weep little lion man | teddy, tate, teva & tripp

[gamemaker kelsier]

The day after I die, they come for me.

I'm in my cell, lying flat on my back on my metal shelf, one arm hanging listlessly off the side of it, the other resting across my stomach. I don't bother shutting my eyes, there's no sleeping for me. If I even blink for too long they shock me awake. It's okay, I think I've figured out how to rest without resting. If I remain still, it nearly feels the same, or maybe I've just accepted that it's all I'm going to get in the end.

I haven't spoken since they brought m back to the cell yesterday. Castor hasn't pushed me for information, she's waiting for me to want to talk about it I think but I don't know how to explain what I know now.

My brothers are dead.

Even though they never were my brothers in the first place, they're still dead.

They took care of me and I messed up and now they're dead.

I know that if I hadn't gotten myself arrested, this would never have happened. Maybe in the end Tate knew that and that's why he was also so desperate to keep me out of things. I wanted to pull my weight in the gang and show everyone that I wasn't a weakling but I ended up being a liability. My brothers are dead because of me. I don't know how to explain that.

So I don't try to.

I just lie there in silence, counting the same specks of blood on the ceiling that I've spent the last who knows how many days counting. I can barely move anyway, my body has become nearly useless. Making any move is an effort and before I maybe had the willpower to do stuff but now I don't see any point in doing anything. My dinner sat on the ground beside me last night. My breakfast sits beside me now, already cold and disgusting when it came to me.

Castor had to help me go to the bathroom. The first couple of times I'd been embarrassed but we've long since crossed those lines with each other. Like animals, we communicate through feelings. Fear and loneliness is shared.

I don't know how to share this feeling though.

I think she knows that.

When they enter the cell I am prepared to be dragged off to somewhere for punishment. Two days ago it was partial drowning, last week it was burning me across my back with a long piece of heated iron. I've stopped screaming now. Sometimes I whimper, but it's easier to just pretend that I don't exist because then I can pretend that I don't, and so the pain is just in my head.

I think maybe they've gotten bored with me.

Today they drag me down unfamiliar hallways, into an elevator that takes us above ground. Before the doors open, they take the collar from around my neck and pull a woven sack over my head, tying the strings around my neck. The rough sacking chafes against the raw stripe around my throat where the collar was for nearly two weeks. I don't complain. I know the futility in it.

Then, a needle is stuck into the side of my neck and I stiffen, wondering if it's poison, if they're finally getting rid of their plaything. I don't have to think about it long. The world fades away like coffee in a drip brewer and I slump in their arms.

It's blessedly silent.

- - -

When I wake it's to the sound of a large vehicle coming to a halt. The train blows it's whistle as it meets the station, to alert anybody that might be on the tracks. It's not likely but Mom said that it was something that used to be done a long time ago so it's still done today. Despite how much the world has changed, some things still remain the same.

A door opens and rough hands grab me from under my armpits, pulling me to my feet. I stumble, unable to hold myself upright. The world is still foggy, like someone's dropped a vale over everything and my mind is sluggish, nearly absent. I don't understand what's going on. Maybe they've brought me to the mines, to work as an air canary for the workers. Maybe my death will be like mom's. I'll be made an example of in the Games Square.

I'm dragged between the two guards, feet sliding along rough gravel walking paths. I wish I could see where we are but I'm pretty sure that they've done this to me just so that I can't see anything. Cold night air dances against my cheeks and despite myself, despite everything, I'm crying beneath the sacking. I didn't realize how much I missed the fresh air, the cold crisp night air. It's glorious. I wish Castor were here to feel it too.

I probably won't ever see her again.

We walk for awhile. I've forgotten how time works. I don't even know how long I've been in custody let alone how much time is spent doing what anymore. I used to be able to count to ten minutes in my head while doing other stuff at the same time but now I can barely concentrate on anything let alone two thinks at once. I'm all broken, like that shattered pane of glass.

Eventually, they drop me roughly on a wooden surface. I know better than to move, or do anything at all unless they tell me that I can. So I simply wait quietly in the heap that they left me in, potato sack blocking the entire world out. It's cold, especially in the thin grey jumpsuit, but I've been colder.

I wonder how long I'll have to wait until they kill me.

I hope it isn't too long.

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

T A T E

When I was thirteen I lost my mother. Four, long years ago she was shot on a stage, torn away from me and my brothers and we'd never see her again. And I held my baby brother while she died, bled out on a stage. He sunk his teeth into my flesh and tried to rip himself away. He tried so hard to join mother on her deathbed I should have known he would eventually succeed.

Mother was taken to the detention center too. I don't know what they did to her there, I never got to talk to her afterwards. But I waited. I promise I did. My bed was cold for the long weeks she was away. Because I had to lock the door every night but I had to be there just in case mother came home. I couldn't let her sit out in the cold all night. Because I was her little boy and she was going to need me when she came back. 

And she would come back. She had to. 

Teddy didn't come back. It's been months and I've given up hope. I don't think he's alive but I can't admit to myself that he's dead. Because I held him too tight and I ended up pushing him away. Teddy is dead and I know he's not coming back. Because life isn't a fairy tale. Because there are no such things as happy endings. Not like the ones that mother used to read to me. Sleep was but a fable unless mother wove beautiful tales of prince charmings and knights in shining armor. Of princesses killing dragons and winning the tournament.

I found a prince myself. And he's home right now, with a family who stuck a needle through his skin. The prince who cares enough to save me but not enough to save himself as if he doesn't know that hurts me worse than the metal shoved five times over into my abdomen. Or maybe he just doesn't care.

I have a hard time accepting things, I guess. And that's why for months my bed has been thick wooden planks. In case Teddy comes home because I can't let him sit out in the cold all night. Because I know he's dead but I don't want to know. So I don't. Because I've washed his sheets and made his bed at least a hundred times over because when he came home I didn't want him to think we forgot about him.

(We didn't. We didn't. We never will.) 

And there is fresh lavender sitting on the windowsill. Because when Teddy's heart acts up it's good for getting him to relax. 

Every single part of the house is prepped for the return of a dead boy. I would die if it wasn't. I'd have thrown myself off a railing and felt my lungs flood with familiar nothing a long while ago. Because I lost mom and I pushed Teddy away and Nemo might die and Teva yells and Tripp is too quiet. And I'm shit at trying to sew a smile upon my lips but I'm trying my hardest not to show the chinks in my shining armor because I'm going to be strong for Mom. Because she probably hates me, wherever she is, for annoying Teva and for failing to protect Teddy.

...I was always supposed to protect Teddy. 

"And you couldn't even get that right!" (mother often visits me in my dreams.) 

The wounds on my stomach are red and puffy, just starting to scar over. And soon they'll turn into white, translucent skin raised just above the others. And sleeping on the floor while they are still raw is not an easy task because I have to be there because I can't leave Teddy out in the-

There's a loud thump from outside, sending the whole of my body upright. The hair on my arms stands on end, spiders crawling down the length of my spine as shaking fingers find the locks upon the door. And they unravel in mere seconds but the pounding of my heart makes the seconds last hours. 

Because in these long, long months years without Teddy I've never heard it once. This thick thud. Not even the skitter of raccoon claws against wood, falling against the porch sounded similar. ( And I checked after every single animal pounding across the wood fuelled by false hope and lost dreams.)

And although sleep lingers in my eyes, I can tell someone has left a dead body upon our porch. It's emaciated and small, thick brown sack covering the poor thing's face and I wonder if the other gangs have found out where we live and I wonder if my death is impending. Because they could linger in the darkness, behind the fence, waiting for my inevitable approach because I'm still yearning for my safety.

All it takes is for a shaking hand to pull the sack off of his head for the whole of my world to shatter. A bullet through a statue made of ice and fear. "...teddy." My hands press against his forehead, fingers finding the faintest pulse hiding beneath his skin. 

Alive. 

Barely.

But alive.

"Teddy!" It's more of strangled scream that escapes me this time, followed by heavy, grieving sobs as I pull my brother into my chest, pressing my lips into his hair and falling through the threshold. I can't think through the panic weaving its way through my mind. "IT'S HIM." And I'm screaming and crying and laughing. I'm rocking my brother within my arms because I'm flying and falling at the same time because I didn't leave him out in the cold.

"TEVA. TRIPP. IT'S HIM. IT'S HIM."

And I want to say that I always knew he'd come home.

But that'd be a lie.

you told me not to cry
while you were gone
but the feeling's overwhelming
it's much too s t r o n g

[Python]

teva seraphim

It was a night of success. No trouble, no fuck ups, no bad luck – it was absolutely stress free, save for the incessant ringing in his ear that belonged to Bouncer’s fucking voice. It was almost as if he existed solely to drag misery in his wake like a slug trail for everyone to step on. He was never affected by his own stupidity and obnoxious behavior; it was everyone else who was made to suffer, Teva especially. He was under the impression that they were “buddies,” and could share every aspect of their lives with each other. Teva didn’t tell him shit, but oh did he always get an earful of Bouncer. Alcohol this, girls that, Teva you should try this it’s dope, one time I did this thing and –

Kill me.

He wanted to bash his own head against the wall. Bouncer was on a ranting rampage as they strolled to the other side of the District, just so he could get a taste of his favorite liquor at his favorite bar. Teva had reluctantly agreed only because they were celebrating a job well done. He was already regretting it.

”Then she put her legs over my head and—“

When the bar came into view, Teva shoved the doors open and embraced the sounds of cue balls, shouting, and glasses clinking. Anything to drown out this fuckery.

They ordered mild drinks and sat hunched over the bar. Bouncer continued his bullshit story, and Teva focused on the burn in the back of his throat. He downed his drink in a few gulps and took a deep, refreshing breath. It smelled like cigarettes and ass in here.

”Don’t be a fuckboy, man,” he growled.

”A what?”

”You heard me.”

He didn’t get nearly as drunk as he wanted to. Not even half way, but it was probably wise. Drinking with Bouncer never ended well. His nights were always reduced to stupid dares and trying to make sure Bouncer didn’t vomit on his shoes. The asshole couldn’t hold his liquor no matter what he claimed. Teva suspected that he was actually a compulsive liar. His stories never had evidence – or maybe he just didn’t want to see the evidence because it was disturbing. None of his business, and not an image he wanted to remember. Ever.

A good ten minutes of pleading to stay led Teva to frustration. He practically knocked the drink out of Bouncer’s hand and demanded that he shut the fuck up. It was late, and since he was barely tipsy he might as well just go home and sleep. Bouncer – who always caved under the pressure of Teva’s sudden outbursts – nodded and finished his drink quickly. As tempting as it was to get shitfaced, he wasn’t in the mood tonight. The atmosphere was off, and having nobody else but Bouncer with him would just murder his vibe. Maybe another night.

He ended up home late, but long before anybody was asleep. The gentle haze of alcohol faded by then, and he shuffled upstairs to brush the bitter taste out of his mouth. Then he changed into his night clothes and crawled into bed. There was no time to reflect on today’s events or think about anything other than sleeping like a fucking rock, so he closed his eyes and buried half of his face into the pillow. He didn’t dream of anything in particular – just colors and abstract noises, faces appearing every once in a while, some strange and others familiar.

He was a light sleeper, and woke fitfully to the sound of Tate’s screaming.

”TEVA. TRIPP. IT'S HIM. IT'S HIM.”

It’s who?

He leapt up and felt the blood rush out of his head, tilting his world for the few seconds it took him to stumble into the doorframe. He rubbed his eyes and waited for the disorientation to subside, then threw the door open and sauntered downstairs. He knew what Tate meant now, but Teva wouldn’t believe it until he saw him. Tate had been fucked up ever since Teddy got arrested. Maybe he had finally snapped. They all thought he was dead – at least they should’ve thought so, with such scarce hope remaining after months of agonizing silence. Cal had convinced him to rekindle hope, but it wasn’t burning so hot anymore. Teddy felt gone for good.

”Holy shit.”

He wasn’t.

Teddy was limp in Tate’s arms – Tate, who was already drenched in his own tears – and for a terrifying moment that struck him like a hammer to the ribs, he thought Teddy might be a corpse. Then he edged himself closer and saw the rising and falling of his chest, faint but definitely real. He crouched down in front of them to get a good look at his face. He wasn’t a corpse, but he looked too much like one.

”Teddy,” he murmured in disbelief.

What did they do to you?

[Deleted]

 
   B  U  L  L  E  T  

_____________________________

How many times can a pencil rat tat tap against the desk before it gives up and snaps in half?

He wonders.

There's a smashed mug laying severed on the ground, it's vomit of a drink drip drip splattering against the floor of his bedroom. It smells like lemons.

It smells like anger.

Teddy had brought him five steps forward, their hands tied together, the garnish of a gun leaking off his fingertips into his little brother's savior of a palm.

And when some strong breeze made of white coats and metal guns came and swept him away in the life of the night

he'd leaped ten steps backwards.

He watched from outside glass doors of his mind, running through the motions of life, finger on the trigger and mind on n o t h i n g at all.

A third person view, locked inside of his own head, straight jacket wrapped around his thoughts and ball and chain weighing down his soul.

He couldn't dare say his brothers had become strangers in his life, that would be foolish. But the threads that Teddy's presence had threaded between them were one by one being destroyed.

Snip Teva asked him if he'd wanted to go out tonight. He'd shook his head no and listened to the footsteps of his brother someone he loved echo against the walls.

Snip Tate's breakfast for him had been left sitting on the table, steam from the coffee slowly, slowly dissipating as toast turned cold and a glass of juice became warm.

Snap 

Tate had knocked on his door at exactly the same moment the hour hand had beat hit struck Ten, white noise disrupted by beating flesh and pulsing conviction.

When Teddy and him had been younger, they'd found pleasure in folding paper airplanes inside the walls of his bedroom and launching them as hard as they could at anyone in sight, bedroom window propped open by a school textbook that he was supposed to be reading, it's papers crinkled and cracking from the puddle he'd dropped it in hours earlier.

They'd discovered their own activity was much more useful.

That is, until that old fucking crone Mrs. Stout had decided to go off the deep end after one too many white missiles had found their travels disrupted by the rat nest on the top of her head.

That window hadn't closed fast enough, and their laughs could be heard as they watched through whitewashed curtains and joy filled eyes.

He'd folded a paper airplane but hadn't had the heart or the effort to throw it.

And so it'd sat on his desk, bendable desk light casting shadows from each and every curve and crack that riddles the skin of the object. 

His hands unfolded it, pencil laced between the digits and he writes two painful words on the inside

Dear Teddy, 

Maybe, if he threw it hard enough, and with just the right amount of wind, it'd find it's way to him.

Instead, Tate's knock disrupts his thought process, and the graphite bleeds out onto the desk, pencil tip snapping as he places it down on the desk, half covered in a shadow from the memory next to it.

Please go
"Come in." 

Tate's face is seen first, and his fingers are wrapped around something white, themselves, steam spilling out of it as his footsteps and then his body enter the room.

The strings tighten. 

"Hey Tripp, I made you some tea?" 

His eyes drill holes into the mug in his hands, taking it into his own with a meek look of surprise spread across his face.

"Oh...thanks." 
He swears, he swears he knows what's coming next.

He watches his brother's face twitch into a frown, before his lips part and he hits him with it.

"Hey, I'm worried about you, are you alright?" 

His eyes drop to the ground, and how the paper airplane casted a shadow so long it stretched all the way to Tate's feet.

He nearly frowns, but instead

one step back.

"Yeah...why wouldn't I be?" 

The dumb card escapes his mouth and he wishes he could reach out and stuff them back into his mouth.

"Don't play dumb with me, Tripp." 
He wishes he hadn't.
"A lot has happened and you're even more quiet." 

Tate takes a seat on the bed, and the tea in his hands burns the tastebuds right off his tongue, he swallows a gulp, it smells like lemon.

Of course he was quiet, of course he was quiet. His mouth was stitched shut, and Teddy was the only one who could remove them.

"I've always been "quiet". Why does it matter if i'm more so lately?" 

His lip quivers as he raises the mug to his mouth.

"Because we lost Teddy and I feel like I'm losing you too. I miss you." 

He misses them too, he misses Teddy being here, he misses paper airplanes and he

and he

and he spits words with venom and he

"I'm still here. Right here, in front of you. You know who isn't? Teddy. Yeah. Teddy, our little brother, the one everyone's afraid to mention." 

Those words make the room smell so awful, hanging in the air like that.

One, two, t h r e e. The clock ticks in the background. The strings tighten.

"You're right here but how fucking long, Tripp? It's like you don't care anymore. Teddy's gone yeah, but how long 'til you are too?" 

The door slams and a chill runs down his spine and a bead of sweat rolls rolls drops down down down 

the mug soars through the air and it shatters against the door.

Dear Teddy, 

He throws it, but the crumpled ball of paper doesn't fly, it falls to the ground, right into the shadow of his ripped up textbook.

How many times can a pencil tap until it snaps in half?

Until the watch hand strikes ten.

And his eyes are half closed half shattered when he hears Tate's voice ring ring ring through the house and at first he thinks someone else is gone but

"TEVA. TRIPP. IT'S HIM. IT'S HIM." 

It's....who?

The glass from the mug impales the soft flesh of his foot but he doesn't care, his body is tumbling tripping falling into place, paper airplanes flying past him and the clock hand tick tick

tocks 

And it's him, it's his brother. 

His blood runs cold, colder than the tea that was soaking his carpet, colder than the words he'd exchanged.

One step, two step, three step, four.

His footsteps aren't even heard as he reaches out and touches his brother's hair, fingers twitching with each hair that brushes against them.

"Teddy. Teddy, it's you. You're...here." 

He can hear the wings of a paper airplane fly through the air as the door closes.

_____________________________

[gamemaker kelsier]

It's strangely pleasant where I am, even if I can't see and it is a little cold. I can smell grass. When I went underground winter was beginning and everything was frozen. It was crisp. Now I can smell grass again, and I can hear a rustling in the wind, like leaves in the trees swaying. I wonder if the garden is flowering back home. Mom used to love that garden and I was trying to take care of it for her but now it might be ruined because there's no one to look after it anymore.

Everyone is dead.

I'll be dead soon, once they decide what to do with me. The only upside to that is that I'll get to be with my brothers again. Unless there is no afterlife. As I lay here, head covered by the rough sacking, I can't help believing that there has to be an afterlife. I don't want this to have been it for me. I want to see my brothers again. I bite my lip, trying to fight back the sudden threat of tears at the thought of them. I want t-

I hear the sound of a door opening and for a wild moment I wonder if I've been left on the steps of that lady Peackeeper that I stabbed as a gift. Hands carefully begin to undo the sacking and I shut my eyes, playing dead. It's not that I'm frightened of more pain, at this point, pain is simply part of my life. It would be akin to fearing air. What I'm scared of is seeing just where I am, if I'm in my place of dying.

"..Teddy?" says a voice and strangely, it sounds like one of my brothers, Tate in particular. It's in the fragile way he always says my name, like I'm something breakable. I guess I really am now. But I know that it isn't Tate. He's dead. I heard his dying screams. I guess I could be dead already and this could be the afterlife but I doubt it. Maybe I'm just hearing things. The speaker presses a hand against my forehead and I shift slightly, the most I can do at this point in an effort to get away. The touch isn't a cruel one though. It's gentle.

"Teddy!"

My eyes flutter open with some effort and I'm just in time to catch a glimpse of Tate's face before he's pulling me into his chest, arms wrapped securely around me. Confusion grips me as he lifts me up and carries me into the house. My eyes roam around, catching sight of the frame of the front door, taking in the living room from my childhood, glancing over items that I was certain that I would never see again. Did Tate somehow survive?

Am I dreaming?

But then he's calling Teva and he's calling Tripp. They come down the stairs, one by one and I watch quietly as their expressions go from annoyance and confusion to shock. Teva kneels in front of Tate and I, his face just above mine and I stare back at him, confusion mixing with happiness and a strange, unsettling fear. I don't understand. I heard him die. They poured acid on him and burned him alive and he begged them to stop and he died screaming.

Tripp appears above me too and he runs his hand through my hair. But they told me that they'd shot him down and they had killed him and they'd left his body in the street like he was a dog. When I look above me, Tate is staring down at me, crying. Of course. Of course it's Tate. He died too though. I heard them killing him, heard him crying. I heard it.

They died.

"Teddy. Teddy, it's you. You're...here."

But where is here?

Heat leaks from the corners of my eyes and I'm shaking again, it comes unbidden. I don't know what to do. Everything takes so much effort and I'm so tired, just so tired. I just want to shut my eyes and go away forever. I wonder if this is my life flashing before my eyes, if this is the last memory I'm getting, the idea of a false hope. It's my piece of heaven before the world shuts off forever.

Exhaustion holds me so tightly and I sob with the effort as raise one shaking hand to cup Tripps face, finding Teva's hand with the other. Their warmth feels so real, like I'm really here, but I don't understand how I can be, how they can be. I blink rapidly, trying to dispel the tears because I think Tate is crying enough for the both of us but they won't go away.

I clear my throat, and try to speak loudly but I barely have a voice left after all the screaming I've been doing, "They...they said you were dead..." I say, swallowing thickly from the sorrow that's been eating away at me for so long now, "I heard your screams, they said, they...you were-." My words fall away into incoherent sobbing but I don't want to shut my eyes, because if I open them and they aren't there again I don't think I'll be able to bear it.

"Am I dead too?"

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

T A T E

I should be happy. That's all I can think as I wind my fingers through my brother's messy hair and as I look up at my twins with swollen, shocked eyes, left an unravelled mess upon the floor. I should be happy that Teddy is here and that he's breathing. And he's reaching out for Teva and Tripp and that we're all connected by the gentle tug of out little brother again. My safety is back home and I should be happy. 

But all I can see is exposed nail beds, raw and red. All I can see is the blood upon my brother's skin and the bags under his eyes. The way his skin clings to his bones and how he feels like nothing within my arms. And I want to be happy but all I can feel is guilt. Because Teddy is dead and it's all my fault. (I can see the decaying innocence he brought within his gaze.)

"I'm so sorry..." I manage through the hysteria raining onto my lap. "Teddy I'm so sorry." The words are quiet, barely more than a deep rumble in my throat and I don't think that Teddy can hear them but that's okay because I'll say it again. (and again and again.)  I pull him close instead, revelling in the feeling of his beating heart against my palm and I can barely breathe I'm so relieved.

And I should have known that he'd come home because he's a Seraphim and so much stronger than I've ever given him credit for. I'm often selfish like that. I didn't keep Teddy blind for his sake, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I wanted to give him a choice by taking it away. I like to keep my dear things close and safe. (My brothers, my clever little mechanic, my safety.) And sometimes I don't care how they feel because I'm so sure I know best. 

But I didn't. 

I still don't. 

When Teddy clears his throat the world goes quiet. A symphony hushed by a small, crying boy. And I hope that Teddy knows of the power he holds within his palms. But I don't think he does because he's crying and holding onto my brothers with tears rolling down his cheeks because he thinks we're dead. I wonder if the Capitol somehow found out that I got stabbed and Teva got shot, I wonder if they used us against him.

And just like that a fire starts in the pit of my stomach. Hot and angry, flames licking at my throat as I pull Teddy as close as I can bear, shaking lungs quieting sobs for a single minute as I press my forehead against his and I bite my lip so hard that metal has begun to seep onto my tongue.

"Listen, Teddy, what happened to us we're not-" And the words dissolve into the air so I try again. "You're not dead. Teddy you're not dead. You're alive. Here. With your brothers. You're here with Tate and Teva and Tripp and whatever they told you it was all a lie because we're fine. We're fine so please don't worry about us." the words are low and feirce, near incomprehensible before tears force their way down the corner of my eyes and onto my chin. The staples I'd used to stitch myself back together falling apart on the floor again. 

I lean back, allowing my head to fall against the couch as I sink my teeth into my forearm stifling the sobs bubbling up from my lungs. And had I not been holding my brother, my legs would have carried me across the district. Carried me down to the slums and to the door of a boy who could help lift a thousand pounds off of my shoulders with his crooked smile and his eyes like stars. And I guess I take after my dad because when things get rough that is all I want to do.

Run. And Run. And Run.

Because Teddy is home but I don't know if he hates me or if he's even the same kid as he was all those months ago. Everything is changing too much, every single familiarity I took comfort in ripped from my palms, leaving the skin bleeding and raw. 

Because I think Tripp is still mad at me for yelling at him although I was just trying to help but I'm so scared of losing him that I fucked that up too. 

Because Mom probably hates me and because I'm pretty sure Teva definitely does. 

Maybe. 

I can't be sure of anything when the room is spinning like this. World tilted on an axis and all I need is a strong pair of arms around me to anchor me to this world because things are upside down and my nails might fall off from how hard I'm digging them into the wood because I don't want to fall off. 

I want to stay here with Teddy and Teva and Tripp and I want to forget everything.

But I can't.

you told me not to cry
while you were gone
but the feeling's overwhelming
it's much too s t r o n g

[Python]

teva seraphim

Tripp appeared beside him, the eye of the storm. He was always collected and reserved but it didn’t make him suffer any less, Teva knew that. They were identical in genetics but coped differently to each obstacle in their path. Tate was a rainstorm in the midst, crying his goddamn eyes out and nobody was surprised, nobody spoke up about it. All eyes were on Teddy, broken and battered to shit. He was pale and withered and looked like he hadn’t bathed or eaten in weeks. How his weak heart continued to sustain him, he didn’t know. Their Safety had always been in need of a little help. There was no help in prison, yet somehow he was still fighting, even if he didn’t mean to. He certainly didn’t look like he wanted to fight. Death had its hand wrapped around his throat.

He didn’t want to cry, and he wasn’t going to. Part of him had accepted Teddy’s death, or at least expected him to suffer their mother’s fate, hoisted to the stage to be executed by firing squad. Only then would the tears paint his face another ugly color, and drag him into pits of despair like a tiger heaving a carcass across the ground. What he felt now was relief, a sense of tranquility after the constant worrying and the craving of activity in a quiet house, one that seemed to refuse the mention of their brother like he was a lost memory. Defeat still gnawed the edges of his heart because he knew Teddy was fucked up and traumatized – he could see it. There was no telling how many scars he had, inside and out. When he grabbed Teva’s hand, he could see the raw patches where his nails used to be.

Fucking animals. The white coats called them savages when they were capable of this? The law was never just. Death might’ve been sweeter than this.

He was proud of Teddy for fighting.

Or maybe he was just lucky.

They fucked with his head, that much was certain. He thought they were all dead. ”I heard your screams..” He shook his head and squeezed Teddy’s hand. Impossible. Teva didn’t scream, and nobody could make him scream. Maybe it was plausible for one of them to get captured or killed (not him), but all three? Fuck no, they weren’t that careless. Teddy was gullible to believe that. Or maybe they just fucked with his head too much for him to differentiate the logical from the illogical. He didn’t know. The DC was foreign to him. Who even knew what else those assholes were capable of?

”Don’t be stupid,” he grumbled, ”Nobody can kill all of us.” Perhaps now wasn’t the time to be a cocky asshole, but if Teddy was disoriented he needed some sense drilled into him. Tate was practically unable to function in his fit of anguish, choking on his own sobs, probably not even thinking straight anymore. It hurt to hear Teddy saying shit like this; it proved just how fucked up his experience was, and of course it must’ve been worse than they imagined. Teva couldn’t find the energy within himself to cry. He was just happy to see Teddy here. He was damaged, but alive. He wasn’t a corpse, he hadn’t disappeared, and there wouldn’t be a funeral. He could recover.

Teva sighed and wrapped his free arm around Tate, bringing him closer. He wasn’t coping well. Negativity was one of his favorite things to dwell on, so of course he was a blubbering mess. Teva squeezed his shoulder and whispred, "Breathe, Tate." It was the least he could do.

[Deleted]

 
   B  U  L  L  E  T  

_____________________________

His heart is beating but his stomach feels like it's being ripped open, thread by thread hand by hand scoop by scoop and he's watching the movie in front of him play out scene by scene and he

even though his fingers are curling their way through his brother's hair, it feels so surreal.

There's a crumpled up ball of paper in front of him, with scratches and scars and stitch wounds riddling the surface, and words hastily scribbled but never said on the inside.

he wishes he could fold out all the scars and gashes and soul piercing wounds that they left on him, but something tells him no matter how many times he tries, the paper airplane that was his brother would never fly just right again.

thump thump he can hear feel his heart beat as his hand drops and fingers curl gently into palm. Or maybe that heart is Teddy's, because it's always worked so hard to keep him afloat, maybe it's working so hard they can all actually hear it.

Or maybe it's Tate's, or Teva's. And then it dawns on him-

It's all of theirs.

"They...they said you were dead..." 

He gulps, hard. And fingers curl into palm into fist and teeth grind back forth back forth before the pressure releases.

"Maybe they hadn't been that far off." He thinks.

But he swallows that thought like the barrel of a gun and shoves it deep back into his mind, buried beneath crinkly textbooks and folded up stacks of paper and ticking ticking clocks.

His brother's words fly in and out of his ears, paper words carried by too strong gusts of wind, and when he goes to gulp again he finds that his mouth is completely dry, all spit gone. He rubs a too dry tongue against a too dry roof of his mouth. 

Tate was using up all the oxygen in the room with his breathing, maybe that's why his vision starts to go blurry and maybe that's why this all feels like a movie playing over  and over in his head.

But a tear rolls down his cheek and he swipes it away and clears his vision and he breathes too. Or, at least, he tries. 

Can he be mad at Tate for what he said? He wonders, because he knows it was scooped up from the depths of his brother's all too caring heart, and he knows that it was supposed to fix things between them, stitch them up like Teddy could. He knows that's what the words were meant to do. He thinks that's what they were meant to do.

Eyes look at the floor for a brief second as anger infused with regret with a pinch of shock and grief bubbles up in his stomach.

He knows that they weren't meant to hurt, he thinks.

Tate's fingers are laced between Teddy's as his hands slide under the boy who's heart is walking on thin ice, and as Tripp's eyes catch Tate's fingers begin to unravel with his brother's, and even though he doesn't know how he feels about his brother or they're tea glass shattered relationship, one hand closes around Tate's and guides his fingers back into Teddy's hands.

"We need to get him to the couch, not keep him on the floor." 

His words taste foul, like metal and lemon or somewhere in between the two.

When he picks Teddy up, Tate comes with them, hand interlocked with hand.

His hands tremble slightly, not because of Teddy's paper like weight, but because he doesn't know if he can force himself to let go.

He swears he can feel teddy's heart beating. And he prays it never slows.

_____________________________

[gamemaker kelsier]

Despite their reassurances I can't believe them. Itcould be the overwhelming exhaustion or maybe those four walls down in the deep deep dark are more real then they'll ever be at this point. No matter what they tell me I can't believe that I am here, with them. If I allow myself that and it's not true then I don't think I'll be able to hold on any longer.

But I want to, oh please, I want to believe it, that I'm here with them, that I'm in Tate's lap and that's Tripp's hand working it's way through my hair. I don't want to let myself believe that it's Teva's hand enveloping mine, so large and warm. Any minute now they are going to shock me awake to drag me off to some brutal beating. Any minute now I am going to wake up.

But I don't want to, I don't want to, oh please let me sleep.

Tate is crying so hard that he's barely breathing but I can hardly make him out through my own messy tears.I reach up, shaking and willing but so weak. My hand cups his cheek and I make careful shushing sounds, like Mom used to when Tate got like this. Teva tries to help too, telling him to breathe. Tate is always taking care of us, to the point where he forgets that he needs rest too. It amazes me how much I remember about these brothers of mine that I can recall them in such vivid detail.

I miss them so much. It hurts.

"Don't be stupid," my imaginary Teva tells me. It's such a Teva thing to say that I sigh in contentment. It's like the way it feels to be home when Teva speaks. I wish I was here but there's no way. There's no way that I'm really free, after all that time spent in the dark, they didn't just let me go. They wouldn't of, that man, that man with the pliers, he was going to kill me. He was going to be my death. They must be lying. I must be dead, there's no way that I survived that.

This is really insane, I've finally gone mad.

My cries thicken and Tripp lifts me up, away from Tate but he's holding my hand. His warmth feels so real and so good. Sometimes Castor and I hold hands in the dark of the cell but her hand is smaller and softer.

My brother Tripp is solid and there and when my head falls against his chest I can hear his heart beating. thump. thump. thump. It's like he isn't dead anymore. I remember the night I found him with a gun in his mouth and an ache in his back where he was trying to make wings to fly away on. I love Tripp so much, this is worse than any other torture they've given me.

I wonder how they're doing this, I wonder if they've injected me with something to make this seem so real. I want to be here in my brother's arms so badly that I can barely think. I squeeze Tate's hand as tight as possible and cling tight to Tripp's shirt, I don't want him to put me down.

I haven't felt this safe in a very long time.

I'm dirty and cut and scratched and beaten and tired and I smell like I've been living in a sewer but I don't care. I'm not letting them put me down.

For however long this thing lasts, I'm going to hold on as tight as possible. So I nod along to their reassurances, pretending I actually believe what they're telling me. I'm going to use what time I have carefully instead of wasting it.

"I'm sorry," I say, sobs quieting. "I've been trying to figure out how I'd say it for so long, but all I can say is Sorry." I've spent hours turning words over and over in my head. Nothing really meets expectations. "It's all my fault," I add, "It's my fault you're dead."

If I'd just listened to Tate and done as I was told, we'd still be happy.

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

T A T E

Teva's arm wraps around my shoulder,, pulling me into him and Teddy's hand cups my cheek. Breathe. Teva tells me. Oh right. I think I forgot how because every inhale is devastating, an earthquake racking my lungs and burning my throat. I rest my head against Teva's shoulder, trying to ground myself as emotions run rampant. My brothers are strong, they are solid and so real in these moments that I can feel my heart rate slow as long centuries drag on. 

I never thought I'd see him again. I was so fucking sure I'd never see him again that this all feels like a sort of dream. A terrible, wonderful dream. We're all in shock, breaths held collectively as we wait for the broken little boy in my lap to speak. 

His words bring a wave of pain so thick that I must bury my face in the fabric of Teva's shirt to keep from screaming. "It's my fault you're dead." He tells us, taking the brunt of the blame when we all knew that was my job. Sometimes my little brother takes after me in the worst ways possible. 

"Don't." My voice is smooth, calmer thanks to the strong arm around my shoulder. Because Teva knows how to calm me down almost as well as he knows how to rile me up. I'll tell him that later, I think, because he'll get a stupid grin on his face and I love my brother's smiles as much as I love a certain crooked one. 'Teddy fucking Seraphim don't. I lean down, pressing my forehead to his and bracing his cheeks with my palms. "None of this is your fault and I won't hear a single word of it, alright? Or you'll be eating cranberries for breakfast forever." 

I put them in a meal once and I haven't heard the end of it, my brothers have the terrible habit of holding a grudge. But I'm a man of my word and I'm certain they all know that. 

An uncertain smile lights my cheeks as I lean back, caressing the apple of his cheek with my thumb absentmindedly, trying to wipe away the stubborn tears washing over it. 

I try not to think about how certain Teddy is of our deaths. The wounds on my stomach ache, sudden cold shooting up my spine as though slick silver has torn through my abdomen once more. I pull at the loose shirt that had rest somewhere above my navel moments before, revealing two puffy scars that I'd rather Teddy not lay his eyes upon. It's important not to let him know how his absence tore a hole through all of us, how we became less than brothers for a long time. It'd tear him apart. Break him into smaller pieces than he already was. And I cannot stand to do that.

Now that he's back I'll protect Teddy or die trying. There won't be an in between. Not this time.

"And I'm not dead. Teva is not dead. Tripp is not dead. You are not dead." I press my forefinger to his nose gently, accenting every statement. "You know damn well Cal would kill us if we even tried." 

The panic has not vanished, really, just become bearable. White hot flames simmering to a searing blue and breath coming in sharper gasps. This is what I'm best at, pretending. Pretending I'm okay when I'm falling to pieces because Teva and Tripp and Teddy are more important than anything I'm feeling. They're more important to me than anything in the world. 

And I'd die to keep them safe.

Sometimes I think I already have.

you told me not to cry
while you were gone

[pogue]

 
   B  U  L  L  E  T  

_____________________________

Three days. 

Teddy's gone yeah, but how long 'til you are too?

Three days. Seventy-Two hours. He'd tasted the cold metal of his gun once, and every day that Teddy had been gone he'd felt his body move closer and closer towards the edge, dragged by uncertainty, drowned by regret. Tate had asked him how long they had until they lost him too, but the question is empty, cold, laced with uncertainty but tainted with the unknown. He'd never told Teva or Tate about the night he'd sat frozen with fear, fingers wrapped around the trigger and barrel of his gun placed dead center on his lip and 

He'd never told them about how he'd felt Death on his shoulders, that with every trickle of sweat he saw their mother's face, bruised and beautiful. That with each finger shake he'd seen the white behind her step forward, gun in hand and with every second that passed by he could see the gun raise to her head and he 

and he would've done it, when the memory hit its peak, when the clock hit zero when their Mother's body hit the ground. Thats what made him most afraid, that he would've done it. 

That, if the boy with a heart too weak to keep his body going hadn't decided to take one more under it's wing. 

Thump, thump, thump. Since the day his lips had tasted metal, and his head had hit Teddy's shoulders, since the day he'd cried and apologized for something he would've actually done, he's swore that their hearts had been connected, every trickle of blood and every heartbeat traced back to the same source. 

Raw, emotional, unstable. Teddy had dragged him back from the void with weak arms and an even weaker heart. 
When he'd disappeared, it was like Tripp Seraphim's heart had stopped beating. 

Heart stopped. Too caught up in grief to keep itself going. 
But even with his heart stopped, he could still see it. 

Dark, unmoving, uncaring, the void stared back at him at each an every interval of the day. 
Luring, seductive, it had looked so worth it, so tempting to relinquish everything. 

To join Teddy, because he was sure that the boy who had never been able to keep up with them was dead.

Maybe thats why when the days turned to nights and the nights turned to darkness, he'd convince himself that staying late at the warehouse was the right thing for his soul, that target practice would lead to a more focused mind instead of wanting to make himself the target, that crawling back to the same spot he'd sat in when he'd first placed gun to mouth and life to the void would shock some sense into him. 

Three days, three nights. He'd placed gun to mouth again and again, staring down the barrel of something he'd called his talent his entire life. Never miss a shot. It was true, but the burden it brought had felt like too much to bear. 

Either way, if it was the last shot he were to take, he wasn't going to miss. 

Three days, three nights he'd sat, still and cold, so cold. 
Maybe he was waiting for something, for someone. 

Maybe he was waiting for Tate or Teva or someone to find him, alone and dead in the dark of the night. Maybe he was waiting for Teddy, as if the boy with the broken heart would come through those doors again and patch his heart up too. After all, they were connected. 

It was nights like those that his world truly crumbled, lost in between paper plane limbs and glass shattered hearts. It was nights like those, when the gun broke from between his lips, that he truly felt as if nothing was to ever be repaired again, as if salvation had come and gone, as if it had left him in the dust. 

On the first night, when the gun left his lips, he'd cried. Deep, rumbling, broken cries, yanked forward from the innermost feelings of his soul, put on display for the empty audience of a one-man show. On that night, he'd stayed until daybreak, until the rays of the sun had put cracks into the shell of Tripp Seraphim. 

On the second night, when the gun left his lips, he'd pointed it at the darkness, memories giving way to his sanity and he'd sworn he'd seen Teddy again, standing there in the moonlight with angel wings on his back. With a heart like gold and a soul like lavender. And just like that night, when his little brother had saved him, he'd aimed the barrel at Teddy's heart, fingers shaking soul trembling 

Just like that night, he'd dropped the gun and sat, legs pulled to chest, mind pulled together, alone in the darkness. 

On the third night, he'd pulled the trigger. 

Click. Jam. 
Scatter. The sound of gun sliding across ground is screeching to his ears. And finally, he crumbles completely, amidst the darkness of the void. 

"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm so so sorry." 

---

When they we're young, their mother would read them fairytales. They we're rambunctious times, filled with happiness and grace and the screams of three boys too crazy for the time of night. Filled with laughter, and love-

So much love. 

They spoke of faraway lands that hit too close to home, of heroes that came in the form of threes, of guardian angels in the form of a little brother. Everything tied to themselves, spun from their mother's mouth, implanted into four boys' souls. And in the end, when the demon was slain, when a dragon sat headless, the moral of the story was that love always lived on. 

That love was always enough. That love would always be able to overcome. 

It was the only time their mother had ever lied to them.

Tripp Seraphim can still feel Teddy's hair between his fingers, even though he has long since stopped running digits through his hair. He can feel, he can see the blood specks scattered across his fingers, battle wounds from battling with dragons and demons, no doubt. He sets a broken boy down on the couch, feeling his head buried into his shirt, feeling his heart thump to the same rhythm that his tears are falling. He is silent, stitched up lips to bruised, to broken to be able to speak like Tate or Teva. 

It is chaos. He is chaos.

A storm set to silence, raging winds and howling thunder inside his own mind. And it burns, gnawing at him, tearing him down bit by bit piece by piece. 

His love. Their love. It hadn't been enough for him to pull himself back from the void, from whatever it was that waited for him on the other side. No knight in shining armor, no demons no dragons to kill. Just him, a barrel, and an empty heart. 

Teddy is sure that they are dead, that this is some warped reality of his heaven.
Maybe he's right.
And Tate is sure that they are still alive. Always the optimist, even when his breathing patterns say otherwise.
Maybe he's wrong.

He makes no movements after placing his angel amidst the cushions and blankets. Teva pulls Tate close, trying to calm something that was unstoppable, too powerful even for their love. 

His eyes hit the floor, vision blurs and at this point he can't tell if its tears or anger or fury or regret or shame that clouds his vision. 

He hears the click of a jammed gun and he's dragged dragged dragged from the void to reality, back to crying and breathing and hyperventilating and-

Back to pain. Back to sorrow. Back to a boy whose innocence was lost as soon as the three of them we're too weak to save him. 

To save him. From themselves. From them. 
He blinks and images of their mother on a stage and a man in white and oh god the white

Its blinding, as it raises its gun to her head and christ
Click.

His mother once told him that he was such a good shot because he didn't have anything to focus on when he aimed a gun, but now he'd put up an argument against that. He had Tate. he had Teva, he had Teddy to focus on, to drive himself. 

On the inside, he screams. The void screams back at him. 
And just as quickly as the storm picks up, it dissipates to nothing. 

He leaves the room as silently as a broken man can muster, stairs creaking under the weight of his sins, under the weight of his regrets and he climbs one step two step, body on overdrive, mind shut down. On his desk sits a gun, stained with the spit of his lips and the poison of his thoughts. 

He grabs it, he loads it, making sure it doesn't jam for a second time. 

On the first night, he'd cried.
On the second, he'd aimed.
On the third, he'd fired.

And on the fourth, he'd kill. 
But not himself, them.

The men in clothes to white for the blood on their souls, who'd taken away their mother and innocence of youth and their childhoods and their everything. 
He'd thrown himself into the void once with the click of a gun in his mouth. He'd seen the darkness, felt the ice cold embrace of Death before he was dragged back into reality. 

He'd make them feel it too, make them feel the cold, feel the Death as he took what they'd taken from him, from his brothers. From Teddy.

One step, two step, the calmness that has washed over him is surprising even for himself.
It scares him, truly. 

But he pushes forward, gun in hand and regret in mind. Three step, four step, the door is still creaked open, the shock of Teddy being home once again too great for any of them to think to close the door. 

Five step, six step. His hand wraps around the door handle and his senses react in shock to how cold it is. He realizes, that is what they will feel, too. 

On the beginning of his seventh step, a voice calls to him. 

"Tripp?"
Not Teva. Not Teddy.
Tate's eyes are locked on his back, he can feel them. And in between chest heaves and broken sobs he can swear he hears Tate's heart thumping. Maybe Teddy's heart isn't the only one he's connected to. 

"I'm going to give them what they deserve, Tate. Look at what they did to him." 
His eyes glance at the broken body of a shattered boy.

"They don't-

They don't deserve to live with that they've done. They-" 

Silence interrupts him, choking his words out and laughing as they fall to the floor.
For a few moments, Tate says nothing, his only sounds his attempts at breathing. 

"Teddy is- Teddy needs you." 

But Tripp Seraphim does not hear those words. He hears shock, he hears grief, he hears heartbreak.
He hears his brother pleading with him. Pleading for his help.

Like a bullet through glass, he shatters.
He's dragged back from the void and the gun clatters to the ground at his feet and Tripp Seraphim

the silent one, the broken one

turns to face his brother, heart thumping chest pounding body broken soul shattered. 

He doesn't know how many steps it takes him to get from doorway to couch, his focus is too lost for that. 

But he lays a single hand on Tate's shoulder, silent agreement that whatever argument they had was over, that he understood. 
And maybe, love conquered after all.

Its almost a shock when he kisses Teddy on the forehead, because his lips are too used to kissing metal than skin, to used to feeling the icy cold as opposed to the kindled flame that burns within his little brother.

"I am not dead, Teddy Seraphim." 

Images of that night flash through his mind as he leans down to whisper to his brother, tears falling from cheek to Teddy's chest. 

"I promise you, I'm never gonna leave you, not ever, not in a whole million years." 

Behind him, the void sputters and crumbles and collapses.

_____________________________