fumitory: (86)
ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴᴏʟᴏɢɪsᴛ ([personal profile] fumitory) wrote in [community profile] wasteyard 2019-06-09 08:24 pm (UTC)

once more, but with feeling

( at this point, Ben would confidently wager the timespan of having spent genuine days here in this over-exposed, dulled-out grayscape under a hazy, lackluster sun. not that the transition from the light-intensity of an overcast day to the dark interior of a structure was any significant one, but having to change from day to night became a bit exhausting in its own way.

but they've swapped — himself and Will, the man in the mirror, the voice through a radio, always half a connection. seen but not heard, heard but invisible. that's what they get for giving in to their equal yearning to mesh into each other's spaces; the world flips their settings, instead, and Ben stumbles down into a scene of nighttime, illuminated in a vibrant, silvery glow.

but their mirror fell apart, and Ben has caught just a glimpse of Will entering the void it had left behind, before his own mirror had withered to nothing.

Ben couldn't do it. it whispered to him in voices that burned so familiarly as to ache, and it had just taken Will, too. he nearly crawled in with the hope to follow the other man, but — something about that hole in the wall made the blood in his veins run cold.

pulling himself away was the single hardest thing he's done since arriving here.

and Ben immediately questions his trepidation after five minutes and putting a fair amount of distance between himself and the wall that seemed eager to consume whatever semblance of a connection Ben had made with someone. if it wanted to encourage their connection, wouldn't it finally let them through onto the same plane? topsy-turvy this world may be, but must it really be so contrary all of the time?

that's when the looming fear creaks over Ben, like shadows and structures stretching up and making him feel strangely minute. he thinks, perhaps, he he had just sullied the one open doorway that they had both been looking for.

damn it.

he's thrown out into the wild storm, the one he had been eager to avoid; it rushes up to him like an insistent child, slamming around his shins and capturing him. Ben wades through, water splashing up and tickling his face — he has to find shelter, now, from the storm raging on as it fills every enclosed space. it's a race against this bizarre temperament of his surroundings, pitch black sky and blanched landscape under a still-visible moon, despite the rain and wind.

when Ben climbs for higher ground, he finds a point inside a loft space where a new mirror lies; the water laps sleepily around a circular perimeter, half-hearted in its attempts, as if the floor were at an incline here. Ben clamors for it, where the water doesn't reach, and lets himself collapse onto hands and knees in this bubble of solitude.

another mirror. Ben sighs and leans his back against it — it's warm, and that is the most surprising thing about this current situation. he thinks he wants to turn and look into it, but he wants to just rest for a moment. another person suddenly gone, Ben thrust back into isolation, and now shoved into a new layer of this place. it's exhausting.

the warmth feels...familiar. it twists the tissue and muscle behind his sternum, wistful and nostalgic. it's a warmth not unlike Peter...

and with that warmth, an ember of wanting glows, against the exposed cold air of being alone.

Ben's hearing changes — like pressure releasing in his ears, and suddenly, the warmth has gone. he opens his eyes and it's nearly bright in comparison; when he looks around, the room is bare, exposed concrete of some sort lining the four walls around him, and the ceiling and floor connecting it all. he shifts suddenly, breathing audibly. it's all changed again.

there's a very out of place vintage couch, a tall mirror stood up against the wall, and a few other meager furniture bits. Ben stares, his head swimming, as he sits on the floor.

oh, what new, fresh hell is all of this?
)

Post a comment in response:

This account has disabled anonymous posting.
(will be screened if not validated)
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
No Subject Icon Selected
More info about formatting

Loading anti-spam test...

If you are unable to use this captcha for any reason, please contact us by email at support@dreamwidth.org