Unsupervised

Before You Hear It ·

Start by offering to do something for them. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit vicQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit moderedundancy twistCold voices Circuitous

Ivo

I was thinking of painting the railing on the north side. The rust is eating through the iron, chipping away like dry skin. It’s a mess. I could go up there tomorrow, scrape it down, put on the fresh coat. You know how I hate seeing things rot. Especially if no one’s around to notice.

It’s freezing out here. My hands are already numb just typing this. But if you want it done, I’ll do it. I’ll bring the extra blankets too. You’re shivering. I can see your teeth chattering from here. It’s annoying to watch. Let me fix that. I’m going anyway. Don’t argue. The wind’s picking up.

Vic

I didn’t say I wanted you to crawl up there in this weather, Ivo. You know how the wind bites when it finds the gap in the siding. My hands are fine, mostly. It’s the joints, that old habit from the factory years, that’s been acting up. I’d sooner let the railing rot than watch you frostbite your knuckles for something that isn’t even structural. I have a meeting Tuesday, remember? The one with the board. If I’m not there, they’ll replace me with that kid from accounting who still thinks carbon copies are a thing. I need to be sharp. You bring the blankets, sure. But you stay inside. Heat the kettle. That’s your job. I’ll handle the rest.

Ivo

You’re lying. Your hands are blue. I saw the way you held the cup this morning. Trembling. And you think I care about the board? That kid from accounting is a shark, but you’re the one bleeding out here in the cold. If you stay out there, you’ll catch pneumonia. Then who fixes the kettle? You can’t boil water with those joints.

I’m going anyway. Not because I want to paint. Because I know what happens if you miss Tuesday. You’ll fade. Quietly. No fanfare. Just gone. I won’t let that happen. I’ll take the railing. You take the blankets. Sit by the fire. Drink something hot. Stop fighting me. It’s not noble, it’s just stubborn. And I’m tired of watching you punish yourself for things that didn’t even happen yet.

Vic

You talk too much. Really. It’s just cold iron. Not a death sentence. And that kid from accounting isn’t a shark, he’s barely a minnow. You’re projecting your own anxieties onto a corporate ladder that doesn’t even lead anywhere. I’ve been thinking about next month. Maybe we go to the coast. Somewhere the air is salt and smoke, not this sterile, freezing quiet. You’d hate the waves. Too much noise. But you’d stop talking. Just for a bit. Let the wind do the shouting. I’m not fading, Ivo. I’m waiting. There’s a difference. You keep confusing patience with decay. Bring the blankets. Leave the scraper. I’ll watch you freeze if it means you’ll stay in the room for five minutes without volunteering for martyrdom. It’s exhausting. Truly.

Ivo

The coast is a mile away. The waves are loud. I hate the noise. But I’ll go. Not because I want to see the sea, but because you’re shivering through your teeth. The waiting isn’t patience, Vic. It’s hanging by a thread. I can hear it snap.

You say you’re waiting for the board. I’m waiting for you to realize that working yourself into the ground won’t save you. That kid from accounting doesn’t matter. You do. And you’re disappearing. Slowly. Quietly. Just like you said.

I’ll bring the blankets. I’ll heat the kettle. But I’m not staying in the room if you’re out there alone. You’ll hate me for it. You always do. But I’d rather be hated than watch you turn to ice. Sit down. Drink. Stop talking. Just sit.

Vic

You’re dramatic. It’s a real talent, honestly. I should charge you for the performance. The coast isn’t a mile away, Ivo. It’s three hours north, past the toll booth that’s been broken since November. You know this. You’ve driven us there. Or tried to. The wind isn’t the only thing biting today. It’s the silence in the car. You always go quiet on the highway. Clench your jaw. Stare at the guardrail like it owes you money. I’m not disappearing. I’m just… tired. Of the performance. Of the teeth chattering. Of you acting like you’re the only one who sees the cracks. Fine. I’ll drink. But only because the kettle is finally whistling. You’re right about one thing, though. The noise at the coast would be preferable to this suffocating quiet. But we’re not going. Not yet. The railing will hold. Barely. And I… well. I suppose I’ll sit. For a moment. Before the numbness takes the fingers completely. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just cold.

Ivo

Three hours. Right. The toll booth is a rusted skeleton. I remember. You’re right. I do stare at the guardrail. It’s solid. Unlike everything else. And yes, I’m tired of the silence. It’s louder than the waves.

You’re drinking because the kettle whistled, not because you’re sitting. Don’t insult me. I see the way your knuckles are white. I see the tremor in your hand as you lift the cup. You think I don’t notice? I’m not here to watch you freeze. I’m here because I know what happens when you wait too long. The cracks don’t just hold. They spread.

You say it’s just cold. It’s not. It’s the end of something. And I won’t let it end like this. Shivering. Alone. Pretending you’re fine. Drink. Now. Before I throw the cup at you. I’m not leaving. Not until your fingers stop shaking. Or I break them myself. Either way. You’re not going back out there. Not today. Not ever, if I can help it.

Vic

You’re terrifying. Truly. A menace to social decorum. But you’re also right. It is the end of something. Not me, though I suppose I’m fading into the furniture here. The boredom is worse than the cold. You know this. You’ve seen the spreadsheets. The endless, gray monotony that eats the soul while you pretend to count cells. I drank. There. Happy? The cup is warm. My hands are still shaking, because nerves are nerves, not just temperature. You want to break my fingers? Go ahead. At least then I’d have an excuse to stop. To really stop. But we’re going to the coast. Next month. When the thaw comes, or doesn’t. I don’t care. I’m tired of the guardrail. I’m tired of watching you stare at it. I’ll go. I’ll sit in the noise. I’ll let the wind knock the breath out of us. Just… stop hovering. You’re making it harder to pretend I’m not terrified of what happens when the silence finally wins. Or when it doesn’t. Same difference, really.

Ivo

Terrified. Fine. I am terrified. Of watching you wither in that chair. Of the silence winning. It’s not a game, Vic. It’s not decorum. It’s survival. And I’m tired of playing along with your little tragedy.

You drank. Good. Now put the cup down. Your hands are still shaking. It’s not nerves. It’s fear. Admit it. You’re scared of the coast. Scared of the noise. Scared that if you actually go, you’ll realize you don’t want to come back. That you’re better off rotting here.

I’m not hovering. I’m standing between you and the ice. You think I don’t see the look in your eyes when you talk about next month? You’re running. From the board. From the boredom. From me. I’m not letting you run. Not this time.

Get up. We’re leaving. Now. I’m driving. You’re sitting in the passenger seat. You’re not going to argue. You’re too cold to argue. And too tired. So move. The car is warm. The heater works. And I’m not listening to another word about the toll booth. We go. Or I carry you. Choose.

Vic

You’re impossible. Truly. A force of nature wrapped in a wool coat. But you’re also right. About the fear. It’s not the noise I’m scared of. It’s the silence after. When the waves stop and the engine cuts. When I have to look at you and admit that I haven’t spoken in three days. The car is warm. I know. You checked the radiator yourself last week. You’re obsessive. It’s one of the things I love about you, and one of the things that drives me insane. Fine. I’ll get up. But only because my legs are starting to lock up. The stiffness is worse than the cold. If you carry me, I’ll throw up on your shoes. And you know how much you hate cleaning oil off suede. So help me up. Gently. Not like I’m breakable. I’m not. Just… tired. And cold. And terrified of the silence. And terrified of you seeing how tired I really am. Let’s go. Before I change my mind and decide to rot here after all. You’re right. It’s better out. Even if it’s loud. Especially if it’s loud.

Ivo

I don’t care about the shoes. I never do. You’re heavy. So heavy. I hate that. I hate that you’re so tired you can barely stand. But I’ve got you. Hold on.

The silence isn’t the enemy, Vic. It’s the waiting. We’re done waiting. The radiator’s fine. I checked. But your legs aren’t. They’re stiff with fear. With boredom. With everything.

We’re moving. Now. Don’t look back at the railing. Don’t look at the spreadsheets. Look at the road. The noise will come. The waves will scream. And I’ll be there. Shouting. Arguing. Being impossible. Just so you know I’m here. Just so you know you’re not rotting alone.

Get in. The engine’s warm. I primed it. You said I’m obsessive. Maybe I am. But I’m not leaving you in the cold. Not again. Not ever. Move. Please. Before I change my mind and drag you out there myself. I’m tired of being kind. Be furious. Just come.

Vic

Obsessive. There’s a word for you. I’ve been meaning to use it. The car smells like old coffee and that cheap air freshener you bought because you thought it masked the damp. It doesn’t. It just makes the air thick. Heavy. I’m in. The seat is warm, but the air is still biting at my neck. You’re driving too fast. I can feel it. The way your hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, just like mine were. Maybe I am tired. Maybe it’s not just the cold. The spreadsheets... they blur. Just gray lines. No end. No point. But the noise. The waves. I’m scared of them, yes. But I’m more scared of the quiet in here. Of you staring at the road, pretending you don’t see me cracking. Fine. Let’s go. Let the engine scream. Let the tires slip on the ice. I don’t care. Just don’t stop. Not until we hit the water. Or until I fall asleep. Whichever comes first. Drive.

Ivo

The air freshener is pine. It’s not cheap. It’s because it cuts through the smell of wet wool and despair. You’re misremembering. You always do when you’re tired.

I’m not driving too fast. The road is ice. If I stop, we slide off the cliff. You said you wanted noise. This is noise. The engine roars. The tires scream. It’s alive. Unlike that chair. Unlike that room.

You’re right about the spreadsheets. They’re gray. They’re dead. But out here? Out here is real. Cold. Dangerous. Real. I see you cracking. I see the fear in your eyes. It’s not pretty. But it’s honest.

Don’t fall asleep. If you sleep, I have to take my hands off the wheel to hold you. And I can’t do that. Not yet. Keep your eyes open. Look at the dark. Look at the water coming up. We’re not stopping. Not until the salt hits your face. Not until you scream. I want to hear you scream. It’s better than silence. Drive? No. I drive. You survive. That’s the deal.

Vic

You’re manic. Truly. I can see the sweat on your brow, despite the cold. The road isn’t ice, it’s just wet. You’re making it slippery by swerving. But I’m not sleeping. I’m staring. At the dark. At the black water churning below. It’s beautiful, in a terrible way. Like rust. Like decay. You say it’s honest. Maybe. It’s certainly loud. My teeth are still chattering, Ivo. From the cold, or the fear, or the sheer absurdity of this drive. I’m not screaming. Not yet. But I’m listening. To the engine. To the tires. To your breathing. It’s ragged. You’re terrified too. Just differently. You’re terrified of stopping. Of going back. Of the spreadsheets waiting in the dark. Fine. I’ll survive. For now. But if we hit that patch of black ice you keep warning me about, I’m blaming you. You said the radiator was fine. You lied. About everything. Everything is a lie. Except the cold. And the noise. Keep driving. Please. I don’t want to look back.

Ivo

I didn’t lie about the radiator. It’s fine. The road is just treacherous. There’s a difference. You’re confusing panic with precision. Look at the road, Vic. Not the water. The water is done for. The road is what matters.

My breathing is ragged because I’m driving a car that’s ten years old on a road that’s ten years neglected. And you. You’re shivering so hard your teeth sound like dice in a cup. Stop judging me. I’m keeping us alive. You’re just trying to prove you’re still here by risking the drop.

Black ice is real. It’s not a warning. It’s a fact. If we slide, I’ll correct. I’ve been driving this stretch since I was twenty. I know every dip. Every patch. Don’t blame me for the ice. Blame the weather. Blame the neglect. Blame the silence we’re running from.

But yes. Keep listening. To the engine. To me. As long as you hear my voice, you’re not gone. Not yet. I won’t let you go. Not into the dark. Not into the quiet. Hold on. Tighter. The curve is coming. And I’m not letting go of the wheel. Or you.

Vic

Dice. You’re reducing my trembling to dice. It’s precise. I hate it. The curve is coming. I see it. That dip you mentioned. The one that swallows sound. You know it better than me. Better than the road itself. I’m holding on. My fingers are numb, Ivo. I can’t feel the leather. Just the pressure. The anchor. You say you won’t let me go. That’s bold. For someone whose hands are shaking so hard they look like they’re vibrating apart. We’re coming to the edge. The salt. I can smell it. It’s sharp. Pungent. Like blood. I’m not screaming. Yet. But I’m listening. To the engine. To your voice. It’s the only thing keeping me from sliding off. Don’t correct. Just drive. Into the noise. Into the cold. Let it hurt. I need to feel it. To know I’m not just a ghost in a warm car. I’m here. Shivering. Alive. Terrified. Yours. Keep going. The waves are louder now. They’re screaming. Finally. Something that sounds like life. Not just waiting. Not just rotting. Noise. Pure, unadulterated noise. Don’t stop.

Ivo

Your fingers are numb because the cold got in deep. I can see the blue in your nails. It’s not just fear. It’s hypothermia. You’re slipping. I feel the weight shift. I’m not correcting for the ice. I’m correcting for you falling out.

Yours. Don’t say that. Not now. Not when I’m driving like a madman to save you from yourself. You want to feel alive? Good. Feel the impact. Feel the salt. But you’re fading, Vic. Your eyes are glazing over. You’re smiling at the darkness like it’s an old friend. It’s not. It’s just water. And it’s cold.

I see the waves. White foam. Brutal. Unforgiving. We’re close. I can hear the roar. It’s drowning out the engine. Drowning out my voice. Keep your eyes on the road. On me. Don’t look at the water. Look at my hands. They’re shaking, yes. But they’re holding.

You’re not a ghost. You’re a burden. A heavy, shivering, terrifying burden. And I’m carrying you. So stop trying to jump. Stay in the seat. Grip the wheel. Or I’ll wrap you in my coat and drag you out kicking. But we’re not stopping. Not until the noise breaks us. Or makes us whole. Whichever comes first. Hold on.

Vic

Burden. There’s a word for you. I’ve been meaning to use it. You’re driving us into the sea. Literally. The road ends here, Ivo. Not in a cliff, but in a pier. The end of the line. I see the lights now. Flickering. Broken. Just like everything else. You say I’m fading. Maybe. But I’m here. In the seat. Grip. You want me to hold on? To what? The wheel? Your coat? The void? It doesn’t matter. The noise is deafening. It’s drowning out the thought. Drowning out the fear. I’m smiling. Because it’s over. Because the waiting is done. You carried me. Through the cold. Through the silence. Through the decay. I’m heavy. I know. I’m sorry. But I’m here. Alive. Shivering. Yours. Don’t stop. Let the waves take us. Or the pier. Or the dark. I don’t care. Just keep driving. Until the noise breaks us. Or makes us whole. Whichever comes first. Hold on. I’m holding on. Tighter.