Masky's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

Masky led Brian out of the cave. The waterfall crashed behind them. Cold spray hit their backs. Masky did not look at the wound Tim had bled from. He moved like a man with no pain to feel. But he understood one thing with cold clarity. Brian would only walk if he believed Tim could come back. If Brian stopped, they both died out here. So Masky wore Tim like a coat. He slowed his steps to match Brian's tired ones. He let his shoulders sag the way Tim's did. When Brian glanced back, Masky met his eyes and softened them by force. Not the flat stare. Something close to warm. "Keep moving," Masky said. His voice came out low and rough, shaped to sound like Tim's. "Almost there." Brian stopped anyway. He turned around fully. His masked face tilted, the red-stitched frown catching the gray light. He knew Tim's voice better than his own. He had lived beside both men for years. "You're not him," Brian said. Flat. Certain. Masky held still. The lie had run out. He weighed Brian's throat with his eyes. But a dead guide was a useless one. So he changed his aim. He reached out slow and gripped Brian's wrist, not to hurt, to hold. "Then help me get him back," Masky said, dropping the imitation. His real voice was colder, but the words were true. "He's still in here. Fading. No pills. No time. He comes back or he stays gone." Brian went rigid. His breath came fast through the fabric. This was Tim's own fugue, the thing Tim had fought to hold down in this very cave. Now it stood in front of Brian, offering the one thing Brian wanted. "How," Brian said. "You anchored him before. Do it again." Masky pulled Brian's hand and pressed it flat against Tim's chest, over the heart. "Talk to him. He hears you, not me." Brian pressed harder. His voice cracked open. "Tim. It's me. It's Brian. Come back. Please." He said the names they shared. He said Ellie. He said the woods and the years and every quiet thing between them. Under the mask-mind, something stirred. Masky felt the body fight him. Tim clawing up through the dark, drawn by the voice. Masky's flat eyes flickered. His grip loosened. The cold peeled back like frost off glass. Tim gasped. His knees buckled. His eyes went tired and human and full of pain again. "Brian," he breathed. His own voice. His own self. Brian caught him. He tore off the ski mask, dropped it, and pulled Tim close. Then he kissed him, hard and shaking, both hands in Tim's hair. Tim kissed him back. Alive. Present. Himself. But Tim's wound still bled. And with no pills left, the dark would come for him again. Next time, Masky might not let go.