The bottle of gin sits on the floor beside the bed, half empty (or half full, if one was being optimistic), and beside it, a mostly broken cell phone, shattered into pieces. The screen is cracked in several places, the spindles of glass and plastic stretching outwards like branches towards the sky, and every once in a while it gives a feeble beep like it is trying to live again.
He hasn't tried to fix it, nor has he tried to stop the beeping.
There is a knock on the door. He doesn't get up to answer it, but it doesn't matter anyway, because the door swings open a few seconds later, creaking against the wall. The sound of footsteps, and then a pair of elegant black shoes comes into his line of vision, stopping just before they reach him.
"I told you it was stupid."
His brother's voice, usually so grating against his nerves, is only familiar this time, a halfhearted flickering of annoyance because it's just so like Alistaire to appear when he least wants to see him. His brother always seems to have a strange sixth sense about that sort of thing, and it's simultaneously irritating and strangely comforting, because it's something that is normal, something that is the same as it's always been.
He's had too much of things changing around him. Change only brings pain.
"What do you want?"
He doesn't move, doesn't even look up. Alistaire is still standing there, and all he can see of him is his shoes. He doesn't want to look up and see the satisfied expression on his brother's face, because he's not really sure he can handle it, especially not right now. His fingers curl against the inside of his palm, almost a fist, though lacking the emotion behind it.
"Ian."
It's softly spoken, uncharacteristically gentle. He shifts a little where he sits, leaning back against his bed, legs outstretched in front of him, and Ian reaches for the bottle again. His fingers have just about touched the smooth glass when another hand intervenes, sweeping the bottle up out of his grasp and into Alistaire's.
Ian is mutinous.
"Give it back," he growls, making a swipe, but Alistaire holds it back with gloved fingers; and Ian can see his face now, his brother's expression oddly placid, devoid of his usual arrogance. It throws him even more off balance than he already is, and Ian stops halfway through the movement of getting up, sinking back down against the bed.
"You're drunk," says Alistaire, and Ian gives a derisive snort.
"You're astute," he grumbles, and Alistaire makes a noise like a sigh, striding over to the left. There's a clink and a shift of papers and when Ian looks next, the alcohol is gone; he's hidden it somewhere, and this alone makes Ian vehemently angry, so angry that he surges upwards towards his brother.
"Give it back," Ian snaps, and he's fracturing, breaking apart from the inside out. He lunges at Alistaire, but Alistaire is quicker than he seems, a blur past him as he moves behind, his hands shooting out to grasp both of Ian's wrists and twist them behind his back.
"Get ahold of yourself," Alistaire snarls, and Ian bucks backwards, slamming the back of his head into Alistaire's forehead with a sharp crack. It sends waves of pain and dizziness through not just him, but Alistaire as well, and he lets go unintentionally, a hiss of pain escaping through his lips. Ian stumbles forward and wheels back around, his fingers clenched, and throws a punch towards his brother that Alistaire catches, twisting his arm and flinging him sideways into the wall. When Alistaire comes at him again, Ian lifts his foot and kicks him square in the chest, sending him careening backwards into the desk, recently picked back up, and the entire thing collapses under his brother's weight, snapping and cracking and splintering. There is the shattering of glass as a lamp breaks, books and papers flying everywhere.
Alistaire climbs back to his feet, heaving for breath. His hair is in disarray and his tie and vest are both crooked, but he stalks towards Ian with the predatory stare of a lion, and in one swift second he's slugged Ian across the face, hard and fast and painful.
Ian drops down to the ground, gasping and wincing. His nose isn't broken (thankfully), but it hurts like the devil and he's bleeding, both from his nose and from a cut on his brow. When he licks his lips, he can taste blood; Alistaire's ring, beneath the glove, has done more damage than he thought it would.
Alistaire crouches down beside him, looking, for the first time since entering the room, disgusted at Ian.
"You're pathetic," he says, but there's no real vehemence behind the words. Instead, Alistaire reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, which he presses against the side of Ian's mouth, and stabbing pains erupt behind Ian's jaw. He can already feel a bruise forming, and he squirms a little, grunting in agony, but Alistaire refuses to let up.
"Let me at least - "
His brother's face is pale. Ian realizes, belatedly, that this is taking a great deal of effort and control on Alistaire's part. Alistaire, who gets sickened by mere touch, Alistaire, who has never been one to get himself dirty because it physically ails him. Alistaire, who abhors the sight of blood and the feel of dirt and the stink of mud, is sitting here trying to clean the blood off of his face. His brother's fingers are shaking ever so slightly, trembling with the effort of keeping the nausea at bay.
Ian knows; he's grown up with Alistaire, knows him better than any person in the entire world, including Patrick and including Shiloh.
"Why are you doing this?" he mumbles, and his voice is rough, raw with unshed emotions. He's desperately holding on, just like Alistaire, to something deep within himself; a terrible, panicked urge to keep everything inside of him, to not feel anything, to hide it all away so that no one will know how much pain he's really in.
Alistaire doesn't answer for a long time. When he finally does, it's after he's pulled the handkerchief away, lips pressed firmly together, his face drawn and wan. There is a tiny bloodstain at the fingertip of the right glove, and Alistaire visibly swallows back the nausea this time, his fingers twitching.
"Because," he says, and it's not an answer, but a diversion. He leans back away from Ian and fumbles to take off the offending glove, his breath letting out a in long, shaking exhale as he finally frees himself of it. Alistaire drops it to the floor, and touches his brow, pushing a few sweaty strands of hair away from his face.
"Because why?" Ian asks. He doesn't try to move, not yet. His chest feels tight, an agonizing ache with the effort to hold himself together.
Alistaire turns his eyes towards him.
"Why do you hate me?" he asks, and the question surprises Ian, because it's an abrupt change of topic, one that he never thought to hear from someone like Alistaire. He stares in bemusement at his brother, mouth slightly agape, but then he shuts it again, and a heavy weariness settles onto Ian's shoulders.
"I don't hate you," he says quietly. "I just don't understand you."
Alistaire is fiddling with his vest, trying to straighten it. After a moment, he says, "I'm trying to protect you. That's all I've ever done."
"I don't need protecting, Alistaire," Ian says. And then, "Alistaire?"
"Hmm?"
"Why do you hate yourself so much?"
There is a long silence in which neither of them speaks. Alistaire smooths a hand down the front of his vest, and he isn't looking at Ian, his expression looking as though it's been carved from stone, stamped from metal; a wooden, flat expression, his cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation at the question that Ian's been longing to ask for years now, ever since they were teenagers. He knows it's true, knows that somewhere in the depths of his mostly black heart, Alistaire does not hate him, but, in fact, hates himself more than any person that he's ever met.
"I don't know," Alistaire says finally, quietly, and though it's not a real answer, it's still an answer; and it's an admittance of the truth, even if that truth was already long assumed.
But then Alistaire says, "You're in pain," and it takes Ian a moment to remember that this is the answer to the question he's already asked - Why are you doing this? - and he stares at his brother, his face flushed, and then his expression softens, just a little, because for the first time in who knows how many years, the iron wall between them has crumbled slightly.
"I'm always in pain," Ian says lightly, meaning into to be a joke, but it comes out sounding bitter, and Ian's eyes are oddly bright, his breath hitching in his throat. Alistaire looks at him, and there is something behind the cold darkness of his eyes, something hidden in the depths of the heart that lies behind the prison he built for it.
"Why?" Alistaire asks, and Ian shakes his head, his eyes beginning to sting. He can't say it, can't say why it hurts so much, can't say why he feels as though his entire world is collapsing around him and he's being buried beneath a cascade of things he can't handle.
"I'm drowning," Ian whispers, his eyes wet, and he's shaking his head at the ludicrousness of it all, at the sheer misery of his life; and there are fingers in his hair, surprisingly gentle, and Alistaire is pulling him towards him, pressing Ian's face against his shoulder in a messy, awkward attempt at a hug. For several seconds, Ian is stunned into silence; and then he breaks down completely, his body slack against his brother's, and there is nothing more to be said.
Posted: Mon Apr 14, 2014 12:31 pm
Grey Dragon
Text to Oliver:
yo let's get a drink
Quote:
Text to Oliver:
you gotta learn to drink proper my friend
Quote:
Text to Oliver:
hey yo dude we need a lesson
Quote:
Text to Oliver:
I hope you're still alive cuz that would suck if you died already
He tried to write a letter, but they all sounded the same.
I'm sorry.
It's not you, it's me.
I don't want you to have to rely on me because I can't protect you.
I can't protect anyone.
They were all started and then they were all crossed out, scribbled away, thrown into the garbage. Ian sat not in his room, which was still in shambles, but at the desk in Alistaire's room instead, because it was the one place no one would really expect him to go and the one place he didn't have to see him all around. Being in his own room felt claustrophobic, every single piece of it reminding him of Shiloh, every breath of air a memory. The time they'd wrestled over the peanut butter, finally landing in a laughing, messy heap on the floor beside his bed, tangled in blankets and pressing sweet, sticky kisses to each other's lips. The time before they'd gotten together, when Shiloh had laid on his bed and tried to read aloud to him, only to have it end with both of them talking about their pasts, and other things.
The time Shiloh had dragged him up here after the Halloween party, sat in his lap, and told him that he wanted him.
The time Ian had woken up from a nightmare (or several times, rather), only to have Shiloh's soothing fingers touch his brow, reminding him that he wasn't alone, that he would never be alone.
The time they had both gotten into a muddy fight and wound up back in Ian's room, with Ian trying to figure out what he wanted, and whether Shiloh would be able to be the one to give it to him.
The time Ian had awoken from that crazy New Year's Dream only to have Shiloh say I love you for the first time -
- and the time that he couldn't say it back.
He still couldn't say it, which was part of the problem. He had said it once before, and someone had died because of it. He'd said it a second time, to his dying best friend as she lay in his arms on the beach, Patrick's bracelet wrapped around her bony wrist, both of them so afraid of the inevitable. With each time the words were spoken, someone left.
He'd stopped saying it after a while.
Alistaire was not in the room, which Ian was thankful for. He'd shown up on Alistaire's doorstep with a bag in one hand and a stony expression on his face, and although Alistaire had raised an eyebrow, he hadn't questioned it, hadn't even said anything except for, "You can sleep on the floor on that side."
It was, perhaps, not the closest of relationships - tense and awkward and filled with years of resentment and jealousy - but it was something that Ian was grateful for, at least at this point in time, because he knew Alistaire would not have questioned him.
He didn't want any more questions.
Dear Shiloh,
Since I can't say anything to you face to face because I'm a coward, and you're never going to read this anyway, I'll write it down.
He reads the letter while he lies in bed with bandages wrapped around his upper back and chest wishing he were anywhere else but here.
To my handsome Prince.
That is as far as he gets before he puts it down again.
Three hours later, he picks it back up and reads the next sentence.
It's funny, but the connection we had, it was a deep one.
Deep and painful, he thinks, and how is that fair? How is it fair that upon coming to Deus he had already built walls around his heart, walls that had stemmed not just from Patrick's death, but from a life spent trying too hard to please those who didn't care and held no more love for him. How is it fair that he had expected to come to Deus and do the work without the pain, separate himself from making connections because being close to people was too painful?
How is it fair that from the moment he had met Nevada, from the moment he had met Shiloh, the walls had come crumbling down until they were dust at his feet?
He reads the next few sentences.
t didn't take much for us to come together and I often wondered why that was? Affectionate. You were my partner without being romantic. Affections came with and for nothing more then what they were suppose to be. Affection. That's what I feel for you, along with love.
Because, Ian thinks, you were me and I was you. We were two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. You understood me in a way that no one else did, not even Shiloh. You held my heart in your hand and you kept it safe. You knew how fragile it was without my having to say so, and you never judged me for it.
I told you about Patrick, and all you did was stroke my hair and hold me close and tell me how sorry you were without pitying me.
You always reminded me of a prince though, so mature and handsome.
I'm not, Ian tells himself, and pain shoots up his back at every move, every little gesture. He flinches, lets out a little gasp, but manages to push himself upright anyway, fingers clenching the letter tightly in one hand. He's glad he's alone; Quinn worries too much and Alistaire worries too little. Here and now he can sit and read this letter, these painful last words from Nevada in peace and quiet, without having to worry about anyone seeing him.
Without having to think about anything but Nevada.
So troubled and aloof. Romantic and kind one moment, Scared but accepting in others. I suppose that's how you came to be a prince to me. Sometime I'd imagine you'd scale walls, fly on magic carpets, slay a dragon or two. It must be all the disney movies I watched with Stormy, and the books I read with Alaska when I was a child.
I hope you know that I was always happy, I became happier, that you had found yourself here. On this terrible piece of land floating in the sea. A miserable place with humans more then willing to kill each other for a simple statement of words...for friends to turn on each other, for nothing more then a mission gone wrong. You had your moment with Shy, but you haven't left his side. It's something I admire, I love.
He can feel his breath coming out shorter now, each one seeming labored and painful, and it's like he's being stabbed all over again, his chest tight, hardly able to draw air into his lungs. He wants so desperately to finish reading this letter, but he wants also to not read it, he wants to crumple it between his fingers and throw it away, far away, where it can never be reached, where the pain will stop before it reaches him -
- and for a second he almost does that. His thumb presses a little too hard on the corner of the page and it crinkles, the noise startling him out of his thoughts, and he quickly tries to smooth the letter out again, his movements hasty, almost panicked, because this is Nevada's last letter to him.
These are Nevada's last thoughts, and even when she was dying, she had remembered Shiloh.
(He doesn't want to remember Shiloh; remembering Shiloh is too painful.)
Ian's eyes move to the next part of the letter.
Will you remain strong after I leave?
No.
Selfishly, I want you to mourn, to miss me.
I do mourn. I do miss you, every day, every moment, every second of every hour.
But more then that, I want you to live and continue living strong.
I can't.
I want you to do the things I couldn't do. I want you to become a better prince then I could ever be. Slay the dragons, climb the walls. Nothing stops you.
I'm stopping myself. I'm not strong enough. I can't do it.
I can't slay these dragons, Nevada. Not anymore.
Not without you.
I'll be watching over you, when I pass. I'll be watching over you, Otto and Stormy. So don't think I won't see what you do! No drinking after I pass. Go on a date with Shy! Meet Otto! Please talk to Otto more. I don't want him to be alone. And Stormy, please talk to her. Watch over them if you can.
I need to stop now, I have two more letters to write and only a little more time to do it.
I love you my handsome prince.
Nevada
The letter remains in his hand for quite some time after he finishes reading it. Ian sits on the bed and leans back against the wall, his eyes unfocused as he stares out at the wall, his back aching; but the pain is nothing compared to how he feels inside, how his heart is breaking with each and every word printed neatly in Nevada's handwriting on this piece of paper.
He pushes himself back upright and reaches for his bedside table, pulling open one of the drawers. Inside is a little notebook, leatherbound and black, and Ian flips open the covers. Carefully he folds Nevada's letter in quiet, precise movements, smoothing his fingers over the paper. He starts to put it in the book and pauses. His eyes are focused on the name scrawled at the bottom, at the way she curved her letters, rounded her A's; and all of a sudden, his heart is in his throat, and everything is blurred, his vision hazy.
He pushes the letter into the book and closes it just in time because in the next second the tears have come spilling out, and he's screaming in agony and despair, pushing his face into his pillow to muffle the sound, his fingers clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles are starkly white against his tan skin.
I miss you, Ian thinks desperately, and he's not even sure who the "you" is that he's talking about anymore, if it's just Nevada or if Shiloh and Patrick are included too.
I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you
He unclenches and digs his fingers into the pillow, and screams and screams and screams until there's nothing left to scream and his throat is raw and dry and his tears have run out and there's nothing left of anything anymore.
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Mon Apr 21, 2014 9:21 pm
DAY 5
A seemingly simple pink flower would be found outside of Shiloh's door one morning, its stem carefully wrapped in a damp paper towel to keep it from wilting. No note was attached, nor any indication of who the person was who had left it.
sammpai
Posted: Tue Apr 22, 2014 10:53 am
DAY 6
A second pink flower was left outside of Shiloh's door the following day, following in the same pattern as the first; no note attached, no indication of its sender, carefully wrapped in a damp paper towel to keep it from wilting.
sammpai
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Tue Apr 22, 2014 10:44 pm
DAY 6
sammpai
Text to Shiloh:
You must hate me now
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I hate me now
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I miss you so much it hurts
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I wish I could tell you how much I miss you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I wish I could tell you a lot of things but I can't
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I don't deserve you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
you certainly don't deserve me
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you
[ error: message not sent ]
Posted: Tue Apr 22, 2014 10:52 pm
DAY 6
Nyxtsuki Moon
Text to Nevada:
Come back.
[ error: message not sent ]
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Tue Apr 22, 2014 10:56 pm
DAY 12:
For several days the flowers seemed to stop altogether. But nearly a week later they started up again; the same process, the same lack of note, the same everything, except the flower breed itself. This time it was a small blue flower, rather than a pink one, gently wrapped and delivered anonymously.
sammpai
Posted: Thu Apr 24, 2014 8:07 pm
DAY 13:
There was another flower left on Shiloh's doorstep, following the same patterns as before. But there was something different about it: the flower, although pristine and white, had a small drop of blood on one of the petals, as though the sender had cut themselves while getting it.
sammpai
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Wed Apr 30, 2014 3:54 pm
DAY 15:
Face your demons
Text to Harland:
heard you met alistaire
Quote:
Text to Harland:
he's kind of a d**k I'm sorry
Quote:
Text to Harland:
he told me that you liked me
Quote:
Text to Harland:
he said some other stuff but I tend to ignore him most of the time
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I'm sorry
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I wish I could
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I don't know what I wish but I'm not worth it anyway
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I'm not worth anything
Quote:
Text to Harland:
you deserve better than me
Quote:
Text to Harland:
be happy, sweet cowboy
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I hope you find happiness
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I'm sorry
Quote:
Text to Harland:
I'm so sorry
Posted: Wed Apr 30, 2014 4:05 pm
DAY 16
Another flower was left at Shiloh's door; this time with no blood, thankfully.
sammpai
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Wed Apr 30, 2014 4:07 pm
DAY 16
Nyxtsuki Moon
Text to Nevada:
How do I do this without you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Nevada:
I'm not strong, I never was
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Nevada:
I can't do this
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Nevada:
I want too much that I can't have
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Nevada:
Come back and tell me what I'm supposed to do because I don't know anymore
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Nevada:
I don't know anything anymore
[ error: message not sent ]
Posted: Wed Apr 30, 2014 8:09 pm
DAY 16
sammpai
Text to Shiloh:
do you remember that dream
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
The weird a** Alice in Wonderland s**t
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I remember it
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I remember you asked me if I loved you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I thought it was just a dream, so maybe I could say it
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
But I couldn't even say it there
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I'm such a coward
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I can't even just say those three words
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I want to so badly you have no idea I want to tell you everything
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I can't do this without you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
But I have to I have to
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
I have to be without you
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
you deserve better than me
you deserve everything
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
what I said on the beach was a lie
[ error: message not sent ]
Quote:
Text to Shiloh:
please don't forget me
[ error: message not sent ]
kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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kuropeco
Dramatic Marshmallow
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Posted: Sat May 10, 2014 7:03 am
DAY 27
The message was half garbled, as though the person sending it was doped up on a great deal of pain medication and didn't really realize what they were typing.
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