Abreaction
Lys Summers

Takes place directly after Identity Crisis.

ab·re·act·ion tr.v. ab·re·act, ab·re·act·ing, ab·re·act·ed, ab·re·acts - Purging of built up emotional tensions.

It was late in the night, and the only semblance of light in the room was the muted glow from the computer screen. (Belonging in the darkness.) He was slouched on the bed – not lying down, but not quite sitting either – all hunched in over himself and looking about half his normal size. (And that's how he felt, having lost so much he's not as much there as he used to be.) The shadows surrounded him, crawling between his tensed form and the lax sprawl of his bedmate, leaving him alone regardless of the temptation of comfort lying barely a foot away. (Because how long did they really have before he left, too?) The darkness obscured his face, but there was almost a palatable air of vulnerability hanging around him; a sort of languishing hopelessness that he kept locked away until he was like this – alone. (Like he really was, there was almost nothing left.)

He wasn't thinking about anything. (Not even thinking about nothing, that focused mental strain to keep your thoughts empty.) Just allowing his mind to drift blankly, as if it never thought at all. (Would be easier to be nothing at all.) It had become a disturbingly easy thing to do these days, and despite his seemingly rock solid self-control (Keeping up the illusions) he felt himself slipping like this more and more. (And maybe one day he'll just slip away altogether, leave all the hurt behind.)

He was used to hiding, he was good at it. There were times when he felt so lost behind his facades that he didn't even really know who he was anymore. (Does he exist at all, anymore? Does he have the right to?) It was all mixed up inside and parts of him (People he loves) kept on getting ripped away until he felt (Like there's nothing left) raw and empty.

Life goes on. Intellectually he knew this, and everyday he lived it, but pretty words and promises never did anything to fill the void. (He's just so cold sometimes.) There are some things that could, (Just reach out, he's there) but he wasn't willing to (be a burden) let it slip because (He's been taught not to need) he had a job to do and people to protect. But sometimes it was just too much when he knew (There really was someone to pick up the pieces) he was part of (A relationship, and why could he just never admit that commitment?) a team, and he just had to reach out and…

He had reached out before he could even catch himself, his pale hand (Small, so small and weak compared to his) landing heavily on the blanket-covered shoulder, lying so (Still, oh god, so still and –) peacefully in repose. (In…)

A choked-off sob escaped him before he had the chance to bite it back, the kind that left him (Hunched over the stained ceramic bowl, images of blood and tears and death strong in his mind) gasping for air around the lump in his throat. The (body) form lying beneath the covers beside him murmured sleepily, rousing and turning to blink tired blue eyes at his (defeated) curled-up bedmate.

"Tim?" The quiet (gentle) questioning called forth another (pathetic) cry from deep inside him as he began to shake.

(You're with me.) "Kon…"

"Tim, hey Tim, it's okay man," Kon hushed as he sat up so his hands (warm, large and real) could rub soothing circles on his back. "It's okay, I'm here."

(For how long?) "I know," he choked out, his voice too high and desperate for his liking, body shaking. It was (So like him, comfort without question) natural to slide his arms around Kon's neck and squeeze. "I'm just, I… I'm so… Kon." (Touch me) He (never) managed to say. (Show me you're here.)

And Kon (Always, always hears what he doesn't say) took the hint, pulling Tim even closer to his broad (Strong, Kon's so strong and he can almost believe he won't be like the rest) chest before he'd hardly had a chance to finish speaking. His breath rasped close to Tim's ear, rapid and hot, and his words were hoarse and (Real, and truthful, and honest and real) full of feeling.

"I won't let you go, Tim. I'm here ."

And he (loves) admired Kon so much, because he always said (what he feels) what's on his mind, and some how it's always just right. He's honest and upfront and (Trustworthy, he can believe in him and he just wants to be safe) real. So Tim surrendered to (is desperate for) the kisses and the solid, sure strokes of those hands, because Kon was real, and so maybe (no maybe) he could convince Tim that he's (He is, Tim is) real, too.

That (this is) they're both real.

End