#pwease don't hate me and eat this humble content

[01010010-posts]

— it’s enough just to have you observe the reverse side of a dream.

connor enters the room with a pair of beers floating next to his left ear, slowly slowly reaching his brother's desk, easing down with a killing calm “you could take a break, you know.” there’s no reply as he sits on the table and takes a sip “please? we don’t have the same power?” stretching his arms is all he manages before definitely interrupting the routine of glueing his irises to the emanating monitor, grabbing a bottle and pointing it in his brother’s direction “would you be so kind? we don’t have the same power?” the hint of a sarcastic chuckle and the cap falls off. he’s free to follow into the unhealthy habit “everything’s good?” connor inquires, gulping again “yeah, sure.” he doesn’t even finish with his answer that a hummed complain discovers his lie “yeah, sure.” he gets mocked and can’t help but swell his cheeks and blow out warm air, half already exasperated. this will surely drag on for who knows how long and it’s the last thing he wants now “okay okay, joke all you want.” he doesn’t care, he’ll just continue drinking, working and go to ‘bed’ “you’re evil.” gosh, really? mumbling ‘you’re evil’ like a child is all you got, connor? “well, i suppose i am, yes. and you too. we’re both villains after all.” eight rolls his eyes while displaying an incurable smile “fine. we are. but you’re evilest.” the other is left to shrug, making an indifferent face, tasting alcohol once more “fair enough.” that’s it. he can’t anymore. connor throws his head back. he should add ‘making someone tired of speaking in a banter or less’ to the list of his superpowers. why, still after half a bottle, talking to the blood of his blood requires an exceptional effort is a mystery “i’m literally begging you” “then beg–” “don’t say then beg or— you’re impossible.” a smirk is hidden in the green glass and a soft ‘eheh’ is muttered. a pause. he’s chugged every drop left and resumes typing without advancing further in the conversation “c’mon, i’m serious.” his fingers don’t halt, faking the composure he always pretends “hey? detroit to big hacker guy??” “i’m listening.” his tone is low. of course he’s listening “that’s not the point. i want you to vent to me.” “about?” the back and forth doesn’t halt for a second, no thought feelings “you know what.” “no i don’t.” the pace is restless and connor doesn’t love this in the slightest “mhh, lemme remember— ah! right! about that certain someone who came here soaked in blood.” his brother's knuckles become white and honestly, it doesn’t take much iq to understand the emotional turmoil he’s been into. a heavy sigh “you can’t go on like this.” another less lasting pause of silence. he stops clicking the keyboard “i can. i can and i will, connor. ‘cause every time we meet it’s a disaster.” and for what? because we don’t agree about what’s good and what’s bad? or how one should live? that doesn’t change anything anyway “i— i just– every single time we’re close i forget the whole ‘enemy’ or ‘hero’ thing.... i inevitably lower my guard and i feel too exposed; or worse: accepted. and i can’t– i don’t— i don’t know what to do. i panic. i freeze. i’ve never– i’ve never felt like this. and i’m so weirded out by the situation that– that i behave as a bastard. let’s be honest, i’m often a bastard but that’s not important right now. what i’m trying to convey is that– [name], [name] bear through it all, treat it as nothing and make me feel at peace with myself, with whatever i’ve done wrong: how can they? i’m— i’m scared. i’m scared that they’ll come to hate me for real. but at the same time i’m more scared about the fact that they could come to love me too.” he needs to breathe, weighing his words because for the past minute he’s been a stammering mess, probably shaping a worried as hell connor “we’re so similar, connor. we’re two sides of a coin and we understand each other in such a way that i— at least i hope it is.” his enthusiasm dies with his speech. if you wouldn’t return his confession, that would be quite ironic, wouldn’t it?

“coming, coming” you huff, going at the door. this is not a horror movie, by the way, so you don’t open it immediately, but look at the spy-hole first. which gives you.... more questions than you had before hearing knocking at late evening. none of you dare breaking the tranquility of your tiny apartment as he goes comfortable on your orange couch, as you gesture him to do. for an instant he’s tempted to escape the agonizing ambience but he endures and overcomes the fear of approaching the topic “you’ve gone to the gym as i suggested?” his figure is crouched onwards, hands clasped, not wanting to pick at each other or just to prevent attempts for a trembling hug “.... no i haven’t. but, before you get mad, i haven’t been out since.... for two weeks.” you lower your sight, quickly in covering your mistake, and he stifles a groan, letting only his mouth go agape “i see.” you’re kinda taken aback by a so tamed retort but you pay it no mind “did you want something?” there must be a reason for his first visit, right? “i....” his phrase wonders together with his gaze, analyzing the one room fits all “how you’ve been handling with the groceries?” okay. that’s odd. but you’ll allow it “my neighbour does it for me.” “ah. mh.” and? no more? that’s even stranger “anything else?” you tease him, waiting for some sort of revelation “what?” his face watches you, a bit spaced out, that’s.... too freaky. even for him “are you on drugs? i won’t judge but– that’s not cool man.” he doesn’t laugh. and you don’t laugh. there’s nothing to laugh. you haven’t been able to laugh for months, actually “how” he hesitantly begins “how are you?” it’s as soft as he can be and, shockingly, it’s a lot “how am i? how am i....? good, why wouldn’t i?” a wavering giggle is everything he’s getting tonight, sorry “you’ve been sh—” “i am fine. don’t worry about me.” you grit your teeth, blocking what he was about to spout “no, you’re not you’re—” again you intercept his sentence “shut up, okay? shut the fuck up. either you go away or– or– or—” or i start to cry. and he’s most certainly the last person you want to see while bawling your eyes out. but it’s also, most certainly, the only person who could help soothe your tears “hey hey hey” your memories go back to when he was trying to medicate you. holding back becomes extremely difficult and you break out in sobs, wrists hovering your scalp, concealing your figure. he’s near your seat in a heartbeat, hugging you tightly, tenderly hushing your silhouette into his, until you both mold and melt into one “i hate it. i hate it. i hate every single moment. i hate not being able to go out. i hate depending on others. and i hate myself the most.” he carries on with the task of rubbing your neck and your spine, delicately drawing prayers onto your clothes, wishing for this to pass as soon as possible “i’m fucking traumatised! i could have died! you— you could have been somewhere else and i would have died of blood loss in that empty room! yet i came to you all the same! you could have not been there and i came anyway! you could have not been there and i—” over your rambling screams he murmurs in your ear “but i was there. i was there. i will always be there. i’m always here for you.” because i love you. at this point you’re two shaking chaos, grasping onto yourselves with digging nails.