patheticvillain | fifty-three ➢ video

Entry tags:

fifty-three ➢ video

[Cassel's in his room, rearranging his drawer of scraps in some order discernible only to him. Ilia is perched on a high shelf, his eyes narrowed and tail twitching, disturbed by the commotion and looking ready to jump down onto Cassel's shoulders at any moment. As he rummages, Cassel addresses the camera; the moment he turns towards it, a bruise slides into view on his left temple, light and mottled black. He seems not to notice it.]

A few things. First of all, if anybody who's not all Admiral-ed up has a problem with the power outages, I think - I think I can make flashlights and lamps that don't need to be powered. [He's speaking specifically to Morgana here, but he doesn't know everybody's hangups, either, so he's leaving it open to the Barge as a whole.]

Second of all, has anybody actually gotten anywhere with the ship? Steering it or anything? Because this seems like it's getting kind of. Critical. [As Dean so astutely pointed out.]

Last thing - I know nobody cares right now, but we still need staff for the gym. At least one more person. If you feel like going slightly less stir-crazy while we're marooned in the middle of nowhere, apply now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I don't know. [He really doesn't. He was just kind of assuming.] Victory forgiveness or something.

[His gaze slides away like oil on water, snagging on the weights and the still-swinging bag. He's never gotten or given a good reason for it. Once again he finds himself thinking of Kon, how disappointed he'd be. This isn't how a warden's supposed to act.]

It makes me feel better. And this time . . . I thought it'd help him, too.

[He had felt so grounded, afterwards. Like one stupid thing was in his control. A leftover of his old life: if people are going to hurt him anyway, he might as well control how.]

That's not good, Cassel.

[Now it's Mickey's turn to sound raw, and more than he means to, as well. He's briefly relieved that Cassel isn't looking to see the flash of pain that he knows passes across his face with it. He bites it back, covers it up with a sigh, rubs at his eyes like he can push the feelings back inside if he just tries hard enough.

But then, that's really his fucking problem, right? They're all locked up in him, lodged under his throat and in the pit of his stomach, growing sharper and harder to manage every time he gets into something like this. Each and every time: he lets someone in, lets them in until he has no choice but to... give a shit, his mind supplies, unwilling to go near the obvious word. Until he has no choice but to give a shit, and then they lay something at his feet that he can barely even understand, let alone help with. Let alone take care of.

He presses the heels of his hands harder into his eye sockets, then lets them drop again once he sees stars.]

I don't-- [He bites his lip.] Do you-- do you think you need help or something?

[Cassel didn't mean to put this on Mickey, is the thing. If he knew what he was doing - if he honestly understood how hard he was making it to just function, to just give a shit - he'd leave, make it so Mickey didn't have to. Which is part of the problem.]

[He doesn't want to lay anything more on the line here. It feels instinctively not only like he's done something wrong but like he continues to do things wrong, every second he's sitting here. Like he's actively fucking up Mickey's life by being near him. Like he's cursed.]

[I don't need help, I need Zane back, he thinks, and bites his lip hard enough that it doesn't come out.]

I don't need help. I'll be okay. You don't have to worry about me.

[A bright smile as he turns to Mickey again, all sunny bullshit.]

[The look Cassel gets in response to that is so tired, so hollow; it ages Mickey too far beyond his years. He might not deal in bullshit the way Cassel does, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know it when it's staring him in the face this blatantly.]

Don't fucking do that.

[A couple years ago he might have said, Do what? A couple years ago, it would've been so fucking habitual for him he wouldn't have even noticed. Now he's doing it on purpose, and that's probably worse. It's insulting, he thinks. It's stupid. Why does he do any of the shit he does, why isn't Mickey leaving, he should be leaving and letting it go.]

Fine. I don't--

I don't know.

[If he needs help, if he wants help, if help even exists for people like him. He wants Kon back, he wants Zane back, he wants life to be normal insanity again.]

[And that's where they hit the impasse. If Cassel doesn't know, then like hell Mickey does. He sits there for a second, helplessly frustrated. Maybe he should go. Maybe that would be better for both of them. A boy who likes to get hurt and a boy who likes to hurt people -- that can't be a good combination.

But he can't. He knows too well how it feels now to lose people, to linger behind and suffer alone. It's completely selfish: he's not thinking of protecting Cassel from that, but himself. Losing Ian the first time had almost killed him by itself. Losing him again now, and his sister, and all those people on the Barge that had held a piece of him and taken it with them... Mickey already knows he's falling apart. He doesn't want to know what will happen when the next person is gone.]

I'm worried about you.

[It's so, so quiet. He knits his hands together, trying to scratch an errant flake of dried blood off his palm.]

About what happens if it gets bad.

[A punch in the face is one thing, or a little blowback... but Mickey's learned the hard way not to wait for the little things to get big.]

Edited 2015-05-19 17:58 (UTC)

[It's terrifying, hearing Mickey say he's worried. Mickey who uses his fists instead of his words, sitting here on the bench small and curled up on himself because of something Cassel's done. No: because of something Cassel does.]

[If he could stop by himself, he would. He thinks. But he can't, and part of him doesn't want to, because what does he have to hold onto without it? Nobody stays. Nobody stays for good. Even Mickey - maybe he'll go soon. Maybe he'll just disappear like the rest of them, or go without saying a word, because maybe he doesn't care as much as Cassel would like to think he does.]

[But all the same, here he is, saying he's worried, like Cassel's somebody important, somebody he wants to hang onto.]

It's never gotten worse than this. [Is this supposed to be reassuring? Even he doesn't know. It can't get worse than this, that's good, but also - things literally couldn't be any worse.] Except one time. And I got better then.

[He glances at Mickey, his expression pinched and worried. It's getting big, he can tell. Even if not for him, for Mickey. It's getting so it interferes, and he wants to make it better. He does. It's just that he's at a loss, too, and he's supposed to be the smart one, the one with his shit together. He's supposed to be the warden.]

If I promise I'll tell you before it gets worse. If I promise. Does that help?

[Mickey doesn't have a lot of imagination in him, but he can say this much: where Cassel thinks it can't get worse, Mickey's already thinking of all the ways it can. Unless there's a lot more that his friend is hiding from him, it could be so much worse that the possibilities are dizzying.

It's Ian's fault, of course. Or Mickey's, for helping turn Ian into what he became, for not trying to stop it sooner. For ignoring the little things. Maybe it would be easy to write off Cassel's bad habit as just another dumb coping mechanism if he hadn't become so terrifyingly attuned to the ways sanity can just... slide away from someone.

But what else can he do? Cassel got himself hit. This isn't kidnapping an infant. This isn't psych ward territory. So he swallows back his paranoia, gives Cassel a little nod, and hopes like hell that Cassel will actually know when it's getting worse, will remember that he said this if it does, will still care enough about Mickey by then to speak up.]

[He means to. He does. The trouble is the difference between what Cassel means to do and what he ends up doing. A lot of times the difference between the two is a moment of impulse, a second of stupidity, and he's broken promises and hurt people all over again.]

[But this is too important a promise to break. Mickey might break if this promise is broken, Cassel thinks, just shatter and never trust anyone again. Cassel knows what it's like not to trust anyone. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.]

[He knows he can't reach out to Mickey. It's been made clear enough again and again when he turns away, when he shies from physical contact. So Cassel holds onto his own wrists, so tight he almost cuts the circulation off. Something to touch, something to hang onto so he doesn't fly away.]

Okay. Then I promise. I won't do anything stupid. . . . I won't do anything stupider than this.

Good. Fucking thank you.

[But Mickey catches the way Cassel's hand holds onto his wrist. His eyes linger on it for a moment: the way Cassel's sleeve bunches underneath his fingers, how tight Mickey can tell his grip is. He feels a little stab of something that's not guilt, exactly, but a little like it. There are times he truly can't stand to be touched -- when he's feeling cornered, when he's feeling scared, contact is sometimes as painful and terrifying as a burn. If Cassel had tried to hug him that night with the text message, Mickey very well might have hit him, or worse. He had with Ian the one time; as bad as he feels about that, he knows it never would have happened if Ian hadn't gotten right up in his space and started pushing.

But it's not always like that. The rest of the time, it's just... uncomfortable. Sometimes it's just new. He can hug his sister easy, but it had taken work to get there with Iris, with Mira, with other women. He's still working on it with Allison. And he's learned to hold Ian, to be held by him, even to feel safe holding his hand, but there's Ian and then there's other guys. He doesn't think he's ever really touched any of them with affection except the odd cuff to the head or shove at a shoulder -- things that men can do.

He can, though, he thinks. He just hasn't. He hasn't really wanted to. But he can see the way it hurts Cassel now not to, and Christ, if he can't do anything else... He shifts over a little bit, just enough to nudge Cassel with his shoulder and knock the back of his hand against his knee.]

[It takes a second for Cassel to look up. He's so locked in his own head right now, in doing the right thing in a shitty situation that he made, in hating himself and trying to be better, that the way Mickey slides towards him barely registers. It's another piece of sensory input in a world that's trying to overwhelm him right now.]

[But when Mickey touches him, he does glance up, looking confused and lost and a little hurt, as if pained to be distracted from holding himself down so he doesn't float away. The gesture doesn't make sense to him as shitty as he feels right now. He frowns, but mirrors it anyway, his knee knocking against Mickey's, shoulder bumping.]

Yeah?

[Or... maybe not. He'd thought that would do more, somehow. He'd thought Cassel would look happier, not hurt. And for him... it's not terrible or anything, but he's uncomfortably aware of Cassel's warmth and weight pressed into his side, apparently pointlessly. He sighs, mouth twitching in frustration, his other hand rubbing agitatedly over his thigh.]

Yeah. Whatever, man.

[Hasn't he said enough? Exposed enough? What else does Cassel want him to say?]

[His grip on his own wrists loosens, just a little bit, his hands falling away to his sides. After a moment, he nods, not smiling but not frowning anymore, either, some of the tension leaching out of his shoulders. He doesn't know if he feels better, but he doesn't feel worse. He feels . . . able to maintain.]

Sorry I made you worry.

[That much is true. It's better than people not thinking about him at all, but not by much.]

[Now Mickey is wandering back out into unfamiliar territory. If he's not used to worrying about people, and definitely not used to admitting it aloud, he's even less used to the words I'm sorry -- in this context, or really in almost any context. He shrugs stiffly, at a loss.]

We're supposed to be friends, right?

[Another low mumble, hands moving over each other, eyes trying to find something to land on. A moment later, unable to contain the new flood of anxious energy anymore, he nudges Cassel's shoulder again and stands, making like he's looking for something. He grabs an errant towel and scrubs the lingering sweat from his forehead.]

[He can't help it. When Mickey fidgets and moves as though compelled not to stay in the same place, Cassel smiles at him, real and warm and open the way he hardly ever does. His world isn't a perfect place, not by far, but right now it seems exactly like it should. Every kind gesture, every tiny effort, he still drinks them up like a man dying of thirst, and Mickey's just given him enough to stay alive for another few days.]

[He wants to say thank you, but he doesn't. Just beams instead, cocking his head to one side.]

Yeah. You're my friend. That's why I'm sorry.

[He pauses, looking up at Cassel, at the brilliant smile suddenly overtaking his face, and something in his chest unknots a little bit. He's not sure what it was he said now that was any different from what he said before, but he somehow believes that smile in a way he didn't believe Cassel's bullshit smirking from before.

Thank God, he thinks -- at least he's done something right today. He doesn't really smile back the way Cassel does, but there's a flicker of something across his face that echoes the relief in his heart.]

'kay. Well.

[He hovers for a second, wordless, then raises the back of his hand to indicate the freshly-bleeding cuts again.]

I should...

[Cassel's starting to get that Mickey doesn't react the same way he does to things. Not everyone is a mirror of Cassel's heart, and Mickey isn't a replacement for Zane, who understood him effortlessly. This is different. He has to work at this, they both do, to understand each other and to make each other feel safe.]

[But maybe that's better, in a way. Having to work harder, it feels more rewarding in the end when they finally get there.]

[He wants to reach out and brush his fingers against the back of Mickey's hand, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, but he doesn't - because Mickey wouldn't want it. So he just curls up small and content on the bench, knees tucked up under him.]

Go get cleaned up. I'll see you later.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

fifty-three ➢ video

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam cw implications of domestic violence and PTSD

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam

spam