Dead Set. || PURPLEPHONE

To Kill A Mockingbird

((Forewarning: I feel like this chapter is very different to my usual style, kind of metaphorical and spacey. If it seems out of character, I apologise. Sometimes my writing style changes randomly.))

"It's weird," Scott said, lying sprawled back on the bed. He stared at the ceiling fan as it lazily swung around.

"Hmm?" Vincent turned to look at him over his shoulder from the other side of the room, where he was putting their washing away. "What's weird?" 

"I don't feel..." Scott frowned, trying to think of the words, "Upset. I mean... I feel upset, but... William... is dead, and it's my fault! Sh-Shouldn't I be... Shouldn't I be... worse? Shouldn't I be absolutely shattered? Guttered? Depressed beyond belief?"

Vincent looked at Scott sympathetically and turned back to where he was putting his shirt in the cupboard. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? Aren't you feeling the same way as me?" Scott propped himself up on his elbows. "I mean... don't you feel... empty? Too?"

"Uhh..." Vincent shrugged, "I guess I've dealt with a lot of grief in my life. Maybe it's just stopped hurting as much." 

"But..." Scott groaned. And then he snapped his fingers, "Alright. How about your parents? How did you feel after they... passed? You said it was a car accident, right? How did you react to the news?"

"Well," Vincent drew out the 'l', closing the cupboard door once and for all and walking away from it, facing Scott, "It was a long time ago, now. I was eighteen. I don't really dwell on it." 

"I don't mean now, do I, though?" Scott sighed, his patience starting to wear thin. "You know what I mean. How did you feel at that day, at that moment?"

Vincent made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, "I dunno. If you're so worried about how you feel, why don't you ask Linda? Maybe she can help."

"Yeah, right," Scott rolled his eyes, "And have her force me to go to counselling every week for the next six months? 'Take a deep breath, Mr Adams, and let it all out. Why don't you tell us how you're feeling?'" He chirped sarcastically.

"Maybe it's just the concussion," Vincent sat on the end of the bed. He reached up, pressing the back of his fingers to Scott's forehead. "Maybe it's just mixed with your hormones. Maybe you're in denial. That's possible, too, you know." He smiled, "It'll all turn out alright." 

"Yeah..." Scott gave half a smile, "Maybe."

"You're funny," Vincent took his fingers away again. "Why do you want to feel bad?"

"Well, that's being human, isn't it?" Scott asked. "I want to grieve. I want to be able to miss him. I want to hurt, so I can heal. It'll be giving him justice."

Vincent snorted, "That seems a little stupid, doesn't it? I mean, it's a romantic notion but... isn't it more like... the quicker you get over it the better? I get he died, but-" Vincent abruptly stopped talking, because he'd just looked back at Scott and seen that his face was ashen grey, his brown eyes wide and watery. 

"Ah..." he swallowed slightly, "I guess that was... a little too soon. Of course it was. I'm sorry."

"I think I'm going to go to sleep," Scott didn't directly reply to Vincent, looking away from him. "Sorry, but... my concussion's playing up." 

"Good idea," Vincent agreed readily, bobbing his head. "Do you want me to go make you a cup of tea? I can bring you a Panadol if you like."

"Yeah, sure," Scott smiled weakly. "That'd be nice, thank you."

Vincent nodded again and got up off of the bed, standing, "And Scott? Sorry if I come off as a bit... numb. I guess I... deal with grief a little differently. I'm... used to blocking all these kind of emotions out. I pretend like it's no big deal so that I convince myself it's no big deal. It's my coping mechanism."

Scott blinked at him, and he nodded, "I understand. We've just got to be... gentle with each other over the next few days."

"Yeah..." Vincent smiled once more, and turned on his heel, walking out of the bedroom.

Scott sighed, falling back on the bed once more. He held his hands over his eyes. Why had everything become so confusing? It might have been just the concussion, or the medication that was wearing off from earlier, but all his thoughts and emotions seemed to be swirling around in his mind at once. He had that unsettling feeling of being uncomfortable, but not knowing what was making him feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was that Vincent was acting strange. Or maybe he was the one acting strangely. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he felt awful, and maybe sleeping would make it go away. 

He closed his eyes and tried to relax. There was a dim throbbing in his head and he tried to focus on it. It might sound weird, but he always thought there was something oddly relaxing about listening to his own pulse. It calmed him, made him remember that he was here, and he was alive. He smiled softly to himself as a feeling of security blanketed him, and darkness creeped in over the edges of his mind.

--

Vincent opened the door and stared at the scene in front of him. "Typical."

Scott was lying on the bed, his chest rising and falling, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. He was beautiful, lying like that. Like something out of a movie. Prince Charming. Vincent wondered if he knew how handsome he was. Probably not. It seemed to be a custom with Scott to be constantly worried about the way he was presenting himself. He was funny. It was so interesting to watch him, to hear him think and speak.

Everything about him reminded Vincent of a bird. It sounded odd, he knew, but he just couldn't shake the thought out of his mind. He was so small-boned and fragile, just like a bird. He was always worried about his looks in the same way that a bird preens itself constantly, even though it already has a wonderful set of feathers. The way he thought and spoke was so refreshing, and different, and oddly entrancing, like birdsong. His life was something that could so, so easily be ended... and yet seemed too beautiful to waste.

He's a mockingbird, Vincent decided, as he lifted Scott's tea to his mouth and took a sip. After all, you can shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit them, but it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.