Chapter Text
March 22, 2023
T
he radio crackles with static as Poison snatches it up and shakes it, frustrated. Useless bloody thing. He’s about to slam it on the table when he realises, with a jolt, that she’s asleep. He’s still not used to it, this whole, you know, being married thing. He feels it again, that little catch in his throat when he sees the wedding band on his finger. It’s been what, three, four months?
He takes a big gulp of coffee and sets the mug back on the kitchen table. It’s not half bad, this place- a cozy little apartment on the outskirts of town, with peeling white paint and well-worn furniture. Not many neighbors, but he’s good with that; his mask-wearing, gun-wielding days are over. Who knew he’d find normalcy in the midst of the apocalypse itself? His hair is a cropped black now, no longer that shock of bright red anyone within the radius of a kilometer could see. He wears olive jackets and faded blue jeans now, instead of the blue bulletproof jacket with his symbol stitched on. That jacket, his mask-- God, his mask-- his gun, everything- all those memories are buried under the floorboards of his bedroom, marked with a red X.
Ghoul would approve of this place, he thinks, the clean freak that he is. His lips involuntarily twitch into a smirk for a split second-- that is, until he remembers, and his heart gives a painful little twist. New life, new rules.
No thinking about breaking up the Killjoys, exactly 154 days ago. No thinking about Ghoul and Jenny’s wedding, exactly 160 days ago.
And definitely no thinking about Ghoul.
His stomach clenches, unclenches. He downs the rest of the coffee.
The radio’s been quiet for a bit now; he gives it a petulant whack. It fizzles back to life.
“...and now, a message to all you broken, beaten and damned,” the inappropriately cheery voice is announcing. Dr Death Defying, radio broadcaster since the apocalypse in 2019. Poison can barely remember what life was like before that, to be honest.
“Today we present the love letter, a discarded letter in a bottle found not far from headquarters! Sit back, sunshine, and enjoy!”
Poison quirks a curious eyebrow. Love letters? Since when has the radio broadcasts been about those ? Or- or is he the weird one? Should he be writing Emily love letters? As a former rebel leader, he knows how to weave emotion into each of his speeches. But sappy declarations of love on pen and paper- he’s never even ever thought about doing that for her.
He hastily shoves the image of Ghoul out of his head as a snippet of crackly music plays. He hates himself. He’s fucking married, for fuck’s sake.
“Dear love.”
Someone starts talking, their voice soft and breathy. He frowns. He’s never heard that particular broadcaster before.
“I don’t even know how to start this letter. Should I apologise, say we made a mistake, or just burn all my thoughts?”
He has to admit, he’s intrigued. He knows a thing or two about mistakes.
The voice goes on. “So I’m not sending this out. I’m not naming names. I’m just sitting here, past midnight, trying not to cry as I say everything I’ve tried to hold in for years.
We made a mistake, love. Yeah, I’m calling you love, because this is all in my head so fuck loyalty, I can say whatever I want. We made a goddamn mistake walking away from each other.”
He’s surprised to find a lump in his throat. He never gets emotional about this kind of thing. But there’s something familiar about the way this speech is written. The tone of it. Which doesn’t even make sense, since the writer isn’t even the one reading it. And, well, it’s at least a situation that Poison knows all too well.
“Why were we so proud? Why did we ever cheer for revenge? Honey, if we had a dime every time one of us got jealous, we’d both be billionaires. Because damn it, you know we’re both writers. We both write about being true to yourself, about living life with no regrets. Ironically, we write all this knowing, always knowing, that what we had is forever going to be our biggest what if. I could have changed our ending; you could have. All it took was a little bit of courage. We thought we had plenty of that, didn’t we? All those nights packed in the van with alcohol and drugs. We lived our lives so amped up on the adrenaline, who were we when the high ended and we crash landed back into reality?”
His heart thuds painfully. Could it be…? Cheers for revenge- that was the Killjoy tagline. Could it possibly be…?
“I don’t want to be broken again. You were selfish and you know it. And deep down, if I can’t have you, I almost want you to be haunted by that forever. Almost. Because I’ve seen you haunted, really haunted, and I never want you to go through that again.
“Magic. Like...like fireworks,” you said that day. About us. It’s so damn stupid, because it’s crystal clear and the world can see it. Do you look at her the way you used to look at me? No, damn it, no you don’t. It might even be better if you did, because I’d at least be reassured that you were truly in love. But you’re not, so blatantly not, that I can’t help wanting to slam my head into a wall. You always try to keep up appearances, try to make everything look perfect, when you know it and I know it. You chose wrong.”
Poison’s heart is thumping like crazy now and his head is spinning. It has to be-- it has to be, it absolutely has to be!
His knuckles whiten around the handle of his coffee mug. Because he remembers saying it, the comment about magic and fireworks. He remembers it all, that interview with the rebel radio station, clear as day. Ghoul looking like an absolute dork after he said that, hiding his face from the cameras; other rebels laughing; Ghoul blushing even more.
Poison is painfully aware of the pathetic tendril of hope that’s blossoming in his chest. If it really is him, does that mean Ghoul still cares about him?
Emily, Emily, Emily, a little voice in his head warns. And, for the first time, he brushes it aside.
“I’m sorry I’m saying this, but at the same time I’m not. You don’t look like you in any of the pictures, you don’t look in love. I’m not saying you’re unhappy. You’ve got a new life, and that’s great. I mean, I spent half my life praying that you’d recover and live out your life to the fullest. I prayed that you’d have the kind of life you have now. I just kind of also, you know, included me in my vision of your future.
What about me? Yeah, I mean, neither of us got off badly. We both have pretty good lives. It’s just, the love we’d chosen could have been ours.
We chose wrong, love. So damn wrong. We weren’t blind, we never were. We just never realised you just can’t undo some things. We were just trying to endlessly overdo each other, each make a bigger move to push the other away while hoping they’d come closer. What happened in the end? We chose our best friends. Not each other.”
Images flash in front of Poison’s eyes- Ghoul, guitar slung over his shoulder, heading into the van, turning around to smile at him. The way he closed one eye, always, just before firing his gun. His stupid roller skates, his stupid tattoos, his stupid smile, and the stupid way he looked at Poison-
“You’re a new person now, as am I. The deal is sealed, everything put in a box in the attic, mark an X on the floor. Give me a shot to remember why the hell I still care.”
I have to go now, she’s waking up, and I know I sound so damn bitter, but I care so much, too much, because I keep thinking of you in that photo and how… how this life has taken the light behind your eyes.”
His heart drops. It’s definitely Ghoul, stars above, can he hear Poison’s thoughts? Or does he just know every pedantic little thing about him, up to exactly how he hides from the past in the form of dusty sealed boxes?
Damn it.
“What can I say, love? Fuck it, You’re never going to read this anyway. So...” The voice drops to a whisper. As if reveling in the knowledge of exactly what to say to drive him absolutely insane.
“Thank you for the poison, love.”
All the air leaves Poison’s body in a whoosh. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He can not be thinking these things, he can’t keep dreaming of Ghoul, because that beautiful idiot isn’t his and can never be, but-
His fingers reach for the phone, as if acting of their own accord. It’s a tug-of-war between his heart and brain now, the latter firing shots of painful reality. His apparently bulletproof heart is winning.
He presses the numbers in quick succession; he doesn’t even need to stop and think. Which makes him wonder, exactly how long has he wanted to do this? The numbers are practically burned into his eyelids in shimmering gold. But it feels right, he realises, as he hits the buttons with something bordering on relief. He can feel it, even through his juddering heart. Even through the panic and the nerves clouding up his brain.
Because he’s a fucking idiot, his logical mind is screaming, but he shoves it out of the way with a vehemence he didn’t know he possessed. Because he’s fucking stupid, but yeah, that isn’t fucking news. He’s doing this.
Steeling himself, he presses the last digit. The familiarity of that simple act is disconcerting, like coming home after eight bitter years of staying away. It’s like a sweet sip of ice cold water in the middle of a desert. Poison needs this so much, so very much. He needs him. With fumbling fingers, he takes a deep breath and hits dial.
He calls Ghoul.