Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10826004.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro_Strider/John_Egbert, Dave's_Bro_|_Beta_Dirk_Strider/Grandpa_Harley_|
      Beta_Jake_English
  Character:
      Jake_English, Bro_Strider, John_Egbert, Original_Characters, One_Pissed
      Landlady, Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      child_abuse_mention, child_abuse_explicit, cannon-typical_abuse, weird
      timeline_shit, post-game_timeline, godly_meet-cute, you_are_not_required
      to_forgive_your_abusers, nor_give_them_a_second_chance, you_may_in_fact
      make_sure_they_get_fired_from_their_jobs, Alcohol, Child_Injury, Blood,
      Self_Harm, Knives, Child_Abandonment
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-05 Updated: 2018-01-28 Chapters: 2/5 Words: 8224
****** you are a runner and i am my Father’s son ******
by nachttour
Summary
     Bro lives in the post-game world with the rest of the consorts and
     individuals of Universe C. But he is haunted by things that he never
     lived and someone he has never met. As his life gets more fractal,
     the pantheon that he does not believe in starts paying quality
     attention to him.
***** I. Shrines *****
“You should probably get up and go to work.”  
The slender boy in his dreams makes his ribs burn like they are being rubbed by
sandpaper. Sharp and sweeping scrubs with each breath in and slow dragging with
each exhalation. The delicate area around the orbit of the boy’s left eye is
puffed out and the sclera of the same eye is shot through with red. Reaching
out and turning off Bro’s alarm with a decisive click he stopped the horrendous
noise that ricocheting off the walls of Bro’s bedroom.
“Then again it’s not my problem if you don’t make rent, dude.” Padding out on
bare feet and dragging the hems of threadbare sweatpants that were inches too
long, he left.  
Sitting up in a bolt of adrenaline Broderick Rue Strider is late for the last
time. When he picked up his phone and listened to the voicemail that blipped at
him like a pulsing star, it was to hear the clipped tones of his manager
informing him that he would not need to come in today and that he could pick up
his last check whenever he felt like strolling in. Falling back into his sweat-
tangled sheets he scrubbed his palms over his eyes and groaned.
                                      * 
When he gets to the coffee shop they are out of his favorite bagels. Blueberry
is an acceptable alternative, but has nothing on jalapeno and cheese. A
solitary piece of pepper sits mockingly on the wax-paper lining the case,
taunting him with the stinging flavor he cannot have. The counter-troll clicks
in faux-sympathy.  “Just sold my last one a half-hour ago. You’re just not good
at getting here on time.”
If this were a story he would take points off of his cashier’s observational
narration. Pointing out the obvious did not allow him to change or arrive at a
different conclusion. Jamming the tip that he was going to leave into his
pocket, Bro took his coffee and less-delicious bagel and hunkered down in the
corner to eat in peace. 
Scrolling through the job boards would take some time. Pickings at this time of
year were slim. The worn-down wood of the bench bit into the backs of his
thighs and wind rattled the door. All of the festivals that brought people to
town had stopped, and Harley U was in session. Most of the college kids took up
the entry-level pickings. In fact, two bright young things had recently joined
the staff of the establishment. One of them was not very good at making sure
that coffee stayed fresh. The other one was a close-talker and smiled too-
wide. 
If he thought that he could handle more than a week he might turn in a resume
to see if he could get a sympathy job from the manager. Certainly he had more
than a hand in making sure that his regular baristas held steady employment.
The thought however, was absurd. He did not want that life, nor could he
maintain it. The job at the repair-shop had been a half-assed attempt at
escaping gig-based employment. Unfortunately for him, that was the only thing
he was good at. 
And whose fault is that Mr. Wonderful? Offers from MIT, Skaia Polytechnic and
Harley U and you decided to flip all of that the longest bird you could find
and do something on your own. Because you were too good. Because it wouldn’t be
challenging enough. Because it was not cool to be where everyone else was. Or
some shit. 
Pressing his eyes closed so tight that they ached, he stopped his internal text
prompt. It was a curious thing that had been with him from childhood - most
people heard thoughts as a voice. He had always seen his in scrolling red text
- courier type like the most ancient of net-safe typography. As with most
things in his life it did not make a damn bit of sense. 
The bell on the cafe chimed and some walked in, bringing the afternoon breeze
with them. His napkin fluttered off of his table and flopped onto the floor,
skidding away out of reach. Flapping a hand after it and catching nothing, Bro
gave up on the day. Wrapping the remainder of the bagel in a second napkin
procured from the condiment bar, he made his exit.   
Cutting through the back-alley Bro skirted the crowd of consorts and humans
waiting to get onto the light-rail. It was a prime commuting time for those who
had slept in to run to second or third classes. Some of the trolls who worked
early morning also were making their way home, high-density sun protection
plastered over their eyes. Signs were plastered along the alleyway in multiple
languages, talking about fidelity, belief, and power. 
In passing by the shrine to Hope Bro pulled his hat down to cover his eyes.
Wings reflected along the inner rims of his shades, white and curling.  The
shrines tended to be built in places where those most in need of the aspect
could find it. Some were located were in slums, near the docks along the river,
and in dark places where the wounded could hide. If he said that he had never
spent an evening curled up on one of the chairs that sat around outside for
drifters to rest on, it would be a lie. 
In joking, he had tried to get into one of the Time shrines to see if he could
possibly entreat the Knight to take it easy on him. In every single instance
the shrine was packed and there was no possibility for him to visit. Certainly
it was a popular aspect, but his inability to visit a single shrine out of the
nine that were in the metropolitan area bordered on absurd.  Though the
majority of his fellow Houstonians believed very deeply in the creators, it was
hard for him to get on board with any of that nonsense. Asking the air for help
held about as much probability of success as attempting to do a hard thing
himself.
Wishes don’t come when they are summoned. Wishes are granted based on need and
the whim of whatever power is listening. At least that was the thing that the
spooky girl in the convenience store tells him. She had those looping horns
that the psychics have, and her eyes are the color of his favorite fabric to
sew with: a deep russet brown that implied her life would be short and
pointless like his. She is the only person - troll, whateverthefuck, personhood
is a complicated question - that Bro made contact with on a regular basis. His
landlady might count, but then maybe not. Their communication mainly consisted
of sliding envelopes under one-another’s doors.  While they were not exchanging
words, at least they are exchanging currency.
There’s a lot of shit in his life that is sort of ambiguous and none of it
really bears dwelling on. The hard facts are: that rent is due in three days,
the person that he set up the sewing commission with is waffling on design and
won’t pay the other half of its price until goods are delivered, and he has a
headache that is bordering on absurd with its intensity. It could just give up
the pretense and actually level up to a full on migraine instead of sitting
behind his eyes like a sulking toddler making a mess out of pure spite. 
Bro’s spooky-buddy said something good would happen to him today. After getting
fired and the lack of delicious breakfast the day could stand to improve. The
pronouncement had been delivered to his back as he stood in the humming chill
of the cooler, drumming his fingers along the glass door. There was not a
single instance that he can recall where she has been wrong. Any time she says
to skip the nachos at the snack bar he heeds that advice like gospel.  She was
also responsible for a very respectable lotto winning of a hundred, paired with
a free ticket. Let it not be said he was an unfair man: he totally slipped her
a twenty and the spare ticket for her help in deciding the play that evening.
                                       *
It took three tries to get the door open. The wood had warped over the years.
Add to that the storms that bunched up at the perimeter of the city and it is a
recipe for the most jankass entryway he has ever contended with. It sat in
beknighted company with a few of the ones he wrestled with at the youth center.
Particularly the one that screamed at the hinges like it was being destroyed. 
Cumulonimbus and mammatus clouds lurk on the edges of town, clogging up the sky
overhead. Having made eye contact with those partially informed his decision to
give up on the gym, get a drink and head home. The cheap plastic bag crinkled
in his hand, twisting from the momentum of his movement. The pressure was
enough to make his jaw and sinuses throb. A note from the landlady sat at his
feet. Slitting it open with a nail he glanced through the sheet, quickly coming
to understand that he would be acquiring a neighbor on the floor that he
previously had to himself. That meant he would have to get some of his shit out
of the new person’s apartment.  The landlady was tolerant of him storing some
of his larger equipment in the open suite of his floor, so long as there were
not renters that wanted the space. It was a transient living area for most,
college kids came and went. The floor was on the tenth-story and the elevator
was faulty. Those that were inclined to stay longer than a semester were often
deterred by the hike that became necessary once or twice a month. 
Jotting that down on the white-board half covered in the ghosts of old to-do
lists, he set the mail down and started to head for his computer. The white
noise caught him first.
                                     ~ * ~
Gravel was embedded in his cheek- the throbbing sting is oddly specific among
all his other hurts. Presumably it had gotten there when the dog-nightmare-
clown situation had taken it upon itself to step on his head and grind its heel
down. He could see himself as a blurry and bloodied outline in Cal’s eyes.  One
of them was a little scratched-- love damage from where Dave had swung him
around by the arms and flung him around the apartment. A few stray strings on
Cal’s arms and legs shifted in the air. Even while rocks and shit hail through
the sky in some sort of green-themed apocalypse, chill prickled along his arms.
More than likely though, it was shock setting in. Unlike the advice he had
always given Dave, he could not seem to shake it off.  
There were feathers sticking in the blood under his head. Neon-bright and
vibrant like fire. The strange conglomeration of bird-brother fought like a
spirit of vengeance, weaving and shimmering in his periphery and covering the
blind spots that he always had been too proud to admit having. The dude fought
like he had always envisioned his brother would fight. Mercilessly, quickly,
and with all of the conviction that he lacked.
Now all of the voices in his head were quiet. The vision of power and grace had
disappeared as quickly as he appeared, leaving only the memory of the sound of
snapping bones in his wake. The strings that had moved his arms and legs for
all of his life had been sliced as cleanly as that limb had separated from the
spirit. Cal floated away on the arm of a living nightmare and all of the
invisible hands on his body fell away. The underlying scaffolding in his mind
fell away as well, leaving a terrifying void in its wake. The horizon slowly
spun as the ground beneath him rotated. The shale or whatever they had fought
on had grooves that looked like a record from a distance. Beneath the ear
jammed against the ground, gears rustled and turned.
Sneakers moved over the ground. Hot air rippled the blood pooling around him,
chasing at the chill that caused him to shiver and his teeth to chatter. A
teenage boy kneeled down, eyes inscrutable under an oversized hood. Of course
there would be some jackass standing around in costume as the world ended. It
was definitely in the fashion of his life for something just like that to
happen. Given that his hands were not really responding to commands and his
sword was lodged in his chest, Bro was forced to stare up at the idiot instead
of other options. Points to the kid: he was not freaking out as hard as one
ought to be given the circumstances. Maybe he too had reached his saturation
point for weird.
In a way he supposed it was sort of thematically and ironically appropriate
that some vision of a young man would appear to witness his death. Not like
there was anyone else there that would give a shit. His brother had fucked off
into parts unknown, tempered like a stiletto into a game and war-ready
assassin. Cal had been stolen, but even as he thought it he wondered. Cal went
nowhere that Cal did not wish to. All of this seemed a little silly to
contemplate in his final moments, but they seemed to be taking their sweet
fucking time in arriving. For something as grievous as what had happened, it
seemed like he was stuck in a throbbing, burning nightmare.
Walking over through the crunching gravel the kid brought over his shades,
purposefully straightening the arms and sliding them into place on his face.
The smoke did not sting Bro’s eyes as hard, and the quality of the fabric on
his witness was not near polyester. It was the sort of material that was used
in classical garments - heavy weave cotton. The tail on his hood trailed like a
wind-sock and stirred in the air. Silently he rose in Bro’s approximation -
points for execution and flair where they deserved to be given.  Dude had a
sweet smile, and the sort of jawline that would only get harder with time.
Bro’s attempt to joke or say anything at all ended in a retching fit, as blood
had pooled in the back of his throat. Dribbling his own fluids over his chin
and neck had not been the look he was going for. The boy wrinkled his nose,
wincing his sympathy.
“See I’m at a loss here, really.” Tucking his feet up into the air, the boy
hovered. It was just one more in a list of physical impossibilities for the
day. “Breathing. Possibility. Chance. Revival. It’s a thing that I do. But you
really, really fucked up. And you really fucked someone up. Someone who is
really, really important to me.”
Floating dude was not wrong. Bro tilted his head and stared at him, as
effective on the ground as some of his other puppets without a handler.
“But I can’t help but think you’re not like that. I know the person that you
splintered off of. And he’s not like you at all. I think it was that creepy
fucking doll. And maybe game shenanigans. Who really knows? Calliope maybe.”
The boy mused to himself, still deep in his own conflict.  
Cal pretty much was the radest and worst thing that had ever happened in his
life. The teen turned to look at him, eyes piercingly bright like an afternoon
sky. “So let’s play a game. I know you love those right?”
Yes. No. Both and neither. He inclined his head as much as he was able.
“You have to remember my name. It’s real easy. I was Dave’s best friend.” 
A litany of moments crowded for supremacy in his mind. Tracked internet
traffic, sitting in the front room and playing video games and listening for
the muffled curses of the little man as he worked his way through the puzzle
labyrinths. A letter, and a present bought off of Ebay. He only had three
friends and only one other one was a boy. 
“John.” 
The teen raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Look at you. I added more rules
because I’m the one playing the game and I get to if I want to. Answer this
question for me. Do you regret what you did to him?”
Newly named John did not need to clarify who he was talking about. Rocks fell
from the sky behind his silhouetted shoulders and the panes of his glasses
reflected the light. Bro’s blood slowly seeped out onto the ground. He thought
that maybe dying could have been enough. It was not enough. He had not even
helped the strange version of Dave that had come back to him.
“...yes.“
John stared at him with the look of an overprotective boyfriend who had caught
Bro looking at his girl. It was a hard look coming off of such a young face,
but the forearms that were folded in his lap looked like they had lifted things
heavier than video game controllers.
“You going to be a giant tool if I give you another chance and breathe life
into you again? Or are you going to fix yourself and be less of a fuckup?”
It physically hurt him to grit out the words. “All I can do is try.”
“Good enough for me.” John beamed. “I can’t say he’ll forgive you or ever want
to see you again. But I like new things. Otherwise what’s the point in having
these powers anyway?”  With a look of glee John pulled the sword out of his
stomach. Bro felt the metal catch and drag on lower rib that it bisected. He
blacked out, the feeling of being run-through in reverse more than he could
take. It was not as if he had anyone to show off for any longer.
                                     ~ * ~
 Getting up off of the floor where he had fallen down, Bro wobbled over to the
sink and was sick. Curling his nails against the tiles he ran the cold tap,
splashing some of it on his face.
And here we are again! Not only are you a class-A fuckup but you’re probably
going insane aren’t you?
Just be nice. For once in your life take it easy. Having hallucinations is not
a good thing, but the psychiatrist that I went and saw seemed to think that I
have a very active imagination.
That would mostly be because you did not tell her that you are losing time. You
didn’t tell her about how you think about yourself. It is a little fractal,
wouldn’t you agree?
I don’t know much at all. Particularly not about psychology.
Liar.
One does not become a psychiatrist simply by reading papers and diagnostic
criterion. There are elements of training that I am notably lacking and have no
plans to acquire.
So what are you going to do about all of this stud-muffin? It probably would
behoove you to get the bag of sex-toys out of the new-neighbor's bedroom. And
all of the plants on the windowsill are going to be irritated at losing the
light.
I’ll leave the plants as a housewarming gift. The sex-toys not so much. Bag of
dildoes does not say ‘welcome to the complex’. It’s a bit of an expensive gift
for a stranger anyway.
***** II. Neighbor *****
II. Neighbor
Shuffling up the creaky-ass steps of his apartment two at a time, Bro paused in
front of the door to pick up the mail. Fucking asshole kid that delivered for
the building always dropped his shit in front of the door instead of jamming it
through the slot. Just because he opened the door on their hand the one time,
no more mail delivered in the correct fashion. Maybe it was a little funny to
hear them squeak in fear and pain. Maybe, secretly he hoped they might try
putting their hand through the slot again. It could have been interesting to
switch stimuli - good and bad. No game to play anymore because the fuckwit just
dropped mail on the ground and left. It sort of seemed to him that there ought
to be some sort of rule against that level of antipathy. Nothing worth stealing
ever got delivered. Numbered in the stacks were a few bills, the occasional
late-fee, and a community flier advertising local business and coupons that
showed up on Thursdays.
Gods in their Houses when did life get so trite that he started receiving
coupons? Coupons were a thing that suburban moms in sweatpants used. Little
rectangles of banality intended to be carefully cut out while sitting and
contemplating the best deal on organic milk and stuffing a screaming child into
pants. If it were some of the houses he had been in prior, the sort of person
that clipped coupons also sent the other two non-screaming sprogs out the store
and down the street to get a popsicle and a pack of smokes.
There sure as fuck there weren’t kids at his place. Didn’t want them, like
them, or want anything to do with the opposite sex to have them.Certainly no
sweatpants graced his tight ass other than for sleeping. It stayed a choice
rump with pure dedication -at the gym five days out of seven. If he pushed Bro
might be able to make it six, but tearing a muscle in his shoulder really
hampered progress and healing was irritatingly slow. When it came to bum-
covering it was jeans or nothing. Add in a shirt just a little too tight, pop a
collar, throw a hat -snapback or cowboy- and it was enough to call a look. A
style even--he is a man of allure and carefully crafted confidence. When it was
nothing the body on display was photoshoot ready.
A long time ago when he was skinny and small, standing with the foster-parent
d’jour one of the acolytes serving Those In Residence had glibly announced that
his body was a gift given by the gods. Pressed against the bony column of the
man’s thigh he had been forced to stand and listen as the acolyte droned on
about worthiness, meaning, and sacrifice. The takeaway from that lesson, beyond
the fact that he hated the smell of his guardian’s detergent was that if you
wanted Their favor you had to shape yourself into something worth having. From
the frequency with which his guardians changed, he harbored doubts about his
desirability.
It was not a matter that he let himself linger on, instead he actively chose to
speed up the process by which the idiots would inevitably decide that he was an
empty and angry child motivated by spite and then return him. It was a game. A
game that he was good at. They returned him every time and his ability to speed
up the process had improved to the point where the whole farce became less and
less necessary.
At the end of the hall the window for his floor sat open. Some of the
building’s resident doves cooed and warbled at one-another, roosting on the
ledge. Making his way over to the open space he let the hot air from outside
press in. The clouds were sitting heavy and ominous over them and the air felt
thick enough to hold in his fingers. It was the sort of weather that heralded a
tornado.
The pennants and streamers snapped in the air outside of one of the many Homes
that the Gods could visit. The splashes of red and green told him that it was a
designated residence for Space and Time. The third floor of that building was
the one that he could never get into - it was always filled to visitor
capacity. Space seemed to be the one that he was able to interact with, the
basement level of the building finished and expanded. It was cool down in the
shrine and he had spent many afternoons hiding away from the sun or his fellow
foster-kids.
Maybe your own memories too. They aren’t very pretty are they?
Bro pushed away from the window and sighed, walking directly into someone
standing behind him. The fact that they had walked up on him at all was
startling enough. Rarely had he met someone quiet enough to get the drop on
him. Directly following his deep surprise came tactile impressions. The knit ot
the dude’s tee-shirt. The vague smell of fresh air and some sort of subtle
cologne. Underneath the shirt, solid chest and the subtle scrape of hair
catching fabric.
Taking a half-step back Bro held up his hands in a vaguely conciliatory
gesture. “My bad.”
The stranger had glasses that were reflecting the clouds outside and a smile
that stretched approximately half a mile wide. “Nah, it’s fine. I stepped up
too close to you. I was just going to ask though, are you the other person that
lives up here?”
“Yeah. One and only. Soon to be one of two. There’s another dude moving in
soon. If you’re thinking about the building, landlady’s a good one. She’s real
chill as long as you don’t host ragers at your place and you pay your rent on
time. Also, don’t flush weird shit down the toilets. Plumbing’s old and things
get bad really quick.”
The stranger adjusted the backpack slung over one of his shoulders and
chuckled. “Good to know. You could function as a real-estate agent couldn’t
you?”
Shrugging and making sure not to hunch his shoulders, Bro leaned back on his
heels. “She’s just a good lady. And people don’t stick around so much for these
floors because the elevator’s shitty. But she’s all alone and this is her
retirement. I dunno.” If he could fix the elevator he would. Unfortunately his
line of expertise ran more toward fine mechanics rather than industrial
machines. “Just don’t want to come home to some CSI shit to find out that
there’s a rotting corpse in a room and her cats ate her. If there are other
people that live here, the odds of that happening exponentially decrease.”
“Well lucky for her retirement and you, I’m the guy that picked up the extra
apartment.” Thrusting a hand out, the dude grinned. “I’m John Egbert.”
Taking the proffered hand Bro was greeted by a mild shock. Startled enough to
jump he resolved not to look even more uncool. He held John’s hand a moment
longer, letting the buzzer vibrate uncomfortably between them and maintaining
eye contact. John chuckled under his breath and let go first, the small metal
disc tucked along the inside of his ring-finger. “I would say I’m sorry but I’m
not. I did get you.” Grinning a little John tilted his head. “I hope you’ll
forgive me though. I love a good prank.”
If this was the neighbor it was going to be an interesting time. If this fool
liked to play, he had chosen the right floor to come to.
                                       *
John Egbert’s boxes came up in a slow supply-train of objects. A few bags. A
mattress held at the other end by a female troll made of sharp angles and
flashing teeth that cackled like a witch from vintage film. She was so short
that he half expected the mattress to roll over her head and further down the
stairs. Theoretically she could stab it with her headgear and keep it in place,
but that might not be so good for the structural integrity of the equipment.
The pair of them managed admirably. When he offered assistance he was smacked
in the shin with a cane and that put an end of that.
A few other boxes with housewares came up via the elevator that decided
miraculously that it would function for the entire duration of the move. Bro
saw this in fits and starts as he went about his day. A few errands took him
out of the house -- he had to get extra fabric, and later had to put a few
packages in the mail. Around gym-time it seemed that most of the boxes had
disappeared into the apartment. Passing by John in the hall, Bro caught his
eye. “Take good care of the succulents.”
“Oh those are yours!” John dimpled, amusement writ plainly on his face. “I
don’t know a thing about plants but my sister is awesome with them. Did you
want to take them back?”
Bro twitched his shoulders. “The old lady left them up here and the sun isn’t
any good on my side of the building.”
“Well then, it looks like I have a small garden.” John glanced down at the
collection of envelopes tucked under his elbow. “Have lots of things to mail?”
“I work from home. I do...crafts. Lucky for me we have an exemplary postal
service to convey my work off to it’s recipients.” Bro tried to sort out his
impulses. Part of him wanted to retreat back to his apartment and fall back
into his work-bench and figure out a new pattern or disappear into the
labyrinths of circuits. The other half wanted to lean closer and make a study
of the handsome face in front of him.
John Egbert did not seem like the kind of guy to cozy up against in a shower
stall. His hands looked rough, and Bro could imagine the texture of them
sliding along his sides and over his ass. Perhaps they would linger over the
rise of his ribs, his thumbs might catch the juncture of his waist. If he was
very lucky he would be the one that John cornered, pushed into place and held
still. None of this was worth thinking about. The gym awaited him, routine
awaited him. Whenever he tried to date it went horrifically awry and that was
gospel.
John apparently was the sort of person who had been raised to maintain intense
and earnest eye contact during a conversation and Bro could feel the weight of
his regard like a hand resting on his face. Instead of asking the sort of
insightful question that ought to match the look instead he blurted out, “So
guns, drugs, money, or sex? All four? Or maybe are you trying for a tech
takeover of Crockercorp? If you are I can tell you right now that it is not
going to happen.”
Deadpanning as hard as he ever had in his life, Bro raised an eyebrow at him.
“If you can guess which one I’ll cut you in on business.” He raised a finger to
his lips to indicate the secrecy of the whole endeavor and pressed past John to
escape down the hallway.
As the elevator doors shut behind him, John’s voice trailed after him in
warning. “Careful. It’s been finicky. The lights were doing somethi-” With a
soft clunk the doors slotted into place and the elevator began its descent.
Only one floor down, the service light flashed in warning and the dull whine of
a warning buzzer rattled his teeth. Scrubbing at his jaw, Bro reached over and
pried the service panel off of the door. The last time this shit had happened
he had been stuck in the elevator for three hours. The buzzer shut off. Picking
up the small phone in the corner he called down and left a message for the
landlady.
Prying the doors partially open showed that there was a body-sized hole to
crawl through where the elevator had stopped between floors. Every horror movie
that he had ever seen in his life argued that trying to wiggle through the
opening would end in a separation he was not equipped to endure. Instead of
attempting anything of the sort he turned from the doors and braced along the
handrail to scramble up and into the maintenance hatch. It took a couple of
tries before the hinge gave and allowed him access to the top of the car.
A pair of green eyes caught behind glasses met his through the crack in the
doors. A stupid thought chased through his mind - that the frames on the dude’s
glasses served like a frame on a painting. Glass was in place in exhibits for
two reasons: to encourage the things behind it to stay put, or to keep the
hands of those observing off of what was on display.
Dirk wanted to touch what was on display. The gentleman looking at him with the
careful assessment of a sport hunter had a splattering of silver along his
temples. The lines worn into his tanned skin were born of smiles and sun
accumulated over a life lived outside. On his arm a young lady turned and
swatted at his arm.
“That elevator’s always broken! C’mon Jakey, let’s head up.”
The arm that curled around her waist was solid like the branch of a tree. Bro
could feel the ghosts of each fingertip resting along his hip, spreading out
slowly over his stomach and bunching the fabric in their travels. “Of course my
sweet chickadee. Let’s head back.”
A second, deeper voice joined the first. “Do lets.”
Second guest for the evening dressed business casual with very trendy hair.
Pale and tall and toned. Sort of guy that Dirk would pass by in the gym in at
least four iterations before he walked out the door. A lesser version of his
own carefully crafted physical state if he were honest. The fantasy of what
that man’s attentions would be like faded away with the sound of their voices.
The trio rounded the corner out of sight and Bro felt confident to exit the
elevator. There was a saner space accessible from the top of the car - one that
would not cause him to be bisected if the elevator were to fall. Bracing both
palms against the doors he made enough room to squeeze through on the floor
above the car. The warning indicator on the panel remained lit. Stretching a
foot out to kick the hatch on the top of the car closed Bro lamented the
abandoned packages on the bottom of the car and sat down to wait.
                                       *
“Heart has no pity, Breath gives no fucks, Void is full of caring, maybe you'll
find some Hope. Even embrace Life, for yours is dearly important just as they
all are.”
Bro glowered over the ridge of his bag of Doritos at his convenience store
companion. “Time is always running. Yeah, there are a million things that
people say about the different gods.”
She waggled a Slim Jim at him and added it into his bag without scanning it.
“Time is literally running from you.”
Scrubbing a hand through his hair before he could catch himself, Bro nodded.
“You got that fucking right.” Between the elevator adventure earlier in the day
and the postal hub near his apartment closing early, nothing had gotten sent
out on time. “This week has been so much of a clusterfuck that I would almost
consider asking the Knight to auspice on my behalf.”
Kassat - that was the name printed out in slightly smudged triplicate on her
nametag - tilted her head. “You should be careful which Knight you are
petitioning. You might get Doom. That would be no good.”
“And for that to matter even slightly I would have to give a shit about the
living faiths.” Bro leaned against the counter, his hip jutting into a faded
vape flavor ad partially overlaid by an advertisement for a new flavor of glow-
grubs.
Kassat wiggled her fingers at him ominously. “They give a shit about you. You
might want to reciprocate the interest.”
Bro took his bag, leaving an extra five tucked under her keyboard. There were
times when he did not have enough money to get a gallon of milk. There were
other times that he had a little extra to share. His Dorrito supplier
definitely would need to be kept happy in order that the stock in the corner
store might remain plentiful. It was an old-style snack and most establishments
did not offer it. It generally was given at altars for Heart. That was where he
had acquired his taste for the things -- stealing from some of the shrines on
his many late night meanders through the city.
The man from earlier strolled through the hallways of his thoughts. Probably
another new neighbor, some sort of a deluge of company after a drought. If he
was canny -- maybe he could find an excuse to be on the floor that he had seen
the old fox walking on. Perhaps they might walk down to the laundry room on the
ground floor together.
Kassat waved a hand in front of his face amiacably, poking the tip of his nose
with a talon. “Leave. I’ve got customers and you’ve got other things to be
doing with your time.”
Tucking his bag under his arm, he slipped out onto the street.
                                     ~ * ~
The blood stain on his jeans did not originate from his body. A long streak was
drying into a stiff mess where Dave’s face had come into contact with his knee.
There was an argument -- a very sane argument to be made for the fact that one
ought not put hands on a child in the manner that he did.
That same argument did not adequately address the fact that armaggeddon would
be coming soon.
Are you ready to play, Dirk?
Every night the same question followed him to sleep. Cal sat on his shelf most
times, feet dangling and waving slightly in the breeze coming off of the swamp
cooler jammed into the window.
At some point he had stopped being able to feel things. Sometimes his hands did
things without the full cooperation of his mind. There were occasions that the
images of fire, and madness were so vivid that they overlaid reality that they
walked in together. For that reason they trained.
Dave’s nose was broken, but he’d put it back in place. The viscous clotted
blood had stopped dribbling down his lip and he had put himself to bed a while
after, bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel acting as a pillow.
The swelling would go down. They would work together tomorrow and Dave would
get better.
They would win.
Cal watched him from his shelf, grinning widely.
                                     ~ * ~
Bro stood in front of the Heart shrine without full recall of how he had
arrived.
The crowd that petitioned the heart deities were diverse. Some were looking for
companionship. Some were looking to reach someone in their lives. Others were
looking to destroy parts of themselves and come away new.
Bro wondered if he belonged in the former category. His bag sat under his elbow
and the last penitent at the offering station had moved away. The light of the
mid afternoon shimmered through the windows and burned a line along his spine.
Pulling his pocket knife out of his back pocket he took a sanitizing wipe from
one of the niches and wiped down the bowl used to receive tribute. The practice
of leaving things was common. For the Princes in particular sacrifice was more
effective.
Flicking the blade open he took a breath to steady his hand. If he cut too deep
it would end in a trip to the emergency room. The point of the knife made
contact with his thumb only to skid away as someone touched his wrist. Making
it a point not to jerk as that might cut either himself or the idiot that was
touching him, he found himself looking at a younger version of the silver fox
from his building.
At least at first glance that was his impression. Slower study led to a more
nuanced comparison. The young man resting a hand on his and ever-so-carefully
guiding it away from the knife looked much brighter than the gentleman that had
moved in. There was a lightness to his demeanor that melted some of Bro’s
irritation away like sunshine dissipating fog.
“I know it’s popular to bleed for Heart... but I would rather think that you
don’t need to suffer to speak to him, if that is the facet that you’re aiming
for. Even if you’re not, the rogue tends to like play more than flesh, and the
mage is much more interested in intricacies. Also figurative representations of
connections.” The dork finger-guns at him and damn him it is endearing rather
than stupid.
“I haven’t seen you before... and I don’t know you to say much.” The lad
offered a subtle smile. “I’m just going to be bold as brass and say that you
have nice... strong hands. Don’t hurt them for prayers. Maybe put them to
better use instead?”
Flipping the knife closed and stepping aside so that the next penitents could
step up and make their congress at the shrine, Bro shrugged. “I guess. I don’t
even know why I stopped in. Maybe a whim.”
Adjusting his bag from the store Bro went on. “They’re not listening. This has
always been my home shrine though - more than any of the other aspects.” It was
the first one that he had ever slept in after running away from a foster home.
It was also the first one that he had ever silently begged for help in. It was
not the last one that those prayers went unanswered at. The angle of the light
from the windows caught the guy’s eyes and it was like looking at illuminated
emeralds. If it were not such a striking sight, Bro would find it absurd.
“I think that if you believe, more things are possible than you might initially
imagine.” Skewering him with another brilliant smile, the young man turned and
melted into the crowd. Moments later, struck by the oddity of the whole of it,
Bro turned to make his way home. Dropping the groceries on his counter he toed
his shoes off and fell into bed.
                                       *
Gods he hates babies. Everything about infants raises alarm and anxiety in his
mind. Seeing a cooing face, or small feet kicking in the air he is seized by
the irrational fear that he’s going to injure them. He has done his level best
never to be alone in a room with a child for longer than a few minutes at a
time.
Bro knows it is going to be the baby dream the minute that he sees that it’s an
Old Fashioned sitting on a soggy cocktail napkin. The bar in this dream is
always the same. A little tacky under his left hand. It sticks to the gloves
that he always is wearing. Someone probably got cola or other shit on the wood
marked by divots and the bartender never quite got over to swipe it up.
The guy bartending in this dream is different. He is tall and slender and has
some tinted-glasses situation happening that make his eyes look pale and
strange. Dressed a lot classier than the folks working at the dives he goes to
normally. The bartender and what he looks like really is inconsequential. The
reason for his certainty on this matter is that this is going to be a baby
dream.
The baby dream happens the same, always. In the back of his mind he knows there
is a kid at his house. The kid has been alone. Sitter left at seven. There is a
text in his back pocket saying that she had to bounce. It’s nine. Theoretically
kid is asleep. He’s not really a baby anymore. Not really. He’s three. (He’s a
baby. Fucking hell he’s a baby. Why isn’t he home? It is like there are weights
in his pockets physically anchoring him to the seat. He can just imagine what
it’s like knowing the kids at the shelter. They cry. They wake up at weird
times and get scared. Why is he in the bar? Why can’t he leave?) So there is
time for another drink. Pulling the cherry out of his cocktail he rolls it
around on his tongue, pulls the stem off and manages the trick where he ties a
knot with his tongue. That one always goes over really well.
The bartender has come over and is watching him with a face devoid of emotion.
He really must not give a fuck about his tips. Looking closer Bro is struck by
the feeling the guy could be his twin from years back. Same kind of long jaw
and hair that wants to touch the sky with the assistance of gel. He would not
have been caught dead without his shades at that age, but this guy isn’t a
perfect match.
“Anything else?”
Bro rolls the stem in his mouth. This part is new. (Maybe he can go home. He’s
imagining a small blotchy face covered in tears and snot. Perhaps pull-ups that
probably need a change.) Tipping his glass back he crunches the ice-cubes
between his teeth. “Thinking I might have time for another one.”
Usually the bartender lines another drink up. Several more, each a little
stronger than the rest. In the next room over in the bar a small crying voice
gets more insistent and more hoarse with each passing glass. This time there is
no crying, no child that should not be anywhere near a fucking bar. Instead
there is a bartender who looks about three seconds from throwing his ass out,
and the fluttering panic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time
ricocheting around his ribs.
This is different. Beneath him the seat squeals - protesting against the weight
of yet another burden that it never asked for. This is a different dream. Sweat
trickles along his hairline, threading its way down his neck.
The sound his nails make against the condensation-slick edge of the glass and
his stomach cramping bring his focus back into the moment. The menthol-fruit
scent of his cocktail haunting the air around him making his mouth water in the
precursor to heaving it all back out again. The bartender takes his money
without comment and disappears to the end of the bar to ring him out. When his
face came level with Bro’s own, it was not a kind expression. The bartender’s
voice was sharp and to the point. “Go home.”
Bro’s eyes snapped open and he jerked up into a sitting position. Though all
logic argued against it - he walked into the next room to make sure that his
charge was not lying unattended on the floor. Nothing but the shitty rug
decorated with different silhouettes of consorts from IKEA looked back at him.
A square of moonlight split the room making the faded dye of the rug a little
brighter than the gloom surrounding it. Rubbing a hand along his face Bro
glanced at the alarm clock that sat near one of his work benches. The red glow
from the numbers could have been reassuring after that strange dream but it
also reminded him of the glow from the neon lights in the window. The clock
reported four thirteen in the morning.
“Welp.” Talking to himself had become a habit early on. It made the other kids
ignore him because he was annoying. It helped his thoughts fall into order.
Grabbing a pack of cigarettes his fingers crumpled the empty packaging. He was
a grown-ass man and he was not going to cry in the middle of his apartment at
four in the morning over cigarettes. That was not something that he was going
to do. Frustration was a mountain to be climbed, and not an avalanche to be
buried under.
Welp indeed. Good thing that dream wasn’t real, isn't it?
Dropping the crumpled cigarette box into the trash at the edge of the kitchen,
Bro walked the perimeter of the carpet for lack of anything else to do with
himself. There was a half-finished program sitting on his hard drive that could
use attention but the concentration needed to code was unlikely to come. The
thought of sleep was so far from his mind as to be cosmic in its distance. More
likely that he could run to the nearest stellar body than he could get restful
sleep for the rest of the night. Taking a laptop and tucking it under his arm
he made his way up to the roof via the old access stairs. Practice and
familiarity made it so he could avoid the creaky step.
And what is it that you are going to do out here? Stare at the sunrise? Find
some sort of catharsis? The weather can’t answer the question about why you are
a waste of molecules and fiber.
Dirk opened his laptop, feeling the pressure and the moisture of the air
pressing down on him like hands.
The door opening behind him made his back lock up like it had been cast in
metal. No one came up here at this time of night. He had positioned himself on
the edge of the landing, toes stretching out and into the abyss. With the right
application of pressure he would be gone and that would be the end of it.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!