Now I know there's no one I can trust - I used to think there was
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
What did Bart literally just say? The dude can’t even keep Nate’s name out of his mouth for five fucking seconds. He’s so astounded by the gall that when he turns around he must look a little disbelieving. Not that that expression improves any with the rest of the bullshit this dude is spewing. Even as something niggles at his brain, the fact that he just watched the man turn into a giant cat pressing insistently at the forefront of his mind.
Just enough to stay his stabby hand.
Not enough to stay his feet, which move of their own accord, because maybe the man needs another shake to start speaking proper sense. Until the words keep falling, and his stomach goes with them, ice creeping into his veins and expression horribly vulnerable. This stranger shouldn’t know Bart’s nickname, much less any of the rest that he so casually reveals. It hurts so goddamn bad, like his chest is caving in. Memories he’d penned down in his journal and left there, trying to empty them out from his brain where they couldn’t torment him anymore. All laid bare and scalding anew.
It’s not possible. It shouldn’t even be a notion to entertain, but shouldn’t Bart also be dead? Maybe this is his test of faith.
"Say I believe you," he croaks, hands trembling and voice hoarse. The wetness in his eyes concealed by the rain. "Can you prove it? Cuz where I’m from people don’t turn into fuckall big cats, and people don’t rise from the dead. Or end up in different worlds." A prospect he can scarcely wrap his head around.
Just enough to stay his stabby hand.
Not enough to stay his feet, which move of their own accord, because maybe the man needs another shake to start speaking proper sense. Until the words keep falling, and his stomach goes with them, ice creeping into his veins and expression horribly vulnerable. This stranger shouldn’t know Bart’s nickname, much less any of the rest that he so casually reveals. It hurts so goddamn bad, like his chest is caving in. Memories he’d penned down in his journal and left there, trying to empty them out from his brain where they couldn’t torment him anymore. All laid bare and scalding anew.
It’s not possible. It shouldn’t even be a notion to entertain, but shouldn’t Bart also be dead? Maybe this is his test of faith.
"Say I believe you," he croaks, hands trembling and voice hoarse. The wetness in his eyes concealed by the rain. "Can you prove it? Cuz where I’m from people don’t turn into fuckall big cats, and people don’t rise from the dead. Or end up in different worlds." A prospect he can scarcely wrap his head around.
Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear
let weakness disappear
BARTHOLOMEW
