Chapter Text
The odd mark on the back of his neck was nearly gone.
It had faded along with the bruises on his side and back that had shown up at around the same time. Colt wasn't sure how to feel about it.
Staring into the mirror, Colt absently rubbed at the small pinprick mark he knew was just out of sight and once again tried his best to come up with an explanation for its existence.
It had stuck around for what felt like too long to be a bee sting, it was in too odd of a spot to be a pencil, and it was too precise and small to be most of the other things Colt had tried reasoning it to be.
Growing up sharing every injury with your twin brother was certainly a unique experience, though back then, whenever a new cut, scrape, or bruise showed up, all they had to do was ask the other where it had come from.
In theory, Colt could just call up his brother and ask what had caused it and put his mind at ease, but there were far too many reasons why he couldn't.
For one, he didn't know Ryland's number anymore, and Ryland certainly didn't know his, since he'd changed it years ago.
For another, even if he did manage to remember, there'd probably be far too many other topics of conversation his brother would want to address first before a random injury he'd probably forgotten he'd gotten by now anyway.
Disappearing from people's lives was like that- he was gone for so long that it'd take too much to show back up again. Too many questions, too many reproaches, too many memories he didn't want to go digging out again.
He'd been gone for so long that returning was more effort than it was worth.
So Colt was resigned to staring in the mirror, rubbing at a spot on the back of his neck that had stopped stinging days ago, wondering how on earth Ryland had gotten it.
The odd mark on the back of his neck was gone, along with the bruises.
It had been a while since they'd faded, and Colt hadn't noticed anything new show up since.
It was almost unsettling.
While getting into stunt-work meant Colt was usually the one who ended up giving more than receiving the injuries that both of them shared, after…
The incident, as he'd ominously dubbed it in his head to avoid thinking about it too much.
After the incident, it was actually Ryland who gave them the majority of their injuries. Despite how much shit his brother gave him for his choice of profession, it wasn't like he was any better at keeping them from getting hurt.
With how spatially unaware his brother could be at times, it's a wonder he hasn't accidentally gotten them nearly killed or something (but no, that honour rested firmly on Colt's shoulders).
All that said, it was unusual to go this long without a small cut on his finger from what might've been a broken beaker, without a bruise on his hip from what could've been an accidental run-in with a desk.
Nothing.
Why was nothing so strange?
Not being injured should be normal, it shouldn't feel off, it shouldn't make Colt's fingers press sharply into the back of his neck, hoping to feel something that was no longer there.
Colt had spent a lot of his life injured in some way. Most of them were small… some of them not as such, but always something, a reminder he wasn't alone despite how he'd cut himself off from everyone he'd known. Whether it be something he'd gotten from his brother, a way to know he was still out there living his life, or whether it was something he knew someone else out there was feeling with him, a connection despite how fragile.
Despite everything, there had always been this to connect the two of them.
His neck started to ache as his fingers pressed deeper into the flesh. He brought his shaking hands away and forced them back to his sides, clenching his fists until they stopped trembling.
Colt hadn't realized just how much he'd been depending on these small signs Ryland was out there somewhere, living on without him, until now.
Had it been months? How long had it been since the mark had shown up? How long had it been since the injuries stopped?
Colt couldn't recall how long it had been, but it had definitely been long enough that he couldn't sit around doing nothing anymore.
Despite telling himself he had no way of knowing Ryland's phone number, he'd always known that wasn't entirely true.
He knew somewhere in a collection of his old things, there was a phone number, written in soft, careful handwriting. All he had to do was pull it out, and he'd have what he needed (given Ryland hadn't changed his number in the… years since he'd last spoken to him).
He just had to…
Maybe he could wait just a few more days.
His back ached as he carried the boxes out of the back of his closet. Were they always this heavy?
He'd never wanted to look at any of this ever again, but something deep in his chest ached at the idea of getting rid of it. So he'd shoved every reminder of his old life in several boxes and buried them as deep as he could under winter jackets, worn t-shirts, and blankets.
He hadn't spared a single thought for the contents for so long that he would have thought he'd succeeded in forgetting about them entirely by now.
As he looked at the 5 large boxes taking up most of the floor space in the room, he once again wondered if he could put this off for just a little longer. Just a few more days, he'd be ready then for sure.
He won't be.
Colt begins to peel the tape off the first box.
The moment it's open, Colt feels like he's falling again. It's hard to catch his breath as his eyes scan over movie posters, small set pieces he'd stolen, and photographs with cast members.
There's an uneasy sinking in his chest that only gets worse as he begins to pull things out, hands glancing over Stunt Team jackets and prop weapons he'd gotten to keep, items he barely lets himself look at before dropping them on the floor.
I got that photo autographed during a break between shots because a cloud had covered the sunlight, and they couldn't continue the scene until it had moved.
He added it to the growing pile.
I think that's the first stunt team hat I took home with me.
It was dropped on top of the jackets.
There's actually a small printing error on this poster where the-.
Colt shoved the box aside, it was nearly empty, and he hadn't spotted what he'd been looking for.
With more force than was strictly necessary, he pulled the tape off the second box.
More photos, more props, more memories he wasn't in the mood to relive.
The belongings of the second box found themselves scattered about with even less care than the first.
He peeled the tape off the third box and just started riffling through its contents, no longer spending time to pull them out, to let them take up a single second of his thoughts, no longer caring what old photos he was crushing as he shifted objects out of the way.
At last, he felt his hands brush against the edge of a bag, and hoping it was the right one, he yanked it out of the large collection of items.
A quick glance inside confirmed what he hoped it contained, and Colt staggered to his feet.
He'd have to deal with all this eventually. he'd have to go back to his room, put everything back in the boxes, and hide them again for another eternity, but for right now, he was going to sit down in the living room and pretend none of it existed.
Which was a hard thing to do when carrying a bag of Get Well cards.
Setting the bag down on the living room floor, Colt wandered over to the mirror again.
"Come on, Ry…" he muttered under his breath in a huff, "give me something."
There were no new marks on his skin, nothing to give him even the slightest hint that his brother was still out there doin' his thing, living his life.
…
Colt would…
Colt would've felt it if he died, right?
Surely there'd be something- a feeling in his gut, a wrongness in his chest. Maybe he'd have died alongside him.
Surely it wouldn't just be… nothing.
Colt's hands ran up and down his arms, but the sensation wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped it'd be.
"Okay… okay, fine. be that way. I can find out on my own," he huffed at his reflection, turning away from the mirror and collapsing against the couch. The bag at his feet felt sinister, despite being filled with well-wishes.
He hadn't bothered to read most of them, full of empty words written by people whom he barely knew, who probably only felt obligated to write because they worked with him once or twice.
There were 3 cards at the bottom, though, which he had read. One was from Jody. it lay at the very bottom, with heartfelt words that made his soul wrench with guilt whenever he read the shaky handwriting. He didn't touch that one- he didn't think he would ever touch it again, ever be able to read the words inside without crumbling to ash.
Another was from Gail, on Tom Ryder's behalf, apologizing for the accident and promising that once he's up and in action again, they'll ensure nothing like that would ever happen again. He ignored that one, too, as he continued to push cards out of the way.
Get Well Soon
Get Well Soon
Hope You Feel Better Soon
Get Well Soon
Sending You Well Wishes
Take Care
Each printed word only made him feel worse.
Eventually, he pulled out the corner of a card with a watercolour fox.
There were no words on the front. Ryland tended to buy empty card sets so he didn't have to get individual cards for every event ever. Colt used to feel like the lack of a Get Well Soon on the front meant he didn't care, but now he was grateful he didn't have to read the phrase again.
Colt,
I'm sorry. For everything, I know my reaction wasn't warranted, and you didn't deserve the things I said. It's been a while since I've heard from you, and I just want to make sure you're doing alright.
Call me if you ever need anything.
(xxx-xxx-xxxx in case you've forgotten)
It had been a slight when it was written 'in case you've forgotten', Colt was sure it was meant to be a jab at how he wouldn't respond to his texts or answer his calls- but he had, in fact, forgotten it over the years.
His eyes traced the words one more time before he finally managed to move to grab his phone, standing with the card gently held between his fingers as he began dialing the number written in no-longer familiar handwriting.
As the phone began to ring, Colt shook out his arms, taking an unsteady breath as he tried his best to prepare for whatever he was going to hear from the other end.
Of all the options, he really wished it wasn't the answering machine that broke the silence.
"Hello! This is Dr. Ryland Grace. It seems you just missed me, but feel free to shoot me a text, and I'll call you back"
The ending beep of the answering machine rang through his skull, and Colt felt his chest tighten.
He couldn't tell if it was from worry or irritation.
Silence stretched for a few long seconds before words came spilling from between his lips.
"You said to call you if I needed something, right? Well, I need something now, so where the hell are you?!" Colt ground out into the receiver, his voice was tense, and he knew it really wasn't the first impression he wanted Ryland to have of him after so long.
The other end of the phone stayed silent, and Colt slowly pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up. So much for putting his worries at ease.
Without much else to do, Colt opened Messenger, searching up his brother's number.
It was a new phone, and he hadn't copied over his contacts.
As he finished inputting the number, he was met with a blank screen.
Nothing.
There was nothing. all of their old conversations were gone.
It was like starting a conversation with a stranger.
Maybe he was.
hey this is Colt
I know its been a while
Colt checked to make sure he had read receipts turned on, but he couldn't really remember which way they worked.
No seen marker popped up when he did it, though.
when you see this could you call me
also just delete that voicemail its not important or anything
Drumming his fingers on the back of his phone case, Colt felt unease sinking deeper into the back of his head, his left hand pulled from his phone, and his fingers began to rub absently at the back of his neck once more.
The empty chat felt haunted.
Colt remembered texts he'd barely glanced at before swiping them away.
Hey Colt, I just wanted to-
I'm sorry again for-
Could you just let me know if you-
Could we talk sometime-
I got a new job, not sure why I'm telling you, but-
Happy Birthday, Colt-
In the back of his mind, he'd known he could've just blocked him, blocked all of them; everyone who kept trying to talk to him, kept trying to remind him of what happened.
In the end, it was easier to get a new phone and change his number.
At least then they could keep talking to the person he used to be, and he didn't have to be a part of it anymore.
Now all those messages were gone, and all he had was an empty chat with a number that wasn't even saved in his contacts. Silently, he tapped 'add to contacts', typing in his twin brother's name before slipping his phone into his pocket and turning back to the living room with a heavy expression.
Cards littered the floor and the couch, the bedroom had boxes of items he didn't want to think about strewn across the ground.
Colt needed to get out of this apartment.