch."
The way Tolliver's fingers moved over his lips made Hitch unconsciously lick his drying lips in turn. Even if the room was almost stiflingly warm, he felt the tingle of goosebumps rising over his flesh, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end.
"You really think that, Tolli?"
Hitch stood up almost suddenly, his hand resting on one of the drum heads as he approached Tolliver to meet him on the other side. He was standing too close; he knew he was. No one had said anything like that to him in so long, and whether he believed himself worth anyone's time or not, he hadn't realized how badly he wanted -- needed? -- to hear it.
"Do you really?"
The flutter of kisses against wrists, fingers, lips -
His fists fell, and the drums yielded too easily to them, heads spitting and the rest cracking until what was mess was barely recognizable as his - Tolliver had loved him playing them, had run his fingers along the sticks, snapping now in Eurydike’s hands, everything was breaking, this was what he did best, the only thing he could ever ******** do in the end, destroy.
It would’ve been one thing if that satisfied him.
But all it did was make it worse. Because in a way, those had been all he’d had.
He’d literally destroyed everything good he had.
The gravity of it made him fall to his knees, the glamour fading as Hitch took the place of Eurydike again, his arms curled around his sides as he stared at what used to be his drums. His home. But even then as he looked around all he could see was Tolliver, all he could hear was Tolliver, and it’d all been for nothing. Everything he’d done, every ounce of it --
Get out.
Logan, I’m sorry.
“Come back, “ he whispered suddenly, doubling over himself, choking on a sob. “Come back. Come back...”
Come back home? Or come back from the negaverse? - he knew. He knew from Kerberos. He knew what was lost when people switched sides. If Tolliver even wanted to change. If Cerussite wanted to change.
He sat there for awhile, sobbing hard enough for his eyes to burn like they were on fire, choking roughly enough that he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He did this until there was nothing left, dry and spent, his eyes red and his breathing shallow. He wiped his nose roughly on his sleeve, leaving a mess behind. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not a goddamn single thing mattered anymore.
There was just one thing. One thing he had to do.
A text, simple and concise, straight to the point and deliberately typed in a way that was completely unlike Hitch; because he took as much time as he could, drew it out, however short it was:
SMS message: Fritz
You were right.
Finally, on shaking legs, Hitch stood up and began to move. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t breathe here. He headed for the door and paused there, lingering, trying not to think that not so long ago, Tolliver had been standing there, his hand on the knob and his eyes wide. Hitch glanced down at his hand, at the ring on his finger.
He reached down, and slid it halfway off - and then abruptly pushed it back into its rightful place, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, because he couldn’t.
Instead, he left, locking the door behind him - and Eurydike took off into the cool air of early morning to resume his patrol.
kuropeco
