apocalypsehowcomm | Event - Appalachia: Into the Pines

Appalachia: Into the Pines

Footage plays on the television as a new story comes on, showing a series of sweeping vistas, intercut with clips of wolves that have clearly been filmed at some local wildlife sanctuary. "As far as anyone knows it, the last wolf to ever freely roam the Allegheny Mountains was slain in West Virginia in 1897. Daniel Stoffer Hamrick saw to the beast's passing, and the woods in our part of the world have gone quieter ever since. Appalachia does not forget its history, though. It buries it beneath coal and flyash, debts and white powder and pills. And the blood of people taken before their time, by the mines, by the mountain, by things we don't have names for, just hurt. But Appalachia does not forget.

"This is Cindy Parsons with Channel 5, Wolf News." Footage cuts to a newscaster standing outside a gated apartment complex with FYRE's logo emblazoned on it. "As we know, our beloved Wolf Pen is home to one of the biggest FYRE worker housing complexes in Wyoming County. It is a monument to the history of our town, and this week, we'll be on the lookout for visitors from all over the country, coming to see the grand re-opening of the historic Bluestone Mine as a museum."

Footage cuts to a nondescript businessman, identified by the news footage as Carl Watts, CEO of FYRE. He's smiling blandly as he stands at a podium and gestures to the entrance of the mining tunnel behind him. "The Wolf Pen community has been a partner to us for decades now, and we knew it was finally time to give something back to all y’all. We'll have our soft opening on Monday with a full Rumble Down Under party in the old mines scheduled for June 15th. We'll have a live bluegrass concert and anticipate a huge influx of tourists to the area to help out our neighbors itching for a few more pocketbooks to tend to." A wink.

The footage returns to Cindy. "FYRE has stated that this new museum will provide an educational tool and tourist attraction for those wanting to learn about West Virginia, Wolf Pen, and the hard-working men and women who have made this beautiful part of our nation their home. Time will tell. Time is always telling when it comes to the promises of people who have used our land and our bodies to line their pocketbooks. They fill our blood and our lungs with black tar and-"

Cindy cuts out and is replaced by in-studio anchors. "Thank you, Cindy!" a blonde woman says, smile just a little strained. "I think we're all looking forward to seeing the big opening by FYRE on Sunday and that rocking good party next month. It should be a gneiss one! Now to Tim with the weather. Tim?"

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Neal’s jolt startles Malcolm initially, but a moment later he scrambles over the edge of the bed to crouch beside Neal.

“Are you okay?”

He reaches out, then hesitates, because he’s not sure that touch is welcome yet.

Neal wants the contact. Unthinkingly, he reaches out, taking Malcolm hand and drawing it over so he can press Malcolm’s fingertips against his face. He exhales shakily.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

Malcolm breathes out relief when Neal takes his hand. He scootches forward, almost into Neal's lap.

"What did you dream?"

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly enough. He closes his eyes and turns his head a little to press his face more closely against Malcolm’s hand. “Just… flickers. Bits of violence, things I knew wanted to hurt me that I couldn’t see.”

Edited 2022-07-17 01:34 (UTC)

Malcolm nods.

“I know those dreams. Do… do you want some water?” he asks.

“Good idea,” he murmurs, gathering himself to get up and go to the bathroom for some.

Malcolm gives him an odd look, reaching a hand out to still him.

"I'll get it," he clarifies, getting up. "I was offering to get it," he adds, backing out from between the beds before turning to go into the bathroom to fill a glass.

"Oh," he says, and stays seated, a little more shocked than the gesture merits, really. Of course that's what Malcolm meant. He rubs his face with both hands.

When Malcolm comes back, he offers a shaky little smile. Genuine, for all its fragility. "Thanks."

Malcolm holds the water out.

"I'm a little concerned about what it means, that the person you're dating giving you a glass of water merits that degree of gratitude, but I'm trying not to read too much into it." No he's not. He scoots in to sit next to Neal in the relatively narrow space.

Neal smiles, then drinks the water. Somehow he doesn't have it in him to fake a laugh. Not when he's starting to feel hung over and the memories of the woods are waiting on the other side of the burgeoning headache. He turns to press a kiss against Malcolm's temple, then rest his own forehead against Malcolm's hair. "I'm just a little rattled. I'll be fine."

“I know you will,” Malcolm replies. “Once you process the trauma of the attacks. Which means not pretending they weren’t that big a deal.”

He tenses, squeezing his eyes shut against momentary panic. He is fine. He is fine. “I just need a little distance.”

Enough for Malcolm to forget this happened.

Malcolm watches him from the corner of his vision.

“Neal, trauma doesn’t work like that,” he says apologetically.

“I can’t,” he whispers, feeling breathless. “I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want… Talking about that kind of thing doesn’t help, it doesn’t change anything, all it does is give people ammunition.”

“You think I would use it to hurt you,” Malcolm surmises in what is the only logical conclusion, whether Neal meant to draw it or not.

Neal blinks at him. “What? No. Not you.”

“The therapists would?” Malcolm hazards.

“Everyone,” he says guiltily. “Everyone else. Anyone else.”

"I'm hardly one to judge trust issues," Malcolm concedes. "What if I did the assessment? I'd need time to do a little research on preparation, but I could do it."

Neal pauses to consider that. He presses a hand against Malcolm's face to feel the warmth of him, the reality of another person alive and close at hand. "...Maybe. I could maybe do that."

He shudders. "I just don't see the point of talking about getting..."

Torn apart. "About dying over and over again."

"So don't talk about that," Malcolm tells him. "Talk about how you feel."

Neal shakes his head. “Is it weird that I don’t know?”

Malcolm smiles a little.

"You know how you feel. You're just trying not to feel it."

Frustration is what he feels most clearly just then. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Malcolm is right in that he doesn’t want it, though.

Neal curls against him, too tired to argue. “Can we go back to bed?”

Malcolm’s expression falters, but he nods and shifts so they can get back under the blankets. He’s not qualified to provide Neal with any kind of therapy. Saying the wrong thing was inevitable.

“Did you have enough water? Do you want some more?”

Help he’s competent to offer.

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