Work Text:
There were a lot of things Simon remembered about Fool Bright. Or the Phantom. He switched between the wording in his head depending on how much he wanted to disconnect himself from it all, frankly.
He remembered that bright smile of theirs, the one they were practically always flashing. The one that made something sickeningly warm spread through Blackquills chest, even in the tainted memories he was searching through now.
He remembered the blank, almost annoyed look he had when he was revealed as the Phantom. The look that made Simon sure that they’d seen this all as some game. Those eyes which previously seemed so bright had become empty voids, staring forward, as if this was all some bother for them to deal with.
He remembered so much of the Phantom, yet he knew so little. He didn’t know their real name, their true personality, for the love of God— he didn’t even know their face.
He supposed that meant he knew just about the Phantom as the Phantom knew about themselves, then.
He wishes he could push all these memories away. Say that those times meant nothing, that the Phantom meant nothing. Maybe that would make the hurt go away. Maybe he could believe he’d never fell for their tricks in the first place. Maybe he could stop hoping that some part of it— even if the smallest part, wasn’t a trick at all. How pathetic.
And yet, one particular memory never left. Refused to, even, as if his horrid brain was Blackquill for ever letting someone in in the first place.
The Phantoms terror. That wouldn’t leave.
He couldn’t forget how pitiful they sounded when they admitted how scared they were, as if the realization they felt fear at all terrified them deep to their core as well. He couldn’t forget how their eyes darted toward every corner of the courtroom, speaking to an invisible person none of them knew. Begging them for mercy, for them to reveal themselves, pleading with them to see they hadn’t done anything wrong.
He remembered the frantic way they’d tried to search for their true face, clawing at their masks like a parasite stuck to their flesh, one of their own creation. Remembered how desperately they’d wanted to know who they were, if they were anything, perhaps, despite the risk of them being shot. The risk they themselves had pointed out not long ago.
But one part of that memory was burned into his brain, like a red hot branding to his skull.
The Phantoms face right before they’d been shot.
Simon had seen fear in the faces of many people in prison. The betrayal of those falsely convicted, the hope mixed with trepidation of those awaiting a re-trial. The despair of those on death row, marching to the same path as he once was. But for all the fright he’d seen in his life— he’d never seen anything like Fool Brights.
Maybe it was simply because he’d never seen true fear on Fool Brights face before that moment. Maybe it was their mental break leading up to it. Maybe it was the way their body shook uncontrollably, the way their previously perfect imitation of Bobby’s hair was messy and frazzled, the way they gasped right before they’d been struck— as if they’d finally seen the one who had tried to take their life just a second later.
(Now that he thought about it, that was probably the only time he’d heard the Phantoms true voice.)
But with all the fear he’s seen in others, he’d never seen anything like this. The terror of being nothing and no one, not knowing your past, who you ever were, if you ever were ever anything. The dread of knowing you’d die before you ever got the answer, knowing the thing you’d sacrificed everything for would kill you anyway.
Surely, the sacrifice Simon was thinking of was of their identity of face. They couldn’t possibly have seen betraying Simon as a sacrifice. (He hopes they did, just a bit.)
Though most shameful of all, maybe, Simon remembered the dread that seeped through his core seeing the other that way. He could perfectly recall how he’d felt, as much as it disgusted himself. The repulsive, selfish, illogical thought that didn’t make a bit of sense—
That he didn’t want this to happen to them. Even with all they’d stolen from him, with all the lies, all the betrayal…
Desperately, he didn’t want them to die.