marcus keane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exorkismos) wrote2018-07-12 11:21 pm
exorkismos) wrote2018-07-12 11:21 pm
it's always like the scene of the last supper in here
Two weeks ago Tim said you’re here and I’m here, that’s the deal. And now Marcus is packing.
His bag is open on the living room floor, spilling clothes. The clothes he came in, the clothes he’s been wearing for years, none of the new stuff Tim has collected so slowly Marcus almost didn’t notice: not the deep green cotton button-down he never buttons all the way up, not the slippery-soft T-shirts he likes to laze around in, not the new jeans he complained about in glowing terms, not-so-secretly thrilled. Back to threadbare grey and black. His jacket is slung over the couch back, ready to go. His hat lies upside down on the seat cushions.
Sister Rosetta is sliding frenetically up the scale, speakers turned up as high as they’ll go. Loud, loud enough to drown anything else out, loud enough to stop him thinking. Loud enough to have hidden Tim’s footsteps, the noise of the door.
So when Marcus comes out of their bedroom and sees Tim there it’s with a moment of unprepared alarm. He’s got rosary beads dripping through his fingers, scooped from beneath the bed, their bed, because sometimes he falls asleep praying and there’s a whole trove of them down there. There was a whole trove of them down there.
There was.
Marcus’ face shutters the moment he realises how nakedly deer-in-the-headlights he must look. Defiant resolve cinches his jaw tight. When he swallows it feels like he’s choking down ground glass. Still, he manages to be terse and low and deliberate when he fixes Tim with a look and says, “It’s someone I know. It’s someone from church, his brother, in Connecticut.” The brother has children. Marcus’ voice cuts under the music. “I’m coming back.”
His bag is open on the living room floor, spilling clothes. The clothes he came in, the clothes he’s been wearing for years, none of the new stuff Tim has collected so slowly Marcus almost didn’t notice: not the deep green cotton button-down he never buttons all the way up, not the slippery-soft T-shirts he likes to laze around in, not the new jeans he complained about in glowing terms, not-so-secretly thrilled. Back to threadbare grey and black. His jacket is slung over the couch back, ready to go. His hat lies upside down on the seat cushions.
Sister Rosetta is sliding frenetically up the scale, speakers turned up as high as they’ll go. Loud, loud enough to drown anything else out, loud enough to stop him thinking. Loud enough to have hidden Tim’s footsteps, the noise of the door.
So when Marcus comes out of their bedroom and sees Tim there it’s with a moment of unprepared alarm. He’s got rosary beads dripping through his fingers, scooped from beneath the bed, their bed, because sometimes he falls asleep praying and there’s a whole trove of them down there. There was a whole trove of them down there.
There was.
Marcus’ face shutters the moment he realises how nakedly deer-in-the-headlights he must look. Defiant resolve cinches his jaw tight. When he swallows it feels like he’s choking down ground glass. Still, he manages to be terse and low and deliberate when he fixes Tim with a look and says, “It’s someone I know. It’s someone from church, his brother, in Connecticut.” The brother has children. Marcus’ voice cuts under the music. “I’m coming back.”