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
It’s a meager comfort, that this man has apparently been in his shoes, but it barely registers on his radar in comparison to shape shifting and undead brothers. The explanation that Nate’s on a trip - god even thinking his name in the present tense feels like an insurmountable feat - certainly doesn’t erase any of the wariness on his features, but before he can let his tongue run away with him Scarface is offering an alternative.
At least he feels more comfortable at the man’s back, with the advantage it gives him if things go sour. Maybe it’s not normal for people to feel that way, but Bart’s entire existence is ten leagues left of normal anyway. The silence is heavy and tense, but at least it’s only a proverbial one since the rain didn’t get the fucking memo. Maybe it’s atmospheric or something.
Bart doesn’t feel remotely comfortably getting in the dude’s space, but he kind of has to considering the man’s eyes are practically glued to the damn paper. The wind at least conceals the wounded noise he makes at seeing his twin’s handwriting laid bare before his eyes, and he can’t help the trembling fingertips that rise to touch just shy of the old ink. The way they write their W’s is still the same. Each stroke feels like a slash upon his heart, hope Bart can’t afford rising to choke any words out of his throat.
Scarface keeps talking, explaining why the last names are so different, and Bartholomew’s knees go so weak he has to lean his shoulder against the notice board. Married. His brother is married. Did he not have to hide here? God, but he’d missed it either way, even if it had been a private ceremony hidden from the public eye. Regret fills him.
But he’s alive. The how’s and why’s and other bullshit doesn’t matter. Turning his gaze to the other man, Bart reluctantly pulls his hand back from the paper. "Where is he? How’m I supposed to let him know where I am?" Because waiting seems an impossible task with this potential laid before him.
At least he feels more comfortable at the man’s back, with the advantage it gives him if things go sour. Maybe it’s not normal for people to feel that way, but Bart’s entire existence is ten leagues left of normal anyway. The silence is heavy and tense, but at least it’s only a proverbial one since the rain didn’t get the fucking memo. Maybe it’s atmospheric or something.
Bart doesn’t feel remotely comfortably getting in the dude’s space, but he kind of has to considering the man’s eyes are practically glued to the damn paper. The wind at least conceals the wounded noise he makes at seeing his twin’s handwriting laid bare before his eyes, and he can’t help the trembling fingertips that rise to touch just shy of the old ink. The way they write their W’s is still the same. Each stroke feels like a slash upon his heart, hope Bart can’t afford rising to choke any words out of his throat.
Scarface keeps talking, explaining why the last names are so different, and Bartholomew’s knees go so weak he has to lean his shoulder against the notice board. Married. His brother is married. Did he not have to hide here? God, but he’d missed it either way, even if it had been a private ceremony hidden from the public eye. Regret fills him.
But he’s alive. The how’s and why’s and other bullshit doesn’t matter. Turning his gaze to the other man, Bart reluctantly pulls his hand back from the paper. "Where is he? How’m I supposed to let him know where I am?" Because waiting seems an impossible task with this potential laid before him.
Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear
let weakness disappear
BARTHOLOMEW
