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

[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?]

I don't have things like that.

[That's far easier territory to go into-this isn't the first time someone's asked her about parents and it doesn't bother her to answer.

But her curiosity comes back in full force in regards to this guy-every similarity comes with a difference and she didn't think there could be that kind of disparity in their lifestyle.]

Did you get a mom and dad?

[Pretty much confirms what he'd been thinking. It's not surprising. Sobering, maybe, but it would've been stranger to hear that she did have parents, considering how isolated she must've been.]

I remember I had a mom. But she just...kinda stopped being around, after a while.

[Nominally, he had a mom.]

[But eventually, she couldn't handle it.]

[Why? is a simple, easy question she could ask now. It's one she would, if she didn't already have an answer forming in her mind. That's how it is when you're stuck in a place like that. Being alone is par the course, no matter how depressing it is. Because they're sick, sometimes dying, meant for a purpose that parents can't be a part of, maybe.

It makes sense to her at least. The only troubling aspect of it all being why, if he managed to survive and live on, his mom didn't come back.

Or maybe the reason doesn't matter at all. That's their lot in life and there's no reason to think on it too much.]

Did it make you very lonely? When you couldn't feel her heart anymore?

I dunno if I ever felt her heart.

[His memories of her are so...obscured as it is. Muddled. Mingled with resentment. Never really around to ask. Upon reflection, it's easier and easier to tell that she'd given up on him long before she signed him into the hospital in the long-term. It was just a question of when he finally realized it himself.]

[Semi-regular visits. Then irregular ones. Then phone calls. Then postcards.]

[And then, nothing.]

I don't think I was what she wanted.

[He's not exactly pleased to be pouring himself onto the shoulders of a child like this. But if he can open things up, maybe that'll allow her the chance to venture down that avenue herself.]

[At the very least, it's worth a shot.]

[It's not a point she can argue. She didn't know his mom. It could be true she had no interest in him-their value is measured in numbers that only adults could decipher and sometimes they didn't make the cut-she didn't. She was a failure, but he wasn't. Isn't.

It's too bad she didn't stick around to see her child survive through it all-a boy who managed to use his strength to get past everything doctors and scientists threw at him. His mom could've witnessed those actions and taken him into her arms. Held his hand.

If she had an aunt and uncle back then, maybe-

It wouldn't have felt so bad. Hurt so much. Felt so lonely.

If he had a mom back then, maybe-]

I wish she could've felt your kind heart-it's very good.

[But-]

Sometimes adults can't see that kind of thing if they think you're 'unsuitable'. That's how it is.

[Unsuitable.]

[That's not quite the word they used for him.]

[Delusional. Paranoid. Violent. Dangerous. Frequent seizures. A threat to himself and to others. High-risk. Needs to be watched. Needs to be maintained. Needs to be sedated. Up his dosage. Hold him back. Hold him down. One of our most at-risk patients. Yet to be diagnosed. What's wrong with him? Psychotic episodes? No. No, it's not quite that. We'll have to try again.]

[Unsuitable.]

[That's the word they used for her, though, isn't it?]

Is that what they called you, kiddo?

"Unsuitable"?

[He must know that about her, but maybe it's unfair to project some kind of psychic connection on him. Unsuitable because her numbers didn't add correctly. The older she got, when all their years of care were wasted because she couldn't do what they needed-because they found the part of her heart that was bad and could hurt people.

They messed up. She messed up. They made her heart unsuitable or she was bad to begin with.

She doesn't answer immediately and one hand briefly raises, like she's about to cover her ear, though her expression isn't distressed at all. It's fine. The truth doesn't bother her and she refocuses her efforts on his shoes instead.]

Their hearts said that. Before they were ghosts, they looked at me and knew that sort of thing.

[Thinking what a waste of time and money while they offered her small cups of pills to keep her alive on the off chance she might become useful again.]

The adults here can't tell that so-

[He can find someone to call 'aunt' and 'uncle' and 'mom' and not worry about his strong heart making them sad one day. Won't have to worry about his new mom abandoning him to the care of doctors, unwilling to give him a chance. ]

Someone will want you. They won't be 'mom', but you'll feel how their kind heart pulls you to them.

[His mom may not have 'wanted' him, but it's a different world here. He's a good peanut. It might not bother him anymore-she just wants to make sure he's happy. He's done so many nice things for her.]

You're someone I want to be with.

[Well, that's the...the weird thing.]

[He's kind of ended up wanted, hasn't he? People who...don't mind having him around. Who even let him live with them, and get him jackets, and laugh at him when he does some ridiculous kind of flailing dance-move that nets ridicule and exasperation and cheers alike.]

[He's gotten people thanking him for his help. Who smile at him, and agree to fix his clothes. Who hold his hand. Who...god, it's actually unfathomable, when he thinks about it. Like it or not, he has formed attachments. People he's happier for having in his life. People he...]

[Shit.]

["Ghosts." The doctors must've passed at some point, and left her alone. And that's something he should address, should but can't, the lump in his throat having swollen to an unendurable size. He can only barely manage to work the words past:]

Yeah. Yeah, it's funny, huh?

[One corner of his mouth quirks upwards, a partial, pained semblance of a smile.]

Well, you're someone I wanna be with.

[He doesn't need to repeat it back to her-it's enough for him to know what while people might've found him unsuitable and bad in his world, it can be different here. If even someone like her can be something else, for a short time, then she can only imagine the possibilities in store for him-all the hearts he'll touch, all the people who will finally see his and how it'll glow under the care of all that kindness.

It's something she would've been able to see in her world-consumed with emotions and thoughts and none of that happens now-

But she's consumed by the gentleness of his words-he wants to be with her too. She believes it. Finds it easier to believe with every single meeting with those around her. He might someone who won't be sad when she passes on-he'll have an understanding no one else does, because he was there. He gets it and-

She repeats the words over and over and over in her mind, tucking them away in heart to pull back out when she gets tired or sad. For just a second, if he doesn't move away, she's going to rest her head against his knee. It's silly, but it's her way of saying thank you and you make me happy and everything else she can't express.]

What other pretty things do you want on your shoe?

[She's gonna cover this in all the shit that makes him happy. Just name them-horses, toothbrushes, tequila-she'll figure it out.]

[That's a change of the subject, and he never did figure out when her birthday was.]

I think it looks plenty pretty. What kinda pretty things do you like?

[She can draw whatever she wants on there. What's it matter to him? They're ratty shoes, and can only be improved by an abundance of nail polish and color, smudged as it might be.]

You gotta favorite season, maybe?

Spring?

[That's the one after winter, when the flowers bloom all over the ground and it gets warm enough to run around with no shoes. She's pretty sure, in any case. Sounds right.

And Tim, a fool, escaped a nonstop ramble about cats, but hit betray on his own ass by asking her about pretty things. More images start to appear on the side of his shoe-a rock, a cat, a cup, a duck??, blobs that might've meant something if she had pieces of chalk instead of tiny brushes.]

I like treasure. Treasure is very pretty.

[Garbage.]

Shiny rocks and shells-I like that.

[Treasure. Shiny rocks and shells. Makes sense. She's a kid, and she doesn't discriminate when it comes to deciding what counts as "treasure." He has somehow come away with the distinct impression that you could give her anything, from a candy wrapper to a pebble, and it would be acceptable as a treasure.]

[Spring, though. He sucks in the wall of his cheek, thoughtfully.]

You like it when it's sunny in the spring, or when it's rainy? Gotta favorite number, maybe?

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

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