away with us he's going, the solemn-eyed.

[nightmarist]

Who: Residents of St. Monmouth & OPEN to their various guests
When: Throughout February
Where: St. Monmouth in Kauto R2
What: The Backstreet Boys move into their magical farm of dreams.
Warnings: Look to the subject headers.
Notes: This is a mingle/catch-all log. Start your own threads! Tag around!

[Ronan didn't hesitate. Almost as soon as they arrived, he was making arrangements and picking out a plot of land. No payment necessary as long as he agreed to feed the locals? Fine. Perfect. He'd signed whatever he had to and picked out his favorite place in the lot, then he'd laid down in the grass and dreamt.

When he closed his eyes, he wasn't sure what he would build. The idea of "home" conjured up so many images in his mind. He thought of the Barns, of course, but also of Henrietta as a whole. He thought of Monmouth Manufacturing and dusty old books and the scent of mint. He thought of St. Agnes and its magnificent stained glass and the cramped coziness of Adam's bedroom above the office. He found Cabeswater sprouting up in the strangest places as the landscape shifted around him, spilling out of the walls and claiming rooms all for its own. Corridors and staircases emerged out of his memories, leading him through a maze of rooms both familiar and not-quite. In the end, when Ronan stepped outside to take a look at his work, he found he'd made himself a palace of nostalgia. Then he imagined a set of house keys, turned the lock of the front door, and woke up.

Ronan woke with his head resting on the welcome mat, sprawled across the front steps, gazing up at the spire of what he would dub St. Monmouth. It would be the main building of several he'd end up creating. Their new home.

Like God, he didn't rest for several days. Every time he shut his eyes, he devoted himself to dreaming something new. A farm needed animals and crops and barns and feed and equipment. Home needed streams and fish and bridges and flower gardens and glittering lights. He let his imagination run wild, and this meant that his dream things often emerged strange and senseless, but that reminded him of his father, which made the place more beautiful.

When he was finally satisfied - although not completely finished - he invited the others to join him.]

Comments

[heisenbitch]

[ A laugh bubbles out of Jesse. There's no humour to it; it's a bleak, caustic little laugh, with something unhinged lurking just beneath the surface. The tears Andyr is wiping away so gently from Jesse's cheeks are immediately chased by two more tears slipping down from his eyes.

Why is Andyr doing this? Back on the streets the other night, when Andyr had dragged his junkie ass out of that club, spat at Jesse that his head was up his ass, no sympathy or kindness or gentleness - Jesse had taken it because he deserved it. He'd hated it but he deserved it. Being treated like a giant piece of shit was easier to take than this.

His hand still entwined with Andyr's squeezes tight, though. Like the weak ass little bitch he is, affection and tenderness have always been Jesse's weak spots. He has always craved affection and tenderness in ways that borders on downright pathetic and desperate. Indignant anger is simmering away at him that Andyr would just dismiss the terrible thing Jesse has done, but all Jesse really wants is to roll onto his side towards Andyr and bury himself in whatever tenderness and affection Andyr is willing to give him. ]

Tell you, and then what? You'll tell me it doesn't matter? That it's okay? 'Cause deep down, I'm a good guy or some bullshit?

[ Jesse's words are choked, venomous, devastated, thick and raspy with anger and tears, all at once. ]

[deconstruct]

[ what andyr'd been the night they'd dragged him out of the club was scared, helpless, and distressed. what that all comes out to, is the same thing any conflicting emotion comes out to with andyr prince - anger. it takes time for him to come to a place where he feels like he can experience these things, without risk of... he's not really sure anymore. he's been this way for so long, and the way he'd kept it up was 'don't think on the whys of it, just do it'. somewhere, andyr knows, this is self-preservation. whether or not it's still necessary, here, seems irrelevant.

he watches jesse seethe now, and andyr thinks it must be the same for him. something's broken, irreparably, and you have more control telling yourself you'd done it on purpose than struggling under the weight of having been defeated. andyr doesn't think along the same lines jesse does, though. or daisy does, or ronan does, or adam does. ]

I don't care if you're a good guy or a bad guy. [ andyr tells him simply, and it's the truth. he couldn't give a flying fuck what category jesse thinks he falls into, or anyone else places him in, or what his actions designate him as. andyr has blood soaked into his skin, from innocent and deserving, and questioning where that places his soul on the scale of damnation is another concept he'd abandoned when he'd become what he is now. semantics. ]

You're Jesse.

[ and what andyr knows is jesse is good to him. he isn't asking more than that from him, or anyone, here, and never has. thankfully, they either haven't done the same to him, or have yet to realize they have a mass murderer under their roof and in their beds. ]

[heisenbitch]

[ Yeah, and who's Jesse? A worthless, scumbag killer, that's who. An endless disappointment. A piece of shit. Something not even worth the time. Jesse snaps his head quickly to the side to glare at Andyr. Except it's not really a glare. It's a tear-filled, distraught expression, equal parts incensed and condemned.

Does it even matter if he tries to hide it? He's already tailspinning out of control. What's a few more out of control revolutions while he plummets to the ground? ]

I killed somebody. A guy. An innocent guy. 'Cause he was a problem. He didn't do nothin', he didn't deserve it, he was just-- a nice guy. And I put him down. Like a problem dog. 'Cause he was in the way. Just rocked up at his apartment and held a gun to his face when he opened the door, and I--

[ Boom. The deafening blast of the gun still echoes through Jesse's mind, and it flashes through his mind right now. Gale's innocent, pleading face. You don't have to do this.

Jesse is trying so hard to glare at Andyr, to prove he's just cold-hearted, cold-blooded piece of shit, but he can't do it. His face crumples, ugly devastation wreaking havoc across his expression, making him look like a howling, wounded animal. A broken sob cracks out of him, tears pooling out, clear snot beginning to dribble from his nose. ]

I shot him. Right in the face. And then just walked away. Like he was nothing. He didn't hurt nobody. He didn't kill nobody. He didn't deserve it. And I killed him. So, d'you wanna keep telling me it doesn't matter what I did? That you don't care if I'm a good or a bad guy? That I'm just Jesse?

[deconstruct]

[ jesse's losing it, and andyr thinks he probably needed to. better this than falling all over the city, trying to drown it all out. then again, andyr's philosophy of self therapy has always been to purge in the most violent means possible. as such, it's difficult for him to get to what he decides to respond with, not because it's hard to hear this. just because of what jesse's disgust with himself says about what he'll likely see in andyr. always the selfish one. ]

I can't count the number of people I've killed that never did anything.

[ not the guards or the lab techs. the patrons, reporters, protesters. the KN2s that were too scared to move when Andyr came down a hall soaked in blood, rage in his eyes, blinding. the ones that didn't move fast enough, or thought they were protecting peace by trying to stop him. he'd told himself, a long time ago, that all he is, now, is this instrument for violence and vengeance, that the moral quandary of who should die and who shouldn't isn't his problem. he's exists to show the world what they'd done, and that alone. andyr still believes that. ]

Not 'cause I didn't have a choice, not 'cause it was them or me. [ there were those too - the ones shoved in the arenas with him. just test subjects to see how their iteration held up to the template. ] Just 'cause they were too stupid, or too brave, to get out of the way.

[ a beat, his hands drawing back from jesse's face, and a blankness in his eyes. something second nature to him. something he'd been hoping they'd never see, here. ]

Still want me here?

[ an honest question, because this seems to matter a lot more to Jesse than it does to him. If he wants him to fuck off, he'll go, no questions asked. but the point of all this being - when he says it doesn't matter to him, he means it doesn't matter to him. ]

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesse is absolutely losing it. Opening his mouth and letting the truth come spilling out like toxic venom is both a relief that's almost suffocating and making the memory of what he did come blazing to life, vivid and terrible, in his mind. He expects Andyr will be disgusted by him because why wouldn't he be? Who wouldn't be disgusted by a guy killing another innocent guy for no reason other than to save his own skin? To save Mr. White's skin?

If Jesse had been the one to listen to someone talking like he is now, he would be repulsed. Call them a sick fuck. Take some kind of moral high ground, despite his own morals being dug nearly six feet under dirt and filth.

Maybe if Andyr had confessed to him at some other time, in some other way, that he, too, is a cold-blooded, merciless killer, Jesse would have backed right off and judged the shit out of him, even in spite of everything Andyr has done for him. Or maybe he would have found himself unable to judge him like that, if only because he'd witnessed first-hand a glimpse into the horrific torture Andyr had been put through in his past.

Silence stretches between Andyr asking if Jesse still wants him here and Jesse lying there staring at him, tears streaming down his face. Jesse's hitching, sobbing breath is the only thing that fills that silence up. He wants to scream at Andyr, demand why Andyr thinks Jesse killing an innocent guy is in any way okay, maybe even scream that Andyr is a sick fuck for thinking this is something Jesse deserves kindness or mercy or acceptance for.

The tenderness of Andyr's fingers having gently brushed his tears away has imprinted a lingering memory on Jesse's cheeks. Just like Andyr dragging his ass out of the club, and Andyr throwing his ass into the shower to clean him up, and Andyr staying with him that same night, the way Ronan had. Though Andyr had been rough and callous with him then, tenderness had lurked underneath. Jesse knows Andyr cares about him. It angers Jesse and weakens him all at once.

Jesse, sad, pathetic, desperately lonely piece of shit that he is who is always longing for tenderness underneath all the chaos he causes, suddenly caves. With his face scrunching up in despair, he shifts on the mattress, rolling onto his side and huddling straight into Andyr's personal space. He buries his face against Andyr's chest with a broken sob, seeking safety and something to anchor him against this awful storm raging inside him.

Of course he still wants Andyr here. He doesn't deserve it, but he can't help it. ]

[deconstruct]

[ with a distant passiveness, andyr watches jesse process this. waits for a hand shoving him away, or another slur of shouting, maybe calling for ronan or adam, to let them know what they'd let into their house with them.

all that comes are the tears that keep streaming from his eyes, but he doesn't reach for them now. won't force his presence on jesse until he knows he wants him here. he can wait, and he does, silent. jesse understands what he's said, and the question he'd asked, there isn't any need to clarify further.

in andyr's eyes, he'd done nothing to deserve admiration, or respect, from jesse. jesse'd always been the one saving him, and when they'd gone to fetch him from the city, it was ronan that did all the talking, kind words and soft sentiments, and andyr was there as muscle. he wanted to help, of course, but this isn't something he does well. even with ronan and adam, andyr always feels like he starts more problems than he solves. so it would be reasonable, if jesse told him to go.

what he gets, instead, is the man rolling into his side, burrowing up against his chest, and letting out a heart wrenching sob. when he first moves, it seems like he's about to be shoves, and andyr tenses up, so it takes him a second or two to realize, no. jesse's curling up against him instead. it reminds him of adam, and the nightmare he'd woken himself from, a mess of crying and fears and guilt. gradually, andyr's arms come up to encircle him, one around his back, palm rubbing up and down over his spine, and the other cupping the back of his head, hugging him close to his chest, cheek rested on his hair.]

I got you, I'm here. [ and murmurs quietly, stroking over his hair. ] I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you.

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesse vaguely registers, through his distress, that Andyr has tensed up. He's half expecting to be shoved away. Affection is something Andyr reserves for Ronan, for Adam; it's not something Jesse has ever sought from him or asked of him, and Jesse has always been acutely aware of how important Andyr's personal space is. And why wouldn't it be? Jesse doesn't even know a fraction of the things Andyr has endured, but he knows and has witnessed more than enough to understand why invading Andyr's personal space can be perceived as a violation.

But then Andyr's arms are finally folding around Jesse instead. The hand rubbing up and down his back, the other hand cradling Jesse's head... A renewed surge of sobs shake out of him, and Jesse sinks into Andyr's touch and embrace, seeming to try and hide even close against him, like a guy who's utterly starved of affection. Those words Andyr murmurs to him, how gentle he's being - it reminds Jesse of the way Mr. White had let Jesse fall against him into his arms in that filthy, disgusting meth den Jesse had wound up in after Jane died. How Jesse had sobbed while Mr. White had held him close, exactly like this - an arm around him, Mr. White's hand cradling Jesse's head to his chest. In that moment, despite everything, Jesse had felt loved and cherished, even though he hadn't deserved it.

Jesse can't say or do anything for the longest while. His arm slides up underneath Andyr's, winding around to his back, his fingers fisting a tuft of Andyr's shirt in his hand while he clings desperately onto him. All he does is cry against Andyr's chest, sobbing and sobbing, until his sobs begin to wane simply from exhaustion. They slowly dissolve into whimpers, then hitching breath while tears still fall from his eyes, soaking Andyr's shirt. Finally, Jesse falls silent. Huddled in Andyr's arms, still, quiet, utterly hollowed out and drained.

Eventually, Jesse says against Andyr's chest, his voice thick and tired and lifeless from crying: ]

Think I got what I deserved, anyway.

[deconstruct]

[ for all the time that jesse weeps and sobs and shakes against andyr's chest, he holds to him, palm stroking over his back, and quiet "shh"s and "i got you"s murmured against his hair. it aches in him, to hear and see and feel jesse so torn apart, but at the same time, andyr knows that he needs this. the comfort and the safe place to simply break down and let all of this charge through him in an awful torrent. this isn't a place like hapsburg where he'd have to swallow it down or funnel it into something much more viscous, and jesse can have the time, here, to be weak. to be hurt. to regret and fear and hate himself.

in the end, he sounds hollowed out, but, at least, that also means purged, for the time being. he tells andyr he believes he's been given a sentence to serve for this already, and andyr doesn't doubt it. even the agony he's in here alone is painful. that doesn't say anything about what'll happen to him back home as well. ]

I'm sorry. [ andyr mutters to him, a thumb wiping at stray tear tracks again, not paying any mind to what's soaked into his sleep shirt. carefully, he presses a short kiss to jesse's forehead, something innocent and affectionate. almost as if there's a blessing he's trying to bestow with it. but andyr isn't nearly so holy. ]

It's good it's not easy. It isn't supposed to be.

[ not that he's happy jesse's in pain, he isn't. but the fact of it is, that it's part of life, a vital part, that he ought to look at as necessary. ] When it stops hurting, you stop being human.