goneawayworld | From Dust to Dust

Anja looks up at him as he approaches, tongue idly flicking out to taste the air. She's taken up a state of vigilance of her own, or, well, of South's own, but the thing is, for all South claims she'd rather be alone? It's all a front, and it's not one that Anja's interested in the upkeep of.

She doesn't say anything, but she does slither out of the way and nudge the door open a little more as she does. It's as good an invitation as any.

South doesn't even hear the door creak open another inch, or notice when Anja moves. Her head's already clouded by the weird haze that comes with crying that she hates, so she stays curled up, face buried in her knees.

Her hair's done up in a pretty nicely done French twist that South, who rocks bedhead more often than she doesn't these days, clearly didn't do herself. Despite the arms over her head, she's seemingly been careful not to pull a single hair out of place.

The cubicle isn't big enough for South, Brand, and a dog of Fi's size, so the latter remains with Anja as Brand pushes through the door. He's not quiet about it, so that South knows both that someone's coming in and that that someone is Brand -- they're familiar enough with the sounds of each other's gait and breathing now that she probably won't even need to look up to identify him.

He kicks the door closed behind him and sinks down on the floor next to her, a fancy dress version of the way she'd sat with him when Rune had snapped back home.

"...Not really good at talking about shit," he says, like that's a fucking surprise. Their friendship is largely based on not talking about shit. "But I can sit. Or I could shove his head in a fucking toilet."

He doubts she actually wants him to shove her brother's head in a toilet, but he can at least make the offer. Maybe she'll laugh; North is big enough and well-enough trained that shoving his head in a toilet would take Brand some significant effort.

There's an audible hiss of air, distorted by being dragged in harshly through her teeth, when she hears him come in, and the line of her shoulders pulls tight. But she doesn't raise her head and snap at him to fuck off, she doesn't even raise her head at all at first, she just... sits, sniffling quietly, listening to the shuffling sounds of Brand getting himself situated and then his words.

Of course he knows who she's crying about. Fuck.

There's a weak, wet sound that's not quite a laugh and not quite a snort, but that's all she musters. The thought of how hilarious the mental image of Brand trying to get North's head into a toilet even crosses her mind, but she can't seem to connect the actual humour to it.

"It-It's not—" her voice comes out weird and raw and she coughs, clears her throat. Lifts her head and drags a hand over her face. "He doesn't... it's complicated."

Even if either of them were any good at talking, she's not sure she could ever really explain this. Brand would drop her like a rock if he knew the full story, of that she's sure. In the end, she only really has herself to blame for the hurt she's feeling.

There's not a single fucking person on this mission or the Rig that South would cry like this over other than her brother, Brand himself included. It's not a hard conclusion to draw. The wet noise is a positive, it means South's grief hasn't swamped her connection to reality. Brand definitely doesn't know her well enough to help her with that shit.

He shifts his weight, settling in for the long haul, or as long as it takes everyone else to finish getting dressed and made up.

"It usually is," he says, as gently as he can manage. "'s why it sucks."

She drops her head back against the wall with a sharp thunk, fingers splayed across her face, trying to breathe. She hates this. She hates showing vulnerability like this. First in front of York and now in front of Brand and okay, she saw Brand at rock bottom that day Rune went back home, but he wasn't blubbering like a little kid who just skinned their knee for the first time.

"S-Shouldn't have talked to him here. Fucking— stupid," she mumbles, scrubbing that hand over her face again and then letting it fall into her lap.

She should've known better than this, than to think this was a good idea. Waiting would've sucked, but at least she wouldn't be crying like this, when they're meant to be going to this stupid fancy party soon. Her eyes are going to be red and her face is going to be a mess and fuck, she's going to look ridiculous.

"Knew this was coming. I fucking knew it," she says, still mumbling. It's not talking when you just make vague, frustrated comments, right? "So fucking stupid."

If he has to forgive her to let her back into his life, then that's it. You don't forgive a person for that kind of betrayal.

Had South put voice to the comparison between their respective breakdowns, Brand would have had a couple things to say about it. But all she's saying are self-recriminations and things he has no context for, so he's got nothing. Obviously something had gone down between North and South, and whatever repair they'd made of it back when Brand had called North to give him shit on South's behalf hadn't been enough to hold.

Rune doesn't like to be touched when he's upset, except incidentally. Max doesn't either. Corbie does, but Corbie also views the adults in his life as climbing equipment and South strikes him as being more in the former camp than the latter. So Brand lets his continued presence speak for him rather than reaching out further.

"Well, just..." he gestures vaguely at her face, not looking at her. "Get it all out now while you've still got a private corner. Or else it's going to keep happening." He sighs, staring at the opposite wall. "Grief's a wound. You've got to clean it, or else it'll get infected."

She snorts, and it sounds a little bit more like her usual, this time. "Is-Isn't that the fuckin' truth. T-Think under that—" she coughs, clears her throat again, "—that analogy, it's been infected for a fuckin' while though."

It's not even a grief she deserves to have. He wouldn't have died if it wasn't for her selfishness. He wouldn't be so close to excising her from his life if she hadn't betrayed him. Do you have a right to grief if the loss is your own fault?

"I keep... I keep thinking..." She groans, swipes at her eyes. The tears keep coming anyway. "I keep thinking things are going to be alright, but every fucking time..."

First he wouldn't listen to what happened at all, and she couldn't handle that, him pretending. Then they made up, made promises, and it turned out he was pretending anyway. And now this—he still loves her, but what does that matter when he still can't quite forgive her?

She sighs, and the next thing she says is barely above a whisper. "I-I can't keep doing this."

"Then you've really got to clean that shit or it'll kill you."

There's a chilling certainty to Brand's words. They don't talk about it, they don't put it in words ever, but there have been times when the only thing keeping Rune alive was the knowledge that Brand would follow immediately after. Grief will kill you if you let it fester.

Brand breathes out slowly. "I don't know what the thing you can't keep doing is. So: then don't keep doing it; or find a way to burn it to fuel something else. Which ever's most applicable."

Sometimes people need permission to stop doing a thing. Sometimes they need to figure out how to do something else instead. Mostly the latter, but in that case the former pisses people off enough that they start moving again, even if it's just to take a swing.

South swallows hard. Thinks about how it was only after everything started to go wrong again that she really threw herself into the lion's den, got herself wrapped up in this double-agent shit with Jorg.

Thinks of how she justified it to herself with the knowledge that if they caught her, killed her for it, at least nothing of value would really have been lost. At least no one would miss her.

"Fuck." She drags both hands over her face, but stops short of going into her hair. "Fuck fuck fuck."

What the fuck is happening to her? Why does being a better person have to come with all this— this— baggage? When will being better start to feel worth everything she's losing in the process?

She's quiet for a long moment except the sound of her ragged breathing and a sob that breaks through before she can bite it back. Brand's right: she either needs to break this cycle, or redirect it, but she's just doesn't know how.

York tried to tell her to just focus on doing all of this for herself, but he doesn't get it, not really. He doesn't get how hard that is when her whole life has been shaped by being one of a set, when—no matter how much she resented it sometimes—if she was there, then so was he. But Brand...

She breathes in, breathes out. "I keep— I keep letting my fucking life revolve around him and if he'll forgive me or not. I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to live if its just me."

Brand laughs humorlessly. "We both know that I am the worst fucking person to ask about that. I wouldn't know how to do it if you gave me a thousand years to figure it out."

He taps a finger on the floor between them, still not looking at her. "Maybe you've got to decide right now that he's never going to forgive you. Maybe you're right and maybe you're wrong, but roll with the worst case scenario and take the uncertainty out of it. Then you can start to fucking figure out what you're going to do without him. A novelty salt shaker still works without the matching pepper grinder, it's just shaped funny."

The way her lips twist isn't exactly a smile, there's nothing happy about it, but maybe it takes on a note of weak humour at the metaphor. Yeah, he's the worst person to ask and that's exactly why he's the only person here who could ever start to understand how complicated this is, for her.

"S'kinda the thing, really. I already know he won't, but he doesn't yet. He's trying." The dismissive snort she makes says everything about how she feels about that. "The shit I did..."

She bites her tongue, literally, before she can elaborate on impulse. She can't even tell if its a stupid, self-destructive impulse or an equally stupid desire for understanding—as if that'd be what'd fucking come of it. Fuck, this is why she doesn't talk about stuff ever, let alone when she's this emotional.

"I had months back home, after..." She swallows thickly and squeezes her eyes shut, making fresh tears fall, dribble down her cheeks and off her chin. "Couldn't figure it out then. Don't know how I'm ever gonna now. But you're not fuckin' wrong."

Brand takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"Well," he says, "then I guess you're fucked."

Maybe that's the worst case scenario South needs to accept: not that North is never going to forgive her, but that there's no way for her to truly come to peace with it.

"He's not dead this time. That's better, yeah? That he's still out there, even if you're...cut off."

She snorts. Right to the point as ever—oh yeah, she's fucked. She's totally fucked.

"Yeah. Yeah that's better." Her voice is still thick and she has to pause and cough again, scrubbing her face with the butt of her hand. "And he'll live better without me to worry about, anyway. We've always been... dysfunctional."

She rolls her eyes at herself—that's a gentle way to put it. She's never been good for him, she never made anything easier for him in any way that matters, she let so much fall on his shoulders because she was trying so hard to be the opposite of him. To be her own person.

"M'glad he can maybe have the life he shoulda had, if we ever get outta here. He's got York and Theta and the others. H-He deserves that, after... after..."

Her breathing quickens and she bites her tongue again, tasting iron this time. She wills herself to calm down but it's too fucking late, first there's more tears and then there's sobbing as the guilt slams into her like a tidal wave.

"Fuck." This is pathetic. This is so fucking pathetic.

From Dust to Dust - Plot Point 2

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cw: suicide mention

cw: suicide mention

Re: cw: suicide mention

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