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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

first to fall

summary:

The darkness welcomes the Canary, the first to fall. And he welcomes those that fall after him.

Or: a concept on what happens after the final deaths.

(ao3 link)

(6,476 words)

just a heads-up that the main theme of this fic revolves around death. there are lots of mentions of it so if that's not your jam feel free not to read this :]

He doesn't even feel the ground when he hits it.

The feeling rushes away as a wave of numbness overtakes him, flooding his nerves until they're dulled and blunted, leaving him gasping in breaths he no longer needs. He breathes anyway, because it is a small comfort, a reminder, that he can still do it- that his lungs still work and that he can draw air into them. The rise and fall of his chest assures him of this, rising rapidly beneath his hand.

His heart continues to thump beneath his hand, the pulsing beat another small comfort. A comfort that he can only barely afford himself here.

Something echoes above him, some semblance of words drifting in the air above him. He’s not sure that he really is surrounded by air here, but thinking too far down that line of thought does nothing but cause his still-beating heart to race faster and his thoughts to spin in a dizzying whirl.

He stands, dragging himself from the waters of this place. Here. Wherever here is. He’s visited this place several times, returning each time he fulfils his job- completes his duty. He hasn't asked about this place, hasn't voiced any details of it. No-one else mentions it either. He doubts they remember it.

And the universe said you have played the game well.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves the voice off with a dismissive hand, droplets of water flicking from the ends of his fingers. “You can cut the spiel, I've heard it all before.” He doesn't mean to snap- well, he does, actually, but the beings watching over him should know that he’s heard it before, that he doesn't care for their empty words.

The silence that follows after feels accusing, the weight of several eyes on him lingering for moments after his outburst.

“I'm not sorry,” he snaps. His wings ruffle, the sound of feathers brushing against each other quiet against the blood roaring in his ears. “We’ve been through this song and dance several times before, and we’ll go through it several times again. The least you can do is leave me be.”

The eyes continue to linger, though he can see no faces that they may be peering from. No disappointed expressions or pitying murmurs that lament his fate- his curse. The eyes watch him, and he does his best to stare back- see how much they like being scrutinised over their every action.

The weight of eyes on him gradually disappears. The silence that follows is not accusing nor pitying nor is it disappointing. It is simply silent.

He scoffs, rocking back on his heels, wishing that he was still wearing his shoes. The water laps at his ankles, not rising any higher, but the cold has no such qualms. It clambers through his bones, settling deep within the marrow and burying its teeth into him, gnawing at his bones until he shivers.

His face feels warm, hair sticking to his forehead as he idles his time away in the void of nothingness and ankle-deep water. The darkness stretches thick around him, seemingly endless in every direction imaginable. He doesn't bother walking, not like he had the first and second times. The third time he had sat in the water until it soaked his clothes entirely, leaving him a shivering wreck. He doesn't sit this time. He doesn't pace either- no matter how far he walks, duty will always drag him back to this spot.

Best to remain rooted in place. The water wasn't here the first time he arrived, stumbled into the domain of something beyond death; he’s certain they can change it whenever they wish to, shaping it to their whims and twisting it in accordance to their arbitrary rules. He’s sure it would take nothing less than a single thought to place him in a true cage- one with bars rather than an illusion of freedom.

He prefers the endless void to the thought of a cage.

He swipes at the first drops of blood that drip into his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. His palm comes away smeared in crimson, the tang of iron hanging heavier around his head than before. He can taste it in the back of his throat.

He wipes at it again, swipes it away before too much of it can enter his eyes and blind him. It glistens, dark and wet, on the leather of his jacket (-not his jacket, it’s borrowed, taken with permission and something that is expected to be returned- a promise he should not break- a deal he does not want to break-). He’ll have to wash the blood out, he thinks, Tango wouldn't want the jacket returned with his blood soaking the leather. He thinks he remembers something about this being a favourite jacket, but one that was slightly too big on the shoulders for him to really wear it all that often-

Something cracks through the air. It is not as sharp as the lightning that thunders through this place when someone comes to join him more permanently. He turns to where the person is fighting their way through the water. The water upon which he stands yet threatens to drown them- swallow them completely.

He grabs Skizz’s hand, hauls him from the yawning depths before they gain too many ideas and try to keep him longer than they should. The water clings to him, threatening to drag him beneath the surface if Jimmy’s grip wavers for even a moment.

He shakes, just slightly, when he finally manages to pull Skizz free, pausing for a moment to breathe. It isn't as though Skizz will judge him for it- he can't even see him. Nobody can. They simply twitch and sometimes murmur incomprehensible sentences to themselves as the universe works its magic.

He watches as the bones are set and the wounds are healed, if only slightly. He won't bleed out when he returns, as long as he doesn't run too far or too fast- as long as he doesn't jump immediately back into the action.

Jimmy wonders what’s happening. The world around him remains dark and they do not give him a whisper of guidance.

Blood drips into his eyes again, blinding him momentarily before he blinks it away. It sticks in his lashes, threatening to glue his eyes shut if he blinks for too long or too hard. He doesn't bother to wipe the blood away, feeling, instead, as the warmth drips further down his face. His hair sticks to his forehead.

He brushes a hand over Skizz’s shoulder, careful not to apply too much pressure or alert Skizz to his presence. He woke someone up, once, watched the ways the waters tried to claim him before his time. He tries his best not to wake them anymore.

Skizz twitches once more, words falling past his lips- nothing Jimmy can hear. The sound of words escapes him here, leaving him with a yawning sense of emptiness. The silence rings in his ears.

Skizz melts back into the water, returning to whatever conflict they've tumbled into now that his warning has been cried out. He tries not to feel too bitter at the man’s return to the land of the living- Jimmy saw his clock, could see it ticking down, slowly but surely. The man will be back before long. They always are.

His face feels warm. The blood is sticky against his chin, tacky against his skin. He raises a hand to brush the worst of it away from his eyes, swiping at it, ignoring the way more trickles down to replace it.

The water brushes over his feet, moving with an invisible tide. The water barely reaches his ankles, and yet everyone else sinks deep into it, slipping easily into the water and drifting elsewhere.

This place does not bow to time, even as every other fragment of life dances along to time’s merry tune. He’s glad of its timeless nature, unsure if he would be able to stand and wait for the moments to tick down, for the next person to burst free from the waters.

He doesn't have to wait long- or maybe he does. Time doesn't exist here.

Joel bursts from the water, hands clawing for something that is out of reach. Jimmy lunges forward, pulling him free from the water before it can swallow him back down, drag him into its depths.

Joel’s fingers curl into his arms, nails digging into his skin, denting the leather of his jacket. He holds onto Joel even as he winces, feels the blood start to bead beneath Joel’s hands. He ignores it- it’ll be gone in a moment and Joel will return, will sink back into the waters and continue to chase whoever he was hunting.

Joel always thrashes, eager to return to the land of the living, eager to send more people to greet him (or not greet him, none of them ever speak, not until they come to stand beside him and wait for their friends to join them). Jimmy holds him steady, even as he winces at the stinging.

The waters rise up to greet Joel, and Jimmy’s forced to push him back down, ignoring the way he struggles- reluctant to be guided in where he should go, what path he should take. He holds him there until the water whisks him away, swallowing him and returning him to the conflicts.

It is as though the floodgates have burst, death flowing freely among the members of the server. The water is around his knees, just below. He has to push forward to move anyway, wading through the sucking depths of the water. He can't see his feet.

The water is cold. The gnawing cold has faded, leaving numbness in its wake. He’s not sure which he prefers; he’s never decided whether the gnawing of the cold, the feeling of something like teeth scraping along his bones, or the numbness that spreads in its wake is better. He’s stood in this cold several times over, and yet he’s never come to a decision. He can hardly think with the pressing darkness and rising waters.

The waters never rose before. Never climbed over his feet, never clambered higher than that. He shivers. He’s only glad that he didn't awake in the robes of last time; the fabric would have dragged in the water and weighed him down. The leather jacket is cold, but it is a small comfort anyway.

BigB emerges from the water next, hardly lingering before he’s returning to the living, leaving him alone in the darkness. Scott follows soon after, the scales on his cheeks shining oddly in the lack of light. They shimmer, even with no sun to reflect off of them. They're almost iridescent.

Scott doesn't move, doesn't stir. He simply lays there, still. Jimmy almost thinks he can see the whites of his eyes, eyes only slightly open, not enough to see. His mouth moves quickly, words dropping past his lips though no sound follows them.

He hates it when they talk. Reminds him that they're seeing something beyond him, experiencing something other than this cold, endless void. The darkness swallows everything around him, but his visitors see something beyond that. He’s never seen anything beyond that; the cold void greets him every time.

With each death something crackles through the air, weighs down on his limbs as he’s forced, each time, to watch them sink back into the water; to return to the conflict that he heralded. And yet, the conflict continues, his warnings go unheeded. What is the point in the canary, in its song, when no one stops to listen when the song dies out?

He thinks they simply enjoy tormenting him. Forcing him to watch as his friends die, unable to do anything but provide them with comforts they won't even remember.

Impulse dies. Then Etho. Both of them are silent. He wouldn't even notice their presence without the crackle in the air and the heavy feeling that settles around his throat. Skizz returns again, calmer than before. His face is settled in something that could be resignation but could also be acceptance. Jimmy can hardly see through the blood dripping in his eyes.

The next death cracks through the air, and he startles, whipping around. His wings bristle, feathers rising with his apprehension. The water sloshes around his knees, soaking his jeans through, the cold sending shivers down his spine. He thought the cold had settled far enough into his bones that he wouldn't shiver anymore. The cold slithers down his spine anyway.

Martyn is halfway sat up, hands trailing in the water. He seems…almost aware of it, eyes half-open as he looks around. His eyes don't catch on him, don't pause or linger; he doubts Martyn’s actually seeing him, simply staring at something that his own brain has summoned to make this void more comfortable.

Martyn says something, the sound carrying in the silence. His ears ring with the sudden input of sound and he steps closer. He can feel his feathers bristling, something cold continuing to slither down his spine. He hates seeing Martyn here, hates watching the way he glances around, half-aware of his surroundings. He hates it.

Martyn’s eyes catch on him, half-closed, but they pause all the same. Martyn grabs the front of his jacket, grip surprisingly strong for someone between life and death, a foot on either side of the boundary. He’s yanked forward, water sloshing around him as he’s dragged closer.

“-first to fall,” Martyn says, voice wavering. His eyes flicker back and forth, studying his face. Jimmy can feel his heart thundering in his chest, thumping hard enough to make him feel sick- he’s light-headed, heart in his throat. He hates seeing Martyn like this, hardly aware of himself. He hates it. “Forever caged in different walls.”

Martyn’s hand loosens on his jacket, releasing him completely a moment later as he disappears. He doesn't sink back into the water- the water doesn't claim him, doesn't allow him to sink into its depths and return. He’s yanked off, pulled away abruptly and with little warning.

Jimmy swallows, hearing the sound of it echo around him, feels the click of his throat. There’s something lodged there, as though his heart is truly stuck in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but the lump refuses to disappear, lingers as Skizz follows after Martyn. Then Etho, blood blossoming on his jacket, spreading in the water. Scar’s throat is ripped loose, hanging in bloody tatters and he’s forced to watch as it stitches itself back together. Something makes a gristly crack and he forces himself to look away, the sick feeling rising in his throat again.

He doesn't get a warning when Joel bursts forth, surging forward from the darkness and lunging for him. Blood trails behind him in the water, water sloshing around both their legs as Joel grips at his arms, teeth bared in the beginnings of a snarl. He grips Jimmy’s arms hard enough to bruise, nails digging in.

Jimmy has to pry his hands off, carefully unlatching each finger and praying Joel doesn't start clinging to him again. He still has time, even as ticks down, trickling away faster and faster as Joel turns to the violence that soothes his aches. He shoves him down into the water, ignoring the way Joel seems to choke on it, pushing him down and waiting for him to fade away again.

He kneels in the water, feels it tugging at his jacket, threatening to pull him under too. He hates this. He hates the weight on his back, the water weighing down his wings, pinning him in place. The weight around his neck, holding him down as he kneels in the water, the cold soaking into his bones, threatening to pull him deeper into the waters.

His chest hitches, something painful clawing up his throat. He presses a hand to his mouth, muffling any sound he might make.

There are eyes on his back, pinning him in place. Like a bug on a board, held up and displayed in a collection, nothing more than an ornament. He doesn't turn to face them, even as the stare on his back grows heavier, watching him with disapproval.

He wants to turn on them, to snarl at them and voice his displeasure. He thinks it, and his throat closes over, mouth growing dry. Their stare turns mocking, gleeful, something that makes his anger burn a little hotter. His mouth remains dry and their stare disappears, leaving him alone again.

“I do too.”

Skizz’s eyes are open when he surfaces, looking around himself, as though confused. Jimmy stares at him, watches him for a moment before it all clicks into place. He remains kneeling in the water, squinting at Skizz as he stands. A lot of the blood obscures his vision, dripping into his eyes. Some of it has dried, threatening to stick his eyelashes together and render him truly blind.

His voice does not return to him.

“Oh, hey,” Skizz greets him, turning around in the water. He seems unbothered by it, moving through it as though it isn't there. Jimmy wouldn't be surprised if the water was only here for him- if he was the only one that suffered from it. “You, uh, you have a little something on your face, buddy.”

He nods. Skizz looks awkward, looking over him cautiously. He’s not sure what he looks like, can feel the blood over his face but the water gives him no reflection. He doesn't know how else they choose to twist him, change him to fit their purposes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but not even the sound of his breathing makes it past his lips before it shrivels in the air. He shuts his mouth again, jaw clicking, and gestures at it helplessly.

“No voice?” Skizz guesses. He doesn't look angry, doesn't pace back and forth, doesn't demand to be returned to the fight, to return to his allies. He nods in response to Skizz’s question, and the man’s face screws up in something resembling sympathy. “That sucks, scream it away already?”

He shakes his head, gesturing to the air around them. He doesn't know why he bothers. Skizz won't understand, and even if he did, this place will fade from his mind as soon as he leaves it. Its clinging cold won't follow him home, won't linger in his bones or the dark recesses of his mind. He leaves, and it washes clean, as though he was never there in the first place.

The knowledge of this place is his burden to bear.

“I don't think I get what you mean.” Skizz sits beside him, crossing his legs. He shivers as he sinks further into the water; maybe he can see it, just choosing not to comment on the way Jimmy is slumped over into it, clothes soaked through and face painted red with blood.

He shrugs.

This is the first time they've taken his voice from him, stolen away the one comfort he can provide in this place. Normally he’s able to reassure his friends, promise them that they only need to wait a little bit longer and they’ll be free again; calm the ones that hunger for the violence, the ones that would try and tear this place apart to try and return.

The water stirs, rippling just in front of him. Skizz’s eyes widen, watching the place that Bdubs rises from with a shocked silence. He reaches forward, hands stretching out to touch Bdubs- to shake him awake.

Jimmy bats his hands away, shakes his head at Skizz’s questioning eyes. He simply presses a firm, but gentle, hand onto Bdubs’ shoulder, holding him in place. He doesn't know why he bothers, doesn't know why he tries- Bdubs doesn't even move, twitching only slightly, face twisting and changing.

Maybe it’s because he remembers the feeling of Bdubs’ hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket, shaking him back and forth as Bdubs asked- begged him to kill him, pleaded for him to take some of his time in the hopes that he might last a little longer.

It wouldn't work- it never worked. Always the first to fall. And yet he took the time anyway, selfishly stole it from Bdubs, as though the noose wasn't already tightening around his throat, as though his song was not already petering out. He took it, driven by the force of Bdubs’ pleading and the misguided hope that, perhaps, this might be the time that it fixes everything.

Bdubs sinks back into the water, gone without a single sound. The surface doesn't even ripple.

“Does…everyone come here?” Skizz asks. The first one always does, curious about this place, asking questions- too many questions, questions he doesn't have the answer to. He’d answered them, at first, when he still hoped that someone might remember this misery, recall this place and his presence in it.

He didn't answer any questions last time, unable to meet Tango’s eyes as they sat in the silence together. He hadn't wanted to explain to Tango, to explain and then watch him forget, to know that when he tries to summon the words outside of this place, that they fail him; leave him open-mouthed and unable to force a single syllable from his lips.

He nods, and Skizz frowns. “I don't remember coming here.”

He shakes his head, hopes it communicates the no one ever does that he wants to say. Skizz frowns a little deeper, brows furrowing and eyes searching over him. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn't find, because he slumps a moment later, shoulders bowing inwards.

Normally, this is the moment when he finds the words to comfort them. To assure them that it will all be over soon and that they can return to their homes as though this never happened, because to them, it didn't. This place doesn't exist outside of his own memory.

He feels tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he waits for the next death, for the next person to rise from the waters and then return to them again. He sucks in a deep breath, but it’s not enough to stop the first tear from falling. It cuts through the blood on his face, carving a path through the crimson.

It drops into the water, not even causing the surface to ripple.

He sucks in another breath, stares down at the water that does not reflect his face, watches as blood drips from his head and into the water, blossoms of red swirling deep within, like petals of a life long-gone.

When tears no longer prick at the corners of his eyes, he turns to face Skizz, watches the way he studies the water too, pulling faces as though that would convince it to show his reflection. Skizz looks up after a moment, meeting his eyes.

His throat is dry, painfully so, but he nods towards Skizz anyway, tilting his head in question. He hopes the man gets the idea, or at least the gist of what he’s trying to ask. The silence is uncomfortable, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the darkness and the ringing in his ears.

“Oh, uh,” Skizz looks down at himself, though there are no wounds to show the battles he’s fought in over the past however-long it’s been. “Etho killed me.” Some of his surprise must show on his face because Skizz laughs, shaking his hands, “It’s not what you think, I swear. I just,” he sighs, “just didn't have the fight to go on any longer, I suppose. I didn't want my time to go to someone else, for someone to stand over me and claim those thirty minutes when they could go somewhere that I wanted them to.”

Oh. He supposes that makes sense.

“I wasn't going to win, wasn't going to gain that time back. I didn't play the game well enough to win it back. I wish I played it better.”

Jimmy watches him.

Skizz looks up, away from where his hands have been trailing through the water. No one has risen through the depths to greet them, however temporarily, so there is nothing for him to do. His world grinds to a halt, however temporary, with the lack of a job.

“Do we…normally react like this?” Skizz asks. He clarifies a moment later, “Sitting with you, asking questions, talking like this?”

He shakes his head, then reconsiders, bobbing it from side to side in a so-and-so gesture. Skizz seems to understand him, at least a little.

“Would you rather I was angrier?”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow at the question, asking silently, do you want to be angrier?

“No,” Skizz laughs, shaking his head. “No I suppose not. I don't really have anything to be angry about anyway. I did what I set out to do, and I did it well. That’s all we can really ask for, right?”

Jimmy dips his head in agreement, even though he wants to protest, wants to claw his way back to the land of the living, for just a moment more of life, just a few seconds. He doesn't want this- he never does. He never does what he set out to do, never survives long enough to be the second gone, rather than the first. His death heralds the descent into madness, and no one seems to notice.

Impulse rises through the water, and he sees Skizz jerk forward, panic flashing across his face before he settles back again with a glance in Jimmy’s direction. Jimmy leans forward, looking over Impulse’s face.

The deaths this time around have been far less gruesome. Falling from high places, blown to pieces so they are already stitched back together when they appear here. He’s grateful for it, for not having to watch as the universe pieces them back together, seals their wounds shut.

Impulse disappears as quickly as he arrived, eager to return to the fight. Skizz looks almost disappointed, watching his once-ally sink back into the waters.

Silence rings in his ears and they watch, together, as Scar emerges from the water, blood blossoming at his throat. Arrows are a good way to die, such a small wound and so easily fixed. Jimmy prefers it to the cleaving swipe of an axe or the tearing slash of a sword.

Cleo and Bdubs appear together. He’s glad he didn't have to sit through the four people Grian killed earlier, unsure of how he would deal with so many people- he can hardly stand to watch two people return to the waters, only used to it because everyone had arrived as a pair last time. Everyone had slipped through the waters with their partner, even if they were unaware of it.

“Are you always here?”

Skizz’s voice breaks the silence. He had been quiet enough that Jimmy almost forgot he was there. He hesitates, before nodding slowly. He watches the last of Cleo’s hair disappear into the darkness, swallowed by the water as they're returned to somewhere warmer.

“Without your voice?” Skizz asks, something softer in his tone.

He scoffs, or tries to without sound, and shakes his head.

Skizz makes a noise in the back of his throat and Jimmy turns to face him. “Then why can't you speak?”

He shrugs, gesturing above their heads again.

Skizz falls silent again after that, probably unsure of how to respond to that. Jimmy doesn't know either, but he doesn't have a voice to speak with right now, so he doesn't have to think of a response either.

Joel’s blood spreads through the water before he appears, dragging himself from it almost sluggishly. None of the fight from before is present in him, and he simply sways back and forth, hands twitching, arms ready and braced for some kind of impact. He’s expecting a fight before he’s even alive again, Jimmy realises.

He doesn't even fight when Jimmy pushes him back into the water, holds him down and waits for him to return. Skizz watches him, eyes heavy on his back- but these eyes have a face to connect them to, a nose and a mouth and eyebrows that he can see and understand, not just the feeling of eyes weighing heavily on him.

He sighs, shoulders rising and falling silently. His wings ruffle, the soft sound of feathers on feathers filling the echoing expanse that stretches around them. It disrupts the ringing in his ears, for a moment, and he relaxes in something that is not just the pressing silence.

Skizz shifts in the water behind him, hears it sloshing slightly, smacking against exposed skin.

He feels Grian before he sees him, watches the way Skizz stiffens at the sudden pressure bearing down on both of their heads, making his eyes ache. He meets Skizz’s eyes, shaking his head slowly and giving him a smile. He doesn't know how convincing it is, with blood soaking through his hair and sticking to his skin. He probably looks horrifying, but Skizz smiles back anyway.

Grian’s eyes are open as he emerges from the water, sitting up as though he’s waking up in bed, comfortable in this place in a way that never fails to unnerve Jimmy.

Grian sees him after a moment, blinking, his eyes refocusing.

“Ouch,” Grian winces in sympathy, though he’s still smiling, eyes flicking over his face. “Looks like you got the short end of the stick this time, huh?”

He shrugs, nodding at the same time. He doesn't miss the way Grian’s eyes narrow, “What’s wrong with your-”

The water claims him before he can finish his sentence, though Jimmy knows what he was going to ask anyway. The water wraps around him, seizing his hands and legs in poor imitations of shackles, dragging him back down.

A feather rests on the surface of the water, dislodged in the brief panic Grian had before he was pulled away again. The water claims that too, sucking it down into the darkness before he can even think of picking it up.

“How did he see you?” Skizz asks. Jimmy doesn't have a response for that, not one he can communicate with hand gestures and the nodding of his head. He settles for shrugging. “Right, yeah, yes or no questions. Can he always see you?”

He nods.

“Huh.” Skizz says. “If he always sees you, and you're always here, how come I don't remember this place?” Skizz looks around, as though the darkness will have changed, will have become something more familiar to him in the time between now and the last time he examined their surroundings.

Jimmy shakes his head. He doesn't know how to communicate no one ever does, don't feel bad or I've tried to tell everyone, so many times, they never hear, no matter how loud I speak. So he doesn't bother. He just watches the water.

Scar doesn't need to be pushed back down into the water. He goes happily, barely there before he’s returning again, face twisting into a smirk as he disappears.

Time does not exist in this place. This place, this void, exists beyond time, outside of it. It does not dance along to time’s merry little tune, creating its own song for Jimmy to play along with, as unwilling as he is. But he follows the motions anyway, moves through the verses and tries not to wonder how long it has been, tries not to think about how many people he’s seen.

(He’s seen so many more people than he usually would. Everyone died too much, this time, throwing their lives away with giddy delight as they realised they had more than three.)

Joel thrashes in the water, lunging forward with the intent to kill, not yet realising that his target is no longer in front of him, that he is no longer in front of his target. Jimmy catches him as he stumbles, holding his wrists tightly before he tries to break free.

He can feel his timer ticking down, can feel the erratic thump-thump-thump of his heart beneath his palm. He mourns Joel, silently, feeling how his life is slipping between his fingers, like sand through an hourglass. His sunglasses are cracked, one line through the left lens. Joel managed to scrape his way through his entire time without damaging them, but now, they crack and begin to fall apart on his face.

Jimmy pushes him under before he can watch them break completely, mourning Joel before he even joins them completely. It won't be long. Had seen the beginnings of madness in Joel’s eyes as he twisted mid-fall, watched the rage spark to life behind his sunglasses.

He doesn't have to wait long. It’s hardly a few moments - or perhaps it’s several hours - before Joel is surging out of the water, shaking his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere as he snarls and seethes, hands curled into fists.

He’s laughing, some shaky, jerking cackle that makes Jimmy’s ears ring after so long spent in silence. He tosses his glasses away, doesn't even watch to see them sink into the water, swallowed by the hungry waters.

Skizz watches him, and he watches Joel. Watches the way he almost shakes apart, still laughing.

He presses a hand to his shoulder, which is when Joel seems to realise he’s not alone, that they're watching, that he has an audience.

“What the heck!” Joel startles backwards, voice tilting upwards towards the end. He shrieks, something which Joel denies every time it’s mentioned. “You can creep up on me like that!” He shrieks, voice still pitching higher, before he seems to realise who he’s shrieking at.

Joel stares at him for several long moments. The red in his eyes is gone. Then he turns with a snarl, shoving his way through the water, either ignorant or uncaring of the way it sloshes everywhere, soaking him through in a matter of moments.

“No,” Joel shakes his head. “Send me back!” He whirls on Jimmy, arms flung out on either side as he yells. “I need more time, I have more time! They need to- need to-” he cuts himself off with a yell, kicking through the water, sending an arc of water through the air.

He stills a moment later, chest heaving, breath heavy as he seems to collect himself, if only slightly.

“Why are you here?” Joel asks. He doesn't turn to face him, doesn't even continue with the anger that he had been feeding since…since whenever the bloodlust gripped his mind utterly and sent him on whatever rampage he tore through the server with this time. “Why are you here?” He repeats, a little louder, when Jimmy doesn't respond.

He doesn't have words to respond with, doesn't have any comfort he can provide. His throat is dry and he can taste blood in his mouth. His tongue feels thick and heavy, as though he’s gone without water for several days. For all he knows, he has. He doesn't know how long it’s been.

“Jimmy!” Joel turns on him, grabs him by the shoulders and gets close up and in his face. Jimmy doesn't flinch back, knows Joel won't actually hurt him, can feel the way his fingers barely press into his jacket, not even holding him tight enough to leave indents in the leather from his nails. “Answer me!”

“He can't,” Joel startles as Skizz speaks up, and Jimmy almost does as well- almost forgot that Skizz was here, watching. “He can't speak.”

Joel looks back at him, the whites of his eyes wider than usual. He stares at him, asking if it’s true, searching his face. He doesn't wince at the sight of the blood, doesn't murmur in sympathy or pity. He just looks over him, searching his face for something.

He shakes his head with a smile, hoping that there isn't too much blood on his teeth.

Joel’s eyes harden. “Why’d you have to be so stupid?” He asks, hands curling a little tighter into his jacket, pulling him closer to Joel until they're almost hugging. “Why’d you have to fall off? It was going so well? You didn't have to die.”

He smiles, and shakes his head again. It was always going to happen, he tries to say, tries to communicate, there was nothing to be done against it. The canary will always be the first to fall.

Joel snarls something, wordless and angry. Jimmy almost misses the way Joel had changed for the first iteration of this game, and then the second, the way his wolves had changed him a little. The way he had changed and not changed back, a snarl still buried beneath some of his words, even as the ears (something Lizzie had found funny at the time, at the start, before things went wrong) faded and the unnatural shine of his eyes reversed.

He raises a hand, pressing it over where Joel’s hand grips his jacket. His hands are cold and Joel’s hands are warm. He has been sat in this water for far longer than him, his fingers stiff with death and decay and the cold of sitting between life and whatever comes after.

His throat clicks as he swallows, but no words come to his mind, no words are able to make it free from his throat. His heart beats uncomfortably hard in his chest.

“You were meant to be free,” Joel says. He sounds like he’s begging, which is wrong. Joel doesn't ask for things, he takes them with a grin or a smirk and a laugh, pleased with whatever it is he’s managed to steal. “I was going to save you, give you my time, stop you from being the first.”

He shakes his head again, even as the sentiment warms his heart. It wouldn't have worked. He would have died halfway to that point, losing Joel whatever time he had managed to gain and ending up back here again. He is always the first, there is no escaping that.

To try and escape means the bars will be smaller next time, less gaps for him to wriggle his way through. The choking feeling will be more heavy on his neck, in his chest, in his lungs.

“It’s not fair.” Joel snarls. “You shouldn't have to be first.”

He doesn't know how to communicate it’s okay and you tried your best through his eyes and actions alone. He settles, instead, for the comfort of someone else, of someone that wanted something else for him. Even if it would never- could never happen.

He has a job to do. A curse to fulfil.

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