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Run boy, run

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Run boy run! The sun will be guiding you
Run boy run! They’re dying to stop you
Run boy run! This race is a prophecy
Run boy run! Break out from society

Six text. I got six text and a voicemail that no, I ain’t going to listen beacuse I hate voicemails, and phone calls, and ugh, my head hurts so bad.
There was just no way he’d get out of bed today, not after the night out with Darlene and some so called friends of hers wich bored him so much that he went on autopilot and took out nearly a whole bottle of vodka on his own. Which no, Elliot, that’s no good.
Six text and a voicemail, and I’m sure the texts are Darlene asking if I’m even alive this morning.
Which left the voicemail. Darlene never left those, she knew how they made him feel, so it must have been someone else.
Maybe the job. Must have been the job. Or someone trying to sell him something. Or. What. The. Fuck.
He jumped in his bed when Angela barged in, blaring something about somethink wrong and she was asking him, which, weird, and why the fuck was your door open Elliot wich, right, he was so drunk he left it open the night before.
Angela was still talking, but the buzz in his ears wouldn’t let him understand, and then she was asking him about a voicemail.
“Was that you?”
God, his voice sounded like shit.
“Yes, Elliot, it was me asking you where the hell you were and why weren’t you answering your phone, and why weren’t you with us”
“Sorry, Angela”
Angela just shook his head, blonde hair flying everywhere. Strange, she was always so neat.
Wait a sec.
“With you where?”
“At work, Elliot” Angela took a sit on his bed, close to him. So close to him he could smell her, and she always smelled sooooo good. “There’s a problem with Tyrell”
Can’t let him out of my view for a second. He almost smiled. Almost. Angela’s face wasn’t promising. He cleared his thoat trying to put on his shoes without tripping on the laces. No such luck.
“Uh. What problem, what do you mean?”
“No idea, Elliot. We just can’t find him. That’s why we need you to do your thing. Hack him, find him, do what you do.”
“We, who?”
“You. Me. Darlene. Come on, Elliot”
There is something wrong. This is wrong. It’s wrong wrong wrong. Darlene hates Tyrell. Angela doesn’t really like him.
Him? Well, that was a whole different story.
“Elliot, please. He didn’t come to work today. Aren’t you two togheter in some way?”
Some way. That was a funny way to put it. But yes, they were. In some way that didn’t implicate anything too clingy or needy or...something. Something. Tyrell was supposed to be home the night before, working late from his laptop. Elliot had agreed to get out with Darleene just because she was getting worried over him again.
And again. And again.
Elliot picked up his phone. Angela’s voicemail. Five texts from Darlene.
One from Tyrell. Wich read “Sorry”, just that.
Shit. Oh, shit.

NY streets looked the same, and he wondered how was it possible when he felt like his lungs were going to explode and his stomach was doing somersaults down there. It had been easy to track Tyrell down: he had just pinpointed his location when the man himself had called, strained voice and lilting accent.
“Can you please come and get me?”
And Elliot did. Oh God, he did. And he was so fucking scared.

He was to the arcade. The fucker had driven his car up to the arcade, and how the fuck could Angela not think about it, really?
Was he drunk? Was he driving drunk? Was he, uh?
Elliot ran, and he hated running, really. It always left him winded. It meant he was scared, and anxious. He hated it. He ran anyway.
The door wasn’t locked
Thanks fuck, Tyrell must have forced it somehow
but the light wasn’t on and God, it smelled like dust and grease in there. And some strange kind of nostalgia and longing. The feeling that eveything could have gone better.
But it didn’t, right? It fucking didn’t.
“Tyrell?” He tried. No answer. Elliot lit his phone on and tried to take a look around. Crap, the place was a real mess, broken stuff, litter, dirt.
He was sitting with his back against the pop corn machine, broken glass all around him, dark grey slacks covered in dust. The machine’s iron leg was supporting his head and he looked oh, so tired, bt not drunk at all. Elliot couldn’t stop looking at him, he feared that if he moved that faint figure of a man would disappear, turn into a ghost e and vanish on him.
At least, he’s not drunk.
Tyrell didn’t acknowledge him right away: he blinked, and moved to turn his head with a sluggish movement. Even that tiny gesture seemed to drain him. That’s when Elliot felt the glue keeping his feet nailed to the floor disappear and he ran to him
I hate running
crouching in front of two hazy blue eyes.
He called him again, one hand reaching out to grip Tyrell’s knee, the other on the ground, careful of the glass. Tyrell seemed to recognise him just then, squeezing his fingers.
“You came”
He rasped, face crumbling.
“You came”
What the fuck?
Elliot was looking at him, fear dancing on every inch of his skin. Was he wounded? There was no blood, he looked fine. So, what the fuck?
“Tyrell, what happened?”
Elliot watched him shake his head, bangs moving to cover his closed eyes.
“I don’t know, I just...I don’t know. Sorry. I’m sorry”
“No. No. Hey” Hands on his arms, Elliot could feel Tyrell’s whole body tremble “No need to be sorry. Come on. What’s happening?”
And that was it: Tyrell’s eyes filled with fury, throat tightening, and he screamed. He fucking screamed that he didn’t know. He just didn’t know. One second he had everything under control, the next he was running to his car without even knowing what he was doing and then he was there at the arcade, and he couldn’t get up and he was so scared, you know?
“I’m scared, and I don’t know, and I’m sorry, and breathing hurts so fucking much”
“It’s ok, alright? You’re ok, it’s ok”
Elliot’s hands weren’t on him anymore: he kept them open, palms up, asking for permission. When Tyrell didn’t flinch, trying to move away, Elliot cupped his jaw and forced him to look up.
“It’s ok, Tyrell. You’re stressed, you flipped. It happens”
Tyrell was looking at him with huge blue eyes, disbelief etched in his features, and when he shook his head Elliot’s hands left his face.
Elliot watched while Tyrell let his head fall on his knees, hands clenching around his ankles, breath short.
“It’s not that” He mumbled “It’s not that”
“Then what is it?”
Exhale, inhale. Right.
Elliot sat down in front of him, legs crossed, hands in his pockets. Tyrell just shook his head again, letting his forehead loll on his bent knees.
“It’s hit me. All at once. I can manage stress. This doesn’t feel like stress”
Elliot nearly smiled. Nearly. Tyrell could manage stress alright when he had something to destroy. This reaction, though, was too big. Too big and confused, and extreme, and he knew that it sounded a lot like Tyrell, but it looked like this wasn’t the case.
What is it then, what is this?
“What do you mean” Elliot hummed, wetting his lips “What do you mean all at once?”
Tyrell’s head came up so quickly Elliot feared a whiplash, but then he heard him laughing, and it gave him the chills. It was deranged. It sounded insane.
“Go figure” He giggled when the bouts of laughters started to calm down “You remember barely half of it all, I’m sure. I don’t even know where to start”
It hurt, honestly. Mr Robot had robbed him of so much...time, and having Tyrell rub it in his face hurt. A lot. It must have shown, because he felt Tyrell’s trembling hand on his arm.
“Uh. No, Elliot. I didn’t...I didn’t mean like that”
He looked up, scrutinizing the man he had sitting in front of him, from his undone hair, huge blue eyes, creased shirt, trembling hands. He looked so, so, so not alright. Hi bit his bottom lip.
“What was it then?”
Tyrell seemed to deflate, eyebrows knitting togheter.
“I had no one”
The swede smiled again, but it wasn’t crazed: it looked so sad.
“I had no one. While I was with Dark Army, I mean. No one really”
Oh, right. Shit. He’s right.
He felt like an asshole. He had had Darlene
That was working for FBI
Who used him to help them blow seventyfuckingone buildings full of people

But at least he had them. Who could have Tyrell gone to talk, or get help? Just Irving. And the guy was scary as fuck, and twice as crazy. And his wife was dead, while his son was lost to the system. The whole 9/5 and Phase Two mess was hitting him all at once, hard, he realized.
“I still haven’t understood if I got someone now”
Elliot had big eyes, you know. They became comically huge when he heard Tyrell say that.
“No, no. Hey. Tyrell, that’s not true”
Tyrell just eyed him, nodding.
“Can know. Go home?”
Elliot jumped up offering him his hand, helping him get up, keeping him on his feet when he swayed.
“Mine or yours?”
Tyrell shrugged.
“Don’t really care”
He sounded distant, now. Even cold. Elliot stopped him with a hand on his chest. God, sometimes the height difference made him feel so tiny.
“Just...let me” He loosened Tyrell’s tie “You’ll breathe better with this thing off”
Tyrell nodded again, mute as a fucking fish, letting Elliot take his tie off.
“You have me, you know”
Tyrell froze, eyes moving to find him, upper lip trapped between his teeth. He swallowed.
“You came”
Back to the rasping, strained voice he had when he’d found him in the arcade. He sounded incredulous.
“Yes, I came. Because you have me. Alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, ok. Yeah”