deercountry | 13 . autumn catch-all

[ Someone's talking to him. That's...that's nice, at least. It's good to hear a voice that isn't his own. Even better to have someone touch him. But he's let the loneliness curse fester enough that he's lost himself to it and will need more to come back to reality. ]

Why'd you leave me, John? [ He lets the other man push his hands back. Terry's a good pet, he does what he's told when the right person is in charge. But he has no conception of personal space right now (even less than he usually does) and thus he still lingers as close as he can. ] Thirty years...we could have been together.

[ His eyes are glassy and distant, trying to find someone who is a whole universe away. ]

[ Thirty years is pretty specific. Whatever's going on behind those eyes, John can't guess; it doesn't matter, really, beyond being an invention of the Pthumerians. His vision is still blotted black with Vileblood exposure, but whatever, it's not like he's making much use of his senses right now. ]

Sounds right. [ This is funny because it does not, in fact, sound right. He still says it in a very reasonable tone of voice, shuffling gingerly upright so that tree bark digs into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. This only crowds them closer together, Terry crouched over his lap and dripping Vileblood down his shirtfront.

John rubs at his wrists like he could snap the man out of this by warming him up, brow furrowed in open bafflement. Fucked up to say it, but: he'll take this over another heart-to-heart hike with somebody he's probably murdered. There's a relief to meeting a weird new crisis. ]

I'm here now, aren't I? We'll sort it out.

[ When was the last time John had been gentle with him like that? During the war, or not too long after it ended. He looks down at the ground, like he's unworthy of it. His lower lip trembles. ]

We will?

[ Terry crouches lower and tries to make himself small. At his size, it's not very effective. ] I'm - sorry. I'm sorry. For everything.

[ John is the one who owes him an apology, he thinks, but he can't help but give in. How pathetically he'd come crawling back to him for the slightest bit of affection. ]

[ It's this— the way Terry drops his gaze, the set of his mouth, the way he tries to tuck himself close and small— that makes his breath catch. John leans back like he's reeling with a punch, even though it grinds the back of his head into the unfriendly texture of a blood-blackened tree. He's getting sap in his hair. It's probably evil sap, too.

Terry's nearly a stranger: just a fucked-up guy he helped out of a bind, the guy Daniel jumped like a rabbit to hear about. If he's bad news, he's bad news in the karate dimension. He's just a man. He kneels in the lap of a being that lights stars.

John's always liked the Kindly Prince bits best. He's always liked being gentle.

Ten thousand years into being God, 'taking advantage' really loses its bite of meaning. ]

It's alright. [ He drops his voice low and warm, his grip still steady on Terry's wrists. He rubs clumsy, aimless little half-circles with the pads of his thumbs. This'll be awkward when they're on the other side of it, but probably in the funny way. Whichever curse this is, it's a doozy. ]

There we go. We'll talk it through.

[ They absolutely will not talk it through. He's running on pleasantries and half a script, here. ]

You never wanted to talk about it before.

[ Said with relief, not accusation. Perhaps he could collect himself and break through the curse now, but part of him doesn't want to. He's here with John, getting him to talk about the things they've been keeping unspoken for half a century. If it's an illusion, then fuck reality. ]

Oh, but that can't be comfortable. [ Sitting there pressed up against a tree, he means. ] Do you want to get up?

[ He leans back, but he doesn't pull his hands away, and he doesn't rise on his own. If John gets up, he'll follow. If not, he'll stay down. ]

[ If they stand up, John has no idea where they'll go from there. He doesn't have a handle on the conversation; physical contact is the only tool he's got. So he just shimmies awkwardly further up, such that Terry doesn't have him so thoroughly pinned against the tree. It means trying to untangle his legs without really displacing Terry from his lap, which is maybe not ideal. Not least because Terry hardly fits in his lap. ]

Let's stay put. [ And he breezes right on ahead: ] Tell me what's eating at you... tell me what I've done. I want to hear it from your side.

[ That's always how these things go, in Trench. It's always about confessions. ]

Alright. [ Now that he has permission, Terry lets himself relax a little. He's always tightly wound and ready to pounce, unless John is there with him. After all these years he still needs his protection. ]

You've done - everything for me. And I'll always be thankful for that. I only wanted to return the favor. [ If he weren't so absorbed in his own success he would have picked up on the hints John was putting out, that he wasn't the type of man that could be won over with expensive watches and fancy wine and beach house vacations. He was a self-sufficient man, perfectly content to live in some slummy apartment so long as he was providing for himself.

They came from two different worlds and, while Terry was welcome in his world, John was never interested in being part of Terry's. ]

I'd have moved heaven and earth for you if you would have stayed with me. What did Johnny Lawrence have that I didn't?

[ This is tragically, horrifically juicy. He is mourning this situation in like four different ways. The fuck-or-die bit from the summer had been less awkward; at least that hadn't involved a heart-to-heart about getting cuckolded by Johnny Lawrence. ]

I seriously wish I knew.

[ First Kiriona threw in with him, then Mercy— Mercy, who's always been the one of them with standards— decided to go for it. Of all the things to have in common with a psychotic old man in the forest, he really did not think this would be the link. ]

But is he really the problem?

[ Not to play psychotherapist for the both of them, but, hell, he might as well try to guide this somewhere useful. ]

Nobody leaves for no reason.

No, no he isn't. [ Terry admits that with a deep sigh. Their problems started long before Johnny Lawrence. ] We failed. We lost. [ At what, specifically, he doesn't say. John Kreese would know it well enough, and John Gaius is probably better off not knowing that the cause of their first breakup was their failure to torture a teenager out of the local karate scene. ]

I loved you just the same, you know. You could never be a failure in my eyes. [ But, as much as he'd like to lay the blame entirely at John's feet and ask him to answer for it, their issues went deeper than that. ] But without some war to fight or business to run or mutual enemy to attack, all we were left with was...you know.

[ Each other. Their own company. Two men who on one hand loved each other deeply enough to fight and even die for each other, and on the other hand crumbled the second any sort of emotional honesty was expected of either of them. Once the rage and cocaine wore off and John had to deal with the consequences of their losses while Terry reverted back to the sniveling coward he was back in Vietnam and begged and pleaded him to stay, it was too much. ]

[ There it is: there's the bit that's sad to hear. It shows in his face, even old and fucked-up as he is. Some great and mournful pity tightens the lines around his eyes and his mouth, and his gentle grip on Terry's wrists squeezes for a moment, a little clasp of sympathy. ]

I believe it. [ And now the drop: ] I bet your John does, too.

[ He releases Terry's arms, the pressure lifting slow to match his steady tone. He's ready for this to go sideways in new and horrible ways, watching the man's eyes and waiting for either clarity or rage to overtake them. There's no fear in his face, only a funny mix of curiosity and that tired pity.

He doesn't, in the end, look anything like John Kreese. ]

My John...?

[ He blinks, slowly. The curse is starting to lift now that he's gotten all of his feelings out and...something's wrong. This man was answering to John; it must be his John.

And yet, he isn't. In fact, they're different enough that no one would ever mistake him for John Kreese, not unless they were truly out of their mind. Like he was. Terry gives a sideways glance before standing tall and backing away, tilting his chin upwards as if to make himself larger where just a few moments ago he was trying to be small in the presence of the great John Kreese. ]

You aren't John. [ Alright, he can't be sure of that. ] Not John Kreese, anyway. [ And Terry would be more inclined to be hostile if he didn't start to recognize this man as someone who'd helped him out before. ]

Ah. It seems I only meet you in my lowest moments, doesn't it? [ He shakes his head. ] This place has a funny way with that.

[ It'd be less sad if the guy swung at him. Instead, John just awkwardly levers himself up off the ground and off the tree, scrubbing bits of bark off his shirt. Terry still has half a foot on him, maybe more. It isn't hard to loom. ]

Wrong John, [ he offers, like this is a funny and understandable mix-up. ] It really does. Happens to the best of us, honestly. I can promise you I've had worse.

[ There was, again, the fuck-or-die bit of the summer. But that'd probably be less awkward, all told. ]

I'd prefer if this stayed between us.

[ Not a threat. Just a preference. ] There are some people here who would like to make my life more difficult, and I'd rather not give them ammunition.

[ Which is to say: Daniel LaRusso is the real bully. ]

[ This is such an easy ask that he splays his hands like reassurance, but looks mostly relieved. ]

Call it confession.

[ This is funny for reasons he has not made apparent. ]

It's between you and me.

13 . autumn catch-all

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general cw for dubcon intimacy/mistaken identity

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if this is too late and you want to handwave just lmk

let's gooo

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