Work Text:
With accompanying art here.
He couldn’t see. His sharp eyes ruined. There had been a flash, or two or three, but that had been a while ago. Too many silent minutes had passed. He reached for his comm, thinking of who to call, who will be there, who is always there for him.
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The mission has been abandoned. Too much has gone wrong. It was a bad call. Red streaks met white ground and the splatters leave a trail to home. His judgment was impaired, is impaired. It’s obvious now. The way he ran, the way he didn’t stop for anyone else, the way he only reached out for one person. It was much too clear, dangerously clear. There’s nowhere he can hide.
Everything was pain, everything was wrong, everything was narrowed vision and ill-advised words. He was so selfish, so greedy for every moment and every breath. Hungry for the minutes that made him feel human, not a machine with a gun. Too hungry and he ate too fast. It was his fault. His fire he started, his key in the ignition. He began something he knew he couldn’t finish. Something he knew he’d never have the courage to finish. He was weak. Now he was left with the ruins of something once great.
He was there. He reached and he felt him, checking. He was fine. Pulled him in, no words, no sound. Winter chill unfelt in the negative space between them. He needed to show him. Look at me, he said with a touch. His eyes trail on: my fault, my mess. I’m selfish, this is for the best. Blood loss, too much, pain, fears, faults, tears. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
His eyes were dark. There was so little light. What little there was reflected on faces too grim to speak.
He dropped his hand and stepped away. He had already said it all; it was ending, it was gone, it never should have begun. His eyes had spoken the last word. The sun was gone behind black snow and trees cut teeth into the sky. Without a torch, he sludged down a jagged dark path.
He would clean his mess and clear his mind with each shovel of mud he slung. The unsung deserve a deep grave, even if unmarked but for a memory. His fault. He sensed breath on his neck but he held fast. A rhythm was pounding. His arms moved steady without a thought. The breath still blew across his back. He had opened and everything had rushed out. He was done moving forward with him. He had to slow and fix what he had wrecked. He wasn’t going to tether a good man to a lost cause. He thought he could swallow his heart into a black hole where nothing returned and nothing was lost, but his heart had lied and let the truth out. They had tried. That was enough. He didn’t want to hide anymore.
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He hated his past. He was so selfish. He had made a bad call. He ran to the wrong person, he had missed the right time. He was grabbed but not touched. It was all the wrong reasons and nothing was right. He was still selfish, they both were in pain. But he couldn’t let him go again. His blood led him to a house but his heart led him home.
He ran. He reached. He pulled him from a grave of brown meant for a ghost who wasn’t him. Cold shovel replaced with hot hands. Look at me, he said with a touch. His eyes spoke: No. No faults, no fears, no shock, no tears. Yes, pain. But that is our world. You are not Atlas alone. This is no child’s game. I stand close because I want to and I need to. I stand close because I hear your name and I come. It is dark, it is cold. Red never washes from our hands. But demons can be shared.
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Tight hands keep cold hands warm. But cold hands struggle with the heat. We can’t, we can’t. His fingers flex and break out from a tempting nest. His heart was a cloudy mess that shook his hand. The world needed something stable. They had to run from each other and not run back. The clock ticks forward and doesn’t wait for a steadying breath. He was ruined. So they can’t.
He turned, teeth gritted, and left.
Warm hands don’t give up, but sad eyes hide before fingertips touch. He couldn’t, they couldn’t. My fault my fault. What light remained must stay untouched. He didn’t want to cage the last rare bird. Sad eyes meet bright and fake walls crumble. He couldn’t, they couldn’t. How can I go? Please let me go?
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Tight hands, still jaw. Winter hoards small warmths for other people, not disasters nor broken tin toys. Sad eyes are vacant eyes, and warm eyes are questions that never can be answered. Pasts too dark, too red. Shadows too long to escape.
Don’t get too close eyes cry it’s dark inside. It’s cold, it’s alone, it’s never knowing home. It’s pain, fears, and cracks too wide to repair. It’s falling, bruising, and stumbling without light. It’s lonely. It’s silent. It’s dark.
It’s a past they can’t escape. It’s a future they cannot find.