[TEXT] Backdated to August 3rd

[killthisparty]

[CW for alcohol/substance abuse and intense depressive talk.]

iwonder if itd supposed tobe funny
all ths shit
you nkoe? beign stuck here
not being s person no more
but not rly a ghost

they talk to u slike they arent in charge
even if its not their choice
hey talk like they cant be blamerd for it
n some of u actually eat that uyp

they took two fo mine
two of ours. down to half

dont give a fuck if theyre not doing it
i dont casre
i hope the fucking robots wipe them out
every single one of them

have fun on ur lil roadtrip

Comments

[killthisparty]

[ He doesn't know. He's not great with technology, and had he known there was a tracker on it, there would be about a 60% chance that phone would end up somewhere underwater, a good few feet away from shore.

And another thing is true - he could have just as easily not said where he is. He could have gone farther away, kept on moving. But he didn't. He's tired. He's hurting. He's not entirely sober, but it doesn't warm him over. He's just sitting there, staring out at a building with a name he finds entirely offensive, feeling this emptiness corrode his body from the center of his chest, slowly, steadily, burning.

He doesn't move when Jet shows up. Just keeps on breathing steadily, feeling the breeze on his face and listening to the wind. He's selfish, so selfish, focusing on his own pain, he knows. But this sort of thing - this is a blunt knife taking cruel cuts at their unit. Their family. Everyone's hurting.

And what is even there to say about it?]

[laststartofall]

[For a long while, Jet only sits there. How many times have they spent hours like this together, with the hot sun beating down on them rather than a cool ocean breeze? It doesn't change the meaning behind it.

Party is selfish, but at a time like this, he's allowed to be selfish. Jet would be selfish too, if he didn't put everyone else first like some kind of deeply ingrained instinct.

And still, he doesn't say anything, but after several minutes have passed he shifts a hand up and places it on his friend's shoulder. Light, easily shrugged off, but saying everything that words don't.]

[killthisparty]

[ He doesn't move right away, feeling the hand on his shoulder, warm, gentle. Comforting. Familiar.

They don't have a lot that's familiar. No - they have people. People they keep losing. People that keep being plucked away, as far as they know, into nothing. Or maybe, maybe The Witch is getting them out, one by one, sending them on their merry way.

He wishes he could hear her. He wishes he could believe in her, right here, right now. He wishes he could wish for something better.

He turns his head the other way, just for a moment, to rub at his face, knowing his friend won't point it out. Then he raises his head, and takes a deep breath through his nose. The cold air should be familiar by now, too, right?

It isn't.]

Sorry. [ He word comes quiet, gentle, but impulsive. Instinctive. He doesn't append any specific meaning or action or situation to it. He's just sorry.]

[laststartofall]

[Hard to keep believing in something that's been carried with you almost all your life when so much of what you're experiencing makes you want to look the other way. Jet makes a soft sound, a quiet 'tch' and mutters a barely-whispered curse before he wraps his arm around Party's shoulders and gives the younger man a gentle tug into his side.

Jet rarely asks for Party's apologies for anything. It comes hand in hand with understanding the man and why he acts the way he does, why he might do this or that thing, and he can forgive him almost anything without it needing to be asked.]

Hey... no need for sorry, tumbleweed.

[killthisparty]

[ He shifts along with the pull from Jet's arm, until he's up against the other killjoy's side. He appreciates the comfort. He appreciates the understanding, without having to struggle to find words to even begin to explain the things he does. He's never been good at direct conversation.

He lets his head drop against the side of Jet's shoulder, knees tucked back up so he can keep his arms around them. He feels like he might fall apart - not with a bang, not with a shatter, but just quietly and gone.]

They're never coming back. [ Not a question. Not asking for a rebuttal or a positive spin on what he's saying. He's just stating what, to him, is fact. To think otherwise would be to just keep digging into a wound that's already infected.]

[laststartofall]

[If anyone is going to understand Party Poison, it would be Jet Star. It's years of observation that have brought him to this point of being able to read the man without words, to understand the difference between what he does and says and what he really means.

That he accepts that arm around him without complaint says a great deal.]

Maybe. [He can't deny it, because the wound is just as deep for him and just as tender to prod at with attempts at reassurance. He can't deny it, because denying it would be a lie.]

Maybe not. Can't say it for sure. But I'm here, right now.