they say the captain goes down with the ship [ OPEN ]

[postictal]

Who: Tim Wright, and whoever wants to deal with him
What: The Gang Has A Fucking Breakdown
When: 8/12 and onward
Where: Islet 4, library, generally around Ensō
Warnings: Preemptive warnings for grief and self-loathing. The first prompt also has a warning for self-harm, and the second for smoking.

i. islet 4 ; i got troubled thoughts

It's a weird thing to get used to - the fact that he's in a bed. He was thinking about building bedframes, trying to make that come together, but it's been slow going. He knows exactly who he has to thank (to blame?) for that, and exactly how he's going to have to repay them. They got him an actual, real bed - probably the both of them. A mattress, a frame, a pillow, gray sheets, the whole bit. It's still a shock.

Only this morning, when he sits up, there's a soft crackle underneath his pillow.

Something's been left behind, underneath it.

It's a note. Several notes.

He reads them in silence.

He lets the hollow pit in his soul expand, slowly, like effluvium, until it presses up at the roof of his mouth with all the rancid stickiness of bile. His eyes flick up, staring numbly at the hammock that both children share - shared. A galaxy-print jacket. A blue jacket. A red sweater, knitted by hand with love and care. They've been there from the start. They've been there from the very start, and he wants to reach out, catch the threads of one of those old keepsakes and draw them close to his chest and cling to them, like they might remind him of what was once there.

He can't. He can't. Those aren't his to cleave to. He'd just double over them, and get his tears and his snot and his sick all over those things that don't belong to him. What he has is a locket, a golden lump underneath his shirt, which his hand falls to automatically. The little word printed across the front. Friend.

Come to terms with two things in quick succession, Tim Wright.

The first: they're gone. They're gone, and there's no guarantee they're coming back. They said they would, but -

But here's the second: you didn't know them nearly as well as you thought you did. He never realized. Never even thought that they'd have come up with this kind of strategy. Never once picked up on the fact that they were doing this daily, that they cared enough to - no. That's not true. They always cared enough to do it. It's just whether or not they wanted to express that care, or knew how to express it. And they did. They did, but only as a last resort. Isn't that always the fucking way.

He didn't know them as well as he thought he did. And part of that's a good thing. It means he's drawing away from the part of him that knew them too well, that could use that knowledge for the worst. The temptation, now, is there - to seize upon any threads of coal-red determination that he can find, wrench them to the forefront, because he doesn't know, anymore, how to live without it in his life.

They said it, is the thing. They said they'd take him with them.

They wouldn't just say that. They never just say things. They always mean them, from the bottom of their heart and SOUL.

Knuckles thud against stone. Tim's fist slams against the wall of the shack that, for two years, he shared with two kids that, like it or not, made a home in his soul. He had no plans for where he might end up, as long as it was with them. Smiles and the cut of knives and eyes rust-red and the taste of ozone in the back of his throat. Memories couched in the smell of cinnamon and the tingle of magic and the soft rustle of crushed flower petals. They said they wouldn't go. They said -

Well, what right does he have in acting like they he had any call over where they went? They didn't mean to. He knows they didn't mean to because they put it down in writing and that's when his eyes start to press together, when the breath hitches in his throat, when the heat starts to slide down his cheeks.

The world rocks from side to side, unsteadily, and all he has is the anchor that's the locket around his neck. He clings to it like the lifeline it is, driving a fist repeatedly against the exterior of the house until his knuckles blister and bleed, until he can feel the aftershocks jolting up the bones of his wrist and all the way to his shoulder.

He only stops when there's the soft nudge of something at his ankle, and he looks down.

The house's tigerlily - once Buttercup, once Soylent, now tentatively Butternut and a thousand other titles besides - bumps their head against his foot again with a soft, inquisitive sound.

He has nothing else to do, and nowhere else he can go.

Tim slides down the wall with a choked sob, his hands cracked open and bleeding at the knuckles, buries his face into the tigerlily's side, and does the one thing he's always been able to do most reliably, better than anyone else in this house, despite being more than double the age of everyone else in it.

He cries.

ii. outside the library ; and the self-esteem to match

Tim withdraws his tenth cigarette from his tin, lights it up, and breathes in deep. The tears haven't stopped coming, but they're pouring out with less frequency now. It's harder to smoke when every breath is cut with sobs, with a stutter of not being able to breathe for the weight on his chest.

He was trying to quit. He wanted to quit so that they wouldn't have to deal with this habit, this disgusting fucking habit of his, and that had been overly optimistic. He'd figured - something to work toward. Being a better person, being even a slightly less useless and slightly less unbearable person to be around, for their sake, would mean that they'd have a reason to keep him around. Idiot. You fucking idiot, Tim. If they didn't want you around, you wouldn't have been there.

The notes are folded-up squares clenched in one scabbed fist. He sucks in another long drag of his cigarette, squeezing his eyes shut against the welling of tears slipping down one side of his face. He reaches up, scrubs at it.

He can't just fucking lie down and give up, now, can he? Chara'd never forgive him for that. Frisk would forgive him too easily. But neither of them would give up, never have, so fuck it if he doesn't at least try to pick up the pieces of whatever's left of him in the wake of this.

He has to start with the obvious, and the obvious is that the garden outside the shack that they shared needs someone to look after it.

Someone has to take care of these flowers.

They told him to be good.

The problem is that he doesn't know a thing about gardening. He always just assumed that the kids would be there.

Without meaning to, he'd just thought that they'd always fucking be there.

Goes to show what he knows, huh.

He doesn't know how to ask for someone else's help without alerting them to what's happened. And besides - he's not sure he's ready to confront people just now. So he'll figure it out on his own.

Eventually, he'll enter the library and make it happen.

Just after one more cigarette.

He was trying to quit.

iii. all around ensō ; what a catch

It's possible that you'll run into him at some point - at Denny, on the farming islet, or just generally about the island of Ensō. It's also possible that you won't really be running into him at all, but more...uncovering him. Hunched against tree trunks, curled up in corners, sat down on the beach with his knees drawn up and his face in his hands, like he was in the middle of some important task only to become overwhelmed with a wave of something so crushing that he had to sit down.

That's more or less what's been happening, as time wears on. Even if you don't see him, you might hear him, catching hitching breaths and soft choking sobs.

He can't help it. Tim's always been a crier. Usually, he has a means of stopping before it wears on for too long.

He's lost friends before. He's been the reason he's lost friends. He's been the reason people have died. He thought that body counts were simple, that he could measure them up to others and come out on top, but he knows well enough now to know it's not like that at all. Nameless shadows, unidentified viewers, mere possibilities - they're nothing like cleaving down someone who believes in you wholeheartedly, someone you once knew as a friend in another life. He only ever lost people by accident, despite his best efforts. He never killed anyone he loved on purpose, no matter how much he felt like he could in some moments.

Souls humming in parallel to each other. The worst possible first impression. Dragging those memories and sensations to the forefront just to survive another day, and then consenting to having those thoughts cut out, even if it killed him.

Waking up on an island, months after the fact. Two children who had been forgotten by most - but not all. Two children who changed their names and hid their faces and didn't want to be remembered, but were remembered anyway.

Two children who stood at the edge of the cauldron to hell.

Two children who held his heart in their hands, who loved him.

And despite everything, who he loved right back.

Without meaning to, he clung to them.

And now he has no idea what to do, or who to be, without them.

Comments

ii.

[mamaterasu]

[Perhaps it's a sixth sense, or just something inherent that most animals have - an empathetic sense that give them a lock on when something just...doesn't feel right. Ammy usually goes and goes by the library often, dropping off picture scrolls of stories she's painted and written, both simple and elaborate for all types to enjoy. Wordless, like herself, because a picture is worth a thousand of those. Things unspoken, can often have a bigger impact.

Perhaps that's why, as she trots towards Tim, quiet but resolute in the new path she takes - to him now, instead of the small library - she stops beside him and sits. A wag of her tail, then a slow glance to the garden. It's still doing well, and she never really had to tend to it, despite her urge to sometimes. It's just second nature, at this point. However, this time...she gives in to impulse, and flicks her tail.

As the ink spreads n a tiny circle upon the soil, unseen given the dark coloration of the rich earth, it begins to glow with a pale, green light, and a bloom begins to swiftly grow up from the ground. It's clear the wolf has done something, given the garden probably didn't have a large iris plant in it, but there it is, bud opening up delicately and waving gently in the breeze. It towers above the others, the large leaves sheltering all the other buds and blooms.

She doesn't know what's eating at Tim, not really, but a little hope never hurt anyone, right?]

[postictal]

[There's a dog drawing near to him. A wolf? He thinks he's seen her before, doesn't remember the circumstances. She just seems familiar, and he's not in any state to recognize her. He really can't think straight beyond the fuzz in his ears and the static in his soul. Crying on again and of again gives you a hell of a headache, mists everything over, makes it hard to recognize things that should be obvious. And his memory's never been great to begin with.]

[He doesn't expect...he's not looking for - he doesn't know how to offer comfort, and knows even less how to accept it. Because back home, "comfort" was a foreign concept at best. It was something that other kids got from their parents when they visited. It's a few shuddery words spoken behind a camera, a hesitant admission that he's not as bad as he could be.]

[(Frisk reaching for his hand, and snatching it back. Tim offering it anyway.)]
[(Chara sliding off their seat to wrap their arms around him while he tried not to sob like the broken thing he is.)]

[A purple flower unfurls, delicately, from the ground, and he doesn't mean to, but there's steam creeping up in the corners of his eyes again. He can't help but think of them. Flowers - the thing that ate all three of them alive, together. He stopped breathing first, and that was something he couldn't forgive himself for.]

[Frisk's had been geraniums. Purple as irises, though not the same shade.]

[He's ended up on his knees in front of it without meaning to. He's doing a lot of things without meaning to.]

It's...'s pretty. [The words are strangled, slightly, because he's trying not to break down again. Mostly failing. He's a failure at most things, he knows.]

iii

[catpiper]

[It wasn't him she was seeking out.

It took a few days to compose herself long enough to keep the word Chara from bringing tears to her eyes. But it's still a forbidden word and she has to push it away because the memories are what make her heart ache.

And she was hoping-really hoping-that they would be around. That they would show up if she searched the island. That it wouldn't end the same way Seto's had. That they would appear in camp, just like before, if she waited long enough.

So it wasn't him she was looking for, but his presence stops her all the same. His huddled up appearance reminding her of the time he was a child.

She doesn't need empathy to know what's wrong and that sadness she tried to push, push, push away with every sporadic thought about them suddenly returns. How could it not, when she knows what he's crying over. When she can imagine the kind of agony that's ripping him apart at the loss of his family.

She can't bring them back and it won't do much good and asking Are you okay? would be foolish, even for her. So-

She sits down across from him, pressing her finger into the sand to etch star after star after star into the sand. At the very least, he won't be alone.]

[postictal]

[They said they'd come back for her, too. He knows now that they'd mentioned it. Said they'd come back for her, because she was there from the start, because they'd always held so much affection for her from the very start. Maybe because they could recognize a child who grew up in solitude.]

[They recognized that in him too, once they knew. They were always - they loved more than they ever wanted to admit. They were compassion, unrestrained, because they did everything they did for other people. He gave them shit about it, good-naturedly, as if that might help them admit that they were better than they thought they were.]

[I keep finding myself turning my head, whenever people call for me.]

[Ren was one of those people.]

[He can't imagine what kind of comfort he could be. But Chara - a part of Chara, the part that could admit to something scary and intimate like love and family - they could do it. They could open their arms to him.]

[So he can too.]

Hey, kid.

[The words are a little broken up, a little uneven. He still feels fragile as broken glass. Like any word might send him to pieces on the floor.]

[It helps that he's already there.]

C'mere.

[He's not sure if she wants it, or if she doesn't. But he opens his arms, just in case.]

[In case she really needs a hug right now.]

iii

[vagabone]

[He stumbles upon Tim by accident on his way to the Denny, no idea anything's wrong until he sees the man huddling against a tree. Not so different from the scene a few weeks ago, only in reverse.

He steps closer as quietly as he can, reaching out for Tim's shoulder on instinct and reconsidering once his thoughts catch up. Face it, he's not exactly warm or comforting. He looks on for a minute, concerned, then eases himself down next to Tim's tree. Another moment passes before he speaks up, voice quiet...]

What happened?

[postictal]

[A question, a voice he recognizes - distant, as though sounding through ears stuffed with cotton. His head's pounding. When he finally looks in Héctor's direction, he has to blink a few times to clear out the film of tears that've gathered around his eyes, behind his lids. Takes him a minute to realize who it is.]

[He doesn't know how well he knew them. Either of them. But his shoulders tremble, and he buries his face in arms folded across the knees drawn up against his chest, the words muffled.]

Th - um. They're gone.

ii.

[a_shadow]

[ Tex happens across Tim as he gazes at the flowers. He seems somehow lost, though Tex has no idea how she picked up on that, or whether she's even right. Tex is the champion at suppressing her emotions; she doesn't really know what to think of other people having them.

Tex stops, though she's careful to bring her stride to a slow halt rather than a sudden one. She doesn't know that words would be helpful just now, to someone who is feeling the way she perceives this person might be feeling. She doesn't know that touch would be either, especially from someone he barely knows. So she just stands there with him, admiring the sight of the garden. If the silence persists long enough she might glance over at him, just momentarily, to see how he's faring, and maybe to gauge whether she's even right about how he might be feeling in this moment. But no matter what she picks up from such a glance, she'll wait until he makes some move or says something to proceed. ]

[postictal]

[It's probably because it's fairly obvious that Tim's been sobbing his guts out ever since he got the letter. Eventually, he sniffs once, rubs his nose on his sleeve. It's already stiff with snot. He's disgusting. He's fucking disgusting.]

Dunno a thing about g-gardening.

[So he's gonna have to teach himself. Gonna have to fucking learn, isn't he?]

[atailoftwoworlds]

[Zidane and his lorby companion Blank were on the hunt for some food. What Blank did not expect to see was someone sitting on the beach. Curious to see the new person, he slithered closer to find out if Tim was friendly.] Blank, hey!

[Blank meant well but his master didn’t know everyone else’s experiences with lorbies on the islands. If someone had the misfortune to run into the shrieking ones....

Zidane runs up to them both.] Hey buddy, let’s not bother the gu- [Wait a second, that is...] Tim?!

[And immediately Zidane’s expression changes from one of surprise to one of worry and concern.] Whoooooah what happened? You okay?

[He won’t make Tim talk if he doesn’t want to. Still, to see the guy breaking down and crying like this - he can’t walk away without seeing if he can help somehow.]

[postictal]

[Most everything that comes to him comes through a thick, foggy lack of awareness toward just about everything. It takes him a long minute to register what's drawing near to him, and even longer to realize that someone else is calling his name. He stares at the long, furry snake of a creature blankly, without really processing what it is he's looking at.]

[Finally, he looks up. It's obvious just from a glance that he's been crying. He still reaches up to rub at his face, at the sticky residue left stuck to his cheeks.]

Not, uh.

Not really.

[Call this one for the history books, folks. Tim's finally admitted to someone else that he's not really okay. Not in the slightest.]

III.

[prettypurpleparlor]

[She'd been looking for him, already.]

[She hadn't quite expected to find him here, curled up beside a tree on the path to the Denny, but she had been trying to find him. She'd seen the list, heard the news, understood that they were gone.]

[She hadn't known what to say.]

[She'd known there was nothing to say.]

[So she'd done what she'd always been taught to, growing up in a world where losses could be sudden and- should the grief prove to be too deep to handle- contagious. She'd taken stock of her own loss, judged it painful but bearable, and gone about the business of looking out for those suffering more deeply. There's a basket tucked under one arm, the gift she'd meant to bring to his house, and had carried on with her when she didn't find him there.]

[She'd always been grateful, quietly, that Tim cared for them. There was a gap between them and the home they'd all come from, somehow, one she still didn't fully understand but could recognize enough to know that maybe she wasn't the right person to help them, sometimes. That even though she cared for them- for both of them, however much Chara pushed her aside and Frisk was always just out of reach- she might not be what was best for them, and that it was better to let them come to her on their own terms, if and when they were comfortable enough to do so.]

[She kneels down carefully beside him, close enough to make her presence obvious but far enough to avoid crowding him just like she'd do for Chara and holds out a handkerchief.]

Here.

[Because of course, in this world of confusion and struggle and limited chances, she'd found the time somewhere along the way to weave handkerchiefs. Even in the middle of an unknown island wilderness, some standards simply had to be upheld.]

[postictal]

[A quiet, very undignified sniffle is about the most Tim can manage, immediately. He's stopped giving a damn about how people see him a long time ago, at least where this is concerned. Half the people on this island, it feels like, have seen him cry at some point or another.]

[So he's a crier. He can't really fix that at this point. And why should he? No one else in the house would've ever let themselves just break down and cry unless it was under very certain circumstances - ]

[It's the wrong thing to think about.]

[A handkerchief, a quiet word: here. A blur of purplish skin, and a familiar tone.]

[Tim's eyes are wet. He sniffles again, heavily, and takes the proffered handkerchief with a subtly trembling hand.]

Th...thanks.

iii

[taxusbacatta]

Although usually distant and full of scars and stories and things that would usually make her turn up her nose at the plight of the Twolegs--this particular Twolegs was one Yellowfang had come to think of as a friend. And so, as most cats do when they sense someone is in the pits, simply appears one afternoon at Tim's elbow as he sits at a table or counter or other work space.

She's been watching him and listening. While she doesn't understand the full details or the gravity of the situation, she radiates a low, sympathetic purr to announce herself.

"Tell your troubles to an old medicine cat."

[postictal]

The temptation to just reach out at the nearest comforting shape and hold onto it is...there, but he knows better. His instinct is never to cling to something else. So he sniffs, scrubs at his face with the back of one hand, and looks at her.

He looks like a mess. Like he hasn't slept - even more than usual, anyway - and like he's been crying pretty much nonstop - which he has. Face stiff, head pounding, he looks at Yellowfang and take a minute to process who it is he's looking at.

He's been having trouble recognizing most things he should. He's disoriented.

"I lost some people. Some kids I..."

Kids he loved, whether he realized it or not.

i

[solperierat]

It's chance that he's passing by, but Ed manages to catch the sound of muffled sobs coming from the shack. He pauses, a sick worry settling into the pit of his stomach seeing Tim collapsed against the tigerlily like that. There's a moment of hesitation, uncertainty, before he steps over and kneels down next to Tim. He almost reaches out, but thinks better of it a moment later and pulls back his hand.

"Tim? What...what happened?" He has a guess--Ed remembers the panic during the eruption, the sick worry that had followed...but he really, really doesn't want to be right.

[postictal]

Of course someone finds him like this. Someone who isn't just...a non-judgmental, completely neutral party like a tigerlily that's gone through more naming iterations than is reasonable. It takes Tim a minute to come back to himself - to realize he's being addressed by someone who's talking to him, in person.

He's being addressed by someone he knows. Someone who's never seen him be reduced to this - a sobbing fucking wreck on the ground.

He can't really stand right now. Rather, the idea of trying to get to his feet feels insur-fucking-mountable. He stares at the red, glistening scabs on the backs of his hands through the fuzz of his own tears.

"Th - "

He can't finish the word. Swallow, the breath shuddering in his throat.

"They're gone."

sssssslightly custom, lemme know if i should change it

[demonpuppy]

It wasn't hard to notice Tim's demeanor the last few days, nor the reason why. They'd always held a slight resentment against the two kids that stayed with Tim, but they had been there first, and Chip had Erika to stay with. Whatever angry spark might have been there never got the chance to flare into something brighter...and now, it's been squelched flat seeing how their absence has hit him so hard.

They've never been invited to a sleepover before, and certainly never proposed one. But Erika had said it was fine, and...well, they're worried. With Sunny on their shoulder, Snowball in their arms, and their backpack stuffed full of blankets and a somewhat deformed pillow, Chip knocks three times on the door to Tim's shack and waits with a lump in their throat.

all good!

[postictal]

They wanted to stay the night. Maybe to make sure that he doesn't fucking lose it overnight. Worried about him, maybe, or wanting him to adhere to some kind of...familiarity.

His days have lost their routine. He's been absent from Denny more and more, and it's started to show. So maybe he's in need of an intervention, and Chip's decided they're gonna be the one to intercede. It shouldn't be their job to scrape him back together, but he doesn't have the spine to say no to them, or to anyone, at the moment.

It's pretty apparent that he's not really in the right state of mind, at the moment. The door opens, and his eyes are unfocused, slightly glassy. But they eventually settle on Chip, even if he can't really manage a smile, either.

"...hey."

ii

[onegreeneye]

Ginko can't claim to know Tim terribly well, but he has, now and then, noticed something familiar about him. Maybe a kind of kinship, or... maybe calling it that would be a stretch. He can't be sure.

Either way, he can't very well just walk past a guy in Tim's current state.

Even if he doesn't really know what he should say.

"Are you alright?"

That's... a start.

[postictal]

It's not the stupidest possible question that someone could ask Tim right now, considering he's standing mutely in front of the library, smoking more in one sitting than he has in months, his expression bordering on absolutely desolate, face still wet with tears.

It's just...close. It comes close.

Tim sniffs once, rubs at his nose with the back of his hand.

"What d'you think?"

3!

[lesbeau]

[Beau has no idea anything is happening with Tim. People come and go from this place and she knows it, so keeping track of them all seems impossible. What she does know is that she walks into the Denny and it seems like no one is there, which is kinda weird actually. She doesn't think of herself as a regular- a regular drunk, maybe- despite easily spending half her week here. It's what makes it easy to vault the counter, press her way into the back, and hear... crying.

She crouches just a moment, unsure if she's walking into a trap, and steps light into the room. It's only when she lays eyes on Tim that she announces her presence by knocking her knuckles on the door frame and giving him an acknowledging nod if he meets her eyes.]

Hey.

[At least he won't get any tearful words and fragile movements from her. That's never been Beau's particular brand of sensitivity.]

You don't look so good.

[postictal]

[People keep noticing him. It's pretty obvious, once they hear him. He can't just be quiet, can't just sit tight and be quiet about everything burning away in his chest. Or the nothing that's now burning there instead.]

[He ducks his head, rubbing at his nose with the back of his sleeve. It's disgusting. He's disgusting.]

[The words are thick and nasally, like he has a cold.]

Yeah? What gave it away?

Iii

[journalname]

[Of course Asgore already knows what has happened. He saw the list.

He'd gone back to his house, then, and cried for a good while himself. It almost seems wrong - like he doesn't deserve to be so wounded by their disappearance, when he saw so little of them while they were here. They did not want this from him. But they're not here now. And it's easy to believe that Frisk has gone somewhere better, back to the Surface in one way or another, but Chara - his child -

It's an old wound that never really healed to begin with, torn open all over again. He takes some time alone to nurse it, more than he is proud of.

But eventually, he does have to come out. There's more important things than brooding over his own feelings. The usual Denny deliveries must be done. Tim isn't there, which isn't terribly surprising. When Asgore gets up the nerve to approach the house, Tim isn't there either.

When he finds him, it's out on Enso. not apparently doing anything in particular. Asgore stops a fair distance away.]

...Tim?

[postictal]

[It takes Tim a minute to answer.]

[It takes him a minute to process, a minute to understand who's talking to him, that someone's addressing him at all, and when he finally answers, it feels delayed. Everything feels too far away.]

[It's Asgore.]

[He would've...wanted to know eventually, right? He should've told him. Should've told him himself instead of making him find out the hard way. Has he found out? He had to have. The memorial stone updates every so often, and their names would've sprung up eventually.]

[No, no, no, god no.]

[Tim coughs, wetly, into one fist, and lights up another cigarette. He was really, really set on trying to quit.]

Hey. [The word's hoarse, and he only half-turns.]

Uh...sorry. You need something?

ii.

[deathfindsaway]

He doesn't actually know it's Tim waiting outside, at first. He's just at his normal archival grind, working on something to keep himself busy, anything to provide some form of progress out here. Truthfully, he smells the cigarette first and thinks there's an honest to goodness fire, and two strong steps outside prove... it isn't.

Just him.

Kravitz blinks once, a moment of tension as he figures out how to approach... this. Whatever this now is, because the last time he tried to approach a sensitive situation with this man he hurt him deeply. But he has to say something. Anything.

So he clears his throat and tries.

"Uhm... so, it. Hello. Do you need something from the library?"

[postictal]

It takes him a minute to respond. A minute to realize he's being spoken to. He's been standing outside the library for...he doesn't know how long he's been here, actually. Long enough for someone to realize that he's been out here. Long enough for someone to ask what he wants, or what he's doing here.

Long enough to be an annoyance.

"...sorry." Why's he apologizing? For existing in the vicinity? He rubs at one cheek, dropping his eyes. "I - yeah. I'm...I have to look for something."