He's Leaving Home

[Brackie]

((Boston Sullivan continued from I Don't Hate My Body, I'm Just Afraid Of It))

((CW: self-harm))

Boston figured out the plan fairly quickly, and it was to stay hidden.

Doing anything in this fake body was exhausting. Nicholas had exhausted him, Raj had exhausted him even without being in line of sight...the only energy he found within himself was trying to figure out the situation. It was the last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he expected of himself, especially knowing himself as much as he did, but considering the massive disadvantage he was at right now, he wasn't handed many supplies from the Choice van.

So he'd found whatever counted as a safe space along the way, and made it happen. After a while, it became somewhat of a journey - a self-imposed one, sure, but it kept him busy. He found a room, he looked around, he spread his bag out, and he made his home, if only for a few hours. After the first time, the first Nicholas-less and Raj-less time, he'd made it a routine, making sure to take note of how long it took to get everything together before moving in, moving out, and moving on. But all the while, he was just bored. He survived Sycamore as long as he did with the knowledge that it would end, that he was being given an out in a few hours where he didn't have to spend any more time with the people he never fit in with.

But by the time it was supposedly night, he hadn't stopped thinking about it. How his physical body was probably only feet away from his family, yet he couldn't sense them in any way. How instead, if he wanted to speak to anyone, it would have to be someone who dressed like it was a video game. Someone whose idea of conversation had been "isn't Cyber Reality awesome?" back when they were in school together, all the while their real body withered away behind oversized goggles, or someone who he thought he could have a nice conversation with, but then refused to meet up in the real world because, oh, you wouldn't like me there, as though there was any real difference. Or it could be the girl who looked at him like he was some sort of freak of nature to be studied (Him! Freak of Nature! And not her!) all the while he had entered some sort of situationship with her twin sister who liked his company but while he'd always enjoyed her company, the thought of her rabid twin in the basement eating fish heads never left his mind between every day out or makeout.

And so, with no other option, his attention turned to the ticking clock in the corner of his vision, as it sat on the ruined horizon of what was once the view from his school.

He'd been on the rooftop once or twice in school - mostly as a freshman, mostly to cry. When the thought of not fitting in was all that could scare him, shake him to his core. Before he'd figured out how not to be like everyone else, but to fade away. The sun in the sky calmed him for a moment, only to then terrify him once he looked up at the wrong angle and all he saw was polygons until the end of time. He'd been a wuss, but he'd grown since then. He kept the crying inside, because this place had to have an end one day. That was what the ticking clock in the corner was about, moving away from 84 as it was.

And then, well.

He saw the news.

He saw his unconscious body.

He saw one of his classmates die.

He was told that he needed to leave his current location.

But he wasn't sure he wanted to leave? Sure, the beeping wasn't fun, but if he wore it out, it'd be over. He'd find out if everything was fake, or true, a sick joke or too real of a reality for an un-reality. That last thought existed only until the thought of his own body - his real body - returned. If it was real (if), then he was no longer a slip away from his family, but in the middle of a massive medical complication.

Boston couldn't risk that the way they probably wanted it, so it was time to leave. His remaining belongings, including less of his food, were tossed like routine into his bag along with everything else he hadn't used. The exception was his weapon, still sheathed in the pouch clipped onto his belt loop. A few minutes after dipping away from the moonlight unreal, the beeping in his head stopped, and all was well again.

((Boston Sullivan-))

As he closed the end of the stairway, Boston slipped slightly, skipping over the last two steps on his way down. He didn't fall, but he'd suddenly landed very hard on the leg in which, only today, a knife had found its home by his own hand.

He braced, expecting pain.

Only a throb came, and even that was only for a moment.

Boston stood there, leg slid too far out, for a few moments, not betraying a thought or emotion.

Within the minute, he collected his limbs properly, and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Within the next minute, the invisible knife was in his hand.

And by the end of that minute, he'd drawn a long, red line across his forearm.

((-continued in transform̷̩̉M̸̞͆alfunction))