Work Text:
I.
Ryland sees the world sideways. Grass tickles at his skin, bites his eyes. Something is being strangled inside of him – a needle seals his fate. But the hands around his hands stay. Hand in hand, caressing, loving, saying, you are strong. Saying, you are capable. Saying, I believe in you. They don’t see his cowardice. Don’t see him for who he is, what he is. All they see is what they can get out of him. What he can bend and break into. What he isn’t, and what he must be.
II.
Ryland watches the lack of movement of the Hail Mary’s walls in a half-hearted daze. The mattress obscures his view.
A pair of hands skim his body like the pages of an unloved book. Thin and worn, telling stories of martyrs and the virgin Maryam. They love with such righteous vigor. They do not see him.
Somewhere there was a part of him that wanted this, but he cannot find it again. He takes a shuddering breath in and closes his eyes, hands relaxing in the grip holding them to his naked back. This was always going to be how it ends.
Later, when Simon asks why he won’t meet his eyes, Ryland goes to a place far away, where the needle in his neck did its job too well, succeeded where Ryland hadn’t all those times in the past. And the coward is still there; he wishes it was Ilyukhina who had left his bones to turn into space junk.
Simon will ask, where do you go? and Ryland will want to answer The stars.
And when Simon wakes in the night, plagued by shakes and his own cruel fate, body eating itself alive, Ryland still cannot meet his eye. But he can say, You are real. You will always be real.
That he is more real than Ryland is left buried in the cave of his maw.
I.
“Are you… okay?”
Ryland blinks.
The bedroom is a mess. A half-unpacked suitcase. Three loads of laundry he needs to fold. A collection of important papers in places they shouldn’t be. Music is playing over the speakers of his desktop computer instead of the dedicated speaker that’s lost somewhere on the once-a-floor.
He expects the answer to die in his throat, or to get chased away. Expects some empty reassurance to surface, say, yes, yes, always. But there is nothing of the sort. He doesn’t feel like speaking.
Thinking is hard. He blinks. Moving is harder.
She’ll leave, not because she’s a bad person, but because Ryland is. Mind and heart open to the truth. The sores on his skin are leaking humors. Eukrasia remains unattainable.
II.
“Grace not okay.”
“I… think he just needs a moment.”
“No, no, no. Bad, bad, bad. Room mess. Is trashcan again. Where floor, question?”
“I’ll clean it, little bastard. It’s not a big deal.”
“Mate Simon help Friend Grace. Or Rocky will.”
With a quiet sigh, Ryland turns over in bed. He doesn’t feel like looking at anyone.
I.
Bass thrums in his veins, crowding it for alcohol and cheap meth highs. Something unkind lurks in the corner. Trying to fight it deforms his mirror image.
A hug, another pull. Fire dances between his fingers. The high is disgusting. It’s the only reason to keep living.
“What?” he yells.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh.”
He remembers the empty college dorm waiting and hunts down someone else who’ll smoke some more with him.
II.
Shaking fingers card through clothes that aren’t his. Pictures, papers, books. More clothes. His vision blurs. He needs more.
“Hey.”
Grace startles. He can’t meet Simon’s eyes. (When did he last see his eyes? ( Are they still there? ))
“Hi.”
“What are you looking for?”
Accusing. Always accusing. The coward inside of him revels in the recognition of his self.
Grace shrugs. He watches Simon’s finger twitch.
“I threw the rest away.”
“What?”
“I know you think I’m stupid. If you want to clone that shit, you do it with what you already have.”
“I- I’m not-”
“Stop fucking lying to me, Ryland.”
Simon says more, but it gets lost somewhere. Grace’s head twitches to the side. Bad self soothing habit, they used to tell him. Twitchy.
“It doesn’t matter,” Grace says eventually. Croaks, words scratching the lining of his throat. Part of him hopes the words are rough enough to peel off Simon’s epidermis.
“Of course it matters, all of it matters. That’s the entire point.”
Grace stares into the hellscape that is the Hail Mary’s white. White and beige. White and beige.
What matters is getting this all to stop, no matter the means. He doesn’t need to say it for Simon to know it. That’s just what being known is like.