TW: Self hate, survivors guilt, depression, excessive alcohol drinking
Hi hi, I did say this was going to be late, but I finished my exams (go me) and I have alott more time haha.
Also the writing style of this chapter is a bit different than my usual style, so I apologize if it confuses people. But I figured that this style would be the best way to describe everything.
"Grief itself was unpredictable. One day you're fine and the next you're collapsed on the ground sobbing because all those memories you made were the last.
There were so many lasts - last laughs, last hug, last time you saw them.
And you ran out of time to create more memories.
There would be no more firsts.
No more time."
-Raeskywalker
The concept of five 'stages' of grief was absolutely a load of shit, according to Marc.
How could you consider the loss of a person, the loss of family, some type of measurable system?
The entire idea of 'stages' within grief was so incredibly flawed, so utterly crap.
Marc could easily imagine a therapist congratulating a person because; Yay you made it to the bargaining stage!
And of course it ended in acceptance, because why wouldn't it?
The fucking psychologist who thought of that must have thought he was hilarious.
How was Marc supposed to accept this ?!
Death surrounded Marc, from when he was a young, mindless child and he chased his brother into the cave.
Marc had stolen people's lives from them, had experienced a wrathful yet solemn grief period when mum Wendy died.
And then Bushman happened…And his friends, his partners were slaughtered, to which he didn't have time to grieve as the grim voice spoke to him in the midst of the night, his frozen gun pressed tightly against his chin.
The thing about grief is it doesn't get easier, no way whoever said that had never experienced a heart wrenching loss.
Marc had never experienced grief to this degree, it destroyed his very soul, tearing his heart into pieces.
It consisted exceedingly to the degree of drowning. The constant state of thrashing, desperate to breathe but the tsunami of thoughts and emotions plunged him deeper into the depths.
The constant state of I'm alive and he isn't.
Marc felt akin to dying, slowly suffocating despite the abundance of air, despite the lack of water as each day came and went. Everything and anything yanking him further into the dark abyss.
Life lost its meaning and he found himself unable to enjoy anything, the colour and joy seemed to be destroyed, tearing apart everything.
It should've been me the mercenary would snarl at himself like a mantra. Fingernails cutting into his palm as his fists clenched together in rage. It would spiral out of his chest and he would embrace it, holding it closely, because by god, it was better than the nothingness.
The nothingness, the numb sensation to which everything he did, including breathing seemed too much effort.
Marc would spend hours trying to distract the gaping hole, trying to feel anything besides the frozen nothingness. Empty bottles littered around him, desperate to be rid of the horrid feeling, yearning to escape the isolated feeling that he was alone, alone, alone.
Escape the earth shattering gunshot that haunted his very being.
Escape from the pure hate he had for himself, that he murdered his own brother.
The burning of alcohol and thrumming of fire within his veins was nonexistent and despite the copious amounts that he drank, the hollow echo would remain in his heart unable to be filled.
And Layla would find him, she always did. Every time, she would purse her lips, a soft sympathetic, pitiful look would pull at her expression. Eyebrows pulled down, she would bend down and grasp each emptied bottle without a word, the soft clinking of the glass filling the awkward air.
Then, each and every time, she would whisper somberly;
"Is this what Jake would have wanted?"
Marc had his reaction memorised, as if he was rehearsing in a play. The American would throw his head back, a bark of laughter, bitter and angry would coil tightly from his chest. The tears would stream down his face, relentless and merciless and he would tell Layla to shut up.
Because what did it matter what Jake wanted?
Jake was dead…
The mercenary didn't want her pity or sympathetic glances which seemed to bore into Marc's soul.
All he wanted was his family back.
He wanted his brother.
It should've been him….Not Jake….Never Jake…
The days morphed together, blurring before Marc could properly grasp the time or days. Despite this, the American couldn't find it in himself to care and so he continued through the dull motions.
He could only find solace occasionally within the swirling peace of sleep, when lingering memories taunted him with a time when he was carefree and happy and everything was fine.
Marc would feel the deep stinging of his tears as he woke from laughter, warm embraces and teasing, always just out of reach.
The New York accent…
The ruffling of his hair and crooked, fond smile….
"Kid."
"Kid."
"Kid."
"Kid."
Marc would give absolutely anything to hear his brother again, to clutch him close in a tight embrace and apologise for everything.
.
.
It was during one particular night, his eyes wide in the blanketed darkness that the realisation dawned on him. The realisation that shredded his heart to pieces.
Not once had Marc told his brother that he loved him, did he know? Or did Jake die thinking that he was alone?
Rising from his uncomfortable, makeshift bed on the couch, he raked his eyes over the trembling figure, huddled in the bed. Steven's choked sobs hung in the air, to which Marc scrubbed wearily at his own tears and shuffled out of the apartment block without another lingering look.
Never before had his relationship with his brother been this strained, if an argument ever erupted between the two, it was always Jake who would play peacemaker and force them to talk it out.
It seemed that they were now left to their own devices.
The American didn't realise where he was going, letting his mind blacken as he continued to nowhere in particular, with no purpose.
The cloudy sight of skyscrapers and the night life bloomed below Marc as he trudged onto the rooftop.
It was breathtaking, yet it resulted in furthering his agony and anguish.
The world continued to turn, despite his being destroyed.
That thought alone resulted in Marc crumpled to the concrete, ignoring the stinging pain as his knees scraped against the rough floor.
The tears sprung easily to his painfilled, cocoa eyes and he huffed out a pained scream, unable to force the agony back any longer.
Hoarse and desperate, he yelled. Tears dripped down his chin as his hands laced into his dark tangled hair.
And Marc snapped, the fury blazing through his body, smothering him like a snake killing its prey.
How dare he!
How dare Jake decide to sacrifice himself for them..
How was he supposed to live?!
How was he supposed to function without his brother?
Jake was so selfish, so fucking selfish for deciding to do that, for leaving Marc and Steven alone!
Alone with a gaping hole in his heart that couldn't seem to be filled…
Marc felt his furious snarling expression crumple and his limbs trembled violently, his gasping violent cries were only witnessed by the night sky.
How could he…
How could he think those things about his protector?
His brother..?
Jake saved them…
The only one to blame himself, he should have done something.
Insisted more, begged to be chosen more, found a way to escape even!
He should've figured out a plan that didn't result in the death of the oldest…
Rain descended suddenly, the icy droplets hit him and normally the thundering of the rain would have sent him into a spiraling panic back to a vivid memory of rain and caves and a sheer panic to find his brother.
Instead, his mind was a still lake and he let the rain wash over him. Every breath he took was a forever anguished reminder that Jake wasn't and the guilt continued to destroy the husk that was left of Marc.
The chime of his phone snapped him out of his deep despair and he continued to stare at the cloudy night just wishing that this was some kind of cruel nightmare and he would wake up now.
Happy.
Safe.
The three of them together…
Marc's ringtone repeated and he huffed a weary sigh, immediately connecting with whom it was, despite this, he had no care to answer the damn thing.
Perhaps, it was the warning that was growled at him the last time he ignored the call that encouraged him to act.
Marc, I will personally come around each and every time you do not answer your damn phone.
Layla had growled at him, hiding her blooming concern behind threats and anger.
Stumbling to his feet, Marc dragged his feet, leaving the rooftop and descending into the pitch black fire exit.
It was only then, when the mercenary was securely within the enclosed room that he scrunched his eyebrows, unable to hide his confusion.
It was still raining…
The American could feel the droplets of water plopping onto his hands, the salty taste of the water resulted in a shaky whimper, which was immediately swallowed by the darkness.
He went under the roof, but he was still getting wet…
Marc felt his back slide down the wall and he dropped his head in his arms and weeped.
It's not fair…
It's not fair…
The chiming of the phone rang shrill and piercing within the darkened room and was ignored as Marc's breaths escalated, his hands clutching at his arms in the hopes to comfort himself.
His mind held the dashed hope that he was alone, that he just wanted his brother again.
"And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone."
-Song of Achilles (Madeline Miller)
Steven…
Steven experienced a pain that he had never experienced before and he struggled through each and every day.
If Marc's grief was fury, rage and numbness controlling him; Then Steven's grief was quiet and consuming.
The Brit spent the majority of time in bed, the duvet yanked over his head, his quivering hand trying to stifle his whimpers as the tears dripped down his heartbroken face.
And the disgusting, gut-wrenching reality was that Steven occasionally forgot, he forgot Jake was…
There were times when he would drag himself out of bed, head hanging as he would regard the angsty the sight of Marc, blanket forgotten as the mercenary slept.
The couch was littered with empty alcohol bottles and Steven would sigh, shaking his head as he imagined what Jake's annoyed retorts would growl out at the sight of their drunk brother.
Steven would snort, a smile pulling as he pictured Jake's crossed arms and unimpressed yet worried glance.
And then it would sink in.
Steven felt his expression go slack and he had to brace himself against the wall as it felt he was back in that wretched hallway, the shot echoing in his ears and his high pitched scream tearing raw from his throat as his brother fell.
How did he forget..?
How could he!
Steven could feel himself trapped within that moment, the shot jolting through him, eyes wide as Jake fell.
And he would always fall and Steven was always too late to reach his side.
The protector was gone. Steven scrubbed roughly at his eyes, to no avail as they overflowed with stinging tears easily.
Jake was gone.
Gonegonegonegonegonegone.
.
.
Steven despised the apartment, every glimpse of anything reminded him of his brother and an unbearable smothering sensation choked him.
The television wrenched him back to the countless movies the trio binged together. Marc's cringey action movies leaving Steven in hysteria as Jake continually ranted, thoroughly exasperated by the improbability of each stunt.
The scattered mirrors reminded him of the encouragement as he plodded to work, determined to ask for the position as a tour guide.
It was only when this persisted for days, to which Donna growled angrily that if he asked one more time, he would be chucked out, fired. That he blacked out, blinking back to when he was guiding a tour group through the exhibits.
Jake refused to say how he managed to convince the despicable manager, instead stating that it was Steven's own perseverance and excitement that did it.
Steven didn't complain, considering Donna was alive and consciously avoided Steven, who finally had his dream job, he imagined it wasn't great.
The Brit had a sudden unrecognisable urge to burn his Egyptian and Ancient history books, the books he cherished dearly would send him crashing to the floor, sobbing at the sheer sight of them.
The excited rants he would launch into, whilst the other two would listen intently, raising questions occasionally…
Steven hated the apartment, it was too full of memories that he couldn't break free from.
"Then it hits you, harder than it ever did before…They are gone and the worst part is, you know they aren't coming back."
-Anonymous
Both brothers had tried, each to summon Khonshu. In the hopes to bargain, in the hopes that the moon god would bring their protector back.
The name echoed through the apartment so frequently, that it became a daily ritual.
Loud, angry calls clashing against hushed and cracked pleadings.
All of which remained unanswered…
.
.
Layla had convinced Marc to take a walk to the nearest café.
"Getting some fresh air will be good for you." She had told him softly and he didn't have enough energy to argue, so he turned from the door and made his way outside.
The American shuffled along the busy crowded street, head bowed, smudges of purple and blue underneath his eyes as he stumbled into the shop.
Marc couldn't recall the walk, nor could he recall ordering the coffee and he blinked cluelessly at the cheerful grin the barista offered him.
Marc wanted to punch the sappy grin, wanted to scream at him that it was unfair that he was able to be happy, able to smile when his family was ruined.
Instead of this, Marc grabbed the coffee and headed out of the café, with all the intent of heading home and drinking himself to oblivion.
He snapped back to the present as an older male bumped into him and offered an apology.
"Sorry about that, kid."
Marc couldn't breathe, the paper cup had plummeted from his grasp and splashed onto the ground, but he could only focus on the roaring of blood in his head, his vision blurring.
Kid
Kid
Kid
Kid
Jake…
He forced the rising whimper from his throat, away and stiffly hoisted himself from the ground.
When did he get on the ground?
And he forced his limbs to move, away from the curious and startled crowd and on the way home, unable to force the New York voice of his brother back.
.
.
Steven arose, glancing at the tired figure of Marc, who was just a dark shadowy outline within the darkness.
The rain echoed above them and Marc raised his gaze off his soaked clothes and onto the Brit.
The brothers eyes met and the thick tension twisted and writhed between the two.
Marc and Steven hadn't talked, hadn't communicated with each other since the first night of the incident, where Steven had thrown a mug at the American, his voice trembling yet mustering as much venom as he could, he snarled.
"This is all your fault!"
Marc had frozen as if he had been struck. Of course he had snarled the same phrase to himself repeatedly, so often that it had become his constant companion and yet, he could feel his heart disintegrate into ash at that admission.
It had hurt.
It had sent Marc spiraling into the depths of self-hate when Steven, his brother, his family had said it to him.
Since that moment, they had tiptoed around each other, ignoring each others cries and mental state.
"He's not coming back, is he?" Steven's voice cracked, failing him as the rain pounded mercilessly. The blanket clutched in his hands like a lifeline.
Marc could only bite his lip and shake his head slowly, not able to trust his own voice not to fail him.
He didn't mention the threads of the plan he created to get Jake back, because it would send Steven into an endless panic. And honestly, Marc wasn't sure if he was brave enough to try it…
Steven sniffled, to which Marc was moving before he was aware of such, his drenched arms embracing his grief-stricken form of his younger brother, as his own tears soaked Steven's shirt.
Jake may have been the one that died that day, but a part of his brothers withered away alongside him.
See you next time! :D
Also did you get the Jack Stauber reference? The rain scene is based on his 'rain' clip on youtube.
Thank you so much for the support on this fic!
Xxx
Rae