[The laugh is sudden, startling and rich, almost too loud in the very early morning quiet, and while there is a touch of mockery about it, it's also less malicious than it could be.]
That's a polite way of putting it. But then, you work hard at being polite these days, don't you?
[Maybe he's just tired. Tired of being so very angry. Maybe he's just sobering up. Either way, there's a long pause before he finally sets the other bottle down, taking the offered box in one hand and sitting up. He's taken off his shirt, using it as a pillow, and his undershirt is wrinkled. Clearly he's been here most, if not all, of the night.
[ He's surprised he'd bought anything, given how long things had been going south. And he's tempted to say that, but instead, he pulls out the other box, a cheaper variety of the same.]
Bought my own.
[ He considers getting his chair before changing his mind and sitting on the ground not far from where the legs are sticking out. He can't quite resist that one, though.]
[It doesn't sound like the kind of question that's meant to be answered, which is good, because no answer would be quite right. After another long moment, Tim shifts to the side. Enough that there might be room for a second body, if he's so inclined.]
I'd say I'm sorry, but I don't think I am. Not really. Not for that.
[ He's tempted to answer it, but he can feel the tenuousness of the whole thing and chooses to take the opportunity to carefully shift into the opening in the fort with his own bottle at his side.]
[For what, he wants to ask, but even Tim can feel the tenuousness of the moment. And he's so tired. For the first time in months, he doesn't want to fight.
He misses this. Being able to sit with Jon and not...
Shaking his head, Tim turns the box in his hands, then removes the bottle holding it out towards Jon in a faintly ironic gesture for toasting.]
Happy birthday to us, is it? Months late, but here we are, I suppose.
[The words hurt a little, as lightly as they're delivered. After all, Jon does know him. Did. They knew each other. Past tense. And now...now.
He doesn't know.
It's easier to open the bottle, to take a drink and let the scotch warm the cold, empty feeling inside.]
Don't know why I decided to come here. Just, it was half one and I didn't want to go home, so I figured, box fort. And the archives have bloody millions of them, so. Here we are.
How sad is that? Could've gone home with half a dozen attractive strangers tonight, and instead, I came to the place I hate the most. [He shakes his head, whether in frustration or dismissal is hard to tell.]
[ He listens to Tim as he undoes the plastic on the top of his own bottle, opening the top and taking a mouthful for himself. It burns nicely as it goes down.]
I actually went home tonight. Or I started to. [ A quick intake of breath.] Then I realized there was hardly a point to it.
[ He looks over at Tim. ]
At least you can be secure in the knowledge that no matter how inebriated we find ourselves, nothing will come of it.
[Jon's words pull Tim out of his mildly depressive daze, and the look he gives his boss--former boss? whatever--is one of mixed horror and hysteria as he begins to laugh, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He even has to set the bottle down so he can properly wrap his arms around his ribs.]
What, are you saying I'm not--not pretty enough for--
[No, he can't even get the words out. Give him a moment. Phew. Okay. Okay, there we go.]
You are...so far..from my type...we're not only in different...post codes, we're in...different countries. Possibly different planets. Christ. Fucking...I think I might have pulled something. Whew.
[ Jon actually stares at him, squinting a little, before he snorts a couple times, actually, and stares at him even a little harder.]
Did I never-
[ He's blinking a little and it has nothing to do with how much scotch he's had, because he hasn't had much. Definitely less than Tim by a lot.]
I don't. With anyone.
[ He undoes the top again and takes another pull, this time a little longer. Once he's done, he rubs his mouth with his hand before closing it up again.]
[The laughter slowly fades, along with the smile, but there's still that bemusement in Tim's eyes that morphs into curiosity, and then into thoughtfulness as he looks at Jon, and then...keeps looking. This is probably the longest they've actually been in the same room together in months, and definitely the longest they've gone without Tim yelling or deliberately provoking another fight.
But that's because...well, lots of reasons. Anyway, he's thinking now, remembering dozens upon dozens of other conversations, other times they'd sat like this, just...talking over drinks. Talking, or arguing, or debating, or even joking.]
You don't, do you?
[Tim doesn't drink again, though he does pull the bottle back into his lap, hands loosely wrapped around the neck.]
Never?
[He's not judging, he's just...maybe trying to understand, a little. It's very different from the way he lives his own life. Obviously.]
[ That comes with a quick snort and a tilt of his head as he starts unscrewing the bottle again; he has some catching up to do, after all.]
I did. In university. Figured it was the thing to do.
[ Once it's open, he takes a swig, sucking in a breath afterward before screwing it on again. The on and off, he'd found, kept him from going too fast and getting sick. He was an obsessive personality, and it was helpful to give himself a hurdle or two.
He could have done with a few more on his actual addiction, perhaps, but he'd never known until this place that it could have such results.]
Tried boys. Tried girls. Tried a few in between those categories. Tried being with someone I was desperately in love with and mucked it up properly because I hated the- the physical- [ there's a sort of whirlwind move with his hand that conveys 'sex', at least to his mind] Ended up in a shouting match where I think the most polite thing I said involved sticking my privates in a wood chipper.
[ Unscrew, gulp, rescrew.]
For some reason, she still talks to me. Think it's the only blessed luck I've got.
Edited (slight tweak) Date: 2019-02-03 05:54 am (UTC)
[Huh. Well. Okay, then. Tim's silent for a moment as he processes, thinking.]
The physical's always been the easy part, for me. I mean, in case you hadn't figured that out yet.
[It's the rest that's difficult. The sharing. The connecting. Every time he says he's not going to, and then he does, and then...something awful happens. Something awful happens every time he cares, whether it's someone he's sleeping with or just a friend.]
But it's not the only part of a relationship, you know. There's plenty of people out there who manage without, I suppose. Might even be the least important part. The feelings are what's important to most people.
[And that's the point where he'll start drinking again. Because what is this talk, anyway? Clearly he is not drunk enough.]
[ He isn't drunk yet, not really, but he does nod along to what he says at first dutifully, the way you ought to when a friend is talking about their own experiences. When Tim continues on about relationships and all that, feelings, he decides to go for more of the drink.]
You'd be amazed at how many people equate the two.
[ There's an extra second, a thoughtful frown, before he takes another sip.]
Mmm. Perhaps not.
[ A swallow. ]
I've not been a monk, after all.
[ He has had other relationships. Not many, but they have happened. Georgie was just the one he still kept up with, the only one who, well, who understood him a bit. The big problem with their relationship had been his, er, his business there. Everyone else, well-]
But you have met me, yes?
[ Exacting, temperamental, standoffish and more likely to spend time in a bookshop than a club of any sort. Add to that the fact that he tended to feel about twenty times the amount he ever expressed directly and the mathematics of the whole thing became rather clearer. ]
Edited (slight tweaks for language) Date: 2019-02-03 07:00 am (UTC)
I really wouldn't. Maybe I'm on the other side of that, but you have any idea how many people jump straight from 'we slept together' to 'we must have deep feelings about each other'?
[The laugh is short and half-voiced, drowned by the bottle, though Tim's not attempting to finish the thing, at least. It's more...punctuation. Something to do. A reminder of other days in this office, before everything went...well, was there ever a time things weren't horribly wrong? At least they were less wrong. At least they were blissfully ignorant.
He's so tired of knowing. And yet, this is one bit of knowing he can't quite bring himself to give up.]
Yes. Yes, I definitely have. Point taken.
[He's content to let the silence rest for a long moment. God knows they have little enough of that, lately. And then, after a pause:]
D'you miss it? Having someone to talk to? To--I don't know, care about, understand, whatever?
[ He just sounds... tired. He sounds so tired, just, sick to the soul with it. And just as convinced that no one cares, and there's nothing to be done about it.
He takes a long pull from the bottle, lets it burn down his throat for a moment before putting it down and twisting the top back on. After a moment, he lets out a breath.]
Yes. And there's no... there's no getting used to it. There's just getting used to not getting used to it.
[Jon sounds like Tim feels. Exhausted, wrung-out, empty. Lonely. He
swallows down the guilt and the regret just like he swallows the
scotch--quickly, convulsively. It leaves its own bitter taste behind, cold
instead of burning. And it's a long, long moment before he speaks again,
staring off into middle distance. Seeing ghosts of a different sort,
maybe.]
Just because loss is familiar doesn't make it any less what it is. An empty
space, I guess. You just...always know it's there. Loneliness is like that,
too. Just because it's familiar doesn't make it friendly.
[A beat:]
Martin's probably written a bloody ode about all this.
[ And in the daylight hours, there's usually just blunted frustration in his voice when he says something like that. Right now, it's one of the wounded voicing his sympathy and frustration with another. They've all got their pain and their ghost and their scars. Jon doesn't know what to do with Martin's. Sometimes the other man seems so resilient and other times, other times he seems so fragile. It's confusing, and he's bad enough with people as it is.
There's something soft and meaningful he could say here. But he can't quite handle it. Instead-]
I'm buying him something other than Keats for Christmas. Just to save... save the tapes, maybe.
[ But it's not particularly funny or terribly profound and it leaves enough of a silence that the swirling void that's been slowly eating away at him most of the evening, most of the last year and a half really, manages to pull something else out. ]
I think...
I think I'm only good for one thing. Only good at one thing.
[The noise Tim makes is strangled, not quite a laugh.]
Don't think it's the tapes that need saving, Jon.
[A name, instead of a title, instead of anything else. God. He misses this. He misses this, and it hurts, and bloody masochist that he is, he leans into that hurt, lifting the bottle to his lips more out of habit than to dull that pain. He doesn't really want it to go away. He needs to remember. He's still mad at Jon, still furious...and yet. The words aren't angry. Just...quiet.]
I think you're too scared to try anything else. And I think you're too scared to try not doing it alone.
[ Hearing his name again- dammit, he'd missed hearing Tim say his name, for Christ's sake. 'Boss' had been a joke between them, how weird it'd been for his strange providence, how weird it would be to be Tim's boss of all damnable things. It'd been a joke and now it's a curse and it feels worse than a stab to the gut every time he hears it and he knows Tim knows that and he knows that's why Tim does it and that's why it hurts more.
But-]
I am. I am too scared. I'm- I'm terrified someone else is going to pay for it. Someone else.
I'd honestly rather die. I would.
[ He unscrews the cap but he pauses before taking his drink. ]
How do you- how do you do- it, life- how do you do it any other way?
[ And it's not angry, it's not a defense. It's just pure, unadulterated confusion. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. Of all the answers he's sought over the years, of all the questions he's asked, the idea of how to let people in, why they should care, what he can even do with any of that but- but ruin it all, clearly- it's the question that lives inside his skin, the one he can never pinpoint, never find, because it's too deep in him. ]
[It had been a joke. A joke, turned twisted on the tongue, a word made a knife and used to wound them both. Tim carves his scars deep so he remembers whose words he carries. It's always worked both ways. And it had made it easier to draw the line, to make himself let go, to try and save some part of his bruised and battered heart.
They had been friends once. No matter what he does, he can't make himself forget that. And isn't that exhibit A in Jon's favor? He wants to yell at him for being so stupid, for being so scared, and yet he can't blame him, either.]
You don't. You're always scared. That's the whole point. You're scared, you're absolutely terrified that you're going to hurt someone, or they're going to hurt you, that they're going to start to matter and then they'll leave you, or you won't be able to save them--
[He stops abruptly, a catch in his voice swallowed down along with another mouthful of burning liquor. He should stop. Give himself alcohol poisoning, if he's not careful. But the words are hard enough without the anesthetic. These words cut more than any of the rest.]
Ever since Danny, I've been terrified. For a while, here, I think I--forgot that. Forgot to be scared. Sasha was--
[God, Sasha.]
--a reminder. But that's the whole bloody point. Being scared, and doing it anyway. Letting people in, even if you think they might be a monster. Because maybe, just maybe they aren't. And maybe they need you just as much as you need them.
You're scared, but we're all scared, and we're all we've got. Don't you see? We're all we've got.
That's one thing he can do, that he's always been able to do, that he'a always done, really: Jon actually does listen, takes things in, with an intensity and passion and a need to know, to understand, to comprehend it, all of it, as if it's the most important thing. It's the one thing that kept him from looking like an egocentric prick, really. Because when Jon listened to you, he wasn't just thinking of how he could change the subject to something less awkward, or what pithy line he could say back. He's taking it in, he's processing it, picking it over and sweeping through it like he's just been handed a delicacy.
Nowadays, he has to wonder if that's a part of him or a part of whatever was ready to become a monster, but he can't help it, can't change it certainly. So he listens, he listens and he wants and his eyes close and the deepest, tiredest sigh escapes him, sick and sad.]
No one needs me, Tim. No one-
[ This breath out comes with a shudder and his hands tighten on the bottle. His voice is- it's sick. It's sick, and sad and so tired. ]
I'm not scared for me, for goodness sake. Do you- [ and that's a dark sort of laugh, rich with self-depreciation ] do you think I really believe I'm going to- going to make it out of any of this alive?
[ He finally takes his swig, a good long one, and it burns the whole time, at first good and then just a little painful. Maybe that's good too.]
I just- I just need to know that the rest of you- I just want-
[ He screws the cap on and squeezes his eyes closed.]
[That's one of the things he'd always liked about Jon. The way he listens. The way he looks at you like your story is the most important thing in the world. Tim can do that, too, often uses it to his advantage, but the way Jon listens is even more compelling. Except for when he doesn't listen at all, doesn't actually hear what you're trying to say.
His answering laugh is short, sharp, a sound of pain as much as it is grim amusement.]
You bloody idiot. I need you. I needed you, and you just...
[He just. Tim doesn't need to finish that sentence. They both know how it ends.
It's a long moment before he speaks again.]
We were friends, Jon. You were probably the closest thing I've had to a best friend since primary school. I needed you, and you decided I didn't.
[ Jon's head pops up like, like some sort of whack-a-mole target, eyes large in his face and shock, dismay, confusion written all over his face. The words come stuttering out almost immediately.]
What do you- that can't be- I'm not- you've had to, that is- you, I mean- [ there's a nigh-hysterical chuckle, all of it unpleasant, that bubbles up from him] I couldn't, I'm not-
Tim.
[ He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how that's possible, how it could be possible. But like so many things of late, so many moments, it seems as if regardless of the means or the hows or the whys, it may very well be possible. Might be the truth. And he-
He's not sure what to do about that other than to feel sick. He swallows, hard, and his voice is very small. Very quiet as he continues.]
I'm not- I'm not worth that, Tim. Especially n-not now.
[Of course he freezes. Of course he stumbles and staggers and were he not probably well on his way to tipsy right now, Tim has no doubt Jon would be halfway out the door, leaving behind a cartoonish cloud of Jon-shaped dust. It would have made him angry, once. It still might, later. Right now, though? Right now he's just resigned.]
Know that now, don't I? I know now you obviously didn't feel the same, and that's fine. It's all done. I've moved on.
[He takes another swallow of scotch, but even this one can't rinse the bitterness away.]
Let's not forget the part where I hate you now, remember?
[And yet, there's no venom in it. Just a sad, faint longing.]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 04:33 am (UTC)That's a polite way of putting it. But then, you work hard at being polite these days, don't you?
[Maybe he's just tired. Tired of being so very angry. Maybe he's just sobering up. Either way, there's a long pause before he finally sets the other bottle down, taking the offered box in one hand and sitting up. He's taken off his shirt, using it as a pillow, and his undershirt is wrinkled. Clearly he's been here most, if not all, of the night.
It's easier to look at the box than it is Jon.]
I binned yours, you know. Ages ago.
[Well. Half true.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 04:39 am (UTC)Bought my own.
[ He considers getting his chair before changing his mind and sitting on the ground not far from where the legs are sticking out. He can't quite resist that one, though.]
I'm just... trying.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 04:47 am (UTC)[It doesn't sound like the kind of question that's meant to be answered, which is good, because no answer would be quite right. After another long moment, Tim shifts to the side. Enough that there might be room for a second body, if he's so inclined.]
I'd say I'm sorry, but I don't think I am. Not really. Not for that.
[Maybe for other things. Or about other things.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 04:52 am (UTC)I don't think you have-
[ No, that's not how he wants to go about this.]
Thank you.
[ That's the important thing. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 04:58 am (UTC)He misses this. Being able to sit with Jon and not...
Shaking his head, Tim turns the box in his hands, then removes the bottle holding it out towards Jon in a faintly ironic gesture for toasting.]
Happy birthday to us, is it? Months late, but here we are, I suppose.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-02 05:14 am (UTC)We're just about at unbirthday at this rate.
[ He looks at the bottle and there's a slight frown; he prefers a proper whisky glass.]
Barbarian.
[ But it's said fondly, only the most gentle sort of bite there.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 04:59 am (UTC)[The words hurt a little, as lightly as they're delivered. After all, Jon does know him. Did. They knew each other. Past tense. And now...now.
He doesn't know.
It's easier to open the bottle, to take a drink and let the scotch warm the cold, empty feeling inside.]
Don't know why I decided to come here. Just, it was half one and I didn't want to go home, so I figured, box fort. And the archives have bloody millions of them, so. Here we are.
How sad is that? Could've gone home with half a dozen attractive strangers tonight, and instead, I came to the place I hate the most. [He shakes his head, whether in frustration or dismissal is hard to tell.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 05:06 am (UTC)I actually went home tonight. Or I started to. [ A quick intake of breath.] Then I realized there was hardly a point to it.
[ He looks over at Tim. ]
At least you can be secure in the knowledge that no matter how inebriated we find ourselves, nothing will come of it.
[ Bonus feature?]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 05:22 am (UTC)What, are you saying I'm not--not pretty enough for--
[No, he can't even get the words out. Give him a moment. Phew. Okay. Okay, there we go.]
You are...so far..from my type...we're not only in different...post codes, we're in...different countries. Possibly different planets. Christ. Fucking...I think I might have pulled something. Whew.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 05:28 am (UTC)Did I never-
[ He's blinking a little and it has nothing to do with how much scotch he's had, because he hasn't had much. Definitely less than Tim by a lot.]
I don't. With anyone.
[ He undoes the top again and takes another pull, this time a little longer. Once he's done, he rubs his mouth with his hand before closing it up again.]
Thought I'd said.
[ Beat.]
You know you're pretty, for goodness sake...
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 05:39 am (UTC)[The laughter slowly fades, along with the smile, but there's still that bemusement in Tim's eyes that morphs into curiosity, and then into thoughtfulness as he looks at Jon, and then...keeps looking. This is probably the longest they've actually been in the same room together in months, and definitely the longest they've gone without Tim yelling or deliberately provoking another fight.
But that's because...well, lots of reasons. Anyway, he's thinking now, remembering dozens upon dozens of other conversations, other times they'd sat like this, just...talking over drinks. Talking, or arguing, or debating, or even joking.]
You don't, do you?
[Tim doesn't drink again, though he does pull the bottle back into his lap, hands loosely wrapped around the neck.]
Never?
[He's not judging, he's just...maybe trying to understand, a little. It's very different from the way he lives his own life. Obviously.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 05:51 am (UTC)I did. In university. Figured it was the thing to do.
[ Once it's open, he takes a swig, sucking in a breath afterward before screwing it on again. The on and off, he'd found, kept him from going too fast and getting sick. He was an obsessive personality, and it was helpful to give himself a hurdle or two.
He could have done with a few more on his actual addiction, perhaps, but he'd never known until this place that it could have such results.]
Tried boys. Tried girls. Tried a few in between those categories. Tried being with someone I was desperately in love with and mucked it up properly because I hated the- the physical- [ there's a sort of whirlwind move with his hand that conveys 'sex', at least to his mind] Ended up in a shouting match where I think the most polite thing I said involved sticking my privates in a wood chipper.
[ Unscrew, gulp, rescrew.]
For some reason, she still talks to me. Think it's the only blessed luck I've got.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 06:06 am (UTC)The physical's always been the easy part, for me. I mean, in case you hadn't figured that out yet.
[It's the rest that's difficult. The sharing. The connecting. Every time he says he's not going to, and then he does, and then...something awful happens. Something awful happens every time he cares, whether it's someone he's sleeping with or just a friend.]
But it's not the only part of a relationship, you know. There's plenty of people out there who manage without, I suppose. Might even be the least important part. The feelings are what's important to most people.
[And that's the point where he'll start drinking again. Because what is this talk, anyway? Clearly he is not drunk enough.]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-03 06:45 am (UTC)You'd be amazed at how many people equate the two.
[ There's an extra second, a thoughtful frown, before he takes another sip.]
Mmm. Perhaps not.
[ A swallow. ]
I've not been a monk, after all.
[ He has had other relationships. Not many, but they have happened. Georgie was just the one he still kept up with, the only one who, well, who understood him a bit. The big problem with their relationship had been his, er, his business there. Everyone else, well-]
But you have met me, yes?
[ Exacting, temperamental, standoffish and more likely to spend time in a bookshop than a club of any sort. Add to that the fact that he tended to feel about twenty times the amount he ever expressed directly and the mathematics of the whole thing became rather clearer. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-04 12:40 am (UTC)[The laugh is short and half-voiced, drowned by the bottle, though Tim's not attempting to finish the thing, at least. It's more...punctuation. Something to do. A reminder of other days in this office, before everything went...well, was there ever a time things weren't horribly wrong? At least they were less wrong. At least they were blissfully ignorant.
He's so tired of knowing. And yet, this is one bit of knowing he can't quite bring himself to give up.]
Yes. Yes, I definitely have. Point taken.
[He's content to let the silence rest for a long moment. God knows they have little enough of that, lately. And then, after a pause:]
D'you miss it? Having someone to talk to? To--I don't know, care about, understand, whatever?
no subject
Date: 2019-02-04 12:51 am (UTC)[ He just sounds... tired. He sounds so tired, just, sick to the soul with it. And just as convinced that no one cares, and there's nothing to be done about it.
He takes a long pull from the bottle, lets it burn down his throat for a moment before putting it down and twisting the top back on. After a moment, he lets out a breath.]
Yes. And there's no... there's no getting used to it. There's just getting used to not getting used to it.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-04 10:48 pm (UTC)You know--yes, I think it does.
[Jon sounds like Tim feels. Exhausted, wrung-out, empty. Lonely. He swallows down the guilt and the regret just like he swallows the scotch--quickly, convulsively. It leaves its own bitter taste behind, cold instead of burning. And it's a long, long moment before he speaks again, staring off into middle distance. Seeing ghosts of a different sort, maybe.]
Just because loss is familiar doesn't make it any less what it is. An empty space, I guess. You just...always know it's there. Loneliness is like that, too. Just because it's familiar doesn't make it friendly.
[A beat:]
Martin's probably written a bloody ode about all this.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-04 10:55 pm (UTC)[ And in the daylight hours, there's usually just blunted frustration in his voice when he says something like that. Right now, it's one of the wounded voicing his sympathy and frustration with another. They've all got their pain and their ghost and their scars. Jon doesn't know what to do with Martin's. Sometimes the other man seems so resilient and other times, other times he seems so fragile. It's confusing, and he's bad enough with people as it is.
There's something soft and meaningful he could say here. But he can't quite handle it. Instead-]
I'm buying him something other than Keats for Christmas. Just to save... save the tapes, maybe.
[ But it's not particularly funny or terribly profound and it leaves enough of a silence that the swirling void that's been slowly eating away at him most of the evening, most of the last year and a half really, manages to pull something else out. ]
I think...
I think I'm only good for one thing. Only good at one thing.
And that makes me scared.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-12 11:54 pm (UTC)Don't think it's the tapes that need saving, Jon.
[A name, instead of a title, instead of anything else. God. He misses this. He misses this, and it hurts, and bloody masochist that he is, he leans into that hurt, lifting the bottle to his lips more out of habit than to dull that pain. He doesn't really want it to go away. He needs to remember. He's still mad at Jon, still furious...and yet. The words aren't angry. Just...quiet.]
I think you're too scared to try anything else. And I think you're too scared to try not doing it alone.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-13 12:08 am (UTC)But-]
I am. I am too scared. I'm- I'm terrified someone else is going to pay for it. Someone else.
I'd honestly rather die. I would.
[ He unscrews the cap but he pauses before taking his drink. ]
How do you- how do you do- it, life- how do you do it any other way?
[ And it's not angry, it's not a defense. It's just pure, unadulterated confusion. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. Of all the answers he's sought over the years, of all the questions he's asked, the idea of how to let people in, why they should care, what he can even do with any of that but- but ruin it all, clearly- it's the question that lives inside his skin, the one he can never pinpoint, never find, because it's too deep in him. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-02-13 12:27 am (UTC)They had been friends once. No matter what he does, he can't make himself forget that. And isn't that exhibit A in Jon's favor? He wants to yell at him for being so stupid, for being so scared, and yet he can't blame him, either.]
You don't. You're always scared. That's the whole point. You're scared, you're absolutely terrified that you're going to hurt someone, or they're going to hurt you, that they're going to start to matter and then they'll leave you, or you won't be able to save them--
[He stops abruptly, a catch in his voice swallowed down along with another mouthful of burning liquor. He should stop. Give himself alcohol poisoning, if he's not careful. But the words are hard enough without the anesthetic. These words cut more than any of the rest.]
Ever since Danny, I've been terrified. For a while, here, I think I--forgot that. Forgot to be scared. Sasha was--
[God, Sasha.]
--a reminder. But that's the whole bloody point. Being scared, and doing it anyway. Letting people in, even if you think they might be a monster. Because maybe, just maybe they aren't. And maybe they need you just as much as you need them.
You're scared, but we're all scared, and we're all we've got. Don't you see? We're all we've got.
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Date: 2019-02-13 01:38 am (UTC)That's one thing he can do, that he's always been able to do, that he'a always done, really: Jon actually does listen, takes things in, with an intensity and passion and a need to know, to understand, to comprehend it, all of it, as if it's the most important thing. It's the one thing that kept him from looking like an egocentric prick, really. Because when Jon listened to you, he wasn't just thinking of how he could change the subject to something less awkward, or what pithy line he could say back. He's taking it in, he's processing it, picking it over and sweeping through it like he's just been handed a delicacy.
Nowadays, he has to wonder if that's a part of him or a part of whatever was ready to become a monster, but he can't help it, can't change it certainly. So he listens, he listens and he wants and his eyes close and the deepest, tiredest sigh escapes him, sick and sad.]
No one needs me, Tim. No one-
[ This breath out comes with a shudder and his hands tighten on the bottle. His voice is- it's sick. It's sick, and sad and so tired. ]
I'm not scared for me, for goodness sake. Do you- [ and that's a dark sort of laugh, rich with self-depreciation ] do you think I really believe I'm going to- going to make it out of any of this alive?
[ He finally takes his swig, a good long one, and it burns the whole time, at first good and then just a little painful. Maybe that's good too.]
I just- I just need to know that the rest of you- I just want-
[ He screws the cap on and squeezes his eyes closed.]
Fuck.
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Date: 2019-02-13 05:16 am (UTC)His answering laugh is short, sharp, a sound of pain as much as it is grim amusement.]
You bloody idiot. I need you. I needed you, and you just...
[He just. Tim doesn't need to finish that sentence. They both know how it ends.
It's a long moment before he speaks again.]
We were friends, Jon. You were probably the closest thing I've had to a best friend since primary school. I needed you, and you decided I didn't.
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Date: 2019-02-13 05:23 am (UTC)What do you- that can't be- I'm not- you've had to, that is- you, I mean- [ there's a nigh-hysterical chuckle, all of it unpleasant, that bubbles up from him] I couldn't, I'm not-
Tim.
[ He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how that's possible, how it could be possible. But like so many things of late, so many moments, it seems as if regardless of the means or the hows or the whys, it may very well be possible. Might be the truth. And he-
He's not sure what to do about that other than to feel sick. He swallows, hard, and his voice is very small. Very quiet as he continues.]
I'm not- I'm not worth that, Tim. Especially n-not now.
no subject
Date: 2019-02-27 02:37 am (UTC)Know that now, don't I? I know now you obviously didn't feel the same, and that's fine. It's all done. I've moved on.
[He takes another swallow of scotch, but even this one can't rinse the bitterness away.]
Let's not forget the part where I hate you now, remember?
[And yet, there's no venom in it. Just a sad, faint longing.]
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