Your final accolade

bartholomew

Sunjata comes his way, because he can't resist or feels the need to make amends, Bart isn't sure and doesn't care. The glower only increases with every step the Flood takes, giving the man one last warning of what he seeks to tangle with today. Not that he expects the man to take it. So when he's close enough, Bart cuts through any pretense of hellos with a twist of his lips and a white-knuckled grip on his bottle.

"Sure y'wanna do this here, man?" And though the registers of their voices are different, as he stands there in Nate's old jacket - a duplicate of the one his brother had never relinquished in his own timeline - Bart hopes to hell that it hurts Sunjata to even look at him, to hear his familiar accent. "Cuz I won't be mincin' words or hushin' myself just cuz we're at a party." He's far enough on the fringes to make being 'at' the party questionable, but shouting would still draw attention. Not that he's ever been the type to shout; more snide than loud, unwilling to follow in his father's footsteps.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

No, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to do it at all, but the more he remains at the party looking at his dead husband’s brother, the more the wound opens and hurts, especially when there’s that familiar twist to Bart’s face that he’s seen in Nate’s own time and time again. At the very least they’re on the fringes of the party, Sunjata’s posture already a hint above defeat.

“Where else?” He asks, because it’s the first time he’s seen Bart since. Though it isn’t like he hasn’t gone through the motions of keeping himself out in the open either. So he works his jaw, scanning Bart and the familiarity, the lingering look along the jacket that Sunjata knows intimately well. A jacket he’d worn on occasion when he and Nate first started dating.

He takes a deep breath, unsure what to say. Words had never been his strong suit, and all he can offer is meeting Bart’s gaze and offering out something that nobody really wanted to hear, but it was better than hearing nothing at all. “I’m sorry.”

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

Where indeed, because Bart had taken his shit and disappeared the second the war truly started. He wasn't stupid - he'd known what the outcome would be, and he had wanted to carry those last goodbyes with his brother in solitude, refusing all other socialization so that new memories and interactions couldn't muddle it up in his head. And so that when the news came of the triumphant victory of the Old God warriors, Bart could lost his mind in privacy.

Instead of answering he takes another long pull off the bottle in his hand, though his eyes never waver from Sunjata's. He's got that kicked-puppy look going on. The one he always wears when he's preparing to get his shit rocked physically or verbally. "Wipe that look offa yer face. Hate seein' someone go back to what they looked like when their daddy would be preppin' to beat 'em around." Because he'd seen that face in the mirror a thousand times before he'd learned to take after Nate and plaster on a cocky, baiting grin.

It's a bare-bones starter, and Bart snorts. "Sorry for what, man? Me losin' him too? Fine. Thanks." Then the cloud of meanness descends over the easy out he'd just given the Flood. "Cuz ya better be real specific 'bout what yer sayin' sorry for. There's some things I'm not gonna be so forgivin' about." Like that blonde over in the corner that Sunjata saw fit to start playing house with recently.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

He doesn’t expect such a visceral reaction from Bart in terms of his posture. But he supposes he should have expected it — Nate was the one who knew why he always reacted like this, not his twin. So he does let some of the surprise glance across his face, his scarred brow rising, trying to not let the accent stick daggers in his already shattered husk of a heart. “I killed my father, actually.” He half mumbles, only because it was distinctly relevant to Nate. He’d taken down his tyrant of a father because he’d captured the other Wren and it was the only way Sunjata could get him back.

As for being sorry, well, there’s any number of reasons why. “For not being able to get him out of the war.” Because they both obviously wanted him to still be here. “I made the refuge so that it could be a place he could stay and avoid the war. But when I asked the Voice, she wouldn’t let him.” And Nate wouldn’t have let Sunjata become this terrible mother hen in every search possible to keep him out of it.

If Bart doesn’t like that reasoning, then it is what it is.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

Bart's eyes go skyward, searching for patience or maybe just in exasperation that there's so little he can say without it backfiring. "Well fuck me I guess. Mine killed me to get me here, big whoop. Just stop lookin' like I'm gonna smack ya." Nate had always been the type to throw fists, not Bart. He had a slimmer build and a nurse's disposition to stay his hands most days.

Most.

The apology earns a snort and nothing more, though Bart averts his eyes and his jaw feathers. "Sunjata, I don't fuckin' blame you for him dyin'. He's the one who made the choice to be a demigod. The Voice is the one who wouldn't let him sit it out." On top of Nate himself always needing to be in the thick of things. Bart's heart aches remembering a different version of his brother dying in a lonely corner on a lumpy hospital bed, cast aside for who he chose to love. "I blame ya for disappearin'. Even if it makes me a damn hypocrite cuz I did too - but I wasn't Mel's family the same way you are." Late to the game in her payroll of familial ties despite their kindred spirits. He'll grovel to the girl later if she gives him the chance.

"And I blame ya for movin' on. It was a fuckin' year man." The snarl comes out in full force now, because the news is recent for Bart and he hasn't had time to come to grips with it. It's an assumption to be sure, but they'd been real cozy by the fire, and Isla hadn't been an unknown figure in the Wrenzoak household before the war given how entrenched in Ascended politics they'd been.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

Sunjata heaves a sigh, hearing their pasts being the exact opposite of one another. But he does as asked, straightens his spine, bringing his height to its full potential if only so that Bart doesn’t think he’s a kicked puppy. He is, but that’s beside the point.

His apology, however, is met with yet another surprise. Everyone seemed to blame him for everything. Not being quick enough to help the Ascended get more relics, getting imprisoned in Stormbreak’s jail for a day or two, causing ruptures and destruction in his wake wherever it was he seemed to go. At least, that’s what everyone else tells him he’s done, pairing it with how selfish he is.

His head tilts as Bart blames him for disappearing, and Sunjata shakes his head to that. “I never left the refuge.” When it had opened up after the war, Sunjata remained. The one lone figure amongst a place made to protect people when he’d lost himself in the process. And where else were he to go? The only person who even wanted to do anything with him had died. What was left? Trying to force himself into relationships with people who didn’t want it?

Least of all Melita. “What was I going to say to her? She blames me for Nate’s death. She blames me for taking too long to part with his things. We’ve rarely gotten times where we didn’t piss each other off.” Frustration blooms heavily in his chest and he swallows tightly at Bart’s next accusation.

“It’s been two years, first of all. Second of all, Isla’s my business partner.” Sure, they came off as cozy and comfortable, but Sunjata isn’t in a place yet to call them anything. He doesn’t know if he ever will. And that’s an agreement they’ve both come to terms with as far as he knows.

But he isn’t childish enough to throw out a she’s literally my only friend but he wonders if the implication is enough.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

"Hidin' away is the same thing as disappearin'," he grits out between teeth that clench so hard his temples ache. "I ain't got nobody attached to me, you sure looked like you did." Kids, Melita, the remaining Ascended. And if he was wrong, he sure as hell isn't going to admit it, not when he'd done the same under the pretense of having nobody to miss him.

"Y'know that for sure? Or did ya just assume?" His eyes narrow, trying to hunt out any hint of a lie. "Doesn't matter if she pisses ya off, she's family!" Lord knows Nate had crawled under his skin too many times for a mathematician to count, but Bart still had the man's name tattooed on his body, still held vigil over his memory two years after his death. It wasn't an excuse he'd personally accept.

Doubt makes his lip curl and jaw feather. "Seems awfully cozy for a business partner then, so I ain't gonna fuckin' apologize. s'what it looks like, and I'm allowed to be pissed at the thought that yer spittin' on everything he gave ya." Including his life, which Bart didn't think Sunjata was worth. Then again, nobody was worth Nate's life in his opinion - not even himself if it came down to it. "You got all the years I wish I fuckin' had with him, and didn't even bother tryin' to keep his memory alive. Just stuffed it all in yer head for yourself and carried on." No visiting with Nate's friends, no memorial, no burial or wake. At least nothing he'd been invited to, which would only incense him further if he'd missed it.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

He wasn’t fit enough to take care of the kids once Nate had passed. He could barely (selfishly) take care of himself. So those daggers dip in further against his chest until it feels like the pressure won’t release, especially as Bart’s accent continues to rip off those bandaids he’d thought he’d applied better this time.

He bitterly keeps the fact he’d gone out into the ocean, the times he’d hoped he’d waste away, locked behind his teeth, however. Instead, making way for a scoff to leave him at the mention of Melita again. “When I assume, I’m typically right.” He snaps, unable to keep his temper in check. “You can ask her if you don’t believe me.” Of course, he doesn’t really know what she’ll say, but if it’s anything like the rest of their interactions, he thinks he’s got a good guess.

As for Isla and the rest of it, he lifts a lightning scarred hand to his face, pressing two fingers against his temple as if staving off the headache that tries to form. The hand drops and his lips part to reply to that shiv, when he continues on and Sunjata almost wishes it was a physical fight if only to keep the mental shadows from overtaking him again after he’d worked so hard to try and work through it.

“I found out he died the day the war ended. It was something everyone else seemed to know as I stepped out of the refuge. Isla was the one to tell me.” She had been one of the last remaining Ascended, after all. “You’re right. I didn’t hold a funeral for him. That doesn’t mean I didn’t fucking love him!” Frustration airs in his throat, in the way he has to cut himself off to take a breath to keep his voice from cracking, to swallow to keep the stubborn gleam of tears in his gaze. “I am trying to make the hurt easier every day. I can’t even go and see Frey without being blindfolded because all I will see is him. He is everywhere, Bart. I don’t have to be the one to put reminders like billboards into the world. A world that, because of the Old Gods, hated him for what he was.”

He’s still shirtless, as he’d arrived to the party, and if Bart looked anywhere else but his face, he’d see the crudely scarred in ‘NW’ in Nate’s handwriting just under his heart.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

"Maybe I will," he antagonizes further, because Bart has never known when to stop picking at a scab. And fuck that sucks because now he has to talk to Melita, but hopefully she'll be more amenable to his presence than the Flood's given he was cooler the one who'd often kept her company in the house.

His shoulder jerks with the aborted desire to grab Sunjata by the shirt and shake him because of course he's not fucking wearing one. As if Bart wants to see the reminders on his skin - the carvings, the handwriting, the tattoos. "I'm not sayin' you didn't fuckin' love him!" Spat like an alley cat promising a fight with its back to the wall. "But ya sure didn't fight to the very end like he did, huh?" Always the one to fight back against the injustices the Ascended had faced, putting his body and mind on the line constantly. "And yer still runnin' to Frey, who clearly didn't fuckin' save him the way they promised." The pair hadn't let Bart in on the specifics, but Frey helping to establish the sanctuary had been a huge part of their small, kindled hope that Nate would make it through the war. Bart hates them almost as much as he hates The Voice for having forced Nate to answer the call.

It's misguided. He knows it is. That doesn't mean he cares.

"If not you, who? You, who everyone knows the name of, good or bad. You coulda used your infamy for good. You coulda made a fuckin' monument! I don't know what you coulda done but anything would've been better than -" his voice chokes up in a loud click of his tongue in his throat, against his will, and the rest comes out pitched and shattered, "- than more fuckin' silence."

Like how he'd been refused the right to put Nate's obituary in the papers because of the way he'd died. How his belongings had mostly been burned because they hadn't understood the disease and how it spread. How his bed had been turned over to the next poor sod. Easily forgotten by everyone, by the world at large. But never, never, by Bart.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

It feels childish to have this back and forth of maybe I will followed by a maybe you should sort of argument, so Sunjata’s content to let it die where it lays because the bigger wound is freshly open and through the frustration and hurt Bart’s words dig up, Sunjata finds himself swimming through the blood of the memories to try and piece it together opposite of how Lusea’s had gone. “I fought until the refuge was built. And then it was my job to take care of it. I was imprisoned in Stormbreak for fuck’s sake.” He snaps, only to take a step back and scoff when the mention of Frey arrives. “The only way Nate could have stayed was if the Voice allowed him to. Frey gave me the chance to save him, but it was the Voice that ultimately didn’t.” And perhaps saved her children in the sense that they could remain as they were or turn to the Ancients. As Isla had done.

He'd be lying if he didn’t try to imagine what it might be like if Nate were still here, becoming an Ancient. What kind of shift he might have, what kind of horns and tail he might bear. But it’s all pointless imagining at the end of the day.

As for his infamy, using it for good? Whether his reputation remained tarnished as much as he believed it were from before the war, what good would it have done? His lips part again before Bart’s voice pitches (just like Nate’s used to) and snaps at him (just like Nate’s used to) and Sunjata can’t quite keep his temper from rising further.

It isn’t Bart’s fault either. Simply the combination of everything burns and pains him more than he’s shown recently. And it brings him closer to the twin of his late husband, reaching for that jacket of Nate’s from that other world, gripping it with a tug that has a surprising amount of care within it even as his shoulders start to darken with dragon scales. “I made him a lantern. Our house still stands in King’s End, I still take care of it.” He pauses, taking as deep a breath as he can manage. “I don’t know where to put one when we lived all over Caido.” He grits out.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

The bottle gets dropped somewhere in the sand, falling from fingers that fold themselves into fists. "That's what ya don't fuckin' get, I don't care if you were imprisoned! I don't care about yer fuckin' trials, I don't care about you! I care about my brother!" He wants to shove him, get him down into the sand like a furious schoolboy, but his hands are too busy shaking at his sides because - "Cared. Cared about him. Because he's dead - again." He'd had Nate's second death date tattooed beneath the man's first not long after the war had ended. Then he'd gotten blackout drunk for as many days as he could before waking up in the middle of nowhere, body destroyed and grief as strong as it had been the moment the first bottle had touched his lips. Nothing had changed.

The tears are unexpected - he blinks and they are clinging to his lower lashes, begging for release. It's almost impossible to swallow them down, but it's been two years - he thought he'd gotten them under control. That he'd come to some measure of acceptance. Apparently, all it takes is fighting with Sunjata to bring it all back.

He flinches back a little from the hand that reaches out to grab him by the jacket, only to go limp and let the man haul him close like a worn ragdoll. The fight leaves him all at once, and he feels ashamed. Nate would've had his fucking hide for saying that to his husband, and Bart knows it. "Shit, I...y'know I don't mean that, Jata." His voice is hoarse and wavers painfully, and even to his own ears it sounds like his brother. A hollow comfort. He would never fill Nate's shoes in any way that mattered. His brother was always the best of them both. "Just...I wanna hate ya. You were his reason for everythin' - if he hadn't found you, maybe he'd still be alive." It's a horribly cruel thing to say and he knows it, but he's a selfish bastard. "I got the answer to everyone's prayers when I found him here. Chance of a fuckin' lifetime. Only to lose him again. I didn't even get the time with him that you did...how's that fuckin' fair?" His head lolls forward either to meet with Sunjata's own or to land on his shoulder, trying to stifle the fresh wave of grief. This was exactly why he'd avoided the man; aware that they would just drag one another down into a tar pit of memories and aimless anger that tore them both up inside more than could ever hurt anyone else.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

Bart might not care, but it takes every ounce within him to try and be calm the second he manages to spit out “you should.” He should care, and he’s one this strange adrenaline high where he needs to prove to Bart that everything that had happened was for Nate. That he’d done all this stupid shit because of how terrified he was to lose him. Much like Bart, Nate had been the better of him too. And now they both were lost, the broken jagged pieces of a man that had taught them both so much, had become such an integral part of their lives, trying to figure out how to put the pieces back in a place where it made sense. Where they could pretend that maybe one day they’d be actual functioning people again.

“I was imprisoned because I was helping the Ascended. I had another fucking trial because my father kidnapped him.” The air starts to come out in short little gasps, as if he can’t quite let himself take a deep breath without shaking. “Everything I’ve done was for him.” It had made him an enemy to so many, when in reality all he was chasing after was love. He'd even gone so far as to betray gods.

But as he grips the jacket Bart wears and he goes limp, so too does Sunjata’s hold. Especially with the comment that comes out hoarsely, so much like the nasally sound Nate’s made when they knew they’d overstepped. And it’s a shuddering exhale that leaves him as he does exactly like Nate had done when it came to speaking difficult truths. He can’t look at Bart. He looks everywhere else as if it might be enough to hide his face. “He Ascended before we met. As much as I try to believe it would’ve ended differently, I doubt it.” He would have spent time elsewhere, with someone else, only to meet the same fate more than likely.

There’s a deep exhale, one that has him tugging Bart closer just in time for their foreheads to crash together and if he thinks too hard about it, he could almost pretend. Almost. “It’s not fair, Bart. I’m sorry you didn’t get more time. I would have traded you if I could.” Because maybe the loss would hurt less if he hadn’t created such a life with the other Wren.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu

bartholomew

They're all accurate points, but - "s'not the kind of fightin' I mean," he gruffs out, jaw feathering with frustration at his own inability to make Sunjata understand. But what does it even matter in the end if he does or not? Nate is gone. His twin is dead for the second time, and Bart had been too weak and uncertain of his place in this new, fucked up world to have even raised a finger to try and stop it. All he could do was sit and watch for the second time; like Daedalus standing on the beach, arms vainly outstretched toward a falling Icarus he would never catch and all the while cursing at the sun for its very nature - unable to blame the one most precious, even when they'd been the one to willingly take up those accursed wings.

Their foreheads meet almost painfully, and Bart can only stare down at the bottle that's spilled between their feet, vision blurry. "I ain't got anyone to be mad at anymore," he confesses, and even his tone is angry for the perceived injustice of that. "Even these Ancients are better off than the Ascended were. Th'Old Gods got away scott-fuckin'-free because if the Ascended had stayed in the Sanctuary they woulda been fine. All their prejudice just forgiven and forgotten." By everybody, even Sunjata. It didn't matter to Bart that Frey had been the most accepting, the one to try and help. They were no better in his eyes. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?" Aside from try to cling vainly to his anger with Sunjata, which was already dissipating like mist beneath the Longheat sun the more he spoke to him - which was exactly why he'd tried to avoid him all this time. Needing the scapegoat in his mind to carry on, because having nobody to blame was a hurt too heavy to bear.

Because if he let it go, he had to accept he was a man out of place in this world, already set up for failure and with no way to escape.

Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town

temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones

Even as Bart gruffs out that statement, he doesn’t need to continue it. Sunjata understands, perhaps better than most, and it’s a part of him that he remains ashamed of deep down in the crevices of his broken, shattered soul. And as Bart stares down between them, Sunjata’s own gaze closes, as if to blot out the environment, to pretend that it is just the two of them on the edge of this merry little gathering that feels too sunny and bright now for the storm clouds of their conversation.

“I don’t think that’s true.” He murmurs in the space between them, the Flood choosing plenty of things to still be mad at. He’s still mad at the Voice, despite her death. He’s mad at everyone’s inability to work together after he’d made it appear possible. He’s mad at the world and it’s injustice for making people like them have to choose and then suffer with the consequences. “You can still fight for those that don’t have the gods favor. You can channel the anger into something.” He doesn’t know what, the emotions have ravaged his brain enough to not be able to think about much.

He tries to figure out an example, but comes up with nothing as he heaves another shaky breath, sniffs in the hopes it hides the one teardrop that falls. “I don’t have a purpose these days… I just.. Try and figure out what Frey needs of me and what I can do in their name and try to go from there.” He releases Bart, if only to adjust his arm to wrap around his brother-in-law's shoulders instead. “So far it’s been making a brothel. I don’t know if that’s your sort of thing, but, I don’t think I’d mind it if you remained a thorn in my side.” He tries to lighten the conversation as best he can.

After all, he knows deep down that Nate would want nothing more than to have his brother and husband at least get along, even in a shitty, teasing, brotherly sort of way.

the flood

tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up

totally sniped from odd ilu