lifeaftr | i know it's just a number but you're the eighth wonder [ OPEN MINGLE ]

i know it's just a number but you're the eighth wonder [ OPEN MINGLE ]

Who: Tim and EVERYBODY WHO WANTS IN ON THIS CAUSE IT A MINGLE
What: Nail-painting. Destressing. We have earned something Nice for ourselves.
When: February 12th
Where: Just outside the Storyteller's Temple
Warnings: Probably nothing of note? Will add if needed.

There's a man sitting cross-legged outside the Storyteller's Temple, general hub of interaction that it seems to be turning into. He still looks like shit, granted, his face a colorful patchwork of bruising and a fresh bandage slapped around his middle, but that hasn't stopped him from making the best of things. A few vials of some various colorful fluids might not be familiar to everyone here, but after everything? Screw it, thinks Tim. They've deserved a break. He deserves a break. The kids here, especially, deserve a break. It's time to celebrate the fact that they are no longer in danger of freezing in the dark and living out the remainder of their days in a bleak, sunless existence.

And he liked colors, as a kid. In the blank white walls of a hospital, where everything was drained of variation and bleached white and left bone-blank, the occasional bursts of color allowed in packages of crayons and colored pencils at art time were treasures. They stopped giving him crayons after he drew the man in his room one too many times, a tall black shadow in the back of every drawing that had the doctors exchanging looks with tightened jaws and the clearing of throats that too clearly spoke to their disapproval.

It dogged him, even once he stepped out of those empty walls, his wardrobe as consistently drab and dull and monochrome as his life. It dogged him with featureless rooms and

Fuck that.

Fuck that especially, because it means that kids like Ren grew up without colors in their lives, and it means that they've had precious few simple little pleasures in the past month, and it means that they are all owed a goddamn break. And if he's bound to be a freak no matter what he does, he may as well be one with a spot of color or two.

So today, to celebrate? We're painting nails.

Fuck it. We're painting nails.

It's safe to say that Tim's new at this, particularly when he only has one good hand at the moment, but he'll still seem quite open to sharing with whoever happens along - especially if you're a kid.

[ooc: yes this is a mingle for painting some nails feel free to top-level all over]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The one that hurts you. If it's prettier, it'll feel better.

[Don't argue with her sound logic-that's the way things are in the land of Ren. The little brush shouldn't bother his injuries and she knows to watch his face for any indication of discomfort.

She's opening the purple one first so get ready you poor bean. This is gonna be awful.]

[Hmm yep sounds legit. He shifts over to accommodate the request, though he doesn't remove the arm from its sling. Hinata said he should rest it, and this seems like the best way to manage that, even if it's cumbersome on occasion. Either way, he can sit patiently for a while yet. He's good at that sort of thing.]

All right, Doctor Ren. Let's see what you can do. [Was that...maybe in poor taste?]

[God, he hopes not.]

[She doesn't react right away-her natural conclusion to hearing that new title being that he thinks it might hurt. That she might accidentally hurt him. That's what doctors do after all, even if they don't intend it.]

Don't worry. I'm not scary-I won't hurt you.

[And true to her word, it probably doesn't hurt physically, but Tim might be forever haunted by the moment he let her do this. Because not only does she go for the nail-she paints the entire small section of finger the nail is on. Beautiful. Incredible. So purple.]

See? It's very pretty.

[Hell. Poor choice of words. He really should’ve know better, and he grimaced by way of apology.]

‘S a figure of speech, kid. I know you won’t - sorry. [God, two sentences in and he’s already fucking this up. Why do people even bother?]

[His entire finger is now purple. There are worse things for a finger to be.]

Hey, look at that. Turned out great.

[The apology is unexpected and she looks at him, surprise apparent on her face. She didn't think much of it. Not enough to expect an apology. She wanted to put his fears to rest and she's not sure how to respond other than a-]

It's okay.

[As she untwists the teal cap and sets the purple bottle aside. People don't apologize to her. It's weird. But the smile is back on her face in record time as she heads for finger 2 and 3, taking care to stay on the nail this time.]

Does it feel better? Is it making you happy?

[Not every kid was him, growing up. Not every kid turned out like him, no matter the similarity of circumstance. Some kids didn't shroud themselves in cynicism, in plaintive fear of that which they didn't understand and that which they did. Maybe it's her age. Maybe it's just - just that she's got so much of a warmer, kinder heart than he ever did.]

[She's simply more forgiving than he ever was.]

[He lets her go to town as she wants to, even if it's probably a bit of a mess. She's doing her best. He has an entire purple finger, and a couple teal nails.]

Sure is, kiddo. You thinking of maybe doing yours too?

When these are done-

[She gestures to his hurt hand, then to his other one and, ominously, towards his feet. Guess what? She's going the distance. The 12 labors Hercules had to deal with are nothing compared to the nail polish induced nightmare Tim's about to suffer through.

She's gonna get his Toes.]

And those. Then I'll make my fingers treasures too.

[She's gonna go the whole nine yards. Bless her heart. Gotta give the kid credit for being thorough, he supposes? Sure. That's a good enough word for it, he's pretty sure.]

I'm not sure if the feet are a good idea, buddy.

[He wrinkles his nose, regarding his battered sneakers - those that have been through salt and seawater, through woodland and kudzu, tramping through quicksand, sloshing across shadowy bile, and god knows what else - and considers the fact that his socks and, by extension, the odor of them, must be in a very sorry state indeed.]

I think we wanna keep our lunches down.

[There's a brief, wondrous second where it looks like there might be an argument about it. She already ate lunch. It's down. There's no problem here. She used to dig in the trash all the time-how bad could it be?

But that's fine, she's adaptable. She's gonna make him happy no matter what, painted toebeans or not.]

Can I paint your shoes?

[Another considering look, and he raises his eyebrows, and...]

[Hell. Why not? What's the harm? It's not like he can't just ask for more shoes, next Storytelling. There's nothing special about them - muddy, nondescript, the treads all but worn into nothing, which more or less eliminates even their basic use as shoes.]

Sure you can, buddy.

[This is what victory tastes like and she's ready to destroy his shoes. With his injured hand painted, she holds the yellow and purple brushes in each hand and falls back towards his feet, attempting to paint little squares where his toenails might be.

And then a sun. Purple clouds. A teal cat.

Does he feel regret setting in yet? It's Bad.]

[What possible regrets could one endure when their shoes are looking spiffier than literally any pair of shoes ever has in his life? He missed out on the milestone of getting to clomp around in light-up shoes in kindergarten. He can make up for lost time now.]

Look at that. We gotta little artist here. [He's proud of you, kiddo.]

[Well, that makes her smile. Heck yeah. She's gonna live out her painter dreams.

If they put sparklers under his feet, they would light up in a second and he could live out his childhood dreams. Today-it's just a terrible child doodling all her favorite things with a not so delicate stroke of the brush. With the first shoe covered in cats and clouds, she moves over to the second one.

She paints a vague looking banjo shape blob and then stops to ask-]

What other things make you happy? Do you like animals? Pretty stars?

I guess, yeah.

[Animals? Sure, he doesn't mind them. Seth had a dog, he remembers, though he can't remember much besides the fact that it existed. Alex apparently had a dog too, but Tim's own memories of Rockey are even hazier - to the point that he's pretty sure he only remembers her because Alex brought her up in one of the immortalized entries.]

[Pokemon? They're not really animals. More...friends, he guesses, if what Guzma has to say is any indication. Doesn't seem right to list them as such.]

Never had pets. You like 'em?

I like cats. They're very good. They keep you safe.

[As if that wasn't readily apparent by her kitty outfit, the cat doodles she has desecrated the islands with over the months or the kitten mittens poking from her pockets. Since Tim doesn't offer a specific animal, he gets a cat face. Then a small rabbit. That's it. Horses are a bit out of her polish skill range. ]

Do you like spicy eggs? Or dope roasts?

[SHE CAN DRAW THAT TOO]

...dope roasts?

[He's gonna need a pointer here, Ren. What, exactly, does she mean by "dope roasts"? That sounds like maybe - maybe something Wade or Guzma would say, but he can't be one hundred percent there. Who teaches kids about dope roasts? And what is a dope roast?]

[And why spicy eggs?]

You eat it on 'birthdays'. It's a big food that makes you happy.

[Don't worry, fellow hospital baby. Professor Ren is here to take you through the food pyramid, starting with the most important section of all. In case he's a visual learner, she takes out her trusty purple polish to draw what just looks like a giant circle on a plate. Incredible.]

That's why it's dope. That's what you say.

Oh yeah? And who told you that one?

[He almost sounds vaguely amused as he says it. She's so damn sincere about it, to the point where one corner of his mouth twitches. Slightly. Very, very slightly.]

I saw it-

[During a memory. The words baller roast are hard to forget when it's accompanied by the image of two happy twins eagerly waiting to help make their special birthday treat. Lup went along with it and now she can't shake the idea from her mind. Screw cake. This is the new birthday tradition.]

That's how I know. Taako and Lup had smiles on their pretty faces. That makes the roast dope and baller-that's why you eat that on a birthday.

[Did that explain anything?? No. Does Tim have some baller yellow roasts on his shoes? Y Y and Y.]

[She saw it. That's a little less clear, though he might take a guess.]

[Seems rude to ask. To start coaxing that sort of information from a literal child, when it might not have been gleaned in a consensual sense in the first damn place.]

Did they, uh, explain what that meant? [He should've guessed it'd be one of the elves - or both, in fact.]

[Most terms thrown around elf camp, while repeated by her in a heartbeat, have a context that's the product of her own imagination. Lup laughs when she says dope-it's a good thing. Baller is relatively new and she knows it has to do with roasts. Birthdays are reasons to roast.]

Lup told me about birthdays.

[Have a smiley face?? Have another? They have pointy ears too. This shoe is glam as hell.]

And I can tell what 'dope' and 'baller' mean. I look at their faces when I say that word-that's how I know.

[So she's...never had a birthday either, huh? Not a big surprise there. He kinda forgot that was a thing that most people celebrated on the regular, with parties and stuff like streamers and balloons. Cake. Presents. The whole nine yards.]

[Does she even know when she was born?]

Have you gotta birthday, kid?

[It's a natural progression for this kind of conversation, but to hear it from him? She's surprised. He should know that they don't get birthdays. Maybe it's something you earn after leaving the hospital, if you can survive that long. The right to be told it's okay to celebrate your birth because you were useful, for awhile.

The birthday discussion is a weird source of contention for her. Pretending she has a future, wanting to believe Lup when she says it's okay to have one-it's hard. She brushes off the question, returning to a far more important one.]

Do you have a birthday? Did they give you one when you left?

You aren't really...

[Okay, no. How to best explain this to a kid? She didn't actually answer the question, electing instead to turn it around onto him. Might just be a lack of an easy response, but it might not be.]

It's, y'know. The day you were born. They don't...assign it to you or anything.

[It makes sense, given the name. Did Tim know that innately? Without a doctor telling him? It'd be impressive if he managed to figure out dates and times from the scribbles on the clipboard.

Have some shoe cats Tim. Many, many shoecats.]

When's your birthday?

[WHEN DOES TIM GET HIS DOPE ROAST?]

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