muscle memory | [mav/pres]

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

It was insane. All of it. If he was being honest with himself, he'd probably spent more time in the last twenty-four hours crying than not, because it just felt so unreal. Every time he felt like things might be getting better, or at least hurting less than before, something unthinkable happened. A quiet boy from homeroom went missing. The alpha girl from gym class showed up shoeless in the woods, claiming she'd been kidnapped. The campus of his school- the haven for people like him who dared to be different- shut down for the foreseeable future. And where did that leave Presley Douglas?

Right back where he'd started, sleeping in a bedroom he no longer felt belonged to him, and eating meals in a place that no longer felt like home. And no one had ever accused him of being the type to withhold his emotions, that much was for sure, so he cried. He cried so much that sometimes he forgot what the hell he was crying about: his mind would shift and his thoughts would warp and what would start as a sob of grief would somehow end up being about how he would never be good enough and then that would morph into feeling like a fraud and then that would morph into not wanting meatloaf for dinner.

Honestly, and he couldn't believe he was saying it, but it was good to have a distraction. Even if the distraction came in the form of a stupid science presentation and a boy who made him act like an absolute idiot every time he looked at him.

"We could go to my Dad's hunting cabin," Presley had suggested, twirling the phone chord around his finger, "More quiet than a library, more convenient than a park."

Truth be told, he would've preferred trying to do the work sitting in the middle of main street during rush hour than here. But he hadn't realized until he clicked off the phone what, exactly he'd just done.

He'd invited Maverick Poole to an isolated cabin in the middle of nowhere. And he didn't know what that meant, exactly, but it felt like something more than it probably should have. So he spent twenty minutes trying to comb his hair before ultimately deciding it looked best just as it had when he'd started trying to fix it, and he'd applied perhaps a spray or two more of cologne than he normally would have, and he made sure to have a pocketful of mints. He rationalized all of these. He couldn't have bad hair, because Maverick would comment on it and it would distract them from their work. He couldn't stink, because how embarrassing would that be? Trying to focus on the muscle system and Mav is sitting next to him trying to hold his breath because he smelled bad?

He borrowed his Dad's car for the trip. He recognized the privilege; only the elite could afford fast travel like this and his parents had never been shy about their more-than-fair share of Six's wealth. And he hated himself for it but there was a small part of him that hoped pulling up in the monster that was his dad's glossy muscle car would impress the other boy. So he made it a point to be just a couple minutes late and when he pulled up, he acted as nonchalant as possible, walking up to the front entrance and nodding to Maverick as he fumbled with the keys.

"Sorry I'm late. Mom wanted me to wait so she could make us some snacks," he chimed.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

Being paired with Presley feels like torture slicked in sugar.

You've spent years and years doing everything in your power to try and make sure that no one ever saw you, trying to make sure that the whole world was on the outside and not even you were there on the inside to see the dark and twisted things thrashing in your chest. For so long, you've known that there was no happiness out there in the world for you, known that you were going to be the kind of person who spent their whole life on their own.

It never changed the hunger.

It never took away the want.

It hollowed you out, made you feel empty and broken inside, incapable of feeling anything good or whole or healthy. Because no matter what you did, no matter how many times you told yourself that you're toxic and terrible, there's that ache inside of you begging to be filled, the desperate want to be a part of things. The feeling that where you heart is, something has fallen out of you. Like you've sped, out of fear, right through all the parts of your life that you should have been paying closer attention to. Like your life got stolen out from underneath your feet and you let it happen and that makes it your fault and now you're going to spent the rest of your life alone, dead inside, with nothing.

The incomprehensibly human part of you that feels like you're missing out on something, like there's a collapsed thing under your skin that just needs to be reinflated.

It's part of why you've always been so drawn to Naomi.

Even when she wasn't trying, she made you feel whole. Or like you could be.

But then that deadly thing that stole your life out from under you whispers in your ear, a demon on your shoulder and in your brain and in your bones reminding you that you're cursed and this hollowness is what you deserve.

Cleo Burns showing up and telling you through gritted teeth that Cass is dead was all you needed to be reminded that, no matter how blue Presley Douglas's eyes are, no matter how that little quirk of his mouth makes your stomach flip, there's no one in this world that's going to save you. All they can do is distract you from who you are.

The problem is you'll let them.

Presley Douglas most of all.

He rolls up in front of you and you're already feeling like you're going to do something that you're going to regret, something that you're going to feel guilty about in a week, in a year, in a decade, the kind of thing that you're never going to forget because you're never going to let yourself forget it, that you're never going to forgive yourself for, that you're going to torture yourself with every single day of forever. You don't know if he's done it on purpose, showed up trying to show off, driving daddy's car to this second house of his. You're perched on the front steps and glad now, somewhere inside of you, that you got here first, glad that you didn't agree to let him come and get you at your shithole of a house, glad that he didn't have to see you riding your goddamn bike up the road, didn't have to see you sticky with sweat like you're a person who has to put effort into anything.

Glad that you stash the little ball of clay that you keep on you all the time in its little container before he sees, shove it into the front pocket of your backpack.

"You're late," is on the tip of your tongue, callous and quick, but he beats you to it, apologizes before you even have the chance to be angry or say something nasty and it makes something shiver in your spine, something click in your jaw, your fists tighten. You push off of the step, stay as far away from him as you can manage in the small space, and then follow him through the door once he finally inserts the keys.

You know that you shouldn't be comfortable here.

So you pretend that you are.

The first thing you do is invade the space, toss the backpack you're carrying to the side and walk away from Presley into the kitchen. "The fuck is this project supposed to be on again?" you ask, tone unkind. The academic probation you're on makes you just about want to scream, wonder how the fuck anyone cares about this stupid shit where two of your friends have dropped fucking dead. "Also, Cunt Hawkins has it out for me, so don't expect anything above a C on this."

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

He could smell it on him. Rage. It seeped through him and it was scary- it always has been. Maverick was never more than a stone's throw away from getting his knuckles bloody and making a decision he would regret, but this was different. This was a clenched jaw and a thousand hateful words just out of earshot as he slammed the car door and crossed his arms over his chest.

Presley was so, so stupid. And he'd read this so, so wrong. Of course Maverick was feeling volatile. Cass had only just been confirmed to be dead a few days ago and they'd been close. Which was a finnicky subject as far as he was concerned, because trying to figure out which people Maverick liked and which ones he did not hate could've been a drinking game. He treated them all the same, didn't he?

He focused on the drive. Stay between the lines and don't say anything to piss him off, he thought, fingers gripping the steering wheel while they listened to the static-laced sound of his dad's old cassette tapes and the buildings became more and more sparse. He guessed the silence made it a bit easier.

By the time they'd made it to the outskirts of the district, the landscape had changed to something more mountainous and the houses were fewer and far between. The evening sun was tinting it all blue-gray and it was in that strange in-between, where the sun wasn't quite set but there were stars out. It was beautiful, something that he would've normally enjoyed sharing with the boy sitting next to him, but he'd fucked it up. He'd sprayed cologne and brought fucking snacks and Mav was mourning someone and just-

"It's right up here," he said, forcing his gaze forward.

They arrived like winter: quiet and consuming. Presley made sure three times that his doors were locked while Mav walked inside.

"Nah, I cleaned all the board erasers earlier this week without being asked. Owes me."

His attempt at lightening the situation was futile and it hadn't worked; he recognized it from the moment the words left his lips as he followed Mav up to the house and unlocking its front door.

“You wanna eat first or...” Even as he spoke the words, he kept telling himself to leave him alone. To never ask Mav anything ever again. To shut up and let the guy be sad, or mad, or angry, or terrifying so that he could move on. But, well...

“Or I could spend the next three hours dazzling you with my very, very limited knowledge of the muscular system. Also worth noting: the knowledge I do possess comes primarily from the text book, and I cannot stress this enough, it is not extensive.”

He was a Pisces.

“Or we could... talk about it..? And express ourselves in a healthy way?”

At least he’d done his best to show the concern he was feeling when he spoke.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

He's talking.

Incessantly.

Your grip on the door handle to the fridge tightens for one, two, three, inhale.

You want to stop breathing.

The exhale comes anyway, and all over again there's just anger with yourself, burning right there at the surface, flames licking up your throat and setting your brain on fire. You roll your shoulders back, tick your head to the side and inhale again, let yourself exhale without holding it.

You wish that he would stop rambling, because it's making funny things tickle inside of your chest, like little strings pulling on your heart in unfamiliar sorts of ways. It makes you grit your teeth, clench your jaw until it aches and you can feel the tension traveling down your spine. Every part of you is tensed, a boy on the verge of something. It's a terrifying realization, that you're standing here in this kitchen with Presley and there's probably no one around for a mile.

You're all alone.

You should run.

"This always how you handle a crisis, Douglas?" you ask, looking back at him over your shoulder before pulling the fridge door closed again, slamming it shut more harshly than you really have any right to. But you're the one who found your dad's body. Then your family fell apart. Then Frankie died. Then Cass died. And it was you. All you. You're the through line.

You ruin everything you touch.

"Or is this just the first time something's gone wrong in your life so now you're panicking."

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

"This always how you handle a crisis, Douglas? Or is this just the first time something's gone wrong in your life so now you're panicking?"

He hated it when Maverick called him by his last name. It was like he was referring to a separate entity. It made him feel less like the boy who'd caught Maverick listening to him play in the theater and more like the boy who was born to Trevor Douglas. Which was to say, he felt like Maverick was looking at him and seeing the boy he was meant to be and not the boy he'd chosen to be instead.

But his questions were fair. He felt ashamed. Things really hadn't ever gone wrong, before. Nothing more serious than a particularly difficult unit in middle-school math, he thought. Christ, his parents were so rich that when he'd sat them down- pinnacles of the knowledge district- and told them he wanted to pursue music, they hadn't even blinked an eye. Because of course it was something they could afford to at least let him try. And of course it was a dream that only someone of their status could allow their child to follow. And they didn't even pressure him to have good grades on top of it, which was such a foreign concept in Six that it felt illegal. They had his sister to be the prodigal golden child and take over where they left off, and she was happy to do it, so they were happy to let her.

He felt a tightness in his chest, between a rock and a hard place because Maverick's upbringing had been so, so very different from his own. Too different for Presley to even begin to understand. But this wasn't about Presley, and Mav was probably just trying to make it that way because he didn't want anyone to see him squirm under the spotlight he seemed so set on asking to be under.

"I just... I can tell you're upset, and I don't want you to be."

His eyes stung and he forced himself to smile at the other boy before anything could fall.

"I don't want you to hurt, and I don't want you to feel alone."

And there was a selfishness to that, if he was being honest, because he wanted to be the person that Maverick turned to. He wanted to be someone's number one, especially his.

His instinct was to reach out and put a hand on Maverick's shoulder, but he didn't. He'd learned as a child that touching a flame will only leave you with a burned hand, so instead he busied his fingers by folding them together.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

You're drowning and on fire all at once.

You can't contain it all in your chest, can't stop the way that it's making your breath shake, the way it's making your bones tremble. You feel like a thing coming unravelled, like all Presley has to do is tug just right and he's going to bring you all the way down to your hands and knees, sobs heaving out of you. It feels like everything has changed and nothing is ever going to.

There was a time, years ago, when you think maybe if things hadn't fallen apart, you could have grown up to be someone different. You don't remember the first time you woke up from a night terror, but there were so many nights that you can think of where you were a child, shaken out of your terror by a mother who looked as terrified as you think you must have felt. You remember her brushing the hair off of your forehead, pressing her own to the clammy skin there in an effort to calm you, to ground you. You think, maybe if you hadn't found your dad like that then you could have grown up able to show someone else the same kind of gentleness. Maybe if you didn't know too young what a bashed in skull looks like, you wouldn't have been so capable of such unbridled violence. Maybe if your father hadn't been a crook. Maybe if your mom hadn't fallen apart after he got axed.

Maybe if you hadn't been your dead crook of a father's favorite son, you could be someone different.

Presley could stand there in front of you, playing at being a hero, and you wouldn't be standing here feeling like he was pouring shards of glass down your throat. You could be a person who has feelings and knows how to let himself feel them.

But instead you make yourself choke on them, punish yourself until every feeling is magnified ten fold and nothing is ever going to be okay ever again.

Instead, when he tells you that he doesn't want to feel alone, you show him the only way that will happen.

You kiss him.

Between one second and the next, a floorboard creaks and you flex your hand once, dig your nails into your palm, and then stop thinking. You just step into his space and put your palms on either side of his face, kiss him for a long second, close your eyes and let yourself feel it in your whole body. It ends when you pull away, eyes still closed.

They stay that way too long, and it feels exposing.

You walk out the door again, sit on the front steps and flick out a cigarette and a match. You wish you had your little ball of clay to fiddle with.

You don't know what to do with your hands.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

There was a tension and it frightened him, made him want to disappear. But Maverick's stare was all-knowing and all-seeing and there was nowhere Presley could run to within himself that Maverick would not see. He was seen, and so he was insecure, because Presley hadn't ever really liked a single thing about himself that someone might accidentally see.

His hand instinctively reached across his chest to squeeze at his other: one last-ditch effort to hide away before Maverick took a step closer and then suddenly Presley could smell the mint on his breath and then he could taste it. He was enveloped, a hand to each cheek, back to the wall. He was silenced, lips against lips and eyes forced shut.

By the time they parted, Presley was out of breath and completely dumbfounded. He did not know what to do, or say. He did not know how to react, but there were several reactions at war within him. He wanted to laugh, because he'd waited a lifetime and a minute for that. He wanted to pout, because Mav had pulled away. He wanted to scream because Mav was leaving. He wanted to cry because he did not think he'd just been kissed because Mav wanted to kiss him, but more because he wanted to shut him up.

He waited until he heard the slam of the door before he gathered himself, clearing his throat and fixing the hem of his shirt.

"Hey-" the word was a whisper, so he tried it again but this time it was a scream- "Hey!"

He stormed after him, gritted teeth and clenched fists and he pulled the door open. He didn't know what he expected to find. Probably to see Mav halfway down the driveway, storming away even still, never bothering to look back. Or gone already. Instead he was just there, just on the steps. Presley faltered.

"I-"

He sat next to him. He could've asked what was wrong. He could've forced this idiot of a teenage boy to finally crack open the armor he wore with such pride. He could demand it. Right then, right there. No more running. No more hiding- Mav had seen Presley, and now he could look right back. But he realized just as the words were about to leave his lips- stammering and trying to form a coherent thought- that it would never work like that and if Presley knew one god damn thing about Maverick Poole it was that he liked his life better with him in it. He didn't want to walk away from that day feeling any differently.

So he said nothing. Instead, he pulled the cigarette out of Mav's hand, stomped it out, and laced their fingers together.

"Come back inside," he said- there was something like a mixture of fear and understanding in his voice. He knew what would come next and even if it happened for the wrong reasons, he'd let it. Because Maverick mattered a lot more than he had probably ever realized, and Presley was just the right amount of hopelessly optimistic to think that, maybe, with his help, Maverick would realize it some day.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

You've never existed in moderation.

For as far back as you can remember, there has only been thing burning, this all encompassing thing that is completely incapable of being anything else. For a long time, it filled you up, made you whole. You were the golden, glowing child the apple of your father's eye, the fierce and cruel thing that he was so desperately, completely, wholeheartedly proud of. The one that he knew would be able to follow in his steps one day, the one with the sharp tongue and the sharper mind, the self-awareness of a sixty year old in a six year olds body. And for everything that you set on fire, you completely ignored everything else.

You never wanted things in halves. Either you hated them or you loved them, split yourself open with grins and broken bones, threw fists into people who would hit you back just because you needed somewhere to put all that feeling.

Channeling it into your knuckles was easiest.

Or, at the very least, it was what you learned first, and you are nothing if not a creature of unfortunate habits.

You suppose kissing Presley probably looked something like that.

"I was smoking that, Douglas," you say, looking him in his eyes, unflinching if only because there's nothing else you want to do more. Boy on the verge. Boy on the verge. Boy on the verge. You're coming unravelled with every passing second, are doing everything in your power not to just start trembling. He's looking at you like that, like you have permission that you didn't ask for and know you don't deserve, and every single part of you is screaming to take advantage.

So you kiss him again.

He's just... he's sitting right there. And he laced your fingers together, and your palm fits so nicely flattened against the shape of his jaw that you you have to lay it there and press. You pull him into your space this time instead of entering his, feel his spine bend towards you as you do and just.

You grit your teeth. Clench your jaw.

And you kiss him.

Because what else is there?

Hard and slow all at once, nothing rushed, nothing kind. You can feel his teeth behind his lips, pressed against the soft skin, his nose pressed against your own. You pull away again, a final chance, maybe.

Not for you. You're hopeless.

But him.

"I'm going to keep doing that."

Run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Run.

Presley could still run.

He should. 

You don't know anymore what it is exactly that he's meant to be running from, if it's you or whatever has been done to you, don't know if they're one and the same these days. All you know is that all you want to do is run from yourself, know that he needs to. You run from the future. You run from the past. You run from who you are, picking up pieces of yourself and leaving them behind again, shattering fragments of yourself over and over again and trying to put them back together, cutting people apart as you go.

As if by running, you never have to live with any of it.

There's this: you've spent your entire life telling yourself that you're loving the things you're using.