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

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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.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Are you alright?

[Asgore's understanding of the dangers of smoking is a little vague; in his day tobacco wasn't considered unhealthy, and cigarettes with all their new warning labels don't tend to make their way underground. He just thinks the smell is unpleasant, so he doesn't say anything about that.

Everything else, though - well, of course he's not alright. It's sort of a stupid question really.]

Are you?

[Asgore's got more reason to be fucked up over this, doesn't he? Or maybe he is - maybe he is, and he's just better at keeping it together. That makes sense. If you're a king, if you're royalty, there's an expectation that you keep it together. The last time Asgore lost it, he lost his marriage, right?]

[Tim's always been pretty shit at keeping this kinda thing under wraps, once it gets to this point.]

[A king cannot be upset. He must maintain a certain image for the sake of the people, no matter what happens. And that's a rule Asgore enforces on himself even more harshly now.

Asgore, specifically, cannot be allowed to be upset. The last time he did, he destroyed everything.]

....yes. [But he's utterly awful at lying, too.] I only wanted to check on you. I know that...

[That there's nothing to be done. That it will not get better - unless, of course, it's just Asgore who never recovers from losses like this one. Maybe other people actually do move past things. But he remembers how Tim talked before: about how the children took care of him half of the time. About how hard it was.]

...have you eaten?

Yeah, sure. You're always just...fine.

[He should be better at this. He is, usually. He's a liar. He can keep it under wraps, he can keep all of it under wraps, usually, but this is different and it's different because it's them and he should've seen this coming. Or he should've prepared for the inevitability. There's not a single person in his life that he hasn't lost, some way or another. Why would they have been any fucking different?]

I don't remember.

[So no, then.]

[Asgore flinches, and then winces at himself for doing it. His feelings really aren't relevant here.]

Well, then, I suppose you had better. Would you like me to bring you something?

[Does what he want matter anymore? Everything he did was for some wider purpose, and in the passing days, that purpose was more often than not something to do with one of them. Keep himself breathing, keep himself functioning, so that they don't have to worry. So that they have somewhere to go. So that no one asks why two kids are living alone. So that he can be a cover story, an excuse, some ground to go to.]

[What's the point of any of that now?]

Not like I can stop you, right?

...no, I suppose not.

[Asgore...really doesn't have the energy to do anything else with that. He just leaves and comes back like ten minutes later with some apples. He takes a seat under the tree nearest Tim's and hands one over.]

[He doesn't fully expect Asgore to come back. So when he does, it takes Tim a minute. Everything takes longer than it should - for him to process, for him to understand, for him to fully take in. Asgore's gone. And then he's not. And then he's holding out an apple.]

[They talked about this, just weeks ago. Apples.]

[He was more functional then.]

[Still, he takes it. Doesn't bite in - just stares at it in his hands.]

...they grew, huh?

They did.

[Asgore has a few other apples, but he seems to have no intention of eating them himself. He just sets them down carefully in the grass, and leans back against the tree trunk to look up at the leaves.

He hasn't taken very good care of the garden, these past few days. He needs to do better.]

[It's funny. He can look back at years' worth of doing everything that he did for the kids he lived with, who weren't even his to look after, who really didn't need him to look after them at all, and tally up all the things that he did on their behalf and realize it to be almost everything.]

[So why's he still feel like the most selfish bastard on the face of the planet?]

I wanted...it was gonna be a surprise. Something for them to enjoy. Dunno how long it was since either of them had something like hot chocolate.

They loved chocolate.

[They, in this case, being only Chara. Asgore barely knew Frisk, in this or any other world. He doesn't know what they might have liked.

It's awful of him to think mainly about his own child. About himself, his feelings, how badly he wanted them here. Isn't it so much worse for them, the both of them? Being unexpectedly torn away from your home is a terrible thing. And isn't it worse for Tim? They were his family. Asgore could easily go months without seeing them, and here he is acting like he has some right to grieve.]

I'm sorry.

Yeah.

They did.

[He actually knows something about Frisk, now. He knows something because his Light thought to ask, and then had the decency to mention it - before things got to be bad enough where he wouldn't take it anymore.]

[Is it even something he should bring up? That they had preferences, that they had things they liked and things they didn't, and just never mentioned it?]

...for what?

[Asgore just sort of gestures, trying to encompass everything in a single wave of his hand. The children going, not checking in sooner, not really being able to help even if he had. Feeling things he oughtn't to. That maybe his time with them would've been just a bit more peaceful and happy if Asgore weren't around at all.]

All of this.

None of that's on you.

[He couldn't have stopped them. No one can ever stop them from doing what they do. They just...do it, and accept whatever consequences come next.]

[They didn't mean to leave this time. At least he can know that much for certain.]

I should have come to find you sooner, at least.

[There's not much he could have done about the heart of it. These things happen as they will; he had to accept that even before coming to the islands. But he should have at least been better about dealing with the aftermath - taking care of others as he ought, and not just wallowing in his own selfish misery.]

Wouldn't've fixed anything.

[Wouldn't've changed the fact that they're gone.]

[There's so much he could say. Should say. About how he shared a SOUL, however briefly, with Asgore's child. How he knows more than he should about them, about him, about the Underground. How he tried to be them, when being him got to be too much.]

[How they walked off the edge of this existence and wiped themself clean from everyone's memories. How he knew that was their plan, and he did nothing to stop it - not because he didn't care, but because he knew better than to try and drag someone away from that edge when the only thing that'll keep them from it for good is to have a reason to walk away.]

[How they came back. How he kept their secrets for them, and keeps those secrets even now.]

[He should say it. They're not here to make him keep any of their secrets anymore.]

[But he doesn't.]

[He might be a liar, but he knows which lies and truths are his, and his alone, and which of those aren't his to discuss.]

Your health is still important.

[Isn't that what's done, when someone is gone? People take care of the ones left behind?

Asgore doesn't remember anybody coming to the castle after his children died. After Toriel left. He isn't quite sure how he might have made it through those days alone, but he can't recall anyone else being there, either. Maybe it's just that the whole thing is a blur.

Tim's health is still important. Even if half the time, Asgore can't understand why he couldn't have just fallen down back then and saved all the trouble.]

My health's pretty fucked.

[Even without the chain-smoking habit, even without the fact that he's been living off the land like everyone else for the past two years, his brain is still a mess and his lungs have still had problems for longer than he's been fucking them over his own damn self.]

Always has been.

Then it is all the more important to take care of yourself.

[Yes, he definitely should have checked in sooner. Asgore didn't know much about Tim's physical health, but he's known that Tim has trouble coping at the best of times. He remembers that child cowering in the forest - though it's a strange memory, half-dreamlike, with him only a child himself.]

What for?

[The word cracks, brittle and drawn thin from a mixture of cigarette smoke and too many goddamn tears.]

I kept myself - I did everything - it wasn't for me. I never did any of it for me.

[He did everything for them, for both of them. He hadn't realized, hadn't taken the time to categorize just how much of everything he was had to do with them, but now that they're gone - what is he without them?]

[Well that, to use the new hip lingo, is "hashtag relatable".

Asgore's eyes well up at the sound of Tim's voice cracking, because he's always been quick to tears at the best of times and this is far from one of those. But he grits his teeth, takes a breath, and tries to contain himself. This is about Tim.]

You are still important. They would not want this for you.

They didn't wanna leave, either.

[Not this time. Look on the bright side, right? They didn't want to leave. They didn't want to be forgotten, didn't want to be left behind. They wanted to be remembered, and now at least it's not him alone who's remembering them.]

[The fact that everyone knows why he's grieving doesn't necessarily make it easier.]

...people rarely do.

[Sometimes they do. Asgore knows that. But mostly - no, it just is what it is. Nobody can control what happens in this place, but he knows that the children would not have intentionally left Tim behind.]

That does not mean you no longer matter.

What the fuck am I doing anymore, then?

[What the fuck does he do when he doesn't have someone to try and bother being better for? He knows he's not capable of anything good, not on his own. He's never been able to do anything for himself.]

[Who's he doing shit for now?]

[Asgore is. Not at all equipped for this conversation, is he? He feels like he should be - there was a time, once, when his people said he brought them comfort. But does he really know what he's doing at all?]

You have...other people here. Do you not?

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cw suicide mention

tw: suicidal ideation

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