Bart's No Good Very Bad (Rainy) Day

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

He’s drowning. Iron is flooding his nose and mouth, thick and uncomfortably hot. Each breath is a rattle, spraying blood when he convulses uselessly on the rotted wooden floor. His mother is crying in the background somewhere, her shrill voice overshadowed by his father’s booming shouts. There’s a panicked undertone there that Bart isn’t used to hearing. The words themselves are muffled. Like there’s cotton in his ears. Or maybe there’s blood there too? It’s a hysterical idea in the moment.

I’m dying, he thinks to himself. There’s no fear, only a sense of wonder. Befuddlement perhaps. Of all times, he hadn’t expected it to be now. Here.

At least there’s no pain. He has seen firsthand the terrible, slow ways death can come to a person. As he gurgles blood, lips stained and hand uselessly pressed to his throat, he’s simply grateful.

It’s finally over. The last chapter penned, the cover finally closed.

He can rest now.

I’m coming, Nate.

- - -

There’s rain on his face. And fuck is it annoying. A deluge or whatever. He’s halfway to scowling before he even opens his eyes, and then he’s more distracted by the fact that he’s alive. And not in his father’s rundown living room if the gritty sand beneath him is any evidence. Which is a major difference from what he last remembers you know? For a moment he just lays there, trying to figure out what the hell is happening, but that becomes useless real quick. Sitting up and looking around isn’t much better. In fact it’s the opposite, because Bart has never seen this place before in his life, and he doesn’t think heaven - or hell, who is he kidding - would be this soggy. Which leaves him with just about zero context clues for where he has ended up.

So he does what he does best - gets on his feet and keeps moving.

The rain plasters his curls down against his forehead, but at least his jacket keeps him warm enough. A hand strays to his throat, and he swallows shakily at the scar he feels beneath his fingertips. So it was real. But if that’s the case, where the hell is he now?

He walks aimlessly away from the shore. Inland is where the people will be. Or so he hopes. God, please don’t let this be some Lord of the Flies bullshit.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

Most people don’t tend to use the portals during monsoon season. He knows this as fact. He also knows that sometimes people don’t particularly get a choice. Perhaps this is one of those times, a flash of someone in his gaze leaving from the Port as he does his rounds just to ensure no other buildings are going to collapse. But it isn’t just anyone at first glance, because there’s a jacket he spies - one that he imagines is quite familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on it just yet.

So he decides to do something he hasn’t done in a while, actually. He tails the stranger, consistently trying to keep his mind working, the gears spinning, in order to try and determine where the fuck he’s seen that jacket before.

It hits him surprisingly quickly as he sizes up the man, not quite as built as Nate, but there’s some similarities there despite the rest, and the jacket? The jacket is Nate’s. Which, of course, doesn’t bode well for the Attuned as the realization sits in. “Hey!” He calls out, a bit sharper at first, working his jaw through the rain that batters the both of them and the wind that sneaks up on them.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

Now Bart is usually better at realizing when he’s being tailed, but he deserves a little forgiveness here aight? He’s not exactly accustomed to pouring rain and sand and weird tropical paradises that look more like they came out of the devil’s mocking imagination. There isn’t even a damn car in sight. So when the shoot registers, his narrow shoulders rise and he casts a sharp look over one, looking like a hunted creature willing to snap at the closest appendage that comes his way.

Except there’s no other soul on this forsaken beach. Bartholomew supposes he can play nice for two seconds to figure out what the hell is going on.

Spinning around to face the other man, he juts his chin out, teeth gritted even as he helps diminish the space between them. It might be a telling sign of abuse, but Bartie doesn’t like to shout even when the rain practically invites it. "Hey yourself. Where th’fuck am I?" Cut to the chase why don’t we?

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

There’s quite a few things that Sunjata doesn’t expect. He doesn’t expect the man to whirl around to face him like that, nor does he expect the grit teeth and the jutted chin. But the part that surprises him most is the accent that falls from the other man’s lips, drawing Sunjata’s brows, pinched together, his eyes widening a fraction, before he doubles down on the frustration that builds within him.

“You’re in Torchline.” He half mutters, half hisses, before he’s stepping closer - definitely peering down at the stranger through a dark silver gaze as he scans the jacket. And rather than stating the obvious, ‘are you an Outlander’ or ‘maybe we should get out of the rain and have a chat’, Sunjata’s frustration gets the better of him as he looks the man up and down once again.

“Where’d you get that jacket?” It comes out rough, with an edge, a hint of the storm that feels as though it’s rumbling through Sunjata’s mind.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

Listen, the last thing Bart remembers is fighting with his shithead old man. Rage is already right near the surface. So when Scarface gets all up in his business, throwing him Angry Eyebrows and hissing like a snake, Bart steps right up to the plate. Batter up, bitchboy.

"The fuck kinda name is Torchline? Sounds like a tourist trap for high-ballin’ assholes." Which Bart isn’t part of the population for, thus the clear discrepancy here. The man may be taller than him, but Bartholomew tilts his head up fearlessly, dark eyes stormy and daring.

Then Scarface opens his mouth a little too wide, and Bart bares his teeth. "Where’d ya get that scar? Kitchen accident?" He pantomimes a cut with his thumb, slicing it from the corner of his mockingly curled lips. "See how it feels when someone puts their nose in ya business? Was my brother’s. That’s all ya need to know, cuz it ain’t for sale and ya wouldn’t do it justice anyway." Punctuated by a disdainful glance from head to toe of the other man, brow rising as he finds Sunjata clearly lacking.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

Truthfully, it would be funny if Sunjata wasn’t already fairly pissed off. The most he can manage is a scoff at the words that leave the stranger, until the brief flicker of amusement fades into even more frustration. He’s half tempted to bare his teeth at the shorter man, to let his shifts let loose and simply show Bart exactly how he might’ve gotten a scar or two. But then, then, all the flare and fire within him falters and fades when he shakes his head.

“No, I’ve seen that jacket before.” He begins, visibly growing a bit more confused than pissed off, staring at the man now as if he might be able to see through him. There’s the similar eye color, the dark hair, the height, but that couldn’t mean anything. Surely, there was some sort of logic to all of this.

“That’s my husband’s jacket. So I’ll ask again, where did you get it?” Because it was gone, along with Nate, and he’d be damned to see if someone had managed to take it off of him somehow to parade around Torchline.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

Bart doesn’t rightfully care what’s ticking away in the dudebro’s brain, because he’s pissy, it’s raining, he has no idea where he is, he should rightfully be dead, and this motherfucker won’t stop asking him about his jacket? Seriously what the hell? If he wasn’t so protective over it maybe it wouldn’t grind his gears so much but well. Here they are.

"Well I sure ain’t seen you in my life so how the hell does that track?" Especially when Scarface lives in a place he’s never heard of. Sure the States are huge and this might be a little town, but that sure looks like the fucking ocean over there, and Bartholomew has certainly never seen that in his life.

The term husband draws him up short, expression turning blatantly guarded. "Unless your husband is my dead brother and you’re some kinda corpse-fucker, it ain’t his." Frustrated, he shoves the jacket down to his elbows to turn the inside of his bicep outward, showing off the dark scripted ink. Nathaniel Wren. Birth and death dates beneath the beautiful scrawl. A challenging look sets his pretty face into a snarl. "See? Ain’t even lyin’ to ya. Now get off my dick ya fuckin’ herpe." So saying he spins around, tugging the jacket back to its rightful place and popping the collar as he stalks off. He doesn’t have time for this.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

Oh this won’t do. Sunjata’s prepared to hear any sort of excuse, any sort of reasoning behind why this stranger would have Nate’s jacket, when the ball starts to drop. Only… It becomes more of a snowball turned into an avalanche, brows drawn together in confusion - sharp eyes following the ink that’s revealed - before he shakes his head.

Realization dawns on him a split second after the man’s spinning around and stalking off. And Sunjata certainly can’t let that be that. He’s still a bit fucked up from Ronin’s fists, but he manages to tug at a shift within him, drawing himself into his panther shift, darting across the sands to cut the man off before he’s turning back into himself. Of course, he leaves a bit of distance, not wanting to get within range of the man.

“Bart?” He asks instead, eyes sharp as they linger on the man. “That’s not right. You’re… You’re the one that died. Nate didn’t.” He can’t help the confusion that crosses his face at the dates tattooed on the inside of the man’s bicep.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

Bart is walking away with his head held high, back to wondering where the fuck he is when - is that a fucking panther?! He stumbles backwards with a shout, hand flying for the knife in his front pocket and brandishing it with a well-trained flick of his wrist, only to stare dumbfounded as the cat turns back into Scarface.

Alright so Lord of the Flies is out, clearly this is some science fiction bullshit world he ended up in. Fantasy? Fuck, he never read enough as a kid.

And then Scarface is calling him by that haunted name, and he’s running across the sand as red splashes across his vision, the hurt barreling down like a freight train. Scarred hands reach for the man’s collar, getting on his toes to get in the man’s face as he snarls. "Don’t fuckin’ call me that! Who th’fuck gave ya that name?!" It’s as close to a shout as Bart can get, eyes wild and aiming the knife threateningly at the man’s ribs. Still held away, but no less a promise. His accent swallows up the words, but slowly what Scarface said trickles through the haze of reactive emotion and he slowly lowers the knife, brows drawn together and eyes unblinking even as rain streams down his face. "Nate’s dead. Get his name outta yer mouth too while yer at it. It’s fuckin’ Bartholomew to ya, and nothin’ else." Roughly dropping the man’s collar and backing away, wary eyes never moving lest his boldness not go unpunished. Dude is a shapeshifter, maybe Bart should have thought about that before he pulled a knife on him. Oops.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

The other man moves surprisingly fast given the surprise the Attuned has given him. He also seems to react quite… Viscerally to the name Sunjata’s called him, which only seems to pinpoint the truth to it all. Perhaps logic is required here, in the fact that Sunjata’s father has arrived before. That Lusea has arrived before. Would it truly be all that surprising that Nate’s dead brother had arrived?

No, not really.

So he doesn’t move when Bart pulls the knife on him, almost daring him to try it and find out what happens. But he can’t hurt Bart. Nor does he find he wants to even if the guy’s a bit of a prick. So he waits until Bart’s dropped his collar and there’s some space between them before he can find his words. “Your brother gave me that name.” He says, surprisingly even, despite the rain and the wind that beat against them. “And Nate’s not dead. You’re in a different world. In Caido, now, and Nate’s been here for years.” He pauses, brows drawing together briefly as he tries to recall memories from his husband, though Nate’s always been quiet about it.

His shoulders loosen a bit of their tightness as he sucks down a breath and tries to find a place to start. “You, uh, you were the first one that got arrested and Nate took the fall for you. Your dad was shitty and into some shady shit that you and Nate helped out with… You spent summers in the middle of nowhere with your… Grandparents? Nate likes to cook.” They’re all stumbling out now, but an attempt to try and prove that Nate was still here.

“He’s here, and he’s alive.”

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

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.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

It isn’t intentional (at least not fully) for Sunjata to stick his fingers into fresh wounds. But it’s a realization that’s thrown him for a loop too as he reveals it all, lets Bart come closer, lets him absorb the words and the information Sunjata’s laid out. It’s truly most of what he has, given the fact Nate was so private about his life before, and now with the break he truly has no concrete proof of ‘hey let me take you home and show you’ so he has to settle for something else.

“I get it. I’m… Not from here either.” He sighs, pushing back rain soaked hair as he stares at Bart, as he realizes just how terrible of a first impression he’s made. “Nate’s… On a trip right now but he’ll be back soon. So I can’t show him to you just yet, but I can show you something he’s written?” He wonders if it’s good enough, before deciding fuck it and doing it anyway. His hand comes out to gesture for him to follow the Attuned until they reach the notice board, flicking through all the previous notices to reveal two most notably.

The first when Nate had started his medical clinic, the second when it came to bitching out Ronin. The last names were slightly different, but the handwriting is certainly the same. “We, uh, we combined our names when we got married.” He doesn’t look at Bart, instead a part of him focuses on the handwriting, on the tone Nate’s written them with, wondering if perhaps he wishes it hard enough Nate would come back.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA

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

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.

Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear

BARTHOLOMEW

// do my worst, shoot the moon, stab the sun. got a curse, on the tip of my tongue
you go first, and i swear that i'll jump.  born to kill, tiny slice of the throat //

There is sorrow within them both at reading the notice board posts, at seeing the handwriting from a man that means so much to the both of them, that Sunjata remains quiet after his explanation for however long it takes for Bart to speak up. And when their eyes do meet again, Sunjata feels somewhat awkward - as if he wasn’t at all what Bart had expected Nate to be married to, if he’d ever had a thought about it. But this was the current reality, and Sunjata swallows down any of those lingering worries, the ‘getting off on the wrong foot’ as it were.

There’s a crease of his gaze with the question, Sunjata wondering if he could send a letter or if it would even make it out of Torchline during the storms, and so the painful truth Sunjata can offer is that… He has to wait. It’s a truth he doesn’t want to drop, something he doesn’t want to admit when he can spy a hint of relief within the blue gaze of the other man.

“He’s… Going to be back when the storms are over.” ”When he decides if he wants to stay with me after all the shit i’ve put him through.” “Until then I don’t really know where he’s gone.” His lips flatten into a frown. “I’m… The Governor here. You can stay at the house until he comes home, if you wanted?” It’s an easy offering to give, truthfully, despite his house being a bit full given everything that’s gone on recently.

And Bart was family. That should at least count for something, right? Even if Nate couldn’t find it within him to stay.

a new pill, or the poison you know, let it spill && i swear that i'll go

SUNJATA