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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.
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[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.]
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[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?
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[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.]
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[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.
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[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.
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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?
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All of this.
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[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.]
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[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.]
cw suicide mention
[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.]
tw: suicidal ideation
[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.]
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[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.
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[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.]
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[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?]
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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.
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[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.]
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[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.
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[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?]
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You have...other people here. Do you not?
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[He doesn't complete the thought. Can't. He already knows it's true, knows that he fucked up both kids' souls when he entered their lives, and there was no walking back from that, but he was too goddamned selfish to just let them go. Had to keep proving that he was sorry, that he was worth their time, worth anything.]
[Humans are so fucking selfish.]
How'd you keep going? After it happened?
[Tim.]
[Are you sure you're supposed to know that?]
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(Chara never really spoke of their life on the Surface, at least not to him. But whatever mistakes he and Toriel made, Asgore hopes they were at least better than that.)
But that question...]
I...don't know. [No, that's not exactly true, is it?] I - after - after what happened. The rate of deaths in the city skyrocketed. Despair can be lethal for monsters, and...
[And everybody loved the royal children. Everybody loved the queen. Their future and the brains behind the throne, gone just like that.]
If I were to die as well, then...I do not know what would have happened.
[He thinks that may be why he never fell down - he just couldn't afford to. Or maybe a boss monster soul is simply more resilient.
He shouldn't describe it like that. It's not as though just him being there gave people hope. It was all about that promise he made. But in those early days, it was so easy to just believe that no human would ever fall again. He could buy them hope without the price ever coming due, and all he had to do was stay alive. The new future of humans and monsters.]
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[The question of how he knows it, how he knows what question to ask at all, doesn't come up. That's best. He's got no idea how he'd explain it if it did, without unveiling something that Chara never wanted anyone else to know.]
[They're gone. Their secrets aren't.]
[He plans to take them to his grave, if he'll have one.]
But you had to keep living. 'Cause without a leader, they wouldn't have anyone. Right?
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Had it been any other time, perhaps it would not have mattered, but...
[If he had died alone, before any of that - say, when he ate the pie - that would have been fine. Toriel would have been there. The people would not have been in despair to begin with. It's not that he's particularly vital.]
I am not -
[I am not saying it was the right choice.
It wasn't. Look at what he did, as a lone ruler. It would have been hard, if he died, but surely Toriel would have heard about it and come to reclaim her throne? That is what ended up happening anyway, centuries later. Would it have been easier back then, when the people still recognized her as their Queen? Or would the added blow have been too great?
Hard to say. But that is not a conversation he should have with Tim. Things like that do not apply to him.]
I could not...let that happen. Certainly not because of me.
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[Why he tried to, even if every other part of him was so, so very good at just wanting to lie down and die. Too bad that he's not any good at dying, actually. He's tried it enough times to know that it never sticks, with him. Sometimes it's a faceless thing that doesn't seem to want him dead. Sometimes it's a horned god. Sometimes it's an island shore with a funny idea that his story's not quite finished.]
I...it was for them. For them. And now that they're gone, what else is there? No one needs me here. No one...
[God. Listen to him. Only staying alive because of the idea that he could be needed. How fucking selfish is that?]
I can't do anything like that for anyone else.
tw: it's probably gonna be suicidal ideation all the way down
[He doesn't have an answer. Asgore told Tim once how important the other patients from Beacon were to him, and that right there is exactly the reason. They need him to stay alive. Sometimes, here on the islands, the idea that they will need him to return someday is all that has kept him on his feet.
No one here needs him at all. Even his own child didn't. And he made his choice in the Underground. If it weren't for Beacon, there'd be no reason left for him.]
You do not have to do that for someone. You are not a king, or a leader - you can live for yourself. And people still want you here.
and HOW
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