(closed) did you hear the slamming door?

[coherer]

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.)

Comments

tw: violence

[coherer]

(baseball practice in the rain? no thanks. organized sports are better live-streamed, which is why jonas walks the path on the outside of the field’s fence, alone, instead of huddling beyond it with the students in the dugout. his hat’s on, his collar’s up and lying flat against his neck, and the cigarette that’s been hanging out of his mouth burns to the filter and is unthinkingly flicked when he passes the last few chain links that separate him from the grass. that’s all it takes.

the butt smothers itself out in the dew, harmless; a couple of players notice, mutter about him.)

Yo, Ward. (one kid, a “c” emblazoned on a uniform that’s soaked through, calls to him with a short jog forward—it’s twenty or so yards before he realizes he’s been snubbed.) Man, that’s trash. You can chill on our field, but quit stubbing your shit out where we practice. This kinda’ thing’s why we’ve got such a bad rep. Plus, y’know, there’s no smoking on school property.

(to jonas’ credit, he has an earbud out to listen. he’s stopped walking altogether, an innate politeness his mom’s got drilled into his skull. give people the calm attention they want and they’ll back down; complaints are only complaints because the complainer think no one cares. tim’s got that part right, because he couldn’t give less of a fuck if he tried, but there’s too much going on in his home life to spare him anymore time than he’s currently sparing. the advice would’ve had a greater effect if it didn’t come from a hospital bed, his memory tainted by the soft beep of machines in the background of all she’s said these past couple of months. jonas would’ve taken it to heart if a hand so thin he can count the fine bones hadn’t been resting over his, her thumb to weak post-chemo to even brush at his knuckles.

tim’s still talking and a shaky hand raises a package of smokes to replace the one he’s tossed away with another he can preoccupy himself with.) Jesus, Timmy, I got it– (but it clatters to the ground alongside his lighter when a baseball strikes him hard in the back of the head.)

Fuck!

Oh, shit– sorry, man, are you okay? I was seriously just trying to get your attention, I didn’t think you were hearing me. (it’s clear by tim’s honest panic that he didn’t mean to hit him, the ball was meant to pass him and catch his eye, and it’s a mistake he immediately rushes forward to apologize for.) That’s totally my bad; is your head alright?

(something in jonas seems to pull taut and snap, touch falling away from the welt he’s been given. the moment takes an awful shift, seeming to warp with his memory of the day, the entire scene tunnelling. there’s a glitch on his first step forward, an awful record scratch of reality that has him dumping his backpack on the ground, crossing metres of distance in seconds, grabbing fistfuls of tim’s uniform. the first punch lands before either of them can figure out what’s going on, so heavy and brutal it sends the boy to the ground and the first of his teammates start yelling out in alarm. it would’ve stopped then if a hard kick to jonas’ shin didn’t upset his balance and leave him little choice but to immobilize tim with a rough shove at his legs—he drops down onto his waist with a baring of teeth and a low shout of anger at a fist that connects with his chin, rattles his jaw into a snap shut on the flesh of his bottom lip.

tim fights back, bloodies jonas’ lip and nose, but the latter is larger. he has weight on him and in this indefensible position all the baseball captain can do is try to shield his face and body from repeated blows. knuckles split and ooze red, marking up their faces. an eye’s swollen shut, skin torn beneath the brow. an orbital bone cracks with two ribs. jonas doesn’t aim, but catches tim once in the temple and he’s out; hands grab at jonas’ jacket and sweater, only to shy away when he throws his elbow out to dislodge them. despite the amount of tim’s friends helping and the added presence of two teachers who were on the school grounds—now calling the police in desperate voices—the fight lasts long enough to become exactly what he’d been arraigned for:

it’s assault. inexcusable and intentional to every witness on the field.)

Ward! Jonah! (the team’s coach, a large man in his early forties, manages to hook him beneath the arms, but it’s the shout so close to his ear that finally shakes him out of his fugue with a horrible gasp,) That’s enough outta’ you, boy!

(it’s as though he’s only just figured out how to breathe, because all he’s able to do as he’s restrained is blink widely at the unconscious body on the ground with panicked pants. there are no words spoken to him or by him until another glitch sees beat cops from down the neighbourhood’s block arrive at sprints. when the coach finally releases him, a towering police officer grabs him by the back of the neck and shoves him facedown into the dirt path leading away from the school grounds, barking miranda rights at the back of his head in such a seething voice that jonas wonders if they sent his father.

his lungs heave a scared sound of him, and his mouth forms quiet, shaky words no one pays any mind as he’s hauled up, dragged off, and pushed into the back of the officers’ cruiser: “please, i just want my mom. please let me see my mom.”)

[mensrea]

[ Flinching instinctively from the unexpected shower of rain, it takes Stiles a moment to get his bearings on what’s going on. If he didn’t know the broad silhouette of his friend so well, he might not have recognized Jonas with that familiar brown hair flattened against his skull and darker from being wet. He hurriedly affixes himself to the young man’s side, peering around them in the hopes of gleaning some idea of what this memory holds in store. There’s no way this is the island, which is both a relief and a disappointment; Stiles has no real desire to see the horrors his best friend suffered, yet he needs to have a better understanding of what happened if he’s going to help Jonas survive it.

Jonas flicks the cigarette butt to the ground, an action that has Stiles wrinkling his nose in general distaste, though he’s more concerned with that distant, closed off look darkening his friend’s face. Shadows of sleepless nights haunt the bruised skin under Jonas’ eyes, something that Stiles can identify a mile away from his own experience with insomnia and night terrors. He reaches out to gently grasp the taller teen by the elbow, only to be grimly reminded that this is a memory when his hand passes through. God, he hates this. Why did he leave Jonas in the Looking-Glass House? So preoccupied, he doesn’t immediately notice that people – players from the baseball team, judging by their equipment and outfits – have gathered nearby until Tim speaks up.

Despite his personal feelings on smoking and cigarettes, Stiles bristles at the criticism. It’s a double standard, really; were Tim addressing anyone else other than a close friend, Stiles would have agreed immediately with the call out. But that’s the nature of his friendship: blind loyalty to a fault. And so, he fixes the baseball captain with a scathing glare. Things snowball from there. ]

Look out – !

[ The warning is useless, naturally. Jonas is nailed in the back of the head by a baseball, an impact that looks like it hurt, and Stiles cringes in sympathy. Though the young man appears to be genuinely contrite, Stiles feels a rush of fury. What the hell is this asshole thinking? All over a goddamn cigarette. His righteous anger pales in comparison to the rage that grips Jonas, however. As his best friend closes the distance to Tim, Stiles almost can’t recognize him; not even the night of their fight over Bonding prepares him for the violence that Jonas unleashes now. After the first blow connects, it occurs belatedly to him what he’s seeing. “…I hospitalized a kid in my grade…when this kid threw a baseball at my head, I just kinda lost it.” Oh, fuck.

Someone should be here, he thinks desperately, glancing around for a third party to intervene. The baseball team watches, shell shocked, but Stiles is searching for a friendly face – the pack specifically, an unconscious impulse that he doesn’t fully realize, to help control an overwhelmed beta. Only…Jonas doesn’t have a pack. Jonas lacks the privilege Stiles took for granted: a group of friends who can usually be counted on in moments just like this. Jonas is alone and, without an anchor in place to keep him checked, self-destructs on Tim. While he’s always had a love-hate relationship with violence – nauseated and yet fascinated by it – this is too difficult to watch. Not even Stiles can claim the baseball captain deserves to be beat like this. Sickened, he forces himself to witness what the memory has revealed to him.

He understands, of course. Stiles has been seized by rage, where all reason and sense evaporate beneath the burning coals of an anger so hot that it’ll eat you alive if you don’t express it somehow. Violence is an easy outlet. The sweet gratification he’d tasted, sinking his fist into Theo’s face, is unlike anything else he’s known except perhaps sex – a cliché comparison, maybe, but an apt one all the same. As Jonas is marched off to the cruiser, Stiles listens to the terrified words of a boy too young for the wild, raw emotion that drove him to such uncharacteristic brutality. A possession, of a kind. Yes, Stiles understands. ]

It’s gonna be okay, [ he tries to tell Jonas, choked up by that quiet shock bleeding the color from the other teen’s face. The door to the cruiser slams shut between them, cutting him off from his best friend. ] Jonas, it’s going to be okay.

[ But it’s a lie.

In the Looking-Glass House, Stiles stares at the puddle of water collecting at his feet from the previous memory’s rain. His reflection is blurry, out of focus, and instead of himself he sees the expression of fear on Jonas’ face. ]

Fuck.

[ Stiles reenters the mirror a final time. ]

[coherer]

(stiles' final visit to jonas' mirror opens on a glitch, a heavily scratched memory that seems to be set in a classroom. and through all of it, flashes of images—as well as entire upside-down, physically impossible flips of reality—try to whittle away at the step-brother.

it ends only when clarissa's scream can be heard over the radio, far door swinging open on its own to reveal their exit.)