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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.
no subject
"You're free to come in, of course. It's quiet inside, you can, uhm. Read in peace." What he's truly implying is 'I won't let anyone bother you', even if he distinctly feels like he's bothering now. "No one else is around for the moment."
no subject
He stubs his cigarette out and slides it back into the tin. That's the only signal of his concession before he stumps inside.
no subject
"I simply find myself here quite often, so I do my best to help. You said gardening, yes? What, uhm, what kind?" He'll try to keep the conversation fairly neutral, not step on anything tender by accident.
no subject
Wait. Shit. Chara...they got sick when they tried to move the flowers. He should probably avoid that. Unless he wants to die via flowers again. That's not really his area. Not really his brand.
Poisoning, though. That kind of is.
"Poisonous ones, actually."
It doesn't occur to him that between that and the fact that he looks like someone who's been crying on and off for days, that may be more than a little concerning.
no subject
"Can I ask why poisonous ones...?" He's at least trying to be delicate about it. "Since this seems to be a new venture for you, and er, that's a... complicated way to begin."
no subject
He doesn't have gloves. Should he ask for gloves? He should probably ask for gloves.
no subject
Well, the uncomfortable answer is the most likely.
"Right, well-- it's likely they're perfectly safe to take care of, with adequate protection." He's already looking over the shelves, trying to find literally anything related to this. "I have, uhm. Well, there are a number of people here who are very skilled at keeping up gardens as well. If the knowledge is not here, they may know as well."
His fingers dance idly along spines before turning back to Tim. "Admittedly, much of our material on plants is for medicinal purposes, but they may contain information about how one would be infected from a poisonous source. Give you something to watch out for."
no subject
He thinks of Asgore. He thinks - god, no, he's not thinking about that, he's not thinking about them, either of them. Not thinking about tearing two kids apart as they fought and scrapped in the yard, crushing the flowers that one of them had taken such care to cultivate. He's not thinking about golden flowers in sepia vases. He's not thinking about any of it -
He's not thinking about it, because his eyes are getting heavy and foggy again. He lifts a hand to rub at his face, and the limb feels heavy.
"I just - " The words are too thick. Swallow. Try again. They still tremble. "I just need to know how to take care of them."
no subject
"Perhaps you should sit down." There's a lot going on here and he doesn't know how to approach it, but by god, he's making an attempt. "I don't mean to push you to talk, I just... you seem like you have more on your mind than just plants, and they will not wither in a day."
no subject
"I just need - " He's trying to soldier through it, and it's not really working. But he doesn't sit down, and he doesn't really seem to want to look at Kravitz, or anything in particular, either.
"I need to know how to do this. If you don't - if there aren't any books, I'll figure out something else. I just, I need to know if you do."
no subject
"I think there are things the library can offer you. But I think you may have too much on your mind to absorb that, right now. Please, Tim-- you needn't tell me details if you don't wish, but I know grief. I beg you to talk about it and not keep it on your shoulders alone." His gaze travels for a moment, and one of the nearby chairs floats into the air and gently deposits itself behind Tim. Just in case.
cw: suicide ideation, dissociation
He doesn't have the words to say all of it. That if he sits down and lets himself break, it'll feel like he won't be able to breathe, and it'll feel like it just - won't stop. That he's broken down over and over again and he's just tired of it now, just fucking sick of feeling wrung out and empty and a sobbing, grief-torn mess. That he just needs to throw himself into something, bury himself into anything else because if he doesn't it'll eat him alive and he can't deal with this, he can't keep feeling like this for another goddamn minute because he won't be able to handle it and he knows he won't be able to handle it he'll need it to stop he'll want it to stop by any means necessary and that's when he'll start crossing into a place he said he was trying to avoid and they told him to take care of himself and not to lose it and what's he doing right now he's losing it he couldn't even keep this promise for a minute not for a fucking minute he's just useless without them without either of them he only got anywhere because he had people to drag him to his feet and without that he's god what even is he anymore he's not a roommate he's not useful he's not a friend sometimes he can't even say that he's a person because he doesn't feel it especially not now -
It turns out that Tim's not really talking about it. He's not doing much of anything coherent.
But at some point in the last few minutes, he more or less dropped into that chair and started sobbing his guts out.
no subject
So he pulls up his own seat, makes sure Tim won't tip over and can lean against him for however long he needs. He just needs support right now. He can be a-- a live body, as it were. Just get it out, ol' Timbo. Feel those feelings.
no subject
It takes him a few long minutes before he can get his breathing under control enough to speak.
"I'm s - I'm sorry - " Sorry. Doesn't know what for. Sorry for butting in. Sorry for breaking down. Sorry for not being coherent enough, not being good enough, not being anything he should be.
no subject
"You needn't apologize." He responds smoothly, for once in an element he can understand. "Grief must be processed. Leaving emotions like that untreated will kill you, or worse."
He tilts his head towards Tim, a little grin playing on his face. "Additionally, if you think this is the messiest or least appealing thing I have ever seen, you are mistaken. Your existence here is not a problem at all."
cw: suicide ideation
His comfort level is pretty low as it is.
"God, I wish it would." He says it without meaning to, with a viciousness that's not usually characteristic of him - overt and desperate. Why can't something kill him for good, for once? Why can't things just fucking stick?
no subject
The comment makes him sigh though-- as much as it may sound like it, it's not disappointed, but thoughtful. "I'm sorry. I know I have said that before, and-- I'm afraid I've done a bad job at explaining myself under the circumstances."
Kravitz doesn't hold Tim exactly, just lets his arm not squeeze, a gentle sort of barrier against the world-- or as much as he can. "I know it is hard to believe. I do not expect you to suddenly understand. But the truth of many, many worlds is that the things that occur to us are circumstance. We were not chosen for them, nor were they done in retaliation to us. We happened to be in that place, and it changed our destiny."
He's looking a bit out now, sort of towards the floor and otherwise into the void. "There are things greater than us. Capable of more. And just because someone is caught in that circumstance does not mean it was fair, or right. My existence is dedicated to keeping that line as much as I am able. So... I'm sorry that there was not someone to give you that balance."
no subject
"There's not, okay? I don't care what you think about how the world works. That's not how it is with me. Sometimes shit just happens and all you can do is deal with it, and I'm the guy who always has to fucking deal with it because I'm the always the only one left."
He sniffs, rubbing one hand up over his face.
"But go ahead and keep believing that I'm too stupid to understand it. You're probably right about that one. Lotta people seem to think it these days."
no subject
"I don't think you're stupid." Kravitz' tone doesn't sound condescending, or at least he doesn't mean it to- it simply sounds tired, like someone who has said this exact thing many, many times. "You simply look as though you feel guilty for your happenstance. As if the movement of gods and existential horrors weighs on your shoulders."
There's no way he's going to find out more about whatever he went through- Kravitz suspects it has little to do with the current situation anyway. He can only help him make peace with the aspect he knows, that this wasn't his fault. So he looks towards Tim again, though doesn't reach out to touch again. "Just because you must survive through things don't make them your responsibility."
no subject
Kravitz can keep the comfort of order and structure. There's something to be said for the chaos of the sheer meaninglessness of it all.
It didn't happen because of him. For the first time, maybe ever, this shit didn't happen because of something Tim said, or did, or even because he happened to exist in the vicinity.
It just...happened.
They just vanished.
no subject
Sometimes, things do just happen. Kravitz finds those are the hardest to accept. His eyes are still on Tim, hands folded in his lap. "The other subset of this being that when things happen to other people, they are not automatically your responsibility. You do not fail the gone or dead by continuing the status quo as if they were watching your movements. You should take things at a pace you are capable of."
cw: religious...discussion?
Like it or not, he's spent his entire life surrounded by the mentality of it, steeped in it, whether by direct words or from Bible passages and billboards and church parking lot signs and words on the radio: this happens for a reason. There's a reason you are the way you are. This is all a part of God's plan.
He sure as hell didn't sign up for any plan.
Even if any part of this was the piece of some cosmic plan, it sure as shit doesn't belong to god.
"I'll just tell my brain to cut it out, is that it? Just tell it to stop being so goddamn irrational? Yeah, that'll work great. Maybe I should try thinking positive thoughts while I'm at it."
mentions of christianity? idk
"And now is where I'd implore you to stop treating me like I'm an idiot." He lets the sentence sit for just a moment before continuing. "I know it isn't that simple. I know you can't just turn your brain off from negative thoughts and reasons to hate yourself and blame yourself for things-- I know. I just think it bears repeating when something is the truth, if it has been a struggle to believe everything isn't your fault all the time."
Perhaps it weighs heavy on him, too, when he knows what it feels like himself.
no subject
That's the one thing that gets him, even now. People thinking they know shit. People thinking that they can just say some sort of universally relatable bullshit and that it'll stick. As if his life is one that anyone could just pick apart and know just at a glance.
As if anyone should, either.
no subject
Kravitz purposefully snaps his gaze off with a sigh. "You don't have to shield me from whatever has happened to you. Whatever it is, I am sure I have experienced something that would allow me to understand what you're feeling."
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