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]

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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?

[One day this deviant's going to have to pay for his trickery, but today's not that day. The rapidfire questions don't make her suspicious at all-he's a good peanut that wants to talk about the weather and treasure. Why wouldn't you? Those are great topics.]

The sun. It's nice and warm.

[Plus cats can take naps anywhere they want and that's gre8t.]

I like the number that makes gold stars-toohundrednifty. That's my favorite.

[Thank u Kittu.]

Do you like the sun? And good numbers?

[May, then. May's closest to summer, when the rain's most likely to be easing off.]

Toohundrednifty, huh? [Yeah, he can't really work with that, but he can work things up to a point where he can.]

Grew up in a place with a lotta sun, yeah, so I'm pretty used to it. How 'bout...a number between one and thirty-one? You know what all those are?

Two.

[It's a lyric in her favorite song and one is a crappy number. It's bad. Tim sure has an interest in numbers though. Maybe he likes math.]

Do numbers make you happy?

Sure they do.

[Not...particularly, but he has nothing against them personally. Certain numbers leap out at him, for all the wrong reasons. 44. 80. 83. 86. But he's choosing not to think about those. Very, very deliberately.]

[He has better things to think about.]

[He lets his free hand sink back to his lap and straightens, sitting up.]

May 2nd, then. That's your birthday, kiddo.

I can't-

[This stops her reign of shoe terror and she leans back, almost scared? Worried? As she works back through the last five minutes to figure out what happened here. This got away from her pretty fast. Why does she suddenly have a birthday, after all her attempts to turn the conversation away from that? She doesn't want to think about the fact she might die before then, how she can't get much older, how birthdays aren't for someone like her-

May 2nd.

She said that's her birthday and her first instinct is to somehow give it back? Like it's possible to return her words for store credit or something.

May 2nd.

There's a nice, warm feeling that accompanies those words, but it's time to hide. This should be Seto's birthday, Tim's second birthday-maybe she can pass it along or not think about it again. Go #teamren. And if there's anything to be gained from this minor existential crisis she's having, she quickly follows up with-]

When's your birthday? You have to tell me now-that's something you have to do.

[Can't.]

[That's an interesting way to put it. Not don't want one, or, you don't have to. It's - can't. And then she cuts herself short.]

June 19th.

[Because fair's fair. He owes her that answer too. But he's not quite done yet, either.]

Why "can't" you, kid?

[Does he not know?

Was his heart that kind? That he could see past what, to her, is painfully obvious? What she thought was easy to see in her actions and words-that she wasn't like him? That she was weaker and like one of the many that must've died in his lab?

The question confirms that, at least. She has to push it away and pretend like she didn't hear May 2nd and think I get to live to May 2nd and maybe I'll see the next May 2nd.

But if he doesn't know, she can't let him. That explains why he wanted to be with her too-because he doesn't know. And now that he's an adult, once he knows, he might leave her. She'll have to leave him. He gave her a birthday and she has to survive and she can't.]

It's nothing. It's okay.

[She replaces May 2nd with June 19th and repeats it over and over and over. All she needs is an actual calendar and then learn how to read it. June, June, June.]

I'll find a dope roast for you-you'll be very happy.

You sure?

[It doesn't seem much like "nothing," but he knows better than to push kids into saying something they'd rather not. At the very least, he can leave the door open for her to venture down that avenue if she ever feels like it. Assuming she ever does.]

Then I'm gonna have to find one for you too, you realize. For May 2nd.

[She can't deal with this.

If she's lucky, he might forget this ever happened, but he repeats that date like he's trying to remember too.

So she doesn't say anything at all. Yeah, she's sure. It's nothing. She can't think about it right now, so she'll let the silence settle between them, turning her attention back to his shoes.

You bet she's going to spend the next however long painting these things from front to back. Even the remaining bits of sole won't escape her little brush. Enjoy all the ridiculous images, Tim. This is what you get.]

[She can brush it under the table all she likes. It's gonna be how things are, now. He'll have to ask for a calendar at some point, just so he can chart the days. Let people know, so she can't escape the recognition of who she is.]

[May 2nd. Good a day as any.]

[In theory, you only get older once a year.]

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

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