Soundless Imaginings | One-Shots

Forgive Me Forget Me | Angelus Timor

[Song I suggest listening to as you read: "Through The Looking Glass" by Sleepwave]

TIMOR

"What the hell has even happened to you, you bastard?!"

It was easy to shrug noncommittally, to continue placidly staring at the red-faced teen screaming at him with all the tact of a newborn. It was easy, sliding his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels in the manner of one bored to metaphorical tears. It was easy to keep hold of the silence he'd cultivated for four years, to offer no explanation for his actions. Denying himself had become second nature to him - it was as involuntary as breathing now.

And so he had no trouble doing all the aforementioned things while the roseate ranted and raved until he was even more red in the face than he had been upon seeing his older self (Timor had to wonder if that was physically possible; he clearly remembered having a perpetually flushed face at this age, and it was a wonder to him that he could ever become any redder). Then he seemed to come to a decision, as admist his animalistic panting he lunged, hands outstretched as though in preparation for strangling the life out of Timor's husk of a body.

The assassin dodged fluidly, and as the boy sailed harmlessly past he caught him by the wrist, swung him around with the aid of his own garnered momentum, and hurtled him face-first into the wall Timor had previously stood against. The impact sounded with a dull, uneventful thud; he hadn't thrown him with much force, conscious of the fact that this version of himself had little concept of breaking one's own fall.

A low groan slipped past the boy's lips as he rolled away from the wall, onto his back. Timor stood over him in his usual stance - arms across his chest, weight shifted to one foot, head cocked in supposed boredom - and it was that unreaction to his presence that served to once again ignite the boy's fury. He was back on his feet after a moment of scrabbling, and would have launched another fruitless assault if Timor hadn't stayed him with both hands on his shoulders.

His expression was even, smooth, without wrinkle of furrow to indicate he was anything but indifferent to the current proceedings, but something told the boy Timor was stewing on the inside. With what emotions, he couldn't say, but the thought that perhaps there was true color in this vacant soul gave him pause, and he didn't struggle again as Timor looked him over.

"Echo."

Timor felt him tense beneath his hands, saw how rigidly he stood. That name was a curse on his lips, vile and unwanted on his tongue, and had been for as long as he could remember. The boy felt the same. For some reason, a reason as vague and unfettered as the reason for this meeting, knowing this, knowing they still shared this connection - this hatred of the name he'd done so much to forget - returned a spot of emotion to his voice as he said, "I changed."

"I can fucking see that," Echo growled. He no longer had any want to move from his spot in front of Timor, and he wasn't entirely sure if it was out of fear or camaraderie. Still, he made a show of swatting Timor's hands from his shoulders. "What I want to know is why. Why the hell did you change? Weren't you... aren't I fine as I am?"

Well. The honest truth was that this Echo, this enraged, indignant, victimized fifteen-year-old, was anything but fine. Timor supposed not bottling up his emotions at this age was something of an accomplishment, but when compared to the unyielding anger he so arbitrarily tossed around, he had a mind to think anything was better than this constant storm of pitiless feeling.

He could remember, as much as he wished to cut himself free of the past, what this was like. To drown in a unending sea of loathing (some of which was turned inwards on himself). To have frothing waves barrel into him from all sides, with no escape, no air, no salvation. He'd hated everything.