#with Zaven as just a comforting presence and a sounding board Shiloh would have managed to reach the conclusion on their OWN

[antisocialxconstruct]

🌊 for your gremlin hypebeast Shiloh (bonus points if they actually fuckin admit they aren't okay)

okay but let’s be real there’s only really one person who’s getting an admission like that any time soon.

-//-

The glass smashes satisfyingly into the wall, then hits the pavement in at least a dozen pieces. By then you’re already hefting another one out of the cardboard box beside you and readying it for the same fate.

No one in your complex can afford a car anyway, you might as well get some use out of the empty parking lot. And this is at least a step up from your usual methods for blowing off steam.

You’re already wound up to throw the next one but you pause, catching movement on the edge of your vision a second before Zaven turns the corner, catches sight of you, and freezes. You must look pretty convincingly  like you’re prepared to pelt them with glassware. Their hands go up in at least a half-joking gesture of surrender and you sigh, lower your arm, and wave them over. Their eyes dart briefly from you, to the case of glasses at your feet, to the handful already shattered against the outer wall of your apartment building. “Huh,” they muse as they drift to a spot at your side–giving you a slightly wider berth than usual though, you notice. “So that’s what those are for.”

“They’re from the dollar store” is the only explanation you offer, before reeling back and throwing the glass in your hand to join its fellows in oblivion.

Zaven doesn’t say anything in response to that, and in the silence that follows you hesitate, suddenly growing uncomfortable under the familiar weight of Zaven’s quiet scrutiny. You cast them a hasty sidelong look as you shift your weight.

“D’you need something?”

“I was… in the neighborhood,” they respond slowly. Then, as gently as they can manage, they add, “rough day?”

“Yeah dude I’ve had a rough fucking day,” you scoff, “what else is new?” You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, find nothing, mutter a sharp “ah- son of a bitch” as you squint up at your balcony on the third floor. You remember emptying your pockets onto the living room table like usual. You must have left your cigarettes there on the way back out.

Zaven just keeps watching you with guarded interest.

“I’m sick of it,” you mutter, plucking another glass from the box and turning it over in your hand.

“Of what?” Zaven asks, their tone still cautious. You glance over at them, then roll your eyes with a broad, emphatic gesture. The city? Your life? Everything? Zaven just answers a moment later with a thoughtful nod, understanding more readily than you expected. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised.

You hesitate a few seconds longer, studying the glass in your hand as you run your thumb over the faceted sides of it. Mass produced, with a vague attempt made to give it some kind of cosmetic interest. In the end it’s nothing but a cheap facsimile of something more valuable. You hurl it at the wall with as much force as you can muster.

It explodes in an especially spectacular burst of fractured shards, and just like that something snaps.

“What the fuck do I have to do, Zaven!?” you spit, and they almost manage to hide the flinch as you abruptly round on them. “How the fuck am I supposed to make people get it? I change my hair, I change my clothes, I change the way I walk, act, every- I changed everything! Did I not do enough? Am I not trying hard enough?”

You pause but you have no idea what kind of answer you’re expecting Zaven to give, and judging from their expression neither do they. But beneath their confusion there’s a hint of something else in their eyes… understanding? Sympathy…? “Is-” they start, grasping for something to fill the silence. “Is this about-”

“It’s about everyone!” You wheel around again, raking your fingers through your hair and forcing a deep breath into your lungs. “It’s about fucking everything. It’s about Herald-” you seize another glass, fling it at the wall without hesitation, “thinking a goddamn pep talk is gonna inspire us to relive the glory days. It’s about Steel-” Another glass, another violent shower of shards, “looking at me like I’m a fucking ghost here to haunt him specifically. It’s about Ju-” you falter for a second, looking down to realize that the box at your feet is empty. So you kick it, sending it tumbling end over end into the corner of the parking lot. You drag your hands down over your face and let out a long frustrated groan. It takes a concerted effort not to start sobbing right then and there.

It feels like there’s a long stretch of silence before you finally hear Zaven’s voice again, just a soft, tentative “Shiloh…?” You don’t look up, but you don’t do anything else either. Zaven’s boots scuff against the pavement as they take a couple steps closer. “I-… you’re not… doing anything wrong, it’s just-”

“Man are you sure?” you snap, dropping your hands to your sides again, balling them up into fists for lack of anything else to do with them. You’d really kill for a smoke right now. “Because I feel like I’m in a fucking uphill battle to be taken seriously and my opponent is me.” Before Zaven can say anything you turn on your heel, stalk a few paces away as you unclench your fists, shake the building tension out of your hands. Just trying to burn energy. “Julia’s got this stupid picture on her desk,” you press on before you can think about it enough to start backpedaling. You don’t really know why you’re telling them this. It’s not their business, it’s not their problem. They did ask. You’re still pacing. “Of… from before. It- I just can’t stop thinking, she…” you press a palm to your forehead, screw your eyes shut as the photo comes unbidden to your mind. Julia and Anathema, smiling. And you… a stranger, smiling with your face. “I keep thinking, for seven years she sat and looked at that photo and mourned that person and wished she could bring them back, and it’s- and I just-” the thread of that thought seems to slip out of your grasp unexpectedly, and you give up with an exasperated huff.

“You feel like that’s who she thinks of you as?” Zaven offers.

“I mean she said as much!“

You stop abruptly to face them again, just in time to catch the dawning realization break across their features. Did they not realize? Did they not question the way things stood, the hostility building in your chest and poisoning you through every new interaction with Julia?

“Again, and again, she tells me that I haven’t changed, that she waited for me, that things could go back to the way they were.” You can feel your voice growing hoarse, threatening to crack. You can feel the dam threatening to break. “But the person she- that’s not me! That person doesn’t even exist, it wasn’t even my idea!”

Then there’s another shift in Zaven’s expression, one you can’t quite track. Surprise, first, but then… “What do you mean?”

What do you- … oh. Shit.

A short, nervous chuckle escapes you before you manage to produce an actual answer. “Nothing,” you say hastily, busying yourself with a quick stride across the lot to retrieve the empty box. You can’t afford to let that dam break. Not now, not ever. “Forget about it.”

“Wait- no, Shiloh,” Zaven doggedly follows after you. “It ‘wasn’t your idea?’ What do you- Did… I push you into becoming a vigilante? Is that not what you wanted?”

You halt, crouched down with one edge of the box in your hand, and it takes you a second to fully process the question. Did they… what? Then you straighten again, and when you turn around the horror-stricken look in Zaven’s eyes turns your stomach.

You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t laugh. You can’t help it. They’re so far off the mark and what are you going to do, tell them the truth? “No- god, no,” you insist through your laughter, trying to tamp down on all the emotions you keep ping-ponging between. It’s getting a little ridiculous, all you wanted to do was be alone and break something. “No, no no no that’s not-” you cut yourself off before you start rambling again. Draw in another deep breath. Press both of your hands against the sides of the box, just to have something neutral to focus on. Something tangible, external. Something other than Zaven studying you with a growing look of concern. “Look, I- I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s not about you, I swear.”

You dare to glance up then, meet Zaven’s gaze and silently urge them to believe you. They hold your gaze for a moment longer, and you feel like they’re searching your eyes for something. You’re just praying they don’t find it.

Then they sigh, and their shoulders sink as they back down. “Okay… okay, that’s fine. Sorry.”