#i remember choosing the matte of SOME weapon i had in my dresser

[reap-the-game]

Tuuli tuule sinne missä muruseni on Leiki hetki hänen hiuksillaan Kerro rakkauteni, kerro kuinka ikävöin Kerro häntä ootan yhä vaan

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Leaving Our Home (4/10)

WC: 1438

The night is spent avoiding sleep on the sidewalk, debating the merits of going to a twenty four hour diner for coffee or staying where they were on the sidewalk. It’s hard to decide things like that when they both know what they’re going to have to do when the workday starts and the streets bustle with people going through their normal 9-5 jobs. Lucky them, living in their ordinary worlds.

Would Peter take the chance at such an ordinary life, if it was offered to him? Maybe if he had been given it from the beginning, he supposes, because as of now he can’t imagine not being able to read minds the way he does. It’s a part of him, just as much as the freckles on his cheeks and shoulders when he spends too much time outside in the summer. At times, it can be overwhelming, though. With the city bustling alive, he has trouble discerning his own thoughts from those around him, something distressing when it comes to the sorts of ideas and visions he would never think. On his first day of high school, he spent the whole lunch period throwing up while Mike rubbed his back because of all the things he heard.

Once, he heard the things Mike’s father thinks about, and that had been enough to have him reeling. He must’ve blocked the memory because he can’t for the life of him recall what he heard and saw. Still, he remembers the aftermath. First, he had passed out on Mike’s kitchen floor. Then he woke up in bed later that night. Mike was there, of course, holding damp washcloths to his head. A trashcan was next to his bed, already splattered with sick. And all Mike was thinking about was how worried be was for Peter, not how much trouble he must’ve been in from having Peter over without permission and now staying away from home when the sun has clearly already set. That night, Mike had told Peter he loved him and kissed him on the cheek because he didn’t know he was awake.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever Mike’s father was thinking had been horrific, and Peter absolutely does not want to return to that house and investigate the belongings of a man like him for clues about exactly how he abused his eldest son. After all, Mike’s brother is normal. Why not him? Why does it have to be the good natured, incredibly kind, and often shy Mike who would never dream of challenging an authority figure? Perhaps that’s why Dodds Sr. decided to use him. Or the trait may have been carefully cultivated to ensure that the living weapon wouldn’t question orders. Funny, it was Mike’s idea to run away in the first place.

“If my dad’s alarm goes off, the security code is- is my mother’s name,” Mike says, drawing Peter out of his wandering thoughts. “It’s-”

“Ingrid, I know. You know that what happened to her wasn’t your fault.”

“I could’ve saved her.”

Peter wants to argue, but can tell he would make no leeway and it isn’t worth the devastation when they’re already so vulnerable. He can feel Mike’s fear pricking down the back of his neck. Or maybe it’s his own.

In the blink of an eye, Mike’s arms are around him. Just as quickly, they’re gone. Mike’s mind narrows down and he imagines a place for the two of them to meet after they’ve finished investigating, the bodega Peter bought donuts from the night before. Peter projects an affirmation and they turn away from one another, walking quickly with their heads down. The hood of Mike’s sweatshirt is pulled over his head, a good thing because of how recognizable he is. How many times has he appeared on TV, in interviews or at police functions, paraded around like an accessory since before he could understand what he was being used for.

The walk home is grueling. While it takes less than an hour, it leaves Peter exhausted and with pain in his jaw from clenching it so hard the whole way. He knows his own house has nothing, he had searched it enough in the weeks leading up to this because Mike’s questions were starting to get to him. Now it’s time to go to a place he’s visited so rarely, one which Mike has always described as hell on Earth.

Something is off when he gets there. First, the front door is unlocked, which in of itself isn’t a big deal, but he knows it’s unlike Mike’s father not to double and triple check the locks before he leaves. He might still be home. But Peter has to go in, so he cautiously scans the house for thoughts, and finds it perfectly void. And yet, his heart pounds as he turns the knob, his damp palms slipping on the metal, his tennis shoes scuffing against the steps.

He pushes open the door and shuts it softly behind him as if there’s someone around to hear him. Like always, the house is spotless, not lived in, scarcely a home. There are no pictures of Mike or his brother on the walls. No trophies although Mike has won many.  No report cards on the fridge despite Mike’s perfect grades. It feels like walking in a model home devoid of dust or personal affects. Someone actually living here, let alone a family, seems impossible. A voice deep down tells him he should take off his shoes before tracking dirt on the pristine carpet. Funny enough, although Peter has been here before and his own house had the same layout, it feels like navigating a maze. Even the stairs feel wrong.

His very self is off as he climbs to the second level of the brownstone and stares at the three bedrooms. No sense looking in Mike’s. When he opens the door to Mike’s brother, Matt’s, bedroom, the only things in it is are a calendar with a picture of a race car on it, a mattress on the floor with a pillow and blanket, and a few shirts hung up beyond the ajar closet door. This isn’t right.

Without further investigation, he steps out and turns his attention to the master bedroom- Mike’s father’s room. This one is locked, unlike the front door, but Peter can’t come this far and stop now. He throws his shoulder hard against the frame a couple times so it breaks, even though it leaves him with lingering pain.

Peter practically falls into the room once the door cracks open. At first, everything seems normal. A bed, a dresser with a mirror, a desk with neatly organized stationary. Then his eyes land on a couple of key details: the file folder on the corner of the dresser, and the chest at the foot of the bed.

He goes for the folder first because it’s easier to access. As if the bad feeling wasn’t intense enough, when he lifts it up, pictures come tumbling out, and the second he looks at them he wished he hadn’t. Each image is horrific. Photographs of blood and mutilation and violence that have Peter reeling back because it’s like he can taste the pain radiating off of them. It takes every single ounce of his willpower not to throw up as he gathers them back into the folder and puts it where it belongs. He’ll have to ask Mike if he knows anything about those.

Now he has to look at the trunk. After seeing those pictures, he’s terrified by the thought of what he might find in things not just left out in plain sight. Peter drops to his knees and starts messing with the lock. It’s combination, and old, but there are infinite possibilities. Could Mike’s father have chosen it, or would it be random? Should he search for some bolt cutters or something?

As he’s struggling to come up with an idea, the door opens downstairs and he’s bombarded with heavy thoughts from two loud and domineering people. People like Mike’s father. Shit. It takes him seconds to actually identify William Dodds as one of them, and that he doesn’t know the other, and about ten more seconds to realize he should hide.

Peter quickly chooses the closet, the quickest and quietest place to hide where he won’t be immediately visible, and starts trying to barricade his own thoughts so he doesn’t accidentally project. Not like he’s ever been able to successfully do that, of course, but now’s the time to try his best. Especially when footsteps start pounding up the stairs.