BART
Whatever weird mix defines a scoff and a laugh is what burbles out of his throat helplessly as they are left to their solitude. It's the first time in years that Bart has felt right. Where they are and how they got here doesn't matter in the slightest to him, all the weirdness and wrongness melting away. Home is where the heart is and all that sappy nonsense, but the reality is that home is where Nate is. And Bart hasn't been home in too many years. He feels small in a way he hasn't since he was a kid, like he can hide in his brother's arms the way he used to when their dad's voice would get too loud through their thin walls, and everything would be okay again. The scar on his throat that never seems to stop itching finally feels like normal skin again.
"Pot kettle bitch, what's with all this new ink?" Calloused hands reaching to chuff at the first available tattoo, really just an excuse to touch, to help cement the proof that Nate is alive and real. Easier changes to focus on instead of the gnarly scars that mar his twin's face. Admittedly Bart is having a hard time caring about the whys of Sunjata's ignorance; Bart cares deeply about any person Nate deigns to love, but right now he wants to pretend he has his twin all to himself for a moment. Their foreheads tap together, and Bart's brows go tight, chest burning like he just drank a fifth in one go as his hand immediately blindly gropes for the nape of Nate's neck. Clinging tightly there as if it could keep Nate from being ripped away again.
"Yeah, I heard yer some kinda techno-vamp now," he snipes weakly, his heart not in it. It takes a few more long moments of sharing his brother's space before Bart pulls away, eyes shot through with red as he begins pulling off his - their? - jacket. Best to rip the bandaid off in one go, right? Luckily he's already wearing a t-shirt beneath it, so it's a matter of hiking up the sleeve a little bit and then turning the inside of his arm up between them, revealing the delicate black script eternally printed there. Nathaniel Wren. Birth and death date tattooed just beneath. His arm hovers there in damning proof of the different lives they'd led. "I uh...yer husband said I died, in your world or timeline or whatever. In mine...in mine I lost you first." Young, too young, and he can still smell the bitter hospital scent and hear the shuffling of bodies against sparse linens in that sad dilapidated wing. His hands begin to shake with the memory of it.
"Pot kettle bitch, what's with all this new ink?" Calloused hands reaching to chuff at the first available tattoo, really just an excuse to touch, to help cement the proof that Nate is alive and real. Easier changes to focus on instead of the gnarly scars that mar his twin's face. Admittedly Bart is having a hard time caring about the whys of Sunjata's ignorance; Bart cares deeply about any person Nate deigns to love, but right now he wants to pretend he has his twin all to himself for a moment. Their foreheads tap together, and Bart's brows go tight, chest burning like he just drank a fifth in one go as his hand immediately blindly gropes for the nape of Nate's neck. Clinging tightly there as if it could keep Nate from being ripped away again.
"Yeah, I heard yer some kinda techno-vamp now," he snipes weakly, his heart not in it. It takes a few more long moments of sharing his brother's space before Bart pulls away, eyes shot through with red as he begins pulling off his - their? - jacket. Best to rip the bandaid off in one go, right? Luckily he's already wearing a t-shirt beneath it, so it's a matter of hiking up the sleeve a little bit and then turning the inside of his arm up between them, revealing the delicate black script eternally printed there. Nathaniel Wren. Birth and death date tattooed just beneath. His arm hovers there in damning proof of the different lives they'd led. "I uh...yer husband said I died, in your world or timeline or whatever. In mine...in mine I lost you first." Young, too young, and he can still smell the bitter hospital scent and hear the shuffling of bodies against sparse linens in that sad dilapidated wing. His hands begin to shake with the memory of it.
Even if I do a little just to get me through the night
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
