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indent Each night, he dreamt. Each night, the dream was the same. Fire, the screaming, and the hatred he had seen in her eyes. It had been over a year—he had, of course, lost track of time between then and now. The drugs played no small part in that. Each night, he staggered in a daze, watching the world spin around him. He faded in and out, waking in places he could no longer recall. This had happened before. He knew the pattern. It did not shock him that he would find himself covered in blood (whose blood?) or smelling like gasoline (the car, you burnt the car) or half-buried in the rubble of some still collapsing building.
indent They were all gone. All of his children were gone, or hated him, or no longer recognized him. He didn’t recognize himself. Each time he saw his reflection in some dirty glass, some broken window, he had to break it. Something was breaking inside of him, and he didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that (you fucked up) he didn’t know what to do (when have you ever?) and that maybe this was all a mistake.
indent So he walked, no longer realizing what he was doing, walked into that church because he didn’t know where else to go. It wasn’t until he was there that he felt his hands moving, felt the subconscious mechanical reaction, and had drawn the blade. He stood there for a long time, listening to the soft sound of rain outside, smelling the water in the air. Vaguely, he could hear those thousand voices rushing at him, babbling, until finally he heard himself as clear and loud and deadly as the dawn.
indent Everything you’re doing is wrong.
indent The knife went to his arm.
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They were stale, these feelings, these thoughts. Every path open to him he had been down twice before and even the weather offered nothing new or interesting to distract him. Snow reminded him of hushed whispers and sweet nothings; sunshine reminded him of the only glowing eye that was left. Thunderstorms reminded him of rocky cliffs, the furthest away in his memories. He gravitated towards the church because it was different, because it belonged to someone other than himself and was thus filled with someone else's thoughts and someone else's sorrows. Someone else's problems. It was always easier to be the one looking in, wasn't it?
Rather suddenly, the rain stopped spearing against his head and rather suddenly, he saw the mess of blond dreadlocks and the glint of a silver blade. It was strange, how quickly and impulsively his body moved forward, how it immediately knew what it was going to do even when his mind was miles behind. He had been the one gripping the handle of something sharp so many times; he had been coaxed out of it and stopped so many times. When had he ever thought he would be the one doing the stopping?
The tawny hybrid collided with the wolf roughly and haphazardly, knocking the knife away just as he brought the both of them to the ground. What are you doing!? He didn't recognize it as his own voice speaking or shaking and his thoughts were still stalled somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe they were both barking mad, but Ahren had always seemed in control, had always had reasonable words. The empty awkwardness he had been left with their last encounter was gone and all he could wonder was why.
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indent Up until the moment that Laruku collided with his body, the knife had been hesitant, hovering lightly on his skin. It was not until he was struck that his arm jerked, causing a sharp vertical gash. Everything came too suddenly then, too fast, and he barely realized who had hit him. When he hit the floor, the air was pushed from his lungs and he let out a great whoosh of air. Then the scent of blood reached his nose, and the weight on his back was too much. With a half-strangled snarl, he thrashed wildly, sending blood across the floor.
indent One hand flew up and struck at Laruku’s face, and then Ahren scrambled away from him, staggering to his feet. He looked dazed, but not drunk. “Get away from me,” he shouted, a fine trail of red flowing to his wrist. There was a mad gleam in his eyes, and his body had begun to tremble.
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Despite that these impulsive and thoughtless moments in the past had always spiraled into worse-off things, he couldn't stop himself from acting anyway. His mind dangled in a thick fog and though his senses were sharp, none of what he was getting was reaching his brain. But his arms were getting the message, his legs, his throat and voice even. He didn't know what was going on, but clearly, some other part of him did. Was it the monster? No, not tonight, but even that wasn't particularly reassuring to any degree. Blood. Ahren's. His own. Did he feel the claws touch his face? The hybrid stepped back instinctively and looked at the blonde a moment. Thoughts were being thought somewhere, somewhere, but he still didn't know what or where or why they were.
You're better than this, Laruku's voice said in a whisper, retaking the step forward. He didn't know what his eyes showed or didn't show. He didn't know why Ahren was trembling. Or did he? Or did Ahren even know? What's wrong? Another step, another two steps. He wanted to touch him. To make it better.
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indent Instinct told him to treat the wound, even now, but his conscious was concerned with the man in the room. Head low, teeth bared, hair in his face, Ahren held his ground on stiff legs, unaware they were trembling. He could feel the ground shaking under his feet, even if nothing was moving. Laruku moved forward and Ahren took one step back, tail lashing behind his body, a fine line of blood following his motion.
indent Words, words, his ears pinned back and he shook his head, shutting his eyes. He couldn’t even think of words. When his eyes opened, they were foggy. Ahren barely recognize his eyesight was getting hazy. “Everything, fucking everything,” his words choked in his throat, stumbled over his tongue. “This has to end,” he continued, unaware he had spoken in German.
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It was happening again, except this time the scent of alcohol was recently absent and Laruku hadn't even known to remember that there had been a previous time until just then. The German words and the echo of the church. The sound of metaphorical everythings falling apart, of the visions that made them literal. He knew what was happening, but it was perhaps the first time he was watching from the outside and seeing someone else's world tremble at their feet. He wasn't sure he liked the reversal of roles, but his body was still acting on its own. His eyes read in the snarling teeth and the pinned back ears and he knew he had no desire to fight and yet... He walked forward anyway, deliberately now, wrapped his own scarred (and scarred and scarred) arms around the other, and held him tight.
Empty promises danced on his tongue. It's going to be okay. Don't worry. Things will get better. It doesn't have to be this way. Lies. He knew there was no hope. But then, if it was so absolute, so finite and useless. Wasn't there no use in fear either? No hope, no fear. I know, came his voice instead. I know. I'm sorry. It was the first time in a long time that something wrong wasn't his fault. Whatever was wrong here was out of his control entirely, but the apologies came quick to him now. There was always something more he could have been. Even here. Even now. He pulled them both to the ground to sit. He held on tight because somebody had to.
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indent The loss of innocence occurred in this place, as it had many times before. As a child, he had heard and seen his father fight a female and take him away. He had fucked Kaena here. He had found his mother’s bones and danced on her cross. Now he was bleeding out and trembling, unable to move even as he watched that familiar stranger come towards him. It was warm then, and he heard words, but everything rushed together like a tide and something very fragile inside of him broke.
indent Ahren’s feet gave out under him as Laruku pulled him down and he began to cry, gasping for breath. He buried his face in the sickly sweet, smoky-scented fur of Laruku’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably. It had been so long that he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t remember anytime he had broken down like this (the military base, a long time ago, you remember you remember everything) and then it came in a great rush. With a strangled cough, he pulled himself back, choking still, and struck himself across the face. It was a hard blow, and left his head ringing. And he just sat there, face damp with tears, covered in his own blood, and staring at the floor dumbly
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Laruku wasn't a hero. He had never saved anyone from anything; instead, he had always been the one that needed holding, that needed counseling, that needed the sharp objects taken away from him because he couldn't handle it anymore. He had always been the one to cry. So this was wrong. This other red-eyed male had always been the stronger one -- the stronger leader of a stronger pack, the stronger father of a stronger litter. This was not his place to be and he had no right to see these tears, these broken pieces, these salty everythings and nothings and. The hybrid's own body shook when Ahren cried into his chest. He didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. He just knew that this was wrong.
And he tried to grab the fist that flew but missed. So instead, he reached away for some scrap of dusty, discarded, old cloth. Tearing it, he inched closer again and took the other's bleeding arm. Talk to me, Ahren, he whispered mournfully. Please. His fingers pulled the cloth tight around the gash and he sighed, feeling like a hypocrite, feeling like a liar, feeling like an illegitimate comfort, if he was even that. This wasn't his place.
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Touch was a sensation that had always come with two folds. It was either painful, as it had been with his parents, or with passion, as it had been with the women he had seen gone by the wayside. Nothing remained, claimed by the flow of time. He sat there, let the bandage take the blood from his arm, and said nothing for a long time. The thoughts that came were many, jumbled, in a rush. Voices and faces and things that meant everything but nothing at all, not anymore. Slowly, he became numb to the pain in his arm and in his face, and was only aware of the small circle around them. He met Laruku’s eyes, and in that silence, knew what he wanted to say. I can’t explain. This is not how I am.
indent “She’s never coming back,” he heard himself say firmly. This was fact. He knew that. “I…I don’t know. I haven’t been right for a long time.” He stopped, swallowed, and again fell silent. This time, it was not for as long. “Things piled up. Things came back…I can’t remember a day I’ve been sober in the past few months,” he admitted. Dully, he turned his arm over, though the track marks were hidden under his long winter coat. Still, the message would be clear. Clearer then anything else he could manage right now.
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The laughter returned to the back of his head, cackling madly, though Laruku felt like it was delayed. She’s never coming back. The words struck him deeper than he would have hoped, but he also knew there was no point in denying them anymore. He knew exactly how it felt to be left behind, to be faced with the back of someone who would never come back and a memory that would never be the same again. He knew, and yet, he felt like it wasn't enough, like he really didn't know, like he really hadn't gone through the same pain because certainly Ahren was the worse one off here and his memories of mental, emotional, and psychological torture were just selfish and closed. How clearly could he remember any of them anyway.
He saw the arm and understood. They were the same in different ways. He tied the bandage and fought the urge to embrace the other again because it confused him and scared him and terrified him (there's no one left to be betray, no one left to betray, no one, no one, no one, no one; he hates you and tried to kill you) and a thousand other things he couldn't think right now because he was too busy thinking other things that were out of his reach. He couldn't remember. Forget it, said Laruku's voice, the hypocrite. Get sober. Find something else to live for. Yourself. Live for yourself. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Liar. Scum of the earth! LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. I know you can do it if you wanted. He's always been better than you. Everyone has.
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indent They were so alike, left behind in this small country. Ahren had seen the world and seen it offered him nothing. There really was nothing out there for him. He was born here and he would die here. He wasn’t destined for anything greater. He breathed in the cold air, air that smelt like blood and tasted like disease, thinking of nothing of all. Something empty and dark had taken over, as if he had stepped outside of himself and into a cave. Guided meditation to the cold parts of the world, where there was no escape unless you went down. Slide.
indent He looked up and saw that scarred face, wondered just how old they both looked, how old they felt, and how young they really were.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, though it sounded fake on his tongue. This wasn’t your burden. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t know what happened. Someone else was behind him, something else pushing, a darker and older force he had never known, even though his symbols were all over his body.
“I just don’t know what to do.” Admitting that made him feel weak, but he didn’t care anymore. He had people to live for, but they didn’t need him. No one needed a vagabond who had once carried a kingdom and let it fall apart at his feet.
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It was almost an identical burden. A dead and dying kingdom, a family of estranged sons and daughters, and a thousand pieces of a broken heart that had been promised to someone else. A thousand little, tiny, rotting, black pieces. Laruku's body relaxed as the blonde seemed to calm down, as the words made more sense and the threatening weight of tears was dammed away again. The hybrid would save the world if he could, but even presented with the opportunity, he wouldn't know how, didn't even know how to save the only friend he had, or himself, or any single person. So how could he save the world? But oh, who cared about the world anyway? What had it ever done for him?
His eyes were tired and weary with the weight of his own world, with the weight of the piece of Ahren's that had been revealed to him -- a little more didn't make much of a difference did it? I don't either, he admitted sadly. Laruku wanted to know and wished he had something to tell the other unfortunate prince. But if he could hardly hold himself together, then how could he believe in any of the advice or guidance he gave? What can we do but just try? Die. They could all die. But couldn't they just settle for waiting for the day the sun got to them?
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indent Someone was singing—someone who had died a long time ago, and who he rarely thought of. He heard her in this place and understood, vaguely, what she meant. His mother was gone though, and she had been gone for years. Perhaps if she had lived, he might have turned out better. Of the two parents, she had been more composed; until her world had been torn apart by rape, by the loss of her son. Ahren missed her sometimes, but he barely knew who she was.
indent Perhaps that was why he still wore her necklace, and her symbol, long after he had desecrated her bones. Ahren’s face finally turned, and his mouth warped into a faint, honest smile. It made him boyishly handsome, took back those thousand years that had been stolen from him. Maybe in another life, he could have been better off. He could have been unremarkable. “Move on.” They would, in time. Scar tissue was stronger then regular tissue, after all.
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Laruku had never met his mother, even after the promise that had been relayed to him. Some days, he still believed that he would visit eventually, that there were things beyond her control that kept her from him, but most days, he knew he had already accepted a long time ago that it didn't matter. She was dead. There had been whole minutes when the both of them had been alive at the same time, but they hadn't lasted long. Since then, she had been dead and that wasn't about to change, ghostly visit or no. He had moved on from missing her, but everything else? His heart had been broken for two years. More than half his long and short life.
But he took heart in his friend's smile because it was just as rare as his own, which now lurked somewhere in the vacinity, just out of sight. Yeah, came the quiet agreement. For what? For themselves? For each other? For the families that didn't need them? The laughter in his head hadn't stopped, but he had gotten good at ignoring it. Laruku stood and it felt like years already since he had stretched his legs. Let's get out of here. It wasn't a sanctuary. Not really. Those things only existed in their heads, just like everything else.
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