#edit: sry for forgetting the readmore this bitch is longgg

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xlvii // The Confession

Credit to @snuffhimout for graciously letting me steal the 'missing in my head' line from a year old character analysis of Renee that hasn't left my brain since lmao Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

By the time Renee reaches the apartment complex, the snow has ceased, and what thin pickings remain on the side of the road is melting in the increscent heat of the morning sun.

The same is true for whatever rage had a hold of him when the car ride began. It dissipated into apathy, and remained there until the roads became more and more recognizable, at which point, his mood steadily shifted again. He’s not entirely sure how to describe it, backing into a booth and drawing up the handbrake. Something like apprehension, but it goes much deeper than that. It’s the utter fatigue of the stream, the fight and a sleepless night, tangled with the relief of having finally left, and then – the knowledge that his immediate future depends on the following hour.

No address and no money, but if all goes wrong, at least he’s got a car this time around. Beats getting woken up by cops who whine and moan as they escort him off the premises for disrupting the sanctity of a private gas station alleyway.

He picks out a cigarette, teeth squishing the filter as he steps out and clicks the lock behind him. A few tries of his lighter, and he finally gets a spark in, looking around while rubbing is arm.

It’s a small-ish complex. Four red brick buildings lined with off-white plaster surround a lawn, across which the naked fingers of several tall larches reach toward the gray sky. Picnic tables and a community grill, a sandbox, a set of swings, piles of wood chips lining hedges that fence in the tiny gardens of the ground floor apartments. It’s a nice neighborhood. The residents seem to take care of the common areas, at least. No trash littered around, no graffiti, no smashed bottles.

The parking lot is void of people apart from a few electrician-looking guys arguing next to their van, and an older lady hauling two bags of trash toward the nearest container. A handful of crows watch him smoke from a treetop, puffed out to ward off the cold. Noise from the city creeps through the thicket surrounding the complex.

Renee discards the cigarette butt in an ashtray mounted on the outer wall, and spends a few moments watching the blanket of clouds, baring his throat to the wind.

Stalling.

It’s hard to stand the uncertainty, but he’s still mulling over a hundred different ways he could phrase things, grasping at whatever won’t make him sound too pathetic. Being this nervous about appearances is objectively idiotic when Laz has already seen him at his worst. Renee is overthinking and he knows it, but it’s compulsive. He’s facing homelessness again, but for once, that’s not even at the top of his list of worries. He thinks it might be fourth, actually.

Washing away the dread is impossible, but he moves none the less, although his heels drag on the pavement. At the second-nearest entrance, three dozen buttons line a panel on the wall. Lazarus rents the apartment under an alias, and Renee’s memory of placement is rusty. He has to read through half the Dymo labels before his eyes finally catch on M. Sullivan, the only label that sparks a feeling of familiarity. He’s not entirely sure it’s the right one, but he pushes the aluminum button next to it nonetheless. Ten, twenty seconds pass. There’s no voice on the speaker, only a low buzz that lets him know the door has been unlocked. Renee grabs the handle, looking over his shoulder. But whatever out he’s searching for, all he sees are the withered bushes that line the slope to the main road.

Stalling, stalling.

Climbing the stairs serves as a distraction, at least until the fourth story platform is within view, and his body begins to seize up again. Renee tries to push through it, determined to not waver as he knocks twice on the familiar dark green door. But the short wait is unbearable. A hint of that piercing feeling in his chest is back. His hands are clammy, breathing a little too superficial. Shutting his eyes helps, but then he loses his balance. So he backs away from the door, leaning against the staircase railings, grabbing them on either side of his body.

The bolt slides, and the door opens, but he still doesn’t open his eyes, just focuses on breathing deeply, evenly. He tries to guess proximity by the sound of footsteps, but must’ve misjudged, because when a hand tentatively brushes his shoulder, Renee flinches. It’s on repeat again. He deserves better. He deserves better.

“Hey, big guy.”

The touch slides down his arm, and Lazarus lightly squeezes his upper arm.

Renee’s first attempts at speech die partway through, dissolving into pained sighs. “Shit,” he eventually squeezes out.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Renee opens his eyes.

Concern, sincerity. Lazarus looks up at him, brows furrowed, head tilted slightly to better catch his gaze. Warm brown eyes taking in the new bruises on his face, he brushes his thumb over Renee’s cheek. There’s an ache in his expression. “I know you’re hurting,” he mutters softly. “We’ll figure it all out, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Renee says hoarsely.

Lazarus lets out a breath, head dropping. He rocks forward, leaning his forehead against Renee’s chest, and stays there for a moment, clutching at the side of his neck. The smell of his cologne, subtle and pleasant, somehow finds its way through a stuffed nose. When he draws away, he catches Renee’s jacket, gently pulling as he takes a step backwards. “C’mon. Come.”

The apartment is more disorganized than usual, that’s Renee’s first clue. A few dishes have been left on the coffee table, clothes tossed over the chairs or the armrest of the couch, dry groceries have been left on the counter, and the cord of a charger snakes its way across the floor. It’s a far cry from the mess he’s used to living in, but with Laz, it stands out. His apartment was pristine even during the week Renee detoxed, and Renee quite clearly remembers being reprimanded for leaving trash out as soon as Laz deemed him well enough to actually do something about it.

His second clue is the silence. He walks in the dealer’s slipstream, absentmindedly glancing around, and only realizes on the threshold to the open kitchen that the apartment is uncharacteristically still.

“Where are the cats?”

Lazarus glances over his shoulder. “Been too busy this week to really take care of them. I asked Amelia to babysit.” His movements slow, and he clears his throat, and then he paces a few more steps toward the windows, bowing his head.

There’s a faint, but unmistakable sniff.

Renee feels his stomach churn. “Are you alright?”

Laz lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. As he turns, he’s rubbing one eye with the root of his hand, a sad smirk on the corner of his mouth. His voice is a little uneven. “It’s just been a shit couple days. I’ll be fine.”

Renee wants to cross the distance, but isn’t entirely sure that’s what the other needs. He swallows. “Did something happen?”

Lazarus hesitates, biting his lower lip. His focus shifts to the small dining table. “Can we sit down for a bit?”

“Sure.” Renee nods seriously. “’Course.”

“Do you want something to drink? I made a pot of coffee, but I’ve got cold drinks in the fridge, too. Water, lemonade…”

“Uh. Coffee, yeah.” Renee shrugs and stiffly sits down.

He barely noticed it at first, but it’s painfully clear now that he’s paying closer attention; there’s a hitch to Laz’ usually graceful movement, fragments of pauses in which he’s midway through a deep breath that otherwise would’ve been unnoticeable, or that small line in his forehead from a furrowed brow. He pauses to scratch that exact spot with his thumb, and for a second, his usual poise returns – only for the line to appear again the moment he carries on.

Renee’s stomach sinks. He can’t pretend he doesn’t know what it means, and a part of him already wants to leave. Why not let it all remain unsaid?

But before he can even think of making excuses, Lazarus has carried a coffee pot and two mugs over, a carton of milk notched in the crook of his elbow. He sets everything on the table. “I’ve got sugar somewhere, too, if you want.”

Renee smirks. “Nah, it’s alright.”

Nodding, Laz takes a seat on the opposite side and reaches halfway across the tabletop, hand open in invitation. Renee doesn’t know how to interpret the gesture, but he doesn’t hesitate to take it – and regrets that almost immediately, as Lazarus’ gaze flickers over the deep, layered bruises across his knuckles and winces, looking out into the room. Brown hair falling partway over his eyes, Laz rests his chin on the thumb of his other hand, closed fist covering his mouth. His jaw works. He squeezes Renee’s fingers – noticeably avoids touching the knuckles at all. That’s the third clue.

The sight of Laz struggling to maintain his composure is nauseating, but Renee finds a glimpse of comfort in a touch that feels different than the one in the hallway – one that isn’t merely for reassurance.

Still avoiding his eyes, Lazarus clears his throat. “You look like shit,” he says.

Renee snorts tersely. “Rough night. I just…” He trails off, not entirely sure he could come up with a sufficient explanation.

Laz purses his lips. “I’ve been thinking about… Do you remember that night in Dayton?”

Renee blinks. “Uh. Vaguely.”

“Music on that big lawn in Carillon. They lit up the bell tower. You didn’t get that drunk.”

“Oh – that folk bullshit you dragged me along for?”

Lazarus chuckles. “You liked it, asshole. Don’t diss my date idea.”

Renee has to do a double take. “I thought you said—”

“Who are we fooling? It was a date.” He gives a small smile, but it’s too tense, and he looks away again. “Our one and only. Just been thinking about – how carefree it was, I suppose. How you made me feel. All this time, I kept telling myself I was keeping my distance, keeping it from turning into… But we’ve been exclusive for a while, haven’t we?”

Renee swallows.

Lazarus shakes his head. His voice is almost a whisper. “I don’t really know how to have this conversation with you.”

“C-can I say something?” Renee blurts out.

Laz looks in surprise. Nods, slowly.

This is it.

Renee suppresses a cough, feels his leg start to bounce under the table. “I just… fuck—I know I’m… I haven’t been…”

It’s his turn to look away. Frowning at the table, he has to force a deep breath to collect himself, to feel out the words in his mouth. The tightness of his throat makes it harder to squeeze out – but he has to, somehow, without thinking too much about it.

“I’m kind of… I’m kind of a shit person.” He lets out a half-hearted snicker, but it quickly veers into a grimace. “I mean, I’ve wronged a lot of people. I’ve done a lot of shit I wish I didn’t. And I wasn’t even – I was sober for enough of it, y’know? So I can’t just blame it on, y’know… whatever.” Another grimace, and he shakes his head. “I think there’s something missing in my head. There’s something wrong with me, something, like… basic. I’m lacking something that everybody else has, and I don’t know what it is or how to fix it.

“All my life, just going in fucking circles, y’know, like I’m stuck in a feedback loop. I get hooked on one thing, I get clean, rinse and repeat. I make things worse, that’s the only thing I’ve ever done. I fuck people over, I burn all my bridges. I’ve never even – like, I never called Steph after I got clean, y’know? I was just pissed. And I keep… I keep getting involved with shit that makes me… It’s been like that the past month, it makes me worse—I just go insane. It keeps happening.”

As Renee takes another deep breath, Laz’ quiet listening almost becomes unbearable. It’s not coming out the way he wanted it to, far from it. He’s slowly realizing it was naïve of him to think he could keep his thoughts straight long enough to give a whole speech. But there’s no turning back, not now.

“I got out of it,” he says, “this last one, it’s done. I just want—I want to move on, I want to… to not be like this.” His voice cracks. Keeping his head down, he closes his eyes. “I want to be worth a damn. I just want to move on with my fucking life, I want… And I’ve got nothing to offer, I know that, but you’re the one thing I’ve managed to not fuck up yet.”

Yet another breath, uneven in his throat. He realizes he’s squeezing Laz’ hand a little too hard, eases up. Lazarus doesn’t move in response, and that should’ve been his fourth clue, but Renee can’t bring himself to look up, not yet. He’d lose his nerve.

“I like what you turn me into. Whatever I’m missing, you have it. You’re… And I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he says hoarsely. “Anything you want. Fucking – therapy, rehab, whatever. We’re just friends, or we’re something else, or we’re… Or if you tell me to fuck off, I’ll fuck off. I just wanted to… to tell you that.”

There’s a long pause. He’s pretty sure he’s holding his breath.

“Renee,” Lazarus mutters unevenly. Something in his voice finally makes Renee raise his head. Dark hair falling over his forehead, he sits very still, lips slightly parted, tears welling in a wide-eyed stare, but that’s not what makes Renee pause – it’s the fact that Lazarus is paler than usual. He speaks slowly, carefully, as if the words are hard to get out. “What… exactly… are you moving on from?”

Some hint of an alarm bell. This isn’t the reaction he imagined getting. Renee swallows. “Just… Just life.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “My whole fucking l—”

“Stop,” Lazarus whispers low, shaking his head. “Please don’t be vague. I’d like to hear you say it.”

Renee feels himself tense.

Lazarus licks his lips, reclining, and his hand slides out of Renee’s, resting slack on the table. “What do you mean when you say it’s done? ‘Cause you’re making it sound like he’s dead.”

The initial confusion is genuine. “Wh-… what?”

Although Lazarus is able to force a straight face, his breathing seems shallow, and maybe that’s why it takes him a while to speak. “Conrad DeWitt.”

If there’s a single word that encapsulates the feeling of the world collapsing, caving in around you, Renee doesn’t know it. The air is sucked out of his lungs, room suddenly spinning as he takes in Lazarus’ expression, which only now registers as accusatory – something he’s never seen in the other before. Renee feels as if he’s sinking backwards – lightheaded, disoriented.

And still, as if from a distance, he hears himself compulsively laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Wh-…” Renee smiles incredulously. “I gotta admit, confessing my undying love for you, I didn’t expect to immediately be accused of murder.” And he lets out another ironic snicker, throwing out his hands.

The chair scrapes across the floor as Lazarus suddenly gets to his feet and paces a few steps away from the table, both hands carding his hair back. His breathing is noticeably heavier now, and he hunches slightly over himself. “I feel like screaming at you right now.” He drops his hands. When he turns around this time, he makes no move to dry the wetness running down his cheek. “Please stop lying to me, ‘cause I can’t fucking recognize you when you do.”

His expression feels like a punch in the gut. Renee’s smile falters. “I’m not ly—why the fuck are y—”

“I know,” Lazarus says firmly, pointing at his own chest. His jaw is locked in another grasp at composure, even as the tears continue to fall. “We start from there, alright? I know.”

“I don’t know what the f-… I haven’t killed anyone.” Renee slowly shakes his head. “Why would you—”

“Do you think I can’t see it in your face right now? I know you.” Lazarus swallows. “I can recognize you by the sound of your footsteps. I can spot you in a crowd of a thousand people. I think I’ve heard every possible inflection of your voice. It’s been two years; I’ve spent hours by now just staring at your eyes.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, but his voice still cracks. “I watched every. single. stream.”

Renee opens his mouth, grasping for anything to say. But it’s like he’s forgotten how to speak, as if the energy is rapidly being leeched out of his body, and all he can do is stare.

“I watched some of the interviews with his family, too. Have you seen those?” Lazarus’ voice lowers to a nearly inaudible murmur. “He sounds like a decent guy. Never gotten in trouble, never did anything to… unless there’s something I’m missing, but from what I can tell, you never even met him before. He hasn’t done anything to you, has he?”

Renee’s vision is blurry. Not because of tears – it’s a veil of sorts that has slid over the world, a barrier. It doesn’t feel real – not the room, or the words, or the body he still somehow inhabits.

Lazarus lets out a bitter exhale. “And that one stream,” he bites out, “I gave you that gun, it’s the exact same make and model. You pulled me into it, do you realize that? I’m sorry I’m angry, but you made me a participant in this.”

Renee can’t even muster up the effort to wince at that. He barely feels the pain in his throat. “What do you want me to say?”

“What I want—what I hope you’ll tell me,” Lazarus says shakily, “is that someone is forcing you into this. Because otherwise, I don’t know who the fuck I’ve been…”

Wincing, he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. Shaking his head, his voice drops to a whisper. His expression changes to something more somber.

“But every time we meet,” he says slowly, “you’ve got new bruises. You keep looking worse and worse. It’s pretty obvious that someone’s fucking you over, Renee. I can see it on you.” He finally dries his cheek with a hand that trembles slightly. “What you said at the motel was a cry for help. I don’t know how else to interpret it. You wanted out, but you didn’t know how.”

Silence.

“Tell me I’m right about that. I can’t fucking sleep at night, Renee. Tell me.”

Silence.

There’s no way to explain it all, at least not right now. Renee can’t quite feel his own body, can barely conjure up the wherewithal to keep breathing. His mouth is open, but his lips won’t move.

The depth of the plea in Laz’ expression. It’s unfathomable seeing that kind of look on him. “Is Conrad still alive?”

It’s too late to retract the silence – it alone has spoken volumes already, and Laz isn’t stupid. Renee hears himself very, very distantly, miles and miles away.

“… yes.”

Lazarus nods a little, pressing his together, and then he suddenly folds, bracing his hands on his knees, hair falling to obscure his face. He lets out a long exhale, one that sounds like relief at first – but it changes when he brings his hand to his mouth, and Renee realizes he’s trying to suppress breaking down completely. Eventually, with a low grunt, he rights himself, rubbing at his chest with a flat hand. “Is he somewhere safe?”

Gaze drifting listlessly to the floor, Renee slowly shakes his head.

“Is there a way to make him safe?”

How is he supposed to find the words? Staying would’ve been a death sentence. A more violent confrontation with Davin would’ve turned sour: he has the gun, and even if he didn’t, Renee is pretty sure he’d still have lost that fight, no matter how much he’s been fantasizing about bashing the guy’s head in. Not to mention that he’d be stuck with the hot potato – and there’s no conceivable universe in which Conrad goes free and doesn’t immediately rat him out. Notoriety is the kind of thing that gets you shanked in prison, so letting Conrad go or turning himself in would’ve both been death sentences. Any scenario he struggled to conjure up the previous night led to the same bitter conclusion:

“It’s him or me.”

Lazarus swallows, brows furrowed in concern. “What does that mean?”

It’s selfishness, that’s what it means. It’s Renee choosing his own slim chance at a decent life over the life he ostensibly should be doing everything he can to emancipate, even if it means dying in the process. It’d be the only route coming even close to fairness. Renee is just selfish. He's betting all his chips on his own ability to forget.

“Please talk to me, Renee. You don’t have be alone with this.”

Rolling his head, he slowly gets to his feet, steadying himself on the table when it triggers a wave of dizziness. Half in a haze, he ducks his head, staggering past the kitchen’s threshold.

“Don’t!” he hears Lazarus hiss. “Don’t leave, do not walk out that door.”

Renee hadn’t planned on leaving; he just wanted to create some distance between them, to turn his back the same way Lazarus did, to hide his face for a moment. But there’s an urgent desperation in Lazarus’ voice – one that betrays a degree of fear that makes Renee stop in the entryway. It doesn’t quite fit, even in this context.

That’s his fifth clue.

Something’s off, he realizes, and a chill runs down his spine. Something’s off. His shoulders drop, and the air seep out of his mouth. As if moving in slow motion, he turns around. “Why not?”

Lazarus’ face is contorted in a grimace, and he shakes his head. “Because we have to deal with this, alright? We have to face it. I’ll – I want to help you.”

Renee closes his mouth.

All the clues are adding up, but he’s not entirely sure if the sudden, growing spark of paranoia is the reasonable conclusion to draw. If he wants to test the waters – what then? What if he’s wrong? He’d be setting fire to everything again, he’d burn his last remaining bridge.

… but what if he’s right?

He walks back into the room, stopping by the table, fingers brushing over the backrest. Looks at Lazarus for a long time – how he somehow manages to be stunning even with tear tracks down his face, with his hair somewhat disheveled. Wide, brown eyes, long lashes, some of which now stick together. Renee’s tongue feels dry. “Do you trust me?”

Laz eyes him warily.

Renee grimaces. “Can I ask you to? Just for a moment.”

After a pause, Lazarus reluctantly gives a small nod.

Renee sets his jaw. His grip on the chair tightens, and he walks backwards, dragging it along with him.

“What are you…?”

Lifting it over the rug in the hallway, he tilts it, settling the backrest underneath the doorhandle. Stepping back, he levels a few hard kicks to each of the back legs, until the tension is solid enough for the door to stop jolting.

Behind him, the intake of a breath. “Are you barricading the door?”

Clue six.

With a wince, Renee stops to steel himself. Gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt, he returns to the kitchen, closing the door to the entryway behind him, and grabs the second chair. The coffee sits untouched on the table, mugs still turned on the rims.

Lazarus’ voice is dreadfully small. “Please, talk to me - why are you barricading the doors?”

It’s almost a duplicate, but the last word feeds into Renee’s suspicion – doors. Clue seven. He wordlessly repeats the ritual: the backrest under the handle, stomping at the legs. He feels distant as he steps back, settling his shoulders. Strange how he can slide so easily back into the role now, when he’s had to force it for the past week and a half.

Finally turning to face Laz again, Renee pulls the folding knife from his pocket.

Lazarus’ eyes widen, and he takes a step backwards. “Renee?” There’s fear in his voice, but slightly different this time – lower. His eyes are fixed on the closed knife.

Renee starts walking towards him slowly. “Can I trust you?” he asks, voice low. The wrongness of what he’s doing is masked by the rage looming at the prospect of actually having guessed correctly. Because Lazarus is right. Two years is enough to get pretty good at reading someone.

Lazarus is at the narrow corridor between the coffee table and the TV stand, steering blindly toward the window. “Wh—yes. Put the knife down.”

Clue eight.

“Put the knife down. Don’t come closer, okay? You’re scaring m—”

“You’re narrating,” Renee mutters.

“I… what?”

A brief moment of doubt. That bewilderment reads as fully earnest, but Renee is in too deep to let it go now. Watching the other’s expression carefully, he tilts his head to the side. “You’re narrating what I do.”

The blood drains from Lazarus’ face, and Renee catches a flicker of something akin to terror in his expression. He tries to cover it up with a brow furrowed in further confusion, but the damage is done.

Clue nine. Renee flicks the knife open.

Lazarus’ breath hitches. He lets out a sound when his backside hits the windowsill.

Renee is just a few steps behind him, and that distance doesn’t take more than two seconds to cross. Hands push at his chest as he gets up close enough to feel the heat from Lazarus’ body. Being almost a head shorter, Laz has to crane his head back to look at him. It’s the same ease of access Renee has previously found in Conrad.

He lifts the blade to Lazarus’ throat.

Laz stiffens with a gasp, mouthing a silent plea before he can gather his bearings enough to let out the real one. “You’re not like this,” he whispers, blade pressed lightly to the crook under his chin. “You’re not like this.”

Renee can’t explain why it makes him more angry, but his upper lip still curls in a sneer. “What if I am?” He raises his other hand to Lazarus’ collar, voice raspy in his throat. “What if it was all me?”

Lazarus grabs his wrist – but not of the hand holding the knife, no. Instead he pushes at the hand that’s steadily unbuttoning his shirt.

It’s the final clue.

Renee shifts, using one forearm to press Lazarus into the glass by his neck, forcing his back to arch over the window sill. He runs his hand down Lazarus’ collar, fingers searching between naked skin and fabric.

“Don’t,” Lazarus whispers desperately, hands pushing more fervently at his chest, his arm. “Renee, don’t—”

He cuts himself off at almost the exact instant Renee’s index finger catches on the thin, black cord.

Lazarus shuts his eyes tight, jaw locked, the wince curling his mouth somewhat askew.

The step Renee takes backwards is heavy, and he almost stumbles on the second, hands dropping to his sides. Something cold has hit his core, and the numbness rapidly spreading from his insides is stark enough to nearly make him lose his grip on the knife. His mouth is dry. “Why are you wearing a wire…?”

Lazarus lets out a breath through his teeth, barely moving. The relief he might feel at no longer being held at knifepoint is hidden by an expression that conveys enough grief to stun. His eyes are watering again as he gives a small shake of his head. “I know you’re not going t—”

“Why the fuck,” Renee interrupts him with a growl, “are you wearing a wire?”

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