[It's too late. It's too late for anything, for the adults to come in and do something, except when they've both messed up and now they need to be punished. Handled. Be quiet. Stop it. Bye.]
[Tim compresses them against his chest so hard that it's hard for them to breathe, hard like the tacky pull of flower-sap, like bones caging them down with speared tips. Nothing hurts as badly as Chara's words. None of it is new, but all of it means more.]
[It's fine. It's okay. Whatever else, before he left, too, Sans did teach Frisk one thing --]
[They know when to QUIT.]
I know. [They say, breathless, toneless. They've stopped struggling against Tim, they're not looking at Lup; they stare down at the sand.] I think you should.
[They don't complain about it. They don't cry about it. Why should they? Turnabout is fair play.]
no subject
[Tim compresses them against his chest so hard that it's hard for them to breathe, hard like the tacky pull of flower-sap, like bones caging them down with speared tips. Nothing hurts as badly as Chara's words. None of it is new, but all of it means more.]
[It's fine. It's okay. Whatever else, before he left, too, Sans did teach Frisk one thing --]
[They know when to QUIT.]
I know. [They say, breathless, toneless. They've stopped struggling against Tim, they're not looking at Lup; they stare down at the sand.] I think you should.
[They don't complain about it. They don't cry about it. Why should they? Turnabout is fair play.]
[It's been game over for a long time.]