#magnus is craaaaaaaaaazyyy!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

takiniteasynightcoreremix · 1 month

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murdermag angst.... murdermangst? tw suicide

Murderface never experienced night terrors until he met Magnus. Where other people are awoken by their own minds, Murderface is woken by grasping hand, a violent shaking of his shoulder, a crazed face inches from his own and a venomous voice hissing his name.

"William, wake up. Wake the fuck up."

"Wha--?"

"Wake up. Talk me out of killing myself right fucking now."

He sees his best friend in the moonlight and then he sees the glint of the knife. When Murderface sits up, Magnus draws back, revealing the length of a sharpened hunting knife arcing from his hands and towards his bare chest.

"Holy schit," Murderface breathes, "Shit, jusch-- jusch calm down!"

"I'll do it," Magnus vows. "I'll fucking do it!"

"Magnus, shut up!" Murderface's voice is a whisper, and he gestures frantically to his side.

On the other side of the room, stretched out and dozing lightly, Skwisgaar lays on a floor mattress of his own, facing the wall.

This silences Magnus. He freezes, the icy comet of his knife hovering over his sternum. The pause is enough of a grace period that Murderface can climb out of his sheets and crawl over. He unfurls Magnus' shaking arms from his chest and coaxes him to his feet. They are very careful not to wake the band.

There is a festering, infected wound hidden deep in the core of Magnus' personality. Sometimes it splits open and the rot inside turns him into a wild animal. The band knows that Magnus is crazy, but they seem to think it starts and ends with his narcissism, his erratic decisions and tendency towards paranoia. This-- the wide-eyed, violent, sentient arterial bleed of a man that emerges werewolf-like to lay his surroundings to waste-- is an aspect of him that both Magnus and Murderface try very, very hard to hide.

When Murderface steers his best friend out of the room he shares with Skwisgaar, out through the living room past Nathan dozing in front of the TV and Pickles asleep on an air-mattress in the kitchen, they do so on tip-toes, and they are both deathly silent until they reach the balcony. Magnus still holds the knife.

When they are outside, Magnus lurches towards the railing, and Murderface throws his body like a barrier between him and the edge. "Dude, schtop it!" he hisses, careful not to raise his voice. "What isch wrong with you?"

"Fucking move!" Magnus replies, in a whisper that wants to be a sob. "I'm doing it this time! I'm serious!"

"What happened?"

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you, you're acting crazy!--"

Magnus is on him before Murderface can defend himself, shoving him up against the balcony railing. Large hands ball up his shirt, the knife comes to rest against his neck, and for a second Murderface thinks Magnus is going to push him, or cut his throat-- his brief, pathetic life passes before his eyes-- but his feet remain on the ground and his jugular remains intact and Magnus is just a thin weak lunatic clinging to him for dear life. Neither of them die, then, but they might as well have, because instead of shoving him, Magnus collapses against Murderface and weeps.

Murderface has never heard Magnus cry before. It's a witches' curse of a sound, it paralyses him. Wetness blooms against his shoulder where that tangled head meets his neck, and Magnus' fingers are claws, trying to break open Murderface's chest, searching for succor in his limp little heart.

It's not crying as Murderface has ever heard it, and he's not even fully sure that it is crying, except for the tears; Magnus is wheezing, hiccuping, spasming as if having a fit, and clinging to him like a frightened child.

"Magnus," whispers Murderface, petrified, "What happened to you?"

But Magnus only shakes his head.

Murderface is young, and selfish, and cowardly, and stupid. He doesn't know how to care about people and when he does it it's invariably an accident. When he wraps his arms around Magnus the gesture is clumsy and frightened; it's not love so much as it is triage, it's not an embrace but an attempt to stem a leak.

"Schit," he whispers, "Come on, pull yourself together. You're acting like a chick."

The criticism pierces Magnus and he shudders on impact. "Shut up," he whimpers (whimpers!). "I know I am, but shut up."

"Well, schtop! Stop acting like some chick."

"And what if I am?" Magnus surges up and once more Murderface braces to be shoved over the balcony. That dear tear-soaked familiar face contorts with homicidal rage. "I'm no better than a fucking chick, you want me to be a chick? Bend me over this fucking rail, then, come on, it's the only pussy you'll ever fucking get!"

"Jesusch! What the fuck?"

"You little freak, no chick would ever--"

"Magnus, holy schit!"

Magnus is in his arms and Murderface doesn't know how he got there but when Magnus crumples, it's Murderface who catches him. He drags Magnus' head against his shoulder with one hand, and with the other, he finds the knife, which he gently eases out of Magnus' vice-like grasp. Magnus is far beyond stopping it-- he's limp, out of his mind, and Murderface feels the sobs that run through Magnus as if they're running through himself. For someone he views as his only protector, Magnus scares him an awful lot.

Over that curly head, Murderface sees a light turn on in the living room. Has someone from the band awoken?

"I want to die," Magnus is saying into Murderface's shoulder. "I hate my fucking life, I want to die, I want to die."

"No you don't," says Murderface. That's what Magnus always says to him, when he's suicidal. "You just need a schnack or something."

"I need to kill myself."

"No, you jusch need, like… some baked beans."

Through the grief a hysterical little laugh breaks through. "Beans?" Magnus hiccups, incredulous, "I don't want your fucking beans."

"Yeah you do. I've got some in my pocket."

"You've got beans in your pocket?"

"Yeah, want schome?"

"You've just got loose fucking beans in your pocket?"

"Fuck that! They're in a can."

Magnus laughs in disbelief. "Can of beans in your pocket. Pyjama beans."

"Yeah, in case I need a little midnight schnack."

Another shaky little laugh. Magnus clings to Murderface in a way that's painful, wracked with hiccupy sobs. "Pyjama beans," he mumbles, as if entertaining the solution. "You goddamn weirdo."

Murderface's eye remains on the front window all the while, bracing himself for the inevitable moment one of their bandmates will come out and discover the awful truth: that not only is Magnus insane, but that Murderface cares for him deeply. He cradles Magnus' head against his shoulder and awkwardly rubs his bony back.

"Let'sch go sit in your truck," Murderface whispers. "Okay?"

"Okay," Magnus echoes, hollowed-out. "Okay."

"Okay. Walking down the schtairs now! Okay."

Without breaking the embrace, they shuffle down the stairs. This is profoundly uncomfortable: Magnus holds so tightly onto Murderface that it's hard to move, and Murderface is bare-foot and in his pyjamas, having rushed them both outside before dressing. He drops the knife on the porch before they start walking but he's sure Magnus has three others hidden in his trousers and this worries him. What if Magnus freaks out again? What if Magnus attacks him? What if he sends them both plummeting down the concrete stairs?

His worrying is for nothing, because something has fully broken Magnus tonight, and all he does is shiver and let Murderface steer him down to the ground level.

It's only when they draw up outside of the truck, when Murderface puts his hand on the door, that Magnus speaks. "Get in the back."

"Why?"

"Just get in the fucking back or I'll--" Magnus' head jerks upwards, his hands flail around his sides. "You took my fucking knife. Didn't you? You little shit!"

"Okay, Jesusch, sorry, I'll get in the back!" Murderface raises his hands over his head and backs towards the tray of the truck. "You don't have to threaten to schtab me, sheesh!"

He climbs into the tray of the truck. There's an old mattress back there, now moldy and stagnant, but still serviceable for those with low enough standards once the protective tarp is pulled aside. Murderface pauses at the edge of it, but then Magnus appears out of the darkness like a spectre, climbing in behind him.

"Lie down," whispers Magnus.

"What…?"

"Do it!"

Uneasy, Murderface pushes aside the tarp and drops his bony ass onto a moldering wool blanket. He hopes that will be enough, but when Magnus looms over him his resolve breaks, and he inches backwards, and then lies down. The mattress reeks of dust, eliciting a cough, and the blanket below him is scratchy and damp on his bare skin.

Magnus descends on the space next to him. They are lit only by a sallow yellow streetlight some distance from them, and his wet cheeks gleam.

Breathless with fear, Murderface watches as Magnus slumps into the mattress himself, and turns his back to Murderface, and curls up.

Several seconds of silence pass before Murderface gathers his resolve. "Uh, Magnus?" He speaks in a whisper. "What schould I do…?"

A long moment without an answer. Magnus' shoulders are a tense black rectangle lit by ugly urban glow.

And then Magnus says: "… Can you just hold me for a while?"

There is nothing intimate in this. There is no uncomfortable stirred-up feelings to trigger Murderface's perpetual sexuality crisis. There is only his best friend being laid to waste by his own mind, and Murderface's feeble attempts at first aid. He rolls over and fits his scrawny torso to Magnus' back like a dressing over a wound, and tucks an arm around Magnus' stomach, and presses his face into a mess of black messy hair.

This close he can smell the sweat and stale cigarette smoke and the sour unsavoury stench of someone's body, the fading odor of the coconut oil that Magnus uses in his hair. This close, he can feel that Magnus is trembling, and the shudder that ripples through his abdomen when Murderface splays a palm across his chest.

And he can feel the rumble of a voice when Magnus speaks. "Someone hurt me," Magnus admits in a miserable whisper. "Someone hurt me real bad."

"That sucks," says Murderface. And then, "We don't have to talk about it."

So they don't talk about it. They lie there together, while Magnus pulls himself back together, while Murderface breathes through his terror and lays close to the only man he'll ever hold.

#my fic #magnus is craaaaaaaaaazyyy!!!!

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