Masky's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Brian knelt on the wet stone, shaking. Tim watched the guilt pull him down. It was the same dark pull the fugue had used. If Brian slipped back now, no one would catch him. And Tim knew his own body was failing. His back burned. His head swam. Blood ran off his fingers and dripped on the rock. The whipping had drained him. Soon he would black out. And when Tim went dark, Masky woke. That was the real danger. Masky did not coax. Masky did not beg. Masky would grab Brian's mind and force it back in line, cold and cruel. It would break both of them. Tim would lose Brian for good, and Brian would lose himself. Tim bit the inside of his cheek and held on to the pain to stay awake. "Brian," Tim said. "Look at my wrist." He lifted his chained arm. The cuff had rubbed it raw. "I can't keep talking much longer. You have to unchain me." Brian's hollow eyes fixed on the chain. His breath was fast and ragged. "I did that," he whispered. "I hurt you." "Yes," Tim said. No softening. He needed Brian sharp. "And you can fix one thing right now. The bolt. Get me loose before I pass out." Brian didn't move. His hands trembled at his sides. The waterfall roared behind them and threw cold spray across the cave. "If I go under," Tim said, "the other one comes up. You know him. He won't be kind to you. He'll drag you back into the mask by force." Tim's voice slurred. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. "Please. Hurry." Something cut through Brian's fog. He crawled to the wall. His fingers found the bolt and the cuff's pin. He worked it with shaking hands. Tim's eyelids sagged. The cave tilted. "Stay," Brian said. Short. Hard. His fingers moved faster. "Stay with me, Tim." The pin gave. The cuff fell open and clanged on the stone. Tim's arm dropped free. He slumped sideways. Brian caught him before his head hit rock. Tim's cheek pressed against the faded yellow hoodie. He smelled dirt and old sweat and blood. Brian held him tight, both arms around his chest, keeping him upright. "Don't sleep yet," Brian said. "Trying," Tim breathed. Brian pulled him away from the wet wall, into a dry pocket of the cave. He tore a strip from his own hoodie and pressed it flat against the worst of the cuts on Tim's back. He kept his hand there, steady. Tim was still awake. Barely. But awake. Masky had not come. Brian had unchained him in time, and now Brian was the one holding on. For the first time since the cave swallowed them, Brian was doing the anchoring. The roles had flipped. Tim let his eyes close, and this time he trusted the hands that held him.