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

...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?]

[Still not really answering his questions, tacit or otherwise. It might not be wholly intentional, but she's keeping the focus of the conversation solely on him. That, in and of itself, wouldn't be a problem - if it weren't such a trend with her already.]

[Time to switch tactics.]

Tell you what. [He knuckles his free, freshly painted hand under his chin, his expression open and neutral.] I'll tell you my birthday if you tell me yours. How's that sound?

Edited 2018-03-14 05:44 (UTC)

[The hell?

She's not used to someone doing this. How dare he make her face her mortality and have a small existential crisis on this, the day of her cat's first nail painting.

Her fingers still over his shoe as she attempts to work out an answer for this. She wants to know his-hers is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Not when she's going to die. The differences between them are becoming clear in this moment-he doesn't get she shouldn't have one, which is strange in and of itself. Coupled with his attempt to get hers? It's weird and she's not sure how to push it off again. He's like Lup in this way-a person that won't let her hide behind her words. Who's trying to do something nice for her and yet-

She opens her mouth then shuts it immediately. Paints a rock on his shoe.]

Will you tell ESP kitty if he tells you his?

[Talk to the cat!! Maybe she can overhear them. Let Ren cheat 2K18.]

[Sorry, kiddo. No dice. The avoidance is all the more obvious now. She isn’t just escaping context as it pertains to herself; it’s more than simply not occurring to her that she might matter in her own life. This is calculated evasion. Or as calculated as it’s possible to get with someone her age.]

[Now, while things are of a lighter fare, might be an ideal chance to get a glimpse of why, the atmosphere eased from interrogatory to friendly thanks to the addition of bright colors and silly little brushes.]

Birthdays are kind of like...appreciation days. And every day is a cat appreciation day.

[How’s that for an evasive answer?]

[Two things happen with that statement.

A quiet understanding of why she was never offered or given a birthday. Her worth was in her value as a tool and that statement about appreciation-why would they appreciate someone with a weak heart, unable to fulfill the sole purpose of her existence? It's an explanation, coupled with Lup's, that helps her get it. It makes sense.

It's why it's so important that she gets Tim's birthday then. To show her own appreciation for shoe painting and fireworks. For holding her hand so tight when something bothered her, even when she said it's okay. For promising to give Seto sparklers and music-for the little things. For surviving, maybe. For being strong-that's something to appreciate too.

And the cats-he gets it. Of course he gets it. Of course he understands that cats are amazing and deserve birthdays every single day. That brings a huge smile back to her face and she gladly grasps onto his evasive answer. Beautiful. It's beautiful.]

That's right. You have to say 'thank you' every day. Some of them like songs-you can sing to them and-

[She lightly pets the top of his shoe, smearing some of the polish she put there, but it was just a rock anyway.]

Do that. They'll say 'nya' and you know they're happy. They feel 'appreciated'.

[She settles for a change of subject instead. Fortunately, it's a subject he knows she prefers. She could probably talk about cats forever, and that's probably the quickest way to cheer her mood.]

[But it won't last forever. It can't. He nods with all the seriousness her lecture merits, taking it in, before trying for a question instead. Soft, easy, gentle, almost conversational. As easy as asking about her favorite color.]

Did nobody tell you that you had a birthday, kid?

[Look, she's busy talking about cats and he's listening like it's the most important thing in the world, which is why the subject change surprises her. Almost-

Tripping her up. Because why is he asking her that? He should know. They grew up in a similar place, surrounded by the same walls and watched by the same faces. He should absolutely know why they didn't offer appreciation for her. Because she's dying. Her heart is unsuitable. The innumerable reasons as to why it's pointless to offer her one. But Lup hadn't understood either, saying in her usual confident, kind voice that it was something she should have no matter how Ren tried to deflect.

Maybe she can get him to understand.]

That's how it is for people like us-

[A pause. They aren't quite the same.]

Someone like me-I think that's how it's supposed to be. That's why it's okay.

[That should be Enough. Please stop making her face her mortality. It's only Wednesday-save it for the weekend.]

Does Kidwun have a birthday?

[That's why it's okay.]

[She's already drawing lines through the parallels between them. They're not completely the same, after all. He had a mom. A mom who watched the doctors try and figure out what was wrong with him, tight-lipped and uncertain, unable to even put on a brave face for the squirming child who needed someone to remind him that it's going to be okay.]

[There's a difference - a difference between someone fading from your life over a period of years, and that person simply never being there to begin with.]

Probably. And you've got one too, kid. You were just never told what it was.

I guess I was lucky. They had to write that down on all the forms and stuff when they signed me in. [Even if actually celebrating it was kinda outta the question.]

[Now she's gotta ask Kidwun when their birthday is. And their sibling. Or just throw a roast at them.

The casual way he discusses this is surprisingly welcome. There are few people she can feel easy around when this topic comes up-too many who might push her away once they know how useless she is. How sick she is. And she wants to hold onto their hands for as long as she can.

Tim seems to get it, for the most part. Understands there are things you talk about and things you don't. Probably knows that she's one of the bad ones already, without her needing to say it, because he was strong enough to leave. He can probably tell things like that.

She repeats signed me in quietly because that's weird. There was no signing in and out with her-just a constant hustle from windowless room to windowless room.]

On the clipboard? Is that where they 'signed you in'?

[Because she can remember seeing weight, height, blood type and other things that meant nothing to her at the time.]

The one with the numbers and letters? Did you read that thing a lot?

There were a lotta clipboards, yeah.

[He wasn't born in the hospital, after all, even if it feels like he spent his entire life there. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that there were days before then, even if they've all but been pressed into nothingness, drowned by the far more potent things he can remember - tests, and broken windows, and the lab coats of doctors flapping behind them like bleached-white bat's wings as they ran after the boy who streaked across the grass in bare and bloodied feet.]

Forms and stuff. Lots of numbers and letters. I was old enough to be able to read it.

[He's simplifying the story somewhat, for her benefit. Kids grow up knowing their birthdays, courtesy of whoever raises them.]

[Given what he already knows, he doubts Ren was ever treated with enough affection from an adult to be imparted with that sort of information.]

[She didn't have more than a passing interest in the pieces of paper that would make the doctors upset, even if it didn't show on their face or in their words-she knew. There was a time when she would try to stand on her toes and look at what they were writing, but she lost interest after being given a stuffed cat or some blocks and when their overwhelming feelings got to her.

It didn't matter anyway. They taught her to read and write for the sake of being able to read her medication bottles-died before they could teach her anything else, if they were even willing to. It's doubtful she could've made heads or tails of the meaning behind the numbers anyway.]

Did it make you happy when you read the forms? Did they give you other things to read?

Mostly I was just scared.

[He's always been scared, and it's always been obvious. When he was a kid, he trembled. When he got older, he stared at his shoes and didn't make eye contact and mumbled instead of answering questions properly. There's little point in hiding it when it's painted on his face so plainly.]

[It matters less that she knows it. Chances are, she can probably understand how that might feel.]

Wasn't until later on, once I grew up, that I really understood a lot of it.

[There's a sting of regret the moment his answer reaches her. She had thought it might be different, because his heart was strong, because he might be brave-that it wouldn't scare him.

But it did and even if her terror was towards the doctors holding the sheet instead of the actual form, she does understand. Fear is her middle name.

There's another pause-a point where she almost asks what did it mean because she never understood any of it, outside of the fact those numbers meant she was a failed experiment. Almost.

It's not worth it. Curiosity isn't worth scaring him. Of making him relive something he doesn't want to, in case any part of that fear remains in him. It might be gone now, but they might make his fingers shake. She doesn't want to see it.]

If 'forms' show up, I'll cover your eyes so you don't have to read them.

[She swipes some polish over his shoe-one streak of color.]

We can paint over the numbers.

I wasn't scared of the words. Just...scared in general. I didn't know what was going on, and no one was gonna explain it to me. Took me a while to figure out why I was even there.

[No one broke it down for him, really. There was his mom, who insisted that he was a perfectly normal boy who didn't need anything, because this was just going to be a hiccup, and that was all. There were doctors who used too many big words, and, when they did try to compress things down to a level he could understand, did so too clinically for him to come away feeling anything but utter, confused terror.]

Did you have anybody to tell you why you were in there?

[That makes sense. It was a scary place-doctors, walls and all. A part of her still thinks the numbers and words hurt him, so she'll do her best to keep him safe from those mean old forms.

It's scarier to know he had to figure it out on his own-that someone wasn't there to remind him what his sole purpose was. She can't imagine how it felt to be unknowingly trapped somewhere without knowledge as to why. At least she knew it was-]

I could hear them. It's 'for the project'-that's what they would say.

[Maybe it's the colors, the distraction of the brush or thinking he already knows the ins and outs of lab life to the point where he must know about her part in it-that he must've been involved in some kind of project on his world. And with that horrible, terrible assumption, she adds-]

I'm like you. That's why I was 'signed in'. It's the same thing.

[Project.]

[Like him in some ways, and not like him in others. Nuance is a hard thing to crack. Suggesting that they might be different feels too much like a spit in the eye in regards to the way they met, the parallels he couldn't help but recognize with a horrible chill in his gut.]

No parents to drop you off, huh?

[Does that make it better, or worse? Having a memory of a childhood that almost counted as normal, that must have, only for that to fade over time - or to never have been allowed a memory of something like that at all?]

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