singillatim | closed | an empty crisis lonely and last

[ The buzzing in his head doesn't stop. It's like its filled with a thousand hives of angry bees and she doesn't know what the fuck to do with that. It leaves him reeling, and he can only stare numbly at the wall.

There's a flutter of his eyelids at the words, his body sinking a little. Like he's losing steam, everything's come crashing down and Kieren's included in that. It's fucked, isn't it? It's all totally fucked. It's always been like that. Now one more person just knows how much it is.

His breath rattles loudly in his throat, notable in the silence that follows. There's a dim awareness of something being offered to him and his gaze lowers and he stares for a long time before comprehension finally sinks in: a flask. Alcohol. ]

I don't drink. [ He reminds him, a soft murmur. There's another flutter of his eyelids and he swallows again. ] I... can't drink.

[ He can't do much of anything. ]

Huh. Yeah, I guess not.

[ Fuck. March is doing great at this whole comforting thing, isn't he? Needling a kid until he explodes, offering him a drink he can't actually drink because of the whole dead thing, which doesn't take a detective to figure out it's probably leaning a little towards the zombie side of things. It's too quiet.

March takes the flask back and takes another swig. More for him, then. He doesn't bother to screw it back up. He has a feeling he's going to be downing this for the entire conversation.

Right, that's right. A conversation. He needs to say something. ]

I shouldn't have poked the bear.

[ An absolutely spectacular job. Fucking 10/10, March.

Still, the quiet is far easier to sit in. It means nothing's said. It means whatever precarious peace is held in that silence gets to stay. It's... safe.

But this is probably the quietest he's ever heard March in the entire time that he's known him. Which is isn't all that long, when Kieren thinks about it. But seriously, the guy never shuts up. And now? It's... weird. ]

Yeah, no shit. [ He manages it without too much bite. His eyes close for a long moment and he takes a breath to steady himself. He's so tired. ]

I guess it was going to come out eventually. [ Another inhale, dread looms in his stomach. His voice is low, almost monotone. ] I can't keep hiding it for much longer. I'm running out of cover-up mousse.

Okay. Okay.

[ This might not work. This probably won't. But fuck, it's an attempt. March twists his whole body around to face Kieren, making a point to look him in the eyes--he always does, and oh, mousse, that's like makeup, then--and extends a fist before extending one singular pinkie on it.

He looks at Kieren expectantly. ]

[ Oh, absolutely not. Definitely not going to work. He turns his head to look at him, squinting slightly in confusion as March moves to look at him, then raises his hand towards him — pinkie finger poking out. Wait, is he— is he going to—

Kieren leans back, away. Panic flashing in his eyes. Sorry, are you about to touch his fucking face?! ]

Wh—what you doing?!

[ HE JUST SAID HE WAS RUNNING OUT OF MOUSSE, DON'T TRY TO RUB IT OFF. That's what he's trying to do, right? Ugh. Kieren makes a sound, a sort of huff of disgust and frustration before he pulls off a glove and holds up his bare hand to show him: ]

Here. [ He snaps, indignant. There's no cover-up mousse on his hands. He can't afford to spare it, but at least he can wear gloves to cover up his skin: pale and greyed, blacked nailbeds close to the cuticle — definitely not the colour of someone living and breathing. ]

What--

[ Not that he has time to examine anything that's happening right now, because Kieren is about to--what

Wait. No. What. Why's he looked panicked? Why'd he lean away? What the fuck? That's-- ]

Oh, wow.

[ That's kind of gross. It's also kind of fascinating. March is temporarily stunned, staring down at the hand that looks like it should be rotting. Zombie, then, capital Zee. Or Zed, since Kieren's British. March leans forward to get a better look, morbid curioustiy getting the best of him. He has seventy-five million questions. He's still leaning in when he looks up. ]

Do they not have pinkie promises in England?

[ That's like the least offensive question , so he figures he'll lead with that. ]

[ Please don't say it's gross out loud. Kieren knows it's gross. Kieren's hyper aware of the fact that his entire body is gross.

Meanwhile, Kieren's just.... absolutely reeling. Wait... wait, that's what he was trying to do?! He wasn't just... trying to reach out and touch his face?

A... pinkie promise.................. ]

What? [ Kieren's face scrunches up and he shakes his head. ] I mean, yeah. Of course we do! Why the hell were you trying to do a pinkie promise—?!

Why'd you think I was gonna touch your face?!

[ He kind of wanted to. Still wants to. That's not the point. March still has his pinkie out. ]

That's a question. I asked you first! [ Argh, okay. Alright, fine. ] I thought you were gonna rub my cover-up mousse off, I literally just told you about it!

[ And he still has his pinkie out. Just. Waiting for him. He doesn't get it. He tries again: okay, now you, March. ]

Why are you trying to do a pinkie promise?!

[ He's certainly not doing it until he explains. ]

I didn't wanna ask any questions until you were sure I wouldn't narc!

[ March's voice is rising both in volume and pitch, nearly cracking. This is ridiculous. But a part of him is glad that Kieren is yelling because he's confused, not because he's angry. Progress. Who cares if it's at his expense? It's whatever. ]

[ Kieren closes his eyes briefly, uttering a groan. Oh my god, are you even serious right now. He knows what a pinkie promise is, why they're done — but a grown adult offering one as a promise not to go mouthing off about him is just—

He sighs, deflating a little. Alright, fine. This might as well happen, he guesses.

He closes his fist, sticking out his pinkie and moving to curl it around Holland's. There. Done. Yes, his skin isn't warm — it's roughly about room temperature. ]

I've got a right to refuse any.... weird questions, by the way.

Yeah. [ That's how it works. Obviously. March's look is half side-eye half 'duh' and all teenage attitude. Wild for a man in his 30s. It's gone in almost an instant, the blond straightening up somewhat. ]

You think I'm gonna ask you a weird question?

[ Kieren huffs out a breath, eyebrows raised. Like, are you serious, March? ]

I'm a real-life walking and talking corpse and you're a private investigator. [ There's a pause as he shakes his head a little: what do you think? ] Considering you were talking about getting frostbite on your dick when we first met, I think it doesn't sound... all that far out there.

[ Please do not ask him about his dick. ]

[ March opens his mouth, decides maybe he shouldn't actually ask about Kieren's dick--there's a level of inappropriateness even for him, and he buys himself enough time by smoothing down his facial hair instead. Kieren's got a point. ]

None of that stuff's in my world. Weirdest thing that's happened to me was I saw the President when I almost died, alright? That was less an actual thing and more of a hallucination.

It wasn't in my world, either— [ There's a face, his mouth twists to one side. ] until it was. It was a.... freak act of nature.

[ A gift, he told Bill Macy. Rick was a gift. It's not a point of view that Kieren shares in relation to his own existence. He isn't a gift. ]

... You really hallucinated the president?

[ Shit, which one is that gonna even be, in the 1970s? Kieren doesn't know. ]

Hey. I thought I was gonna die, alright? My partner told me the stupidest story known to man, so yeah, I was gonna Nixon coming towards me. Can't think of anything more terrifying so in a way it really worked, getting me to stay on this side.

[ But this is not about him. It's about Kieren. March regroups. ]

Your thing... Does it hurt? You still feel pain? I mean, mentally, you're obviously alright.

Well, shit. [ Honestly, Kieren would be pretty freaked out if he saw Nixon running towards him. So it's really fair enough. There's a tiny smile. Yes, he's happy it worked. You're an ass, but it's good Holland's still here. ]

I— [ Christ, how does he even say it? Even if he has the words, how does he come out with it? He swallows, his chest feels hollow. ] I don't really— feel anything any more. I can remember how things are supposed to feel, but—

[ He inhales, as is to steady himself, eyelashes flutter. ]

I don't eat, or drink. I sleep and dream— [ God, does he dream. ] but it's like nothing works like I remember how it did.

[ Like he's living inside an alien thing, his body is a foreign land. ]

It's a drug— that's how I'm like— [ He gestures vaguely at his head. ] Stimulates neurogensis, helps my brain function, something I can't do on my own anymore.

[ That's a lot. March is itching to pull out his notebook to jot stuff down but ultimately decides against it. This isn't even a case, it's a person--it's a kid, scared and hesitant and talking to an adult and shit, looks like March has to be responsible.

But it's hard. He's got a million questions. A million and one, even, and he decides to ask the first one that comes to mind. ]

What do you dream about?

They're, uh— [ He swallows thickly, his voice breaking a little. ] more like memories? Back before, when I was in my, uh— untreated state.

[ He doesn't dare go into details, he can't. Not about Lisa, about the others he hunted and killed. ]

Sometimes it's... back when I woke up, in my coffin. And I think I've been buried alive— I mean I wasn't. I was actually dead. [ There's no doubts about that. ] I'd been dead for about... three weeks, maybe? It wasn't that hard to dig out.

[ It's horrific, and Kieren knows it is. But he speaks it with a surprising calm, an odd kind of frankness. A grim run down of events, with the same recollection of someone recounting facts from a school textbooks. ]

[ March isn't sure what's worse: the extremely explicit thought or the way Kieren seems calm about it, not like he's over it but like it's a fact he's been dealing with for so long the terror reaches a numb point.

That's something March can relate to. Not the horrific memory, no, but the ability to shut down the moment you start explaining something to someone. He acts the same way when someone asks about his wife.

That's where the similarities end, though. March presses his lips into a thin line. ]

Can I ask how you died? Before, I mean.

[ How did you croak, Kieren Walker? It's what he hears, when he asks. That's the voice that echoes in the back of his mind. The uncertainty in her voice when she questioned why he'd felt relief when he'd died. Kieren had felt numb, shame, disgust. He didn't feel relief any more.

(God, he misses Amy.)

He can't say it out loud. He can't. In the heat of the moment, he'd screamed it in front of Eddie and that awful fucking Jackal-thing. But in the here and now, he can't say it. None of the words seem right. They form in his mouth and he chews them, but they don't make it past his teeth. He can't say it. Not like this.

Mute, he removes his other glove — much like the other, this one too is pale and greyed: a body no longer with a beating heart and warm, fresh blood to flood it. Resigned, he tugs the sleeves of his hoodie and jumper up his arms — peeling back to reveal the hidden secret beneath. Deep, black, jagged scars line down his wrists, expertly stitched (the coroner, the undertaker?). Wounds that will never heal: a permanent tear in the skin — the reminder of what he'd done, how Kieren Walker croaked.

He turns his arms, wrists upwards, rests them on his knees. He can't look at Holland, he can only stare numbly into the mid-distance. He doesn't even know what to say. ]

[ March's chest rises in surprise, audible as he breathes in through his nose and looks at the unmistakable jagged mark of a kid that got pushed around by the world entirely too much. He's an idiot, but he's not dumb. He knows exactly what's happened.

He's also not the right guy to navigate this. He's the furthest from the right guy. One of the nice boat guys, maybe. Barbie, even. March isn't nice and hasn't been particularly interested in trying to fix that, and this? This needs a delicate touch.

He'd been expecting the answer to be 'car accident' or something. Not... ]

Jesus, Kid.

[ He needs another smoke. He needs an entire bottle of booze he doesn't have. He brings a hand up to rub at his face, trying not to think of how Kieren must have felt, ending his life only to wake up again--in his own coffin, no less. ]

... Sorry. [ It comes out as a hushed whisper. He swallows, a thick wet sound. Sorry, because it's difficult. Sorry, because it's so fucked up. Sorry, because what the hell does anyone say to that? Nobody knows the words. The thing is you get to talk to successful suicides because that's the whole point — they succeeded.

And he gets it, he really does. He remembers Amy had asked him why — he couldn't put the words to it. Only Rick knew. He could talk to Rick about anything.

Very quietly, he pushes his sleeves back down — obscuring the wounds from view. ]

I get it, if you don't know what to say. [ He says finally. ] I... I couldn't even talk about it to my own family, not at first. Like it was just... this— elephant in the room. Like— I was the elephant in the room.

We talk a bit about it now, but... it took a while. [ He inhales to steady himself. ] So... yeah. I get it.

[ Sorry? Kid killed himself, woke up in his own casket, clawed his way out, lived with the fact that he was still alive and then got dumped into the wilderness and he's the one apologizing?

March takes a split second to look at Kieren, horrified. Not at the sight of the other but the fact that he's making himself so damn small. The way he pushes his sleeves down, how he curls into himself like he's avoiding the world. He couldn't talk about it to his own fucking dad.

Flask forgotten, cigarette forgotten, the older man's jaw is tight as he rises, crossing to Kieren in four long, purposeful strides. ]

Screw that.

[ Holland March is a fuck up, an asshole, and he really isn't a nice guy, but he's still a dad. He takes Kieren's upper arm, pulls him closer, and wraps his arms around him in the tightest hug he can. ]

[ He shrinks back a little from the horrified look. Shit. Shit. And god, he's so... used to it. He swallows thickly, his gaze lowering and eyelashes fluttering as he looks down to his hands.

There's movement, though. March getting up, and he quickly looks back up again in silent alarm. His eyes wide and watchful, not quite sure what he means to do. He freezes as he's pulled up by his arm and there's a brief moment of panic— what's happening, what's he doing—

Only— oh.

He remembers what they feel like. He remembers what it is they're supposed to feel like, when Amy reached for him in heartbreak. When his dad stood, weeping, with his arms outstretched — some horrible reenactment of how he desperately carried the body of his only son to help. He couldn't be helped. It was too late. Kieren had gone to hug him, held him. There's so many things he can't do anymore, but his dad could still feel. His dad could still hold him.

He remembers the shape of it, as reference. March hugs onto him, and he's frozen for the longest of moments just trying to let the memory of it sink in. Back when he was alive, when he hugged people and he could feel it properly. More. At all. Not what he is now.

Finally, he shudders. Something cracks in him a little. Something through the numbness. He wishes he could be more, right now. He hugs back, reeling.

He wishes he didn't have to rely on the memory of it. ]

Edited 2024-01-05 01:24 (UTC)

closed | an empty crisis lonely and last

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an attempt was made, but it flew over Kieren's head

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cw: self-harm/wrist injuries, references to suicide

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cw more suicide talk

cw more suicide talk

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