fic: our hell is a good life
our hell is a good life
Misfits
one-sided Nathan/Simon, R, 4248 words.
disclaimer: Not even a bit mine. All to E4/Howard Overman.
warnings: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS for frank talk about suicide, depression, and repeated suicide attempts/actual suicide.
notes: Spoilers for S1 and S2. Written for this prompt off the kink meme.
summary: It's years into the future, and Nathan is the only one left. Well, sort of.
pull me out of the aircrash,
pull me out of the lake,
i'm your superhero,
we are standing on the edge.
( lucky, radiohead )
Nathan remembers, very clearly, how it felt to fall off that roof; to feel the spike-sharp hot poker pain of his ribs breaking, of his organs being skewered, of his back snapping and his neck whiplashing, all of his muscles strained like rubber bands for a few agonizingly long seconds, and knowing, above all else, that he was dying. He didn’t have time to think, to say ‘I don’t want to go like this’, or ‘ooh, how terribly, hilariously unfortunate’; there was only the free-fall, the too-quick time to realize that it hurt like a fucking bitch, to experience that hurt until his bones cried out, and then to let his mind float off into crippling aether.
The deaths that follow aren’t remembered so clearly. He’s died so many times that the novelty of it has worn off, and he’s left with memories of split-second explosions of pain, and sometimes, thankfully, no pain at all. He likes to try and make light of them, his deaths; but it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself that it’s all well and good and not a fucking curse, like he’s been denying it was from the very start.
Oh, he would have (and has) willingly (well, that’s debatable) died to stay among his little ASBO mates, but that time’s since passed. It’s just-there has to be a point at which it all stops. Right? One day where he can retire from this constant dead-end job of existing, from repeating the cycle eternally. It’s been so long; there’s only so much a guy can take, and Nathan’s been taking it up the arse from this immortality shit from day one.
+
It's one year later. They're famous. Nathan kills himself on purpose for the first time, for an audience, in a glass booth.
It's two years later. They're on the run.
It's five years later. Nathan kills himself on purpose, alone, with his forearms staining the bathrooms of the community center.
It's twenty years later-
+
“Nathan?”
He looks up, and there’s Simon. Buttoned-up, dark-shirted Simon, looking immaculate and sharp-angled as always, but older. He takes a seat next to Nathan on the worn down park bench (half ashen with dark soot, rust, mold, and what have you), and looks at him with those big creepy eyes and his strange little half-smile.
“What’re you leering at, weirdo?” Nathan says, by way of greeting.
Simon, who’s learned to filter most of Nathan’s trash-talk, shakes his head. “I wasn’t leering. I wanted to join you. You looked lonely.”
“Who’s lonely?” Nathan scoffs. “I’ve got me, my wank hand, and readily accessible trousers. The holy trinity of good company.” He wiggles the fingers of his right hand in Simon’s face, and Simon flinches back, a vaguely disgusted look pulling the corners of his mouth into a frown.
Nathan's pretty sure Simon also wants to know why he's kept his sense of humor all these years; it seems immature and silly, but it's the best defense mechanism Nathan's come up with, and throwing that away just for an excuse to mope openly doesn't seem like something he wants to do. Ever.
So he returns to staring out over the Thames, legs crossed at the ankle and hands deep in his jacket pockets, and Simon just sits with him. And after a minute of pseudo-companionable silence, Simon starts, stops-(“Don’t be shy,” Nathan encourages sarcastically)-then says, “Are you okay?”
“I really don’t know if you noticed, seeing as you seem to be a bit slow in the head, but I happen to be a picture of a perfect health. All the time. Comes with the whole 'immortality' thing.”
“I know. I meant-” Simon motions to his head.
“Yeah,” Nathan says. “Yeah. ‘Course I am.”
“Are you sure?” Simon says, skeptically, so Nathan sends him a glare and the two-finger salute. Time was when Nathan would badger the shit out of Simon just for being in his general vicinity, for being the easy target, but now the effort is just too much to contemplate on a lazy dreary evening on the too-still water. It’s not like he's being paid to do it. His genius needs an audience, sure, but that audience isn’t going anywhere anytime soon; so they both lapse into pensive quietude once again.
And anyway, Simon does have a bit of a point; if Nathan had anything resembling a conscionable sanity before, it’s wandered off to play in someone else’s sandbox by now. He doesn’t miss it. The same way he doesn’t miss his mum, his dad, his-Jamie, and-
It’s dark before Nathan picks himself up and heads back to the dilapidated building that was once the community center. He doesn't look back to see if Simon's following him. There are no footsteps but his own; and there haven't been, not for years.
+
Nathan's young, really young, when he learns about death. Maybe he was born with the innate knowledge that things die, all of them, in time, but clearly he was never given to understand the exact nature of the end. He knew it for real when his pet flopped over in its cage, breathing harshly for a good minute until its throat closed up, and then much later with Tony and Gary, and then with Jamie, and then with...
When he thinks how long he'll last, it makes him kind of sick.
+
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being suicide and started being routine. It's probably the most idiotic, life-affirming piece of shit habit he's ever gotten into.
+
People say that a lot has changed when they want to say that they've changed, but nothing much has changed at all, not Nathan, not anything, really. Things are still in the same places as they were when Nathan came into this world; foundations, flyovers, most buildings, the housing estate. The grass is browner now, the skies darker, more polluted. Nathan doesn't pay attention to politics or world events. Hasn't ever. Doesn't like being informed, because being informed means a loss of naivety that he regrets not ever holding onto hard enough, back when he was... unconcerned with that kind of thing.
Sure, there are people missing from the world. Death does that. But what's a few lives to a whole world of people who don't know your name?
A lot, apparently.
He remembers being in the public eye. The press, the paps, the talk shows. Everyone suddenly interested in these five criminals, the ones who were hit by lightning out of the blue-by a storm that nobody knew the origins of-while trying to live their lives, do their community payback, maybe fuck and fuck up a little more before re-entering into polite society. Hindsight is 20/20.
Nobody's government likes the idea of felons-kids-with powers. Shit got heavy, as it always does, and one of the only guys left with a superpower to stump them all was one they couldn't kill even if (when) they tried, so. Goody for him.
So now he keeps his head down. Used to live at Simon and Alisha's for awhile, then Kelly's old place, tried to find footing with Curtis. Always comes back here. Don't ask him why; he doesn't know, other than the vicious compulsion he has to hold onto his memories, fast fading, which is just sentimental and an utter shit reason, and he should be ashamed of himself.
He used to be so good and letting this stuff go. Water off a duck's back. No problem.
Things are just a lot more fucked up than they were all those years ago.
+
On good days, he sticks around to chat it up with Kelly or Simon or Curtis or whoever happens to stumble across him when he's up in his loft; on bad days, he takes another pill bottle and swallows the lot before he goes to bed, in the hopes that maybe-just once-he'll actually die this time.
+
Inside, he sees Alisha and Simon for a brief moment as they chat next to the stacked chairs, but they're gone the next moment as he passes them on his way to the kitchens. He keeps it pretty stocked. There's still a wealth of stolen booze from when he and Simon used to raid the liquor stores; Nathan, the distraction, and Simon, invisibly sneaking out the drinks. He goes into town and buys pizzas sometimes, sometimes goes to all those new and shiny high-tech restaurants.
After everything happened, he inherited his mum's car and drove to London, then Portlaoise, then a comprehensive tour around the rest of Ireland; he stayed in hotels and blew all his parents' money trying to get away from everything, then came back to Thamesmead a slightly more broken man than before.
The thought of getting on a plane to America interested him once, but he didn't have the funds, and he doesn't really want to leave the continent. He could easily live in his mum's house, or even his dad's, but all the good memories are in the community center; it's sort of become his home now, and leaving feels a little bit like betrayal.
+
He's 22 when things go to shit. Good number, right? And after everything, surprisingly, his first thought isn't 'I want to die'; it's 'what the fuck do I do now?'
Then, it's 'where do I buy a gun?'
+
He hasn’t tried decapitating himself, and he doesn’t want to go up to some random person and ask them would you please take this axe and swing it at my neck repeatedly until the curly bit on top’s fallen off, because he’s just not that invested and making himself look more insane than usual. He’s tried drowning himself, but that never works; he doesn’t have enough control over his body to make it stop fighting to live. He always surfaces, coughing and spluttering for sweet, gorgeous air, and spends the next few days wondering just what made him do it in the first place.
(It’s the worst feeling. Worse than falling off a building on a fence, because that’s usually quick, and the pain is sharp and fleeting. Drowning is burning, horrible darkness. Submerged in a substance that ceases to be water and becomes a cage of wet, constricting hopelessness, a string of no no no nonono before your lungs start to scream and cry out, and then-)
+
It's a bit cold on the roof of the center, but Nathan wraps his hoodie around himself a little tighter and it's not so bad.
"Why'd you have to kill yourself?" he asks, a few minutes later. "I've been trying to figure it out. All these years, you know. But I've really tried and I can't seem to come to a conclusion that isn't just simple mental retardation on your part."
Simon looks at him sadly.
"You know the answer to that. After Alisha-after they all passed away, and I saw that you weren't getting any older and I was-I thought it was for the best. I didn't want you to have to see me get older and die of natural causes. It would have been cruel."
"Oh, really? Really? Did you ever think that taking that preemptive leap was more fucking cruel?” Nathan asks, a little hysterically.
Simon nods. "I understand that now.”
“Now? You selfish, sadistic bastard. Just because I don't age on the outside doesn't mean I don't get older."
“You’re right. I was being selfish," Simon admits quietly. "It was nice being your friend, but it wasn't enough. I felt wrong inside, and it hurt. I just wanted it to end."
"Stop talking in the past tense," Nathan snaps.
"Sorry."
"And I know it fucking hurt. It still does, actually, thanks for asking."
"I know."
Nathan's silent for a second, before it all bubbles up and he-
"You know how many ways I've tried to kill myself? Pretty much every way known to man that isn't outright bloody painful. Okay, the antifreeze was painful. The gun. The whole jumping off office buildings thing was pretty up there. I even turned myself in to get put down with euthanasia once, but as you can see,” he motions up and down his body, “none of that went exactly as planned."
"I know," Simon says quietly. "I've seen you do it all."
"Yeah, but it's not you, is it? It's just this image that wanders around looking like you and talking like you. I'm the only one who can see you. How do I know it's not all in my head? I could be insane. A crazy. I could have a real problem."
"You've always had problems," Simon says, and grins just a little. "And you were always a little insane."
Nathan snorts a bit wryly, but there’s a hotness behind his eyes that makes them burn and itch, and his throat is rapidly closing up.
“It's better than being alone and ignored.” says Simon, softly. “Trust me.”
+
Sometimes Nathan has it off with the girls he finds in clubs; always quick and dirty, like taking care of an itch you've forgotten to scratch for a week straight, and you've only just remembered you had it in the first place. He loves sex. It's as good a reason as any to stay alive, just to get head from fit girls in neon latex-which can be awkward, because technically he's older than their parents, but he's never discriminated before and it seems counterproductive to start now.
But it's always cheap and it's always nasty and there's no meaning behind it, no gentle touching or lazy kisses or sexy wrestling. There's only want, and desperation, and the niceness of losing yourself in the moment just long enough to forget all the reasons why you want to die.
Sometimes he imagines Simon's watching. And if Nathan squints, he can see him standing there, lounging against the grimy walls with his hands folded behind his back. His too-blue eyes bore holes in the side of Nathan's head as he throws it back, mouth open in a choked-off gasp as he feels his cock hit the back of the girl's throat-and squeezes his eyes shut.
Later, when he's warm and breathless and just a bit sadder, when he looks around him for real, Simon isn't there. Which, actually. That's probably a good thing. It'd be awkward to have to explain what name was on his lips when he came, so Nathan doesn't dwell too hard on it.
+
“Barry,” Nathan starts, strolling along a closed-off flyover. “Why are you the only one who talks to me?”
It’s almost evening. The lights below them belong to a few sleek cars, whizzing past; the motorway lamps are dim and he can’t see Simon so much as feel his presence, tagging along behind him. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes Simon’s invisible to the only person who can see him.
Simon’s image flickers into being next to Nathan, and he’s looking pensive.
"I'm not the only one. Why do you still call me Barry?"
Nathan ignores that last bit. He knows that Simon knows perfectly well that it's become a term of endearment; something from the past he's hesitant to let go of.
"I mean voluntarily. You talk to me voluntarily. The others..." he gestures vaguely at the air, "just sort of show up, you know? They don't follow me around like you do. Probably because they aren't natural born stalkers. But hey, more power to you."
Simon is silent for a moment.
“It's because I wanted to be your friend,” he decides. “And they didn’t.”
Nathan thinks on that. Doesn’t flare up and make a scene, or retort, because he knows it’s true; they all were thrown together, and they all became his friends, but Simon was the only one who really wanted it. Despite all the shit Nathan hurled at him. Despite all of that. Which is-which is nice. In a weird Simon kind of way.
“Makes sense,” he says.
They walk together for a while longer, and Nathan decides not to throw himself into oncoming traffic.
+
Being immortal used to mean nothing could hurt him.
Now, he knows it's specifically designed to.
+
When he wakes, he's alone and kind of cold, and his stomach hurts like a bitch and his breath smells like old chips and the arse-end of that fat bastard from the nearest fast-food chain. He gets up, scrubs a hand across his face, and wanders down to the toilets. Takes a long, satisfying piss, washes his face and his hair under the faucet with a bottle of hotel-order two-in-one, and takes a walk.
Outside he sees Curtis and Kelly lounging by the railings, but he doesn't acknowledge them, not being in any particular mood to strike up conversation or spout witticisms. They, in return, only watch him go, then seemingly return to whatever conversation they'd been entertaining since before he woke up shiny and new.
He's not sure what ghosts talk about, exactly, but he entertains himself by imagining them yapping on about him; it always fuels his ego, and he's never had the kind of qualms Kelly has about hearing what other people say about her. Nathan encourages it. Or did. Does. Er-It's a bit flexible, actually. So long as they're talking about him-it makes him feel, you know, cared about.
+
It's ten years later. Nathan starts to think of himself not as a human being, but something wrong with the world, something dead but never dying, something alive but not really living.
It's fifteen years later.
It's twenty years later, and Nathan tells Simon that he might be, in the smallest, most hypothetical of senses, in love with his ghost.
Simon doesn't say I know, but Nathan gets that vibe anyway.
“This whole thing is just embarrassing,” Nathan says.
“You could take pottery lessons,” Simon offers, half-smiling. “You know, like in the movie. I could help.”
“No offense, mate, but you'd make a shite Patrick Swayze.”
The smile turns into a full-fledged grin. "You don't know that."
"Call it an educated guess." Nathan says, then coughs. It's hard to bring this shit up, but he wants to know. "But you don't, you know, fancy me back or anything."
Simon shakes his head, just slightly. Nathan's stomach drops out anyway. Obviously. Alisha. Everything-
"No," Simon says. "It's not that kind of love."
Nathan falls back until his head hits the pavement on the middle of the road and his eyelids droop down, down. "That's what I thought."
+
It's fifty years later-
No, god, please.
It's-
+
Twenty years and five months have passed.
They're back in Nathan's loft again; Nathan, slumped over the railing and nibbling on some take-out, which is probably a bad idea considering it could easily drop down a story below, and Simon on his right side, straight-backed and silent. It's so normal that Nathan almost believes it's normal, and if he doesn't look at Simon then he can pretty much pretend it's back the way it was.
Except he wants to look at Simon. He always wants to look at Simon.
It's problematic in so many ways, but mostly it just makes Nathan feel shitty about all the relationship choices he's ever made, ever, in the history of his (so far, so long) existence. Why couldn't it be Kelly? He fancied Kelly. He might have loved her once, might have settled down with her if things went a little differently. Eaten chicken nuggets and wine for lunch, went out for shite movies and crap beer. You know, normal couple stuff.
Why couldn't he have had that?
Sometimes you don't even want shit like this to happen, but it does anyway. And then you're stuck with a lump in your throat that doesn't go away until that person smiles at you and then it's not a lump anymore, it's a fucking boulder.
So when Simon smiles at him, Nathan's not looking, because who wants to stop breathing?
(Okay, so maybe he does, but not right now. Right now, he's okay.)
+
See, it's also really hard to get over Simon when he keeps sticking around. Nathan's tried, but his iron will is more like a will-shaped noodle. Floppy. Easily broken. Noodle-like. Twenty years of this shit. That is a long damn time to love someone's ghost.
He knows he's lost it. Whatever. It's easier to know that than to try and rationalize what can never be explained. Bit freeing, really.
+
He can't quite explain his thought process at the time. It was just another thing, coming back to life. He had some time to think about it in the coffin, felt bad that everyone else was missing him while he rested underground, nearly went nutters in that small, dark, ohgodrunningoutofairfuck-
But he came back. So there was really no need to get all upset about it, right? Look, no harm will come to me, I'll protect you all, I'm invincible-
It isn't that his life doesn't matter. It's just that it meant more when his friends were around to appreciate it.
+
He tightens his hand and arches his hips, just a little; makes a noise somewhere in between a groan and a gasp and squeezes again, then slides his thumb up, squirming, panting, trying to get there, trying to reach it, trying to hold it off for one more precious second.
He could do this all day. Lose himself in it all day. Not have to think about anything other than his hand on his dick all day, not have to think about what he's going to do when the next morning comes around.
It doesn't last. When he comes, he sags down into his mattress like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
How embarrassing is it to want to sob after masturbating?
Probably a lot, but he's alone and he doesn't care, and he's too tired to cry anyway.
+
Today is a bad day.
Nathan's flat on his back on the mattress, drifting off into nothingness, his stomach already churning with fizzing pills, and he's about to fall asleep-blessed nothing-sleep-when Simon appears out of nowhere beside him; his face is drawn and tight and he looks concerned, jaw clenched, stressed, which makes Nathan think: oh, he's never sat next to me when done this before; which makes him think, oh, he must really care. Which makes him think, why do I care that he cares? Which makes no sense.
"Nathan," Simon says. "I wish you'd stop doing this. You know it's not going to work."
"There's always a chance," Nathan mumbles, fighting the urge to vomit. "Nice of you to show up. This is only, what, the thousandth time? Real supportive."
"I told you," Simon says. "I always watch. I just never said anything before."
"That is fucking creepy," Nathan laughs, then chokes. "Do you watch me wank, too? Do you? Pervert."
Oh, god, but the thought makes him surge in warmth, just a little-
Simon shakes his head, moves to sit next to Nathan, staring at him despondently. Nathan doesn't really want to look him in the face because then he won't be able to look away, and he's got to fall asleep because otherwise the pills won't kick in, and. He stares down his stomach, then asks: "So what makes this time any different? Am I looking particularly pathetic this evening?"
"No. I just know how you feel."
Nathan snorts. "Oh, okay. Do you? That's nice."
"Not really," Simon murmurs, like it should be obvious. "I know it must be terrible. Not being able to die when you most want to."
"Yeah, it's great."
"I'm sorry."
Nathan manages to squint in halfhearted anger, expelling a huff of wet breath; he's too tired for this shit, really he is; if he could just sleep...
But, no, never, and not in the way he wants.
"Look. I don't want your pity, you hypocritical twat. You died exactly when you wanted to. You have no right to criticize my highly questionable methods, and I'm really not feeling this whole belated therapy session thing. So just leave me alone to die in the throes of mild indigestion and we'll chat about it later."
"No," Simon mutters. "No, I'm staying. I have to make sure you come back."
Nathan tries to drag himself up on his elbows, fighting to keep his eyes open and his words clear. "And what if I don't? What if I die this time, and I get to go to ghostland with all of you deserter shitheads happily-ever-after? You don't get it, actually, because you're not listening. I want to go. I deserve that."
His hands are shaking.
Simon's quiet.
He leans in, up, just a little desperate, maybe, or angry, or whatever he is that makes him want to touch his lips to Simon's; but Simon just smiles sadly and Nathan doesn't make it, just falls back down again, like always.
Before he dies, he thinks he sees Simon reach out to touch his face, but he only feels the faint whisper of cool wind against his cheek-and then it’s gone.
+
He wakes up alone, lies there alone, and feels utterly, madly, horribly alone.
He is seventy-one, and he wonders what it might be like to tie his feet to concrete and sink down, down, down into the river, die, wake up, die again, drown again, an endless loop, an endless circle, twitching to life like a fish on hook and seizing to death with water in his lungs.
Maybe today, he'll buy that axe.
Maybe today.
Misfits
one-sided Nathan/Simon, R, 4248 words.
disclaimer: Not even a bit mine. All to E4/Howard Overman.
warnings: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS for frank talk about suicide, depression, and repeated suicide attempts/actual suicide.
notes: Spoilers for S1 and S2. Written for this prompt off the kink meme.
summary: It's years into the future, and Nathan is the only one left. Well, sort of.
pull me out of the aircrash,
pull me out of the lake,
i'm your superhero,
we are standing on the edge.
( lucky, radiohead )
Nathan remembers, very clearly, how it felt to fall off that roof; to feel the spike-sharp hot poker pain of his ribs breaking, of his organs being skewered, of his back snapping and his neck whiplashing, all of his muscles strained like rubber bands for a few agonizingly long seconds, and knowing, above all else, that he was dying. He didn’t have time to think, to say ‘I don’t want to go like this’, or ‘ooh, how terribly, hilariously unfortunate’; there was only the free-fall, the too-quick time to realize that it hurt like a fucking bitch, to experience that hurt until his bones cried out, and then to let his mind float off into crippling aether.
The deaths that follow aren’t remembered so clearly. He’s died so many times that the novelty of it has worn off, and he’s left with memories of split-second explosions of pain, and sometimes, thankfully, no pain at all. He likes to try and make light of them, his deaths; but it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself that it’s all well and good and not a fucking curse, like he’s been denying it was from the very start.
Oh, he would have (and has) willingly (well, that’s debatable) died to stay among his little ASBO mates, but that time’s since passed. It’s just-there has to be a point at which it all stops. Right? One day where he can retire from this constant dead-end job of existing, from repeating the cycle eternally. It’s been so long; there’s only so much a guy can take, and Nathan’s been taking it up the arse from this immortality shit from day one.
+
It's one year later. They're famous. Nathan kills himself on purpose for the first time, for an audience, in a glass booth.
It's two years later. They're on the run.
It's five years later. Nathan kills himself on purpose, alone, with his forearms staining the bathrooms of the community center.
It's twenty years later-
+
“Nathan?”
He looks up, and there’s Simon. Buttoned-up, dark-shirted Simon, looking immaculate and sharp-angled as always, but older. He takes a seat next to Nathan on the worn down park bench (half ashen with dark soot, rust, mold, and what have you), and looks at him with those big creepy eyes and his strange little half-smile.
“What’re you leering at, weirdo?” Nathan says, by way of greeting.
Simon, who’s learned to filter most of Nathan’s trash-talk, shakes his head. “I wasn’t leering. I wanted to join you. You looked lonely.”
“Who’s lonely?” Nathan scoffs. “I’ve got me, my wank hand, and readily accessible trousers. The holy trinity of good company.” He wiggles the fingers of his right hand in Simon’s face, and Simon flinches back, a vaguely disgusted look pulling the corners of his mouth into a frown.
Nathan's pretty sure Simon also wants to know why he's kept his sense of humor all these years; it seems immature and silly, but it's the best defense mechanism Nathan's come up with, and throwing that away just for an excuse to mope openly doesn't seem like something he wants to do. Ever.
So he returns to staring out over the Thames, legs crossed at the ankle and hands deep in his jacket pockets, and Simon just sits with him. And after a minute of pseudo-companionable silence, Simon starts, stops-(“Don’t be shy,” Nathan encourages sarcastically)-then says, “Are you okay?”
“I really don’t know if you noticed, seeing as you seem to be a bit slow in the head, but I happen to be a picture of a perfect health. All the time. Comes with the whole 'immortality' thing.”
“I know. I meant-” Simon motions to his head.
“Yeah,” Nathan says. “Yeah. ‘Course I am.”
“Are you sure?” Simon says, skeptically, so Nathan sends him a glare and the two-finger salute. Time was when Nathan would badger the shit out of Simon just for being in his general vicinity, for being the easy target, but now the effort is just too much to contemplate on a lazy dreary evening on the too-still water. It’s not like he's being paid to do it. His genius needs an audience, sure, but that audience isn’t going anywhere anytime soon; so they both lapse into pensive quietude once again.
And anyway, Simon does have a bit of a point; if Nathan had anything resembling a conscionable sanity before, it’s wandered off to play in someone else’s sandbox by now. He doesn’t miss it. The same way he doesn’t miss his mum, his dad, his-Jamie, and-
It’s dark before Nathan picks himself up and heads back to the dilapidated building that was once the community center. He doesn't look back to see if Simon's following him. There are no footsteps but his own; and there haven't been, not for years.
+
Nathan's young, really young, when he learns about death. Maybe he was born with the innate knowledge that things die, all of them, in time, but clearly he was never given to understand the exact nature of the end. He knew it for real when his pet flopped over in its cage, breathing harshly for a good minute until its throat closed up, and then much later with Tony and Gary, and then with Jamie, and then with...
When he thinks how long he'll last, it makes him kind of sick.
+
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being suicide and started being routine. It's probably the most idiotic, life-affirming piece of shit habit he's ever gotten into.
+
People say that a lot has changed when they want to say that they've changed, but nothing much has changed at all, not Nathan, not anything, really. Things are still in the same places as they were when Nathan came into this world; foundations, flyovers, most buildings, the housing estate. The grass is browner now, the skies darker, more polluted. Nathan doesn't pay attention to politics or world events. Hasn't ever. Doesn't like being informed, because being informed means a loss of naivety that he regrets not ever holding onto hard enough, back when he was... unconcerned with that kind of thing.
Sure, there are people missing from the world. Death does that. But what's a few lives to a whole world of people who don't know your name?
A lot, apparently.
He remembers being in the public eye. The press, the paps, the talk shows. Everyone suddenly interested in these five criminals, the ones who were hit by lightning out of the blue-by a storm that nobody knew the origins of-while trying to live their lives, do their community payback, maybe fuck and fuck up a little more before re-entering into polite society. Hindsight is 20/20.
Nobody's government likes the idea of felons-kids-with powers. Shit got heavy, as it always does, and one of the only guys left with a superpower to stump them all was one they couldn't kill even if (when) they tried, so. Goody for him.
So now he keeps his head down. Used to live at Simon and Alisha's for awhile, then Kelly's old place, tried to find footing with Curtis. Always comes back here. Don't ask him why; he doesn't know, other than the vicious compulsion he has to hold onto his memories, fast fading, which is just sentimental and an utter shit reason, and he should be ashamed of himself.
He used to be so good and letting this stuff go. Water off a duck's back. No problem.
Things are just a lot more fucked up than they were all those years ago.
+
On good days, he sticks around to chat it up with Kelly or Simon or Curtis or whoever happens to stumble across him when he's up in his loft; on bad days, he takes another pill bottle and swallows the lot before he goes to bed, in the hopes that maybe-just once-he'll actually die this time.
+
Inside, he sees Alisha and Simon for a brief moment as they chat next to the stacked chairs, but they're gone the next moment as he passes them on his way to the kitchens. He keeps it pretty stocked. There's still a wealth of stolen booze from when he and Simon used to raid the liquor stores; Nathan, the distraction, and Simon, invisibly sneaking out the drinks. He goes into town and buys pizzas sometimes, sometimes goes to all those new and shiny high-tech restaurants.
After everything happened, he inherited his mum's car and drove to London, then Portlaoise, then a comprehensive tour around the rest of Ireland; he stayed in hotels and blew all his parents' money trying to get away from everything, then came back to Thamesmead a slightly more broken man than before.
The thought of getting on a plane to America interested him once, but he didn't have the funds, and he doesn't really want to leave the continent. He could easily live in his mum's house, or even his dad's, but all the good memories are in the community center; it's sort of become his home now, and leaving feels a little bit like betrayal.
+
He's 22 when things go to shit. Good number, right? And after everything, surprisingly, his first thought isn't 'I want to die'; it's 'what the fuck do I do now?'
Then, it's 'where do I buy a gun?'
+
He hasn’t tried decapitating himself, and he doesn’t want to go up to some random person and ask them would you please take this axe and swing it at my neck repeatedly until the curly bit on top’s fallen off, because he’s just not that invested and making himself look more insane than usual. He’s tried drowning himself, but that never works; he doesn’t have enough control over his body to make it stop fighting to live. He always surfaces, coughing and spluttering for sweet, gorgeous air, and spends the next few days wondering just what made him do it in the first place.
(It’s the worst feeling. Worse than falling off a building on a fence, because that’s usually quick, and the pain is sharp and fleeting. Drowning is burning, horrible darkness. Submerged in a substance that ceases to be water and becomes a cage of wet, constricting hopelessness, a string of no no no nonono before your lungs start to scream and cry out, and then-)
+
It's a bit cold on the roof of the center, but Nathan wraps his hoodie around himself a little tighter and it's not so bad.
"Why'd you have to kill yourself?" he asks, a few minutes later. "I've been trying to figure it out. All these years, you know. But I've really tried and I can't seem to come to a conclusion that isn't just simple mental retardation on your part."
Simon looks at him sadly.
"You know the answer to that. After Alisha-after they all passed away, and I saw that you weren't getting any older and I was-I thought it was for the best. I didn't want you to have to see me get older and die of natural causes. It would have been cruel."
"Oh, really? Really? Did you ever think that taking that preemptive leap was more fucking cruel?” Nathan asks, a little hysterically.
Simon nods. "I understand that now.”
“Now? You selfish, sadistic bastard. Just because I don't age on the outside doesn't mean I don't get older."
“You’re right. I was being selfish," Simon admits quietly. "It was nice being your friend, but it wasn't enough. I felt wrong inside, and it hurt. I just wanted it to end."
"Stop talking in the past tense," Nathan snaps.
"Sorry."
"And I know it fucking hurt. It still does, actually, thanks for asking."
"I know."
Nathan's silent for a second, before it all bubbles up and he-
"You know how many ways I've tried to kill myself? Pretty much every way known to man that isn't outright bloody painful. Okay, the antifreeze was painful. The gun. The whole jumping off office buildings thing was pretty up there. I even turned myself in to get put down with euthanasia once, but as you can see,” he motions up and down his body, “none of that went exactly as planned."
"I know," Simon says quietly. "I've seen you do it all."
"Yeah, but it's not you, is it? It's just this image that wanders around looking like you and talking like you. I'm the only one who can see you. How do I know it's not all in my head? I could be insane. A crazy. I could have a real problem."
"You've always had problems," Simon says, and grins just a little. "And you were always a little insane."
Nathan snorts a bit wryly, but there’s a hotness behind his eyes that makes them burn and itch, and his throat is rapidly closing up.
“It's better than being alone and ignored.” says Simon, softly. “Trust me.”
+
Sometimes Nathan has it off with the girls he finds in clubs; always quick and dirty, like taking care of an itch you've forgotten to scratch for a week straight, and you've only just remembered you had it in the first place. He loves sex. It's as good a reason as any to stay alive, just to get head from fit girls in neon latex-which can be awkward, because technically he's older than their parents, but he's never discriminated before and it seems counterproductive to start now.
But it's always cheap and it's always nasty and there's no meaning behind it, no gentle touching or lazy kisses or sexy wrestling. There's only want, and desperation, and the niceness of losing yourself in the moment just long enough to forget all the reasons why you want to die.
Sometimes he imagines Simon's watching. And if Nathan squints, he can see him standing there, lounging against the grimy walls with his hands folded behind his back. His too-blue eyes bore holes in the side of Nathan's head as he throws it back, mouth open in a choked-off gasp as he feels his cock hit the back of the girl's throat-and squeezes his eyes shut.
Later, when he's warm and breathless and just a bit sadder, when he looks around him for real, Simon isn't there. Which, actually. That's probably a good thing. It'd be awkward to have to explain what name was on his lips when he came, so Nathan doesn't dwell too hard on it.
+
“Barry,” Nathan starts, strolling along a closed-off flyover. “Why are you the only one who talks to me?”
It’s almost evening. The lights below them belong to a few sleek cars, whizzing past; the motorway lamps are dim and he can’t see Simon so much as feel his presence, tagging along behind him. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes Simon’s invisible to the only person who can see him.
Simon’s image flickers into being next to Nathan, and he’s looking pensive.
"I'm not the only one. Why do you still call me Barry?"
Nathan ignores that last bit. He knows that Simon knows perfectly well that it's become a term of endearment; something from the past he's hesitant to let go of.
"I mean voluntarily. You talk to me voluntarily. The others..." he gestures vaguely at the air, "just sort of show up, you know? They don't follow me around like you do. Probably because they aren't natural born stalkers. But hey, more power to you."
Simon is silent for a moment.
“It's because I wanted to be your friend,” he decides. “And they didn’t.”
Nathan thinks on that. Doesn’t flare up and make a scene, or retort, because he knows it’s true; they all were thrown together, and they all became his friends, but Simon was the only one who really wanted it. Despite all the shit Nathan hurled at him. Despite all of that. Which is-which is nice. In a weird Simon kind of way.
“Makes sense,” he says.
They walk together for a while longer, and Nathan decides not to throw himself into oncoming traffic.
+
Being immortal used to mean nothing could hurt him.
Now, he knows it's specifically designed to.
+
When he wakes, he's alone and kind of cold, and his stomach hurts like a bitch and his breath smells like old chips and the arse-end of that fat bastard from the nearest fast-food chain. He gets up, scrubs a hand across his face, and wanders down to the toilets. Takes a long, satisfying piss, washes his face and his hair under the faucet with a bottle of hotel-order two-in-one, and takes a walk.
Outside he sees Curtis and Kelly lounging by the railings, but he doesn't acknowledge them, not being in any particular mood to strike up conversation or spout witticisms. They, in return, only watch him go, then seemingly return to whatever conversation they'd been entertaining since before he woke up shiny and new.
He's not sure what ghosts talk about, exactly, but he entertains himself by imagining them yapping on about him; it always fuels his ego, and he's never had the kind of qualms Kelly has about hearing what other people say about her. Nathan encourages it. Or did. Does. Er-It's a bit flexible, actually. So long as they're talking about him-it makes him feel, you know, cared about.
+
It's ten years later. Nathan starts to think of himself not as a human being, but something wrong with the world, something dead but never dying, something alive but not really living.
It's fifteen years later.
It's twenty years later, and Nathan tells Simon that he might be, in the smallest, most hypothetical of senses, in love with his ghost.
Simon doesn't say I know, but Nathan gets that vibe anyway.
“This whole thing is just embarrassing,” Nathan says.
“You could take pottery lessons,” Simon offers, half-smiling. “You know, like in the movie. I could help.”
“No offense, mate, but you'd make a shite Patrick Swayze.”
The smile turns into a full-fledged grin. "You don't know that."
"Call it an educated guess." Nathan says, then coughs. It's hard to bring this shit up, but he wants to know. "But you don't, you know, fancy me back or anything."
Simon shakes his head, just slightly. Nathan's stomach drops out anyway. Obviously. Alisha. Everything-
"No," Simon says. "It's not that kind of love."
Nathan falls back until his head hits the pavement on the middle of the road and his eyelids droop down, down. "That's what I thought."
+
It's fifty years later-
No, god, please.
It's-
+
Twenty years and five months have passed.
They're back in Nathan's loft again; Nathan, slumped over the railing and nibbling on some take-out, which is probably a bad idea considering it could easily drop down a story below, and Simon on his right side, straight-backed and silent. It's so normal that Nathan almost believes it's normal, and if he doesn't look at Simon then he can pretty much pretend it's back the way it was.
Except he wants to look at Simon. He always wants to look at Simon.
It's problematic in so many ways, but mostly it just makes Nathan feel shitty about all the relationship choices he's ever made, ever, in the history of his (so far, so long) existence. Why couldn't it be Kelly? He fancied Kelly. He might have loved her once, might have settled down with her if things went a little differently. Eaten chicken nuggets and wine for lunch, went out for shite movies and crap beer. You know, normal couple stuff.
Why couldn't he have had that?
Sometimes you don't even want shit like this to happen, but it does anyway. And then you're stuck with a lump in your throat that doesn't go away until that person smiles at you and then it's not a lump anymore, it's a fucking boulder.
So when Simon smiles at him, Nathan's not looking, because who wants to stop breathing?
(Okay, so maybe he does, but not right now. Right now, he's okay.)
+
See, it's also really hard to get over Simon when he keeps sticking around. Nathan's tried, but his iron will is more like a will-shaped noodle. Floppy. Easily broken. Noodle-like. Twenty years of this shit. That is a long damn time to love someone's ghost.
He knows he's lost it. Whatever. It's easier to know that than to try and rationalize what can never be explained. Bit freeing, really.
+
He can't quite explain his thought process at the time. It was just another thing, coming back to life. He had some time to think about it in the coffin, felt bad that everyone else was missing him while he rested underground, nearly went nutters in that small, dark, ohgodrunningoutofairfuck-
But he came back. So there was really no need to get all upset about it, right? Look, no harm will come to me, I'll protect you all, I'm invincible-
It isn't that his life doesn't matter. It's just that it meant more when his friends were around to appreciate it.
+
He tightens his hand and arches his hips, just a little; makes a noise somewhere in between a groan and a gasp and squeezes again, then slides his thumb up, squirming, panting, trying to get there, trying to reach it, trying to hold it off for one more precious second.
He could do this all day. Lose himself in it all day. Not have to think about anything other than his hand on his dick all day, not have to think about what he's going to do when the next morning comes around.
It doesn't last. When he comes, he sags down into his mattress like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
How embarrassing is it to want to sob after masturbating?
Probably a lot, but he's alone and he doesn't care, and he's too tired to cry anyway.
+
Today is a bad day.
Nathan's flat on his back on the mattress, drifting off into nothingness, his stomach already churning with fizzing pills, and he's about to fall asleep-blessed nothing-sleep-when Simon appears out of nowhere beside him; his face is drawn and tight and he looks concerned, jaw clenched, stressed, which makes Nathan think: oh, he's never sat next to me when done this before; which makes him think, oh, he must really care. Which makes him think, why do I care that he cares? Which makes no sense.
"Nathan," Simon says. "I wish you'd stop doing this. You know it's not going to work."
"There's always a chance," Nathan mumbles, fighting the urge to vomit. "Nice of you to show up. This is only, what, the thousandth time? Real supportive."
"I told you," Simon says. "I always watch. I just never said anything before."
"That is fucking creepy," Nathan laughs, then chokes. "Do you watch me wank, too? Do you? Pervert."
Oh, god, but the thought makes him surge in warmth, just a little-
Simon shakes his head, moves to sit next to Nathan, staring at him despondently. Nathan doesn't really want to look him in the face because then he won't be able to look away, and he's got to fall asleep because otherwise the pills won't kick in, and. He stares down his stomach, then asks: "So what makes this time any different? Am I looking particularly pathetic this evening?"
"No. I just know how you feel."
Nathan snorts. "Oh, okay. Do you? That's nice."
"Not really," Simon murmurs, like it should be obvious. "I know it must be terrible. Not being able to die when you most want to."
"Yeah, it's great."
"I'm sorry."
Nathan manages to squint in halfhearted anger, expelling a huff of wet breath; he's too tired for this shit, really he is; if he could just sleep...
But, no, never, and not in the way he wants.
"Look. I don't want your pity, you hypocritical twat. You died exactly when you wanted to. You have no right to criticize my highly questionable methods, and I'm really not feeling this whole belated therapy session thing. So just leave me alone to die in the throes of mild indigestion and we'll chat about it later."
"No," Simon mutters. "No, I'm staying. I have to make sure you come back."
Nathan tries to drag himself up on his elbows, fighting to keep his eyes open and his words clear. "And what if I don't? What if I die this time, and I get to go to ghostland with all of you deserter shitheads happily-ever-after? You don't get it, actually, because you're not listening. I want to go. I deserve that."
His hands are shaking.
Simon's quiet.
He leans in, up, just a little desperate, maybe, or angry, or whatever he is that makes him want to touch his lips to Simon's; but Simon just smiles sadly and Nathan doesn't make it, just falls back down again, like always.
Before he dies, he thinks he sees Simon reach out to touch his face, but he only feels the faint whisper of cool wind against his cheek-and then it’s gone.
+
He wakes up alone, lies there alone, and feels utterly, madly, horribly alone.
He is seventy-one, and he wonders what it might be like to tie his feet to concrete and sink down, down, down into the river, die, wake up, die again, drown again, an endless loop, an endless circle, twitching to life like a fish on hook and seizing to death with water in his lungs.
Maybe today, he'll buy that axe.
Maybe today.