Work Text:
Yeah, but it’s just like an annex. Nothing special.
Sunlight’s harassing the edges of his vision when Tim comes to, flooding every part of it. Something’s digging into the back of his neck and has been for God knows how long he’s been here. He can’t piece together anything, other than he needs to leave.
Everything was too bright, too hot, too itchy and disorienting. His memories of recent events were few and far between, and sorting through them felt like going around in circles with nothing to prove for it. It didn’t matter where he was, it didn’t matter how he got here. He needed to get out.
Climbing to his feet, the ground shifting and yielding under his weight, he tries his best to evaluate his surroundings– a field, a big one at that, stretching out as far as his vision would allow him to see. His contacts had fallen out at some point in the gap of time he was missing, another obstacle thrown into the mix.
Medication. He needs his medication. He scrambles around, searching his pockets for the bottle and failing. Not a good sign. He sinks to his knees and feels around on the ground, but the grass he’d ended up on was thick and impossible to sift through. It’s not hard to piece together that the rest of his belongings were probably lost here too.
Tears well up in his eyes, promising to slip down his cheeks. More missing time to tell his doctor about, more problems, more tests, more therapy. He hates that he can’t control it, can’t anticipate it, can’t deal with it safely. Can’t even keep track of his medication correctly.
Sniffling, he pulls his head into his knees and caves into the feeling, letting it wash over him. The hot feeling of tears sliding down his face grounds him, pulling him back to the earth with a firm grasp. It goes past tears, past sobbing, shifting into a hollow and ragged-breath squall– then into coughing, a low and convulsive hacking that forces him out of the disordered state he’s in.
If he could just focus on getting home, he could worry about all this later, but he can’t. There’s something wrong with him, like always. It’s always something he can’t pinpoint, something looming over him, something freezing him in place. Everything was becoming too much too fast. He wipes his eyes with two harsh motions, still panting from his fit.
One step at a time. He thinks to himself, taking in a few long but shallow breaths. It feels so stupid now to be following a doctor’s advice, but it’d worked before. His legs feel so far away, yet he manages to take that first step, raising himself up.
There’s grass and dirt smeared across his jeans and shirt, some stuck against the fabric and leaving stains behind. The heat was becoming too much to bear, so he slides his jacket off of his shoulders with heavy movements. He’d just leave it in his arms, but a blood stain catches his eyes– a large one, like there was a heavy gash that’d been bleeding for ages.
He couldn’t remember being injured, but the pounding headache made sense now. Feeling the back of his head, he comes in contact with dried blood. It smudges against his fingertips, and it’s turning brown from how long it’s been there. He has to stomach all his anxiety, all his worries, all his confusion. He needs to get home and clean himself up, above all else– even if he couldn’t figure out where home was.
One step at a time. Again, he reminds himself. Tim wipes his face again, some tears still managing to slip out despite his efforts to calm down. If he knew anything about his blackouts, this was probably Rosswood, so he heads towards the woods in hopes he’ll find a path.
The park guides him, shifting and changing in ways he was unfamiliar with until he manages his way onto a trail. It leads him to the main area in all its rundown glory. His car wasn’t here, he notes, but he knew his house wasn’t far. So he walks, trudging across the grass and through the other side of Rosswood, around paths and across roads, until he’s at his door. He checks his pockets, no key or phone, so he’s got to consider his other options.
He decides his best bet is Brian’s, because he’d come to him under worse circumstances, and it wasn’t like their houses were far, being conjoined and all, so he promptly knocks on his door. The knock is a little frantic and muddled, but he’s more so worried about getting his attention. It was morning, he knew that much, but he didn’t know if he had any classes today. It didn’t matter, because there was no response anyways– so he knocks again. Still nothing. The headache was becoming too awful to manage, and so Tim decides his only option is to find an unlocked window, preferably one of his.
With a huff, he presses his weight against the glass sliding door in his backyard, a tight grip on the handle. It budges against him, just barely opening. In response he frantically shoves it completely open and collapses onto the floor of his apartment. The morning light is spread across his floor, a small breeze flowing in. He just lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His jacket is tossed aside, left on the floor. He doesn’t care that his door is open, or where Brian is, all he knows is that he’s home, and for now that’s enough.
—
Waking up again is less disorienting than the previous incident. He couldn’t shower before he slept, because he knew he’d pass out if he made any attempts to be functional without some proper rest, so he manages his way to his bathroom.
His bathroom, like most of his house, was disorganized. Brian has an adjoining house with the same layout and was much better at upkeep than he ever was. It made him hyper aware of every piece of trash, every bit of loose laundry, every speck of dust collecting on the surfaces. There were some empty pill bottles collecting in his medicine cabinet, ones he let accumulate but refused to throw away, random bottles of shaving cream and other random neglected products– half-opened and scattered among the bottles.
This was him trying to keep his life together, this was him trying to be organized, and he hates it. But there's no room to focus on it when he feels so grimy, so he strips off his clothes and lets them fall into a pile on the floor. He could pick them up later, it didn’t matter now.
The water pressure in his shower is mediocre at best, and Tim can fantasize that he's being hosed down, forcing off all the dirt that's been caked into his skin while the water runs down his back.
It takes lots of effort, scrubbing, almost half a bar of soap, and a mountain of shampoo to clean himself off. There's blood spiraling down the drain in almost mesmerizing patterns as he does this. He can't wait to explain the injury to his doctor. He was one who was probably more used to mystery bruises versus mystery gashes and broken ribs.
When he does finally get clean enough, he stumbles out into the now stuffy bathroom and feels around for the cigarette box in his medicine cabinet. There was a vent above the toilet, so he sits down in his towel and lights it up, inhaling deeply. It was enough to calm him down, and he sat there for a moment in silence. His thighs peeked out from the edge of the towel, they were bright red from the heat– something that he was used to from how hot his average shower was.
He slicks his hair back with his hand, ignoring the feeling of it tickling his ears while he takes another drag of his cigarette. It’s a struggle. It’s not that his hands were damp when he grabbed it, but the whole room was practically a sauna. Eventually everything is a struggle, so he kicks his dirty clothes into a corner, puts out the cigarette, and walks out of the bathroom.
His house is lonely without Brian. Staring down the hallway, he gets a good view of his bedroom and the living room–making it painfully loud how empty the place was. Even though their houses were conjoined, Brian was always over in between classes and rarely ended up in his own bed for the night. They might as well be roommates, but Brian insisted that he needed his own space. There was no gentle noise of him on the TV, no footsteps, nothing. All he can do is hope that he’s just extra busy at work or something stupid like that.
Despite still being in his towel, he heads into the kitchen with a firm grasp on his hip. Meds, meds, meds… It takes him a second but he finds one of his spare bottles, tucked away in between seasoning jars in his kitchen. It’s haphazardly placed on the counter while he pulls a water bottle out of the fridge. Tim couldn’t drink alcohol on his meds, but Brian did, and so there was a half-drunk six pack of Miller Light sitting and staring at him while he reached in for his water bottle. He’d had some before, a few sips, and it was gross. The only reason it was here is so that Brian didn’t have to go all the way to his kitchen next door and grab it. This is enough to remind him to check in on him again, so he takes his meds in a rush and heads for his bedroom to get dressed.
His bedroom is probably the messiest part of his house. It’s where everything manages to accumulate– clothes, books, instruments, anything he owns he basically stores in here. Recently, he’d been on a reading kick, so there were piles of books on his desk with stickers for half price still on them. He lays down on his bed for a moment, shutting his eyes tightly. His hair made a wet spot on his sheets, but he didn’t care enough to move.
I woke up with no memory again. In Rosswood, actually. I lost four days worth of time. He plans in his head a script for his doctor, narrowing down the best way to explain what had happened. It’s something he’s struggling to coherently describe with how out of it he’d been. Maybe that was crucial to explaining it. After a few failed attempts, he finally sits up and begins feeling around in his dresser for a decent outfit.
His shirts were never folded, usually just a jumbled up pile in his drawer. He grabs one of Brian’s shirts, one he’d left behind forever ago, pulling it over his head and tugging on the hem to adjust it properly. It was a little big on him, with an electric keyboard graphic that’d faded over time on the front.
Hey man, where have you been? I’ve missed you. Tim imagines, trying to visualize Brian, alive and well waiting for him. He forces out the gut feeling that something’s wrong, dismissing it as anxiety. But when he arrives at his door again, fully dressed and put together, he’s still not home. This is when the actual panic sets in. He bites the inside of his cheek to try and contain himself and rationalize the situation. They were in a set sequence, a routine, there was order to Tim’s chaos because Brian had always been there to help him out after these situations happened– he didn’t have that right now.
“Man, this isn’t funny!” Tim shouts while leaning his arm against the door slightly, trying to make sure if he was inside he could hear him. No response. He sighs gently, resting his forehead against the chipped paint until he’s calmed down enough to head back inside and call his doctor.
Tim sits on one of the barstools in his kitchen with his forehead resting against the countertop, planning over the script in his head yet again– his biggest fear is saying too much and the doctor deciding he’s not fit to be out in the world deciding that he’s not sane. That he’s not normal. Normal people could keep jobs. Normal people didn’t black out for days at a time. Brian could fix this, fix him, he thinks. He knows that he wouldn’t be spiraling if he were here.
—
It’s been three weeks since Tim last saw Brian, and it’s not going well. He’s become excessively aware of just how ingrained he was into every aspect of his life, every inch coated with his name in thick black ink. He’d tried a few times to visit him, to knock on his door or peek in the windows, but to no avail. He even asked the landlord if he’d heard from him, but that wouldn’t lead anywhere until rent was due on the first of next month.
Slumped over on his couch, the TV blaring with some random game show, he’s forced to live with himself. There’s no room to perform for someone, to perceive and be perceived back. He liked Brian because he made him feel seen, not in a way that made him uncomfortable or gawked at, but in a way that really understood him. He didn’t have that anymore.
Maybe it’s from how he was raised, but being alone with himself is hard. He doesn’t really know what to do, or what people do when they’re alone. His doctor had recommended a few self help books, genuinely good ones, he insisted– but he couldn’t bring himself to actually put in the effort and read them.
His job manages to forgive him, and he only missed like, one class, so by some miracle he manages to get his professional and educational life together, but everything else is a wreck.
There’d been a lot of all over the place emotions since everyone left, mostly numbness and blind rage, and he’d ended up smashing all of Brian’s leftover beer bottles in his backyard. The glass shards were just lost in the grass behind his house now, impossible to clean up.
Tim can’t focus anymore, so he shuts the TV off and tosses the remote onto the end table. It almost knocks over some newspapers, but they’re stuck hanging off the edge ever so slightly. The mess that had accumulated in his house was becoming even worse, and he knows he has to deal with it, but it just feels so irrelevant. He had long since realized that Alex hadn’t called, and any attempts to get into contact with him had failed miserably. At the thought of him he just gets nauseous. Something instinctual in his brain telling him no, but he ignores it. He'd called him twice– once, after his doctor's visit and a second time last week, but no answer.
Alex has called him obsessive before, an offhand joke– but it stung. So he hesitates, his thumb hovering over the call button but eventually pulling completely back. This hesitation did not exist with Brian, but as of late he couldn’t even bring himself to leave a voicemail. The voice in his head was right, Brian left and was never coming back. He doesn’t even realize it, but he’s crying now. Tears sliding down his cheeks, seeping into the torn up knees of his jeans. He can’t help but blame himself for everything.
What actually happened when he was out? Had he said something, done something, hurt them? When he was in the hospital, a particularly pushy nurse had pressed him too much, and in a gap of memory he’d really hurt her. Three gashes on her arm, So bad she needed stitches at that, and he’d been violent when he was really scared before– but this was different, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s what happened. That he’d finally lost it without even knowing, like his brain desperately wanted to protect him and shield him from what he really was. A monster. A monster who scared away anyone and everyone that ever even attempted to get to know him. To really know him. Like Brian, like Alex, like Jay.
He’s stuck spiraling, sniffling into his knees and clutching them for dear life. At this moment he wishes he hadn’t smashed the bottles yet, because all he wants to do is crush something in his hands– anything.
There’s practically electric pulses running through him, fueling him, infuriating him. He has to do something about it, anything, no matter the cost. All he wants to do is calm down and that wont happen by just sitting still. His doctor, his doctor… What he’s said doesn’t matter. He can’t help him like this. One step at a time doesn’t fix this.
So he just desperately searches for anything to get a hold of himself, and it feels like his whole body is on fire. He can’t stop crying, biting back sobs as he knocks over his coffee table with as much force as he can manage. Cups crash onto the ground, papers fly into the air, books smash page first into the mess. He collapses on the ground against the couch, his back against the seats and his head tucked into his knees.
And of course now that he’s done that, it’s clear to him how much he’s spiraling. His intrusive thoughts are graphic and large in number, taunting him, and he’s just giving in. He’s just sad and scared now. As if to apologize, he places a hand on one of the legs of the table with a gentle grasp. He really needs to call his doctor.
—
Rapping on his window echoes throughout his room, and Tim immediately knows who it is. Brian with full hands, trying to get his attention. He lumbers out of his bed with a bit of a struggle, half asleep.
“Brian, I have to wake up in 3 hours.” Complaining as the window refuses to budge under his grasp. He has to try a few times before it finally works. He repeats himself for good measure, just in case he couldn’t understand him through the glass.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Brian grumbles, snickering as he rolls over the windowsill. There’s some paint scraps that fall onto Tim’s carpet from his movement, and Tim tries his best to ignore it.
“Does chips and dip make up for annoying you in the middle of the night?” Brian says while raising the chips in front of his face. They’re being dangled like a precious item, plus Brian knows damn well they’re his favorite, and the noise is beginning to bother him, so Tim reaches out and snatches them up.
“Maybe.” But Brian knows that he’s won. “You could have used the door.”
“Tried. Not open.” He mumbles offhandedly, falling back onto Tim’s bed with a huff. His back sinks into the mattress and he dramatically raises his arms up like he’s making a snow angel. Tim watches him scan his room, along tightly packed bookshelves and past his curtains, past his instrument corner, past his full laundry bin and neatly hidden trash can until his eyes fall on him.
“You look like a deer in headlights, man.” Brian remarks, like it’s supposed to be funny but it just makes Tim’s anxiety worse.
“Okay– uh, whatever. I’m gonna eat these,” Tim says while uncomfortably shifting in place, his fingers digging into the sleeves of his shirt. “you want?” Finishing off a bit more confident in himself.
“Course.” Brian responds with a grin that flaunts his tooth gap. Tim tiredly shuffles over and plops down right next to Brian, who puts his arm around the back of his head. He curls his arm inwards and begins messing with Tim’s hair, smiling softly to himself.
The chip bag was the only thing dividing them, and if not they'd most likely be pressed against each other. Tim struggles with the dip container for a second before finally placing it in the middle of them as well. It was awkward to maneuver, grabbing one and then dipping it while on his side, but he was determined.
“So, do I get to know what keeps Mr. Thomas up at night?” Tim inquires, a mouthful of salt and vinegar chips in his mouth. Brian just laughs, but it’s hollow. Tim wasn’t stupid, he knew that much, and something was clearly bothering him. He just stares, waiting for Brian to reply impatiently.
“Uhm…” He trails off.
“Look, if you–” Tim pauses to calculate his words properly. “If you need to come over when you’re upset, you can just say that. You know I’d do the same thing.” Insisting, he sits up halfway and rests his weight on his arm. Brian won’t look at him, eyes focused on the other side of the room, and he’s dropped the cool guy act and the bravado, the chill energy he’d had before. He’s no good at this, comforting people, but he’s trying his hardest. Even with just the bag between them, they’re miles apart.
Tim wonders if this is what he’s like when he’s upset, when he refuses to say anything, open up, lower the bridge so Brian can cross and help him out. He follows Brian’s precedence, pushing aside the bag and letting it rest on the floor, closing the dip jar tightly and placing it next to it, wrapping his arms around Brian’s side and letting his fingers seep into the fabric of his hoodie.
His touch is unwelcomed– Brian immediately tenses up from the pressure. He considers his options, debating pulling away, but it’s all he has. Nothing he’s saying seems to be getting to him. After a few seconds Brian relaxes, his defense faltering, and he turns onto his side.
“Can you…” Beginning with a shaking voice, Brian reaches out and holds onto the hand that Tim had wrapped around the base of his ribcage. “Can you just hold me, man? Is that enough?” Tim doesn’t say anything in reply, nudging Brian to face away from him and wrapping his arms around his waist. Brian melts against his touch this time, letting himself sink into the mattress.
It’s the last thing that Tim remembers before waking up in the field. July 16th, 2006 was the last day he ever saw Brian. It’s been 6 months, as of today. Marble Hornets was over, Brian’s house was vacant, and he was stuck in between jobs at the moment. He’s kept his sideburns, some sentimental bullshit he decided on a long time ago. Tribute to his friends that disappeared without a trace– and he told his therapist that they’re missing but that doesn’t lead anywhere beyond a police report being filed.
He has to keep going, even with the support system he’d had in place so securely ripped out from under him. He owes it to Brian, no matter what happened, even if he happened. What’s even better, is that he hasn’t lost a large gap of memory since that night, something he’d been really proud of for working on. But it's not the same, and it never will be.
The last time he thinks about Brian is on March 23rd, 2009, when he spots a missing poster plastered across from him at a run down gas station’s window among other missable faces. There’s no panic this time, no breakdown, no meltdown, nothing. He just stares from his car, gas pump in hand with a vacant expression. Everything became fuzzy so quickly, but it hurts less that way. He can move on that way. All he remembers from Marble Hornets is gone, ill-defined outlines and incoherent events. He likes it better that way.