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There comes that moment when everything is still and the rush is stopped; the world holds in a breath as it thunders in towards a frigid silence. Then everything crashes down, cymbals clashing, crumbling. He's splintering at the seams until there's nothing left, nothing except this fire-
and he's burning, burning up hot and fiery but he can't stop, he just keeps going-
keeps hurting and hurting and swinging and it's-
"No, it's ok"
and his barriers slam back up, snap into place, cold hard steel against brittle glass that cracks, as his breath saws in his lungs and his knuckles sting in tempo with the flames licking under his skin, so red in contrast to the blue
blue
blue around him, pulling him in as those eyes suck him in, staring so guilelessly at him as if what he did was absolutely fine but he knows it wasn't so why-
He turns. He turns, and he leaves, before that howling beast within him shatters the bars and floods the room with dark, screeching crimson, dripping down down in rivulets below those cerulean eyes.
There is no time to rest. They arrive; a flurry:
The disk. Marker on gleaming polycarbonate plastic and lacquer.
Miss Me?
The video-the locked door (the heft of metal, slamming, slamming until it splinters), the cane ("you utter cock!"), the confession ("they always give up after three")-it's all over quick, quick, quick as lightning flashes and soon
too soon
he's in the flat with those blue eyes and the painful, forced smiles and the air hanging, drooping heavy with what needs to be said, and oh, he's warring with himself-
It's futile-he knows it-
yet he still stands, arguing with a spectre long dead (himself) that is urging him on ("make him wear the hat!") screaming at him as he leaves, steps away, withdraws-
yet again-
"Are you ok?"
and briefly, then he's back here again as the steps loom, jeer at him, laugh. It echoes, this bitter, missed opportunity-
A text alert.
The flames roar into life, his heart thuds harder in his chest, the monster reaches out;
He has lost.
He spills, and it's messy, jagged, raw-
but his barriers have shattered, there's nothing left of him and he can't, there are no more pieces to pick up, the pieces are gone and it's not ok, the monster is wailing and screeching and everything is pouring out of him but a mug clinks against a table and warm arms circle around him-
warm breaths into his hair and a cheek resting on his head, a gentle pressure sliding up his back and a hand resting tender behind his neck and words, murmured, susurration:
It is what it is
and the fire is banked; the roaring is muffled; the beast calms; it's all fine echoes with the realisation that
perhaps
both of them are only human after all.