lifeaftr | 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

"Feet are the first thing to start reeking. Trust me on that one." Living gas station by gas station taught him well enough. It's like all the evil-smelling sweat sinks to the very bottom of you, and tries to expel itself through the soles of your shoes alone.

That's perhaps a bad joke, between them. Trust.

Or maybe it's the opposite.

"You're pretty good at this," he says, seemingly unconcerned with the notion that he's to be sitting here for the next forty minutes or so, unmoving. Hey, he can be patient. He's had to be out of necessity for most of his life.

It's better when you're waiting for something you actually like.

Fortunately for them, they haven't yet hit the age where sweat equates to increasingly bad smells. Doomed to only smell of dirt, flowers, and blood- Chara Dreemurr, quite possibly eternally stuck as a child.

They would have taken smelly feet for a few more inches of height, honestly.

"I suppose I'll take your word for it." Chara shrugs dismissively, eyes still fixed on their work. "Maybe. But I do have a question."

Or a few, actually.

"Do you layer the paint? How long does it take to dry?"

“I have no idea,” he says lightly. “Never done this before either.”

He’s gonna be the least helpful, despite being the one to set this up. Still, he can extrapolate from what little he does no, right? He squints at the bottle in search of any instructions, but the label has been worn away almost entirely.

“I’m guessing a few minutes to dry, depending on how thick you lay it down. It’s like paint that way. More layers will give you richer color.” Fortunate that he knows about paint.

The...logic seems sound, they suppose? In which case Tim, feel free to continue sitting there as Chara holds your wrist in place, sitting back to let the sun hit his now very pretty nails. There's still... a bit of discrepancy between the color, almost opaque in some sections. Definitely worth painting over at least once more.

"Then I suppose you're stuck with me a little longer." Unbearable, they know.

If he didn’t mind before, he still doesn’t mind now. Why would he?

“What a shame,” he deadpans, one eyebrow coasting upward. “Can’t imagine how I’d cope. And you’re stuck with me now, too, so that’s double the nightmare.”

Self-deprecating humor isn’t the only common ground they share, but it swells up too naturally for him to bother pressing that tide back. That’s the nice bit, see; the fact that the best and worst of you have already been witnessed in full, and it’s no longer a question of some secret depravity being flung to light.

"Woe. If only a kind soul would see our plight, then surely, we would be freed from this prison." Their tone reflects his own impeccably; practically dry enough to cut grass.

But they don't... mind, this. Sitting with Tim. The problem is in knowing what to say; how to venture forth a topic when how are you and nice weather today don't really exist in Chara's repertoire. The silence, at least, is comfortable enough.

For a while.

"So, what inspired this?"

"You did," he says, with an incremental shrug, the words light and conversational. He doesn't quite have it in him to approximate playful just now, but he can give it a moment to sink in before adding, "I mean, you're always using your stories to get stuff for other people. Sewing machines and baking sheets. And I figure most people here like colors."

How's it feel, Chara, to be the reason that a selfish bastard can be a slightly less selfish bastard - even someone that people can like being around?

"We're due for some time to relax, is all."

Their initial response is to raise a brow skeptically; an effect that is entirely lost following his explanation. They shouldn't be surprised that he's been keeping track of them; taking note of their activities. Watching out for the people they've interacted with.

To protect them, or to protect them, that's the real question.

"I suppose," Chara murmurs. Leaning back over his hand, they dab once more at increasingly bright blue nails. It's times like these when they truly miss having long hair. "You are wrong, however. I don't use my stories for other people. I use my stories so other people owe me."

So, maybe not quite the positive influence one selfish bastard assumed.

“Yeah, you’ve really been cutthroat in collecting those debts of yours.” Maybe that’s what they tell themself to maintain their street cred, but don’t worry, kiddo: he’s willing to be honest with them where they aren’t. Ironic, given what he’s capable of. Given what he is.

But then, it’s not as if he could lie to them. They’re both well past that now.

“Tataru is getting a lotta mileage out of that, by the way. And for the jacket - do I owe you, or should we just put it on my tab?” Said with the utmost innocence. Of course.

"The point of having debts is to collect them when necessary, mister Wright." They respond archly. Fuck off with your truth bombs Tim they refuse to see themself as a vaguely decent person.

"Tataru and yourself are simply two people of many; as with everyone else, I'll collect my favors from you when it suits me."

"Hm, I dunno," hums Tim, mock thoughtful. "Do I owe you for the nails too, or do you owe me? Do the debts cancel each other out? How much does learning to dab take off, if we're talking discounts here?"

Not that he's necessarily unaware of their proclivity to boil down every conceivable interaction they have into simple numbers, but there's something to be said for what comes across in theory versus what actually happens in practice.

He's making fun of them.

There is, actually, an answer here. He got the polish, they helped apply it. An even exchange. Dabbing, regardless of how he'd like to see it, is not applicable. They could say that; could explain themself blue in the face as he continued to be skeptical-- they know his SOUL far too well to think he'll simply allow them to change his mind.

So they won't say a word. Staring him dead on, Chara releases his hand, reaching up to his face-

And promptly smearing a bright blue line down his nose, dropping the nail brush into his lap.

"Whoops. Guess we're done here." Later fucko. They're off to sit with someone who probably also thinks they're a decent person, but isn't stupid enough to say it.

If he doesn’t, who will? He’s already a pretty colorful canvas thanks to Ren; he’s not about to complain. The effect of their comparatively cold exit might be somewhat ruined by the right-handled curve to one side of his mouth, something faint and maybe more than a shade fond.

Besides - he can’t really follow without the ache of effort it currently takes to stand.

He’s always known he’ll never be to them what other, better people are, anyway. What’s he got to lose at this point?

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

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