Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-03-29 06:47 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-03-29 06:47 pm
Entry tags:
these words are knives that often leave scars [closed]
He spends the entire day and night off, out. He has no goal in mind, no place to stay; he simply meanders, directionless, and steadily burns his way through an entire pack. He doesn't want to see Jay. He doesn't want to talk to him, or anyone, preferably again.
But like it or not, Tim's dependent on him for shelter - sort of, anyway, but he's not about to bother Johnny with his problems again no matter how much he's tempted. He misses the pattern of quiet simplicity he and Johnny fell into, no needing to talk over their shit so much as let it hover unaddressed, or barely addressed, and that suited them both just fine. Johnny never pried anything out of him, just urged him gently. Never used him. Never left him behind. Never took advantage of who and what Tim is.
Maybe it would have been a matter of time. Isn't it usually. Tim's the common variable in everything that's gone horribly, irreversibly wrong in his life. He knows it's on him. Usually. And the few times it isn't -
His last cigarette's smoldering stump is extinguished under the grind of a heel as he stamps into the building, shoulders up and hunched almost to his ears, hands jammed uncomfortably into his pockets. The rattle of pills in his jacket pocket is too high-pitched, too few objects rolling around in their orange bottle with the shredded label. He should be worried about that. But he isn't.
The door's locked, but Tim had the forethought to grab keys, if only out of impulse. He hadn't thought he would be coming back at the time - or, no, really he hadn't been thinking at all, period, simply tore open the door with the mindless, infuriated yank of an arm, spilled out of the building and onto the street, and there he'd stayed. Walking and smoking and not thinking.
But he had to come back sometime. No more running and hiding, remember, Tim? Or had he resolved to only ever run and hide, never confront things brazenly, because isn't that what Jay made a habit of doing and look where it got him - but he's made so many pointless resolutions and so many of them have failed that he frankly can't remember what he's meant to be doing anymore.
So he comes back. He lets the door swing shut behind him, neither slamming nor closing but snapping shut with frosty neutrality while Tim pins down the apartment's sole tenant with a glare.
But like it or not, Tim's dependent on him for shelter - sort of, anyway, but he's not about to bother Johnny with his problems again no matter how much he's tempted. He misses the pattern of quiet simplicity he and Johnny fell into, no needing to talk over their shit so much as let it hover unaddressed, or barely addressed, and that suited them both just fine. Johnny never pried anything out of him, just urged him gently. Never used him. Never left him behind. Never took advantage of who and what Tim is.
Maybe it would have been a matter of time. Isn't it usually. Tim's the common variable in everything that's gone horribly, irreversibly wrong in his life. He knows it's on him. Usually. And the few times it isn't -
His last cigarette's smoldering stump is extinguished under the grind of a heel as he stamps into the building, shoulders up and hunched almost to his ears, hands jammed uncomfortably into his pockets. The rattle of pills in his jacket pocket is too high-pitched, too few objects rolling around in their orange bottle with the shredded label. He should be worried about that. But he isn't.
The door's locked, but Tim had the forethought to grab keys, if only out of impulse. He hadn't thought he would be coming back at the time - or, no, really he hadn't been thinking at all, period, simply tore open the door with the mindless, infuriated yank of an arm, spilled out of the building and onto the street, and there he'd stayed. Walking and smoking and not thinking.
But he had to come back sometime. No more running and hiding, remember, Tim? Or had he resolved to only ever run and hide, never confront things brazenly, because isn't that what Jay made a habit of doing and look where it got him - but he's made so many pointless resolutions and so many of them have failed that he frankly can't remember what he's meant to be doing anymore.
So he comes back. He lets the door swing shut behind him, neither slamming nor closing but snapping shut with frosty neutrality while Tim pins down the apartment's sole tenant with a glare.
no subject
"Sure you wouldn't," he says waspishly. "So next time? Do do it differently." He scoops his keys from his pocket and fiddles with them, running one thumb over the dips and ridges of one edge, burning with the need to do something with himself. "Maybe then I'll believe you."
no subject
He hesitates, then reaches out, picks up the coffee mug, and holds it out to Tim in a wordless offer.
no subject
Tim doesn't have the money to bet that it won't last.
He accepts the mug with a low mutter of, "thanks," and sips intermittently. He's been up all night. Wouldn't be the first time, but he could use the caffeine. He finishes either far too quickly or not quickly enough, torn between contemplating the seeming sincerity of that promise and the jittery, unsettling tension that's been left out between them.
Draining all but the dregs, Tim sets the mug into the sink with a quiet clunk, rinses it, then, left with nothing else to do with his hands, shuffles back to the door.
"Gotta go, I guess," he offers in shrugging, mumbled uncertainty.
no subject
Whether or not he can keep the implied promise is something he's not sure of, and he would also bet money he doesn't have that Tim doesn't trust it either. But he has to try.
All that shit he left behind, the unraveling mystery that he never solved, the problems he never fixed, the unanswered questions that ended up killing him - all of it for a man he saw only once, just once after the whole thing started (everything else he forgot), and he didn't even say a word, just pulled the final trigger - it's all starting to slip away. What does any of it matter to him now? To all that, he's dead with no body; here, he's nothing, just some cipher waiting to find a new project.
Maybe he doesn't need one. Cameras aside.
And all he has is Tim, whose need for shelter is the only thing tethering him, whose attachment is worn to a few fraying threads.
Tim is all there is. Jay cannot fucking lose that. He won't.
So yeah. Next time he will do better.
"Good luck," he says.
no subject
Yeah. He doesn't want to think about this right now. He's gonna go to the first day of his mindless job so they - they, plural, even after everything they keep doing to each other - can scrape together something better than what they have. Maybe they can.
(Realistically? No. No, they can't.)
(But Tim's used to the disappointment.)
He ducks out of the apartment before the silence stretches into irresolution and closes the door behind him.