non-malleable clay
Non-malleable clay
Spencer/Brendon | PG | 1111 words.
Inspired by this prompt. Thanks to hello_ilu for being awesome and quickly looking it over.
End-of-the-world AU. Lots of fog.
The fog engulfs them and it is strange. There's a drizzle and there's fog and they're still walking through the woods because if they stop it will be over.
Whatever this is this, wherever they are, it will be over.
It feels like that time Brendon was playing hide-and-seek with his siblings and he slid into a box and stayed curled up for hours. His heartbeat never slowed and his breathing stayed ragged and irregular even through all the songs he hummed hoarsely in the dark, trying to convince himself that he was safe, that he was awesome. When he finally came out, he found that everyone had been searching for him, and his mom slapped his cheek for scaring them all.
Here, though, in this verdure and all this life (Brendon keeps thinking how something so alive can be on the verge of disappearance, and how, and why, and please no, but mostly when when when, come on) Spencer leads the way, setting foot on mushrooms and leaves and slipping three out of four times he tries to find a place to rest.
But how can you rest when your time is slipping away?
They reach a large rock covered in lichen and Spencer leans against it, the fabric of his t-shirt rubbing against it and ending up covered in yellow and muck.
"Brendon, I--We need to--," he swallows hard, trying to control his breathing.
Brendon reaches him and looks around, squinting at the impenetrable fog. Visibility: one foot, two if he's lucky. "No resting." He pushes Spencer spinelessly, willing him to walk more, further, when when when.
Come on, goddammit.
"Look, we need--a plan, that's what," Spencer starts, swallowing thickly.
Brendon nods, "Okay, okay" because it's not like there's anything else to do and the world is ending so they might as well waltz along.
"Let's, let's walk and...like, just go north and we'll find something and you can, we can, rest and...yeah," his chest is not big enough, not wide enough to hold all of everything he needs.
Inside he has lungs that need too much and other organs that work too well to be dying.
Brendon nods again, says, "Yeah, yeah," grabbing Spencer's hand even though they're sweaty.
So they walk. On and on and on, go forth, go north. The fog never clears, but the trees start spacing, more and more, until they finally become very few and far between. Now there's only fog and their silhouettes as they walk ahead.
Apparently it's a meadow that they've reached, weeds long enough to reach their knees buckling down and folding in half under the weighty humid air.
Oxygen is clay.
Oxygen is no longer oxygen, that's what the specialists say, that's what the internet used to say before it collapsed. Anecdotes became things like, "remember when we could breathe thirteen times a minute instead of seventy-two?" and people started thinking in measures of whichever new harmful chemical had been found in the water, in the air, in the soil. Suddenly shopping lists switched from groceries and cleaning supplies to all the things people never got around to doing.
"I never flew a kite," Brendon starts.
"I never told my mom it was me who had broken her potted plants," and the list go on. It becomes a game, a life line, a way of dealing with it without dealing with it. The tag game of the end of the world. Spencer has a brief thought, something along the lines of people reversing to children but it's lost as soon as it's found.
There's only space in their minds for one foot in front of the other, or not even that, just forward forward forward.
There's an echo, everything reverberates between them.
"I never told my sister it was my fault her rabbit drowned."
"I never told my mom about my high school boyfriend."
The dead grass crunches under them, echoes.
"I never told you even half of what I should have."
They don't stop walking because there's a plan, right, but they both wonder who said it out loud, start doubting themselves, or simply continue to. But they don't know, they can't know, so they keep on holding hangs and never stop.
At some point they stop talking, stop tagging, because every word hurts and their minds are all spirals and clouds.
At another point their hands slip, fingers feeling slimy. Even though they can't remember the what or the who or even the when when when, they have enough sense to make contact again, linking.
Finally, they reach a place. It doesn't look like a place, but it feels like one, or maybe they're just too tired. But what happens is that Spencer mutters something intelligible and tugs Brendon down.
They sit with their legs crossed awkwardly, facing each other. Maybe it is because Spencer's clock stars working again, barely, ticking in place, that it feels like somewhere other than nowhere, barely, ticking in place. Even that tinny sound echoes, and it's like a snap of sorts. It's saying, it's really over.
"Spencer?"
"Mhm?"
Brendon mouths something and counts six still ticks before leaning closer and saying it, finally, like surrender, "I'm scared."
And fuck, so is Spencer, because this is not IT, this was never IT, and what the fuck is IT in the first place? When is death alright and when is it all wrong? Because this feels wrong and imprecise and off, not when it was all going so good.
Spencer remembers kissing in a backyard and talking about music and video games, and beer and pizza. There were pets, new apartments and perfectly healthy air.
Now, now there's nothing. There's just this somewhere and this each other that isn't each other, it's more like Brendon leaning in and gasping, and Spencer holding tight and gasping.
They don't kiss because they can't, because the fog is slipping in and it's toxic and their bodies are touching enough for it to represent that whole half of things left unsaid. They don't speak anymore, not once, and their fingers hold tightly when the end feels nearer, when it suddenly gets too heavy to live, to even try and make the effort of inhaling. It hurts for a second because of course it would, because it's the end and it's not natural and this isn't any different than plunging down into the ocean and never coming up for air. The when is now, and visibility is zero as the fog prods and presses and taunts them into a rest that isn't death and a death that ceases to exist, for everything else disappears too.
Spencer/Brendon | PG | 1111 words.
Inspired by this prompt. Thanks to hello_ilu for being awesome and quickly looking it over.
End-of-the-world AU. Lots of fog.
The fog engulfs them and it is strange. There's a drizzle and there's fog and they're still walking through the woods because if they stop it will be over.
Whatever this is this, wherever they are, it will be over.
It feels like that time Brendon was playing hide-and-seek with his siblings and he slid into a box and stayed curled up for hours. His heartbeat never slowed and his breathing stayed ragged and irregular even through all the songs he hummed hoarsely in the dark, trying to convince himself that he was safe, that he was awesome. When he finally came out, he found that everyone had been searching for him, and his mom slapped his cheek for scaring them all.
Here, though, in this verdure and all this life (Brendon keeps thinking how something so alive can be on the verge of disappearance, and how, and why, and please no, but mostly when when when, come on) Spencer leads the way, setting foot on mushrooms and leaves and slipping three out of four times he tries to find a place to rest.
But how can you rest when your time is slipping away?
They reach a large rock covered in lichen and Spencer leans against it, the fabric of his t-shirt rubbing against it and ending up covered in yellow and muck.
"Brendon, I--We need to--," he swallows hard, trying to control his breathing.
Brendon reaches him and looks around, squinting at the impenetrable fog. Visibility: one foot, two if he's lucky. "No resting." He pushes Spencer spinelessly, willing him to walk more, further, when when when.
Come on, goddammit.
"Look, we need--a plan, that's what," Spencer starts, swallowing thickly.
Brendon nods, "Okay, okay" because it's not like there's anything else to do and the world is ending so they might as well waltz along.
"Let's, let's walk and...like, just go north and we'll find something and you can, we can, rest and...yeah," his chest is not big enough, not wide enough to hold all of everything he needs.
Inside he has lungs that need too much and other organs that work too well to be dying.
Brendon nods again, says, "Yeah, yeah," grabbing Spencer's hand even though they're sweaty.
So they walk. On and on and on, go forth, go north. The fog never clears, but the trees start spacing, more and more, until they finally become very few and far between. Now there's only fog and their silhouettes as they walk ahead.
Apparently it's a meadow that they've reached, weeds long enough to reach their knees buckling down and folding in half under the weighty humid air.
Oxygen is clay.
Oxygen is no longer oxygen, that's what the specialists say, that's what the internet used to say before it collapsed. Anecdotes became things like, "remember when we could breathe thirteen times a minute instead of seventy-two?" and people started thinking in measures of whichever new harmful chemical had been found in the water, in the air, in the soil. Suddenly shopping lists switched from groceries and cleaning supplies to all the things people never got around to doing.
"I never flew a kite," Brendon starts.
"I never told my mom it was me who had broken her potted plants," and the list go on. It becomes a game, a life line, a way of dealing with it without dealing with it. The tag game of the end of the world. Spencer has a brief thought, something along the lines of people reversing to children but it's lost as soon as it's found.
There's only space in their minds for one foot in front of the other, or not even that, just forward forward forward.
There's an echo, everything reverberates between them.
"I never told my sister it was my fault her rabbit drowned."
"I never told my mom about my high school boyfriend."
The dead grass crunches under them, echoes.
"I never told you even half of what I should have."
They don't stop walking because there's a plan, right, but they both wonder who said it out loud, start doubting themselves, or simply continue to. But they don't know, they can't know, so they keep on holding hangs and never stop.
At some point they stop talking, stop tagging, because every word hurts and their minds are all spirals and clouds.
At another point their hands slip, fingers feeling slimy. Even though they can't remember the what or the who or even the when when when, they have enough sense to make contact again, linking.
Finally, they reach a place. It doesn't look like a place, but it feels like one, or maybe they're just too tired. But what happens is that Spencer mutters something intelligible and tugs Brendon down.
They sit with their legs crossed awkwardly, facing each other. Maybe it is because Spencer's clock stars working again, barely, ticking in place, that it feels like somewhere other than nowhere, barely, ticking in place. Even that tinny sound echoes, and it's like a snap of sorts. It's saying, it's really over.
"Spencer?"
"Mhm?"
Brendon mouths something and counts six still ticks before leaning closer and saying it, finally, like surrender, "I'm scared."
And fuck, so is Spencer, because this is not IT, this was never IT, and what the fuck is IT in the first place? When is death alright and when is it all wrong? Because this feels wrong and imprecise and off, not when it was all going so good.
Spencer remembers kissing in a backyard and talking about music and video games, and beer and pizza. There were pets, new apartments and perfectly healthy air.
Now, now there's nothing. There's just this somewhere and this each other that isn't each other, it's more like Brendon leaning in and gasping, and Spencer holding tight and gasping.
They don't kiss because they can't, because the fog is slipping in and it's toxic and their bodies are touching enough for it to represent that whole half of things left unsaid. They don't speak anymore, not once, and their fingers hold tightly when the end feels nearer, when it suddenly gets too heavy to live, to even try and make the effort of inhaling. It hurts for a second because of course it would, because it's the end and it's not natural and this isn't any different than plunging down into the ocean and never coming up for air. The when is now, and visibility is zero as the fog prods and presses and taunts them into a rest that isn't death and a death that ceases to exist, for everything else disappears too.