Chapter Text
Theodore Uris was legally dead — simple; plain.
The flame had died.
It had been properly two years since Theodore Uris went missing; died, his body turned up floating in the quarry– his neck half gorged, ‘pparently it had been ruled out for murder; claw marks spread across his limbs proving it to be a misfortunate animal attack of some kind. — apparently because it’s bullshit.
All of it.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” They had said, the idea of murder never even seeming to cross their minds; if it had their faces had shown the uncaringness for that thought when Phillip Malkin had spoken up against the hushed whispers of his parents: ‘we understand it’s hard to understand that Teddy’s dead, but you need to stop making a scene.’ ‘This isn’t what Teddy would’ve wanted you to do.’ "We know that you’re trying to make sense of this in your own ways, but Mr. And Mrs. Uris don’t need to hear you talk like this.’— etcetera; Phil hadn’t really been listening, what was the point in doing that.
Blamed it solely on the fact that Phil had been the one to find him; that Phil was one of the only people looking which made it ‘harder for him to handle’— It was bullshit.
Phil was there! – they weren’t there; he was. Doesn’t that mean something?
He saw what Teddy looked like before he dragged him out of that water; he heard how unnervingly still it was in the woods surrounding— he certainly knew that the eyes he felt watching him cling to Teddy’s body; heave for air; seeing his hands that were wrapped loosely around Teddy’s neck attempting to stop the bleeding though Teddy himself had long since stopped breathing; weren’t one belonging to any animal.
But, he was the only one— he was the only one who thought it was abnormal; the circumstances of Teddy’s death, and the only one who would’ve humored him about it was the one whose casket laid six feet under dirt laced over with flowers(Monkshood; he didn’t even *like* Monkshood!) sitting on a headstone.
Phil was the only one.
again.
That was until Teddy’s body went missing from the morgue two days before his funeral.
Then everyone went crazy for the theory which seemed to sound more like the truth with ‘lead’ they had on Teddy’s case — with little assistance from Phil, admittedly, though they always told him he did great afterward, even if their brows furrowed in frustration at every small answer he gave.
He liked that.
“Did Theodore (the accursed name, Teddy hated it, not like they knew that.) have any people who may have wanted harm to come to him?”
“No.”
He did, a lot. – but in all fairness, Teddy also wanted to hurt a lot of people.
“Did you notice anything unusual regarding Theodore’s behavior the following weeks leading up to his murder?”
“Not that I can remember, no.”
He wasn’t eating; he’d barely slept— even the nights he stayed over at Phil’s to drown out the shouting at his parents; started making these vague quips about feeling ‘hunted’.
He was right.
But what good would’ve telling any of them that had been, honest? Teddy was still dead, his body was still missing— because some probable pervert; definite psycho slaughtered him like an animal then stole his body back as some sick trophy; the dead body of a thirteen year old boy. Phil was never going to hear his laugh– his voice again, he was never going to see Teddy scowl at him for doing something stupid again, he was never going to fight with him again, he was never going to talk to him again because some sick freak looked at him— got him, then murdered him.
He was told that feeling angry was normal— that wanting to avenge Teddy was normal, but he didn’t feel any of those things: didn’t feel angry particularly in ways that weren’t always there even before his Teddy’s untimely end, didn’t want revenge– what would that do?
Nothing.
Teddy was gone, and he was never coming back, no matter what.
Theodore Uris was dead; so why was his voice plaguing Phil’s consciousness? Not memories, not things he’d think Teddy would’ve said if he hadn’t had his throat gutted—; thoughts, but they were Teddy’s; words calling to him like a siren’s song, and Phil felt like a helpless sailor laying in bed listening to Teddy ask him about his day; “what've you earned at school”; “ have you replaced me yet”; “how was Susie”; “what happened to the Aliens?”
Nothing more important than getting to see you one last time, didn’t pay attention, never, she’s doing good; has a few friends of her own now, they reminded me too much of you.
— August 17th 1964 ; 2:09 AM
Phil was going crazy; he knew it; his dead best friend of two years psychically speaking to him from somewhere beyond the grave? That sounded like enough reason to be sent to Juniper Hill alone, even by Phil’s standards it was pure psycho-stuff! His head shifted against his pillow; lifting his head slightly as trees rattled against his windows yet his eyes stayed firmly shut– brows furrowed against his eyelids, a light huff escaping his throat; a deep exhale following while the thoughts stilled, bringing Phil to press his head back down against his pillow— missing by a few inches and simply deciding not to bother after much consideration with the exhaustion heavying his limbs. Face buried into his mattress, almost suffocating.
It was always almost-something— his thoughts linger upon that; he almost saved Teddy, he almost passed that English quiz, he almost made a friend, he almost made it to his pillow, he almost finished dinner.
It was never enough, none of it.
“You should open your eyes.” Teddy’s voice returned, a slight hum in his throat— as if it ached just a slight, like rain before a storm, but it sounded hypnotic– soft, as if whatever this form of delusion was could tell Phil ached for Teddy back; sick for the thought of him.
The sound itself was indescribable, shortly. — if Phil had to guess he’d supposed that it sounded like Teddy was shouting whispers at him through a cave; echo-ing off the walls.
But, what would Phil know? He’d never been in a cave.
They both waited on the suggestion for a few moments; savouring the sound of his lost one’s voice ringing in his ears as his head further burrowed into his mattress; not making any move to do what delusion-mystery-voice had proposed— hands sneaking beneath his pillow, pleasantly cold; almost to an unpleasant degree in its own oxymoronic manner. Phil’s nose was uncomfortably pressed against the firm texture of his sheets; scrunched causing his brows to furrow, he just needed to relax.
And sleep would come naturally.
“I meant– Phil, literally, look up Phil; I’m soaked. Open your window.”
Teddy’s voice returned— as did the sound of a light barely-there knock pressing against his window pane; followed by the sound of leaves roughly twisting. Phil couldn’t stop his body from shooting up; leaning on his hands— gaze immediately shot over to his window where rain had begun pouring ever-so violently, a soaked Eastern Screech owl sitting perched on the unfortunate end of the window seal; wide-eyes staring, piercing into a soul so barren it’d ache to feed off of. It was an albino creature—
“Wrong, try another word.”
Teddy’s voice cut through Phil’s train of thought rather abruptly; yet the owl stayed peering, not once changing position even as rain continued to paint its feathers, soaking it in a peculiar manner— for Phil; he’d never bared witness to an owl drenched in water; he'd seen the owl before, never this close — white feathers decaying in pigment.
“‘decaying in pigment.’”
Teddy’s quiet voice mused; teasing within the confine of Phil’s head while the small thing lightly pecked its beak against the pane, silently urging the boy to rise once more — there was a word on the tip of Phil’s tongue even as he rose, shifting less than gracefully to the side of his bed. Phil’s eyes were beginning to water; burning at the back of them; eyelids half closed in a vain attempt to hold eye contact with the owl perched and haunting.
Phil blinked slowly; blinking back the tears rubbing against his tear-ducts; brows furrowed tightly, thoughts racing against his mind; faster than his mouth could work. — He brought his hands to his eyes, scrubbing them roughly before melodramatically rubbing down his face; taking in the sight in front of him.
“Luminescence?”
A beat passed before Teddy’s voice returned; a quiet laugh belonging to what could only be described as heaven haunting Phil erupting within his eardrums following a quiet string of noise followed the owl— a shrill whinny sound Phil noted while the bird’s eyes narrowed behind the rain-streaked glass.
“Leucistic.”
“That’s what I said!”
“You did not! I heard you!”
Phil scoffed in retort to Teddy’s correction, a barely there sound; lolling his shoulders forward, head tilted in a manner that forced his short brunette hair– cold with sweat falling over his face. “Oh, don’t ignore me just because you were wrong— that’s not fair.” Teddy continued; pestering although it’d only been mere minutes without conversation whilst the owl’s beak pressed against the cold glass frame; a slight fog surrounding the outdoors.
Phil didn’t respond; didn’t look up even as he shifted himself up— pushing off of the mattress with his elbows; the mattress itself dipping slightly before he fully stood.
“You’re a dick, ya’know.” Phil mumbled quaintly as he shifted slowly; he couldn’t help but wonder as he let the big eyed wet creature into the confines of his home if this was his ideal version of Teddy; talkative, confident, passionate; verbally. He cringed at the thought, physically his shoulders tightened and his brows furrowed in discontent; was this the version of Teddy he had always hoped for– talkative instead of consistent silence? Is that why his voice was haunting him?— Was it guilt over not protecting him, or was it guilt over hoping he’d change?
What was he guilty for? He hadn't done anything.
Even now; Phil never wanted him to change, not truly. Nothing more than a passing thought. his Teddy was the ideal, the most perfect version of Teddy to ever grace the earth with his presence.
The wide-eyed owl rested against his desk, perched soaked on the wood; flapping its wings momentarily like a dog would shake water off of its coat. “I don’t talk a lot – I think a lot, this isn’t talking.” Teddy’s voice hummed; almost mildly offended by the assumption he spoke too much whilst his bird companion buried its beak within the wet feathers; soaking onto the pile of weeks-past-due homework Phil had scoured around. Almost an act of defiance; would've been if the papers had been of any importance. “Then what are we doing- what is this, hmm? – do tell.” Phil inquired, nose scrunching while his head tilted; not yet looking at the eastern screech owl preening its feathers in the corner, eyes focused on the dimly lit road. “Thinking. We’re thinking– together.” The words rung out momentarily, causing Phil’s brows to furrow against his eyelids; head shifting to the owl now peering along— a glint obvious within its black eyes; symbolizing..
See Phil couldn’t lie; he had no clue, he didn’t know if he wanted to have a clue; he wanted to sleep, and mourn. Forevermore, preferably. Not decode the symbolic meaning behind the owl's eyes, and his best friend's voice looming in his head after they buried an empty casket.
“Righ- hm..- right? Because that makes sense, huh?– That’s meant to make sense?” Phil spoke, leaning over his window-seal; teetering on pushing himself out of such— splatting his body against the concrete path leading to his backdoor; right smack-dap in the middle. A bloodied pile of gore, maybe he'd be at peace then, meshed onto the concrete. Phil shuddered; shoulders shifting on the seal, eyes squeezing shut.
“Not my fault you can’t comprehend our devotion.” The bird squeaked along, a verbal aid.
“I don’t think it counts as an ‘us-thing’ when one of us is in the dark.” Phil continued; propping his chin against his hand, eyes opening reluctantly, narrowing at the cat wandering into his backyard. He quite liked cats; he quite hated Scotty. — he shifted his palm to cover his mouth, index finger almost yet-not-quite poking his eye. “And I’m trying to turn on the light, am I not? ” and Phil could practically imagine Teddy’s presence sitting at the desk that didn’t belong to him but practically had his name engraved into the wood; waving a dismissive hand while he worked on some task that could’ve surely waited until Phil wasn’t aching for his attention. — a time that would never come.
Etched in baby blue lighting smothered in underlying red mixing into a purple that felt oh-so suffocatingly non-present; Phil ached for it– him.
“Right.”
A moment of silence fell upon the room; Phil’s eyes dropping to nothing in particular, lips parting slightly. He remembered how it felt to have Teddy; to actually hear him, feel him, talk to him; he remembered how it felt to have Teddy at arms length at all times, and the one time he didn’t— the one time it mattered, truly, was the time he lost him.
“Right.”
Teddy’s voice hummed; a fond sound alluding to the idea he would’ve been smiling just a slight– but Teddy rarely smiled when he was alive; not one for visual expression, nor verbal. Nevertheless that small word sounded so sweet in his ears, pitifully soft — “You should get to sleep, I’ll talk to you later.” Teddy continued; a sigh lacing his tone, wrapping it up in a silk veil of fondness, one that Phil knew he would chase forevermore.
The clock resting by Phil’s bedside table read a haunting string of numbers: 2:36 AM —
Jesus Christ on a bike— Phil had been talking to himself and an owl he was deluding himself into thinking was his dead best friend for thirty-ish minutes, give or take.
Was it– living- always this hard without Teddy?
It was, wasn’t it?
This wasn’t living.
Teddy was dead, and Phil was screwed.