goddamngrenades | Voicemail

He's up as soon as he hears someone outsidethe door, pulling it open on the second knock. It would've been the first if he hadn't gotten tripped up over the blankets- being cold sucked ok? Okay. He blinks, bleary eye'd and tense for a moment- Most people that lived in the house would just let themselves into his room. Someone trying to kill him wouldn't knock.

But it's North. It's north and he looks rough and he doesn't say a damn thing, just reaches up to hook a hand around the back of his neck and haul him into a quick hug. Whatever it is? it's bad.

"S'aright. I'm here. What do you need?"

He doesn't want to say it. Saying it will make it real, even though it already is real, but—

Oh, god.

North doesn't even seem to be able to corral his own responses. One arm comes around York's back, clutches at a handful of his shirt, while he brings his other hand in a loose fist to the base of his own throat. His head droops against York's shoulder as he slouches forward, leaning on his friend, because just the act of preparing to force these words out are making him feel like he's going to pitch forward onto his knees and vomit.

"They—they took him. They got him." His throat closes around the words and he realizes he's not really standing anymore; he's just sort of hanging off of York by that one arm. He moves his hand off of his neck to grip his head and he just...tries to hold himself together. Literally, because he feels like he could just dissolve into some kind of physical manifestation of grief.

Edited 2015-02-22 02:47 (UTC)

North is not a small man. York has helped him run around while wounded, while drunk, while half asleep and outside his head just as often as North's done the same for him. North's got the easier job for all that York's shorter, denser, not quite as broad- but NOrth? Long limbs all hard muscle given that dead weight of sheer grief. He doesn't need to hear it. Not when he's clinging and all but trembling. Not when he's this out of sorts.

Theta.

He can't say the name- won't say it. Hooks an arm around his waist to hold him up and stumbles the few feet backward to the bed. Okay. He'll check the feeds, see where they took him but-

Recovery may not be possible. Probably remains impossible and that- that's not something he wants to have to tell North. "I got you, Andrew. It's okay-"

No it isn't and he knows just how fucking wrecked he'd be if Delta went missing but- but this is all he can do. Haul North to the nearest comfortable surface and cling on, hand combing through his short blond hair. "I got you."

He doesn't need to hear it. Doesn't need to be told. The facts of the matter are crystal clear to him and that's most of what's making this so hard. When it had been South— He'd thought something could be done. He'd had hope.

This time he has no hope.

He finds his feet when York moves and manages to shuffle forward enough to allow himself to be tugged to the bed. York sits and North sort of just folds up like a jackknife, knees on the edge of the mattress, head drooping, arm still locked around York, and this is him holding it together as much as he can because even York's never seen him break down the way he feels he could break down right now. It's not that he's calming down because he's not and it's obvious that he's not because the longer he stays quiet, the longer he doesn't let some kind of expression of this out, the more it seems to simmer—maybe he wasn't trembling before he settled against York, but an occasional shuddery sort of jolt rocks through him and he works his fist against York's back and his other hand is at his mouth and he doesn't really realize the fact that he's got the base of his thumb shoved in his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep from making some sort of loud, sorrowful noise.

"...It's okay to let go, man." Repression leads to nothing but a lot of stress, he'd know. That was part of his problem. That and overexpression but he's worked on that pretty well too and- well none of that is worth shit when you've lost the other half of your mind now, is it? He'd hit his therapist with that hypothetical before, how would he have to cope without D, and made an example of how he'd failed to cope the first few months he'd been under the dome but now. Jesus.

He rubs his hands up and down North's back, tucking him as close as he can with the sheer mass of him wound tense with trying to hold in, hold back the bulk of his grief.

"I got you. It's okay."

Words are very much not going to be a thing, he finds, because when he tries to respond the first syllable becomes nothing but an aborted moan. It's not okay, he meant to say, knowing that goes against the spirit of what York means, but just saying that out loud, that's it's not okay, that it's not going to be okay, is too much to handle right now. He shifts a bit, letting his knees drop to the floor and leaning his weight in toward York's steady presence, and he tucks his head under York's arm and winds both arms around York's trunk. Pressing the side of his face against York's ribs, he lets out a few choked sounds—not a signal that he's about to let loose, but perhaps a sign that he's going to fail not to.

It's easier to get angry sometimes. To let grief fall into rage and work from there. But sometimes- when it's too much to even reach for that, you gotta fall apart before you can move forward. York's never seen North this low before- not even when South Vanished. Then he was angry, then he was frustrated and frantic but this?

Taken and nothing on the other end of the line. Dead silence in his head. That's more than enough to make any man break. Yorks' hands continue their slow pass down North's back, curling around him as best he can. It won't make it better, but it will make it bearable.

It really hasn't been that long since the last time he'd cried on York's shoulder, since learning what South had done to him in allowing his death, but this is different. It's sharper, more near. More present and more shocking. And not possible to ignore. Eventually he just stops trying to subdue the grief—that part of it, at least, he will release. There's a whole mishmash of emotions swirling in his gut but crying, crying he can do. And the tears at least keep him from feeling quite as much like exploding.

"It's alright. I got you." And feels more than a little helpless in that is all he can really say. All he can do is hang on while he's held. It's not much of a comfort but it's better than North breaking down on his own.

Tears fall, sobs shake his shoulders, but eventually it slows to a stop and he pulls himself together enough to uncurl himself and wipe at his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I have to take the dog out," he mutters. Because that's his job now, caring for Theta's pet in his absence.

"I'll get it. You get some water, lay down, okay? I'll be right back." North could take care of Duke just fine- but right now that'd probably hurt more than help. Another reminder that Theta's gone.

"No, that—" He sniffles and wipes at his face. "Sorry about how this will sound but I don't want you out of my sight right now." It's irrational but if it did happen—if they're targeting him for some reason, just trying to make his life hell—well, he at least wants to be there to fight them off if they come after York.

"Nah. Nah, I get it. C'mon, I'll go with you." He hooks his arms around Andrew's shoulders and holds him close, squeezing him tight. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm right here."

He allows that, holding York firmly in return. "Thank you, Tay," he says. Not just for what he'd said but how he'd said it—no hollow promises are being made here about how he'd always be here or any bullshit like that. Just an assurance that he's here, right now, today.

North eventually lets out a shuddering sigh and pulls back so he can find a tissue and wipe his face. With that he carefully hauls himself to his feet.

"Anytime, Drew." As long as he's here to offer comfort, he'll do it. As long as he's here to support Andrew? He'll do it. Until there's nothing left to offer.

North hauls himself up and York follows easily, hooking his arm around Andrew's waist to support- and to hold.

He leads the way out and down the stairs, keeping York close to his side until they necessarily have to disentangle. Duke is led to the back door and North steps out behind him to watch as the dog snuffles around the yard and decides where to take care of his business. As soon as York is back to his side after that he'll be grabbing back on again, the physical contact an anchoring and comforting element.

The puppy's getting big- soon they'll need to play with it more often or something to keep it active now that Theta's gone. For now Duke doesn't seem to notice but when he does? There will be dog crying. York hates dog crying, there's nothing more sad. Except maybe the odd moment where the wet patch on his shirt sticks to his skin, reminding him of North crying.

He keeps tucked close under Andrew's arm, nosing against his shoulder while they wait for Duke to do his business.

"I sent D a message about it earlier," he says after a long silence. "I know it wasn't right to do it over text but waiting wasn't right either."

"Better to have told him as soon as possible." Even if it was over text. He'll have to check in with D too- if that's still welcome.

He's not all that certain it is.

"That was my thought." Duke runs to the end of the yard, wanders back and forth a bit, and returns to him. By the way he circles the two of them, panting excitedly, he seems to be expecting the emergence of his ball. North scrubs a hand across his hair line before releasing York so he can find it. "Theta had him on a routine, that's for sure," he says. It isn't going to be long before the dog realizes Theta himself isn't around anymore. That's not going to be fun for the poor thing.

"Dogs and kids. They need a routine." He murmurs, leaning back against the doorframe as North hunts for the ball. He'll keep the door to his bedroom open in case Duke wants to curl up with him and Harry.

"We all do. We need for things not to go crazy every other day." He tosses the ball lightly, underhand, every time the dog comes back to him, knowing he's not throwing it as far as Theta normally does. He's hiding it but his composure is still only sort of being kept thinly and he hiccups a little trying to hold things together. "I keep thinking...if he'd been killed in the riots..." What a horrible thought, but it was a thought he'd been mulling. He's frowning deeply, looking like the face of melancholy. Could Theta really be suffering a fate worse than death, right now? Suffering without North's knowledge and without his ability to do anything about it? He feels his face trying to crumple again and he sets his mouth in a hard line, accepting the ball one more time from the dog and clenching his hands around it.

"We kept him safe. He's alive, North." Alive unless he got sent home then he's just gone. Alive unless they wanted to pick him apart to see how he worked.

No, a mind like theta' they'd wanna test. They'd want to understand. What kind of scientist would wanna kill that kid? Not a good one. Not a sane one. He hooks his arm around Andrew's waist and squeezes him tight, nosing into his shoulder.

"Alive, yeah, for them to take and screw around with," he says. By now he doesn't believe for a second that anyone gets sent home and he definitely, definitely doesn't believe anything good happens to those who get taken into custody. He's miserable. Miserable. He drops the ball and clenches his hand at York's waist. He doesn't want to cry again, not here outside.

Duke snuffles his way up to the ball and York flips it into his hand with his foot, tossing it out for him to chase. Give him and North a little time. "If you think about it you'll go crazy. You need to not. I know it's impossible and it won't ever get easier."

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