entrancelogs | The love I sell you in the evening by the morning won't exist.

Entry tags:

The love I sell you in the evening by the morning won't exist.

Who: Max Caulfield and Tim Wright
Where: Tim's room (6th floor, room 19)
When: Feb 3
Rating: Heck I dunno PG?
Summary: Chloe's gone.
The Story:

She woke up cold and-

The morning light poured in through the-

Chloe was gone.

The rest of the details don't really matter.

For a few days she didn't bother telling anyone. Who would she tell, anyway? Chloe's friends were hardly hers. And Chloe didn't even have very many friends.

But at some point, being alone in her room and doing nothing... just lost its appeal. She needed to do something, anything, if only to stop the deafening silence of her room and the insistent blankness of her thoughts, that threatened over and over to slip into darker places.

And the ability of her own mind to come up with distressing images and words scared her.

Like how she would think about the uselessness of it all, of Chloe coming and going, and leaving her alone again- that it wasn't even some malicious plot on Wonderland's part, but that life was just fucking random and terrifying.

That nobody was out to get her. There was no deeper destiny or fate to everything that had happened. That Chloe dying was just some meaningless accident, a blip in the grand scheme of things, and that nobody fucking cared about any of it, because why would they?

People come and go from Wonderland. Eventually everyone forgets.

She could rewind and rewind and rewind, and people would die, and it wouldn't matter. Who would remember by the time everyone went home? Or ended up like Alice?

Today is just another timeline, with no real permanence, and no real point.

A new reality is only a rewind away.

No, no, she can't think like that. That's the start of a bad habit, a dangerous routine, and this time there's no living Chloe to snap her back into this reality, and gratefulness for the things she has... Even if it's only by turning over in the middle of the night to wrap her arm around her best friend, and to know that she's alive.

Still, it's comforting to think that life might get worse and worse, and her pain might grow, but in the end none of it matters. And she doesn't have to care.

So to keep herself from going stir crazy in the emptiness of her room, in the emptiness of the room across the hall, where she'd hung an "occupied" sign like some dumb hopeful fucking child, she jerks herself out of bed and several floors up to Tim's room. Because she loathes Tim, and loathing seems like an appropriate emotion, and he seems like a fucking messed-up sort of guy.

She knocks on his door, looking worn and generally unkempt, eyes downcast and unfocused.

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He hasn't been sleeping. Why would he? Sleeping's for well-adjusted people who don't have a lifetime of issues mountained in their head and perpetual insomnia to boot. Last thing he expects, all the same, is for someone to come knocking. People don't generally come knocking - not for him. If they want to contact him (George, he thinks, with something approaching disgruntled fondness), they send him a text or a video. Leave him to his isolation.

A knock on the door. That's new.

It takes a few minutes for him to answer. The room smells of smoke, thick and clinging to his clothes and the sheets and the curtains. There's a can of paint and a brush lying atop it, the mirror coated in a thick, fresh-drying layer of the stuff. It's better than shattering it. The furnishings are spartan at best, not even reminiscent of a college dorm so much as they're devoid of much personality whatsoever.

When he opens the door, the last person he expects to see standing on the other side is Max. Max, who looked at him with disgust and distrust and outrage when she'd seen what he did. Who actually, apparently liked Alex, who was his friend despite all the shit he'd done.

"You, uh..." It takes him a moment. She looks like shit. As much as there's differences there, it's not like he's about to go tell her to shove it when she looks like someone's just died.

Has someone just died?

Shit.

"You okay?"

The door opens and Max steps back, a small gasp escaping her. Obviously when you knock on someone's door you expect them to answer- but somehow she never thought about it actually happening, about actually getting this far.

She eyes him with a mixture of wariness and surprise.

The smell of smoke pours out of Tim's room almost aggressively, wiping out whatever thoughts Max was having in its wake.

"Uh-..."

Tim Wright. The guy who once beat the shit out of Alex. Whose mirror seems to like... messing around. Who Chloe smoked cigarettes with.

"Ch-"

She starts and stops. The sound escapes her as a mumble. She never thought about what she was going to say. She shakes her head, trying to find air that doesn't smell exactly the way her room does.

Not because she's avoiding it. Just because it makes it hard to think.

She shuts her eyes, trying to remember things she learned under her IEP. Breathe. You're safe, safe, safe.

Safe. Sad. Pathetic.

Yeah, okay, no matter what differences there are between them, Tim would like to think that, to his very little credit, he's not a complete jerk. He shuffles back a few steps, an implicit invitation for her to enter, if she wants.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess 'no,'" he says, warily, to start with, because she looks the farthest thing from okay. He stopped having qualms with who watched him crumble and split out of necessity - as if a guy like him will have dignity to speak of after hundreds of thousands of nameless individuals have seen him sob brokenly into hands cupped over his face.

Not everybody has that luxury.

He forgets, at times.

...Wow. He's inviting her in?

"No," she says reflexively, her expression hardening. It then occurs to her that it sounds like she's agreeing with what he said. And if she's being honest, she does agree.

But it doesn't have to be so obvious, right? And she doesn't have to say it out loud. She's seriously not here looking for fake comfort or something. That's... that's not why she's here.

Oh boy, here it comes.

They're not friends. She should've... she should've thought about what she was going to say. How to act.

Go ahead. Cheat. You're going to anyway.

She shouldn't have shown him how hurt she was. Ha! As if it's even possible to hide that sort of thing, but-

But she holds up her hand.

A new reality is only a rewind aw-

Time spirals back- and she pulls on it in a quick, short burst, like it's second nature, like it's the most normal thing in the world for Tim to shuffle back into his room and-

-and open the door again.

She still takes a step back as though surprised. Stares at him warily.

"You okay?" he asks her, and she only looks past him into the dull room behind.

She inhales deeply. Smoke. "...What's wrong with your room?" she finally asks in reply. It comes out a little harder than she'd intended.

Yeah, okay, no matter what differences there are between them, Tim would like to think that, to his very little credit, he's not a complete jerk. He shuffles back a few steps, an implicit invitation for her to enter, if she wants.

What's wrong with your room? Somehow she manages to hurl it at him like an accusation. His lips press together briefly, one corner tightening in a rueful twist.

"Been a rough few days," he says, dryly. That should be explanation enough, right? Enough for a guy like him, in any case.

A small pfft escapes her.

God, I sound so mean.

She shakes her head. "Sorry, I-"

She stuffs her hands into her pockets, and takes another step back in response to his own movements, bringing them farther apart the more he moves to let her in.

You're what? Not an asshole?

"I just... needed to tell you something." She shuts her eyes briefly. Think about what to say! "...Do you- um, remember, that- that girl, uh," don't stop don't stop don't stop "Chloe? ...Chloe Price."

Edited 2017-02-03 23:39 (UTC)

Prefacing with I needed to tell you something is never a good sign, for anybody. That's the type of thing you say before you spill a secret. And he's had his fill of secrets for the time being, hasn't he? There's a fresh clenching in his gut at the memory - of the Max who'd treated him like a friend and could predict what he was about to say and do, who could tread through time like it was just a particularly thrilling landscape.

A false Max. Not the one he knows. He doesn't know her, never knew either of them.

"I know her," he says. "Know she knows you pretty well."

That'd be an understatement. But he excels at those just as much as he does at keeping secrets.

There's something wrong with that sentence.

Max puts a hand to her forehead.

"She-"

Chloe didn't just know Max. That's a dumb way to put it. That's like saying a musician knows music pretty well. Like saying a writer knows how to read.

She couldn't tell Tim that. It sounds dumb. Dramatic. Teenage.

"She knew." She finally forces out the correction, her voice strained, her eyes widening, looking anywhere but at Tim.

Her hand drops down over her eyes and she squeezes tight, pointer and thumb digging into her temples, grimacing, her teeth clenched and her hand in her pocket folded into a tight, tight fist.

"She... she died."

No no no no no that's a dumb way to put it, idiot, idiot!

She glares at him furiously, wrenches her hand out of her pocket and holds it up to him, fingers spread, like she wants to hit him. Time spins back with a forceful, exaggerated jerk.

Edited 2017-02-04 00:06 (UTC)

Her hand drops down over her eyes and she squeezes, tears staining her fingers as she desperately tries to hide her face from Tim. Her other hand twists the fabric of her jacket as frustration boils inside her.

"She... she's gone."

God that's exactly the same thing, stupid-

It's not exactly the same, it could-

Fuck you!

She lets out an incoherent grunt of anger as she thrusts her hand toward him in a threatening motion, fingers spread, like she wants to hit him. Time spins back with a forceful, exaggerated jerk.

She covers her face with both hands, and inhales sharply, as seconds tick by and she tries, struggles to calm down, to not cry, to not make a sound.

"She left," she blurts out, the words muffled by her hands. She lowers them, and her face is dry, though her eyes shine with water. "She-... she left," come the words again, more clearly, her voice forming around the last one with a sort of desperate agreement.

She knew.

Past tense. Way more indicative than it should be. He grimaces, and she really doesn't need to keep going but keep going she does. She left. She left.

No one ever "leaves" on purpose. And he doubts, given how she'd spoken of Max, with the unmistakable fondness in her tone, that she intended to leave without her, if she'd had a say in it. So she's gone. Wonderland clawed her out of the fabric of the world and left Max. Max who, for reasons utterly beyond him...chose to come to him.

"I'm sorry." He flinches as he says it, sickeningly aware of the inadequacy of the words, like they'll mean a damn thing. "I mean, I...you guys were close. I'm sorry."

Bullshit. It's all bullshit. Why'd she come to him of all people? Like he can help her any with processing grief? He doesn't know how to process anything. He barely knows how to process his own garbage, let alone someone else's.

STOP FUCKING REWINDING-

Shut up for once you-

You're going to ruin everything because you can't-

SHUT UP SHUT UPSHUTUPSH

Stop it

LEAVE ME ALONE

YOU'RE FUCKING STUCK WITH-

WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE M-

"Ghh-" Max moans slightly as she clutches her head, and a small trail of blood worms its way out of her nose, staining the skin above her lip. She bends over slightly, and the blood drips onto the floor, as she digs her fingernails into her scalp.

"It's-" she blurts out, her voice too loud. She raises her hand again, and it shakes with the effort of her rewind.

Edited 2017-02-04 00:25 (UTC)

"It's nothing," she says, a little too loud, a little too fast, as she stumbles backward down the hall, blood leaking from her nose in a line down to her lip.

"It's- it's whatever. Right?" She clutches her head, and finally straightens up, wiping away the blood with a sleeve. The red stain shows prominently on her gray jacket.

She turns slightly, as though confused, unsure where to go. "S-sorry. I- I need to... uh, to go." Finally the hallway starts to make sense to her, and she turns her back on him, taking two steps away before she comes to a slow stop, her head bowed, wiping her eyes.

It's too much, too fast. She staggers back like someone who's had too much to drink, and he catches the reflexive jerk of a hand to the face. He's pressed hands against his mouth, trembling, to hold the red in as it dots the palm of his hand, every cough shaking his shoulders, too many times not to recognize the motion for what it is.

The burgundy streak clings to her jacket sleeve in a rusted smear as she turns to leave, looking like someone who's just screamed her lungs out rather than someone who's wandered to his room and muttered little more than a few words before retreating once more.

Unless she - did.

How's he supposed to know if she did? A prickle creeps up his spine in a slow, inexorable crawl.

You know, like an... anxiety attack?

Yeah. Like that.

She called it something special in the dream. Something like a - I rewound, Tim. Because you hurt yourself... And he's got no idea if blood has anything to do with it, but either way, something here doesn't add up. And as long as they're dealing in secrets, hey, he's got one of hers to match the one she's got of him.

"Did you just - was that a rewind?"

The words crack out with more sharpness than he intends them to, clipped and accusatory, his brow curving in a frown.

She rounds on him with a sharp expression, the word 'rewind' ringing in her ears. How does he know that? Who told him? Someone broke her secret, again, and of course they would.

Good. Someone should call her out on it.

I've been trying to-

But no, no, this isn't how she wanted this conversation to go. Her hand clutches tightly around the small pack in her pocket, crumpling it. She'd just now remembered why Tim is the one she approached, and it has nothing to do with the word rewind.

A new reality is o-

She holds up a hand, straining her brain, the familiar migraine creeping its way into a sharp pain. Time obeys.

"It's- it's... just whatever." She ignores the blood that seeps into her lips, leaving an iron taste on the tip of her tongue. She ignores the stain on her sleeve, the insistent throbbing pain of her head, though it blurs her vision and makes her eyes water. She ignores Tim, cutting him off before he can speak.

Before he can mention rewinds.

"Actually, Chloe uh, before she- she left, she let me try a..." She brings out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. "Uh, one of these. And- and I just end up coughing a lot."

The smell of cigarette smoke. The burning sensation on her mouth. Chloe's laugh as Max hacked and wheezed.

Better days.

"I was wondering if you could..." she trails off, looking at him expectantly. Hopefully. "It's... it's silly. Sorry."

Plainly it's not whatever. She looks like someone who's had too much to drink, and he catches the reflexive jerk of a hand to the face. He's pressed hands against his mouth, trembling, to hold the red in as it dots the palm of his hand, every cough shaking his shoulders, too many times not to recognize the motion for what it is.

The burgundy streak clings to her jacket sleeve in a rusted smear as she turns to leave, looking like someone who's just screamed her lungs out rather than someone who's wandered to his room and muttered little more than a few words before retreating once more.

Unless she - did.

How's he supposed to know if she -

She interrupts, holding out a pack of cigarettes, momentarily derailing.

"Smoking doesn't usually leave you bleeding," he says, slowly, with a cautious lift of his eyebrows. Something's up here. It's like he just - like he blinked, and suddenly there's a red line from her nose to her upper lip. "But, uh...what'd you have in mind?"

If he knows, he'll bring it up eventually. But at least it'll feel like it's on her own terms... or at leat different terms than just... blindsiding her with it when she's upset.

She looks down at the cigarettes in her hand. Crumpled and worn. Desperate to keep the smell in her room. To have something to remind her. Or distract her. To just... feel better.

"...I thought... maybe you could... teach me how." She doesn't look up at him. But she does finally wipe the blood off her mouth before rubbing the back of her neck. "Ch- Chloe said she liked that... that time you guys smoked."

Well, it's a pretty decent tactic as far as distractions go. He's not really clear on the wisdom of teaching someone to smoke while they're grieving, while they're apparently bleeding from some kind of phantom injury. But he's pretty sure turning her aside won't help her any, and it's not like he can make things even worse than they have been between the two of them.

He couldn't talk River down from it either. She'd been underage, but hey - better to start while you're in the eyesight of someone who can tell you when to stop and make sure you don't kill yourself in the process.

"If you want, yeah." His eyes flick down to her sleeve again. "You sure you're okay? You get..." He almost makes a quick, incisive motion across one wrist with a fingertip before something in him recoils in disgust. Why would she - she's not a freak, c'mon. He's the only one who'd default to a thing like that.

"You get hurt or something?"

It doesn't even occur to Max that the dried blood on her sleeve could be seen that particular way. She shrugs away his concern. She's hurting... but that's different.

"N- no." She's not sure what else to say. Between the migraine and the near-breakdown that she's barely managed to rewind her way out of, she's not even sure she's thinking, period. "I... I just wanna smoke," she says, waving the pack at him. She wipes her nose again with her other hand. "Ple- please? It'll... it'll be fun?"

Inwardly she sighs at her poor attempt to get him to play along. But hey, he probably doesn't have any reservations about smoking himself into an early grave, so it'd be pretty hypocritical for him to disagree, right?

She's not okay. Yeah. All right. Dumb question on his part, he'll admit it. She wants to smoke, and this is probably a recipe for disaster, but - hell, he's not about to take a bad situation and make it worse.

"All right, all right." He puts up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender before glancing over his shoulder. The window's shut to keep the cold out, hence why the room stinks as it does.

Looking away itches, like he's scared she'll nip out in the space it takes for him to blink, so he glances back her way. Keeps his tone as neutral and evenly paced as he can. Just normal stuff. Don't treat her like she's about to break down into nothing. They can work up to the apparent nosebleed later, if they have to.

"Outside, maybe? I mean, we can just stay here if you want. Either one. No problem."

When he glances back, her head is lowered, staring glumly at the cigarettes in her hand. Her brown hair falls in a messy sheet around her face. At least the bleeding seems to have stopped.

He said okay. But in the kind of way that... well, obviously he doesn't really want to. Obviously this is like a chore to him, or like a pity-favor. With Chloe it was kind of a... smoking buddies thing. But Max isn't the kind of girl that hangs with the smokers, right?

...Well. Just the one.

She looks up when he talks to her. "...Yeah. Outside. Maybe... the roof? There's, uhh, less people to see me... completely fail."

Hopefully there's no one at all up there.

She motions down the hall toward the stairway with some determination. This is something she's going to learn. If it has to be from a half-hearted Tim, well, whatever.

Whatever.

Her hair curtains off her expression, though he can take a few educated guesses as to what it might look like beneath. Sullen, maybe. Angry. Lost, undoubtedly. Turning to him of all people, for reasons utterly beyond him.

"Sure," he says, keeping his tone neutral. Lighter and pills in his pocket and - yeah, he's set. He moves to head out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"It's not too hard. Just don't breathe in too deep. Shouldn't be too cold either."

That last bit's a lie, but he doubts Max will get on his case about it. She doesn't look like she's up to get on anyone's case, much less his.

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