|Seven has never been (favoured) wrote in repose,|
@ 2019-05-17 23:11:00
The words on the screen hadn’t magically begun to sort themselves into something that made any more sense the longer that he’d stared at them, but that didn’t stop Seven from flicking open the forum page again and again. The text blurred and seared into his brain in film-negative colours but he kept reading them over, mindlessly hoping that they would rearrange into something even a little bit easier to understand.
A friend of mine. Liam Roberts.
Seven didn’t try to entertain the thought that maybe the guy on the forum was wrong, or that he was talking about a different Liam. Because that wasn’t how things ever worked out. They hadn’t worked out that way in Repose as long as he’d been here, or in New York before that, or Vegas before that. The universe did not provide except in pain inflicted on the people that he loved. It was always Seven's child getting sick. The sad, scrawny little junkie on the side of the road with the deer-in-headlights expression always turned out to be the mother of his kid, after months of not knowing if she was alive or dead. The dead guy was always his guy. His Liam. So maybe it was anger that masked a bit of self-pity, but it was also just the way that things were. People left, and people almost died, and apparently now they died for real.
Seven let out a frustrated exhalation, a short, sharp rush of air that scraped him raw like sandpaper on the way up from his lungs. He leaned forward on the front step where he sat outside of his house, facing the driveway while he waited for this Klaus guy to show up. A half empty bottle of gin sat between his bare feet, and it had been mostly full when he pulled it down from the shelf. He put the phone down on the step beside him and raked both hands into his hair with his elbows propped against his knees, the middle finger on one hand catching on the thick scar that hooked around Seven's ear where his scalp had split open all those years ago. Another cruel notch on the proverbial headboard.
His mouth tasted like herbs and felt bone dry like bleached paper. He sat. Tried to think about the last time he’d spoken to Liam. It’d been, what - last summer, probably. Seven had explained why he’d disappeared and teased Liam about owing him brunch after standing him up. He thought about the phone call and desperately, ludicrously wanted to wrap himself up in the warm drawl of Liam’s voice that he could still hear, filtering back through the stretch of time. But now the man that he had spent years loving, and hating, and resenting, and missing each time one of them disappeared or lost their memories or pulled a gun on the other, now he was dead. Liam was dead, and apparently leaving him messages from the spirit world, and Seven hoped to God that this guy Klaus could tell him how he was supposed to deal with this knowledge that had him spinning out sideways on a knife’s edge of tenuous sanity. Ideally a solution that did not involve numbing himself with gin for the rest of his life or putting a bullet between his eyes.