Chapter Text
It has been ten months, nine days, and three hours since Colt’s life was irrevocably damaged.
He ignored this fact—despite it being an immutable presence in the back of his mind, and, well, in his back—as he parked the final car of his shift, extra careful to give it a wide berth. The guy who owned it had a bad temper, but for some odd reason liked to watch Colt park—and Colt was not in the mood to deal with him.
As he opened the car door, a lightning bolt of white-hot pain raced through his back. He froze. With slow, careful, infuriating movements, he shifted his body out of the seat and extended his legs in front of him.
God, he probably looked like an idiot, trying to shuffle out of the car like this. Strands of mid-length blond hair fell around his face, tickling his chin and reminding him against his will of just how badly he needed to cut it. Or maybe not. Maybe he could grow it out a little longer, learn to style it, lose another part of the person he used to be.
The person he thought he was.
It has been seven months since Colt retook control of his new life in a way that he will regret for the rest of it. Every time he woke up alone, every time he had to drive somewhere without the shuffle of Jody digging through her purse, every time he had to reach over and open the bottle of naproxen because he was in pain and opening the bottle of Dilaudid for a second time in one day would be a bad idea—he thought of her.
Colt thought of her, and he felt the ache deep in his bones in a way that sat differently than the titanium in his back. It pressed against his insides, hot and spiky, and if he were at home the longing would have escaped his body in the form of tears.
But he wasn’t at home. He was here in the stupid seat of this stupid car, trying to steel his nerves enough to stand up.
Colt let out a huff of frustration. Gripping the door with probably a little bit more force than necessary, he slowly—ever so slowly—stood up. A twinge of pain shot up his spine again, and he wrenched his eyes shut.
What a pathetic sight he must have been, slightly greasy hair and unshaved beard reflecting the gentle moonlight as he struggled his way into being a functional enough person to bring himself home.
If he had half a mind of self-preservation left, he would have called Ryland, and he knew—he knew—that Ryland would drive down from San Francisco to San José in a heartbeat. But, like with Jody, he didn’t want to be seen by Ryland.
If it was just himself, he could pretend that anything before the fall was simply some kind of lucid dream. Colt didn’t have to think about the people he was hurting with his radio silence. He didn’t need to consider what it would look like to the people who loved him if he stopped inviting them to watch parties of old action movies, stopped calling randomly during the lunch breaks he tracked diligently in a calendar, stopped leaving the house as much if not just to go to the gym or work or grocery shopping.
It helped, in a selfish, self-loathing way, for Jody to be out of his life. To not have the knife of wasted potential twisted in his gut for someone as wonderful as her to see.
He couldn’t do that with Ryland.
Ryland was a person composed of pure persistence and a healthy side of sensitivity. Call it twin telepathy or astral empathy or some other made-up name, but Ryland could take one look at Colt and every thought he’d ever had would be laid bare for all the world to see.
Colt fucking hated it.
Well. That wasn’t true. There were times, when they were younger and more vulnerable, that Colt appreciated nothing more than Ryland’s innate ability to sense what was wrong with him. Some things Colt just couldn’t voice. No amount of Court asking “where does it hurt? Colt, please tell me, I can’t help if you don’t tell me” would get the answer out of him, but Ry always knew.
But Court wasn’t here to kiss it better or put a bag of frozen peas on whichever part of his body had become newly afflicted.
It was Colt, and Colt alone. His echo, his shadow, and him.
And that was exactly how he liked it. (He’d keep telling himself that until it felt true, until the empty spots started looking like an artistic choice instead of an unfinished masterpiece).
(Somewhere inside, he knew they never would).
Maybe that’s why when he finally made it into the front door of his shockingly cozy home (albeit with a lot of wincing) he did something he had told Ryland he’d never do. Pointedly, he had not promised he wouldn’t—and whether or not Ry had noticed the fact didn’t matter, because he wasn’t there.
For some reason, despite him having known it all along, remembering that Court wasn’t there stung in a way that Ryland’s absence hadn’t. Court would never know this new version of Colt. The season of his life in which he had been held by calloused and cigarette-scarred hands had ended ten months ago, washed away with blood and tears and IV drips of morphine.
Colt had half a mind to turn and dig through his bag for his phone and call someone, to put an end to the incessant stream of thoughts that had begun to constrict his critical thinking skills.
The other half of his mind missed the burn of alcohol. The floatiness, the freedom that came along with it.
He wasn’t even supposed to have alcohol here. Last time Ryland came by—three weeks ago, now—he had done a less-than-inconspicuous search of the place. He hadn’t found the bottle that Colt had shoved into the very back of a cabinet, hidden by a stack of random junk.
It was now that he pulled the bottle of cheap liquor from the cabinet and sat on the couch, staring at it.
Colt knew not to mix alcohol with hydromorphone. It could kill him.
He set the bottle on the coffee table, chewing on his bottom lip in thought.
He could just go put it back. He could pour it onto the asphalt outside. He could do a lot of things, frankly, like call his brother.
But when Colt went to stand again, scorching pain encompassed his body. His back locked, and for the second time that night, he was frozen. Every tiny movement, every breath, every shake of his hands sent more pain through his body in waves.
Even then, the pain he felt physically could barely compare to the anguish brewing inside his mind.
Colt used to crash cars for a living. He used to jump off buildings and get set on fire and amaze new stunties with his insane polymathal stunt knowledge.
Colt used to be somebody. Somebody that people called and looked forward to talking to, and not just because they felt obligated to check on him.
He knew that’s why they did it, after all. He’d gotten seven calls over the past few months, all from different people on the team of Ryder’s stupid movie.
The worst part was that he knew when the calls were empty. When they were just checking a social box so that they could move on, and should they see him again, not feel bad about not checking on him.
Those calls always left a sour taste in his mouth.
It hit him again, the pain, and Colt felt his resolve crumble. When the next wave of pain subsided, he grabbed the bottle before him and fell backwards onto the couch.
He immediately regretted it. Pain flared up, worse than ever. Flames of agony licked up his spine. Colt let out a tiny, almost imperceptible sound of suffering, and it only served to infuriate him more.
What a joke.
The cool glass of the bottle drew him back to the real world ever so slightly. He had solace right here, even if only for a moment.
The next moments were both blurred and simultaneously far too sharp around the edges as the sting of alcohol rolled down his throat.
Colt wanted to say he regretted it the moment it was done, but he didn’t. The truth was he was borderline giddy about it. There was nobody there to tell him not to be, after all.
But the moment the burn passed even slightly, it was replaced with a wave of shame so great that had he been standing, Colt would have fallen over. The shame morphed into something bigger, something that crept into the corners of the room and suddenly Colt just wanted the shadows to stop reminding him that he’s alone, for fuck’s sake.
A sob escaped him.
If he thought he was pathetic before, he was really pathetic now. Irredeemably so.
…But if there was one person in the whole world who would see past that, to find a Colt a path towards redemption in the fog of transgression, it was Ryland. And Court, too, would have been able to.
Colt really hoped that ghosts weren’t real, because if he was watching Colt right now, Court would be pissed.
The thought softened something in him. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Either way, he reached for his phone which had previously been abandoned beside him.
He tapped Ry’s contact and hit the call button before he could psych himself out of it again. The phone rang once, twice, and with each passing second, Colt had to steel his nerves to prevent himself from chickening out, even as the dim light of the room made him feel as though he’d be doomed no matter what he did.
When Ryland finally answered, his voice wasn’t rough with sleep as Colt expected it to be. Ryland seemed very much awake, if a little tired, despite it being—God, it was one in the morning!?
“Colt? What’s up?” A sliver of concern seeped into the words. The sound made Colt grimace.
“Ry, I…” His mouth went dry.
For fuck’s sake, Colt, you used to spend your workday pretending to be exploded.
Ryland waited for a few beats on the other end of the line.
When Colt did speak again, his voice seemed to betray him. His mind followed, and instead of saying what he wanted to say, he asked, “why are you awake at one in the morning?”
“You called me.” Ryland scoffed, poorly disguising his amusement.
“I… Yeah, I did. Sorry. I was going to ask something, but I think I figured it out, so…” Colt trailed off, staring blankly at the powered-off television across the room. A blurry image of his reflection stared back at him in the matte screen.
“...Are you sure?”
There it was again. That concern. At least from Ry, Colt could tell it was genuine. That, too, stung—Ryland cared about him that much, even after finding out how much of a failure his brother was.
The thought of asking Ryland for anything made Colt sick to his stomach. Who was he, to ask for help, as if this wasn't his fault in the first place?
“Yeah, I’m—I’m sure. I’m…I’ll be fine,” his voice grew quieter over the last part before he cleared his throat. “Carry on doing your… science… thingy… or whatever you’re doing.”
He heard Ryland scoff the words “science thingy” under his breath before he spoke again.
“If you’re sure you’re alright, I’m going to return to my book. The pages are calling to me. They’re saying, ‘Rylandddd, Rylandddd, come read another chapter before going to sleeeeeep.’ I must obey.”
A laugh broke free from Colt’s lips before he could hide it. “...Goodnight, Ry. Or, well. Morning.”
“Good night-morning to you too. I love you.”
Colt swallowed the lump in his throat. “...I love you too,” he choked out.
The call ended with no further fanfare, and that might have been the final straw for Colt. How easy it seemed to be to say goodbye to someone if you wrapped it in the words "I love you."
There was a beat of silence. He stared at his reflection again, thinking about where he could go from there. Colt wanted to be doing anything but what he was doing, but Colt also wanted to stay here forever.
Colt wanted Jody, but he wanted to be alone, but he wanted Ryland, too, and really does he even want anything?
Or was want reserved for people who could prove they deserved it?
Colt wants, wants, wants. He wants to deserve it.
But he doesn't.
It took the shadows in the room only ten minutes to surround him before his hands were on the bottle again.
—
The moment Colt hung up, Ryland knew something was wrong. Colt was barely able to get all of his words out, stuttering and mumbling slightly and—God, if Colt was drinking, Ryland was going to kill him if the drug interactions didn’t do it first.
Hell, Ryland had been worried the moment Colt called. Who calls someone at one in the morning to ask a question?
Ryland pondered these things as he made the drive to San José. There was very little traffic, with it being 1-'O-Something in the morning. The drive normally would have taken an hour.
Tonight, Ryland made it take thirty-seven minutes, and he spent all thirty-seven of them cursing the fact that his twin refused to move somewhere closer to him.
Probably in case of something like this, Ryland thought. He didn’t even know what “this” was, just that there was something irrefutably wrong with Colt. Fear rose steadily in his throat like bile, but he crushed it back down with the same hyper-logical brain that Colt always insisted must’ve been the result of an experiment gone wrong.
Colt had sounded okay. Tired, maybe a little pained, but okay. Ryland was probably just overreacting to an odd call, and when he got there, Colt would laugh at him and tell him to sleep on the couch because it was late and driving back on no sleep would be dangerous.
Colt did stuff like that. Telling Ryland what he should and shouldn’t do. Keeping Ryland safe as if he was unable to do it himself, as if Colt wasn't the human embodiment of thrill-seeking. If it had been anybody else, Ryland would constantly be shrugging off the suggestions. But it was Colt, and he knew that the suggestions were rooted deep in a type of fearful hurt that only the two of them knew about.
(There used to be a third person who shared their hurt, but he tried not to think about that).
When he finally hit the first red light of the drive, the map stated that he was still thirty minutes from Colt’s house.
He texted Colt. He called Colt—five times. He got zero responses.
Ryland had to resist the urge to stomp on the gas as he got closer and closer to where Colt lived, and that was when the vile idea that Colt wasn’t even home popped into his head. If that were the case, there was a much higher likelihood that he was fine… So even if Ryland drove out here for nothing, he wouldn’t mind.
When he was fifteen minutes from Colt’s house, his phone screen lit up on the middle console and he had to fight not to check it immediately. The second he got to a red light, he unlocked his phone.
There was one message from Colt, received three minutes ago.
“Om srryu Ryland”
His heart dropped.
—
Colt wasn’t sure when his hand found the bottle of Dilaudid, but it was at some point between picking up the liquor again and noticing the amount of pills missing from the bottle.
He was standing next to his bed, swaying, trying to convince his feet to bring him back to the couch.
Colt couldn’t really remember why. He was so tired. Every step was picking up a boulder instead of his foot, every breath was his chest cavity was being crushed in.
Why did he take the pills, again?
Oh. That’s right. His back hurt. Colt blinked slowly at the realization. His back hurt so he took his meds. Right. That made sense.
So why was…
Oh.
Colt took a deep, shuddering breath. His head lolled to one side briefly as confusion sparked behind his eyes. It felt like he couldn’t breathe, but that wasn’t right. He just took a breath.
Right. More than one. Breathe more than once.
Colt took another breath with an increasing amount of difficulty. The bottle of Dilaudid fell from his right hand, ricocheting off the side table and scattering pills across the floor as Colt stumbled back to the living room.
He slipped just before reaching the couch, falling and knocking his arm against the sharp edge of the coffee table hard.
A whine of pain tumbled from his mouth. The pain subsided quickly, replaced with something warm and comforting enough to draw what was left of Colt’s attention back to his body.
Something was wrong.
A drop of blood rolled down his hand as he held it up in front of his face, blinking slowly. Blood. Blood was bad. Why was there blood?
The blood goes inside his body. He knew that much, even if he was an awful stuntman.
His neck lolled down, forcing him to look at the floor. It shimmered with white, yellow, and red, the lamp in the corner reflecting off it. It was pretty. It reminded him distantly of stars. Nights spent staring up at the sky while Ryland tried to name as many constellations as he could, an effort to distract the two of them from the shouting emanating from inside the house.
Colt blinked slowly again. The shapes on the floor gained a little bit more focus. Shards of… of glass coated the floor in front of his knees. Weird.
He felt bad about drinking. Ryland wouldn’t be mad, per se, but Colt knew he would be disappointed. Fair enough. He broke his… no, he hadn’t promised. Just in case.
Still. He should apologize.
The shards of glass dug into his hands as he crawled towards the couch. He ended up somewhere between the couch and the coffee table, both of which were now crooked.
Colt’s hand flailed above him, reaching for the phone that he thought he left on the couch. When his hand found it, the cold screen pressed a stray bit of glass deeper into his hand. He didn’t notice.
He blinked slowly. The world came in flashes. Every few seconds, he was somewhere else in the room, or looking at himself from the corner, or everything was just black.
(Or he was back in that house, having glass picked out of his hands by a faceless figure).
His phone. Right. He typed out a simple apology to Ry and sent it, hands growing heavier and harder to move as the seconds passed.
With his mission complete, he felt lost again. There was no directive now, nothing more to do but stare at the walls and think. If he could think.
He slipped down from where he had had his arms propped on the couch cushion and allowed his body to relax against the cold floor. Pricks of glass stabbed at the skin of his face, but not enough for him to move when his head felt this heavy.
A wave of awareness washed over him, and he felt so utterly pathetic that it made tears burst from his eyes with no warning. The warm, salty water combined with the blood and alcohol created an ambient scent so hostile that Colt didn’t mind that his body would rather him sleep to avoid it.
And if he didn’t wake up, well, at least nobody would have to worry about him fucking everything up anymore.