maskormenacelogs | 27 👶 NOTHING TO LOSE BUT BITTERNESS AND PATTERNS [closed]

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27 👶 NOTHING TO LOSE BUT BITTERNESS AND PATTERNS [closed]

WHO: Joseph Kavinsky & Meadows Residents
WHERE: The Meadows, Maurtia Falls
WHEN: September 19, 2019
WHAT: Oops.
WARNINGS: Offensive language (possible racism, sexism, homophobia, etc.), violence, psychological problems, reference to substance use

On Thursday, September 19, 2019, Kavinsky wakes up in a dumpster filled with blood. He remembers vaguely why this happened; it adds up, more or less, to gang violence. The push-pull of criminal powers and crippling addictions that took place after he quit upkeeping Jesse Pinkman's meth business. It's been a horror on Maurtia Falls, and it's been his fault.

It doesn't bother him. Mostly, he was going to parties, practicing riding a motorcycle, petting a Bengal tiger kept on a chain (it ate his cellphone), and getting to know interesting people. Having a little fun. Most of it, surprisingly sober.

But all good things must come to an end.

He teleports himself to the Porter. Haphazardly buys a gym membership so he can use the showers, much to the disgust of his fellow patrons, who are judgy motherfuckers, who cares. He lies down in the middle of a department store parking lot -- much to the inconvenience of the shopping crowd -- dreams himself a car. He's back to the Meadows inside of an hour. He feels slightly tired. Snacky. Good, overall. He has since Ronan's dream clusterfuck.

By force of habit, he wanders up the stairs. And by force of habit, it's not his own bedroom that he tramples into first, but the one down the hall, abandoned but still intimately familiar. It doesn't hurt much these days, overall. But he has still come here, even since Ronan's dream clusterfuck.

Reality is, Joseph Kavinsky is more dead than alive now; enough deaths, both real and metaphorical. It's a sweet deal. The highs aren't as high, the lows aren't as low. Most days he doesn't mind barely feeling anything.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Murphy's sleeping (well, he was sleeping) in his bedroom, on his bed, when Kavinsky pulls up to The Meadows. The car has him stirring, not enough to get his ass out of bed, but enough to be just a little curious.

Then there are footsteps coming up the steps and down the hallway. Murphy doesn't think about it too much. It's not like this house is ever short of people walking around. But, instead of walking past his room, they barge in. That has him getting out of bed, stumbles right out because a bit of sheet got a little tangled up around his foot.

"Ro-" Nope, that's not Ronan. It's not Kylo. His heart surges right up into his throat. It's him. Kavinsky. The boy that's a popular face on his Instagram. "Kavinsky," Murphy drawls. "Where's Ronan?" Because he should be hot on your heels, Kavinsky.

That's a good question. Where is Ronan, wonders the audience at home? Somewhere else, possibly watching Kylo Ren chop wood topless whilst sipping a sweet ice tea.

Anyway: he's not here.

For an instant, Kavinsky thinks he wasn't so sober after all, that he fucked up, wandered into the wrong room. The wall seems like a Three-Dick Gansey choice. But he shifts his gaze and finds the body in the bed, sitting up, the striking profile with its huge Roman nose, the height beneath the blankets too modest to be Ronan Lynch. The wheels stop. Crack. Start to turn again, slowly. Kavinsky steps toward the bed, quiet as a thief, his expression blank, though for once, not because he 'barely feels anything.'

He sits on the edge of the bed. Still staring. His tattooed fingers -- the word D R E A M bridging his finger-bones -- reaching slowly, incredulously for the other boy's face. His impossible fucking face.

He felt his heart thrum against his chest even though nothing has happened. Kavinsky doesn't even answer him, just makes his way deeper into his room. Murphy's glance drifts over Kavinsky's shoulder, ticks over to the opened door. No other footsteps. Beyond his bedroom, it was pretty quiet. A dreadful feeling immediately weighed on his shoulders.

Are they alone?

Murphy leans away from Kavinsky's reach. "I'm not him - I'm not the same Murphy." What else is there to say? Murphy doesn't know. If he was more articulate, he would have thought to gently bring Kavinsky down to reality and not be so damn blunt.

That doesn't hurt Kavinsky's feelings because. because-- he doesn't have feelings anymore, never mind ones that know how to hurt.

But for some reason, his hand stops in mid-air when Murphy tells him that. There's a strangled quality to the silence that follows, though it's brief. Three seconds. And then, calmly, Kavinsky says, "Duh."

As if it was obvious. As if he knew. As if he was completely and utterly invulnerable to the pathetic insinuation of hope to the contrary. Or the startling, oblique pain that comes from every familiar part of Murphy's body, voice, even his nervous widdle startle reflexes.

Anyway, that is about when Kavinsky twists himself to turn back around, leans over, and hefts the nightstand straight off the floor. He picks himself up too, and despite his skinny frame and the absence of cocaine-related enhancements, the dream thief sends the little piece of furniture flying into the tall beautiful forest window. CRASH. Also:

"Do you mind getting your ass up out of this bed."

The silence that follows is not a comfort, it's pretty disconcerting to say the very least.

Duh.

He was almost sure that things would remain uncomfortably calm. And then Kavinsky decides to haul a nightstand right through a window. Murphy is already getting up even before Kavinsky opens his mouth.

"How about you get the hell out of my room," Murphy barks out. The space between the two dwindles because Murphy wants to get close enough to help direct Kavinsky right on out of his room. So he pushes him, puts all of his strength into it. Which, to be honest, isn't all that much, but it's safe to assume if Kavinsky was caught off guard he'd stumble back.

"Fuck off."

If Murphy now was Murphy before, he might have remembered: Joseph Kavinsky's new and improved capacity for emotional regulation (or sociopathic indifference) was the product of reprogramming by one Dr. Chilton, which actually included quite a bit of fitness. He never ended up putting on a lot of bulk, but he's stronger than he was, and that's obvious when Murphy hurtles into him. Kavinsky slides backward a few inches, his shoes squeaking on the floorboards, but he stays upright.

And it was always cute, how spindly Murphy was too. Half-starved from space-life. Ronan's runty little analogue.

"'Kay."

It's some Solomon bullshit. Half of Kavinsky forgets, half of Kavinsky remembers. He wraps one arm around Murphy, because his shoulder remembers the shape of Murphy's chin and his fingers recall the gaps between his ribs, and he's maybe stupid enough to think he has a right to hold the other boy right now.

But it's okay! Because the other half of Kavinsky reaches around behind himself to yank the handgun out of his pants (don't put a handgun in your pants, you will 100% blow off one fo your own ass-cheeks) and he levels it squarely toward the bed. The pillow where Murphy's head had rested only seconds ago, though fortunately for everyone involved tbh, no longer.

Of course, Murphy's plan to physically escort Kavinksy directly out of his room doesn't actually happen. Hands ball up into tiny fists, he's ready to swing but, instead, he gets pulled in close.

When he catches a glimpse of the gun, Murphy's heart freezes. It triggers his fight or flight and all he wants is to be out of this room, out from Kavinsky's embrace. His mind is absolutely reeling, going too fast for Murphy to keep up. Beneath Kavinsky's arm, Murphy becomes rigid, bracing himself for the inevitable.

The gun goes off, the sound ringing in his ears. Time seems to freeze or maybe it's going too fast or too slow.

"Are you fucking crazy," he bellows, surprised he was even able to string words together to form a complete thought. Fight or flight. Murphy decides his best option is to tear himself away from Kavinsky.

"Ronan!" Murphy shouts at the door. "Kylo!" Anyone!

Ronan appears almost the instant his name leaves Murphy's mouth, taking his place at Kavinsky's side, his fingers already in the process of prying the gun out of Kavinsky's hand. His other arm hooks itself around Kavinsky's skinny little neck in a stranglehold, though the goal is certainly to hold him still, not to choke him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he hisses into Kavinsky's ear, cradling him close, pinned back against his body. "That's Murphy."

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ y everyone so mad

Anyway suddenly Kavinsky has 0 guns instead of one (1). Plus, a Harmon-face is grabbing him around the neck while the other one is scrabbling away and screaming like a girl. Blood roars in Kavinsky's ears; suddenly, this bullshit is very clearly Ronan's fault. Kavinsky's face goes frighteningly blank. He has always had a strange relationship with anger. Regular people yell or leave or throw things, but he's only ever punched Ronan in the face between laughing.

Dr. Chilton's rehab program for monstrous little boys has not improved on his emotional expression. He ragdolls in Ronan's arm, but -- at least? -- he snaps out loud: "You said he'd fucking remember me. You said he'd be mine."

Yes, Murphy is shamelessly screaming like a girl - because he's scared.

Relief washes over him the instant that Ronan appears to disarm Kavinsky and hold him back from doing any further damage. He's still angry, it's boiled to the surface. Panicked, scared, angry. Not the greatest combination but it's something that isn't foreign to him.

"What the hell did you say," he spits out, shooting Ronan a very, very, very pointed look. "I am no one's! And you said you'd have this handled. Bullshit!" Murphy's yelling and he doesn't give a damn about being quiet. All piss and vinegar now.

His eyes are glossed over, tears threatening to roll down his face. It's the frustration and him not being able to do anything about it. Betrayed, that's what he feels. He trusted Ronan. Trusted to keep him safe.

"I trusted you." His jaw tenses, clenching his jaw, fighting back all these emotions that surface.

Ronan knows he didn't promise that to Kavinsky, because he never would. Even if Murphy was a dream - Ronan or Kavinsky's - he'd belong to no one but himself.

"I said he was alive, dipshit. And he is, isn't he?"

Though Kavinsky goes limp for now, Ronan doesn't trust him to stay that way. He keeps the gun out of reach, pointed toward the ceiling, and maintains a tight grip on Kavinsky himself. His gaze swings over to Murphy.

"I thought he was gone," Ronan tells him, and his voice cracks when he says it, though it's anyone's guess whether that's a mournful sound for Kavinsky or a guilty one for Murphy. It's true, he broke a promise to at least one of these boys. "Did he hurt you?"

Kavinsky has the grace, somehow, not to actually roll his eyes when the argument comes in the form of some kind of grammatical, semantic debate. But he doesn't have that much grace; it's a good thing no doubt that Ronan didn't give him his gun back.

He should really learn to keep more guns.

"You really going to pretend that's all you said?" Kavinsky's voice is acid, a hundred shades more human than anything he's said in months. "Look. Even your knockoff turd baby knows you're full of shit. I think he's gonna cry." It's an awful, spiteful thing to say; he made Murphy cry, his Murphy cry, any dozen of times -- and that's why he has an inkling, of what pointlessly cruel thing to say now or later. Murphy was not the kind of roach who you could never hurt; he was the one who'd survived mangled and maimed and left for dead.

Quite a lot of their relationship was defined by mangling and maiming really. Kind of a bad situation. "I'm gonna punch you in the dick," Kavinsky adds, but flippant now. And then he makes a fist, and moves to do exactly that. BUT THEN

...Nothing.

Because there's a new, dark shape in the doorway, looming near large enough to fill it. One of Kylo's hands is curled tightly around the hilt of his lightsaber, though he hasn't yet ignited the plasma blade. The other is stretched out towards Kavinsky, a direction for his will to follow as it flows through the infinitely tangled connections of the Force and coils solidly around him. The dream thief is not going to be punching anything.

Kylo's eyes slide past Kavinsky's immobile form to meet Murphy's. He is, in this moment, so very much like the boy Kylo himself had once been. All the fury and terror of having felt so powerless. The shock of broken trust.
And Ronan? Ronan needs rescuing from himself.

"Murphy," he says, tightly. It's not exactly effortless, locking Kavinsky in place with his concentration being pulled in so many directions. "I have him. He isn't moving again until I allow it. What do you want to do."

Kylo will hold a way out of the room open, if Murphy wants. He'll guard him, if asked. But no-one asked the boy Kylo had been how he wanted to be helped before choosing for him. Kylo won't make the same mistake.

"Shove it," is what he says to Ronan. He doesn't want to hear excuses even if they were pretty valid ones. The hurt is overriding any logical thinking, he's running purely on his emotions.

Kavinsky is opening up his mouth again, only to call Murphy a knock off. "I'm not," Murphy snaps, nearly spitting venom. He doesn't know what pisses him off more, being called a knock off or being told he's going to cry.

It is around this time another presence emerges, this one in the daunting form of Kylo Ren. "Leave." Murphy pushes forward, using his elbows if he needs to because he doesn't want anyone touching him. The room had grown so small and Murphy felt so much smaller. It never really was his room anyway, right?

With Kavinsky now locked in place by something other than Ronan's hold on him, it's time for Ronan to retreat. He disentangles their limbs and backs away, ejecting the magazine from the gun and clearing the chamber in a swift series of gestures once taught to him by the Gray Man. Now the weapon is more or less harmless.

More or less.

Ronan wheels around and swings, whipping Kavinsky hard across the face with the gun barrel before tossing the whole wretched thing aside in favor of his fist. There's no need to twist his fingers up in Kavinsky's shirt, but he does it anyway, because it helps him aim his punches.

No more words for Kavinsky. No more apologies for Murphy. Just the violence. Over and over and over, nothing but the muffled wet smack of knuckles on a pretty face and Ronan's clipped breaths.

Pain explodes in the side of Kavinsky's face. It doesn't hurt as much as it would hurt someone who has all of their proper functioning emotions, but it still hurts with startling vibrance. It's--

--better, actually. Freud would have a field day. But it means something different, to have the roar of impact and blood and nerve pain through his head, and an explanation for it as clear as day or at least the whites of Ronan Lynch's folded knuckles. It's different to the inarticulate misery of losing someone you love, having them come back to you without the faintest recall. To see that they prefer now, someone who they had had to prove time and time again in their love before, that they wouldn't choose instead.

Kavinsky should take up journaling. Instead, he's getting punched in the face by Ronan Lynch while Kylo Ren holds him with his brain magic.

"You little cunt," is broken up in between the punches. Directed at Ronan, naturally. To be honest, Kylo Ren's behavior seems peculiarly appropriate at the moment, not that Kavinsky is by any means a reliable metric for 'appropriate.'

Murphy had every intention to just escape the situation. He couldn't fight so he's fleeing. The hurt, the angry, it's all a tight ball in his chest. It's a cold and familiar feeling.

The first wet crack of bone against bone makes Murphy wince. Kavinsky deserves it, Murphy reasons with himself. Then it's followed by another and another. Ronan isn't going to stop, the realization is quick and sinks into his heart. He whirls around, reacting instead of thinking first.

The next fist that Ronan reels back, Murphy catches with his hand, the other grasping at his forearm.

"Stop!" The panic has his telekinetic field exerting out from his body, it helps to keep Ronan from wracking his knuckles across Kavinsky's already beaten and battered face. Murphy holds tight and maybe it's on some level of discomfort because Murphy is running on his adrenaline and has no idea how to control his abilities outside of controlled environments.

"Kylo, let him go." Murphy lets out a breath.

There's a brief pause as Kylo weighs up his obligations— Murphy's panic and plea for mercy against Ronan's desire for violence— but it doesn't last long. He asked Murphy what he wanted him to do, and this is what he's chosen.

He releases his hold... for now. And, just to be safe, he'll be taking that gun, too. He clips his saber back at his hip and summons the weapon and its magazine to his hand, examining the pieces curiously.

"Let him go where," he asks.

Beating the shit out of someone is a meditative act for Ronan. Once he gets started, he can lose himself in it. Every other concern retreats as his mind and body focus on aim, power, strategy, strength. He's not invulnerable, either, and each hit sends a jolt of pain through his hand. It wakes him up. It sharpens him.

If his knuckles are in bad shape, Kavinsky's face is a ruin. Ronan himself couldn't say whether or not he intended to stop, because up to that point, the bloody sight only gave him more and more satisfaction.

The spell is broken by Murphy's telekinetic interference. Now Ronan's the one being restrained by brain magic.

He looks at Murphy. His fingers release Kavinsky's shirt. His other hand remains locked in mid-swing, but Ronan stops fighting the grip that's holding him back. "I'm done," he says, his voice awfully low and calm for someone who was probably about to beat his ex-boyfriend to death.

You know what the problem with this scenario is? That is such a Murphy thing to do.

Mind you, Kavinsky doesn't idealize his ex-boyfriend that way. If Ronan had been a threat to Murphy himself, he wouldn'tve intervened. If Kavinsky had proper leveled his pistol at Murphy himself instead of his pillow, he wouldn'tve intervened. If Kylo Ren were himself a threat of harm to Murphy himself, he'd be out of here. Survival has always come first for John Murphy. But somewhere inside that shiny cockroach exterior, there's a conscience, that steals in good deeds like a thief steals dreams.

(It's also very Ronan for Ronan to think he could kill Kavinsky for like five minutes, but you know.) (At the end of the day, Kavinsky kind of likes good guys, whO KNEWWW)

He wants to throw up.

"Fuck," he says. Released, he's kind of woozy. He ends up spitting in Ronan's general direction, but actually his vision is too blurry and his blood pressure too unsteady for him to have any kind of aim. The wad of spit, more red than pink, flops short of Ronan's shoulder and onto the floor. "You're all pussies." This is incorrect, at least in the way that Kavinsky thinks, but he is a professional liar. He moves toward the door at a stagger, and makes it about halfway there before his left leg folds.

Murphy doesn't let go of Ronan until there's no resistance. And, even then, he's slow to remove himself off Ronan. "Good idea." Attention ticks down to Kavinsky. If Murphy came from a further blip in time then he'd pity the boy even more. Once he lets Ronan go, Murphy takes a step away.

"I don't fucking know," he hisses. "Just let him fucking go." And preferably far from him.

When Kavinsky stumbles in his direction, he moves, not wanting to help him any further than he has already. "You're the pussy, dickhead." His voice follows after Kavinsky. "And stay the fuck down."

In that case, Kylo considers his task completed— and while he's more than ready to respond should Kavinsky attempt something foolish, he turns his attention to Ronan.

He'd prioritised Murphy because that's what he believed Ronan wanted; because Ronan's commitment to keep Murphy safe is Kylo's commitment to the same. But Kavinsky, spitting blood and curses, is still one of Ronan's things. Kylo's eyes drift from the weapon in his hands to Ronan's face. What does Ronan want him to do? He'll do it. Anything.

Ronan sighs and steps forward to scoop Kavinsky up. The chaos of a fight may elevate him to a near-euphoric high, but nothing brings him down faster than surveying the aftermath of a job half-done. Kavinsky looks pathetic. The sight of him leaves Ronan with an uncomfortable gnawing in his gut.

He doesn't say anything. Grim-faced, he hauls Kavinsky's frail little body onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry and prepares to tow him away. He might as well weigh nothing, with the way Ronan handles him.

Kylo looks to him and Ronan catches his eye for a brief moment, though he has no answer for the unspoken question. What Ronan wants to do is deposit Kavinsky in his car with an ice pack and send him on his way. Beyond that? The damage is done. Murphy will want to leave. Ronan won't stop him.

This process is doing nothing for Kavinsky's sense of equilibrium, and everyone should be more considerate of his feelings probably!

He dangles off Ronan's shoulder like a half-skinned cat. Bloody and angry, and as if-- as if, he couldn't have teleported away five minutes ago, if he had wanted. Kavinsky has a complicated relationship with most things that he wants, though. Which is why he's hanging off one ex, staring slightly cross-eyed at his ex's new person, then over at his other ex's doppelganger. Not teleporting. Bleeding a lot out of his face. One of his teeth feels loose, he finds, rolling his tongue over it.

It's a fleeting thought, petty, trivial, for him: maybe he should kill himself to get his looks back. Ronan Lynch would be upset by that. Pussy. (He is forever a moron about the available definitions of cowardice.) That seems like a lot of effort.

"Put that window up again, and I'll burn down the whole fucking forest."

There. Easy. Dare he say, even tasteful. (no.)

His attention forks off. Kylo, Ronan and finally Kavinsky. It lingers on Kylo, eyes sharpening. This wasn't a fair fight, Murphy thinks. He thinks it so loud he may as well of just said it, but he doesn't want to give Kavinsky any satisfaction.

"No one gives a fuck," Murphy slings over to Kavinsky's crumpled body. It's a battle for who gets the last word and Murphy really, really, really wants to have that.

He moves around Ronan, flipping Kavinsky off as he goes. Instead of following behind them, he goes in front. Walking down the hallway as if he knows where he's going to go. All he knows is that it's not safe for him to stick around here. Ronan can't keep him safe. And even though it was never Ronan's responsibility to keep Murphy safe, he did say he'd have this handled.

That wasn't the case. Clearly.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjxkqs7rgOg (also cw c-word)

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tw suicidal ideation

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