Why do you care?
Roxanne's question cut through her as if she wasn't even there. In truth, she didn't fully understand why she cared so much. Her mind was a jumbled mess of ideas, her morals clashing with her emotions clashing with her idle thoughts. Maybe she wanted there to be some kind of punishment for what Nick did, retribution for his actions in hurting other people. Maybe she wanted to give in to her darker thoughts and feelings, and obtain the sick thrill of enacting that punishment herself. Maybe she wanted to make sure that, through her actions, Nick would never be able to hurt anyone else. Maybe she then wanted to be able to pass the same judgement onto Nick's companion.
Are you okay over there?
Another question from Roxanne, while it was not actually directed at her, it was still asked of her nonetheless. The truth was that she wasn't okay in the slightest, but that much was certainly obvious. Her girlfriend was dead, her friends were dying, and everyone still alive was constantly at risk. Meaningless violence was happening to her and around her, tearing her apart piece by piece, and yet up to this point she had been sitting idly by, not actually doing anything about it. Instead, she had been living in the moment, allowing her feelings to dictate her every move. She had previously decided that she needed to find new meaning for her life in the absence of Dolly, to live for herself and find out what she wanted out of the world, but now, even with her emotions in the driver seat, she found herself just as lost as she was before.
But perhaps... perhaps she was merely going about this the wrong way. Maybe the truth was that she had never wanted to live for herself at all, and that was why she had clung to Dolly so vigorously in the first place. Perhaps she knew deep down that she could never truly be happy living for herself, so she instead always sought to help, to improve the happiness of other people instead. Perhaps the truth she was hunting for was to find meaning in her impact on the people around her, and to not care about whether the path she walked took her towards whatever selfish desire she happened to possess.
But, this island was not a place where altruism shined. It was not a place where one could find happiness. It was a place of death and suffering, of selfish cowards vying for the chance to live just a few years longer. It was a place of monsters, like the maniac that Blaise had turned into, or like all of the most accomplished murderers of their class. Even if she ran around doing her best to help everyone she saw in any way she could, those monsters would undo anything she could accomplish with a few pulls of a trigger.
Perhaps all of that taken together was the real reason why Marceline wanted so badly to kill Nick.
Marceline had failed so utterly to protect Dolly, so she had given up on the idea of being able to protect anyone at all. She still wanted to help, to keep people safe, to buy everyone extra time, but she completely lost confidence in her ability to do so. Perhaps just like her search for meaning, she had simply been going about it the wrong way. Perhaps sticking to one person and trying to keep them safe was a fool's errand. Perhaps instead the better way of protecting people would be to stop the situation from ever needing to arise in the first place.
Perhaps she could simply kill the killers, and stop the cycle of violence at its source, before it consumed everyone.
Maybe in the end her efforts would be in vain. She knew that even if no one died, all of them would just be killed anyway by the terrorists. But in the end, it didn't matter if everyone would die no matter what she did. So what if there could be one sole survivor if she didn't act? That was in the future, who exactly that person could even be has not been decided yet. If she at least bought her peers a few more days of life each with her actions, then it would be worth it. In the face of so many actual victims, how could the needs of one possible survivor possibly compare?
Through her pondering, a sense of calm began to wash over her. Marceline knew what she wanted, now. The darkness and uncertainty that she had grown familiar with, all of that ineffable guilt and sadness that had previously drowned her, was now something else entirely. Now it no longer had to choke her, or make her lash out at others. Now instead, it could protect her. Where before it had made her weak, now it could give her strength. By dulling her emotions, it could give her the resolve to do what she felt was right. Hunt the monsters, slay them, and stop the bloodshed at its source, by whatever means was necessary.
Maybe this place had corrupted her, but so what? She would let it in just enough to do what she needed to do, and no more.
While she had been thinking, Nick had answered the question of his companion's identity. Marco was his name. As in, Volker? No, he didn't look like Volker, he must be the other one who's name she had never heard of prior. Both were killers, so maybe the distinction didn't truly matter, but what did matter was assessing how much of a threat he posed to others in the future. In all likelihood, the threat he could pose was the same as Nick's, and Nick had just given her yet another all-too-convenient answer to her questions.
The question she now had to pose to herself was, while Nick was almost certainly guilty of the atrocities he had committed, was he truly a monster in need of being stopped? She couldn't let herself become like those she was targeting, like she had almost allowed herself to do in her rage just mere moments ago. She would not allow herself to kill solely out of a desire for revenge, as vengeance would not bring about more peace and safety for anyone on its own. The resentment her actions would almost certainly cause could easily outweigh any good they would bring about, if she wasn't careful.
Thus, she had to weigh her options carefully, and at the moment, she saw no reason for her to continue to pursue Nick and Marco. For one, doing so would almost certainly upset Roxanne. For two, Nick and Marco's companionship clearly showed that they had not completely abandoned peace as a possibility, at least not yet. For three, Nick's receptiveness to her questions suggested he wanted to avoid a fight more than anything. So even if his words were lies, and his motivations were still likely selfish, he did not strike her as someone she needed to continue to concern herself with. The threat he posed was minimal at best, and the suffering his demise would facilitate would likely undo any good that it brought about.
So, to that end-
"Alright, we're going."
She spoke, and her words carried so much more power than they had before. Where before her speech had been tinged by sickly hate and anger, it was now filled with a robust confidence. She spun around and began to slowly meander off, refusing to concern herself further with the situation transpiring behind her.
"I don't care what you do from now on, Nick, just don't hurt anyone else," she shouted back to him, her eyes transfixed on the path ahead of her. "Otherwise, I will find you again, and then we'll have to have another chat."
She left the interpretation of her word choice up to those listening in. Now her murderous desires were on full display, sans her previous passion and fury. Instead, her demeanor remained cold and calculated as she considered her next move to further her newfound ends.
((Marceline would have plenty of time to think, elsewhere.))
I Just Want Your-
Day 5, Open once Paige posts
-
VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
More words swirled around him.
Sounds. Sounds was more correct. The voices bled together now, and he could not distinguish their parts as speech.
Another string whipped past him as indecipherable as the last.
Noise? No, it was more indistinct. He expected sound, there was the presumption that they would keep talking and he needed to keep trying to listen not so much for voices but for the click of a trigger, the shuffle of footsteps, metal on metal as one knife met another. All that was mixed to slurry now too though. He was not so sure that he heard it anymore than he felt it. Subtle vibrations ran through the parts of his body failing to process audio and he understood the attempt to interpret without the result. Resonance, a sensory echo without meaning.
Another, more insistent.
He felt his mouth move, his throat shudder as a thing that might pass itself as vocalization to the uninitiated crawled out. He did not create it, and so knew nothing of its intent or continuity.
Insistence. Persistence. The resonance was not noise was not sound was not words, but it demanded he understand. He couldn't. He wanted to, and though he couldn't replicate the move physically he reached out in his mind.
It came again. He understood.
<I was fine without you> she said.
Understanding was a mistake
Marco whimpered against his bag.
Sounds. Sounds was more correct. The voices bled together now, and he could not distinguish their parts as speech.
Another string whipped past him as indecipherable as the last.
Noise? No, it was more indistinct. He expected sound, there was the presumption that they would keep talking and he needed to keep trying to listen not so much for voices but for the click of a trigger, the shuffle of footsteps, metal on metal as one knife met another. All that was mixed to slurry now too though. He was not so sure that he heard it anymore than he felt it. Subtle vibrations ran through the parts of his body failing to process audio and he understood the attempt to interpret without the result. Resonance, a sensory echo without meaning.
Another, more insistent.
He felt his mouth move, his throat shudder as a thing that might pass itself as vocalization to the uninitiated crawled out. He did not create it, and so knew nothing of its intent or continuity.
Insistence. Persistence. The resonance was not noise was not sound was not words, but it demanded he understand. He couldn't. He wanted to, and though he couldn't replicate the move physically he reached out in his mind.
It came again. He understood.
<I was fine without you> she said.
Understanding was a mistake
Marco whimpered against his bag.
Marcy didn't answer Roxanne's question, but that was fine, they could talk about it later when they were alone again. Circle back around to what they'd been talking about when the whole mess started, too; Alexander and his killer and guilt and blame and other things she'd prefer to avoid, but they'd only get uglier the longer they were left to fester.
Roxanne had finally calmed herself down, though Marcy's parting jabs at the two boys made her wince at the complete failure to read the room. Was it really the time to make blatant threats when Marco (the faint satisfaction of knowing his name was cancelled by the complete lack of any meaning it held to her) was collapsed on his bag, and Nick was evidently too concerned about him to listen? Not only that, it was an empty threat - Marcy wouldn't have any way to reliably find them again, once they separated, and besides. She wasn't the one with the power.
Marcy wasn't the one with the gun, and Roxanne had no real plans to let that change.
"Don't worry about her. Just take care of your friend," Roxanne said, fighting the urge to apologize to the man who had very much killed her best friend, extenuating circumstances or not. She backed up, and once she judged she was a safe distance away, she turned around to follow Marcy back into the sun.
"I hope he's okay. Good luck," she called back, over her shoulder.
((Maybe it was more than he deserved, but maybe everyone deserved at least that much.))
Roxanne had finally calmed herself down, though Marcy's parting jabs at the two boys made her wince at the complete failure to read the room. Was it really the time to make blatant threats when Marco (the faint satisfaction of knowing his name was cancelled by the complete lack of any meaning it held to her) was collapsed on his bag, and Nick was evidently too concerned about him to listen? Not only that, it was an empty threat - Marcy wouldn't have any way to reliably find them again, once they separated, and besides. She wasn't the one with the power.
Marcy wasn't the one with the gun, and Roxanne had no real plans to let that change.
"Don't worry about her. Just take care of your friend," Roxanne said, fighting the urge to apologize to the man who had very much killed her best friend, extenuating circumstances or not. She backed up, and once she judged she was a safe distance away, she turned around to follow Marcy back into the sun.
"I hope he's okay. Good luck," she called back, over her shoulder.
((Maybe it was more than he deserved, but maybe everyone deserved at least that much.))
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Thankfully, Nick was distracted by Marco as Marcelline made her obnoxious and self-aggrandising exit. By the time that he'd registered the bullshit that had flooded out of her mouth, she'd already left, and sadly there wasn't a door to hit her on the arse on the way out. It was just Roxanne, who actually seemed to still have some...common sense about her? Not that Nick had any himself, he'd lost that long before he even reached the island, but he'd sorta just assumed at this point that everyone had gone fucking cuckoo bananas, so that Roxanne was actually acting like a halfway decent person was fucking saintlike as far as Nick was concerned.
"Bye Roxanne. Take care. Hopefully Marcy stops thinking she's the fucking protagonist of this shit," Nick replied, his tone as cordial and genial as could be managed under the circumstances.
Seriously, how dare Marcy? If anyone was going to line up to kill Nick in some act of self-anointed righteous vigilantiism, it wasn't going to be her. If she killed him, it'd just be some conniption of rage and arrogance. There were way more people - as Nick had already informed her - that had way more valid claims to be the one to get to kill Nick. Not that he wanted to be killed by anyone, but come on. It was pretty rudimentary stuff. It would just be selfish of her to be the one to kill him. She wasn't the fucking judge, jury and executioner of the island. This might be some Lord of the Flies shit, but it wasn't that bad.
Marco needed him, and with the worrying distraction of the arsehole and her friend now gone from the scene, he could focus on Marco. One hand on either side of Marco in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, he softened his tone and mellowed his temperament. "Hey? Marco, man? Marco? Speak to me." Gave him the slightest jolt, just to try and jerk him from whatever odd catatonic state it was enrapturing him.
"Bye Roxanne. Take care. Hopefully Marcy stops thinking she's the fucking protagonist of this shit," Nick replied, his tone as cordial and genial as could be managed under the circumstances.
Seriously, how dare Marcy? If anyone was going to line up to kill Nick in some act of self-anointed righteous vigilantiism, it wasn't going to be her. If she killed him, it'd just be some conniption of rage and arrogance. There were way more people - as Nick had already informed her - that had way more valid claims to be the one to get to kill Nick. Not that he wanted to be killed by anyone, but come on. It was pretty rudimentary stuff. It would just be selfish of her to be the one to kill him. She wasn't the fucking judge, jury and executioner of the island. This might be some Lord of the Flies shit, but it wasn't that bad.
Marco needed him, and with the worrying distraction of the arsehole and her friend now gone from the scene, he could focus on Marco. One hand on either side of Marco in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, he softened his tone and mellowed his temperament. "Hey? Marco, man? Marco? Speak to me." Gave him the slightest jolt, just to try and jerk him from whatever odd catatonic state it was enrapturing him.
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
There was...constraint, maybe you'd say, on the way Marco had been thinking. Conscious effort on stemming his flow of thought to only useful, immediate places whenever he could. When that much was out of reach, he'd tried to keep things short. It wasn't like him. All the places his mind could go at any given moment helped keep him distracted when there was so much he didn't want to think about, and wasn't that the opposite of what he was trying to accomplish now? So he'd narrowed. Fortified. Kept his thoughts to the relevant present or near future when it was demanded he existed. In the state he was in now he wasn't so sure it was a conscious choice or if that was how he rewrote the context of his delirious memory to feel more in control, but it.
<It was your fault.>
It wasn't working.
<They loved me. They would have protected me. No one has ever loved you.>
In the cracks between paranoia and disassociation, Marco had wondered if he was crazy. The word, separated now from pressing circumstance, made him feel a sort of guilt. It was one of those he wasn't sure what to do with anymore; on the one hand he'd read some very strong cases as to why it was an ableist slur, denormalizing and fetishizing non-normative or neuroatypical behaviors into a vague cultural slurry that could pour into whatever mold was most needed by the majority at hand. Which was, was really messed up when you stopped and thought about it, the alienation of behavior was itself one of the greatest drivers of the aspects that made undesirable behavior alienating, did that make sense? But how in heat of moment without the time or presence of mind to speak in a way that is conscious or non-toxic where you meant to describe yourself and/or the baselines of behavior you were comparing yourself to, and was it better to use language that would require walking back past crisis if it allowed you to grip the crisis more firmly and de-escalate? Wow that was also really messed up because what did that apply to, could any speech be excused by way of crisis and did that not in some ways dehumanize the crisis state as something real and human that speaks to parts of yourself however unpleasant that you must find ways to come to terms with?
He was the wrong person to be answering these questions. A lot of those words didn't have meaning right now, or maybe ever, they were just things people said who sounded like they were making really smart cases so he repeated them. Other people were good at things, he just absorbed and to the best of his ability
<No. You didn't do anything. You were nothing. I learned. I modeled. I made people want me.>
He was getting off track.
Point was, Marco knew he wasn't crazy, or knew he was crazy in a way that made him less crazy because he didn't believe the crazy things that he did and experienced and every time he tried to reframe this concept the guilt pinged in the back of his head again so he was going to move on from it Marco knew he wasn't crazy (ow) because he knew he was doing these things to himself. The denial had always centered in him. The blanking out of his identity, that was him. The "voice" that was the only thing he could manage to focus on right now, that, well in a way that was him too, things he thought now personified through stimulus from his sleep deprived brain. He wasn't hearing anything. It didn't speak, and that meant it wasn't
<They'll put my name on the grave. On the monument. They'll hang up all my pictures. I was realer than you will ever be, and when you die nobody will remember what you were outside of a mistake.>
Marco bit his lip hard. Tried to focus on the dreary sky above him, Nick's hands close but not quite touching.
<Because you disgust him. Like everyone who meets you.>
There was copper in his mouth. "Nick," something moved on his face, and it took longer, much longer than it should have to realize it was his jaw. "Help, help me up, sorry..."
<It was your fault.>
It wasn't working.
<They loved me. They would have protected me. No one has ever loved you.>
In the cracks between paranoia and disassociation, Marco had wondered if he was crazy. The word, separated now from pressing circumstance, made him feel a sort of guilt. It was one of those he wasn't sure what to do with anymore; on the one hand he'd read some very strong cases as to why it was an ableist slur, denormalizing and fetishizing non-normative or neuroatypical behaviors into a vague cultural slurry that could pour into whatever mold was most needed by the majority at hand. Which was, was really messed up when you stopped and thought about it, the alienation of behavior was itself one of the greatest drivers of the aspects that made undesirable behavior alienating, did that make sense? But how in heat of moment without the time or presence of mind to speak in a way that is conscious or non-toxic where you meant to describe yourself and/or the baselines of behavior you were comparing yourself to, and was it better to use language that would require walking back past crisis if it allowed you to grip the crisis more firmly and de-escalate? Wow that was also really messed up because what did that apply to, could any speech be excused by way of crisis and did that not in some ways dehumanize the crisis state as something real and human that speaks to parts of yourself however unpleasant that you must find ways to come to terms with?
He was the wrong person to be answering these questions. A lot of those words didn't have meaning right now, or maybe ever, they were just things people said who sounded like they were making really smart cases so he repeated them. Other people were good at things, he just absorbed and to the best of his ability
<No. You didn't do anything. You were nothing. I learned. I modeled. I made people want me.>
He was getting off track.
Point was, Marco knew he wasn't crazy, or knew he was crazy in a way that made him less crazy because he didn't believe the crazy things that he did and experienced and every time he tried to reframe this concept the guilt pinged in the back of his head again so he was going to move on from it Marco knew he wasn't crazy (ow) because he knew he was doing these things to himself. The denial had always centered in him. The blanking out of his identity, that was him. The "voice" that was the only thing he could manage to focus on right now, that, well in a way that was him too, things he thought now personified through stimulus from his sleep deprived brain. He wasn't hearing anything. It didn't speak, and that meant it wasn't
<They'll put my name on the grave. On the monument. They'll hang up all my pictures. I was realer than you will ever be, and when you die nobody will remember what you were outside of a mistake.>
Marco bit his lip hard. Tried to focus on the dreary sky above him, Nick's hands close but not quite touching.
<Because you disgust him. Like everyone who meets you.>
There was copper in his mouth. "Nick," something moved on his face, and it took longer, much longer than it should have to realize it was his jaw. "Help, help me up, sorry..."
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick was powerless to do anything. At least, anything that felt like he was actually making a difference. He was there. Nick knew that that mattered. It didn't feel like it - especially when Marco wasn't really responding to his presence - but he knew that it mattered. He was being there, standing over Marco, making sure his minor shifting wasn't putting him into any danger, making sure Marco wasn't trying to say anything with his constant string of noises, making sure Marco's apparent discomfort wasn't the prelude to some more severe symptoms (not that Nick could really do anything about it if it was).
Even if Nick did know how to do anything, even if he did know the basics of first aid or good mental health crisis response, he'd still be pretty useless. Nick hated to admit it, but he was distracted. He was still half paying attention to the entrance of the cave - expecting some other hostile vigilante with a misplaced sense of their importance in the world to barge in, or perhaps just a garden variety run of the mill psychopath to come thundering in looking for another cheap kill - which meant he couldn't quite be as attentive as he would have hoped. He was tired and ill and depressed and his beard was getting uncomfortably itchy and he was nursing a low-key headache from where Jeremiah had headbutted him, and being able to think straight was basically an impossibility under those circumstances.
Still, Nick had to try. At least until Marco got back to a state where he could contribute. Keeping the pair of them afloat was a two person job, but if one of them wavered for a bit, needed a little bit of an extra push up, well, it was only fair to provide that. The "smart" reason was that, well, it meant that Marco would reciprocate, hopefully, if Nick were ever to succumb to his own demons and need a bit more assistance than he would have liked. The real reason was that Nick wasn't sure what he'd be doing on this island - what other option there was that was preferable to just rolling over and letting nature reclaim his body - then helping Marco. Marco was all he had. He was a friend and an ally and, as vaguely dehumanising as it was, almost a kind of project for Nick. Nick had to keep him alive. He needed to be doing something productive. Something that showed he had some decent impulses at heart. Something that proved his inevitable death was actually a tragedy.
Marco was biting his lip. "Hey, careful," Nick murmured, when he noticed the rivulet of blood trickling down from Marco's lip. He reached behind him - keeping one hand on Marco because it seemed silly to let him go altogether - and clumsily pulled out a tissue from the bag. He started dabbing it on Marco's lip, softly, gently, almost too faintly to even make a difference, worried about startling him.
Marco asked to be helped up. "Alright," Nick continued, offering an arm for Marco to pull himself up on, but not forcing the issue. "At your own pace."
Even if Nick did know how to do anything, even if he did know the basics of first aid or good mental health crisis response, he'd still be pretty useless. Nick hated to admit it, but he was distracted. He was still half paying attention to the entrance of the cave - expecting some other hostile vigilante with a misplaced sense of their importance in the world to barge in, or perhaps just a garden variety run of the mill psychopath to come thundering in looking for another cheap kill - which meant he couldn't quite be as attentive as he would have hoped. He was tired and ill and depressed and his beard was getting uncomfortably itchy and he was nursing a low-key headache from where Jeremiah had headbutted him, and being able to think straight was basically an impossibility under those circumstances.
Still, Nick had to try. At least until Marco got back to a state where he could contribute. Keeping the pair of them afloat was a two person job, but if one of them wavered for a bit, needed a little bit of an extra push up, well, it was only fair to provide that. The "smart" reason was that, well, it meant that Marco would reciprocate, hopefully, if Nick were ever to succumb to his own demons and need a bit more assistance than he would have liked. The real reason was that Nick wasn't sure what he'd be doing on this island - what other option there was that was preferable to just rolling over and letting nature reclaim his body - then helping Marco. Marco was all he had. He was a friend and an ally and, as vaguely dehumanising as it was, almost a kind of project for Nick. Nick had to keep him alive. He needed to be doing something productive. Something that showed he had some decent impulses at heart. Something that proved his inevitable death was actually a tragedy.
Marco was biting his lip. "Hey, careful," Nick murmured, when he noticed the rivulet of blood trickling down from Marco's lip. He reached behind him - keeping one hand on Marco because it seemed silly to let him go altogether - and clumsily pulled out a tissue from the bag. He started dabbing it on Marco's lip, softly, gently, almost too faintly to even make a difference, worried about startling him.
Marco asked to be helped up. "Alright," Nick continued, offering an arm for Marco to pull himself up on, but not forcing the issue. "At your own pace."
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Marco was still surprised by the softness of Nick's touch. He was so used to every touch being an instruction either implicit or explicit; steadying hands on shoulders as Garnet tried to calm him down, a tug towards class, his mother's hands on his shoulders to make sure he sat down for dinner, a cupped hand on his chin forcing him to look up through tears, Johnny's fist against his temple, fragments all running counter to the way Nick handled him.
<Because you are fragile. Worthless. Too stupid to be guided. He's going to give up on you when you break.>
No.
Marco winced, because he wasn't crazy, and winced again because he kept saying that. He knew, though. He knew the voice was only real in the sense that it was his, he was saying these things, and disagreeing with it was a pointless exercise. Dialogue only made it seem more in control, it couldn't speak unless he let it
<Then make me be quiet.>
and if he didn't acknowledge it he could find his way out of the fog. His denial was accurate though. He could hang on to that. Knowing whether Nick saw him as an inherently fragile, temporary thing was impossible without asking, but Marco found a different interpretation in the way he held him that was supported by the way he spoke. Unlike nearly every person who had been burdened with him, Nick saw Marco as an equal. He didn't need to direct or control him, and what protection he provided came from a place of mutual expectation. Nick believed they could help each other. He believed Marco could protect him. Marco gripped his arm and pulled himself to his feet, still shaking but at least upright.
<It is very sad how you have misled him.>
"Yes," Marco mumbled in response to no one and nothing in particular. His right hand let go of Nick and settled on his left forearm.
<Because you are fragile. Worthless. Too stupid to be guided. He's going to give up on you when you break.>
No.
Marco winced, because he wasn't crazy, and winced again because he kept saying that. He knew, though. He knew the voice was only real in the sense that it was his, he was saying these things, and disagreeing with it was a pointless exercise. Dialogue only made it seem more in control, it couldn't speak unless he let it
<Then make me be quiet.>
and if he didn't acknowledge it he could find his way out of the fog. His denial was accurate though. He could hang on to that. Knowing whether Nick saw him as an inherently fragile, temporary thing was impossible without asking, but Marco found a different interpretation in the way he held him that was supported by the way he spoke. Unlike nearly every person who had been burdened with him, Nick saw Marco as an equal. He didn't need to direct or control him, and what protection he provided came from a place of mutual expectation. Nick believed they could help each other. He believed Marco could protect him. Marco gripped his arm and pulled himself to his feet, still shaking but at least upright.
<It is very sad how you have misled him.>
"Yes," Marco mumbled in response to no one and nothing in particular. His right hand let go of Nick and settled on his left forearm.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Marco climbed to his feet. He could stand by himself. That was important. That was what mattered. There was still strength in him yet. Still some degree of resolve, of independence. It wasn't much, but it mattered a lot to Nick. It showed him he was okay. That Nick could put some trust into letting his companion stand up by himself.
Nick looked at Marco.
They'd been through a lot together. Even just...talking to people. Interacting with people. Dangerous people, friendly people, whatever. It was all exhausting. They'd reached the point where they could trust only each other. Nick would have preferred to be able to trust more people, to be able to call on other old friendsips and affections, but there was no chance of that.
And if he was to trust only one person again...he'd be more than happy with Marco.
"Marco..."
Nick straighted his back. Warning Marco about anything he would do next seemed fair. Just to allow him to brace himself, or to refuse, or whatever.
"I'm gonna give you a hug now, okay?"
A few seconds later, he wrapped his arms around Marco.
Nick looked at Marco.
They'd been through a lot together. Even just...talking to people. Interacting with people. Dangerous people, friendly people, whatever. It was all exhausting. They'd reached the point where they could trust only each other. Nick would have preferred to be able to trust more people, to be able to call on other old friendsips and affections, but there was no chance of that.
And if he was to trust only one person again...he'd be more than happy with Marco.
"Marco..."
Nick straighted his back. Warning Marco about anything he would do next seemed fair. Just to allow him to brace himself, or to refuse, or whatever.
"I'm gonna give you a hug now, okay?"
A few seconds later, he wrapped his arms around Marco.
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
<Whatever happens to you.>
There were no sleeves against his skin anymore.
<Whatever you do next.>
The lines could be seen still in the right light, he was sure of it.
<Whatever people think of you here, or at home.>
Nick had said nothing about them. They must be gone, or he didn't want to know.
<You're dying as yourself.>
Weeks old now, of course they would fade. They were shallow.
<No more lies.>
But they itched.
<That's what you told yourself when you became a murderer.>
Burned.
<But if I couldn't figure out who you were in 18 years, how could you do it in two days?>
The impulse came worst when the narratives aligned, the one he projected and the one he chose to think of as his own. There were moments where he couldn't avoid agreeing with the words he didn't hear. No more lies, a promise as straightforward as swearing off oxygen. His entire way of being was riddled with omission, lies that bred lies that bred lies to mask his dysfunction. Marco has been built on them in the same fashion Nona had; their only differences were in practice and obligation. No one asked Marco to exist. Marco was not dragged into anything, his ties were loose and if he vanished for days or weeks at a time someone might notice, but they could not come looking for him. No one had ever tried beyond the odd check in message if he went dark. When the identity grew too hard to hold together, he could always put it down. Log out and get lost somewhere else on the internet until he felt like trying again. Nona did not have that luxury. Nona had friends who thought they knew her well enough to know what's good for her. Parents who pushed her to excel. Teachers who expected results. Needs. Responsibilities. A future. A life. Nona only turned off when unobserved.
That was why she spent as much time as she could alone.
It would be heroic to say he resolved to learn from his mistakes. When he whispered his name to the camera, he was letting out his real self. He was finally being true and even if the thing inside him was ugly, it was alright. The inevitability of the violence was stabilizing. The method might be crude but at its heart he was protecting something precious; his life, sure, his connection with Nick, absolutely, but most importantly his right to the selfhood so many of his classmates had enjoyed and squandered up until now. He was owed it. It was powerful. It was genuine. It was
It was
<It was>
forced.
he tried
he tried to make it real
every time he pushed the violence to the front of his mind and imagined himself the victor, that he could absolutely do it if he had to and always with the excuse that kept him off it, it made perfect sense in his head
like every other lie he'd ever told himself
this person
no
this thing he had made only covered the surface he couldn't
he couldn't say he'd traded one lie for another
he itched
one lie had gone over the other
he burned
he stopped not hearing her voice but she hadn't gone away she was a thing he thought about not thinking about underneath she was still there
the fingers of his right hand twitched against his skin
he had to dig her out
nails dug-
Nick's arms were around him, and his first taste of clarity tinged with horror. There was a beat between the pinning of his hand flat to his forearm and full clarity where he thought he'd been caught. Nick had seen what he was going to do and was going to stop him, which was mollifying on its own, but what brought bile to his throat was the anger that flared underneath the shame, the desperate twitch of his fingers as they tried to find their way into his own skin despite Nick's interference. The briefest desire to push him away. That would be a mistake Marco could not undo, he knew that under any level of duress. With more distance he'd also know how unhealthy that thought could be; that someone else's desire was no substitute for self-worth, firsthand experience alone combined with all the internal and external screaming he'd done about it lately should warn him off of it. Nick saw some worth in him that he couldn't right now and that was so, so tantalizing, but if he really wanted to dig through the lies to the real core of his identity he couldn't hang himself on the acceptance of a boy who had only really known him for less than a week.
Hypothetically, though. If Marco was failing all his old self destructive habits in new and exciting ways, could one more hurt?
Marco's right hand slipped free to join his left just before they cupped Nick's face and pulled him down into a kiss.
There were no sleeves against his skin anymore.
<Whatever you do next.>
The lines could be seen still in the right light, he was sure of it.
<Whatever people think of you here, or at home.>
Nick had said nothing about them. They must be gone, or he didn't want to know.
<You're dying as yourself.>
Weeks old now, of course they would fade. They were shallow.
<No more lies.>
But they itched.
<That's what you told yourself when you became a murderer.>
Burned.
<But if I couldn't figure out who you were in 18 years, how could you do it in two days?>
The impulse came worst when the narratives aligned, the one he projected and the one he chose to think of as his own. There were moments where he couldn't avoid agreeing with the words he didn't hear. No more lies, a promise as straightforward as swearing off oxygen. His entire way of being was riddled with omission, lies that bred lies that bred lies to mask his dysfunction. Marco has been built on them in the same fashion Nona had; their only differences were in practice and obligation. No one asked Marco to exist. Marco was not dragged into anything, his ties were loose and if he vanished for days or weeks at a time someone might notice, but they could not come looking for him. No one had ever tried beyond the odd check in message if he went dark. When the identity grew too hard to hold together, he could always put it down. Log out and get lost somewhere else on the internet until he felt like trying again. Nona did not have that luxury. Nona had friends who thought they knew her well enough to know what's good for her. Parents who pushed her to excel. Teachers who expected results. Needs. Responsibilities. A future. A life. Nona only turned off when unobserved.
That was why she spent as much time as she could alone.
It would be heroic to say he resolved to learn from his mistakes. When he whispered his name to the camera, he was letting out his real self. He was finally being true and even if the thing inside him was ugly, it was alright. The inevitability of the violence was stabilizing. The method might be crude but at its heart he was protecting something precious; his life, sure, his connection with Nick, absolutely, but most importantly his right to the selfhood so many of his classmates had enjoyed and squandered up until now. He was owed it. It was powerful. It was genuine. It was
It was
<It was>
forced.
he tried
he tried to make it real
every time he pushed the violence to the front of his mind and imagined himself the victor, that he could absolutely do it if he had to and always with the excuse that kept him off it, it made perfect sense in his head
like every other lie he'd ever told himself
this person
no
this thing he had made only covered the surface he couldn't
he couldn't say he'd traded one lie for another
he itched
one lie had gone over the other
he burned
he stopped not hearing her voice but she hadn't gone away she was a thing he thought about not thinking about underneath she was still there
the fingers of his right hand twitched against his skin
he had to dig her out
nails dug-
Nick's arms were around him, and his first taste of clarity tinged with horror. There was a beat between the pinning of his hand flat to his forearm and full clarity where he thought he'd been caught. Nick had seen what he was going to do and was going to stop him, which was mollifying on its own, but what brought bile to his throat was the anger that flared underneath the shame, the desperate twitch of his fingers as they tried to find their way into his own skin despite Nick's interference. The briefest desire to push him away. That would be a mistake Marco could not undo, he knew that under any level of duress. With more distance he'd also know how unhealthy that thought could be; that someone else's desire was no substitute for self-worth, firsthand experience alone combined with all the internal and external screaming he'd done about it lately should warn him off of it. Nick saw some worth in him that he couldn't right now and that was so, so tantalizing, but if he really wanted to dig through the lies to the real core of his identity he couldn't hang himself on the acceptance of a boy who had only really known him for less than a week.
Hypothetically, though. If Marco was failing all his old self destructive habits in new and exciting ways, could one more hurt?
Marco's right hand slipped free to join his left just before they cupped Nick's face and pulled him down into a kiss.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Marco kissed Nick, and Nick kissed back.
Normally Nick...thought about this kind of thing. He was promiscuous, sure. Came with the territory. If you were a Chattanooga teen and into bulky beardy Scotsmen, there was one guy in town that you could go to. Would have been a waste for Nick not to spread that love around. But he wasn't thoughtless. He wasn't impulsive. And he was quite good at picking up signals. He normally saw the signs. He normally knew where things were going. Just a penchant for that kind of thing.
But Marco had surprised him.
Then again, this whole situation defied most social norms, most conventions that predictability and stability could be derived from. It was all a big guessing game, all some crazy survival for life, and it probably made sense that Nick's ability to pick up on signals amidst this chaos had completely thrown him out of the loop. Plus...well, he didn't know Marco all that while. Didn't even know the guy's real gender, true name, up until a few days ago.
The kiss was good. They were both tired, dirty, famished and exhausted and grappling with all manner of heartache and depression. But the kiss was good. Alleviated that sense of despair, of alienation, of being a totally unlikable waste of skin, that had sorta dominated his mindset as of late. Nick appreciated it. He enjoyed it. There was something there. A chemistry that worked. A mutual need that clicked. Compatibility, that was there. That was real. Why hadn't they clicked before? So many potential answers to that question.
Nick broke the kiss to get in some air. Leaned his forehead on Marco's. He liked height differences. Hadn't really been much of a thing with Beryl and Tristan, but yeah. Nick sighed. He remembered something. It didn't bother him, but Marco was already pouring so much of himself out there. "You okay with the cameras?"
Normally Nick...thought about this kind of thing. He was promiscuous, sure. Came with the territory. If you were a Chattanooga teen and into bulky beardy Scotsmen, there was one guy in town that you could go to. Would have been a waste for Nick not to spread that love around. But he wasn't thoughtless. He wasn't impulsive. And he was quite good at picking up signals. He normally saw the signs. He normally knew where things were going. Just a penchant for that kind of thing.
But Marco had surprised him.
Then again, this whole situation defied most social norms, most conventions that predictability and stability could be derived from. It was all a big guessing game, all some crazy survival for life, and it probably made sense that Nick's ability to pick up on signals amidst this chaos had completely thrown him out of the loop. Plus...well, he didn't know Marco all that while. Didn't even know the guy's real gender, true name, up until a few days ago.
The kiss was good. They were both tired, dirty, famished and exhausted and grappling with all manner of heartache and depression. But the kiss was good. Alleviated that sense of despair, of alienation, of being a totally unlikable waste of skin, that had sorta dominated his mindset as of late. Nick appreciated it. He enjoyed it. There was something there. A chemistry that worked. A mutual need that clicked. Compatibility, that was there. That was real. Why hadn't they clicked before? So many potential answers to that question.
Nick broke the kiss to get in some air. Leaned his forehead on Marco's. He liked height differences. Hadn't really been much of a thing with Beryl and Tristan, but yeah. Nick sighed. He remembered something. It didn't bother him, but Marco was already pouring so much of himself out there. "You okay with the cameras?"
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
"They haven't stopped me yet."
The words came without time to examine their implication. So did his fingertips moving through Nick's beard. His lips tracing across his face and into Nick's neck for a softer kiss. Their bodies fitting together in places that should have sounded dozens of self-conscious alarms. The vulnerability, more the surrender, that overwhelmed apprehension everywhere Nick touched him.
Marco could have dug into every action and reaction down to obsessing on coding in the way they drew breathe, but he didn't want to know.
He didn't care.
He just wanted more.
The words came without time to examine their implication. So did his fingertips moving through Nick's beard. His lips tracing across his face and into Nick's neck for a softer kiss. Their bodies fitting together in places that should have sounded dozens of self-conscious alarms. The vulnerability, more the surrender, that overwhelmed apprehension everywhere Nick touched him.
Marco could have dug into every action and reaction down to obsessing on coding in the way they drew breathe, but he didn't want to know.
He didn't care.
He just wanted more.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
So Marco didn't care about the cameras. That was good. That made one of them. Nick did, on the other hand. He knew it was illogical. He'd already bore his soul, already committed acts of violence that showed him for the dysfunctional and deeply flawed human being that he was, already attended to every other conceivable bodily function, with the cameras viewing him. It hadn't even really mattered to him up until that moment.
Well, it mattered, but had it bothered him? Not compared to everything else. The consequences of being viewed were distant, ethereal, little more than academic ponderings or baseless speculation about what his family thought. He'd acknowledged there was even a bit of potential in the cameras being there, to show his side of the story, to impart heartfelt final messages, but again, any comfort from that was ephemeral, unreliable, barely worth taking the time out of his day.
So it was odd - especially for Nick, who had usually been so bold and unashamed with his sexuality and wore his relatively dim view of traditional sexual morality openly - for that to be the situation where he drew the line. Maybe it was because it was a choice. Maybe it was because everything else had been forced from him, either by the actions of others and the inherent circumstances of the island or the capricious fickleness of his own impulsive personality.
...it was empowering, then. He was giving up the last bit of his privacy on his own terms.
He looked at the camera.
Looked at Marco.
Marco got him. Marco had stood by him. Marco was a mess, too, but that's what Nick needed. A mess. Someone who he didn't need to improve for. Someone who had seen him at his worst and still fallen for him regardless. Nick hadn't done any smooth one-liners. No amateur illusions, no meme-filled witty back and forth. Marco knew Nick as a violent, chaotic murderer. And sure, Nick wanted to change that. But it was for his sake. Not for someone else's.
A twisted logic, sure. Probably selfish and self-destructive and internally and externally inconsistent and whatever, who cares, his internal thoughts were the one thing that he could trust to remain his own. Normally they were intrusive, but for once? Nick felt confident.
"Alright, then. Let's give the horny punters a show."
Well, it mattered, but had it bothered him? Not compared to everything else. The consequences of being viewed were distant, ethereal, little more than academic ponderings or baseless speculation about what his family thought. He'd acknowledged there was even a bit of potential in the cameras being there, to show his side of the story, to impart heartfelt final messages, but again, any comfort from that was ephemeral, unreliable, barely worth taking the time out of his day.
So it was odd - especially for Nick, who had usually been so bold and unashamed with his sexuality and wore his relatively dim view of traditional sexual morality openly - for that to be the situation where he drew the line. Maybe it was because it was a choice. Maybe it was because everything else had been forced from him, either by the actions of others and the inherent circumstances of the island or the capricious fickleness of his own impulsive personality.
...it was empowering, then. He was giving up the last bit of his privacy on his own terms.
He looked at the camera.
Looked at Marco.
Marco got him. Marco had stood by him. Marco was a mess, too, but that's what Nick needed. A mess. Someone who he didn't need to improve for. Someone who had seen him at his worst and still fallen for him regardless. Nick hadn't done any smooth one-liners. No amateur illusions, no meme-filled witty back and forth. Marco knew Nick as a violent, chaotic murderer. And sure, Nick wanted to change that. But it was for his sake. Not for someone else's.
A twisted logic, sure. Probably selfish and self-destructive and internally and externally inconsistent and whatever, who cares, his internal thoughts were the one thing that he could trust to remain his own. Normally they were intrusive, but for once? Nick felt confident.
"Alright, then. Let's give the horny punters a show."
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
When Marco was fourteen, his mother had invited him out to dinner. 'Baby, can we have dinner tonight? Just us?' That's how she'd phrased it if he remembered right. It was funny that she'd put it like that, like he had any choice in the first place. Mom had always decided when they went out together. Saying no was a stall tactic at best, once she had something in mind for them she would get him to it eventually. Giving in was easier, like anyone who knew Marco well would be shocked at that conclusion. He did hesitate, though. Tonight was different. There was an unacknowledged tension between them and he couldn't tell if it was all on his end or if she knew. Marco had been very careful, nothing left where she might see it. It wasn't, you know, it wasn't as if he had lied to her exactly, it was just there was nothing to tell. She'd prepared him very well. That mean they didn't have to talk about it. That was ideal.
But they were going to dinner. They were going to dinner and he knew she knew, and he knew she was going to want to talk about it and maybe this was her way of reassuring him that there was nothing to be nervous about but the thought of having this discussion in the middle of a crowded restaurant had him already on the verge of vomiting all over her Suburban. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself though. It could be something less intense. Maybe they'd won money, or she was pregnant, or his parents were getting a divorce? Oh. No. That was too far. He was selfish but that'd be worse, so much worse, god what had happened they seemed so happy together but maybe Dad felt left out with how much effort Mom had been putting into getting him out of his shell and so really it was his fault if h'd branched out more or done better on his own there wouldn't have been so much strain they'd have time to mend to grow to flourish in each other and instead he'd salted their roots with his incompetence and there was the sound of glasses clinking followed by a cough. She was staring straight at him with her hand to her mouth.
"School called a few days ago, Nona."
Oh. What a relief.
Wait.
Oh no.
He coughed too. The pause between covering his mouth and burying his face in the menu was too conspicuous. "Oh? Did something happen?" When he dared peek around the corner, she didn't look mad. More, what was the word, melancholy? Ice cubes swirled in the glass hanging from her hand. "I dunno. Is there anything you wanna talk to me about?"
It was a mistake to go to the nurse, that was pretty obvious now. He just, it was the first time and they'd talked about Things but what if he did it wrong? It wasn't too much of a mess now but it might get on his clothes and then there'd be no way out of talking about it unless he threw them away or burnt them or something so she wouldn't find out. It didn't occur to him that the nurse might just call home to let his mom know, obvious as it was now. A shame the joke didn't exist back then, because it fit the situation perfectly: the risk he took was calculated, but boy was he bad at math. He didn't speak then. The menu rose to cover the rest of his face.
His mother's hand found his trembling between pages. "Sugar, you know you can come to me about anything, right? I'm here to help. You got nothing to be ashamed of, we been over this." And she was right. So why did they have to talk about it now? "I know," he mumbled, "if anything comes up I'll..." His voice trailed off, but she got it. He really hoped she got it so they could move on, and when her hand let go he thought he'd gotten lucky. He couldn't see her move but her chair squeaked like she was leaning back.
"C'mon. Put that thing down so I can take a look."
His face was hot. The way she talked people were going to hear whatever she was about to launch into, but if he didn't play along she'd just get louder. The menu came back down to the table to show her with one arm around the back of her chair and a wide grin across her face. "There she is. I think it's my fault. I haven't looked at you proper in a minute, like you're still my little girl." He winced, but not enough for her to notice. Maybe. She kept going anyway, shaking her head and laughing. "But I blinked and missed it baby. I'm sorry. These days when I wasn't looking you turned to a woman all on your own. That's on me." His mouth was dry. The smile before he drained more than half his glass came forced, it didn't feel like it fit on his face right. "I guess I don't, um, I don't feel much like a woman, but if you say-"
A wave of her hand cut him off. "No, no, no. None of that. I mean, my first time? I thought I was dying. My mother, she always talked around it, all this nonsense about flowers and whatever. I know I did better by you on that, but she was there for me the whole way through. I needed to run to her and I did, but you kinda took to it all your own huh?" She didn't sound mad. Actually she was still smiling. Was his mother somehow...proud of him for keeping this from her? "It takes a lotta courage to face something like this on your own, damn the preparation. You were ready. Didn't need me." Her brow furrowed. "Right?"
He swallowed and nodded his head. "I, you told me what it was like and, and I kept the pads where you told me so, so I guess I just thought um, I shouldn't bother you?" The serious look left his mother's face before she took his hands again. "You did good Nona. Real good. But never think you're a bother to me baby, I'm always here for whatever you're up against. I..." She squeezed his hands a little tighter. Marco could not recall the last time she seemed regretful in a lingering sense, but it was there in her eyes. "I just want you to be safe. You're moving up into, this whole new world, you probably already felt some..." It was her turn to trail off and give him a look, one he couldn't find a way to put to words but meaningful just the same. If she didn't have such a tight grip he would have jerked his hands away to cover his face. "I, I'm not, if you're asking I haven't even, I mean-" Before half the words were out of his mouth she was shooshing him and patting his hands. "Baby, baby, you're grown but you ain't that grown, that's not what I'm talking about." She sighed. "Be easier if it was, I swear. You're gonna hear a lot of folk telling you about your body and what not these next few years, we can talk about that too if you want. You should be safe with that too. What I mean is more..." Her hand left his and pressed to his chest. "I dunno how else to put it. I'm not gonna tell you not to make mistakes because Lord knows we all do and they never look that bad when they're going down. But there's something, something that...I wanted it just us tonight 'cuz it's different out here for us, understand?"
He didn't, but he wouldn't stop her.
"I can only speak on what I know. I ain't met many women who wouldn't agree with me though. For whatever reason it seems like we don't get to move on as easy." Her thumb was rubbing the back of his hand. The regret was there still, with a gaze that was looking not so much at him as through him. "Everybody makes mistakes. But us girls, I dunno. They last. Sometimes we make mistakes and we...we lose something. Something we didn't know we had, and we don't know how to get back easy." Marco couldn't look at her face, not directly. In his peripheral vision she might have been crying. Her hand was so tight around his. "Hard for a man to understand that sometimes. It ain't just the bad ones that do you wrong, baby." The pressure moved to his chest to his cheek as she guided his gaze to hers. "You've got a lot to give, and some folks out there are gonna want to take it. Who gets it is on you, understand? So be safe, with-" Her hand came off of his in an awkward swirling gesture he didn't understand, and she snorted. "Well no use in getting dirty, you know. Be safe with yourself too. Never let nobody have nothing you ain't sure you want them to own for good."
Marco, who didn't know his own name yet, had nothing to say. Not then at least. They made small talk and promises, and though his mother would ask about little details now and then it was the last time they dug deep into sex, romance, identity, whatever you wanted to call it. He thought about that night a lot over the next few years. What he thought about most was her warning. Marco would not often confront it directly but he was an easy person to manipulate. Preparation didn't change that part of him. How would he react when someone made those sorts of moves? How could he escape? Was it inevitable that he would disappoint her, echo mistakes reflected in tears he couldn't bear to look at? For a time it was an ever present anxiety. He dreaded it. Waited for it.
Waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It never came.
A mind well vested of self-esteem, or if nothing else a charitable interpretation of one's circumstances, might assume that meant he was a success. He resisted all temptation, thwarted all who acted in bad faith. For all his other faults this one aspect of himself was safe and even if he didn't understand how the results could not be argued with, right? Except he had met no resistance. He'd warded off no temptations. There were no opportunities, at least that he was aware of, to make mistakes. There was no room for assumption or interpretation in that light. As far as he was concerned the conclusion was inescapable.
No thieves had come because Marco had nothing of value to steal.
Marco was not safe with Nick. Not in the first sense his mother implied; condoms were not among the many varieties of protection their captors had offered them. He was not safe in the sense that he and Nick had agreed upon without discussion throughout their time in the cave, where they spoke only when necessary and only loud enough for the other to hear. The risk of exposure had already fallen in on them close to half a dozen times, they'd learned better time and time again and forgotten it all the moment Nick was on him. To describe him as vocal would be a mercy, and one he did not want to spend enough time reflecting on all he'd said and done in the heat of the moment to correct. He was not safe in the sense of minding his surroundings, as more than once Nick had pressed him the wrong way into the wrong place with stone scratching at his bare skin. Even without trawling through the many, many things he was not prepared to remember he said, he was fairly certain none of them had been complaints. If he'd noticed at any time during the act, he didn't care.
When you put it in perspective all of that was minor. Beyond clean-up they probably wouldn't live to see any consequences for mutual carelessness, and if someone was waiting outside the cave they probably were not waiting for them to finish before barging in. As for the scrapes, he had taken worse here. They were more a curiosity than a concern. There was a safety he hadn't addressed yet though. The only one that could really hurt either of them. Marco had told himself time and again that he had no illusions about what they were, and that held. They barely knew each other and they didn't have the time to make up for that in any way that wasn't swayed by the bonds of trauma. If that was enough it didn't erase that only one of them could leave, assuming either of them made it that far. Taking any kind of permanence from what they were going through, that was a mistake. A huge, obvious mistake no matter how inexperienced you were, he didn't need to be told that.
For the few worst days of his life though, when Marco had done nothing but make mistake after mistake? Nick insisted by word and deed that there was something of value in him. It grew day by day, from tolerance to acceptance to desire. Marco had never known what that was like. It might be the only time he had the chance.
He gave something to Nick. Nameless, shapeless, irreplaceable. It was probably a mistake. One that would last if given the time.
He was the first person to ever ask. He might be the last.
There was little left Marco wouldn't give him.
He hadn't dressed again since cleaning up. Normally Marco hated to be naked, and under the surface those feelings boiled. Too much exposure. Too much of himself in his sight line. So much of him in Nick's. That is what swallowed up his discomfort each time it tried to assert itself. The way Nick looked at him still, that was worth a few more moments of swallowing his own disgust. It wasn't healthy, but it was what they had right now. Now if only he had any idea what to say or do other than exist in awkward silence.
Marco turned his gaze towards the cave's entrance. "Do you, uh, think anyone heard us?"
But they were going to dinner. They were going to dinner and he knew she knew, and he knew she was going to want to talk about it and maybe this was her way of reassuring him that there was nothing to be nervous about but the thought of having this discussion in the middle of a crowded restaurant had him already on the verge of vomiting all over her Suburban. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself though. It could be something less intense. Maybe they'd won money, or she was pregnant, or his parents were getting a divorce? Oh. No. That was too far. He was selfish but that'd be worse, so much worse, god what had happened they seemed so happy together but maybe Dad felt left out with how much effort Mom had been putting into getting him out of his shell and so really it was his fault if h'd branched out more or done better on his own there wouldn't have been so much strain they'd have time to mend to grow to flourish in each other and instead he'd salted their roots with his incompetence and there was the sound of glasses clinking followed by a cough. She was staring straight at him with her hand to her mouth.
"School called a few days ago, Nona."
Oh. What a relief.
Wait.
Oh no.
He coughed too. The pause between covering his mouth and burying his face in the menu was too conspicuous. "Oh? Did something happen?" When he dared peek around the corner, she didn't look mad. More, what was the word, melancholy? Ice cubes swirled in the glass hanging from her hand. "I dunno. Is there anything you wanna talk to me about?"
It was a mistake to go to the nurse, that was pretty obvious now. He just, it was the first time and they'd talked about Things but what if he did it wrong? It wasn't too much of a mess now but it might get on his clothes and then there'd be no way out of talking about it unless he threw them away or burnt them or something so she wouldn't find out. It didn't occur to him that the nurse might just call home to let his mom know, obvious as it was now. A shame the joke didn't exist back then, because it fit the situation perfectly: the risk he took was calculated, but boy was he bad at math. He didn't speak then. The menu rose to cover the rest of his face.
His mother's hand found his trembling between pages. "Sugar, you know you can come to me about anything, right? I'm here to help. You got nothing to be ashamed of, we been over this." And she was right. So why did they have to talk about it now? "I know," he mumbled, "if anything comes up I'll..." His voice trailed off, but she got it. He really hoped she got it so they could move on, and when her hand let go he thought he'd gotten lucky. He couldn't see her move but her chair squeaked like she was leaning back.
"C'mon. Put that thing down so I can take a look."
His face was hot. The way she talked people were going to hear whatever she was about to launch into, but if he didn't play along she'd just get louder. The menu came back down to the table to show her with one arm around the back of her chair and a wide grin across her face. "There she is. I think it's my fault. I haven't looked at you proper in a minute, like you're still my little girl." He winced, but not enough for her to notice. Maybe. She kept going anyway, shaking her head and laughing. "But I blinked and missed it baby. I'm sorry. These days when I wasn't looking you turned to a woman all on your own. That's on me." His mouth was dry. The smile before he drained more than half his glass came forced, it didn't feel like it fit on his face right. "I guess I don't, um, I don't feel much like a woman, but if you say-"
A wave of her hand cut him off. "No, no, no. None of that. I mean, my first time? I thought I was dying. My mother, she always talked around it, all this nonsense about flowers and whatever. I know I did better by you on that, but she was there for me the whole way through. I needed to run to her and I did, but you kinda took to it all your own huh?" She didn't sound mad. Actually she was still smiling. Was his mother somehow...proud of him for keeping this from her? "It takes a lotta courage to face something like this on your own, damn the preparation. You were ready. Didn't need me." Her brow furrowed. "Right?"
He swallowed and nodded his head. "I, you told me what it was like and, and I kept the pads where you told me so, so I guess I just thought um, I shouldn't bother you?" The serious look left his mother's face before she took his hands again. "You did good Nona. Real good. But never think you're a bother to me baby, I'm always here for whatever you're up against. I..." She squeezed his hands a little tighter. Marco could not recall the last time she seemed regretful in a lingering sense, but it was there in her eyes. "I just want you to be safe. You're moving up into, this whole new world, you probably already felt some..." It was her turn to trail off and give him a look, one he couldn't find a way to put to words but meaningful just the same. If she didn't have such a tight grip he would have jerked his hands away to cover his face. "I, I'm not, if you're asking I haven't even, I mean-" Before half the words were out of his mouth she was shooshing him and patting his hands. "Baby, baby, you're grown but you ain't that grown, that's not what I'm talking about." She sighed. "Be easier if it was, I swear. You're gonna hear a lot of folk telling you about your body and what not these next few years, we can talk about that too if you want. You should be safe with that too. What I mean is more..." Her hand left his and pressed to his chest. "I dunno how else to put it. I'm not gonna tell you not to make mistakes because Lord knows we all do and they never look that bad when they're going down. But there's something, something that...I wanted it just us tonight 'cuz it's different out here for us, understand?"
He didn't, but he wouldn't stop her.
"I can only speak on what I know. I ain't met many women who wouldn't agree with me though. For whatever reason it seems like we don't get to move on as easy." Her thumb was rubbing the back of his hand. The regret was there still, with a gaze that was looking not so much at him as through him. "Everybody makes mistakes. But us girls, I dunno. They last. Sometimes we make mistakes and we...we lose something. Something we didn't know we had, and we don't know how to get back easy." Marco couldn't look at her face, not directly. In his peripheral vision she might have been crying. Her hand was so tight around his. "Hard for a man to understand that sometimes. It ain't just the bad ones that do you wrong, baby." The pressure moved to his chest to his cheek as she guided his gaze to hers. "You've got a lot to give, and some folks out there are gonna want to take it. Who gets it is on you, understand? So be safe, with-" Her hand came off of his in an awkward swirling gesture he didn't understand, and she snorted. "Well no use in getting dirty, you know. Be safe with yourself too. Never let nobody have nothing you ain't sure you want them to own for good."
Marco, who didn't know his own name yet, had nothing to say. Not then at least. They made small talk and promises, and though his mother would ask about little details now and then it was the last time they dug deep into sex, romance, identity, whatever you wanted to call it. He thought about that night a lot over the next few years. What he thought about most was her warning. Marco would not often confront it directly but he was an easy person to manipulate. Preparation didn't change that part of him. How would he react when someone made those sorts of moves? How could he escape? Was it inevitable that he would disappoint her, echo mistakes reflected in tears he couldn't bear to look at? For a time it was an ever present anxiety. He dreaded it. Waited for it.
Waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It never came.
A mind well vested of self-esteem, or if nothing else a charitable interpretation of one's circumstances, might assume that meant he was a success. He resisted all temptation, thwarted all who acted in bad faith. For all his other faults this one aspect of himself was safe and even if he didn't understand how the results could not be argued with, right? Except he had met no resistance. He'd warded off no temptations. There were no opportunities, at least that he was aware of, to make mistakes. There was no room for assumption or interpretation in that light. As far as he was concerned the conclusion was inescapable.
No thieves had come because Marco had nothing of value to steal.
Marco was not safe with Nick. Not in the first sense his mother implied; condoms were not among the many varieties of protection their captors had offered them. He was not safe in the sense that he and Nick had agreed upon without discussion throughout their time in the cave, where they spoke only when necessary and only loud enough for the other to hear. The risk of exposure had already fallen in on them close to half a dozen times, they'd learned better time and time again and forgotten it all the moment Nick was on him. To describe him as vocal would be a mercy, and one he did not want to spend enough time reflecting on all he'd said and done in the heat of the moment to correct. He was not safe in the sense of minding his surroundings, as more than once Nick had pressed him the wrong way into the wrong place with stone scratching at his bare skin. Even without trawling through the many, many things he was not prepared to remember he said, he was fairly certain none of them had been complaints. If he'd noticed at any time during the act, he didn't care.
When you put it in perspective all of that was minor. Beyond clean-up they probably wouldn't live to see any consequences for mutual carelessness, and if someone was waiting outside the cave they probably were not waiting for them to finish before barging in. As for the scrapes, he had taken worse here. They were more a curiosity than a concern. There was a safety he hadn't addressed yet though. The only one that could really hurt either of them. Marco had told himself time and again that he had no illusions about what they were, and that held. They barely knew each other and they didn't have the time to make up for that in any way that wasn't swayed by the bonds of trauma. If that was enough it didn't erase that only one of them could leave, assuming either of them made it that far. Taking any kind of permanence from what they were going through, that was a mistake. A huge, obvious mistake no matter how inexperienced you were, he didn't need to be told that.
For the few worst days of his life though, when Marco had done nothing but make mistake after mistake? Nick insisted by word and deed that there was something of value in him. It grew day by day, from tolerance to acceptance to desire. Marco had never known what that was like. It might be the only time he had the chance.
He gave something to Nick. Nameless, shapeless, irreplaceable. It was probably a mistake. One that would last if given the time.
He was the first person to ever ask. He might be the last.
There was little left Marco wouldn't give him.
He hadn't dressed again since cleaning up. Normally Marco hated to be naked, and under the surface those feelings boiled. Too much exposure. Too much of himself in his sight line. So much of him in Nick's. That is what swallowed up his discomfort each time it tried to assert itself. The way Nick looked at him still, that was worth a few more moments of swallowing his own disgust. It wasn't healthy, but it was what they had right now. Now if only he had any idea what to say or do other than exist in awkward silence.
Marco turned his gaze towards the cave's entrance. "Do you, uh, think anyone heard us?"
-
General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Nick was sitting against a wall, dirty and out of breath and feeling rather peckish. He was half-dressed - from the waist up, wearing all the smart clothes, though now dirtied and torn, that he had packed with sartorial pride while preparing for the trip. From the waist down, he was just in boxers and socks. He couldn't remember if he'd taken the latter off or not. The details hadn't really mattered. It had been fun, and intense, and passionate, and there was truly something liberating about the whole 'we might die soon' thing.
But now Nick was taking stock - dispassionately and without complaint - of the state of his body. A headache, a legacy from his tussle with Jeremiah, had returned the moment his senses weren't otherwise occupied. A new abrasion on his elbow had caught his attention - likely a consequence of the stony environment they'd been forced to make do with, but perhaps a graze from earlier that he'd just missed by oversight. There was a craving, too - for a cigarette or cigar or a stiff drink or something, or a phone that he could use to quickly gloat about his conquest to someone over Messenger. Illogical cravings, vestigial leftovers from his old lifestyle that he wasn't sure he'd want to revive anyway if he somehow made it back home, but Nick felt a certain nostalgic yearning for the petty idiosyncrasies that had counted for flaws back home.
Had anyone heard them?
Nick was in a kind of content post-coital haze when Marco's question punctured his state of drowsy indolence. All the aches and worries that were currently troubling him were rather...tame. Relaxing, even, compared to what had been the new normal. "Hmm?" he instinctively replied, in the space between his ears hearing Marco's question and his mind processing what it meant. "I dunno," he added, to confirm that he had heard the question, that his 'hmm' had been a placeholder rather than a request for repetition.
There were two ways to answer that question. He could focus on the pragmatics or be a pedant, for a cheap laugh, and focus on the semantics. In the end he chose a clunky third route, for once opting for the safety of the middle ground, yet in a context where it was all but pointless.
"Aside from the cameras - and hello to those who are watching at home, sadly I don't have an OnlyFans account," he said, in an over the shoulder aside, preferring to confront the absurdity of their PDA head on rather than dance around it, "if anyone did hear us, they were very respectful of our privacy. Respectful to a degree that I thought was dead on this place. So, yeah. Fuck it. Scream as loud as you like."
He was chatting a load of old shite, but fuck it. Nick looked at Marco. He would be up for a round two, definitely. It was a shame, really, that Marco hadn't caught his eye in that way before. Maybe it was the confidence, the fact he was now living as himself, or maybe it was the fact that most of Nick's classic fuck buddies were dead or psychopathic now, but yeah, Marco was the most attractive person on the planet to him right now.
"And if they did hear us...eh, fuck, what are they gonna do? Store it in their wank bank? Ask for a threesome? Mistake it for a fight?" Nick shrugged. He was being coarse and lewd and utterly irreverent, but there was a softness to his tone. An affection. That Nick was only being so crude out of trust. "They could announce it on the fucking announcements for all I care."
Well, actually, that'd be unideal. Would look like he killed one ex, waited for the other to die, then hooked up with another killer. Eh. Fuck it. Let the pricks draw their own conclusions.
But now Nick was taking stock - dispassionately and without complaint - of the state of his body. A headache, a legacy from his tussle with Jeremiah, had returned the moment his senses weren't otherwise occupied. A new abrasion on his elbow had caught his attention - likely a consequence of the stony environment they'd been forced to make do with, but perhaps a graze from earlier that he'd just missed by oversight. There was a craving, too - for a cigarette or cigar or a stiff drink or something, or a phone that he could use to quickly gloat about his conquest to someone over Messenger. Illogical cravings, vestigial leftovers from his old lifestyle that he wasn't sure he'd want to revive anyway if he somehow made it back home, but Nick felt a certain nostalgic yearning for the petty idiosyncrasies that had counted for flaws back home.
Had anyone heard them?
Nick was in a kind of content post-coital haze when Marco's question punctured his state of drowsy indolence. All the aches and worries that were currently troubling him were rather...tame. Relaxing, even, compared to what had been the new normal. "Hmm?" he instinctively replied, in the space between his ears hearing Marco's question and his mind processing what it meant. "I dunno," he added, to confirm that he had heard the question, that his 'hmm' had been a placeholder rather than a request for repetition.
There were two ways to answer that question. He could focus on the pragmatics or be a pedant, for a cheap laugh, and focus on the semantics. In the end he chose a clunky third route, for once opting for the safety of the middle ground, yet in a context where it was all but pointless.
"Aside from the cameras - and hello to those who are watching at home, sadly I don't have an OnlyFans account," he said, in an over the shoulder aside, preferring to confront the absurdity of their PDA head on rather than dance around it, "if anyone did hear us, they were very respectful of our privacy. Respectful to a degree that I thought was dead on this place. So, yeah. Fuck it. Scream as loud as you like."
He was chatting a load of old shite, but fuck it. Nick looked at Marco. He would be up for a round two, definitely. It was a shame, really, that Marco hadn't caught his eye in that way before. Maybe it was the confidence, the fact he was now living as himself, or maybe it was the fact that most of Nick's classic fuck buddies were dead or psychopathic now, but yeah, Marco was the most attractive person on the planet to him right now.
"And if they did hear us...eh, fuck, what are they gonna do? Store it in their wank bank? Ask for a threesome? Mistake it for a fight?" Nick shrugged. He was being coarse and lewd and utterly irreverent, but there was a softness to his tone. An affection. That Nick was only being so crude out of trust. "They could announce it on the fucking announcements for all I care."
Well, actually, that'd be unideal. Would look like he killed one ex, waited for the other to die, then hooked up with another killer. Eh. Fuck it. Let the pricks draw their own conclusions.
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Genuine laughter was at a premium on the island. Realistically Marco lacked the social and economic information to make that call, but it seemed logical didn't it? Suppose everything went well and you found the people you cared about unharmed. Any joy you felt had to be threatened by every announcement at the very least, barring all the other constant reminders that any of you could die or worse with every breath you took. Keeping up good spirits under all that pressure was something Marco couldn't imagine. He'd cracked immediately, but if you were strong enough not to crack surely you would bend. All company turned bittersweet eventually because all that carried from the life they had before served as a constant reminder of how hopeless the present had become.
Marco laughed. There weren't any burdens holding it down. Strange how that worked out when he was so fragile. Playing it from a more objective perspective you might say that what gave Nick and Marco an edge turned that same fragility into strength. Describing what they had as a relationship would be laughable in any normal circumstance, more the kind of hook-up that Marco never would have imagined himself involved in. It felt like more though, and with uncharacteristic confidence he was sure Nick was feeling something similar. The bond they had should have been flimsy, made only over a matter of days outside of scant social acquaintance and built on factors largely outside their control. Instead though it was flexible; If they had some long history it would drag down their involvement. All the moves that were so captivating now would be familiar. Appreciated, but not novel. Pangs of loss would edge each encounter. With nearly nothing to go off of though, the new, terrifying experience of their captivity melded with the new, intoxicating experience of comforting each other to create something they could only experience here, now, in the mire of mistakes they'd made. Unlike everything else swirling around his head, Marco was free to enjoy this moment with Nick without doubt.
It would find him eventually. He knew himself too well to believe the memory would remain unstained. Let him have it now though, just a few minutes more. He hung on to one of Nick's comments and found himself smirking. "I doubt they're going to give us that kind of attention. If you really want to broadcast though, I could get louder next time." Completely honest self evaluation? It was incredible he finished speaking without tripping over those words. His face burned and his body language tightened before they were all out and he'd seriously thought about abandoning the whole thing half way. There was incentive to push, though. Marco had never explored this part of himself. It might be his last opportunity. So, so, he might as well make the most of it, right?
Marco laughed. There weren't any burdens holding it down. Strange how that worked out when he was so fragile. Playing it from a more objective perspective you might say that what gave Nick and Marco an edge turned that same fragility into strength. Describing what they had as a relationship would be laughable in any normal circumstance, more the kind of hook-up that Marco never would have imagined himself involved in. It felt like more though, and with uncharacteristic confidence he was sure Nick was feeling something similar. The bond they had should have been flimsy, made only over a matter of days outside of scant social acquaintance and built on factors largely outside their control. Instead though it was flexible; If they had some long history it would drag down their involvement. All the moves that were so captivating now would be familiar. Appreciated, but not novel. Pangs of loss would edge each encounter. With nearly nothing to go off of though, the new, terrifying experience of their captivity melded with the new, intoxicating experience of comforting each other to create something they could only experience here, now, in the mire of mistakes they'd made. Unlike everything else swirling around his head, Marco was free to enjoy this moment with Nick without doubt.
It would find him eventually. He knew himself too well to believe the memory would remain unstained. Let him have it now though, just a few minutes more. He hung on to one of Nick's comments and found himself smirking. "I doubt they're going to give us that kind of attention. If you really want to broadcast though, I could get louder next time." Completely honest self evaluation? It was incredible he finished speaking without tripping over those words. His face burned and his body language tightened before they were all out and he'd seriously thought about abandoning the whole thing half way. There was incentive to push, though. Marco had never explored this part of himself. It might be his last opportunity. So, so, he might as well make the most of it, right?