...Sometimes he wondered if he really deserved other people's love.
But he didn't have to wonder this time. He didn't have to question it or anything. All he needed to do was to let his head find it's home on Fisk's shoulder. His tears were still dripping down on Fisk's clothing like a particularly leaky faucet.
His hands were grabbing, pulling, yearning for living touch. Finding solace in the way they interlock behind Fisk's back. Linked together. The both of them. He wouldn't let go unless he tried. He didn't want to try.
Ever since he woke up he's always felt the bad kind of touch. Sharp blades. Cold chains. Intestines. This was a new touch, a kind of human contact that he glutted himself on. It didn't feel like they were who they were. It didn't feel like he did what he did. His hands weren't built to hurt and they were never meant to desecrate.
That was a good use for his hands. A good kind of touch. It was friendship. It was love. It was best friends forever. It was starvation. It was yearning. It was a need. It was comfort. It was desperation. It was affection. It was trust. It was two lost children finding home in each other. It wasn't, though, because all Vasily knew was how lost himself was. There was this awkward fear that maybe Fisk was much more in control of everything than he thought and that Vasily was just clinging onto him like a little boat to an anchor.
And Fisk would never know what this felt like to him and how much he needed this and how much he needed him. Fisk was like this little emotional support person, and maybe Vasily wasn't lying to himself when he said that he didn't really have the best use of words but that didn't really matter. Fisk was someone to hug. Fisk was someone to calm him down. Fisk was someone who he needed to apologize to. Fisk was like this comfort person who also happens to probably be a delusional narcissist but fuck it, he's a delusional narcissist who Vasily likes being around with.
The hug was a little too long and it felt like a while since Fisk talked and his tear ducts were running dry again.
Fisk was probably just waiting for him to say something. He didn't know what to say. All the words he prepared just slipped down his throat and couldn't jump up again. It felt like he was choking on them.
''You-You really don't have to listen to me. I just- I've said a lot of dumb shit to you today already, and I just-I just want to take a breather. Just. Just want to feel prepared for tomorrow.''
He almost looked at what used to be Calla again. It would be him, one day.
The Management
cw post 45 onwards: gore
There was nothing to be said. That was fine with Fisk. He would rather it be that way anyways, because there was a chance that whatever Vasily said, Fisk wouldn't know the answer to. That was probably the thing that scared Fisk the most about all of this, is if he's ever in a situation where he just doesn't know what to do. But as of now, he didn't need to know.
This was fine with Fisk. He didn't have to think about tomorrow, or if Ivan would finally show himself again with a party of ten to lynch him and his friends, he didn't have to think if Keegan didn't wake up from that gunshot, he didn't have to think if someone just walked in on their camp in the middle of the night and slit all of their throats because someone wasn't on watch. He didn't even have to think of the possibility of what he would do to the stupid fucking bastard that would dare to interrupt this moment, or how high the octaves their screams would be once he was done with them.
No, right now there was just a moment of kindness, a sort of feeling Fisk felt neglected on growing up. A nostalgia for times never had, the preludes to a what-could-have-beens, maybe another timeline where Fisk grew up normal, and maybe not so jaded about people, or even in a world where people weren't put on TV just to die. Maybe if he had a few moments of this growing up in this life, he wouldn't have turned out to be the sociopath he is now.
But alas, those what-could-have-beens turned into the 'whys' as to why he's doing all of this. The reason never changed, and this particular moment didn't make him softer, didn't make him more merciful to the outsiders he never cared for. It simply hardened his resolve, gave him an imprint, a reminder for what he was fighting for, something to dig deep on in his darkest hour when he's bloodied and beaten, and the lives of those he cherished were on the line. He felt himself pulling Vasily tighter, afraid that he would disappear into dust.
If given the chance, Fisk would press the big red button to end the world right now, just so him and his friends had it all to themselves. Nobody else's lives mattered to him. Faces and shapes to be forgotten, they may have well been NPCs in some Grand Theft Auto game, or even moreso an apt description ants interrupting their picnic.
"No matter what happens, I'll keep fighting for you. We all will. Don't ever feel alone, or abandoned, okay? No matter what, we have your back. Promise me you'll remember that."
"Now let's get cleaned up. Tomorrow's a new day, and we have a game to win."
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
This was fine with Fisk. He didn't have to think about tomorrow, or if Ivan would finally show himself again with a party of ten to lynch him and his friends, he didn't have to think if Keegan didn't wake up from that gunshot, he didn't have to think if someone just walked in on their camp in the middle of the night and slit all of their throats because someone wasn't on watch. He didn't even have to think of the possibility of what he would do to the stupid fucking bastard that would dare to interrupt this moment, or how high the octaves their screams would be once he was done with them.
No, right now there was just a moment of kindness, a sort of feeling Fisk felt neglected on growing up. A nostalgia for times never had, the preludes to a what-could-have-beens, maybe another timeline where Fisk grew up normal, and maybe not so jaded about people, or even in a world where people weren't put on TV just to die. Maybe if he had a few moments of this growing up in this life, he wouldn't have turned out to be the sociopath he is now.
But alas, those what-could-have-beens turned into the 'whys' as to why he's doing all of this. The reason never changed, and this particular moment didn't make him softer, didn't make him more merciful to the outsiders he never cared for. It simply hardened his resolve, gave him an imprint, a reminder for what he was fighting for, something to dig deep on in his darkest hour when he's bloodied and beaten, and the lives of those he cherished were on the line. He felt himself pulling Vasily tighter, afraid that he would disappear into dust.
If given the chance, Fisk would press the big red button to end the world right now, just so him and his friends had it all to themselves. Nobody else's lives mattered to him. Faces and shapes to be forgotten, they may have well been NPCs in some Grand Theft Auto game, or even moreso an apt description ants interrupting their picnic.
"No matter what happens, I'll keep fighting for you. We all will. Don't ever feel alone, or abandoned, okay? No matter what, we have your back. Promise me you'll remember that."
"Now let's get cleaned up. Tomorrow's a new day, and we have a game to win."
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
''Yeah. Right. Thanks. I promise.''
Saying these words felt like he was carving into his bones.
''Can't wait for a shower. Let's go. And, um, can I have by backpack back?''
(...)
Saying these words felt like he was carving into his bones.
''Can't wait for a shower. Let's go. And, um, can I have by backpack back?''
(...)