singillatim | closed | an empty crisis lonely and last

Yeah. We look exactly alike.

[ they don’t. The same face, height, and beauty mark sure, but the accent differs slightly and Ken is platinum blonde and shredded whereas March is a dirty blonde barely functioning alcoholic. March says it with conviction anyway, hands idly on his hips as he glances around. His rose tinted aviators are actually pretty great for how bright the snow can be but he slides them off, looking for a mirror to see his appearance, frowning when he sees it covered. A quick glance to Kieren and his eyes sweep up to the art next, unable to help himself.

He picks up a picture of a girl with long hair and a carefree, if someone unsettling grin, and whistles. ]

Girlfriend? [ he'll hold it up for Kieren to see. He also has no problem poking around someone else's house like a cop, apparently. ]

[ Kieren's going to pointedly not say anything with the look concerning the mirror. Really. Yep, we're not talking about it. Plenty of people cover up mirrors in their homes for some reason or another, right?

Instead, he's going to start rooting around in little chest of drawers — mostly filled with papers and random bits and pieces, some kind of junk drawer, he thinks. But he'll look up at the question, his eyes shifting to the drawing then to Holland. ]

Friend. [ Yes, a friend who's a girl. He likes Amy, cares for her a lot. Just not really in that way, he doesn't think. ] Amy. She's uh— well, we went through a lot, together. She's a really good mate.

[ It's not like he can say 'we hunted together' out loud to him. But, yeah. Christ he misses her. ]

Kind of like if you mixed the sun with a hurricane.

Friend. Okay. [ It's a quiet confirmation, half active listening and half in case he needs to be corrected again. He sets the paper down, moves to the mirror and lifts some of the fabric up with his pinkie finger, gaudy gold ring flashing in the dim firelight. He frowns when he looks and sees nothing out of the ordinary. ]

What'd you go through together? Exams? Prom night?

No— [ Although the second one of those earns Holland an incredulous frown. Prom night? What the shit—? He's still not entirely sure how to answer the question, though. And there's a long silence as he works through what to tell him. ]

We both went through a rough patch. [ Not like a relationship, and he's quick to correct himself. ] Not like that. I mean, like... we were both going through something really rough at the same time. It's... complicated.

[ There's a pause and he manages a half-smile. ]

She's been coping with it all really well since, though. [ A beat. ] ... Getting out of 'survival mode'.

[ 'Survival mode' could mean anything, he supposes. But that's what Amy called it. And she holds no worries or guilt about the whole thing. He can't say the same about himself. Ironic that the zombie feels like it's eating him alive.

Aha. He manages to find a pack stashed away in the drawer. He shakes it: it's not a full pack, there's maybe about half of them left. He holds them up and out to him in a gloved hand. ]

It's your lucky day.

Edited 2023-10-26 13:49 (UTC)

Hey thanks. [ It's quick, to the point but sincere if March's smile is anything to go by. He reaches for the pack, pocketing them almost immediately and pulls out the crumpled one that's currently on him as well as his lighter. March pulls one of them out as he makes himself at home, sitting on a nearby chair. ]

What's survival mode?

[ He's guessing exams or something. March grabs his gold zippo and flicks it open, looking at Kieren expectantly. He's curious. ]

[ Kieren's less quick to settle himself. He hovers, worrying his gloved hands for a moment. The question makes him cringe a little. ]

Y'know... like— [ He shrugs. ] when you're just trying to get by, just trying to get to the next day.

[ He raises his eyebrows, a tiny bit defensive but he's trying to keep it pleasant enough, huffing out a small laugh. ]

Do you usually question the hell out of people over them going through something shit? Or am I just special?

Oh. [ 'Trying to get by.' Yeah, March gets that. Maybe a bit too much, but that's not something he's going to vocalize even if he wasn't talking to a teen who looks like he belongs in the Adams family in terms of general malaise. March exhales sharply. ] Sorry. Habit.

[ He sits, making himself at home. Probably, he should ease up. But he's not joking. Old habits really do die hard, and despite how he acts most of the time, he's pretty good at what he does when he puts his mind to it. ]

I used to be a cop, and after that private investigator. I guess things not adding up bother me a little.

[ And, point-blank, casual: ]

You don't really add up at all.

Oh. [ It's his turn to say 'oh' now, and he nods his head. Like oh, sure. That kind of makes sense, actually. Questions, the little notebook. Yeah, he guesses it makes sense he used to be a copper, and well— a private detective. Those are actually a thing? And not just in the movies?

And then Kieren freezes, taken aback. For the longest moment, he doesn't really know how to respond and there's a little shake of his head. What's he supposed to say to that? He doesn't add up. His mouth shifting into a grimace as he huffs slightly, a tremor to his voice: ]

What's that supposed to mean?

[ ... And he's immediately on the defensive. ]

[ March looks at him calmly, regarding him in a manner that isn't deadpan but is strangely calm. He finally puts the cigarette in between his lips, lights it, taking his time. He's not intentionally making Kieren sweat, it's just that the other blonde seems to be doing that just fine on his own and March isn't exactly stopping him. ]

Your voice shakes and you curl in on yourself when your nervous, which is pretty much all the time.

[ He takes his time, taking a puff of his cigarette and savouring it. Eventually, he motions to the room, and when his wrist stops its twist he drops it on the back of the couch he's settled into. ]

Place is too cold, mirrors covered, you acted funny when we first met. You act like its your job to skirt around information that most teenagers would answer without a second thought--so. You don't add up and you're hiding something.

[ Talk about a call out. Kieren flinches back a little with a sharp inhale, a reflex, his eyes wide. How is he so calm about this? How is he just so chill about all of this? In contrast, Kieren's nothing but fear. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for all hell to break loose, for the gun to go off.

Weakly, he tries to fight against it. There's a nervous little shake of his head, his face screwing up briefly. ]

Pretty sure that's just anxiety. And why wouldn't I be, in this place? Mm? [ Come on, it's a good point. But yes, his voice still shakes. ] Winter deathtrap, far from home. I'd say that's enough to make anyone nervous all the time.

[ You don't add up and you're hiding something.

His throat feels tight, and he's fidgeting. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know the right way to go about this all. He can't think of some clever quip for that part, some smart-arse excuse and the silence is telling that he's trying to come up with something. ]

I don't want any bother. [ ... Is the lame excuse he comes out with. He's still on the defensive, but he doesn't have much else. ] I'm just... I'm just trying to get on with things. Is that so terrible? Or— or is that not good enough because I don't apparently 'add up'?

Half-truths are still shitty lies.

[ The kid's nervous. He's practically prancing around he's so anxious, and March by contrast is taking this all in stride. His head dips, tilts all the way back so he can stare at the cieling, cigarette smoke making a cloud as his blue eyes slide over to Kieren's. ]

I gotta know.

[ March knows anxiousness. Lives it. This is anxiousness, sure, but something else. Sorry, Kieren, March is calling your bullshit with just a tiny bit of logic: ]

C'mon. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. I gotta know. It's driving me nuts. You think I'm gonna tell anyone? If I did, you think they'd believe me?

[ Shit, what does he even say to that? His mouth opens, but he can't even say anything. And he's just being baited with it, relentlessly: I gotta know. C'mon. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. I gotta know. He quakes, chest heaving with air he doesn't need and he just wants him out of his house and he wants to be left alone.

Stop. a voice inside him asks, begs. Stop it. Stop. Drop it, please.

Like he's a puzzle to be solved, something to be picked apart and discovered and he just wants to be left alone— and it's just fear fear fear

And something in him just— snaps ]

Stop it! [ He shouts it, roars it. His whole body shakes, face screwed up tight — an out-pour of fear and anger. He strains forward, horror still in his eyes, a shaking hand batting at his chest. ] Stop. This isn't a game, March! This is my fucking life—!

[ He can't stop himself, breath after ragged breath. Like some howling, mad, thing— ]

They kill people like me! That's my life! Because I'm not normal, because— to them, I was someone who should never have come back! I should have stayed dead!

[ .... Oh. ]

[ .... Oh. ]

[ That's not what March is expecting. A breakdown, maybe, but in a petulant teenager way, not... this. March can't say he knows Kieren well, but he's always been soft spoken and nervous. Shy, even, in a way that means attention makes him feel like he's going to crawl out of his skin the moment someone looks at him. March had chalked it up to teenage angst, figured prodding wouldn't hurt. A little push, like he does sometimes when he can't shove money into the hands of eager street punks to get the answers he needs. Polite bullying.

This is the opposite reaction. Kieren yells so loud his voice reverberates through the cold and lonely house, heard above the drafts, crystal clear and stinging not only March's ears but some part inside of him that he hasn't buried, Some part that actually gives a shit.

The detective sits in stunned silence, the neutral deadpan look replaced with something else, shoulders square and unmoving, looking carefully at Kieren, taking in the other blond's face, the posture, the way that this feels like maybe--maybe--this is the culmination of a lot more than getting harried by some idiot from the 70s. Time seems to stretch out, and March isn't sure if it's been 10 seconds or 10 minutes. After the initial shock of Kieren raising his voice comes the actual facts flooding through his mind, processing it slowly, wading through the very straightforward meaning.

Fuck.

March swallows, finding an odd lump in his throat for some reason as he finally moves, bringing the hand without the cigarette up to touch at his face, middle and index fingers smoothing out his mustache as he tries to find words. Tries to assess, because he knows damn well he can't just sit here with this and he also knows asking more questions is the absolute wrong move.

Fucking fuck. March opens his mouth, and his voice is soft. ]

Hey.

[ A single word, void of anything other than a surprising amount of gentleness. Something's kicked in. The parental instinct that March completely and utterly lacks is slowly creeping up. The hand with the cigarette moves next as he carefully stubs the smoke out on a nearby coaster that was on the coffee table for lack of anywhere else. ]

Come sit.

Edited 2023-11-29 20:37 (UTC)

[ It would almost be comical, if it weren't so horrifying. Kieren stands lost in some frozen half-daze, trepidation and horror creeping quickly into his face — his mouth hung open. God, fuck— what has he done?

And he's stood like that, unable to move— terrified to move. His eyes glossing over and it seems like an age passes— what has he done, why did he say that? His mind is a buzzing mess of tightly-wound panic and fright. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he should just... bolt out the door, run away— and his stomach lurches uncomfortably.

But nothing happens. There's just the stillness, the silence. Still, he doesn't move and then March does — but it's easy, measured and if the other shoe is about to drop, it sure doesn't. Not in the way Kieren expects it to.

No, instead he's told to come sit down.

Kieren swallows tightly, an audible, wet sound. His head lowers slightly, eyes closing for a long moment. Christ—

Mutely, he sits. Hands fall into his lap, clasped tight against his knees. He doesn't dare speak, stares straight ahead with wide, strained eyes. He can't even think of what to say. ]

[ It's a start. A slow start, and it's not like March knows how the fuck to navigate any of this--this was what his wife did, this was what his wife was good at, March doesn't have a parenting bone in his body. She was fucking perfect, and March is stumbling blindly around trying to handle a guy that's been persecuted at best and is a literal zombie at worst.

Kieren stares blankly at the wall as March inhales sharply, holds it, and exhales loudly, half to just break the silence and half because he needs it. He also needs more than the cigarette he's just put out, so he leans back.

He's has four things on him at all times: gun, wallet, lighter, and flask. It's the flask that comes out, and as he unscrews it his gaudy pinky ring flashes as it catches the dim, low light of the fire. He stares at the wall Kieren's staring at, raises his brows, and proceeds to tip his head back for a long, long swig, speaking only when he's finished. ]

Jesus Christ, kid.

[ There's still no judgement, not much of anything other than 'well, fuck. This sure is a situation.' So Kieren's dead. Supposed to be. But he's not. Except he is, because March knows he doesn't actually breathe. A glance at the mirrors.

They're covered because he doesn't want to look at himself. Ain't that the truth, wanting to crawl out of your skin because you hate what you are?

He'll talk. They'll talk. March will break the silence with more than a swear word. But first, he silently offers Kieren a drink. ]

Edited 2023-11-29 22:06 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

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

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