singillatim | closed | an empty crisis lonely and last

[ 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. ]

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?

closed | an empty crisis lonely and last

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1/2

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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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