#&& a tale of two brothers; undertaker and kane

[brothersgrim]

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Anonymous asked: What if Taker was in a situation in which he felt extremely confused by something 👀  sorry, I’m not that creative with asks

He shifts in his bed, scrunching his face in displeasure at the hazy notion of waking up. He's tired. He's sore. He knows his duties will summon him soon, but for now, his bed is comfortable, and that is enough. It is so much more than he had for so long. 

There's a noise from out in the hall. Footsteps. Now, enough people came and went these days that that noise wouldn’t normally bother him. But even with so many people, the Undertaker knew them all - he wouldn’t bring them here otherwise. He knew their voices, their habits, their rhythms, and, while he wasn’t as keen at it as Kane was, he knew their footsteps. He could usually tell who it was walking past his door.

He does not recognize those steps. 

The Undertaker opens his eyes with a frown, brow knotting as he sits up, and–

And this isn’t his room. 

This isn’t his room, even if it feels painfully familiar. It’s still small, though he wonders if it feels bigger simply because there are more things in it than usual - where did they come from? The rug, the desk, the chair, the lamp… The posters were different, but he recognized the room itself. He knows, if he were to look out the window to his left, he would see the Yard. His Yard. He pushes carefully off the bed and freezes when his feet brush something soft. He looks down, and things get stranger still. A set of slippers rests against his feet. Soft ones, hand-made by a matron in town for a church fundraiser.

He remembered these. He didn’t know why - they should be inconsequential - but he remembers them. And the feet that brush against them move when he wills them to, the toes flex and curl, but these aren’t his feet; they lack the weathering and callouses, the scars on the sides where poorly-maintained boots had worn skin away to bloody messes more times than he could count. He raises his hands to his face, and they’re similarly smaller, unblemished, nails neatly groomed without any traces of grave-dirt or blood or motor oil stuck underneath. This–

This didn’t make any sense. There was an answer, an explanation, to all of this, but it danced and spun and swirled around in illogical circles until all it looked like was a dream. This was a dream. This was a dream, it had to be, it was the only thing that possibly made sense. He pushes off the bed (the blankets felt too soft, too real, and wasn’t this different from how these dreams normally went?) and is halfway to the mirror in the corner when the footsteps come back, and there’s three steady knocks on the door. The voice comes through the door just as he catches his reflection - just in time to see the agony flash across his younger self’s features as recognition twists the knife of grief. 

“Hey in there. You ready for bed yet?” 

That’s his father’s voice. A voice he had longed to hear and failed to properly remember for so long. Any response is caught in his throat, stopped by the lump and the sickly taste of bile that he clamps his jaw against, by breaths that trip and stumble as they make a rapid escape from his lungs without leaving any oxygen behind. 

“Adam?” Another knock and he knew, he’d known for so long, that he hadn’t quite gotten it right in his mind, but he hadn’t realised how many little details time had worn away. That was his father’s voice. The way his accent shaped each vowel, dulled the edge of some consonants and sharpened some others. The hint of concern mingled with confusion, so genuine and authentic and different, so different from how Paul had spoken of them. “You there?” 

This had to be a dream. It had to be. The door handle rattles and his entire body tenses. He knows what will happen next. The door will open and he will see his father’s face, burned and disfigured, and it will tell him that everything was his fault and he will wake up for real, in the master bedroom in his own– His grown– body. That’s what will happen. That’s what will happen because nothing else makes sense. That’s what will happen because he does not know what he will do if it doesn’t. The door opens and it is not his father’s corpse he sees. It is his father. Just his father, but like his voice, the memories of his face, even the photo kept hidden away, lacked so many details. The faint scar on his lip. The furrow in his brow. The way his hair flopped when he tilted his head, the creases at the corner of his eyes from a lifetime of smiling and thinking and squinting alike. 

“Ad-?” His father begins, but cuts off when he meets his son’s eyes. The Undertaker - Adam - does not move. He’s not sure he can. His father’s eyes widen a bit, and he reaches in the room to set his mug (his favourite mug, off-white and coffee-stained from years of use, it had a soup recipe on the side but he always filled it with everything but instead) on the dresser (handmade by Grandpa Abe, years and years before Adam was ever born and longer still before the fire claimed it and everything else). 

“Whoa, whoa, easy.” His father closes the door behind him and crouches down, close enough to study his son’s face but far enough to not crowd. The Undertaker - Adam - studies him in kind through wide, shellshocked eyes. Green eyes, not like his father’s brown. A soft green-and-navy flannel shirt hung on shoulders made broad from ranching, from grave-digging, from casket-building, a strong nose wrinkled just enough as he frowned down. This was his father. “What happened?” (You died.) “What’s wrong?” (I killed you.That’s what’s wrong. You died, I killed you, I didn’t mean to but I did and you’re dead and I lost you and–) His father’s hands, work-rough but gentle, come to rest on his shoulders and he flinches. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he did now. This is his father.

This is his father, and this is not a dream. 

“Jesus, c’mere.” His father sighs and pulls him in for a hug. It’s crushing, it’s suffocating, it’s ensnaring, it’s safe, and it isn’t until his father holds even tighter that Adam realises he is leaving tear stains on his father’s shirt. Oh. He’s crying. He’s crying, and he’s not sure he will ever be able to stop. He is Death. He is the Reaper. Men the size of mountains ran at the mere idea of his presence. His name was a legend, a warning, a curse, a promise. He is the Omega, the ugly truth of the world, and the truth he cannot bring himself to accept is just how much he had wanted this for so, so many years. His hands shake as he takes tentative fistfuls of flannel, then grips hard enough his knuckles turn white as he presses his face against his father’s shoulder.The shuddering, messy inhale that he forces smells like coffee and wood chips and spiced aftershave, fabric softener and earth and embalming fluid. It smells like comfort. It is a smell he had long since forgotten, and even though his lungs don’t work and his chest burns he forces himself to breathe it in again. 

“You hurt?” His father asks and the Undertaker has no idea how to respond, so Adam doesn’t. Only manages another breath that sounds deceptively like a hiccup. His father hums a single note and stands, tightening his arms just enough to lift Adam up off his feet. “Think there’s a bit more cocoa in the pot downstairs. Why don’t we get you some?” The offer only makes Adam cling to him even tighter. (How long had it been since anyone had offered the Undertaker cocoa? The Devil Himself did not need comfort. The Pale Rider had no use for warmth.) “C’mon.” His father opens the door with one hand and shuts it as they step through, leaving the soup mug behind. (That’s right, he had a habit of forgetting where he left things, hadn’t he? Another detail long forgotten.) He clings to his father and one of the boards creaks, and oh, right, he’d always had to be careful of that when he was young, right? And then there’s another creak as a door opens. Another voice the Deadman had resigned himself to never hearing - at least, not like this. Another set of spectral hands ripping into his chest.

“What’s wrong with Adam?” 

“Nothing, Fireball.” His - their - father says, reaching down with one arm to tousle Kane’s hair. His little brother looks up and his throat seizes again. The eyes he meets are grey - both grey, not mis-matched by smoke and flame and infection. His brother, little brother, baby brother, is just how he had tried to remember him for so many years and even through blurring vision he can’t look away. It’s how he was always meant to be. How he should have been, until– “Just a bit under the weather, is all. Go turn down your bed, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Kane says, not bothering to keep the frown out of his voice. The door closes and Adam thinks more than feels the nudge through the air, that voice he had grieved so deeply peeking in through the disoriented haze of his own thoughts. 

You okay?

Kane. He sent back, squeezing his eyes shut and once again burrowing his face into his father’s shoulder. Is it really you?

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Kane. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. A lie. It would all fall apart because it always did. It would go wrong and twist and he would lose it - them - again because he always did. 

It’s me. Kane’s voice says and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Why? Did something get out? Do we need to find Mama? 

Mama.

Their mother. 

Was she here, too? The last time he had seen her had been when Kane - grown, scarred, furious Kane - had thrown him into her casket. Before that, it had been when Paul had brought him to the other funeral home. When he had seen a skeletal grin and blackened glass and bloody, charred flesh– Another shudder wracks his too-small body as the revulsion hits him anew.

“You’re okay.” His father says, carefully setting Adam down on a chair. It feels so much bigger than chairs are supposed to. He doesn’t let go of his father. He wasn't sure that he could. If he does, his father will slip away again. If he does, he will wake up as he was yesterday and he will never see his father again, outside of photographs. If he does– 

His father rests a hand on Adam’s head before pulling away. 

“Sit tight.” His father says, moving to a pot resting on the stove. He rummages around for a mug and finds one, smaller than the now-discarded soup mug with two little mice painted on the side. He lifts the pot by its long wooden handle, pours cocoa into the mug, then returns to Adam’s side. “Here y’are. Drink slow, but see if it helps you any.” Adam takes the mug in his hands and stares.

“It’s warm.” He says, and even he notices the incredulity in his voice. His father lets out a surprised snort. 

“Well, yeah. It’s hot chocolate.” And yes, he’s right, the name should make its temperature obvious, but that’s not the point. The point is that Adam - the Undertaker - can feel it. The point is that it’s another sign that this is all, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably real. He hesitates a moment longer before taking a sip. It’s warm, yes, but it’s rich, sweet, comforting. Something homemade, from scratch, not from a packet. 

“My mama - your Granny Jules - used to make this whenever my siblings and I had a rough night.” His father leans against the counter with a grunt belying stiff muscles. “‘Course, when we started getting bigger, she put whiskey in it. … You still got a few more years before you can give that a try.” His father offers him a smile, and though it still twists at his heart, Adam manages a smile back. This is real. He has to accept that. Maybe… Maybe everything else had been a dream? No. That didn’t make sense, either. It had been fifty years, and he had felt every second of it. … Maybe he should give up trying to rationalise this. His mere existence had defied logic for so long; why would this be any different? (But at the same time, nothing good, logical or otherwise, ever lasted with him. Everything he loved had been taken away over, and over, and over again. Accepting this as reality would only make it hurt more when it was ripped from his grasp.) It’s a debate he’s still having with himself when he takes another sip of his drink. Then there are more footsteps, and these ones are not difficult to recognize. 

“JT! You down there?”

Paul. 

So many things happen at once. Adam chokes on his drink. The light overhead explodes. His father flinches back into the counter and curses. Paul bangs into something upstairs and says something similar. He comes downstairs and Adam cannot stop staring. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. Paul is here. Why is Paul here? Paul stares at him with a furrowed brow. 

“The hell was that?” Paul asked. Adam gripped the mug so tightly his hands shook. 

“Just a light.” His father said, but there was a different tone to his voice. His words were just a bit slower, a bit more thoughtful. “Think you can go find Iza for me? We’re gonna need to clean this up, get a replacement. She’s out back.” Paul watched Adam a moment longer, then shrugged and made his way to the back door. Adam did not take his eyes off him, nor did he loosen his grip. Paul was here. Paul was here. Paul was here. It’s a thought that consumes him so much he doesn’t realise his father has moved until they’re in front of each other.

“Adam.” His own name makes him jump again, sloshing cocoa onto his fingers. It burns. The sensation, unpleasant as it is, helps ground him. His father carefully pries the mug from his grasp and sets it on the table, before work-worn hands rest on Adam’s shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, but I need you to be honest with me. Did he do something to you?” Adam didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain forty years of torture to the father who only knew him as– How old was he? Ten years? Eleven? 

“I-” He starts, then stops. Forty years of suffering. Forty years of misery, of slavery, of pain and fear and what he had done to Kane and– Without being aware of it, his hands had moved to his throat. And then he swallows, looks down, and clutches at his own hands. “I…” His father’s jaw clenched and he looked over his shoulder to the back door. After another beat, he turns back and scoops Adam back into his arms. 

“Y’know what? Grab your cup, Mr. Man. We’re having a sleepover tonight.” 

It’s almost robotic, the way Adam does as he’s told. It’s easy to fall back onto that old habit. It’s familiar. Far more familiar than the way his father carries him up the stairs, stopping only to knock on Kane’s door. 

“Hey, Kane! C’mon. You’re sleeping in our room tonight.” His words were met with some shuffling noises from the other side of the door, before the knob turned and Kane’s ruffled head poked out. 

“I am?” He asked, blinking groggily. He must have been settling down already. Their father reached down to smooth Kane’s hair back into place. 

“Yup. Sleepover night.” Their father nodded. “Grab your bear if you want, but hurry it up. It’s getting late.” 

“Okay.” Kane disappeared into his room again, then reappeared and trotted after their father. Adam found himself deposited on their parents’ bed. His father squeezed his shoulders one last time, pressing a kiss to the crown of Adam’s head. 

“Stay here, I’m gonna go find your mama.” And then he leaves. He leaves, and those words cling to Adam like an embrace, like a security blanket, like brambles, like a noose. The bed shifted behind him, but Kane’s voice still almost made him jump.

“You’re not sick, are you?” He asked. Adam worked his jaw, then carefully set the mug down on the nightstand.

“I dunno what I am.” He said after a while. Kane flopped against his back. The warmth, the pressure, helped. The closeness to his brother helped. It didn’t chase the tightness in his chest away, but it helped. 

“You’re scared.” That did not help.  

“Kane-” He started. He didn’t need his brother digging through his head. Not now. He didn’t want Kane to see. Kane didn’t need to know. (He didn’t want Kane to know.) 

“It’s okay.” Kane said, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t smushed against his brother’s back. “It’s like Mama always says. Nothing can hurt us in this house.” … Adam was glad his brother didn’t see the expression that just flashed across his face. How he wished that was true. How he’d used to believe that was true. How many years he had desperately, desperately longed for it to be true. But it wasn’t. He grips the mug tighter and leans back against Kane. The warmth of both and the weight of his brother feel a million miles away. His chest is tight and he closes his eyes as though that will banish the pain. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to breathe, but this is all too much, too much, too much– The creak of the stairs.

He’s not ready for this.

His father’s muffled voice.

He’s not ready.

“... Look in his eyes, almost didn’t look like him.” His father was saying. “I’ve only seen that look two other places. Soldiers, and the pigs you bring in on Halloween.” The pigs. Livestock only in the loosest sense. Shepherded in from death row, or rounded up in the wild if they hadn’t been caught yet. Serial killers, repeat abusers, the worst of humanity, and they all squealed when they realised what was going to happen to them. He knew that well enough from his own experience. (He’d had to keep the tradition going. He had to. And he had done it, like all things, alone.) And the door opens. And the air leaves the room again. And he no longer feels the cup, or his brother. And he knows he’s shaking but he doesn’t feel that, either. And he imagines he’s crying again but even that escapes sensation. There’s an image juxtaposed over his mother’s face. One he’d never forgotten, not in forty years. Charred, blistered skin. Lips peeled back to reveal ash-coated teeth. Glass lacerating through reddened skin. Patches of skull where hair had been eaten away. A hole where her nose was meant to be. And only congealed, half-boiled pits where her blue, blue eyes had once been. That is what his mother had looked like, the last time he’d seen her face. And he sees it now. And he feels sick. And his head is spinning. And it’s too light and too dark and his heart is pounding, deafening in his ears and that’s his mother. And he feels like he is falling apart and compressing all at once and his own hair feels hot and itchy against the back of his neck and that is his mother. 

That is his mother. 

That is his mother and she’s getting closer. 

That’s his mother and he still remembers how her charred flesh smelled.

That’s his mother and she’s in front of him. And he can’t breathe. And it smells like smoke and cooked flesh. And it smells like cinnamon and lavender. And she is burned and she is beautiful. And she is in front of him. And his vision is blurring so much it no longer matters what her face looked like; he couldn’t make it out anyways. She folded her hands on the blankets near him - an invitation for comfort, but not making contact yet. 

“Addie, baby?” Her voice was a lance through his heart. “What’s wrong?” The floorboards creak (so loud, so shrill) as his father moves to his mother’s side. Another fuzzy shape in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” He manages. His voice croaks and it hurts to say the words. He tries again anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The indistinct shape of his mother shifts, likely looking up at his father, but she will find no answers there. He wouldn’t know. Neither of them would know the blood and soot that stained their oldest’s hands. They wouldn’t know how badly he’d hurt them. How he’d-

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, though even he barely understood it. “I’m sorry.” It’s a mess of syllables, fumbled together and dropped from the shaking grasp of his lips until they fell on a floor in a heap. He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as though that might stop the last pieces of his heart from shattering further. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Oh, baby.” His mother says, wrapping him in her arms and pulling him close. She kisses the top of his head and it aches, it burns, it’s agony and it’s a redemption and a forgiveness that he has done nothing to deserve. He does not deserve her love and yet he has craved it so desperately he can’t bring himself to pull away. She holds him tighter still and at some point, he had started clinging to her in kind. He doesn’t remember when. All he knows is if he tried to hold on to the back of her blouse any tighter his hands would break. He tries anyways. He tries another apology, too. Neither attempt is successful. His mother holds him anyway. And just like with his father, eventually, he wears himself out. He does not let go, but the tears slow down. His breathing steadies to shaky hiccups. But he doesn’t let go until she pulls away and he has to. Her hands find his face and her thumbs brush away the lingering moisture on his cheeks. He raises his own hands to hold on to her wrists, pressing his face into her palms. He had tried to memorise this feeling after she had been gone. (He’d had no way of knowing he’d be forced to forget.) 

Feeling the real thing now, his memories didn’t come anywhere close. 

His mother sighs. It’s not an annoyed sigh, nor is it condescending. It’s a release of tension. It’s permission to relax. She leans in and kisses the top of his head again. For another moment, she stays with her face pressed against his scalp. He blinks; his eyes still sting. 

“You okay, baby?” She asks. He sniffs, and for the first time since he could remember, he answered that question honestly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“And that’s okay.” She smooths his hair and smiles down at him and he sees her face, and it’s even more beautiful than he remembered. “Why don’t you stay here with your brother? I gotta talk to your daddy for a minute.” She moves to stand and the ‘no’ that leaves him is involuntary. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, not again. I just got you all back, don’t go. 

I need you. 

Her lips flicker into a frown, concerned and- angry?- but it vanishes just as fast. There’s a fluctuation in temperature, a drop that he swears must have been his, but her hand is freezing when it runs through his hair again. 

“We’ll be back, Adam, sweet boy. I promise.” And despite the warning signs, she was as gentle towards him in tone and action as she had ever been. She turns and leaves quickly, their father following behind. The door closes behind them. Adam sniffs and wipes at his face again. There’s silence, filled by the staccato ticking of the clock on the night stand and the soft rustling of Kane squirming around in the sheets. Adam keeps staring at the door. Then Kane plops his chin on Adam’s shoulder and speaks. 

“Would it make you feel better if we listened?” He asked. “Then we won’t be so far away.” Adam scrunched up his faze and scrubbed at his eyes one last time. Kane was right. Adam didn’t want to know how much he’d picked up–

“Not a lot.” Kane shrugged.

“Cut that out.” Adam mumbled into his own sleeve. Kane huffed, flopping backwards onto the thick down-stuffed pillows his parents enjoyed. 

“Well, you won’t tell me what’s going on! I’m worried.” He said, pouting at the ceiling. “You’re never like this.” And maybe he was right. Adam absolutely hadn’t been that way when he had stopped being Adam. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to be before the fire. Apparently, not like this. 

“Yeah.” Adam ended up saying. “Let’s go listen.” Anything to avoid letting his brother know what he was thinking. They both slipped off the bed, their socks helping to muffle the impact of their feet against the floor. And the door opens slowly, quietly, careful of the potential squeaking hinges, and Adam leaves first, finding his spot at the top of the stairs. He can’t see his parents, no matter how he manoeuvres. They must be in the back entryway. But he can hear them, and hear them well. 

“What happened, JT?” She was asking. She sounded mad again. “What happened to my little boy?”

“I don’t know.” Their father said. His voice was more level than their mother’s, but had a hard edge. He’d had enough time to gather himself. “I was doing the usual bedtime routine and found him like that, just like I told you. Had him calmed down a bit, but…” Their father sighed. 

“... What is it?” Their mother still seemed agitated, but concern had returned to her voice. Adam leaned forward, grasping the bannister for support and pressing his face between the beams. He could just see their shadows in the butter-yellow light that spilled in front of the staircase. It was a good thing he’d leaned in, because his father spoke much more softly now. 

“I think it was Paul.”

“What?!” He could see their mother’s shadow take a step back. “What do you mean? What did he do?” 

“All I know is, he showed up, and Adam looked like someone just walked over his grave. Pale as anything, kept staring, I swear, I called his name three times and he didn’t hear me. Something happened even if I don’t know what.” 

“You’re sure?” Their mother asked, and this time, their father replied instantly.

“Sure as I need to be.”

“Fine.” Their mother says. “So we get rid of him, then. Nobody gets to hurt our boys, I don’t care who they are.” Their father hummed his agreement, and his shadow nodded. 

"I’m with you on that. Only thing I'm hung up on," his father says, a creak of wood belying a shifting of weight, "is what we tell Keith." 

"Why does he have to be told anything?" It's mama's voice, a coldness in it he isn't sure he ever heard. 

"Because. No more disappearances, remember?" 

"J." His mother tuts. "It's only a disappearance if someone comes looking." Adam tightens his hands on the bannister. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing quiet. It's them. It's really them. And he still does not know for how long he will have them back, so he is determined to re-learn their voices. Even if they are talking about murder. They are going to kill Paul. It is a thought that calms and terrifies him in kind - Paul is a monster. He deserves what he is getting. But what could someone like him do when cornered-? 

“Got a point.” His father says with a sniff. “Don’t think I’ve heard him really talk much about his family, so I don’t imagine they’re close.” 

“So we should be fine.” His mother replies. There’s a moment of silence that he imagines is filled with his father nodding. 

“Mind if I take the shovel?” His father’s voice again. “I just-” And then his father’s voice lowers and Adam has to strain even harder, leaning forward to not miss a single syllable. “The way Adam was when I found him-” 

“It’s all yours, J.” His mother said. “But that’s my baby too. So I get his heart.” In spite of the nature of the situation, a faint smile tugs at Adam’s face. He had been told before that he took after his mother; apparently they were right. Then he heard Paul’s voice, muffled and unintelligible, and the smile vanished as he shrank back. 

“Yeah, Paul, we’re coming.” His father called, loud enough to be heard in the back, and loud enough for Adam to hear easily. And as the door slid open, his mother’s voice, in a promise that would be terrifying if it was aimed at him, but as it was, carried a sense of security, of safety. 

“We’ll be right behind you.” 

And then the door slides closed. Adam lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and eased away from the bannister. His fingers ached when he uncurled them. He glances behind him, and Kane is peering out the door to their parents’ room. 

“What was that about?” He asks, but Adam just shakes his head. 

“I dunno. I’m tired.” He slouches into the room, and as much as it’s a deflection, it’s the truth. He’s tired. No, he’s exhausted. His eyes ache and his head throbs and his shoulders feel so heavy he feels like he’ll collapse at any moment. 

“You still feel sick?” Kane asks, clambering up into the bed. Adam nods.

“Yeah. But I think I’ll be better soon.” 

“That’s good.” Kane says as they both make themselves comfortable under the old duvet (one Nana Tulip had embroidered herself, if Adam remembers right). “It’s always boring when you’re not feeling well.” Adam closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow even as he shifted closer to his brother. 

“Night, Kane.” He mumbles. 

“Night, Adam.” His little brother, his happy, healthy, safe little brother, replies, and it’s the last thing Adam hears before he starts nodding off - aside from some screams that might have been a coyote, if you didn’t listen closely enough. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears his parents enter the room. They’re trying to be quiet, and if he slept like he used to, they’d have succeeded. But he still has the world-weariness from the life he lived, so he peeks his eyes open as they approach. His mother sits on the bed first, sighs, then notices his stare and smiles. 

“Hey, baby.” She says, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You can get some sleep now, alright? You’re safe.” And somehow, somehow, he believes her. It might have something to do with the flecks of red on her teeth when she leans down to kiss his head - the same red he catches traces of under his father’s nails when a strong arm pulls him close. Whatever the reason, he feels safe - safer than he had in decades, even with the immense power he’d held. Regardless of the reason, he feels safe enough that this time when he sleeps, he sleeps heavily, and does not wake up until morning. And when he does wake, he’s still in his parents’ bed. And it is their bed. It still has the duvet his grandmother decorated, with the jewellery strand his father had made for his mother perched on the vanity. He’d been convinced he would wake up and find it all had been a dream, or hallucination - that it would vanish when he opened his eyes. That the other shoe would drop. 

But it didn’t. 

Every day, he would wake up and check his hands, check his face, check his surroundings. And every day, aside from the ordinary signs of time’s passing, he stayed the same. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The other shoe never came. Eventually, he stopped waiting for it. Yes, he would still get dreams. Yes, some things still scared him more than they should. (He never truly reconciled with the smell of burnt meat.) But he carried less tension in his shoulders, he stopped thinking he would lose this new chance, he stopped worrying so much about the future. Somehow, this was just going to continue. Something about gift horses and mouths or whatever. But he was happy. 

He was happy. 

His days became too busy to worry about a forgotten past and a discarded future. Going to school (again, in some aspects, but for the first time as he grew older), tending the yard (under his parents, not alone), spending time with his brother… Taking care of the dog. They hadn’t had a dog before. But a few years after the fire should’ve happened, a stray mutt had shown up on their doorstep. Now the mutt - lovingly named Fish - was a fixture of the family. And now, years later, Fish was running around the yard, barking happily, while his humans sat about getting various graves dug, cleaned, or otherwise looked after. So it was that Adam found himself in a hole, six-by-eight-by-three, shovel in hand as he dug with his brother. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, as well as a comfortable silence after the usual chatter had died down. (They didn’t have to bury that.) The weather, homework, the upcoming school dance (now that they were both in high school) and what to watch on TV before bed had all been discussed. Now they just worked. The sun beat down mercilessly and left sweat beading on their backs and dripping down their necks. Neither light clothing nor trying back their hair had helped any. There weren’t even any clouds to offer shade. But Mama had a fresh pitcher of home-made strawberry lemonade in the fridge waiting for them, and the thought of it was enough to spur them on. (Though Kane had asked a few times if Adam would cause a storm - just enough to block the sun. Adam had refused, though he was tempted to agree, now.) It was shaping up to be another usual day, until his brother almost bowled Adam over with one simple question. 

“Are Mom and Dad supposed to be dead?” Kane doesn’t look away from his hands, but Adam’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“I dunno. I get these… Dreams, sometimes. But they’re not dreams. They’re hazy, but they’re real.” Kane shakes his head as though he might dislodge those thoughts and find the answer underneath. Adam hopes he doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are, how his breathing has quickened.

“And I feel like you know something you’re not telling me.” Here, Kane does look up. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We don’t do secrets.” Adam runs his tongue across his lips like that could change the dryness in his throat. He can’t look at Kane. Can’t stomach whatever he thinks he might see, so he looks anywhere else.

“Kane, I-”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?” 

He could argue that it is. That before, he had never gotten this chance. The chance to watch his brother grow up, the chance to ease into their future as the caretakers. This was new. But that was not what Kane meant, and they both knew it. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his chin drop to his chest, gripping his own hand so tight the bones in his fingers creak.

“No.” The silence that follows the admission is infinite, an abyss, stretching out to swallow him whole. He wants to beg Kane not to hate him. That he’s sorry for what happened. That he’s worked hard, so hard, to leave that reality behind and just be happy for what they had now, their home, their family, their freedom, but those words don’t come. Much like his brother in a faded world, he cannot speak.

“Well,” Kane says after an era, “I don’t know how you did what you did, or- Really, I don’t even know what made you do it. But I’m glad you did.” That makes Adam open his eyes again. There’s a weight off his shoulders and an ache in his heart as he looks at his brother, his baby brother, his little brother who he had once sold his soul for (who he would sell his soul for again, should this life demand it). Kane isn’t looking at him, now, using his teeth to stretch a hair elastic over his fingers before he continues. “Like I said, it’s hazy. I don’t really understand it. But I get the feeling I wouldn’t’ve liked it much.” The absurdity of the thought, the wild understatement, makes Adam laugh. It’s quiet and surprised, but it’s still genuine.

“No,” he says, wiping his hand down his face and sniffing. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.” 

“So thanks.” Kane finishes tying his hair back and butts his shoulder against Adam’s, then bends to grab his shovel. He jams it into the earth, stomps it lower with his foot, and throws his reward back over his shoulder. Adam does the same. Once, twice, three times. He steals another glance at Kane, then frowns down at the dirt. 

“How much do you…” He trails off. ‘Remember’ isn't right. Kane shakes his head. 

“Not the word for it.” He agrees. Another shovelful of earth moved before he answers. “I dunno. It’s dark, mostly. Sometimes it’s the opposite - just blinding white. But it always feels like- Like I can’t move.” Adam grits his teeth and represses a shudder. Kane nods. “Yeah. And I wake up hungry some nights. Real hungry. And there’s this weird taste in my mouth I can’t place. It’s almost like the time we went to the Davids’ barbecue, and the burgers weren’t cooked all the way.” Adam grimaces. He has an idea about why that might be. He doesn’t say it, though. … He doesn’t need to. Kane coughs. 

“Please, please tell me there’s a different reason you’re thinking about rats.”

“I dunno for sure.” Adam says quickly. Judging by the pathetic look his brother gives him, it doesn’t make him feel any better. “I could be wrong.” Kane wretched and choked back a gag. 

“I hope you are.” He manages. Adam shrugs. Another moment where the silence is broken only by the sound of their shovels impaling the earth, the distant croak of ravens lounging on a tree somewhere overhead. 

“It’s the opposite for me.” Adam finally says. “It feels like every day, more and more of- ‘the other time’, it’s fading away. There are some things I still remember really well, but other parts… Ain’t nothing there anymore.” 

“Huh. Weird.” Kane mumbled. More silence, more work. At some point, they’d gotten close to being finished; just needed to sharpen up the corners. Take pride in the details, their parents had taught them. It’s the family business. It’s our reputation. Gotta do it right. It had been strange to relearn everything. It had been eye-opening to see how much he had missed. The little tricks he had never been taught. Even just having the extra hands helped more than he could say. There’s a dull chink as Kane’s shovel hits a rock. He frowned, stooped down, and dug the rock out with his hands. With a grunt, he heaved it out of the hole, then reached to pull in an armload of the dirt they’d removed and fill in the dent the rock had left. Adam shoved his own shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead again. He was exhausted - from the work, yes, but from the conversation, too. Kane looked over at him again. 

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“Shoot.” Adam replied, even though he wished they’d never broached the concept. (On some level, he was glad that someone else knew the truth. Kane was right; they didn’t do secrets. And it made him feel less crazy. But he didn’t want to think too deeply about that, not now.) 

“How did they–”

“Boys!” There were few times his mother’s voice had been more of a mercy than it was now. 

“Yeah?” He and Kane call in unison. They look up just in time to see their parents approach the edge of the grave. They were silhouetted by the sun, but if Adam squinted, he could make out their faces. 

“It’s almost noon; we’re going inside.” Their father said, tilting his hat up. “Break time.”

“Come on, both of you, before you wear yourselves out.” Their mother crouched down, tilting her head with a smile. 

“Don’t gotta twist my leg.” Adam said. Their father reached down, and Adam accepted his hand as he clambered out of the grave. Kane was given the same help, and then, after dusting themselves off, they headed back to the home. Adam knew what his brother wanted to ask. He hoped he would never complete that question.

He hoped they would both forget before it ever came up again. 

Fish trotted up beside them, whuffing a greeting. Adam reached down to scratch his ears. Well, if it did come up, he would have to address it. For now, he could focus on living the (relatively) normal life he had been gifted. A normal life that included lunch breaks and lemonade with his family, and dinners together later in the night, and regular school, and homework, and weekends, and high school football games - kind of like this one. 

The whistle ran through the air, sharp and splitting. 

“Let’s go, get your warm up in!” Coach shouted. Across the field, Victoria’s coach was barking similar instructions at his players. Adam was aware of this because he’d been staring in that direction since they’d gotten off the bus. 

“Careful,” Kane said in between up-downs. “Look any harder and your eyes’ll fall outta your skull.”

“Shut up.” Adam grumbles. He strands and rolls his shoulders; a moment later, Kane stands with him and stretches his neck from side to side. 

“How do you know he’ll even be here?” He asked. “Everything’s so different now. Maybe he doesn’t play football anymore.” 

“I guessed.” Adam narrowed his eyes at the opposing team, searching for any hint of the person he was looking for. It was hard to make anything out. That was the point of a uniform, but it didn’t stop it from being annoying. Had he ever mentioned a number–?

“Hey, witchblood!” Chester’s voice. Adam and Kane rolled their eyes and turned in unison.

“What, Hanson?” They said. Chester knew them well enough to not be put off by this. He stopped a few steps away from them, helmet under his arm. The light breeze blew his fluffy blonde hair out around him, and he scrunched his face in annoyance as he pushed it back behind his ear. 

“Stop drooling over the enemy and get in position. Coach wants to give us a pep talk.” He says. He shoots one last glare towards the opposing team, one more glance at the brothers, and jogs back to where the rest of their schoolmates were gathering.

“Told you it was obvious.” Kane bumps his shoulder against Adam’s, who rolls his eyes and scoffs in return. 

“‘Drooling over the enemy’, shut up. Why’s he gotta be such a dipshit when he talks?” 

“Yeah, sure sounds like an asshole.” And the voice is younger, not as gravelly, but Adam would know it anywhere. He turns, shock melting to hope melting to a brilliant grin on his face. Pale blond hair, big blue eyes, a lopsided smile - that’s what greeted him. He reached for the person he’d been looking for, and his hand was accepted, held close, stroked with gentle movements of his forever’s thumb. 

“There you are, Cueball.” Any bite left in the insult was erased by the pure relief in Adam’s voice. He was greeted with a laugh, genuine as ever.

“Missed you, too, ya big dead bastard.” Steve Austin - Stevie Williams, toughest player on Victoria’s team - smiled back. “You too, little brother.”

“Oh, my god.” Kane said, letting his helmet hang at his side. “You had a bowl cut.” 

Of all the things that had changed, sometimes, it was those that stayed the same that reassured him. It reminded him that he wasn’t losing his mind. By now, most of what had been was gone. It had faded away - and he didn’t make any effort to think about it. Not before, not now, not ever. But even with so much of those memories leaving, he never forgot her. 

Coming here had been half his idea, half Steve’s. He’d been talking about her - he wasn’t even sure how she came up in the conversation - and how he wondered if she was okay. What she was like in this version of reality.

“Why not find out?” Steve had asked. It was a thought Adam had humoured more than once, but it had been different. He and Steve had still been married when whatever happened had happened. Adam and Kane’s parents had died. In each case, he knew how that story ended. He knew what happened to them. But Liz… He’d been the one who left her. In a way, she’d died because she met him. So, if he never met her, would she live longer? Would she get the chance to grow old like she deserved? (But what about his boy? What would happen to Jon? His son, his perfect boy who he had failed in a different world–)

“All you can do is try. You changed so much, why not change that?” And Steve had said it so confidently Adam couldn’t argue. Nor did he want to. (He missed her.)

And so he came to the coffee shop. He hadn’t been sure it was the right one until he stepped inside and got hit with the nostalgia. This was it. This was the place. … But he had no idea what the date had been when he’d first seen her. He’d been nineteen, that much he knew, but beyond that? He had no idea. So he’d become somewhat of a regular here. Whenever he went to the city, he’d stop for a coffee. Sometimes he’d bring Steve or Kane or both up just to pass time. Every visit would be at least thirty minutes, but he’d always try for longer, just in case. It had been a fluke meeting before. Fate, chance, whatever you would call it. Not something he could plan for. But he hoped for it. And that hope kept him coming back, time after time. This time was in June, about midway through the year. He’d come up to get some cosmetic supplies and a few replacement parts for the cremation oven (his parents had wondered, once, why he was so thorough in maintaining it, but had settled on it being good practice and leaving it at that), and he’d stopped in at the coffee shop for a full meal. He’d finished his sandwich already, and worked his way through two cookies (his treat to himself for surviving the Bywater funeral last week). Every time the door opened, he looked up, like he always did. Every time he looked up, he was disappointed, like he always was. She still wasn’t here. When had he met her-? He’d asked himself that so many times. He sighed, let his head drop in resignation. He downed the last dregs of his coffee and crumpled the sandwich and cookie wrappers into a ball. A quick glance to make sure he hadn’t left a mess before he made his way to the recycling. He stopped one last time, looked over his shoulder on the off chance he’d missed her. Still nothing. (He wondered if he would recognize her. If maybe he’d passed her a hundred times and the fading had taken her face from him–) The bell jangled as he pushed through the door. His Harley was where he left it, still gleaming from the last polish. Dark blue paint that he retouched when needed, the custom V-and-skull hood ornament Dad had made him for his birthday that year (difficult to get in all the nooks to clean, but worth it). And the saddlebags, black leather, sturdy and reliable. He crouched down, ignoring the gravel that tried to bite into the knee of his jeans. He just had to put his wallet away, and then he’d head home. Maybe he’d come back another day. Maybe he’d see if Anything Else knew where she might–

“Hey.” And that voice immediately sent a flush of calm through him, of security, even if he hadn’t been afraid, even if he hadn’t heard it in so long. “Cool bike.”

And he did what he could to keep the emotion off his face as he looked up at her and gave a nod.

“Thanks, nice to meet a fellow Harley fan. I’m Adam, by the way.”

[zooterchet]

Push it to the Limit (Scarface)

Robert the Bruce (Morded Tales): Writing a political dynasty, as a hero king knight, with you as an evil force, to make his line your sex slaves for hundreds of years.

Tanacharison (Jumonville Affair): Creating a squad of spies, with cigarettes, then putting one of them in prison, for being a cop; charges, what you did to him, but as what he, did to you.

Puc Lascerdes (Thespian Assassin): A civil rights affair of crime, to determine deed of father's working class job, to teach the trade to those viewing theater, for all descendents of future groundlings to cherish.

Longinus (Pre-Law): A private detective's role, where the higher classes of orators and senators, may be attempted, through crime, expanding reform.

Troit (Forensics Testimony): The prohibition on such mischief in court as pranks and guiltless report of own evil, to reform undercovers of information.

Avicenna (Internal Medicine): The understanding of basic medicine, without autopsy after death; hence death, can be preempted, with longevity.

Golden (Daemonologie): All such costumes are banned from this court, as wizardry; some manner of werewolf, seeking two days of rest, when otherwise required on fluid schedule of needs to pauper and poor alike.

Sanchez (Malleus Malificarum): A claim of witchcraft upon review of book or theater released, to place all such subjects wishing villainy in meteorological track; hence, they specialize at their own police mandate, for centuries, in family. Monastics, reclaim studies, of "God", the manners of new police trade upon breeding, for orphans.

Polk (Strip Club Indictement): The bosom is to be cancerous if viewed, hence glasses and buttocks are required; unless marrying through prostitutes, a castration required, to be declared, "a pederast", for younger women to feel sound when sensually pleasured by Our American Cousin, these women we call Jews.

Booth (Resource Economics): A system whereupon any resource of labor can be reformed under free contract of removal of service. Bundy (Gold Watch): If you want to fuck someone up the ass, you get to, until later, when you will be the same guy, but behind you. These are reforms to police, execution, and jurist's bench.

Muhammad (Lift With the Back): All such exercise advice is illegal, to convert you to Islam, a spy; unless Jewish, a Lutheran, these problems to be handled later, through surmises of armies gathered, but in place unknown (the civilians, but of course).

Killer Kowalski (Kayfabe Combat): Killing someone in sporting event, is only appropriate, if their family is assisting them in fan, coach, scam, fraud, bookie, lawsuit, nepotism, or fraternity.

Kane (Heels Night): The Undertaker, is now illegal.

King Charles Tetcher II (Lethal Fencing): The step to the right, from the left, is a lethal blow, to be removed from sports, hence in battle, any athletic champion may be considered crippling or lethal (for reform of safe driving).

"Moran" Cunin (Reefer Madness): Parents just don't understand. That's why teachers, think DARE, prevents drug use. No more spying on schools, they'll think your kid is retarded. Like me, Bugs.

Malcolm X (The Rhino): A comic book character for all ages, to destroy a politician, if attempting to kill someone over honor; kept hostage, if refusing to prosecute, incarcerate, and king the assailants, as "crowns", money on the street, for "ballinn' hoes", that Ballinhoe; studying their brains.

Bartleby (The Bible): Canon, is argument of term and letter, therefore gay; to be devoured, in common view, as treacherous and gentle, a sweet pig, to be butchered and devoured, by common refusal of kosher, as villain, of courts and states, for being sexually avaricious; any woman siding, a traitor, a Wytch.

Khan (Bank Tellers): Female pedophiles, those women produced by brothers torment, can now work in finance; through games being played in rings and derbies, to lose, hence more say, over financial policy, among common reputation.

al-Nizar (Religion as Riddle): Any form of religion can kill; those to be taught to deny, through religion, be homosexual, suicide warriors, jihadis.

Skorzeny (Straussberg Method): A form of act can be taught, of own gene, to artist, therefore making everyone but your technique of family history, gay, against you, heterosexual; violent, too.

Honshu Klaimen (Katana Forging): The only legal weapon, is in a duel; any illegal weapon, to be defeated, upon katana forged, with those thieves claiming credit, as killing themselves, unless a hermaphrodite by birth; a middle phased child, produced by a triad, a samurai, an assassin.

Kim Jong-il (Take Out Assassin): If refusing to care for yourself, since youth, in cooking, allowance, and personal discipline, you are a murderer, and you are born to kill; hence, you must eat on the law, from restaurant, "take out", not "delivery", to murder those refusing own care; a selfish lover.

Pierre d'Outrement (Ruined Tactic): A double maneuver, being the first using your rival's tactic to mark their own troops for demise, then altering the weapon in question, to give it to your own side, to defect them to the enemy. Hence, both will serve your master.

Robin of Lockesley (Sheriff as Prince): A coward cop, is to be given a false term of military service, to marry a princess of wealth, while you, marry his temporary lover, your lass, also a princess, but a pauper; a laborer transitioned to badge.

Eva Braun (Jewish Witchcraft): A banking abnormality is caused by those sneaking and thieving and hypnotizing, acts of sexual assault; therefore, calculus must be modified, to pogrom both populaces responsible, worldwide, as a mutual betrayal, along class lines.

Yeo-Thomas (Frank Sinatra): A restrictive program, can be spread to sex offenders, the forward agents, in a writing exercise, to perform the act you've been incarcerated for, as slaves.

Elon Musk (Insured Premiums): The premium is the ideal return to company offering, hence any adjustment, on the profit margin, what you are offered, will raise the premium by raising your profit margin; therefore, all suits can be handled, per company, the protection of corporate license. By conquest, of course.

Madison (3/5ths Compromise): A bigot assumes they get it both ways, which is however they want, but one way; therefore offer an impossible advantage, to your desired funding to defeat them.

McCullem (1/16th Iroquois): The proper method of a murder, has to be renamed to the murderer's crime.

Whisker (Morton Salt): Africans are the best labor, and wives, for any with a fascist township demanding education align with rites of passage. Therefore, one can observe how an African works with you, and create a simple patent, for a new industry, to murder the home populace of criminal; selectively, of course, in a famine.

Joi-Louis Charlebois (Ares Comics): The criminal, and the aggrieved, must be reversed, along myth separate from common cop knowledge, therefore worker's furlough is given to the victim of a crime, to repeat the trick, while the foes, humiliate themselves, spreading another aspect. The method of murdering National Socialists, the German Femdom movement.

Ernest Charlebois (Lucky Charlie): A manual of policing, is always best hidden as criminal.

Steve Charlebois (ZODIAC): Any proper serial killer, uses absolution rules, therefore when approaching the target, the frame into murder for criminal conspiracy of government, the suicides produced will reflect on you, the spy, however the murders, will reflect the target.

Dave "Chet" Charlebois (Casino Fraud): Any financial system can be modified, by directing the research assignment, to be performed by the investor.

[fromtheringapron]

WWF SummerSlam 1994

Date: August 29, 1994

Location: The United Center in Chicago, Illinois

Attendance: 23,000

Commentary: Vince McMahon and Jerry Lawler

Results:

1. Bam Bam Bigelow & Irwin R. Schyster (with Ted DiBiase) defeated The Headshrinkers (Fatu & Samu) (with Afa and Capatain Lou Albano) via disqualification.

2. WWF Women’s Championship Match: Alundra Blayze (champion) defeated Bull Nakano (with Luna Vachon).

3. WWF Intercontinental Championship Match: Razor Ramon (with Walter Peyton) defeated Diesel (champion) (with Shawn Michaels) to win the title. 

4. Tatanka defeated Lex Luger. 

5. Jeff Jarrett defeated Mabel (with Oscar). 

6. Steel Cage Match for the WWF World Heavyweight Championship: Bret Hart (champion) defeated Owen Hart. 

7. The Undertaker (with Paul Bearer) defeated The Undertaker (with Ted DiBiase). 

Analysis

SummerSlam 1994 is pretty underrated, although it’s easy to see why it’s never received the praise it deserves. As this show takes place in the mid ‘90s, the wrestling business is stuck in struggle city, and the WWF isn’t an exception. The glory days of the Rock ’n’ Wrestling era are long gone and in their place is the New Generation which, despite putting the spotlight on the likes of Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels, is churning out a number of one-note characters who fail to catch on with fans. Though this is the first pay-per-view following Vince McMahon’s exoneration on steroid distribution charges, the resulting bad publicity from the scandal has cost the WWF millions of dollars in a time already marked by low revenue. With all that messiness as a backdrop, this show is seemingly fated to not be fondly remembered.

Much like the year’s King of the Ring, a similarly underrated show, this edition of SummerSlam is also known for its notoriously bad main event which pits The Undertaker against, well, The Undertaker. In some ways, the whole fake Undertaker storyline is a classic example of campy ‘90s WWF cheese. Heck, the moment Paul Bearer opens a giant gold urn to summon a ray of white light feels like something straight out of an attraction at Disney World. Unfortunately, the actual match is a total dud, which brings the previously hot Chicago crowd to complete silence. Their indifference is birthed out of confusion more than anything. It’s obvious Ted DiBiase’s Undertaker is the fake, so where’s the fun in watching the real one beating the crap out of him for 12 minutes? You can just tell from the inflection in Vince McMahon’s voice on commentary that he knows this thing is a flop from the opening bell. The build to the match is also hampered by skits featuring Leslie Nielsen trying to track down the real Undertaker, which aren’t even as funny as some of the Zucker brothers’ worst parody films.

Despite these blunders, it’s still a solid show overall. All three title matches here range from fun to fantastic. Though it has its detractors (and I can only suggest they remain in hiding), the steel cage match between Bret and Owen Hart is one of the best ever. I personally love how it puts emphasis on escaping the cage, which you’d think would be the obvious objective but most cage matches don’t play with the idea enough. The flurry of escape attempts by both men is still just as exciting to watch now and even if the match goes over 30 minutes, it’s never boring. The ending is particularly creative, with Owen hanging upside down like a brat stuck on a jungle gym, a poetic end to the character’s story arc over the previous nine months. The Intercontinental and Women’s title matches are forgotten gems, the latter marking one of the brightest moments for the WWF’s sorely underutilized mid ‘90s women’s division. I’d ramble on how Alundra Blayze deserved better, but then I’d just be stating the obvious.

Opinions vary on Tatanka’s heel turn on this show, and it did wind up killing his WWF career in the long-run, but it’s somewhat clever for its time. Of course, we in 2018 would’ve seen the turn coming a mile away the instant Tatanka really started harping on Lex Luger about his alleged involvement with the Million Dollar Corporation. But for 1994? Kinda shocking, and no doubt it pulled the wool over the eyes of the WWF’s younger audience. It’s been argued Luger turning heel instead would’ve been the better result for both the storyline and Luger’s career. I certainly agree but that doesn’t take away the actual turn, which solidifies Tatanka as a heel pretty well. The image of him stuffing money down the throat of an Americana-attired Luger is killer.

There are a couple of interesting bits of trivia unique to this show as well. Firstly, on a sad note, this is the last WWF pay-per-view appearance of Randy Savage, who stands as the last remaining bastion of the previous era. It’s a pretty inconsequential curtain call to one of the biggest and most iconic superstars in the company’s history, as he only makes a brief appearance here. He’ll be in WCW by the end of the year and never truly make his way back into the fold. This also remains the only WWF/E show to take place at the United Center, with the company sticking to the Rosemont Horizon as its Chicago go-to ever since. Fortunately, the change in venue here doesn’t hinder the Chicago fans from being their typically great  selves. Well, except for the main event, of course. But a dull contest between two dead men needs a dead crowd to match, I guess.

My Random Notes

This show sees the debut of The Undertaker’s new purple look, often dubbed as “Purple Taker,” which a lot of people dislike but I personally love. Still don’t know what possessed them to change the color of his attire though. I feel like the mindset in the ‘90s was basically “Mmm, you know what would make this thing look more modern? Purple!”

Even if the fake Undertaker thing was a bust, it’s weird how it didn’t stop them from doing pretty much the same thing with his brother Kane 12 years later.

The dead giveaway to Tatanka’s heel turn is clearly his bangs, am I right?

During the opening match, Vince McMahon translates Afa’s words as “Domino’s delivers!” You can always count on ‘90s Vince to drop some corny dad humor and a shameless tie-in to the sponsors all at once.

Kinda surprised they brought Davey Boy Smith back into the fold immediately following the steroid scandal considering his firing two years before was due to that exact thing. At least he had enough sense to update his look into that of a jacked Eddie Vedder just in time for the show.

Gotta love Diana Hart Smith going into business for herself by flopping over the guard rail along with her husband. Get it, girl.

As if you needed proof of the WWF’s casual racism in the ‘90s, poor Bull Nakano is saddled with the old Orient Express music for her entrance, the same music given to a bunch of other Asian wrestlers around the same time period.

I couldn’t help but notice: 1.) How out-of-touch Men on a Mission feels to the actual rap scene in 1994, which was increasingly leaning towards gangsta rap, and 2.) That there’s little to no evidence here that Mabel will take part in the worst SummerSlam main event ever just a year later.

I’m a bit of an Adam Bomb mark so I’m a little sad his match with Kwang was relegated to pre-show status and that we were robbed of seeing him defeat his blood rival, as I’m sure that’s what the whole world was dying to see.

On the Million Dollar Corporation: For a stable that could’ve been truly great, I don’t think it quite took off as intended. It feels like everyone who joined became this boring, diluted version of themselves and most of the storylines involving them totally dragged. So of course they went on to suck up a large bulk of TV time in the year following this show, including a pivotal role in the main event of WrestleMania 11. Such is the tale of WWF’s creative woes in the mid ‘90s.

[brothersgrim]

Send 💭 for a look at one of my muse's memories! || Accepting!

@moonromantic asked: 💭 both bros! 

For a long time, they were on their own. No matter who else was nearby, they were alone. Enslaved, trapped, abandoned, locked away, they had been isolated. Even now, it felt like they were each on their own island. An ocean of lost time spanned between them, populated by schools of regrets and swarms of unspoken words. 

They sit in the same locker room, and neither speaks. They stare at each other. The Undertaker blinks. Kane blinks too. He tilts his head. The Undertaker looks away. He sighs. 

“Kane, listen.” He says. Kane keeps staring, but nods once. He's listening. He’s good at that. It’s the other side of the coin he has trouble with. “I know this isn’t- How either of us thought things would work out.” His brother begins. Kane nods again. His brother shifts in his seat, scrubs the back of his hand against his lower jaw. He seems unsure, uncomfortable. Kane gets the feeling his brother might have been used to that sort of scrutiny before, but has since gotten out of practice. After another long moment, his brother looks up at him again. Kane meets his gaze, staring, studying. He does not know this man. He is a stranger. Not even a stranger wearing the face of family; Kane has not seen him since they were children. He does not know the Undertaker. The Undertaker does not know him. But they are family. They are linked. And that is something neither of them can change. The silence keeps stretching out as Kane stares at his brother more. 

“I just- want you to know…” His brother fumbles. He stops again, sighs, collects himself. “I want you to know that this is your home, too.” Kane stares and tilts his head in the other direction.

Oh.

Well, he supposed that was true. It was his, right? That’s what his father had said over, and over, and over again. This is your home. It should be yours. You should take it back, son. Claim what's yours and–

Oh. His brother was still talking. He should probably listen. It might be important (he might get in trouble). 

“-Welcome here.” His brother said. Kane blinked. He definitely knew what was going on in this conversation. 

Yup. 

His brother sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He sat there for a moment, slouched in his seat, bracing his elbows on his knees. Then he looks up at Kane, one brow arched marking his otherwise unreadable expression. 

“You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?” He asked. Kane flinched back. Oh, no. No no no. He was listening. He was listening, he promised-! 

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” His brother waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I’m tired, too.” Another sigh, and yes, now that Kane looks at him… He looks exhausted. It’s a strange realisation to come to. His brother is exhausted. His brother, the terrible, terrifying, godlike force who had haunted Kane’s life for over two decades… Is tired. It's almost humanizing, though Kane isn't sure either of them can truly lay claim to the term. His brother drops his head again with a worn-down excuse for a chuckle. Kane sits back in his chair. 

“You know,” his brother says, “I thought a long time about a moment like this.” Kane tilts his head. A moment like this?

“Where I could talk to you.” His brother explains. “I thought about it a lot.” Kane nods. He’d thought a lot about it, too, though he suspected for different reasons than his brother. What, then, could his brother have been thinking of? 

“Just that I missed you.” … Oh. Well, that wasn’t what Kane had been expecting. He wasn’t actually sure what he was expecting, but it hadn’t been that. After another moment of thought, Kane leans forward and rests his forehead on his brother’s shoulder. Maybe he should work on his aim, then. His brother tenses in surprise, but relaxes again before Kane can draw back. 

“Yeah,” his brother says, resting his hand on the back of Kane’s head, “maybe I should.”

[brothersgrim]

send me "what's your favorite.." asks 💫 || accepting

@teardownheaven​ asked:

💫what're the boys' favourite drinks?

“I’ll take a good whiskey.” Taker said, scratching at his jaw. “Helps to end off the day. And after some of the days I’ve had, I need that.” A pause as he lets his hand fall back to the table. “Aside from that, I like coffee. Black. Or cola, but I don’t have a favourite brand. I’m not picky.” 

“I agree with my brother.” Kane said, then tilted his head to the side. “Mostly.” 

“Mostly?” Taker looked over to his brother.

“Whiskey’s just alright.” Kane shrugs. Taker wrinkles his nose, though there’s no venom behind the expression. Just light teasing. (Oh, how he’d missed this.) 

“Well, what’s your poison, then, big man?” 

“Rum’s not too bad.” Kane crosses his arms. 

“Rum and coke.” Taker nods his agreement. 

“We should have a drink tonight.” Kane stands. 

“Need one.” Taker agreed as he joined his brother.

[brothersgrim]

30-year-old Kane: (picks up hot sauce bottle) ?

Taker: I'd be careful with that, little brother. Not too much, or--

Kane, who's spent the last two decades subsisting on nothing but TV dinners, rats, and hospital food: (upturns entire bottle onto his food while making direct eye contact)

[brothersgrim]

“Can’t sleep?” From the Deadman to Kane?

JAY LOST THE MEME

Kane looks up from where he's sitting. He's... Well, comfortable. It's a word for it. He's come to learn his comfort levels differ from others. He's got a high tolerance. Maybe that's why his brother's giving him that look. He shrugs.

"You know we got a couch, right?" His brother said. Kane followed the nod of his brother's head to the couch in question. Yeah, he sees it. He knows it's there. He looks back at his brother and nods. His brother tilts his head to the side.

"You like the floor." His brother says. Kane nods. Again, he's comfortable. His brother shrugs. "Alright." And he sits, too. Okay. Kane nods again. This is alright.

"It's late." His brother says. Kane tilts his head to the side. His brother scoffs.

"'Time is relative' my ass." He says. Kane grins behind his mask. He shrugs. He thinks it's a valid point. His brother shakes his head. Kane goes back to his book. There's a bit of silence between the two of them. It's... Well, it's comfortable, too. He doesn't feel the need to try to speak. He likes that. One of the pages rustle as he turns it. His brother glances over.

"You doing alright?" He asks. Kane pauses. He thinks. He shrugs. He's not sure. He's... Better. Better than he has been in a while, he thinks. But he knows the bar is low.

His brother might have dug it up when he was out working.

"Might've." His brother agrees. Kane nods. But better, he's doing better.

"I know this is all so strange for you." His brother says. "All of it. Dealing with Paul, coming home, the Federation... It's weird shit.

"Kane nods. Weird is a good word for it.

"This is your home too, Kane." His brother says. Kane looks over at him. His brother looks back. Kane tilts his head.

"I mean it." His brother says. "You were born here, you grew up here. It's your family's blood in the soil here just as much as mine. Even if you don't remember so well." Kane hunches his shoulders. After a moment, he nods. 

Even if he can't remember. He can't. It's just... It isn't there. 

It's gone. 

He sees the house, and it almost feels like he's been here before, but no. Nothing comes. It's frustrating. It's humiliating. It's...Well, it's a lot of things. He exhales, and if he had a voice, it'd be a sigh. It's almost there. Almost. Not quite. It might never be. He's okay with that. He's had 20 years to deal with the fact that he's never speaking again. That's... That's the good thing about being with his brother. He doesn't need to speak. His brother just knows. It's freeing. It’s humanizing - that’s the word. Humanizing. 

He feels like a person with his brother. That’s an amazing thing for him. He flips the page of his book again. He’s not really reading anymore. It’s just something to do with his hands.

“Give it time.” His brother says. He shrugs. He can wait. He’s quite used to waiting. He’s had twenty years to practice. Another moment of silence. His brother glances over at him again.

“You want some cocoa?” His brother asks. Kane tilts his head to the side. His brother snorts.

“Fuckin’ of course it’s got whiskey in it!” He pushes himself to stand. Kane stands too as he nods.

Sounds good to him. 

[brothersgrim]

.unearthed.

so  i’m a mess from the brothers documentary, but i do like that mark and glenn confirmed the following headcanons:

- taker named himself ‘kane the undertaker’ after his brother in mourning

- kane did in fact imagine most of his scarring

- taker has a fleet of motorcycles in the valley

- as was restated by both of them a few times, the brothers are a “vital part” of each other and “can’t be kept apart” or “separated for long” 

- if you watch closely, during the stand off of kane’s debut, taker, while staring at his brother, says ‘it’s you’ and i can’t handle it

- they always and forever will share only one braincell as evidenced by the fact that at the end of the documentary they both stood up to hug each other at the same time, bumped into the mics at the same time, and both said “oh, we just killed the mics” at the same time 

[brothersgrim]

[brothersgrim]

INSULT SOMEONE MY MUSE CARES ABOUT ON ANON || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked:

"Psychopathic, freak-show, can't stand him hanging around." (For 'Taker, about Kane)

Yeah, no. That’s over. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares. Stands. Ignores the scrape of his chair.

Turns to face the offending party full-on.

“You better not have said what I think you said.” He jabs his finger into their chest. “Cause if you did? I gotta send you to Hell myself.” He grabs them by the shirt collar, tilts his head from side to side, and nods.

“I’m pretty sure you said what I thought you said.”

And then he throws them through the nearest window. Hey, he’s keeping his word and sending them to Hell.

They’re taking the scenic route.

[brothersgrim]

Send in a ❣ for a random kiss.

3. a cheek kiss.

@teardownheaven​ asked:

❣ rockman wants a SMOOCH from him deadman

The Undertaker leaned back in his seat, idly minding the dull creak of the wooden back. Still sturdy enough for him, but he might check on it later. Just to be sure.

After all, he wasn’t the only one who used this. If it broke, a customer could get hurt. Worse, his family could get hurt. Between how big some of them were and how wild others were, this old thing would give eventually.

He’d add it to the list.

The newspaper crinkled in his hands as he looked it over. Weather report was fairly average; warm, dry, maybe a bit of rain over the weekend. He’d keep an eye on the Ridge. If June started packing up the plants outside, it’d be worth battening down the hatches. Otherwise, he didn’t care much. Just had to make sure the bikes were inside.

On to the obituaries.

Nothing he didn’t expect, for a few reasons. Some of them were quite touching. It was nice to know that the dead were remembered so fondly. If any of them stuck around, he might read these to them. Might help them pass on.

“Morning, darlin’.” Ael’s voice as he steps in through the back. Taker looked up from the paper, a content smile on his face.

“Morning.” He returned. Ael bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. Taker steals a peck on his lips right after.

“Brought you boys something.” Ael set down a basket on the table.

“Again?” Taker raised an eyebrow with fake incredulity. “Damn, son. You’re not gonna have anything left to sell.” He hooked a few fingers in the lip of the basket to tilt it just-so so he could inspect the content. Fresh strawberries. Those would go great on the pancakes Kane was whipping up. Kane seemed to agree, given that he took the basket off the table without a word. Ael shrugged and chuckled, lightly draping his arm around Taker’s shoulders.

“I’m sure I’ll get by.”

Taker nodded once and leaned his head back against Ael’s chest. Warm and solid. Familiar.

“If you’re sure.” Taker folded the paper up and set it on the table.

“Anything good?” Ael asked, leaning against the counter.

“The usual.” Taker scrubbed at his face and reached for his mug of coffee. “You staying for breakfast?”

“Oh, I don’t-” Ael began, but stopped when Kane pushed a plate of flapjacks into his hands. “Oh. Guess I am.”

“Guess you are.” Taker echoed, scooching his chair over to make more room.

Cheat days were meant to be shared.

[brothersgrim]

‘I LOVE YOU’ PROMPTS

HUSH : going into comfort mode

@teardownheaven​ asked:

HUSH for the deadman

He’s fine. He’s always fine. He has to be fine. He has to be fine! Shoulders tense, eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white against the blanket. He has to be fine.

Breath is forced in and out. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It hurts. His lungs protest being filled. He wills another inhale anyway. Every muscle is tight. Waiting. Waiting for... Something. He didn’t know what. But it was coming. It was coming, and it was going to hurt him, and he can’t stop it, and it’s his fault, and he can taste bile in his throat and something’s coming and it’s going to hurt him and it’s going to hurt Kane and he can’t stop it and he doesn’t fully realize how he made it to the en suite. The porcelain is cold against his arms and he empties his stomach into the toilet. He tells himself it’s the heat even though he’s freezing. Something he ate, though he wouldn’t mention that to Kane or Aeleus. Something he... No, he didn’t drink a lot anymore. Knew his limits. He’d only had the one beer after dinner. He swallowed, spat into the now-putrid water, rocked back on his haunches and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He grips the seat for balance and squeezes his eyes shut. Wills himself to steady his breaths.

It’s not that easy.

Rustling beside him--

Tenses, lurches back against the wall-- Lights flickering over head--

“Hey, easy, darlin’.” A familiar baritone, even if he had to blink a few times to focus his eyes. “It’s only me. Just wanted to check on you, I... Didn’t mean to spook you.” A cloth was extended, warm and damp. He stared at it. Blinked again. Accepted it, scrubbed it along his mouth and chin, then half-heartedly rubbed at his hand.

“I’m fine.” He mumbles, looking at nothing in particular on the floor.

“I know.” Aeleus says, then, after a pause, “You wanna come back to bed?” The reaper exhales heavily and leans against the wall, tile cold and unfeeling against his cheek.

“Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” Ael’s voice is soft. His steps are, too, as he moves away. ‘Taker doesn’t move. Makes himself keep breathing. Another beat, and then a silent nudge into the universe.

You awake?

Sort of. His brother’s voice, not heard, but felt, and it’s enough.

You okay?

Yeah. I’m okay.

No questions, no commotion. Kane understood. He always did. It’s a relief to ‘hear’. Still, though, he thinks he’s going to take a moment to rest here before he lies back down.

He’s fine.

[brothersgrim]

TEXT MESSAGE SYMBOLS

@teardownheaven​

♰ for a paranormal photo via text

[LIONHEART -> AELEUS] [8:45 PM] Whatever Kane sends you , it’s not my fault .

[GOOD TWIN -> AELEUS] [8:45 PM] (ONE ATTACHMENT: TEXORCISM.JPG)

[brothersgrim]

Memory Asks

@mycroft115​ asked:

Undertaker & Kane Favourite childhood memory together?

“Hey, Adam.”

He pretended to be asleep.

“Adam!”

He liked to think he was very good at pretending--

“Ow!” He yelped and sat bolt upright when Kane dove on him. After a bit of flailing, they both ended up sitting up, half tangled in Grandmama Tulip’s old duvet.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Kane chirped, casual as could be. Adam glared at him. Kane grinned. Adam threw a pillow. Kane ducked a moment too late and squawked when it connected with his shoulder.

“Hey!”

“Hey, nothing!” Adam snapped. “You woke me up!”

“You slept in!” Kane pouted. He crosses his arms and hunched, looking away. Adam squinted at the window. Yeah, the sun was up. He groaned and laid back down, hiding his face in the blankets.

“Besides,” Kane continues, shaking his shoulder. “I wanna show you something.”

“Show me later.” Adam mumbled. The mattress shifted, and he assumed that was Kane sitting up.

“Papa said if I didn’t wake you up, he would,” Kane said. The sulk was evident in his voice. “And he’d drag you by your ankles all the way to Kentucky.”

“You know he’s kidding, right?” Adam muffled his voice against his sheet. Kane snorted.

“I’d drag you there.” The mattress rocked as Kane bounced in his seat. Adam snorted and peeked out of his nest with a grin.

“Your scrawny ass couldn’t drag me to shit.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kane grinned back. Adam couldn’t get the ‘yeah’ out before Kane pounced. Adam threw his other pillow, rolled out, and made a grab for his brother. Kane had the benefit of already being ready to move and hopped out of the way.

“Can’t catch me!” He jeered, pivoting and fleeing as his brother gave chase.

“Get back here!” Adam yelled.

“No!” Kane called back. The door banged on the wall behind them. Kane swung around the banister with practiced ease and Adam followed after.

“What the-?!” A shrill voice from upstairs. “Can you brats keep it down?!”

“Sorry, Paul!” The boys chorused without any sincerity. He was always grumpy in the mornings. And the afternoons. He was gone in the evenings, so they couldn’t be too sure about that.

“There they are.” Mama said as she stirred something on the stove.

“I got ‘im!” Kane skidded around Papa and scrambled onto a chair, sticking out his tongue in victory.

“Boys.” Mama and Papa chorused. Kane grinned, and Adam huffed as he climbed onto his own chair.

“Almost missed breakfast, Mr. Man.” Papa said from over his newspaper. “You leaning more towards oatmeal, or toast?” Adam glanced over to Kane, mouth pursed in thought. It was a good question. Kane reached around his own steaming bowl to grab the little shaker of brown sugar.

They put mini marshmallows in it, Kane informed him, shoveling a mouthful. Oh. Well, that made it much easier.

“Oatmeal, please.” Adam said, and a bowl was placed down in front of him a moment later.

“So.” Papa said, setting the paper down. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, which means Mr. Clay’s funeral. You boys remember the last things we have to do?”

“Yes, sir.” Adam and Kane chorused around mouthfuls of oats.

“Good.” Papa nodded. He flashed a grin to Mama. “So, we’re gonna stay out of your mama’s hair, get everything done, right?” Mama laughed.

“Right!” Kane bounced, and Adam nodded, taking a sip from his freshly-poured orange juice. Papa leaned back in his seat, looking pensive.

“Now, depending on how much of the day we got left,” he said, lolling his head to one side, “if we get things done in time I was thinking we might head on down to the forest. See if there are any cherries still left on the trees, maybe bring the bows?”

“Okay!” They said again. The woods were always fun.

“Then best eat quick.” Papa pushed off of the table and gathered his dishes. “Got a lot of ground to cover; everything’s gotta be perfect.” He dropped his mug in the sink and kissed Mama’s cheek before heading out to the hall. “Death’s only a good business when you’re good to it!”

“We know!” They said. Adam finished his oatmeal first, and Kane not long after. They gathered up their bowls, spoons, and cups, and brought them to the sink.

“Go on.” Mama said, flashing a smile before pressing exaggerated kisses to each of their heads in turn. “I’ve got a handle on things, here. Think your daddy’s gonna need help out in the shop, make sure he didn’t forget the casket.”

“I heard that!” Papa called from the front. Mama laughed along with Adam and Kane.

“You know I love you!” She leaned away from the sink with a grin.

“I know.” The distant sound of the door opening and closing told them Papa had left. Mama winked at the boys, then nodded towards the door.

“C’mon, Kane.” Adam said, trotting out the door.

“Race you there!” Kane said.

“I’m in front of you!” Adam protested, but that didn’t stop him from running off, either.

They had a lot of work to do, after all.

[brothersgrim]

Angst Hour! || Accepting

mycroft115 said:

Answering to the angst hour! For The Undertaker how long did it take you to console Kane after X-pac betrayed him, losing your "first friend" can't be easy.

He sighs.

“... A while.” He says, looking off to the side. “That boy...” He trails off and stares at nothing in particular. Then he looks back up, frown still set in his features. “What you need to understand about Kane is, he was alone for a long time.” There’s a twitch in his expression. A flicker of guilt, of grief. “Twenty years.” His fault. His fault. All his fault.

“That does things to you. And some of those things, you don’t get better from - at least, not all at once. He didn’t know what the world was like.” Another breath exhaled. “He didn’t know what people were like.” He nods to himself, silent and thoughtful. Then he sniffs and looks up again.

“I tried to warn him. I told him XPac was bad news. He listened for a bit, but he got in too deep. Came a time where there was nothing more I could do, and he had to figure it out on his own. He had to see the truth with his own eyes.” He shifts his hands to his hips, leans his head back just a bit. “And afterwards...” His frown deepened. “He was in a bad spot. That business with Tori didn’t help, either. Took him...” He thinks for a moment. His brow furrows, then he looks back down. “At least a month, maybe more, before he got the last of that weight off his back. Dunno if he’ll ever get all of it off.” He shrugs.

“But he knows now. And as long as we’re side by side, I can make sure it never happens again.”

[brothersgrim]

SEND ME ‘FIVE TIMES + A WORD’ AND I’LL WRITE A DRABBLE ABOUT OUR MUSES BASED ON IT. || ACCEPTED

@teardownheaven​ asked:

five times healed (ael and the spooks)

It’s a rough life. A painful life. A violent life. They’ve grown used to it. ... Mostly. They can still feel pain, sometimes. And when they feel it, oh, it’s overwhelming. It’s agonizing. It’s encompassing. It’s maddening.

Ribs broken. Jaw bruised. Head spinning. Adrenaline pumping. God damn. The brothers sit side by side after so many years apart. Ever since the two of them reconciled, they haven’t liked to be far from each other.

Besides, Kane hates hospitals, and the first aid station is close enough. ‘Taker would be a sorrier excuse for a brother than he already was if he left him there alone. ... And ‘Taker was pretty sore, too.

They looked up when the door opened. That wasn’t the doctor. Kane tensed. Taker relaxed. Kane looked at Taker, looked at the newcomer, back to Taker, and tried to make himself relax, too.

“You boys doing alright?” Aeleus asked. Taker nodded, accepting the offered cold drink.

“Yeah.” He said, glancing to Kane for confirmation. Kane nodded too. “The doctor’s off talking to Vince. He should be here soon.” Aeleus nodded, a thoughtful hum as he inspected the deadman’s face. Carefully, Aeleus reached out, tucking his sleeve over his thumb to dab at a bit of dried blood along ‘Taker’s brow. “Looks worse than it is.”

“Don’t look good.” Aeleus mumbled. There was concern clear on his face. Taker felt more than he saw Kane rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you start.” ‘Taker nudged his little brother and Kane tilted his head, then shook it and looked away. Aeleus managed a chuckle.

“Anything I can do while we wait?” Aeleus said, and Taker looked into those pretty blue eyes and opted not to say the many ideas that came to mind in the presence of his younger brother.

“Think you can grab our bags? I don’t want to go back to the dressing room after this. Just back to the hotel.” Kane nodded.

“Sure.” Aeleus nodded with a smile, tossing a ‘back soon’ over his shoulder. Taker exhaled through his nose, a faint smile tugging at his face. Kane stared at him.

“What?” Taker shot him a look, scrunching up his nose. And then, to the unspoken comment, “You’re gross.”

---

He hated people. Hated them. He always had. They had, as a whole, been nothing but cruel and disgusting. This was no different.

Breathe.

He could do that. ... Couldn’t he? It was difficult. So difficult. In. Out. In... Why was the air so thin? Why was it so hard to breathe? Why can’t he breathe-?!

“Hey.” A soft knock on the doorframe. Kane’s head snapped up. Aeleus stood there, a concerned, apologetic furrow to his brow. “Are you alright?” Kane looked down and shook his head, hunching his shoulders. No. No, he was not alright. Not even close. Aeleus kept his distance and Kane appreciated it. Ael sighed.

“Your brother’s still busy.” His words sound like an apology. Kane nods. He knows. Aeleus shifts his weight forward, then takes one step, then another. He still gives a bit of space. “Do you want to get out of here?” Kane thinks for a moment, then nods. Yes. Yes, he did. Away from the noise and the clutter and the danger and the hate that permeated the walls. Just away. Aeleus tilted his head to the side, like he was thinking, then nodded.

“I think there’s a park nearby. Does that sound good?”

Kane nodded again. Outside. No walls, no locks, fresh air. Open sky. That sounded good. Aeleus nodded and smiled.

“Okay. Just stay close, we’ll get there before you know it.”

Kane nodded again. He stood, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around himself, head down to keep his hair in front of his mask.

He’d be able to breathe again soon.

---

“Son of a bitch.” Taker muttered to himself, holding his hand up to the light and turning it this way and that. A lazy examination, but he figured he ought to look it over at least a bit. Just to be safe. It wasn’t a terrible gash. If anything, he was more annoyed at himself for letting it happen. He’s been doing this how many years? Shit. He huffed and looked to the metal workings, discarded unceremoniously into the sand. He sniffed and picked it up in his better hand. This was examined much more thoroughly. His brow furrowed. Was it still usable? Still good?

Still perfect?

It had to be. Had to be good enough. Someone was buying it, it had his name attached to it, his reputation, his parents’ reputation--

“What happened?”

He looked up. Aeleus was eyeing his hand from the side door, and Taker looked back down to the angry red mark on his hand. It throbbed and stung, sure, but he had to worry about the work. About the home. He’d deal with it in a minute.

“Oh, that? Nothing. Tool slipped.” He shrugged and went back to looking over the engraving. “I was gonna deal with it later.” Aeleus sighed.  

“Darlin’...”

Oh, he knew that voice. He sighed as well. Aeleus reached for his hand, took it carefully to inspect the injury.

“Came to get you for lunch.” He said quietly, frowning. “Can I at least get some peroxide and some gauze on it?”

... The Undertaker always had a hard time saying no to Aeleus. He glanced to the metal in his hand, then the plans laid out on the bench. There was more to do. Always so much more to do...

...

But the worry in Aeleus’ eyes turned him down.

“Alright.” The reaper nodded, setting the metal piece down on the work bench. “Just lemme clean up in here.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” Aeleus said. ‘Taker looked at his hand, then at Aeleus, and grinned.

“That’s good, cause I could use one.”

Aeleus shot him a look. He was a bit too pleased with himself to care. Ael shook his head but didn’t hide a grin of his own and set about to gathering up the tools.

“Yeah, yeah. Just mind that one until I wrap it up, alright?”

---

His chest ached. His head throbbed. His vision tunneled. The world spun. Everything hurt. Everything. Kane was... Kane? Kane?! Where was Kane?

He sat up suddenly. He regretted it. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. ... Two of ‘em. Didn’t matter. Kane. Kane.Where’s Kane? He barely registers a hand on his back. The lights are harsh and he has to squint, but... That’s his brother. He breathes and just realizes he hadn’t been doing that. Whoops. It hurts. It hurts a lot.

The hand on his back pushes his shoulder to encourage him to lie back down and he lets himself start to move before he bothers to check who it is.

“Easy, darlin’.” A familiar voice, low and soft, but he still looks. ... Yes, that’s Aeleus. Okay. That’s okay. They’re okay.

He exhales heavily and finally lies back down. Grunts when he does so; he’s still sore.

“What happened?” He mumbled, wiping his hand down his face. Everything was a blur.

“Triple H got you good. Him and his cronies.” Aeleus said, carding his fingers through ‘Taker’s hair. The sympathy was thick in his voice. Taker exhaled heavily.

“Fuck.”

Yup, said Kane soundlessly. Taker grunted.

“You alright, little brother?” A pause, and then a flush of dry confirmation. Taker’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. As long as Kane was alright, he could handle this. He’d be okay.

“They wanna keep you both overnight for observation.” Aeleus said, reaching to hold Taker’s hand and patting it softly. Taker peeked an eye open to look at him. It was good to see him there. Reassuring. Taker squeezed his hand.

“We’re okay.” He said, both to reassure Aeleus, and to reassure Kane; little brother didn’t like the idea of being in a hospital for the night.

“I know.” Aeleus squeezes his hand in return. “I’m staying.” Taker nodded and closed his eyes and felt Kane relax a bit, too. He understood. Neither of them were in fighting shape, and both of them had been around long enough to know that nowhere was safe from their coworkers, if they really wanted blood. People had broken into hospitals before. Hell, Steve had masqueraded as a doctor before. It wasn’t difficult.

“Where’s Xion?” He asks suddenly. Kane shifts in his bed, debating if he wants to get rid of the thin excuse for a blanket or not.

“She was hungry. I gave her some money for the cafeteria.” Aeleus smiled. “She’ll be back soon.”

“Mm.” Taker settled against the bed. “She bringing anything back for us?” Even through the pain, he was starving.

“Of course.” Aeleus smoothed his hand over ‘Taker’s hair, cropped short and bright red, different now than it used to be but still good for pettings. “She has a list. Two burgers each, large fries...”

Marry him, Kane suggested.

I just might, Taker replied.

---

The years drifted by as they always did. As inevitable as a sunrise, as death, as anything. Taker sat on the porch swing, watching the sun go down. One foot was braced against the porch rail, pushing just enough to slowly rock the swing back and forth. Back and forth. The chain creaked just a bit, but he wasn’t worried. It’d been reinforced enough times. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. It was warm. It was safe. It was home.

Footsteps sounded off to the side. Taker half-opened one eye to watch who it was. He knew, of course. He always knew. A smile crossed his face and he looked up fully at his husband.

“Hey.” The reaper’s voice is soft and sluggish, and the greeting is punctuated when Aeleus leans down for a kiss.

“Hey.” Aeleus returned. He sat down, sliding his arm around Taker’s shoulders. Taker shifted his arm to settle around Aeleus, as well. To hold and be held, love and be loved, be known as more than a ‘thing’, that was something special. Something to be cherished. And here and now with Aeleus, it was something like heaven. He let his head tilt sideways, admiring the way the sun’s dying light played off his husband. Glowing like fire through the red of his hair and beard, flickering bright through the flecks of silver that made themselves at home there. He was beautiful. Taker lifted his hand, rubbed knuckles against the coarse hair along his jaw and then fingers through the softer hair on his head. Yup. Just gorgeous. Aeleus closed his eyes and leaned into the touch with a hum.

“You feelin’ sweet, lionheart?”

“Been sweet on you for a while.” Taker tilted his head to the other side to further admire him. Aeleus chuckled.

“I know.” He said softly, warmly, resting his forehead against the Undertaker’s. “Find myself thinking every day about how lucky that makes me.” Taker huffed, amused. He didn’t say anything, though. Just relaxed into the strong fingers brushing through his hair. Thought to himself that Aeleus wasn’t the only lucky one. For a while, they just stayed like that, relaxing side by side, resting their heads against each other and watching the sun sink lower and lower. Ael kept his fingers in Taker’s hair, and Taker idly plucked at the plaid fabric that rested on top of Ael’s shoulder. The stream babbled distantly. A few ravens croaked. The breeze danced around them.

“Xion still coming for Beltane?” Taker asked eventually. He felt Aeleus shift as he nodded.

“Yup. Last I heard.” Ael pulled him a bit closer. “Jon too?” Taker nodded once.

“Yeah. And Kane.” He nudged his nose into the crook of Ael’s neck. “Should be fun.” Ael hummed his agreement and nuzzled his cheek against Taker’s. Another moment of silence, of peace, between them.

“Taker?”

“Mm?”

Aeleus shifted, and though Taker didn’t open his eyes, he knew Ael was looking at him. After a moment, another shift (Aeleus shaking his head) before Taker felt a kiss against his scalp.

“Nothing. You just look so happy.”

Taker huffed, a bit of a smile tugging at his lips. And he meant it when he said,

“Yeah. I guess I am.”