(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

[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.)