(Untitled)

[m_pinocchio]

It's a hot night. Too hot. He's left Tom dozing with the girls on the basement floor and come up to look for a glass of water and something to take his mind off things. Even in the air conditioning, the days of heat have gotten to his brain and he's found himself more distracted, more short-tempered even than usual. Certain things in his mind feel

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[little_moons]

I recognize the music first. I don't know where I've heard it, and standing in the kitchen with my head stuck in the fridge, looking for somethin' to eat or maybe just soaking up some of the cold, it drifts in softly from the rec room, like a distance memory nagging at the back of my mind. Eerie and discordant, and by the time I stand up straight, frown tugging at my face, there's a knot of sick dread squirming in the pit of my stomach just as the music drifts into silence.

The fridge slides shut with a quiet hiss and I'm shuffling barefoot into the rec room, staring at the square of white light on the wall, drawing my focus back to see a slump of familiar shoulders and...

Oh. Oh, I think. Oh...

"What did you see?" I say, sharp accusation creeping up in my voice, and it's too late to be embarrassed how fragile and weak the words sound on the way out. "What the fuck did you see?" Halfway into the room, ignoring everyone else, if there is anyone else, and that's when I notice the blood.

"Jesus."

[m_pinocchio]

He looks up dumbly, still out of the world, half in Neil's world, half in another world where the taste of oil solidifies into a gun barrel in his mouth. He stares at Neil and the first thing it occurs to him to ask is Are you real?

But that's a stupid question.

He glances dispassionately down at his hand, like it's not even his. He's been hurt worse. Much, much worse.

[little_moons]

There's a moment where there's hardly any recognition in his eyes, where he seems so damn far away, I wouldn't know how to get at him if I tried. Eyes hollow and dark and something wrenches painfully in my chest, knocking the breath clean out of me.

Avoiding shards of glass on the floor, I step closer, stopping when there's nowhere left to step without slicing my feet up, lifting a hand out toward him. "Mike," I swallow down another wave of sickness, tongue lying heavy and useless in my mouth, "Mike, come on. You're bleedin'."

[m_pinocchio]

He flinches away, sharp and sudden and almost feral. It's Neil, he knows that, and Neil is fine, not hurt, not bleeding on some sick fuck's bathroom floor. But that happened. He thinks about that, in a reptilian-brained kind of way, and he thinks about something else, about rough hands holding him down and pain ripping into him and the only word for what wells up inside him is rage.

He inhales sharply, puts up his bleeding hand like he's trying to ward off a blow. "Don't... fucking touch me."