Mickey Doyle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byanyname) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
byanyname) wrote in kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
tfln open post
***
either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.
no subject
All of this feels like a lot of responsibility. A lot of oncoming failure. This choice is... small, but it isn't.
He does want to try. (Hasn't he wanted to try before? Hasn't it all crashed. But maybe. Maybe with he and her and Wallace and this idea of a life elsewhere - distant, yes, but more stable that it was before - there's at least a better chance? Because last time it'd been. He hadn't seen the point, as far as he remembers. Because everything came back pressing hard and fast. But she'll slay his dragons. But he's certain Wallace would help. But what if, what if.
It isn't committing to anything. It's not so big as that, and if he thinks of it as something more like minor, maybe, maybe)
He can try. Even a few minutes, which. Isn't much, but it's something, right? His grip around the bottle's neck tightens just slightly, but his voice sounds firm enough. ]
I'll try.
Just... Sure. Yeah. I will. I want to.
no subject
His brothers are a consistent, ever-present weight, forcing him further into himself. Something has to give in his life; the drinking is an outlet. She doesn't need him to stop now, to give up this one escape from the pressure, but she needs to know he could. That he's willing to try.
Why bother going to war for him, why bother upending his world and giving him something new, if he's too deep in a bottle to notice the difference? If she's going to do this, she needs to know he wants it - and some shred of a guarantee that he's not going to drink himself to death.
And just now, just now she needs to contain the glow of pride she feels for him, because that could just as easily seem like a trap: a way to let her down if he can't make it to the bed. If he can't let go of the whiskey, turn aside for a while. Pride can come after. Mostly after. A little feeds into her smile, because even saying he wants to try -
That's something. It's enough.
Another step backwards. ]
Come back to bed, then.
[ There, a flicker of mischief, an offer of distraction. She hasn't released her hold on his shirt, though certainly he could pull out of that faint hook of her finger if he chose. ]
Help me think of an alibi for the massacre in the bathroom before Wallace gets here.
no subject
And she's back on Wallace's fish, which is a relief, because that's easier to think about, something else for his mind to wrap itself around, never mind the bottle in his hand or the thought or what it means, the thoughts that batter against his decision to try. She's a good wife. Best wife. Best Kat.
They're drawing into the bedroom now, and he pulls from her hook to shut the door, a soft soft slow motion, and that's a little better, at least, a little less like daggers in his eyes. It's a little easier to look at her now, easier to open his eyes now that the burn is gone.
The bed. He'd like to get to the bed, set the whiskey on the nightstand and wrap himself up secure, but he can manage a few thoughts, bat at the pain and search for a response to her very welcome suggestion. ]
It's performance art. Or a gallery piece? 'Bleached Tiles with Red Fish.'
no subject
(Brom, grinning and hungry-eyed, used to kick the door closed with his heel, leave behind a shoeprint now and then. She hated that. She hated having to clean off the shoeprint in the morning.
And then he stopped shutting the bedroom door at all. Stopped smiling.
Look how miserable Treavor is, but still searching for her. She hates thinking of Brom, but every difference is illuminated so much brighter, every beautiful thing her husband does given so much more import. Like how he closes the door. Like how he doesn't lay his misery on her shoulders, but turns to her for comfort, instead.)
Without him in hand, she turns to settle back into bed, wriggling back into the fading body-heat warmth of the blankets, and thank you very much, stealing her pillow back. Once properly settled, she pops open the aspirin and produces a few. Holds them out to him in hopes that he'll choose the aspirin over the bottle that he is noticeably still clutching. ]
Wallace knows I don't have an artistic bone in my body. Bob Ross is a snitch. Can we claim self-defense?
no subject
Well, all right, yes, it is her pillow and he did steal it from her (flirt criminal and thief of all things soft and light-blocking, aren't they well-matched?), but it's such a good pillow and his head is so very, very sore. So he pulls a minor pout at her, flickering and gone as he approaches the bed, takes the aspirin.
Which. He really should have done after putting the bottle down, because his brain's putting two and two together and wouldn't whiskey be an easy way of washing aspirin down? Quick gesture. It'd be such a quick set of gestures to toss back the aspirin, open the bottle, and swallow, and hey fuck there's the aspirin gone already and...
Okay. Okay. Not yet. He's here with it, thinking through the steps, and this once. This once. There's water already on the nightstand. He can put the bottle down, does put the bottle down. Takes a swallow of water and quickly, quickly retreats into bed, backing up against Katrina so there's distance between him and the bottle and you know he would like that drink but if it's far away and he's safe in blankets, maybe he can fend off the thought a little longer.
Also if he focuses on what Katrina's saying. It's a puzzle, and usually he doesn't care for puzzles but right now maybe he could use one, and, and... ]
Self-defense against what? The flirt police?
They did have you cornered.
no subject
[ This isn't a situation Katrina thinks she ought to be tackling on her own: he drinks heavily, and has admitted failure to stop several times. She'll need help, she and Wallace will both have to stop enabling. Eventually, professional help might be a subject for consideration. She knows this isn't something she can do all on her own with him. But right now, this small first step, this need for distance and distraction and comfort? She can help with that.
It's easy to offer those things to him. He receives them, is seemingly happy for her to be a comfort and distraction. When has she ever really experienced that from a man, ever been so welcome? The world is too full of other, and her partners suffering from the fear of missing out, or rarely of the personality that invites tenderness. But Treavor.
She thinks he might need care in a way most don't.
The tight wrap of a blanket about him as he presses back against her (and she presses closer.) The gentle trailing of her fingers through his hair. He's been given so little of these small acts of devotion, hasn't he? (And Wallace, for all that he offers to that end, can't be all things, at all times, to Treavor.)
She props her head on her hand, giving him affectionate regard as her fingertips trace down his neck. ]
I'm proud of you.
[ She lets that hang in the air on its own a moment; as infrequently as she thinks he receives comfort, she's certain it's more often than he's anything more than disappointing to others. They had that conversation, didn't they? He has been disappointing, and so there are punishments, indictments for his inability to meet expectations.)
But he isn't disappointing to her. He's trying right now, and she's certain that bottle of whiskey is an itch he can't scratch. It'll slowly eat at him. But he's trying, and that's anything but a disappointment.
All she ever asks is for the attempt. ]
I don't know what comes next, but I promise, I'll try to make it better than what you had before. The way you make my life better.
no subject
And there’s a thought: Maybe nothing has to exist beyond this room. Maybe not even beyond the bed. Katrina and the blankets and pillows and himself; isn’t that all he needs? Isn’t that enough for a comfortable morning, enough for a good really good day?
He tries the thought on. Focuses on the steady lightness of her touch, how each brush could hold him captive, how she’s so careful, so gentle, and this minor minor pressure swings focus away from his aching head. It doesn’t take much with her. Doesn’t take so very much to draw his attention, keep him from drifting off into pain, into worries.
’I’m proud of you.’ How how good does that fucking feel? Jesus, all these years on earth, and how many people before her have ever been proud? Wallace, though those moments rarely reached speech. A… couple of professors at Davis, sure. His advisor, that one time. Beyond that, it was mostly disappointed gestures, words leveled to wound. Half-held wonderings over what it would feel like, to receive such praise and fondness. And here she is, supporting him even in his minor moments.
And she is proud. And he believes it. And sometime - sometime soon - he’s going to have to break that trust, betray that pride. Because yes he’s focused on her and yes this bed’s an entire world, but he knows what’s just beyond, waiting on the nightstand. Because the itch is driving deeper, because he’s awake and doesn’t being awake mean having a drink and isn’t there a drink available so close, just right beyond the bed’s edge?
Not yet. Not yet. He can wait a little longer. Swallows hard. And. And. He’ll…
Grasp for her wrist, her hand. Just wants to make contact with her, give her a moment’s pressure, a quiet thanks. ]
Hey. My life’s already worlds better.
[ He raises his head a little, thinks he might try to sit up but you know what? He’s just going to drop down again, dig back against the mattress. ]
Even with this headache. I’ll take life with you and a perpetual headache over life with no wife, no headache. I’m not interested in that.
Mm, and don’t worry, the flirt police’ll testify to what they saw: the fish taking little fish bites out of you, ganging up and swarming after you.
no subject
It's not about the drinking. It's about knowing he has it in him to stop. Some spark of something keeping him alive, or wanting to be alive, which she knows isn't at all the same thing.
He's surviving, not going mechanically through the motions and passively killing himself. That's important. That's worth the effort of dragging him out of this situation - cold as the thought strikes her, that she could ever consider leaving him like this. (Would she, even if he didn't care at all? If the offer of a new start didn't phase him at all, would she have given up, and simply taken what time he had left to give?
It's possible.)
She stills when he moves, then coos in sympathy at the aborted attempt to raise himself up. Aspirin isn't the same quick relief, and certainly not the warm and welcome embrace of intoxication. Leaning down, she grazes a lingering kiss against his temple, then eases down to curl her body around his, holding him close and protected for as long as she can. ]
The headache will pass, and then you'll just have your wife. And Wallace, if he ever gets here.
[ There's another kiss, brushed against the back of his neck, and another to his shoulder: she is proud of him. Even if - when - he gives up, he tried. ]
We can stay in bed all day. You can tell me the rest of that story, when you feel up to it. Or you two can tell me about Davis. I bet you were the deviant to end all deviants.
[ A hint of mischief returns to her tone, creeping around the edges of her smile, though her voice comes muffled from against his shoulder. ]
Before you got old.
no subject
Especially not if Katrina’s going to gather him so close to herself, grace him with kisses and leave him feeling almost okay, like yes there’s still something he wants yes it’s a drink and yes he’s still aching, yes he could always extricate himself and then return (or could he? or would he feel too low for that, more inclined to sequester himself to the other side of the bed? he shouldn’t leave her for a drink, doesn’t and does want to and that—)
Wait. Wait, what was that she said?
Hey.
For that one, he’s willing to risk the pain of looking backward, nose scrunched and face creased with an exaggerated frown (and, yes, that’s a wince at his own sudden movement, but whatever, maybe it adds to the performance of oh no that hurt oh wow got me right in the soul). He’s not going to think about how nice it is to crane his neck and find her so close. Isn’t going to think about how much he appreciates, enjoys, flat-out adores the sight of her, those lively blue eyes. No, he’s going to focus on how outraged, yes, how offended and outraged he is, hmpH. ]
Rude, kid. Rude and uncalled for.
If you’ve got the right mindset, you can be a deviant at any age.
[ He's pretty sure that's true. Or it's a nice idea. And if there is an age limit, a time where deviant behaviors translate to something else, what would that be, and what would that make Treavor? If the edge of deviance wears away and becomes, what, something pitiable? Something only sad and easily dismissed. That’s not a great thought. That’s potentially a very bad thought, and he’s going to shove it aside, thank you very much. ]
Just ask Wallace.
[ Yes, ask Wallace Higgins, known deviant expert. He’s got a degree and everything, and if he were here right now, Treavor would call for him, shout if he has to, just to prove how deviant he is. ]
no subject
She doesn't think that's true. The intimate softness and gentleness of him is too achingly lovely. The catastrophe that he is in public appeals too much to her need to be needed. How he plays with her, how he doesn't rebuff her, shrug off her touches or snap at her when his head's pounding and his nerves are frayed, as if she's a comfort rather than a nuisance.
He never makes her feel like a nuisance.
God, she wants to kiss his stupid scrunched nose.
Better to keep the game rolling, because she thinks she may have distracted him from the whiskey for a few minutes. Not that she minds particularly if he gives in, but if she can drive home some point - that once he gets his mind off it, the call isn't quite so strong - it'll be better in the long run.
But he's adorable. He's so fucking adorable, and she feels an agreeable, fuzzy sort of warmth just from that brief moment of eye contact.
She backs off a little, giving him room to turn over, to chase her this way, to maybe put his back to the thing torturing him from the nightstand. Her smile widens, more teeth than necessary, a shit-eating grin. ]
Ask Wallace if you have the right mindset for deviance? What if he only confirms it because you're his friend?
[ Katrina ducks down, resting her chin on her forearm, eyes wide as though an epiphany has struck. ]
Fish, what if marriage made you soft? You're going to end up golfing and driving a sensible sedan. Cut your hair. Acquire dad bod. All your friends drink IPAs and watch Fox News.
no subject
Because wow, wow, what are these accusations? What are these… Okay, yeah he’s making a face a very sour very ‘no why would you’ face, and now he’s pointing up at her, a little unsteady, but it should do the job. ]
Okay, okay, let’s get a few things straight.
One. Can’t fall into the sensible sedan trap if you don’t have a license.
[ BOOM. Too deviant for any kind of car! ]
Two, pretty sure I was banned from all golfing for life.
[ Maybe not all golfing. Maybe just golfing at that one course his brothers thought it’d be funny to take him to. It’d been a bright summer day, and yes he’d had a few drinks before and yes his brothers had faux-grudgingly allowed him to bring along more booze. He was sweating and it was too fucking hot and why had he insisted on wearing black just all black oh right, because he’s an asshole no wait sorry a deviant.
In the end, he’d broken a golf club, broken a golf cart, cursed out half a dozen golfers for daring to tread over his golf hole. Took a pretend nap in the middle of a green. Thought he lost a ring and spent half an hour plumbing the creek for it - occasionally chucking golf balls at passing fuckos’ heads - before realizing he’d stuck the thing in his pocket to keep it safe from golf traps. He spent some time lurking in the trees, snatching up freshly-hit balls. And… Other things. He doesn’t really remember. He isn’t interested in asking his brothers for details.
That was, what, time number seven, twelve Treavor should have been arrested? The twins had paid off any complaints, all scowls and lectures, but they must have known what would happen. Must have known, and banked on the afternoon’s entertainment.
Anyway, he never went golfing again. What a pointless fucking pastime. ]
Also, Wallace wouldn’t lie. You’ve seen his face; is that the face of a liar?
[ He’s going to revisit a point he’s made before - something about rings as a sign of deviance - but there’s a thought, a crashing thought, immediate and catching him off-guard. ]
Shit. Oh, shit. I gave up my pinky ring.
[ He looks a little devastated. Yes, that ring went to a good cause a very good cause but. But. What is a deviant without his most deviant ring??? ]
no subject
So she nods along with his list of arguments against the evils of suburban male life, once again entertaining a mockingly pitying expression, faint pout to keep the smirk at bay. It's true, he doesn't have a license (how many people in Manhattan do, though?) and hell, golfing sucks.
...But she would like to know how he got himself 'banned' from it, because she's sure that's not a hyperbole. She's also sure his brothers have something to do with it, because she seems to recall her father has gone golfing with them. They're golfers.
Lame.
Katrina herself does not golf. It's tedious: a lot of waiting and angle trajectory that would be more fun on a pool table. If she wants to swat tiny balls - no euphemism intended - she plays tennis. Or softball, though finding people who want to get a softball team together is much harder at 28 than it was at 19. And the batting cages just aren't the same.
She starts to make some comment about Wallace's face, and it's probably a pretty incisive and funny comment - something witty, something to make him laugh - but his sudden horror at the loss of his ring hits...
Hard.
A flicker of surprised something, not quite hurt but certainly it didn't feel good, passes across her face, and she regards her hand, that ring on her hand, for a heartbeat or two. ]
I mean. You can have it back, if you really want it.
[ She doesn't want to give it back. She.
It's her wedding ring. It's tacky and ugly but it fits just right, better than any ring she's ever owned, and it's...She wants it.
And she's not above fixing him with a full-on pout, or letting him know that deviants need to make some sacrifices for their very pretty deviant secret monster wives. ]
But it's my wedding ring.
no subject
He didn’t mean that. He doesn’t regret the loss of his ring, hardly even considers the loss of his ring because it’s found a new and better home, better purpose. He was starting to become worried, more than fake-worried about his loss of deviance, his possible transition into, what, being a sorry bastard not-even-a-has-been and nothing more?
And he thinks. And he thinks, you know what would be nice right about now? You know what would be good and helpful? It’s perched on the nightstand, all collected inside a crystal-clear bottle, and it wouldn’t take so much to turn and retrieve it. Just one drink, maybe two because this feels a lot like a two-drink situation.
No, no, but. First he should say something. He can’t leave her lingering so long.
He adjusts himself so that he can raise a hand to her cheek, watching her close. Trying his best to hold her with his gaze, communicate that he’s sorry, he’s really really sorry and he wasn’t thinking clear. ]
No, I just—
Shit, I’m sorry, Kat. I wasn’t thinking. Not that that… I shouldn’t’ve said it in the first place, and I don’t mean—
I like that the ring’s yours now. I like that you’ve kept it. I like looking over and seeing it on your finger, all right?
Anyway, if it’s a choice between deviance and my wife, I’d rather have you.
Hey.
[ That's his hand moving, that's his finger pressing gentle on her nose. ]
Best wife. Best deviant ring for best deviant wife.
no subject
What on earth.
Did she hit a sore spot with that joke about him getting old or something? She thinks about the pictures on his Instagram, the ones that scream 'I am having fun, fuck you', and she thinks about how often he says he's a deviant, how counterculture his behavior seems to be, how he wants it to seem to be.
Is being a deviant - or a rebel, or, ha, a 'bad boy' - something he's trying to hold on to like, what, a badge of honor? His social circle pushed him to the fringes and once there, did he decide to own it? Lean into it hard and completely?
Oh, fuck, and she's been teasing him about it. Wasn't that the first thought she had about him - that he's too old to be doing this shit?
He must have some sensitivity that he's edging closer and closer to forty, must think that there's a limit to how long one can play the black-clothes-I'm-so-hardcore game.
She needs to do some fast thinking, which would be so much easier if she wasn't nuzzling the hand at her cheek, if she wasn't burning with her own apology for making him feel badly, if that finger on her nose didn't make her smile that stupid, daft smile all over again.
Think fast. Fix it. ]
I told you, pinky rings and long hair don't make the deviant.
[She nestles closer, draping an arm over his waist, pressing her forehead to his. ]
You know what does? Marrying a girl you've known for less than two weeks, in Vegas, while wasted, and giving her the tackiest ring possible to wear until death do you part. And deciding, fuck it, you'll stay married to her, and by the way, you're going to occasionally bring her into work with you and make out with her on the desks of people you hate.
[ She grins, gives a little playful tug as though to shake him out of whatever idea is making him think he needs that particular ring for deviance purposes. ]
It's not a choice between deviance and your wife. You're just finding new, more creative ways to be deviant now that I'm wearing your ring. Which I'm keeping. It's still yours, but only because I'm yours, too.
no subject
It’s true he’s learned to make a touchstone of his status as an outsider. True that he’s found fuel from prodding at others and acting contrary, that he’s built a self - however fragile, however often and easily damaged - from these acts and ideas. Treavor Pendleton, outsider, sounds far far preferable to Treavor Pendleton, unwanted piece of nothing. (The same way that Treavor Pendleton, looks like he fell off the alternigoth wagon, sounds better than Treavor Pendleton, what a weird fuckin’ face what a bug-eyed fuckin’ creep.)
But it all circles back, doesn’t it? But he’s never really ceased to amount to nothing, and maybe his hair won’t save him maybe the rings have never been more than a trace of cover. Just a whole lot of, fucking. Nothing. Die young or die a sad, empty bastard.
It’s a pit of thought he shouldn’t fall into. It’s a pit of thought he does sometimes fall into, and finds a hard time climbing out of. Can stay in that pit for hours, days, trying to drink his way out of it because there’s never really an answer, is there? Or there hasn’t been much of one, hasn’t been much promise beyond that resounding empty.
Now, though.
Now Katrina’s offering a rope before he’s even really fallen, pointing his attention toward what he’s done, what he’s actually done and doesn’t dislike, what eases him a little bit (maybe, maybe much more than a little bit) to think about. Now she’s making promises toward a future, now she’s…
Shit. She’s good. She’s very, very good.
All right. He nudges his forehead against hers, slight sign of a nuzzle. ]
The fuck did I ever do to deserve you.
[ Eyes closing for a moment because he wants to feel her, only feel and be aware of her, the fact of her beside him, the way she grounds a world that seems so often fractured and uncertain. ]
It’s luck, isn’t it? I’m the luckiest bastard, and I never knew it.
[ A thought. Hm… ]
Hey, but.
What would you do if I did cut my hair?
[ Not that he would. Not that he’d ever consider it, he’s fond of his hair, but she brought it up. ]
no subject
It's crucial. It's important to say the rote words, people don't earn other people, being in a good relationship, a healthy relationship with a good person, isn't about being deserving. Because people aren't rewards.
But that's really not what he's asking, is it? What he's asking is why the universe finally cut him a break. What kind of karmic balance finally happened, that he should be with someone who curls close and whispers sweet everythings to him instead of clawing him, making him sleep on the floor, instead of being a joke on the internet, because everything he's ever known has been so bleak and harsh. Because he's been such a dick, because his life hasn't been kind, and yet, he still managed to luck out.
To end up with one (two, counting Wallace) really good thing going for him, and she's going to move heaven and hell to make his life better.
He's asking how this happened. He probably wasn't paying much attention before she came waltzing onto that plane.
Katrina shifts, strokes a tender hand over his hair, down the back of his head. And softly, she starts to talk. She lets the words come, soft and sad and loving. ]
You told me I didn't know pre-Katrina Treavor very well. You never got to know pre-Treavor Katrina. I was a mess, Fish. I wasn't nice, okay? I did things I'm not really proud of, things that don't get to be funny stories later, like breaking a doorknob or sneaking into someone's house.
[ Things like spitefully fucking Waverly Boyle's fiancee. Things like spitefully fucking a lot of Brom's friends. Or strangers from bars, picked up on lonely nights when Brom wasn't taking her calls, or when she wasn't taking his. Things like dating men, hot and heavy and full of promise, and then deciding she was bored and not even giving them the courtesy of a ghosting: flat-out telling them she was bored. It wasn't working out. It's not me, it's you.
Symptoms of a heart not-quite-broken.
Things like keeping the various aspects of her life separate, not telling her friends about her boyfriends, not telling her parents about her writing, not inviting anyone to her apartment. Not telling Brom much of anything. Folders in her phone easily deleted and not so easily forgotten.
Symptoms of a broken spirit.
It's no excuse, though.
Her breath draws in ragged through a smile. ]
But then you happened. You found out who I really am, and you made space for me. You make me feel wanted and special. Both you and Wallace. I woke up yesterday and you guys were both here, and we were holding on to each other - and it wasn't weird, you know? I felt like I was home. I've never felt at home, or like - everything was totally right in the world. And I've never been loved like this. No one makes me feel the way you do.
[ She's careful. Her touch is careful, fingertips following his jaw, tracing the curve of his mouth as though she can learn him by touch alone. ]
If you cut your hair, I'd still love you in a way that I didn't think was possible before I walked onto that plane. I'd wake up every day and see Wallace there, and you here with your stupid short hair and think I'm the lucky one. I'd still think you were the most beautiful man I've ever known, and I'd still thank god you're my husband.