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When Tim and Brian are let out alone, probably for the first and only time, Tim is on autopilot and doesn't say much at all. Perhaps he's co-fronting, not entirely there, or just generally dissociative, but Brian doesn't notice. They're not talking at this stage: Tim still shudders when he looks at how bloodied and bruised Brian is from the fall - the supernatural power that brought him back seemingly unable to establish what his body looked like before it bled out internally from blunt trauma - and Brian is still angry over Tim "lying". And his death, he supposes. Either way, the kill they'd been sent out to do was in Alabama, and now it was all finished they had some time to kill until the next nightfall. Tim was still pretty bloodied, and he'd regret not going back to the house earlier to start soaking his clothes in cold water, but right now he was busy following a routine he hadn't even really thought about since Brian's revival.
Through the back lanes of the countryside, Brian's only a little put off when he realises they're not anywhere near any real civilisation (how he didn't notice before is a mystery. Perhaps he was far into his own mind, too) and gets quite pissed off when he glances at the car's GPS and realises how long they've been driving and how far out they are.
"Where the fuck are we going?" He's too hostile, he knows he is, and he knows Tim's just going to snap back and create a feedback loop of bitterness. It's happened too many times to count since Tim stopped ignoring him. But, to Brian's annoyance (and, somewhat relief), Tim doesn't respond. If Brian had noticed the vacant look in Tim's eye he might've even been a little worried that Tim was driving in the first place. But, he doesn't, perhaps being ignorant on purpose, and just rolls his eyes. "Tim, where are we going?" He's insistent, bordering on angry. It's the first time since Brian originally disappeared that he's actually addressed Tim by name. Brian doesn't realise this. (If Tim wasn't out of it, he would've picked up on it. He would've cried about it later, like he does with everything else holed up in his room that the two of them are meant to share.)
Tim's busy tapping his fingers on the wheel, grinding his teeth like he does when he's anxious. He isn't anxious, not really, just playing out his routine when even his medication (tapping the wheel with it to make sure there's still plenty left) couldn't take his heart back down from his throat. It's three in the morning, a similar time he used to get off of shift, from Before. From after.
He's driving home.
Brian gives up and he doesn't bother following up again, instead leaning back on the car seat headrest and closing his eyes. He's hungry, but worst case scenario the two of them will be back to the house within twenty hours, through dubiously supernatural means. He'll live, even if he punches Tim along the way for being stupid and wasting precious time out of the house.
...That's just not true. The chances of physical violence, even now, are pretty low. They always have been with Tim.
It's another good hour before Tim pulls up to some random hamlet, with maybe six or seven concrete house-cum-blocks. Following routine, Tim taps his medication bottle (the wheel) for security. He's already taken today's dose, and he can't risk taking more unnecessarily incase the doctors start to think he's overdosing.
Brian had been dozing when Tim got out of the car. He can feel the cool air from outside, but the door is already shut before he can really process what the hell Tim is doing. He sighs, reserved to stay put and just yell at him later or whatever, and watches as Tim walks away. The limp in his gait is more prominent today. Brian might've been concerned on any other day, especially Before, but he's tired and confused and more than a little pissed off. He still watches Tim, though. Watching as he rounds into the weedy garden of the house sat to the left of the car.
Tim doesn't notice the smell of rot coming from his house. It was never really a home, he only lived in the building for about a year - unless he was missing time, but even then he would've noticed if he was missing large chunks. He avoids the building altogether, rounding to the side and sitting on the grass infront of the biggest rock he could find at the time of searching for one. It's probably about as wide as his two fists combined and only just a little taller than that. He sometimes wishes he could've found something bigger, but he was pretty distraught at the time given that all of his friend's corpses had disappeared to wherever the operator took them. He was hoping at least Brian would've been left behind, but he wasn't at the school, nor was he in the hospital where Alex had taunted him.
One rock to represent them all. Every single time he has sat down here after work, Tim has had the same train of thought: he probably should've gotten three, but he didn't, and now he doesn't have the time.
...He's starting to forget them anyway. Alex and Jay are figures in his life that he recognises he was close to, but he's starting to feel more disconnected by the day. The operator does that to you. Seizure after seizure connected with some bullshit alternate personality and dissociative spells removes a lot from you, mentally. Robs a lot from you. He's already losing the guilt he had from stabbing Alex. From not protecting Jay like he should've.
He's forgetting how awful Brian was during the later years of the godforsaken youtube channel. Or at the very least, he's starting to not care. All that sticks is watching Alex flaunt his corpse and knowing that Brian would probably be alive if he hadn't had just let him bleed out on the floor. Was the operator even there then? Tim can't recall. He hasn't checked the channel and doesn't want to. He probably never will.
Sometimes he's started thinking this stupid grave as just Brian's. There's no name engraved, although he was tempted once, it would just look pathetic. Possibly a little psychotic to his neighbours. He avoids thinking of it too hard, but when he's sat here it's hard to avoid the thought completely. Does he remember his childhood? College? The years before Marble Hornets used to be his clearest, but Tim doesn't want to test it. He doesn't want to misremember. He doesn't want to realise he's forgotten the best time of his life. Forgotten his best friend (lover) in the final years before he went and disappeared.
Brian stands a few feet behind him, solemn. Tim's sat with his legs crossed, and it really can't be comfortable, not with those jeans, but he hasn't moved since Brian approached him. Just sat there, picking at the grass. The sight makes his mouth dry, and he has to swallow down a lump in his throat.
"What're you doing?" He asks, almost a whisper- far more gentle than he has been recently. A splinter of regret echoes through him. There's a pause before there's any response, and Brian's debating if Tim is just deliberating or if he should just repeat himself.
"Grieving." His voice is tight but incredibly quiet, to the point where Brian almost thinks he hasn't heard anything at all. It's probably Tim speaking, then, because the masked man doesn't use his voice. Or, something closer to Tim than the masked man. Brian isn't privy to the intricacies of it, but to be fair he's pretty sure Tim isn't, either. He recalls Tim describing his experience of the psych ward as a child, and to be honest the doctors just seemed glad that the anticonvulsants and antipsychotics made him functional enough to check out.
Brian takes a few steps forward, ending up standing beside Tim. Before, he would've bent down - get on his level. Brian doesn't want to do that right now. He doesn't want to be so close.
"Who?" Brian asks, and is pretty sure in any other social situation he'd be shunned, but they've always been pretty blunt with eachother. Even so, Brian mentally rolls his eyes at himself. He has the tact of an elephant. Looking down, there's a life in Tim's eyes Brian hadn't caught before in the car.
Tim turns his head upwards and stares at him. "You."
Brian doesn't have anything to say to that. He just looks away and stares at the distant mountains. The view is similar to the one out of his dorm window from college, just with less city interference. He wonders if Tim ever recognised the familiar similarity.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tim go back to staring at his rock.
Brian's grave.
Brian takes a deep, long breath. He finally lowers himself, and sits beside Tim. He's staring at his side profile for a long while before he speaks, low and croaky: "I'm driving back, okay?"
Tim blinks, once. Slowly. "Okay."
---
"Do you remember college?" Tim asks, almost timid, but not completely out of it anymore. The car ride has been silent up to this point.
"Yeah." Brian is almost reluctant to answer: he doesn't appreciate where he feels this conversation is going. His heart rate goes up and he grips the steering wheel just that much harder. He's about to ask Tim to shut up, but the words get stuck in his throat and it feels impossible to stop this conversation carting headfirst into pathetic, senseless nostalgia (regret).
But, one glance at Tim soothes just a little of that. Just a little.
"Me too," and there's obvious relief in Tim's face. He shuts his eyes. He pauses as if thinking, recalling something back to the forefront of his memory. After a moment, he just smiles, reiterating: "Me too."
He doesn't say anything else. Neither of them do.