If I'm Out of Line, Just Show Me the Door [CLOSED]

[ownperson]

Who: Agent South Dakota (ownperson) & Agent North Dakota (gooddefense)
What: Unresolved tension boils over
When: Mid-December, pre holidays
Where: North's farm, Northwest Hollow
Warning(s): Excessive alcohol/alcohol abuse, ongoing mental health crises, discussion of betrayal/fratricide by proxy, possible references to past emotional abuse/neglect, others added as necessary



She doesn't mean to get back so late.

One drink turns into two drinks into five into ten and, outside the Oak & Iron's windows, the world turns black and white as night creeps in and snow drifts down from clouds overhead. Midnight is already long behind her by the time the bartender finally cuts her off so they can close up, ushering her out to brave the chill as she curses herself for losing track of time. It's a long walk back from downtown to the farmhouse even on a good day and, between trudging through snowfall and her own drunken clumsiness, this is not a good day. Should've left sooner. Should've been back hours ago. It's just—

Been getting harder and harder to spend time in the house without wanting to scream, the last few days—fuck, the last couple weeks, really. Hours will go by where everything seems okay and then something will happen, something small, something she barely even notices, and everything gets weird again. North gets weird again. But then she doesn't say a word, and, eventually, things go back to normal. Until the cycle repeats. Over and over and over again and—

She just needed to get out of the house. Needed a drink and to clear her head. That's all. That's fucking all.

Her pale skin is red and her hands are shaking as much from the cold as the alcohol, by the time she hauls herself up the porch steps and fumbles with the lock on the door. It's not quiet, it's not considerate. When it finally clicks open, she shoulders the door and stumbles inside, shoving it back shut behind her. Her boots thud heavily against the wooden floor and she grunts, huffing as she fights to get the stupid things off so she can drag herself to bed.

Comments

[gooddefense]

"I want you around!" There are some things that really make it obvious that they're twins--- like how their voices break in the same way. "I do want you around! I just----"

Pinching his brow, he lets out a sharp sigh.

"South, why the fuck did I say I was sorry and you didn't? What does that say about us?"

[ownperson]

"...what?"

Why didn't she— what? South drifts until her back hits the wall beside the door, breathing hard and running back through that day in her head. She didn't say sorry? She didn't— why didn't she— does he really think—

"I— I didn't mean to..." She didn't even think about it. Really, though, that's the problem, isn't it? She didn't think about it. Fuck. What the fuck. "I'm sorry. Of course I'm fucking sorry, I— if I could undo it, I would, I would do anything to— to—"

Breathe. She buries her face in her hands, shoulders rising and falling in heavy waves. She would do anything. Anything to turn it back. Anything to fix this. And she can't. She can't fix it.

"I'm sorry."

[gooddefense]

"...That day that it happened, I called for you," North mutters, his gaze drifting off to the side and finding the floor. "I know you heard me. I didn't know that at the time, because I thought--- Jesus, I thought you were already dead. I thought that was the only way you wouldn't come running. I can't even begin to describe the despair I felt in that moment. It was--- a thousand times worse than the moment I realized I was going to die, was the moment I realized you weren't coming. ...Finding out that you were listening, just biding your time, because you hated Theta that much for taking up mental space and time of mine that you regularly claimed to not even want? I can't think of anything fucking worse."

He's quiet for a moment, scrubbing one side of his face with his hand roughly. Just trying to feel real.

"I love you, South. You are without a doubt my favorite person. I love being a twin. I love being your twin. It's the most--- amazing bond that I think two people could ever have. But I never wanted that to impede upon your ability to live for yourself. I just--- I don't know how to strike a balance. I can't give you the space you want and be right where you need me, right when you need me. I can't give you the room to focus on your own stuff but then not save myself the room to focus on things other than you. What you're asking me for, it's--- impossible. And the punishment for failure was death. Do you have any idea how hard that makes it to be open with you like you want?"

[ownperson]

South stays quiet. Doesn't argue, doesn't interrupt, just tries to listen. Even as it hurts, even as the guilt threatens to choke her where it swells into her throat. (She hurt him, she hurt him she hurt him she hurt him—)

There are words that once would've bolstered her like nothing else. There are others that sink into her skull like shrapnel. By the time they're done, she's sunk to the floor. Knees bent up, elbows to knees, palms to head, fingers in hair. Every breath is still a heaving effort.

He's right. Every word he says is right. This is all her fault. And the worst part is she knows it.

"...I-I don't know what's fucking wrong with me," she chokes out around guilt and anger and bile, sounding more lost than she ever has in all their lives.

[gooddefense]

There's a good long while where North is silent. He hates this. He hates that he had to say any of it. Hates that she didn't figure this out on her own just as much as he hates himself for not being able to just forgive without a second thought. Why does he need an apology, anyway? He should know, right? That she's sorry, without her saying it. That's why it's affecting her so much, right? And knowing that without her saying it is just what a good twin does, right?

But also why the fuck did she forget to say it? If it matters this much to her, if she wishes so bad she could fix it, if she cares this much, then why----

Why?

North sighs, and sits beside her on the floor. He hates hurting her. Some part of him feels avenged, but that just makes him feel guiltier. Fuck.

Chirping, Theta comes over and settles himself in North's lap. The top half of him is furry, and it's nice to have something soft to touch. Something to give affection to. Soothing, in its way.

"...I don't wanna hurt you," North says, almost too quietly to hear. "I don't want to hate you. But I don't know how I'm ever gonna get past this if I keep--- doing this shit like I have been and pretending it doesn't hurt. You can't take it either, like you said. I think---- I think we should--- get some space, you know?"

[ownperson]

Some cruel, masochistic part of her that has been waiting on tenterhooks for weeks thinks: Annnnd there it is.

Some other part of her tells it to shut up, shut the fuck up, that's not what he's saying. Right? That's not what he's saying, he's not— what does space mean? How much space? How long? (How is she meant to go back to living without him?)

"...okay," she says, voice cracking. Dropping an octave, for a moment she sounds more like him. Then she clears her throat, and is back to herself. "Okay."

Should say more. Doesn't know how to say more. Doesn't know how to say more without saying something she shouldn't, without trying to find some knife to twist to make him reconsider, without trying to cling on so hard she'd only make it worse for them both. Doesn't actually want to do that. Doesn't want to hurt him. Doesn't want to be this— this monster she's turned into.

"I-I'll— I'll get my shit."

[gooddefense]

"You can do that in the morning, South, c'mon. I don't mean it like that," North mutters. "I don't want you to fuck off right now and never talk to me again, I just--- need room to be hurt without having to also worry about you. That's it."

[ownperson]

"I-I know." No, she didn't, not for certain; there's a relief in having him say it in clear terms. "But I can't— if I don't go now, I-I don't know if the me you wake up to is gonna be reasonable."

Not sure she can just sleep, after this. Can only imagine staring up at the ceiling until sunrise, trying to keep it together. Add sleep-deprivation to the rest, and... and she doesn't trust herself. She just doesn't trust herself.

"M'sorry."

[gooddefense]

That's... fair.

She's trying. He knows she's trying.

"...Do you know where you're going? You have somewhere to go, right?"

[ownperson]

A deep breath in and she drops her hands from her head, nodding loosely. "The Oak and whatever's still open for room stuff m'pretty sure. S'just the bar that's shut."

She hates the idea of it, the idea of being alone in a hotel room again, reminding her all too keenly of the nights spent in motels after.... after. But it's an option that's not going anywhere, even if it does mean another walk through the snow.

[gooddefense]

"Okay." He hates the idea as well. It sits uncomfortably in the pit of his gut. "...Call me when you get there. And then--- wait for me to call you after that."

[ownperson]

Her next breath quakes so blatantly that she sounds on the edge of tears, but she swallows them down. No. Not happening. Not now. Not fucking now.

"Okay." She gets her knees under her, ready to push herself to her feet, but hesitates a moment. Bites the inside of her cheek and allows herself one final bit of selfishness, turning to drag him into a tight hug.

If this is going to be goodbye (just for a while, just for a while—) then sue her, she wants to hug her damn brother.

"...I'm sorry. I-I love you Di," she murmurs into his shoulder, before she forces herself to let go, stand up, stand back. (Not a lot to grab. Couple changes of clothes and a coat so he doesn't worry too much. That's all. Won't even take five minutes.)

[gooddefense]

With a shuddering, wet-sounding sigh, he hugs her back just as tight.

It's not forever. North doesn't want it to be forever. So why does it feel so final? Fuck.

"I love you, too, Tash," he murmurs. "It's gonna be okay. Just--- take care of yourself, alright? Don't drink too much, and stay outta trouble."

(This is his fault. It's his fault she's leaving him. He sent her away. He has no right to feel like this.)

[ownperson]

She puts on the barest ghost of a smile, tries to look something like herself. Tries to look, in any way, reassuring of that fact she won't do anything stupid. "I-I'll try."

She pulls her boots back on, cinches the laces tight. She collects her small pile of clothes from beside the couch and stuffs them into a bag. She grabs a coat from the rack and shrugs into it. It takes maybe two minutes, and then she's standing at the door, staring out at the snow. (It makes her think of home.)

Can't look back at him, can't look back at him or she'll waver and she can't do that, she has to do this, has to do this or there'll be nothing left to fix. Has to leave, or else it'll only end in him really, truly hating her, and she can't... she can't take the thought of it.

"...you— you take care of yourself too, okay? Don't... don't be alone. Don't just— don't just shut down. Okay? Don't do that."

With that and one final, fortifying breath, she walks out the door.