Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John's not a total idiot.

He knows he’s impulsive, can get reckless. Other people’s emotions aren’t necessarily his problem, and he can’t give them a solution at all. But just because he’s not the best doesn’t mean he’s insensitive. He’d like to think he’s at least halfway decent at discerning the small, almost imperceptible changes in others’ faces considering his poker face and concealed identity of two years. 

They’re not playing Texis Hold’ Em, after all.

It’s just Unopoly. A low-stakes board game that they used to play at the Safe House. Just Unopoly in a giant mansion from a family member who never knew he even existed for eighteen years. The sun is still setting and pale orange stipples the floorboard and walls, pinholes of light dappling their arms. Remi sits directly across from him, arms linked with Blyke’s, whose arm is linked with Isen’s, her tongue sticking out as she decides if she wants to buy the property. Isen is counting his cash. Sera sits next to him, mindlessly rifling through the houses -- said it was stimulation of some kind. Whatever, she’s enjoying herself. 

John looks down at his own sad stack of bills, then sits back on his hands. Blyke has his back against the wall: Doc said that he was going to have “back problems”; what that entailed was lost on John, but Blyke said the wall support was nice. 

His face tells a different story. 

Scrunched up nose. He looks down and sees Blyke’s hands trembling, sweat pooling on his arms and neck. The shadow beneath his legs wraps around him somehow, a halo drenched in tar, but it just sits there. Doesn’t spread. His arms lock a bit tighter around Remi and Isen. He’s looking at the board, but. He’s not there. He’s not looking at the board. Through the board, like something might come up. 

No, like he’s neither here nor anywhere. 

It’s subtler: in the gooseflesh prickling up, the way his arms lock tighter around their elbows, the manner how he’s looking down to the ground. To make sure he’s here, and not dragged to the past by his hair. John doesn’t want to be the hand in Blyke’s hair.

It scares him.

He drags his gaze away from Blyke and flicks it towards Arlo. His eyes are nearly closed. Nearly. But even through the baggy sweater, John can tell his arms are tensed. Fingers hooked to the floorboards. Sinking into the carpet. He rakes his fingers along the carpet, scattered.

John scoots over and presses his shoulder against Arlo’s, bringing his knee to Arlo’s knee. Enough pressure to make it sting a little. Sticking to him like glue.

His eyes get a little less glassy, and his jaw closes. It’s not too well. But it’s okay. It'll all be okay. 

Chapter Text

As soon as Kuyo hears Isen open the door to Remi’s room, he knows he won’t be able to rest anymore. So, he gets up and tiptoes around Beatrice’s house quietly while detangling the knots in his hair with his fingers, controlled and soft so as to not tug on them and rip his hair out of his scalp.

He’s kind of pissed. They go out, which is the one thing they’re not supposed to do right now, considering a group of high-ranking government executives are out to kill them. Not even arrest. Kill. It nearly happened before, and with Remi….Kuyo sighs and drags a hand down his face, frowning.

“She doesn’t know when to quit sometimes,” he grumbles to himself. Before he realizes, he’s downstairs with the light on, grabbing a glass from one of the cabinets and fetching himself a cold glass of water. Gulps it down and turns the tap to get another glass. But he's no longer thirsty.

He takes his glass and sits at the dining table, making sure to turn off the kitchen light beforehand. Just fidgets with his sleeves and stares at the glass, as if it's going to do anything. As if the situation they're waist-deep in is going to change with just a flick, or a stray drop. 

But, the drop won't appear without a source, a vessel. The ripples cannot happen. 

It's frustrating to live like this, alone. Being relied upon but having as much reliability as a plucked piece of astroturf. To have to know what you're doing without the pieces; just willpower. He clenches his fists, and his mouth starts to quiver, and the headache he has come to love and hate pulsates. The feelings he can no longer describe burst in a kaleidoscope.

“Rei,” he whispers hoarsely. His throat is tight. “I miss you. ‘S not the same without you here. Wish it was easier. Wish Remi wasn't hurt. Wish I wasn't so tired.”

When he looks up, all he sees is the empty chair across from him. He can't cry, isn't in the mood to cry, but his face twists into something ugly. And that's just the same, isn't it?