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Lights Are Out Again
Jan. 12th, 2009 01:54 amTim/Kon and Bernard ficlet, set right after Kon's death. I hate myself so much right now.
Bernard finds Tim in the school's weight room, beating a punching bag to death.
He's not sure how long Tim has been dodging him, coming in late and leaving the second the bell rings. He thought for awhile Tim was just out sick or something, but then a few days ago he saw Tim in the hall, walking to class, and since them he's been looking for him. Since it's obvious Tim isn't going to come to him with whatever the fuck is wrong.
Bernard leans against the wall by the door and waits for Tim to notice him. It's a tiny room, just a couple of machines, free weights, and the mat square in the corner with the punching bag, and it's Tim, Mr I Can See Through Walls. But Tim just keeps pounding away, like the punching bag ran over his dog, face all hard and blank even as he's grimacing with exertion. It's a little scary, and when Bernard can't take it anymore he says:
"So, do you want to talk about it?"
Tim grunts in surprise, but doesn't stop with the punching bag. Between blows, though, he pants out, "Talk about what?"
Bernard straightens, adjusts his sunglasses. "Talk about why you've been avoiding me all week. Or why you're trying to kill that bag. One or the other."
"No," Tim replies, and Bernard knows a dismissal when he heard one. But that's just too damn bad.
"Is it girl troubles? Hit a rocky patch with your imaginary girlfriend?" he asks. "Or is it boy troubles now. With - what was his name again?"
Bernard knows he's hit it on the head when Tim makes a soft, pained noise in the back of his throat and lets his hands drop at last. Without the rhythmic drum of his fists on leather, the room is abruptly, deafening, quiet.
"Conner," Tim says, really softly, like it hurts him to admit it. "His name is Conner."
"I knew it," Bernard says. "So what did he do now?"
"He died."
Bernard finds Tim in the school's weight room, beating a punching bag to death.
He's not sure how long Tim has been dodging him, coming in late and leaving the second the bell rings. He thought for awhile Tim was just out sick or something, but then a few days ago he saw Tim in the hall, walking to class, and since them he's been looking for him. Since it's obvious Tim isn't going to come to him with whatever the fuck is wrong.
Bernard leans against the wall by the door and waits for Tim to notice him. It's a tiny room, just a couple of machines, free weights, and the mat square in the corner with the punching bag, and it's Tim, Mr I Can See Through Walls. But Tim just keeps pounding away, like the punching bag ran over his dog, face all hard and blank even as he's grimacing with exertion. It's a little scary, and when Bernard can't take it anymore he says:
"So, do you want to talk about it?"
Tim grunts in surprise, but doesn't stop with the punching bag. Between blows, though, he pants out, "Talk about what?"
Bernard straightens, adjusts his sunglasses. "Talk about why you've been avoiding me all week. Or why you're trying to kill that bag. One or the other."
"No," Tim replies, and Bernard knows a dismissal when he heard one. But that's just too damn bad.
"Is it girl troubles? Hit a rocky patch with your imaginary girlfriend?" he asks. "Or is it boy troubles now. With - what was his name again?"
Bernard knows he's hit it on the head when Tim makes a soft, pained noise in the back of his throat and lets his hands drop at last. Without the rhythmic drum of his fists on leather, the room is abruptly, deafening, quiet.
"Conner," Tim says, really softly, like it hurts him to admit it. "His name is Conner."
"I knew it," Bernard says. "So what did he do now?"
"He died."