TS: Choose Who's Left and Who's Leaving, [Brian]
Title: Choose Who's Left and Who's Leaving
Characters: Brian Schechter, Matt Cortez
Place in the timeline: After the abrupt end of the Black Parade tour.
Summary: Everyone expects his psychotic break. They expect him to break and break things, to scream and fall fully back into the bottle. But Brian hates being predictable. He does, however, stop returning most calls.
Warning: Alleged major character deaths [and dealing with the aftermath], an alcoholic playing chicken with whiskey.
A/N: Once again, this is not the piece I thought was next in the Traveling Show queue. The muses had other plans, however and I'm just along for the ride. tempore and fosfomifira did initial beta work on this a million years ago. Thank you, ladies! I have since revised extensively; all mistakes are my own. Title is from Left and Leaving by the Weakerthans. That song really shaped this story. Written for the prompt trouble.
Master post is located here. This fits chronologically between The City is at War, part One [which I would recommend reading first] and Bound By Events Greater Than Himself.
And there's some art to go with this one! sly_fuck is made of awesome and win, and made me a Traveling Show Brian card, to go with the other My Chem cards.
~~~
These days, it's too fucking sunny in LA for Brian.
The wood floors in his house absorb the day's warmth, and are always comfortable against bare feet. That had been one of the selling points of the house; Brian hates having cold feet, but loathes socks almost as much as icy toes. Bob had harassed him about that, calling him a hedonist, even as he'd settle deeper into Brian's couch, slippers propped up on the coffee table. Brian closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sight of his ghosts, with their ridiculous Ninja Turtle hoodies and laughing blue eyes. But he can't shake the memories - his house is riddled with them. There are sleep-smudgy Way fingerprints on the cabinet holding his coffee, accidental sharpie transfers of vampire baristas on the kitchen counter. When the rug in the guestroom gets wet, the entire bedroom smells like apples and mint, the scent of Frank's favorite shampoo. No matter how many times he sweeps, anytime Brian walks through the living room - always in socks this days - he ends up with a strand of curly red-brown hair attached to the cotton. He knows he can't lay his ghosts down when they are dogging his heels. So really, the decision to move isn't running away. It's a strategic retreat.
Every time he thinks those words, an echo of Bob's incredulous laughter rings in his ears. Even dead, Bob is still calling Brian on his bullshit.
He doesn't need ghostly mocking to know how much moving back to Detroit is a mistake. Brian knew it months ago, when he first scrolled through travel sites, looking for cheap tickets. He didn't need Matt following him through the half-packed rooms in Los Angeles, telling him over and over that he's going to regret the decision. His internal critics have made their feelings known about the move - a constant shrill litany of 'bad idea' and 'don't' hums along under the rest of his thoughts. Matt's concern blends in with that chorus - Brian has a dim appreciation for Matt's need to worry, but it doesn't stop him from shoving another armful of clothes into another duffel bag.
Detroit might not be the right choice, but he sure as fuck can't stay in Los Angeles either.
***
Detroit is burnt out from the inside, an infection that raged hot and long, but has since guttered out. There’s not much left in the ashes; just silent ruins in what was once a thriving metropolis. Brian can't prevent the involuntary smirk at the word Metropolis. His thoughts automatically turn to Superman and his brightly colored costume. Primary blue and red stay barely bound in the frames of comic panels. He doesn’t think too long on the subject, just lets the red cape flutter and fly on by. If Brian looks too long - dwells on comic books - they lead from idle thoughts to memories of prismacolors with sharp sculpted tips, a rainbow waiting to be spilled across sketchbook pages. Snarling at the heels of that memory are ones far less bright. Stark, inked dark with soot and blown tires, the shattered gleam of glass, coarse shine caught in the treads of his shoes. And everywhere the scattered flurry of white paper, crumpled, marked and torn beyond salvaging. Brian saw it in the encroaching dim of a spring evening. He looked once, stood at the scorched epicenter of his own life; he has no desire to do so again. And yet, here he is, back in Detroit.
***
The apartment is cheap, but not a complete shit-hole. It’s well past the center of downtown, but not in the suburbs; efforts at urban renewal are still occupied several neighborhoods away. His apartment is in the first floor of a townhouse. He can see the craiglist ad now, once the yuppies close in, describing it as 'a hidden gem, close to a revitalized arts district'. The bricks are crumbling, the brass on the mailbox doors is worn shiny through use alone and the whole place could do with a fresh coat of paint. The heat’s solid though, even if hot water’s a bit of a gamble. The whole place is dark, the flickering light in the foyer dimmed by a short in the fixture.
Brian likes the townhouse's scruffiness - living there is like wearing someone else’s broken-in boots. He likes that feeling. Maybe like is too strong a word - he relishes it. There’s still not the right word, but Brian’s more interested in living there than he is about describing why it fits. These days, he’s not one for thinking up elaborate excuses or justifications for his motives. There's no need to explain himself anymore; of course he tries to anyway, for Matt - old habits die hard, and this is Cortez - but it's more through a constant repetition of the same reasons as opposed to coming up with anything new. Matt doesn’t understand, but Brian’s not willing to polish up his feelings. He’ll wear down this rock through persistence, dammit.
***
It’s been years since Brian’s lived somewhere long enough to learn a neighborhood’s life. So now he’s exploring, finding a favorite booth in the diner down the street, memorizing the aisle layout of the corner grocery. He’s even trying drinks that aren’t plain coffee at the local coffee shop. He’s working his way through the menu - there’s a method to his choices. He avoids the flavored coffees, though. They taste wrong, make him gag. Some of the more subtle flavors are lost on him.
He's smoking too much. There’s a recurring taste of ashes to everything as it is, a flat grey obscuring flavor. This way there's at least fire, a bit of familiar warmth.
Having a daily routine is fucking odd. Okay, it’s not like he’s a stranger to routines or schedules. That was his life. But now… well, that’s not his life. So he finds other ways to root himself in the world. Routines work. Worm calls on Tuesdays, Cortez on Thursdays. It still feels like he spends a lot of time walking weary ruts in the pavement. Movement on the same track; he’s orbiting the burnt center, moving but unable to move on. He’s not dogged by his ghosts here, but only because he won’t stay still long enough for them to catch up with him.
He's living by increments, trickles and pinches. That is probably the worst part.
***
The fourth month into his residency, Brian starts getting that prickle at the back of his neck that means he’s being watched. It only happens after dark. Late at night he sees hulking shapes, moving shadows at the edges of his vision that vanish when he faces them head-on. While he might look at them directly, Brian refuses to look at shadows too closely. He doesn’t want to see what prizes his subconscious has to offer.
Instead, he considers changing the routes he walks. His control is thin enough as it is, he should probably not walk past the bars. It wouldn’t take long to be known in those establishments too - maybe a week, week and a half until the bartenders could line Brian’s drinks up on the bar without him saying a word. Brain snarls at the red neon, bares his teeth at twisting shadows and frightens passing strangers exactly once before he reins himself in again. He purposefully walks on, keeps his pace measured and deliberate, not too fast. He refuses to rush.
Though, he had thought this was supposed to get better over time, not worse.
***
In mid-October, he gets the bottle out, grabs the newly purchased rocks glass out of the dish drainer.
Pouring is such a simple action.
Illuminated set ablaze by the overhead light, the amber liquor glows.
The fumes curl up. All Brian can smell is gasoline.
He lights another cigarette, pushing the glass in a loose circle across the tabletop. The sound of glass on the Formica shirrs out in a low drone. The whiskey swirls, following the motion.
He thinks of that first rehab facility, with its New Age bullshit. Specifically he thinks of his third meeting with a therapist there. Jonesing for a smoke and restless as hell, Brian had fidgeted his way through the variety of knick-knacks on the low coffee table. His fingers had settled eventually on the copper and brass handle of a Tibetan prayer wheel. The low sound of the barrel moving on its handle had startled him. Like a new year's noisemaker, but with some additional, indescribable undertone that lent the rasp of metal on metal some dignity. He kept playing with it to be a dick, hoping that the constant drone would irritate his counselor enough to kick him out of the session. It didn't. That sound still curls through his thoughts at the most bizarre moments, the sound of a prayer wheel, whirling, whirling.
The rocks glass circles, warming in his hand.
A car horn sounds outside; there's the screech of tires. Brian imagines that he can smell the rubber, burning. Burning. His hand tightens convulsively around the glass. The whiskey keeps going, slops over his hand.
"Fuck."
It burns a little. His knuckles are chapped.
Brian stares at the spill. The reflection of the overhead light is bright, his own reflection faint. He shifts back in the chair and the contents of his pockets jangle in protest.
Wiping the whiskey off his hand, Brian reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around his keys. He pulls the keys out, stares at the key chain.
It's a four leaf clover. The gold finish is wearing off the metal back, but it’s still a comfortable weight in his palm. Years spent banging up against his keys has clouded the front’s clear green epoxy. But the words, framed by an unfurling scroll within are still legible.
Luck of the Irish.
~~~
Part Two
Characters: Brian Schechter, Matt Cortez
Place in the timeline: After the abrupt end of the Black Parade tour.
Summary: Everyone expects his psychotic break. They expect him to break and break things, to scream and fall fully back into the bottle. But Brian hates being predictable. He does, however, stop returning most calls.
Warning: Alleged major character deaths [and dealing with the aftermath], an alcoholic playing chicken with whiskey.
A/N: Once again, this is not the piece I thought was next in the Traveling Show queue. The muses had other plans, however and I'm just along for the ride. tempore and fosfomifira did initial beta work on this a million years ago. Thank you, ladies! I have since revised extensively; all mistakes are my own. Title is from Left and Leaving by the Weakerthans. That song really shaped this story. Written for the prompt trouble.
Master post is located here. This fits chronologically between The City is at War, part One [which I would recommend reading first] and Bound By Events Greater Than Himself.
And there's some art to go with this one! sly_fuck is made of awesome and win, and made me a Traveling Show Brian card, to go with the other My Chem cards.
~~~
These days, it's too fucking sunny in LA for Brian.
The wood floors in his house absorb the day's warmth, and are always comfortable against bare feet. That had been one of the selling points of the house; Brian hates having cold feet, but loathes socks almost as much as icy toes. Bob had harassed him about that, calling him a hedonist, even as he'd settle deeper into Brian's couch, slippers propped up on the coffee table. Brian closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sight of his ghosts, with their ridiculous Ninja Turtle hoodies and laughing blue eyes. But he can't shake the memories - his house is riddled with them. There are sleep-smudgy Way fingerprints on the cabinet holding his coffee, accidental sharpie transfers of vampire baristas on the kitchen counter. When the rug in the guestroom gets wet, the entire bedroom smells like apples and mint, the scent of Frank's favorite shampoo. No matter how many times he sweeps, anytime Brian walks through the living room - always in socks this days - he ends up with a strand of curly red-brown hair attached to the cotton. He knows he can't lay his ghosts down when they are dogging his heels. So really, the decision to move isn't running away. It's a strategic retreat.
Every time he thinks those words, an echo of Bob's incredulous laughter rings in his ears. Even dead, Bob is still calling Brian on his bullshit.
He doesn't need ghostly mocking to know how much moving back to Detroit is a mistake. Brian knew it months ago, when he first scrolled through travel sites, looking for cheap tickets. He didn't need Matt following him through the half-packed rooms in Los Angeles, telling him over and over that he's going to regret the decision. His internal critics have made their feelings known about the move - a constant shrill litany of 'bad idea' and 'don't' hums along under the rest of his thoughts. Matt's concern blends in with that chorus - Brian has a dim appreciation for Matt's need to worry, but it doesn't stop him from shoving another armful of clothes into another duffel bag.
Detroit might not be the right choice, but he sure as fuck can't stay in Los Angeles either.
***
Detroit is burnt out from the inside, an infection that raged hot and long, but has since guttered out. There’s not much left in the ashes; just silent ruins in what was once a thriving metropolis. Brian can't prevent the involuntary smirk at the word Metropolis. His thoughts automatically turn to Superman and his brightly colored costume. Primary blue and red stay barely bound in the frames of comic panels. He doesn’t think too long on the subject, just lets the red cape flutter and fly on by. If Brian looks too long - dwells on comic books - they lead from idle thoughts to memories of prismacolors with sharp sculpted tips, a rainbow waiting to be spilled across sketchbook pages. Snarling at the heels of that memory are ones far less bright. Stark, inked dark with soot and blown tires, the shattered gleam of glass, coarse shine caught in the treads of his shoes. And everywhere the scattered flurry of white paper, crumpled, marked and torn beyond salvaging. Brian saw it in the encroaching dim of a spring evening. He looked once, stood at the scorched epicenter of his own life; he has no desire to do so again. And yet, here he is, back in Detroit.
***
The apartment is cheap, but not a complete shit-hole. It’s well past the center of downtown, but not in the suburbs; efforts at urban renewal are still occupied several neighborhoods away. His apartment is in the first floor of a townhouse. He can see the craiglist ad now, once the yuppies close in, describing it as 'a hidden gem, close to a revitalized arts district'. The bricks are crumbling, the brass on the mailbox doors is worn shiny through use alone and the whole place could do with a fresh coat of paint. The heat’s solid though, even if hot water’s a bit of a gamble. The whole place is dark, the flickering light in the foyer dimmed by a short in the fixture.
Brian likes the townhouse's scruffiness - living there is like wearing someone else’s broken-in boots. He likes that feeling. Maybe like is too strong a word - he relishes it. There’s still not the right word, but Brian’s more interested in living there than he is about describing why it fits. These days, he’s not one for thinking up elaborate excuses or justifications for his motives. There's no need to explain himself anymore; of course he tries to anyway, for Matt - old habits die hard, and this is Cortez - but it's more through a constant repetition of the same reasons as opposed to coming up with anything new. Matt doesn’t understand, but Brian’s not willing to polish up his feelings. He’ll wear down this rock through persistence, dammit.
***
It’s been years since Brian’s lived somewhere long enough to learn a neighborhood’s life. So now he’s exploring, finding a favorite booth in the diner down the street, memorizing the aisle layout of the corner grocery. He’s even trying drinks that aren’t plain coffee at the local coffee shop. He’s working his way through the menu - there’s a method to his choices. He avoids the flavored coffees, though. They taste wrong, make him gag. Some of the more subtle flavors are lost on him.
He's smoking too much. There’s a recurring taste of ashes to everything as it is, a flat grey obscuring flavor. This way there's at least fire, a bit of familiar warmth.
Having a daily routine is fucking odd. Okay, it’s not like he’s a stranger to routines or schedules. That was his life. But now… well, that’s not his life. So he finds other ways to root himself in the world. Routines work. Worm calls on Tuesdays, Cortez on Thursdays. It still feels like he spends a lot of time walking weary ruts in the pavement. Movement on the same track; he’s orbiting the burnt center, moving but unable to move on. He’s not dogged by his ghosts here, but only because he won’t stay still long enough for them to catch up with him.
He's living by increments, trickles and pinches. That is probably the worst part.
***
The fourth month into his residency, Brian starts getting that prickle at the back of his neck that means he’s being watched. It only happens after dark. Late at night he sees hulking shapes, moving shadows at the edges of his vision that vanish when he faces them head-on. While he might look at them directly, Brian refuses to look at shadows too closely. He doesn’t want to see what prizes his subconscious has to offer.
Instead, he considers changing the routes he walks. His control is thin enough as it is, he should probably not walk past the bars. It wouldn’t take long to be known in those establishments too - maybe a week, week and a half until the bartenders could line Brian’s drinks up on the bar without him saying a word. Brain snarls at the red neon, bares his teeth at twisting shadows and frightens passing strangers exactly once before he reins himself in again. He purposefully walks on, keeps his pace measured and deliberate, not too fast. He refuses to rush.
Though, he had thought this was supposed to get better over time, not worse.
***
In mid-October, he gets the bottle out, grabs the newly purchased rocks glass out of the dish drainer.
Pouring is such a simple action.
Illuminated set ablaze by the overhead light, the amber liquor glows.
The fumes curl up. All Brian can smell is gasoline.
He lights another cigarette, pushing the glass in a loose circle across the tabletop. The sound of glass on the Formica shirrs out in a low drone. The whiskey swirls, following the motion.
He thinks of that first rehab facility, with its New Age bullshit. Specifically he thinks of his third meeting with a therapist there. Jonesing for a smoke and restless as hell, Brian had fidgeted his way through the variety of knick-knacks on the low coffee table. His fingers had settled eventually on the copper and brass handle of a Tibetan prayer wheel. The low sound of the barrel moving on its handle had startled him. Like a new year's noisemaker, but with some additional, indescribable undertone that lent the rasp of metal on metal some dignity. He kept playing with it to be a dick, hoping that the constant drone would irritate his counselor enough to kick him out of the session. It didn't. That sound still curls through his thoughts at the most bizarre moments, the sound of a prayer wheel, whirling, whirling.
The rocks glass circles, warming in his hand.
A car horn sounds outside; there's the screech of tires. Brian imagines that he can smell the rubber, burning. Burning. His hand tightens convulsively around the glass. The whiskey keeps going, slops over his hand.
"Fuck."
It burns a little. His knuckles are chapped.
Brian stares at the spill. The reflection of the overhead light is bright, his own reflection faint. He shifts back in the chair and the contents of his pockets jangle in protest.
Wiping the whiskey off his hand, Brian reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around his keys. He pulls the keys out, stares at the key chain.
It's a four leaf clover. The gold finish is wearing off the metal back, but it’s still a comfortable weight in his palm. Years spent banging up against his keys has clouded the front’s clear green epoxy. But the words, framed by an unfurling scroll within are still legible.
Luck of the Irish.
~~~
Part Two