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Entry tags:
- coco: héctor rivera,
- critical role: beauregard,
- final fantasy ix: zidane tribal,
- fragile dreams: ren,
- marble hornets: tim wright,
- mushi-shi: ginko,
- original: chip abaroa,
- the adventure zone: kravitz,
- undertale: asgore dreemurr,
- ✖ fullmetal alchemist: edward elric,
- ✖ okami: amaterasu,
- ✖ red vs. blue: agent texas,
- ✖ warriors: yellowfang
they say the captain goes down with the ship [ OPEN ]
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 thoughtsIt'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 matchTim 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 catchIt'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.
o/
"Hi."
They step inside, glancing around briefly before looking up at Tim again. Even knowing he's the only one here, it still feels like they're intruding on something sacred.
"It's...you're sure you don't mind?"
no subject
The tigerlily is sprawled on his bed. It's where they've decided they want to be, when they're not drinking in the sunshine outside, and he can't really blame them. They roll onto their back when Chip enters, with a soft sound of interest.
Tim rubs at his cheek with the back of his sleeve. He only really succeeds in scratching at his face with fabric stiff with dried snot.
He's a mess. He looks it.
"'Course I don't." Doesn't add that he hadn't realized how used he'd come to falling asleep to the sounds of someone else in the room. "You don't...have to, if you don't want to. It's kind of a weird..."
He glances at the bed. It's nicer than anything else in here, for sure.
"You can take the bed, if you want. Just cleaned the sheets and everything. 'Long as you don't mind the company."
Butternut, the resident tigerlily, has grown used to sleeping somewhere soft.
no subject
Snowball wriggles out of their arms and immediately scampers under the bed, possibly looking for something to play with or spotting a creeping bug. Chip startles a bit at that, but...well, tigerlillies are just kind of big doofuses anyway, so it's probably fine. But as for the bed--
"Are you sure? I got blankets and stuff to stay on the floor, you don't have to."
no subject
Getting up, pacing. He's never been a very heavy sleeper unless navigating the postictal sludge of his own neurons. Even then, those induced naps aren't what he'd call restful.
Insomnia. Had it his whole life. This just made it worse for a time.