![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(closed) did you hear the slamming door?
Who: jonas ward and plotted cr.
When: aereuer 13th.
Where: his mirror in the looking-glass house.
What: "dream a little dream (of me)" event.
Warnings: severe illness, suicide, assault, possession, nuclear disaster, drowning themes.
(jonas' oblong mirror is tall, its copper frame stained green by chemical weathering. it looks like an artifact dredged from the bowels of a sunken ship found on the bottom of the sea floor, but holds more character in its etched edges. music notes—that form a song if you can read them—spread the length of it, weaving through jail bars, sinking down into what appears to be the grate on the front of a car, and mounting hills with faint trees. the conifers stretch with fading detail into the "sky" of the frame where they form triangular fractals.
carvings may be lacking depending on how well you know him, missing elements that refuse to paint a whole picture, or they may be clear and feel characteristically jonas; however, one thing will always remain the same despite your relationship: when you touch the surface of your reflection, something looms beyond it, looking out as you look in.
the feeling of being watched settles at the back of your neck, persisting as the prevailing mood through each and every memory no matter how simple or happy. waiting and soaking.)
When: aereuer 13th.
Where: his mirror in the looking-glass house.
What: "dream a little dream (of me)" event.
Warnings: severe illness, suicide, assault, possession, nuclear disaster, drowning themes.
(jonas' oblong mirror is tall, its copper frame stained green by chemical weathering. it looks like an artifact dredged from the bowels of a sunken ship found on the bottom of the sea floor, but holds more character in its etched edges. music notes—that form a song if you can read them—spread the length of it, weaving through jail bars, sinking down into what appears to be the grate on the front of a car, and mounting hills with faint trees. the conifers stretch with fading detail into the "sky" of the frame where they form triangular fractals.
carvings may be lacking depending on how well you know him, missing elements that refuse to paint a whole picture, or they may be clear and feel characteristically jonas; however, one thing will always remain the same despite your relationship: when you touch the surface of your reflection, something looms beyond it, looking out as you look in.
the feeling of being watched settles at the back of your neck, persisting as the prevailing mood through each and every memory no matter how simple or happy. waiting and soaking.)
sasuke, cw: possession, suicide.
jonas, younger by a few years and yet easily the most recognizable of three passengers, is glued to his door in an attempt to see beyond his confines; half an arm is stuck outside, hand held flat to enthusiastically sail the wind resistance. his mood is elevated, truly happy if a bit peeved he's missing an opportunity to hang out with potential friends. up front, the man and woman, his parents, pay the scenery little mind. their world buckled safely in behind them, and so they do what any couple does and bicker away about the knobs and dials centre console.)
Suze, would you just grab them, please? I am not spending another thirty hour drive listening to you and your son's–
Oh, our what, Ben?
Yeah, our what, dad? (jonas challenges like an echo of his mother with a slap at the chrysler's old paint job, huffing a bewildered chuckle when susanna casts a conspiratorial wink back at him,) Our– our infinitely better taste in music? P.S. the eighties called, and they said they want their tape decks back. This car's a dinosaur, but it still has a CD player.
Great, another uprising. (ben laments, both hands affixed to the wheel even if his eyes roll away from the road.)
Two against one, baby; you can't argue with that. (she brushes at her husband's temple with her thumb, then tweaks his earlobe to prompt a bullish snort. it's a familiar touch between them that looks so natural it's obviously employed frequently, the fondness in her eyes as she watches him indicative of their tight knit bond as not only spouses but best friends; one cohesive unit.) He got the sass from the Ward side of the family. All I contributed was the egg.
Um, gross? C'mon, mom.
Hardly. There were only ever two successful cloning attempts. The sheep in '96 and Jonas in '98, created from– (a squawked "ow," as a dainty hand slaps harmlessly at ben's arm,) created from your tissue!
(jonas has never laughed as loudly or as brightly as they swerve on the empty road, pitching sideways in his seat to fish up the case of cds from the floor of the car on sasuke's side. he's still smiling as he leafs through and chooses one to pass to this mother, hands lingering on the backs of his parents' seats. he may not remember this as vividly anymore or look on it as fondly, his love for them now kept safely contained, but it's obvious to any outsider looking in that these were—and always will be—his most cherished memories.)
no subject
He steps inside and immediately he's jerked back into his seat by the motion of the car on a previously still body, thrust into another world that he doesn't know and reeling from the sensory overload. The shift is stark: bright, warm light pouring through the windows of the vehicle and humid air circulating throughout its interior. Dark eyes are minutely widened as he turns his head, briefly marveling at the speed with which they're traveling.
The closest thing he's experienced – outside of his own movements at full strength – is a train, but this is smaller and much more responsive. A car... Jonas has told him about them before. And they're traveling in this for thirty hours? The expanse of Jonas's country hits him, a seemingly unimportant detail that he nevertheless cherishes in some deep part of himself. He looks over at him then, feeling almost like a voyeur as he studies features that are so similar and yet softer than those of the teenager he now knows.
His parents speak so freely and with obvious affection between them; it tightens his throat. It's foreign, uncomfortable, like staring into a light that's a little too bright for eyes long since adjusted to another world. Another way of living. There's true love in the gentle teases that translates regardless of his knowledge of the topics, emotions flowing around details like rocks in a stream; they're irrelevant.
His leg jerks away from the hand that passes right through it as if he's scared that contact will break this spell, that he'll taint this perfect moment, frozen in time, but it's too resilient. Safe, locked away in Jonas's mind, but irrevocably fractured. ]
no subject
she sings marvellously and ben gives a pronounced sigh, keeping the car on the straight and narrow, but eventually draws a mic-like fist near his mouth to fill in back vocals near the end of the song with a tone deaf falsetto. "turn around, bright eyes!"
the radio skips to its next track, struggling to play when it encounters hairline scratches driven into the disk by overuse. it plays five seconds, much to the dismay of the passengers who offer different ways to fix it—then skips. it plays five seconds, then skips. it plays five seconds, then the entire memory skips. the world around sasuke shifts, a line through the middle of his vision that becomes thick bars of colour and static, then, still seated, a hand falls down on his shoulder and hauls sasuke through his seat cushion and down onto a sand dune.)
Fire! Man's great equalizer. (a sunny voice that sounds relieved; a tense conversation's just taken place.
it's dark outside, evening, and it's cooling off. there's firelight that reaches over the few scattered rocks where sasuke's been deposited into the next memory, several teenagers blocking it from view with their silhouettes after a short trek down the path leading away from the cliffs at the edge of a small tourist trap. this is a place jonas has described before, not the beach or the ocean hushing loud voices, but the cave that looms beyond.
one boy is recognizable, standing apart from the rest in his own defensible position astride an old wooden fence, quickly lighting a cigarette as soon as everyone spreads out to watch a bonfire crackle and spit sparks.) So what’s the, um… what the, like… thing to do here? Other than obviously go skinny dipping and get murdered by Jason Krueger. (by the way he addresses them so stiffly i it's clear they've only just met, though he tries to make conversation despite how stilted his attempts.
a woman who lived there, who owned the island, died days ago much to everyone's astonishment. something of a local celebrity to the kids who made the yearly trip to camp and party. jonas is addressed by clarissa, a spitfire redhead who made the off-colour announcement.)
And to answer your previous question, Jonas, the “thing to do,” is lay on the beach and drink till you can’t remember where you are.
And sometimes play Truth or Slap.
Yeah! Let’s play that! We can inaugurate Jonas. Ease him into the night’s festivities.
(it's clear by jonas's face and the overt confusion alex—who is very blue and very exasperated—expresses that they've never played the game in question and rules are set out for them in so many words. instead of dares there are slaps and instead of good, wholesome fun, it's immediately being used to figuratively grind people down and douse any scraps of fun. ren is the first victim, clarissa very pointedly outing him to the quiet girl beside her, getting slapped for denying it and prompting a surprisingly impressed jonas who's taken to the idea. when his name is called on by his step-sister, sporting a newly stinging hand, the moment of mirth is gone and his reversion into someone withdrawn with a distaste for the limelight on him is plain to see.)
Uh, Jonas.
(alex calls him out of his spacey stare past the fence, and he's quick to ash his smoke to take another draw. it's his turn, not pleased about it but still willing to be sporting.) … yeah?
Jonas… I just– look, I heard this thing somewhere I can’t even remember about you maybe beating up a guy this one time…?
(the air was nice; it was supposed to be a clear night. there were supposed to be groups of people he could hide in, tying one on together, finding someone to hook up with, and trying to live their best lives. but his first social function since losing his mother, successfully serving his time in juvenile detention, hearing his father is going to be married, and moving here is this. an interrogation. jonas' expression clouds and his voice dips low, obviously unimpressed.)
Ah... I mean… I don’t wanna’ lie… ("then don’t," presses the peanut gallery.) Okay… yeah, I did. But it’s not really an entertaining story and I’m not gonna’ get into it right now, so.
(the replies are the same as all the rest: he's met with a short silence and then people overcompensate. ren says that's, "fair enough," nona gives him a short "yep," to him questioning if it's his turn, and the other two stew on the fact. he does not get challenged, he does not get asked for details. he moves on.)
Okay. Clarissa, um… last person you made out with.
(it should've been simple, but here jonas has made another mistake. there are landmines everywhere on this beach that stifle conversation. the worst yet, however, is where his question leads—evidently, nowhere good by the timely upset in an eye-rolling alex's friends. his cigarette's met its end, sucked back and flicked into the sand, working his jaw around a lungful of ash. would that it were poison, he could drop fucking dead to get out of this. sasuke will miss no detail in the memory, so recent and tinted by his anxiety that everything is recalled almost exactly as it happened. a stressed mood settles onto mirrorbound shoulders like the dense fog that's rolling in over the water.)
Alex… you got a new brother. Pretty exciting. I’m sure Jonas is excited, or maybe… “excited” isn’t the right word. Maybe a little overwhelmed with just everything, you know? Unsure… it’s a lot to take in and adjust to. (clarissa watches jonas with rapt focus.
all he does is raise a brow.) I’m, uh… fine with it, really.
(alex doesn't, taking the obvious bait with an, "is there, like, a question coming or what?" hooked, she becomes defensive and pointedly gestures at herself with a beer. it's jumped on instantaneously, clarissa, as though waiting for the invite to continue, seizing her chance to bring to light facts about divorce that she's been holding onto for years. this is a perfect opportunity to out his step-sister with any ammunition she can use—unfortunately, that requires jonas and his jaw sets knowing he's about to understand why. but called on in that moment, his thoughts remain on his own mother. her unending patience, her willpower, her reasonable, mediating nature. jonas doesn't like the situation, yet he's expected to weigh in.)
Clarissa, I don’t really care why they got a divorce, (temper level, he tries his best to emulate susanna's ability to gracefully keep the peace,) just that Alex’s mom is happy now.
But how can we be sure unless you know why?
(fog touches the far edges of the sand they stand uneasily on, and sasuke's time grows short. with it comes something implacably wrong, unease growing until flecks of salt and pepper noise begins to hang in the air.)
You know why. (alex's voice shakes and for the first time since arriving, jonas' hackles raise. like it or not—know her or not—they're family, and the pressure put on her to respond to something so far out of line is engendering a protective instinct in him that will last the entire night. maybe clarissa's right. maybe he is overwhelmed. but he's not a frightened puppy; he knows the cost of things and this isn't someone they should be spending their time on.) Michael... died and... it broke everything and they couldn’t handle it. The end.
Well, now you know, Jonas. Don’t die and everything will be fine.
(as the memory begins to seize and glitch, jonas watches clarissa take a smug, bitter sip of her drink.)
no subject
It makes the cut into the next moment even more stark in spite of how slowly it happens, music tripping over itself and consciousness swirling until he's dragged back into cold sand, a rough departure from a warm car seat that has him gasping. ]
Jonas? [ His name is on his lips before he can stop himself, gaze immediately casting about for the teenager that stands removed from the situation. Standoffish. Not giving off the air of the Jonas that he knows, but that Jonas has had a fresh start and has to compensate for his company. Sasuke isn't an impartial judge and certainly isn't one to often allow for outlooks grimmer than his own.
Here he gets a chance to see Jonas with his peers... and his discomfort is palpable. Sasuke eases himself up as they speak, taking the time to approach each individual in turn just to circle them and commit their features to memory. Each of their names are spoken and matched to the person in question, though his gaze immediately cuts to Jonas mid-inspection of Alex the moment he's asked about his criminal past. His jaw's tight when Jonas stumbles his way through an answer, more stress added to an already tense situation.
It doesn't compare to the relentless pushing of the topic of divorce, however. If it were his own parents being spoken of in such a way, putting aside the special wall he's built over years and years to absorb any blow centered on his family, he would react far more violently than either Alex or Jonas manage. I don't really care why they got a divorce, just that Alex's mom is happy now. Would he be capable of such a mature response? His attention stays focused only on him now, fixated on this side of Jonas he's never seen that colors him in an entirely new light. He's protective, angry but measured, and the words "don't die" echo in Sasuke's ear like an eerie, bone-chilling prediction that has him wanting to safeguard him and even this flawed moment with a new kind of fervor.
Then the dark sky above him begins to stretch, creeping down over Jonas's face in erratic, twitching movements that carve this memory back out of time. For the second time, he falls. ]
no subject
it isn't immediately clear that the complex sasuke's standing in is a fort, but it looks abandoned and tall buildings can be seen around a shadowy figure in the window that's pointing towards the rest of the rundown compound. what is clear is that this is the same night, hours after the conversation on the beach, made obvious by the familiar clothes of the room's three occupants: clarissa, whose cardigan whips tightly around her from the wind and rain of the storm raging outside; alex, hands tucked in the pockets of a bomber jacket that looks as grimly dissatisfied as its wearer does; and jonas, with the back of his coat and pants covered in a layer of grime and dust from an earlier fall.
he's the first to speak, tentatively creeping forward so as not to disturb or startle the girl standing precariously against the outside dark.) … Clarissa?
Clarissa, it’s us, it’s Alex. Are you… okay?
(quiet chatter is filtering from the radio tucked out of sight, “𝙸 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸 𝙰𝙼 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙽, 𝙵𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙵𝚁𝙴𝙴𝙳𝙾𝙼, 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙼𝚈”–) 𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚡. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢. (over the white noise comes a distortion, clarissa's voice seemingly split into layers, two separate octaves formed by blueing lips that barely move as she raises her face to the black sky.)
She’s, like… (jonas' words shake out of him, airy as though he's unable to catch his breath,) she’s like Ren was.
(there's recognition sasuke can spot in green eyes, haunted by something that's clearly already took hold of him, too, pale and horrified as alex throws all of their caution to the wind and shouts.)
Clarissa, will you wake up?!
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜… 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.
(clarissa teeters.
her whole body sways with a strong gust and while alex approaches to view the free fall unafraid, it's jonas who takes two staggering steps back with an immediate raise of his hands. he recognizes in that moment and all moments after it that he has never in his life acted so cowardly, because he knows that if he'd only thrown his step-sister out of the way and lunged, or approached her far sooner with the intent to help, he might've been able to reach her. he might've been able to prevent her body from striking the pavement below with a sickening crack that forces him to grab at his ears.)
Oh my G– why would she do that?! (pitchy from fear and alarm, his palms press harder against the sides of his head. only then does he approach in a lean to check on the mangled body below, gasping.) Why would she do that?! We were– we’re not– it’s not like we’re…!
(alex leaves her step-brother with sasuke in her haste to exit the room while he fights through the panic that drives him into pacing. some distant explanation for the behaviour is given but jonas barely hears her, doesn't even listen to her stammered announcement that clarissa was possessed so it couldn't be their fault, too preoccupied with trying to process any part of it in a mind that refuses to accept that—in their reality, in this reality—something so nightmarish could happen. it's impossible to choke down. there's no way that he can when his ribs feel constricting in a way he could only describe as a drowning sensation, lost beneath a surface too many leagues above him.
they lost the hangman match against the sunken, that must've been it. they were waiting for their penalty and they got it, clarissa's life on the line and they failed her. he asked, didn't he? he asked what would happen to them once the entire picture was drawn and, somehow, that makes it easier to force himself to move. should he bear the weight of such an egregious, unforgivable sin, alex won't have to. shouldn't one of them be able to tell their parents they tried?
jonas' calm is superficial, level head a fucking ruse. his mind wants to drift to the other side of edwards island and it wants to board the ferry home, but no help is coming, they're stranded, and they have to find ren and nona to improve their chances of escaping. as desperately as he dislikes them, as awkward as it is to be in this situation with them, this suicide—this murder—has to light a fire under them. if it doesn't, they're dead. they're dead.
just don't die and everything will be fine.)
I don’t– I don’t even know what to… we… we should… get to the others. I-I can’t even imagine telling them. Or… or how to tell them, I… we’ll… we’ll figure it out.
(as always, alex leads the way down a destroyed wall of old cement and wet rebar and forgoes any smart remarks. and, as always, jonas follows her into the downpour and through an old classroom filled with macabre chalk handprints, signs of struggle in the dust in the centre of the room. high above their heads, against the ceiling, hangs a dead portal filled with stars. once described to sasuke and never discussed again.
a mirror, reflecting another dimension.)
… This is unbelievable…
no subject
And the third... Clarissa, remembered well for her performance around the campfire. By far the most aggressive, ready with a biting comment or borderline cruel question when given any opportunity. But here her voice is fractured and her words far more mild. Sasuke quickly realizes that what he's witnessing is the effects of the ghosts Jonas had told him about when they were safely in Aefenglom, and by what he says about Ren this isn't the first time in this night that it's happened.
There will be other ships. Like Jonas.
The other teen takes a step back while Sasuke outstrips Alex, immediately rushing towards Clarissa as if on instinct when he sees her body starting to tip forward. He watches as she falls, staring with eyes too used to the sight of dead bodies to muster up any kind of shock-horror, but it doesn't immunize him to the concern that immediately manifests itself in response to the threat against Jonas becoming that much more real. This is what those spirits are capable of and clearly willing to do. This is what faces his new, stuttering friend that he slowly follows through his memory, away from a fallen body and into the rain. It's once they're in the classroom that his attention is finally stolen from Jonas, eyes previously locked on him almost unblinkingly as he brow furrows. There are words that he can't read scribbled onto an old chalkboard, a crude drawing of a game he doesn't recognize, and handprints... but that eerie sight doesn't compare to the fracture in reality he's met with when he just looks up.
It's almost beautiful, but that rift might as well be an open wound on the face of his world itself. ]
no subject
a flash of lightning and the murky classroom is lit in streams of light as warm hands suddenly grip at the shoulders of sasuke's clothes in bunched handfuls, holding fast to him as though fabric will slip through clawing fingers and he'll be taken from the wrenchingly tight pull that hauls his bonded back through the mirror—away from the portal that seems to shimmer as something hulking and translucent looms before it, crossing their sight.)
Sasuke? Sasuke? (jonas tries once they're faced with their reflections mimicking the tangle they're in, the witch's entire arm holding him around the chest now as he gasps at the musty, hanging air of the looking-glass house.
these memories steal the breath from him, rendering him exhausted and shaky from even a fleeting step within.) J-Jesus, are you okay?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
stiles, cw: assault, possession, nuclear disaster, drowning themes.
jonas is easily recognizable by a wide green stare and a modestly sized room, the many creased posters of games filling in for the lack of paint on his walls. one in particular hangs brightly above his bed, showcasing a mysterious woman in a bright red hat wielding some gadget or another, while the rest are placed unsystematically in fond patches. how they could afford a second instrument is obvious: an inscription on its base reads that it was a birthday present from his parents. obviously saved up for, cherished, and kept polished.)
My fingers are too– they won't bend that way, mom. (he announces childishly, slumping sideways onto his elbow for the moment it takes him to pull a face at her.) I can never do E-major seven, or any of the rest of them.
Really? Well, that's too bad. I guess you might as well give up right now and we can use your ukelele for kindling this summer, huh?
(giving his mother a long, unimpressed stare, jonas sighs a mighty sigh that sounds far too aged for a twelve year old and sits up to try again.) "Have faith, Jonas, blah, blah"—kindling. Fine, um... E? And E-major seven– ugh, E-major seven–
G, G-minor, there you go, even grumpy you're getting it. Da na-na da– E, E-major-seven, A. Try humming it while you play, sweetie, it's gonna' help you ease into the next chord. It's those few notes over and over, okay? That's all it is. (encouraging him with a subtle lift of her own ukulele, susanna strums quietly with him until jonas is comfortable with the repetition.) Let's practice till your dad gets home, then we can show him our duet.
(an awkward smile is his answer—still trying not to show his amusement at being proven wrong again—bowing his head to concentrate with the shy beginnings of a hum, feeling his ears warm even as his unabashedly eccentric mom begins to rattle off a tangent of sounds that lay beneath his own wobbly few, forming the foundation for the their song.)
cw: for breaking my heart
Disoriented, he peers around the bedroom. The bold colors of her outfit draw his gaze to the poster of Carmen Sandiego, the sight dragging a small grin of fond amusement from Stiles before he turns to regard the two seated figures. There’s something about watching a young mother interacting with her son that has Stiles weak with nostalgia, even if his own mom had died years earlier than Jonas’ apparent age here. Feeling both too emotional and oddly subdued, he carefully sits down perpendicular to them – as much a ghost as they are, yet compelled to join in on this scene of sweet domesticity in spite of himself. Susanna is studied with fastidious attention to detail, Stiles all too aware that this may be the only opportunity he ever has to look at her. Yet he’s unable to linger overlong; it’s impossible, when any version of Jonas is present in the room. Elbow set against his knee, head propped against his hand, Stiles stares at this young boy who will one day become his best friend with a smile that hurts his face from how wide it stretches.
Mother and son carry on practicing, ignorant to their visitor. Stiles listens to the melody, humming along quietly, almost fooling himself into believing that he was ever part of this treasured moment. ]
I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you, [ he tells the memory of Susanna after a period, even as he continues to consider Jonas with embarrassingly warm regard. ] You don’t have to worry. We’re gonna make sure he’s okay. We’ll look after him. I promise.
[ And for once, it’s a promise Stiles Stilinski intends to keep. ]
plays my heart will go on on recorder
jonas watches from the doorway, where he hears his father's weathered car creak into the driveway, sucking in a shaky breath that gives his appearance away.)
Stiles.
(stiles may speak to his mother, low and private, and he may miss the promise that's been made; however, he's caught the look he regards them with from the floor and that's enough for him. whatever's been said is between them. he simply tries not to cry, throat tight because he misses his mom and because he misses a time when he was oblivious to his future. all of the mistakes he's made don't exist in this space, his regrets don't have a place here, he can't taint what he can't touch. it's just paralyzing to consider that this kid—this helpless, ignorant brat—will repeat what his mother told him so plainly not to do.
memories are always looked back on and tinted by strong mood. if he's happy when he recalls a time like this, it'll be happy; if he's sad, it'll be clouded and grey. to witness his own from a different perspective, not coloured by his grief, is heartening. a chance to overwrite the last one, fresh, and he's not alone.
turning his face away, jonas drags the side of his hand up his doorframe.) She wrote it... after I was born, I guess. Catchy, huh.
no subject
It’s pretty, [ he murmurs in honest appreciation, stepping away from the ghosts to approach Jonas. ] She must’ve had one hell of a muse.
[ Reaching out, he grasps the Witch’s shoulder, kneading gently. ]
Jonas, it's okay to cry. I've got you.
no subject
I'm sorry. (jonas croaks, folding immediately beneath the hand tightening along his shoulder, lifting an arm to guide stiles closer.
it's clear the words aren't directed at him, but beyond his shoulder until his forehead presses into the fabric of his shirt. desirously, his friend's encouraged to hold him when fingers settle against his waist and push to the small of his back. as much as he feels he needs to be alone with his regrets, that's the last thing he wants.)
I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.
no subject
There you go, he thinks, staring blindly over the Witch’s shoulder at the wall. Let it out. You’re going to be okay. She knew. She knows. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tw: violence
(no subject)
(no subject)
itachi, cw: severe illness, assault.
and yet, the one thing they didn't think to bring her was another blanket. a quilt, an afghan throw, a fucking shawl, anything to break up the lacking sterility in this ward. the colour and life she bathed in has been stolen from her and now, with the latest mess he made, he won't be present to bring those reminders to her. jonas, angry, ignores what she's saying to him for the time it takes him to look away. she asks to see his face, what's been done to him, first and foremost; dark bruises and abrasions, on jonas' neck and jaw respectively, ache where the police officer was forced to pin him to the sidewalk.)
I'm disappointed in you.
Yeah. Heard that one before. (it comes out a mirthless snort, having gotten the same—expected, anticipated, deserved—treatment from his father. but it stings far worse now, knowing how much energy it takes his mother to speak, head bowing with a tilt to hide tears that sting and well up in his eyes. she should be able to stand, to point furiously, to yell at the top of her lungs at him. as she is now, her voice is little more than a rasp.)
All of this acting out, and for what, Jonas? Do you think stealing will make you feel better, or that hurting someone this badly will heal me somehow? Tell me... why. (susanna raises a hand to rest thin fingers against her lips in the familiar way she always has when she's unsure what to say.) You're my kind, gentle boy, I don't understand– I just don't understand how this could've happened. I thought you knew better.
Mom, I just moved, okay? I didn't know what I was– I made a mistake. I fucked up, I-I know that, and I'm sorry–
Apologizing to me won't make a difference. That's something you settle with Timothy, the boy you assaulted, and then ask forgiveness from God. I'm not it, Jonas, I'm– (a quietly wheezing breath is inhaled wrong, the side of her hand disturbing the oxygen tubes set against her nose, swallowing audibly after a harsh cough that clearly dizzies her. when she speaks again it's with a new tremor in her voice, but she sounds no less exasperated by her son.) I did the best I could to raise you right. I tried everything.
Jesus, are you kidding me with that? (jonas balks, chair sliding back from the bed, distressed.) This– you did raise me right! You– I– I'm not some– I can do better, mom, I'll be better–
From a cell, Jonas? ... go get your father for me, now.
no subject
After a moment's consideration, Itachi steps in.
The room comes into focus, at first hazy as its edge, settling into dream-like memory around him. He recognizes the clinical air, the sight of a cot, the clean curtains, the machinery. Even as some of it exceeds his understanding at first glance, the context is recognizable. A medical room. Immediately its inhabitants take his attention, coming to life before his eyes, ghostly recreations of some event that took place somewhere else very far away, at another point in time. He picks out Jonas' voice, and turns his head to look at the younger boy.
... So this is his mother, then. The one tucked into the bed, frail and sickly, awaiting death. This fact is clear to Itachi: the room reeks of it, even in sterility. It seems a slow wasting end. Few people he's known have ever died this way. Is it kinder—or crueler—to draw such a life out? Is there a choice, or is there only a miserable wait? Would this have been his own fate, had he never gone the route laid out for him as a shinobi?
Words snaps tensely between mother and son as Itachi observes, confirming what he presumes to be inevitable.
They're arguing. He better takes in Jonas' appearance, the bruises and marks of physical violence, demeanor changed from the chatty, carefree boy that had pestered him for a 'relationship.' This boy so seemingly close to his younger brother that they've bound together their thoughts, their memories, their emotions. Someone with a closer reach to Sasuke than himself. Up until this point, he's viewed Jonas at a distance, interested primarily in what he meant for his younger brother's life. But this...
He's being punished for attacking someone else? There's no glimpse into the context or reasons why, but the mother's cold disapproval is a dark and heavy cloud in the room. He's faced this many times in his own father. The rejection, in the end, comes as no surprise.
Itachi frowns at the woman on the cot, something unpleasant tugging in the back of his mind. He looks to Jonas with expectation. Is this going to end here? Will his father intervene?]
no subject
(his father enters, but the words that are spoken are terse. they will him to leave the room, finances not something for their son to hear. because even as they reprimand him and turn their backs on their young teenager who seems to shrink in on himself in the ghostly hallway, they care about his stress. they're angry, they want the best for him; they're crushed, they thought they provided him proper care.
susanna clutches at her sheets and lowers her head to cry, distressed and overwhelmed, ben stooping to take his place in the empty chair beside the cot so that he may lean into her eventual embrace. and their son listens to it all from the crack in the door.)
... sorry. (a voice that resonates in the memory, older and somehow wiser, comes from the doorway. jonas keeps his eyes down and angled as far away from the room as possible, hard, jaw flexing tight enough on each beep of his mother's heart monitor that a perceptive eye could detect a jump in muscle at his temple.) I left, so we'd just wind up downstairs. Think I went to have a smoke, or... something.
I don't know.
no subject
The hallway is clean and bright, more alien details overlaid with that sharp and chemical scent of medical sterility. His attention swings to Jonas, which is where it stays. He can tell through body language alone how it has affected him, even if the reasons are out of his grasp, a complexity of interpersonal history that he has no access to. Just this snippet of a scene.]
Jonas. [There's an intensity to Itachi's look, one not easy to shake.] I understand this was not for me to see.
[And yet...]
Are you being punished for your actions against someone else?
no subject
it isn't.
jonas watches itachi guardedly, inexplicably intimidated by him and his presence, the look of a wounded animal backed very gradually into a corner. the wound is raw, festering, and self-inflicted. isn't this stare what he deserves? that, at the very least, for putting his family through hell the last few years of his life. his father forgives him, but haven't they become different people from the ones who used to speak so freely and openly with one another?
itachi needs context. jonas hesitantly provides.)
Yeah. I-I hurt someone. Bad. (he begins, seeming to deflate more the longer he speaks.) And they wound up in the hospital 'cause of me. I got to speak with my mom... before my arraignment, which is– it's– that's what you just saw. I went to a detention centre for it. A prison for underage offenders.
no subject
Itachi's brow furrows, and he turns, watching the phantom-memory of this boy walk down the hall. He feels compelled to follow. ]
Your mother... She is dismissing you for this incident. [Someone was hospitalized, but not killed. Why be punished to such severity then?] If this is the first you've ever behaved in that way, it seems unreasonable to come to such a severe conclusion.
Why did you hurt him? [Though he notices Jonas' discomfort, he draws no attention to it.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
eren, cw: possession, drowning themes.
their attention, even as they cross eren's path still ignorant of his presence, rests solely on the the black cloud of smoky miasma enveloping ren in an attempt to get a clearer view of him. he is bent, spine appearing snapped forward at an impossible angle, eyes bleeding red in a glow that seems to be lit from within the confines of his skull. his entire body tremors with inaudible speech that can't be parsed; jonas makes a wary enough approach to hear it, questioning what they should do snap him out of the possession. at a loss, confused, alex withdraws a radio—incidentally, one that prompts an immediate, negative change in ren's behaviour.
above his head, forming supernaturally in the air, exists a triangle of light. it threads together with a deafening low frequency that seems to shake the air and hum as the radio dials into a "correct" signal.)
Woah, is this– is that helping him or hurting him? It's doing something, but... (jonas demands, frightened, only to receive a distracted response from alex who insists she "doesn't know.")
(the moment a second triangle etches itself onto the end of a long line, making it clear that what it's forming can only be described as a portal, ren's broken body is dragged off of its feet like he's been hanged by the neck by some unseen rope. his mutterings pitch into frightened gurgles, the sound of someone fighting to breath against lungfuls of water, unable to do anything more than let the invading soul drown him from within. in a flash of sea green, the whole picture is revealed to its creators and it's one that seems to hold inside of it a deep cave of refracting crystal light that exists entirely separate from their current location.
there's motion behind ren, a hulking figure of translucent red—that seems to be the force behind his suspension—with a body that shimmers in and out of existence, who unceremoniously drops him into a heap on the ground. jonas walks forward against every instinct and every nerve pleading him not to, dropping into a crouch to check if the boy is even alive through the ordeal, but the atomized wrath of the island ghost propels him backward in a roar of radio chatter that filters through the receiver in a waiting alex's hands.)
HARD. TO TALK. THROUGH CHILD. FEELS STRETCHED. BETTER NOW.
What are you?
IN-BETWEEN. FASTENED. BUT LOOSE. GROUNDED.
(jonas' momentary blink out of time into the empty, abyssal realm where they reside costs him dearly, not unconscious for the event that eren is witnessing but sinking through it and making the fogged impression of the memory quake with screen-like scratches on film. it's unstable, liable to break and repeat at any moment, when his back is guided by the looming spectre's suffocating, possessive, ethereal grip into a helpless arch.)
BUT. DO NOT. BE SCARED. YOU ARE DOLLS. WOULD NEVER. HURT YOU. CAN. NOT. HURT YOU.
no subject
when he sees jonas, he confirms— but not without following and towering over them to glimpse at the twisted spectacle of a body in a bend that it shouldn’t be. it wasn’t the imagery, he’s seen such in worse shapes. the aura smells wrong. not wicked, but wrong, misplaced. it tastes like rain and there is no rain. the foamy humidity of river beds irks him, as any body of water would irk a fire dragon, but it wasn’t because he looked at water.
the same winterless chill takes him when he came across the lost souls of the wild, of the slave girl ymir when she stepped onto her sandy domain in paths. all of his dorsal spines are erect like his hair would stand, the thorny points down to the tip of his whip-like tail curving into a slight loop with needle pins fanned out. he doesn’t feel threatened to rattle it, but he is deathly alert to the supernatural realm that opens up from the triangle above their heads. even his keeled scales seem like they’re standing now, less flattened and sharper, pointed with ridges once muscle ripples underneath. he’s not scared, not frightened— he’s morbidly curious.
everything that should equally tell him to don’t do that, don’t go to it, is ignored. eren does the exact opposite and walks forward, his tongue trying to taste, trying to assimilate anything more that his eyes don’t see. there’s still the body, an inert lump on the ground that’s still . . . ]
What is it . . . [ eren’s words trail into short silence, pupils reacting to the light and mysterious presence that felt like anchors in weight. ] Doing?
no subject
SIT STILL. BEAR FRUIT.
TAG. YOU. IT.
(the sea green portal closes. rather remains inert, showing a backdrop of stars. when the three teenagers shout in surprise at one another, the memory seems to skip back as though rewinded and repeats. jonas has found eren, a strong presence in his mirror; he's large, easy to spot. a lone dragon amidst a foggy tree line.)
Eren? Eren! (he'll waste no time in rushing over, reaching for him. he has to warn him, to get him out of here, to get away from this place. they're not supposed to be seeing this, and jonas isn't entirely sure that what's meant to be a dream can't harm them. the last thing he wants is for his friend to get sucked into the madness. fingers find a forearm, aware of where the spines on his elbows are, in a careful, urging touch to stop him.)
Don't, they're– they– (what are they doing? jonas never had the time to stop to consider it.) I think they were playing with us. Trying to... weaken us, I guess. Our minds. Our bodies. You need to come back with me, okay?
no subject
To take your, [ he asks in a tone that shows that he’s trying to understand and piece together some things he’s already come across— but all was still shrouded in uncertainty. the supernatural was exposed to him only a year ago and it still made his head spin. his inexperience is offered on a serving plate when he finishes with, tentatively: ] bodies?
[ he’ll go wherever jonas takes him, though. ]
no subject
Yeah. (no exposition, no gentle lead-in, just a stern affirmative.
in no way does that make him inwardly calm, but outwardly jonas presents himself as far stronger and braver than he feels. eren is led to the cabin a very short walk from the scene that's winding down with a couple of shouts from the teenagers behind them. the small utility shack seems to house some radio equipment, nonfunctional for dialling emergency services located off of the island on the coast. still, it serves as a hub they can linger in to get their heads on straight.
soon they'll return through the mirror, it's just hard to leave his "friends" behind again.)
They're... I don't know exactly what they are. Ghosts, or... (shakes his head, unable to finish the thought; they never truly found out.) It was painful and– and scary to put it lightly, you know? They wanted to pilot us. Take us over and discard our souls... and I– (could he tell him? would it matter? his fingers loosen on eren's arm.)
... are you alright?
no subject
I think I’ve . . . [ done this before–? caused this before–? it all depended on perspective and wasn’t anywhere close to nefarious as jonas described. or, was it? was it the same thing for a spirited presence to manipulate the actions of another until they did their bidding? was it the same as unleashing a monster? especially when the monster was only a girl locked in servitude. ] I’m okay.
[ he truly is— unnervingly so. any horripilation of his spines and dorsal fins have relaxed, but nothing more or less than that, a lack of apprehension in his eyes and body language. when refocused, he’s also perceptive. fear and discomfort all have distinct scents and tastes, and where they’ve come to rest is plentiful in the mix of scarce cigarette smoke. jonas’ fingers slip from his arm and eren catches the sleeve to keep it there; from the sleeve, the palm of his hand starts to the curve of his shoulder.
even if he’s unaffected, he can tell and wind understanding that this was jonas’ memory and not everyone could take remembrances with placid passing. he almost looks pale in this lighting, and generously— he clatters over the first abandoned stool he could find. ]
You should sit.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)