Work Text:
“Spoke,” Mapicc, his dear Mapicc says, his loving-caring Mapicc says in a tone that borders on stern. When Spoke turns from where he is working on organizing his inventory– really, a pointless task, he’s been more forgetful and too busy to organize it, and it will probably end up scattered again, but it is worth a shot, right?
At the very least, it gives something for his nail-bitten hands to do.
“Yes, Mapicc?” Spoke draws out the ‘s’ sound, putting on the smile only meant for his best friend Mapicc. It is smaller, more genuine and warm than the white crescent he puts on when he’s around anyone else. Everyone else who cannot see beneath his carefully crafted facade. The facade of a jester in court that distracts everyone from the fact that his mind is quickly fracturing, a fact he probably shouldn’t be aware of, but does. He feels sort of like a patient being told that he only has a couple days left to live. Except he’s the patient and the doctor and the failing body and the hospital room.
He slowly draws his drifting soul, a fish on the hook of a fishing rod, back to his body as Mapicc’s face darkens, in a way that makes Spoke’s stomach flip. But maybe he’s overreacting. The guilty mind will make up a lot of things. He would know. He’s been seeing roses for months, has pricked himself on invisible thorns, watched blood-not-blood spill from fingertips. Whether it was his or… Well he didn’t know.
Mapicc doesn’t say ominously, “we need to talk.” He just crosses his arms and says, “I know what you’ve been hiding.”
And well isn’t that something. Isn’t that what Spoke’s been trying to hide for so long? The years of lies that he’s twisted into a web that now knots and pins him with sticky string, a bug in front of a hungry spider. His lies and his lies and his guilt and the fact that he sometimes can’t feel his fingers, sometimes watches them disappear and flicker, TV static, smoky in front of his eyes as he stands curiously. As if his own body can’t decide whether it is really actually there or not. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes his arms itch really badly, ants under skin, deep lightless black under blue-gray skin that comes away under his stubby nails.
And wasn’t that a horror the first time it happened. To realize that he is not in fact made of light, has nothing warm and bright and soft inside him, that he’s not made of starmatter and shifting colors but instead of the absence of anything beautiful. Darkness you can get lost in and starve and die and lose yourself. And the losing yourself is the worst part, worse than raw, gnawing hunger. He would know.
All these thoughts flash in a moment-not-moment, an hour in a couple seconds, or maybe a minute. Spoke’s smile dims and drops, caught off guard. His gaze slips past Mapicc’s face, because he can’t look at the hurt and betrayal, the disappointment in his best friend’s, reason for living, eyes. He looks at Spoke like Spoke proved something Mapicc wanted him to disprove, like he had been giving Spoke the benefit of the doubt only to find that Spoke had deserved doubt all along. But it was only so long the boy could call wolf before the townspeople left him to rot in dog teeth, sharp ripping fangs, right?
Spoke stands there, looking at Jumper, her goggles skewed on top of her head, her hands fiddling with the sleeves of her pastel sweater, someone he hadn’t viewed as a friend before but now likes. He thinks. He thinks he thinks of her as a friend. Not Mapicc level, but she helped him wash his hair when he couldn’t get the energy, helped him find Mapicc and she stayed. Spoke is standing there and he feels the wolf’s teeth ripping through his chest, gaping hole leaking lifeblood, exposing the beating wet red of his heart, oh wait, that’s guilt? That’s sadness? That’s the ache of bitter self-hatred, of finding yourself only to lose it.
His breath hitches, ugly and grating against the cracks in his ribs, catching like-like- he can’t find the words. His back hits the wall before he realizes he's moving backwards, and he’s never moved backward from Mapicc before, always moved towards him, always raising his arms to crash into an amazing, warm and caring hug, always wrapping his arms like he’s never going to let go. He wishes he never let go. He wishes for a hug. But neither of them seem very willing to give him one.
Spoke feels… terror. Different from the kind of instinctual fear he got from being chased by Null, no, this is something deeper, more wounding. Something he’s only felt once, and not the whole brunt of it, not like this. Because they know everything, they know everything, every secret he bled and berated over, every secret he kept to keep them safe and they don’t know this so he should probably tell them, right? That’s a good plan, huh? The best?
He feels really cornered right now, skinned and sliced open, butterflied open like a frog in a science lab, gutted like a fish His tail curls around his leg as his facade attempts to make one last gallant stand and trips and falls flat on its face. Oh well, they already know of everything.
“I can explain,” he says, his tongue like lead, heavy and metal in his mouth– no that’s blood from where he bit his cheek too hard. Mapicc gives him the go on, and he’s still here, isn’t he? And that means he probably won’t leave? That means he’s hearing Spoke out? And maybe Spoke can lie– no they know everything. Wait, why is lying his first idea? That probably says something about his character. Not now, Spoke, he chides silently. He will tell his reasoning, long overdue and they will be like, we understand, Spoke, we understand and we forgive you and then they will hug him and everything will be back to normal and he won’t be alone.
“I- I know that I did some bad things-” he starts, and Jumper looks away and Mapicc snorts. Spoke’s ear twitches at the sound but he does not comment on it. Doesn’t let himself overthink what that means.
“But I–I did it for us, to keep us safe. That’s- That- That’s why I kept it a secret.” Words come up out of his throat in a stuttering torrent. To think that he was so good at words, so good at lying, so good at convincing people not to kill him, to help him, anything. Anything but this.
"Please–” and he doesn’t know how he wants to finish it, doesn’t know quite where he’s going with it, feels all too hopeless and powerless and desperate and he takes a staggering step forward. A sob builds in his throat as Mapicc, Mapicc’s red, soft hoodie shifts, creases and Mapicc takes a step back. He takes a step back. He’s never done that before. Always met Spoke in the middle. Always reciprocated Spoke’s lunging hugs with the same enthusiasm, always promised that they would stick with each other until the ends of the earth. But always, always, always was a lie. A lie. A lie.
“Mapicc–” it catches in his throat like glass, breaks into shards that scrape the inner lining until it rips and tears. Mapicc looks at him with a pained look. But why? It wasn’t so wrong, was it? That he had secrets? They all had secrets. It wasn’t enough to leave over, right? Right? Right, right, right, right, right?
“Spoke,” Mapicc says carefully, beautiful-present-everything Mapicc that he had just gotten back. “You said– we promised that we would tell each other everything.”
What was he talking about? When? Was he talking about the time where he lied and pretended he was Leowook? Was he talking about the roses? Was he talking about the almost blowing up of Capitol City? There were a lot of things he could be talking about, a lot of stains on his soul, but Spoke knew this already, Mapicc knew it too. Had been there when Spoke had confessed that Ash had told him that they were the same. Confessed as if to a priest, baring his sins, telling him that he had feared it was true. And Mapicc had said, “don’t say that, no you aren’t” with such conviction Spoke had almost believed it to be true. Where was that conviction now?
Mapicc had been there when Spoke had pulled him away, had been there when SPoke had pressed a shiny serrated dagger into Mapicc’s hands and begged him to kill him right then and there. Because it was better to die in his friend’s arms than all alone. Because he would rather see Mapicc’s face, tearful and bloodstained and scared as he fruitlessly pressed trembling hands to the bleeding wound in Spoke’s chest, rather see that then empty sky.
He had offered Jumper the same. Had told her his stasis was unguarded. Had told her that she could be the hero of the story. Had told her she should drop him into the void. Had expected it. And she had looked at him like he was crazy and said the same thing Mapicc had said. "Why would I do that?" And wasn't the reason right in front of them? Wasn't it there all along?
But they let the monster live and now they were scared?
It wasn’t fair.
“Please-” he tries again, softer, trying for the voice he used to comfort Mapicc, trying for genuine and full of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know if I can accept that,” Jumper says quietly, her fingers finding a loose string and unraveling it. “I don’t know about Mapicc, but… Spoke, this– this is a lot.”
“We were supposed to be best friends” Mapicc says, and he’s not meeting Spoke’s eyes, why is he not meeting Spoke’s eyes?
“We are! We– we are. Right?” Spoke says hastily, tearfully, hands raising with nowhere to be, like they want to grab the invisible pieces of the broken whatever in front of them. They drop when they realize he doesn’t know how, slipping under his sleeve to scratch at the patch of itchy skin on his arm.
“It doesn’t feel like it.” Mapicc mumbles.
“We’ve all done bad things though, I don’t– I don’t-”
“See what’s the problem?” Mapicc finishes, his voice getting firmer. “That’s the problem. You don’t know when to stop. When to apologize. When to be serious. When to be vulnerable.” His voice catches on the last word, and Spoke wants to rush forward, cup Mapicc's face in his hands and apologize, make it better, wipe that wobbling frown off his face. Tell him it's all going to be okay, even if he doesn't believe it himself. Because who cares about that. Who cares about whether Spoke feels like every step is one step closer in the march to looming death? Who cares that every lie was an attempt to make it so that Mapicc and maybe even Jumper don't have to go through what he had to. Whatever that was. But he doesn;t want to make it worse. Or maybe he can't move. He stays still.
“I–” Spoke pauses, his eyesight growing blurrier. His tail tightens on his leg to the point of almost restricting blood flow. Words are hard to come by. His legs begin to tremble and he leans back on the wall for support. “I don’t understand. You have secrets too, why is it a problem when I keep some?”
“I don’t keep secrets like this from you!” Mapicc says, hurt. “I barely knew anything about what you were doing, and I still followed you like a lost puppy! I think that’s worth something! Any communication? Did you not trust me?”
“Did you ever consider us friends, Spoke?” Jumper asks, brown eyes finding Spoke’s. Mapicc flinches at the question as if he’s scared of the answer. “What were we to you?” Stupidly, Spoke can’t find the words to tell Mapicc that he’s everything. Can’t find the words to tell Jumper that he likes her company. That he appreciates the things she does for him even if it doesn’t seem like it. There is no words in his head, just a repeating voice saying, your fault, your fault, your fault, a broken record of awful, crippling, muting self-hatred.
“Safe, safe, safe” Spoke babbles, chokes out, as water threatens to drown him, as tar drips down into his lungs and begins to fill them up, inky and cold. “It was to keep you safe. I did it–”
“For us, yeah that’s what you said. But did you ever think about what we wanted? Spoke, I would have stayed had you just told me what was going on. If you had just been honest.” Mapicc folds his arms more tightly to his chest, looking like he’s about to cry. But he doesn’t cry. Mapicc doesn’t cry. He’s always been the stronger of the two of them both physically and emotionally. Where Spoke was a drifting ship, Mapicc was the anchor. Where Spoke was a manic, energetic presence, Mapicc was a calm chaos. His constant. His heart.
And Mapicc is about to cry because of Spoke.
Spoke’s hurt him in the past, by accident. Got too carried away, lashed out when he was too emotional, all claws and teeth, but Mapicc had been patient. Had always had an all-encompassing kindness and gentleness reserved only for best friend Spoke.
And now, where they had previously been tied at the hip, now there was a steadily increasing gap between them, a ravine wide enough that it was getting too dangerous for Spoke to jump over if he didn’t move quickly. The fall would kill him.
“Oh,” he whispers. Because Mapicc’s words implied that he was going to leave. In trying to keep them safe, he had misjudged, failed to look ahead, had assumed that he would never be here, assumed that his plans would go right, because the universe made sure that all his plans worked out in some way. But maybe it was Mapicc instead. Or maybe Mapicc was the universe. And now he was going to lose it.
In trying to keep them safe, in isolating themselves for fear of them being too terrified of what he truly was, of his thoughts, he had truly isolated himself. He had pushed them too far and the rope connecting them to him had broke and he was drifting in the open ocean with no food and no compass and no oars and there were shark fins in the water.
They were waiting. He didn’t know what for, just that the wall was hard and cold and pressing on his back. Just that they were sad and he was sad and he didn’t know how to fix anything. DIdn’t have a clue.
“Please–” he tries again. The definition of insanity, doing things again and again and again the same and expecting that the results would change. He was insane but Mapicc made him sane and Mapicc would make him sane now, right?
It wasn’t the right thing to say. Mapicc steps back on his heel as if to go, and Spoke makes a pathetic noise, somewhere between a whimper and a whine, one he would be embarrassed about if his world wasn’t falling apart because his actions have terrible, horrifying consequences and he can’t bend down to pick up the pieces. Can’t fall down at their feet and beg for forgiveness. Can’t clasp his hands and pray to an emotionless god. Can’t, can’t, can’t. It sounds like a death rattle, the chasm growing wider, deeper.
“Don’t go–” he staggers forward again. His legs give up at the wrong time, his knees hitting the ground hard– oh here’s the kneeling, the posture of humility and forgiveness, but it doesn’t matter because Mapicc is turning away– his heart stopping, chest hitching and shaking as he scrambles to pick up the pieces, too late, too late, too late.
Mapicc is saying something and he strains to hear it over the sound of this thumping heart, over the sound of his racing breaths, hot and heavy in his ears. It’s going to be something like, oh Spoke I forgot something, hang on, I’ll be right back! But it’s not forgiveness. It’s a mumbled, “I need some time to think about this.”
Spoke’s smile, watery and desperate drops as the dam breaks. As he watches Mapicc’s retreating figure, Jumper following behind. And why had everything gone so wrong? Was it because he was unfit for this? Unfit for making friends? Unfit for living? An ugly sob breaks out of his mouth, tears spilling down his face, drip dripping. His form shifts, hazy at the edges. He buries his face in his hands as he attempts the jump over the chasm and misses the edge by a foot. Falling is always the worst part, he thinks blearily, as the stone walls speed past, as his hair whips up around his face, his body cold and weightless and empty. It’s just waiting for the cruel break of body on unforgiving pavement, the give of bone and muscle under the force of gravity, making a mess of something that used to be perfect.
But well, he never used to be perfect. He was never perfect at all. But it hadn't bothered Mapicc until now.
He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand. Mapicc had to come back. He had to. All their shared laughs and hugs and all the difficult moments they found each other through again couldn’t all be for nothing right? They gravitated each other like celestial planets. Sentences weren't finished without Mapicc and Spoke. Mapicc-and-Spoke. They, like two magnets, right back to the other. Without fail. It was truth. Sacred truth.
Because Mapicc had promised, always. He had promised forever. And Spoke might not be able to keep his promises but Mapicc always did.
So Spoke would wait, a perfect statue, knees growing numb, his gaze fixed on the ground, rigid, tears a steady trickle down his jaw, speckling the ground with dark spots, his heart off with Jumper, the cage of his ribs birdless. He could wait there, loyally, head bowed, shoulders shaking with periodic sad shakes. He would. He would.
Spoke’s tail curled up on the ground next to him.
Please hurry, Mapicc. Mapicc you promised. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. He watched the sharks in the water, bloodthirsty, gray scarred fins slicing through the weathered sea.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The area around him remained silent, his body unresponsive. Something about giving sinners a second chance, right? He would be better if Mapicc came back. He couldn’t lose him. Not again. Not ever. Two-in-one.
I love you Mapicc.
It was still silent.
Spoke really didn’t want to die alone. And Mapicc knew this. And he loved Spoke. And Spoke loved him. And that logically added up to Mapicc coming back and whispered apologies and a long-awaited hug and everything being okay.
And he could wait for that. He could. He was normally impatient, too much energy to do so much, but if Mapicc needed this from him he could do it. Just for Mapicc. Just for everything right. Just for earth back beneath his feet. Just for a hand in his own.
Spoke closes his eyes and drifts off to the muffled music of silence. He whispers promises to himself. He will come back. He will come back. He will come back.
He will come back.
It's just a matter of time.
He's always been a good liar.