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He shouldn’t’ve run off on his own, he knows that, he gets told that after every reckless decision he makes on a mission with a trembling voice and warm, shaking hands clutching his cheeks like he’d disappear into thin air if they let go. They were probably right to worry - he’d abandoned them before, fucked off to god-knows-where and done god-knows-what. He’d left his team behind so often yet he was always so surprised he still had one when he got back. Anyone with a brain would think he bets on them coming back, but every time he returns, he thinks this is the time everyone’s finally seen how awful it is to know him, how much better they’d be without him, how he should never have held place in their hearts.
Maybe that’s why he’s so reckless, so self-sacrificial.
Maybe part of him wants them to realise he’s no good for them, to move on with their lives without him, build something that doesn’t involve walking on eggshells because of a partner so prone to breaking, so easy to destroy, so…
Inconvenient.
Yeah, that was the word to describe him. Inconvenient. Synonyms; disruptive, troublesome, irritating, tiring, bothersome. He was a stain on so many peoples’ lives, haunting so many memories, invading so many happy times with an ever-looming darkness that hindered and consumed - the least he could do was sacrifice himself for the greater good of his team. Was it stupid? Undeniably, but he saw the opportunity and took it before his mind caught up to his body, before he even had time to be scared. The gas flooded his lungs so quick he didn’t even remember breathing it in before he started feeling fuzzy, voices and images a fraction of his subconscious knew couldn’t be real floating around him without even the slightest chance for the rational part of his mind reminding him it wasn’t really happening, he wasn’t really seeing his lovers’ disgusted faces, he wasn’t really overhearing them deciding to finally be rid of him as he stared, broken yet unsurprised, from his place knelt on the gritty, grimy floor of the warehouse Scarecrow had been working in. They’d not been anywhere near him when he entered, they couldn’t possibly be standing there - especially not unmasked - but the thing about fear toxin is that it doesn’t care for rationality nor plausibility, it just brings your worst insecurities to life, combines them with horrific moments in your past to make you think your memories of that moment were realer than what you’ve actually been through.
He knew this. He knew what he was up against. Arguably, that’s why he ran in without waiting for backup - he knew what he’d see, he knew what the others would see, and he decided that his struggles were far, far less than what anyone else had to go up against. Without input from anyone else, he decided that he should be the one fucked up this mission.
So, yeah. Undeniably stupid.
Even the twisted, taunting stolen voices of his lovers were saying so; “you always do this shit,” his name felt foreign when he heard these fakes say it, but it still cut straight to his core, “why can’t you just listen?” He tried! He was trying, wasn’t he? Trying to do better, be better, work better with his team despite not really belonging there. He said as much, voice weak against the hallucinations breaking him down. “I’m sorry-” He couldn’t help but wince at how pathetic he sounded. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I just- It couldn’t be you, either of you, I couldn’t let it be you..” Gods, was that really him speaking? Hearing himself now, he barely recognised his own voice. Something so strong, so powerful, chosen as a leader by people he dared call friends - could he even call them that anymore? - beaten down into nothing, into a weak whisper so fragile it was a wonder he hadn’t completely collapsed.
“Do you really believe us when we tell you we love you?” One fake partner asked, smirking down at him like a villain he’d’ve put away in an alternate timeline. “I do! I do, of course I do-” In his rush to say it, he’d stumbled over his words, fumbling before a cackle cut him off. “Why?” That had his blood running cold. “After everything you’ve done, do you really think you’re deserving of love? Our love? Because I don’t.” It was then that he remembered the amount of times he’d gotten up in the middle of the night, careful and slow to avoid waking the two he’d been tangled between, sneaking off to the balcony just to sit with his legs through the gaps in the railing and stare up at the sky, plagued with doubts of whether or not he should be in the same city as them - same country, even. He wasn’t good for them. Wasn’t good enough for them. A strangled, gurgled, wounded noise escaped him, prompting more laughter from the lovers standing in front of him as a montage of every time they didn’t say it back, every time he had to prompt them into saying it flashed before his eyes. Things made a lot more sense, then, when he gathered the will to look up at his partners. They were holding each other - one with a hand resting loosely on the other’s waist, and the other leaning into the embrace like he was the only one that fit there. It made sense. They were closer to each other than he was, it made sense that he didn’t fit.
It broke his heart, but he understood it. “Looking after you is such a fucking chore sometimes.” The other fake chimed in, eager to tear into the poor guy as if he hadn’t been through enough today already. “Some days, the cons vastly outweigh the pros of keeping you around.” The hallucination knelt in front of the broken hero, gripping his chin with hands he used to find so much comfort in. “I know you’ve thought about it, honey. You think we don’t notice when you wallow, when you start thinking about how much better we’d be without you taking up space, but the truth is we just don’t care. It’s too exhausting, trying to fix you. Too much effort.” His face was roughly dropped as his lover stepped back, wiping a hand on his shirt as if touching him left a stain on his skin the same way it left a stain on his life. He could see the hallucination’s lips moving, he could hear jumbled, distorted sounds coming from it, but none of them made any sense. None of his surroundings made any sense anymore - where was he? It was warmer here. Familiar. Comfier, too, if he only took the time to notice the rug he’d fallen onto. His fingers curled into the fibres, tugging at them as if the strands were his own hair, yanking as if he could unravel it in the same way he’d been pulled apart, each stitch and seam torn open to reveal a mess of things he’d never even tried to understand.
He’d get lectured about bleeding onto the carpet, he knew, but he was home. Was this home? Was he allowed to call this home? Did he deserve to call this home? He wasn’t sure anymore. He used to call this home, too, he realised as he tripped and fell against the bed just barely big enough for three, still messy from the late morning they’d shared. When did he get here? How did he get here? A glance cast back over his shoulder, vision swimming with the speed of it, reveals a path of chaos and his two partners inspecting the damage he’d caused. The damage he’d always caused. He felt like he was seeing into both the past and the future, watching himself fuck up what precious little good he had left in his mercilessly cruel life, observing uselessly as he was found with disappointment and distaste. “I’m sorry,” He whispered over and over again until his throat hurt, until he tasted copper, until he was no longer sure his rambling took the form of actual words and not just weakly sobbed noises. There was movement at the front door, already half open from when he’d fallen into it god knows how long ago - remembering that made his body hurt, the bruise from the doorhandle against his hip throbbing dully - and he could vaguely make out voices coming towards him.
It could’ve been anyone. If he was followed, which he absolutely didn’t doubt given that he wasn’t exactly careful on his way back, it could’ve been someone coming back to finish the job Scarecrow started. But he couldn’t find it in him to care. He allowed them to come closer, he allowed them to approach him, seeing the broken shards of who he once was scattered around on the floor of a bedroom that he was slowly realising lacked his personalised touch.