hadriel | video; what's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it

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video; what's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it

[Sans has something in his hands. It's a bolt of fabric that he runs between his metacarpals with a distant, unfocused precision, something to idly turn between his phalanges as he speaks. Might take a moment to realize that the backdrop to his video ain't the typical one. It's not his room he's sitting in, after all. He's reclining atop a racecar bed. The sheets are perfectly made, as though the owner were planning on returning at some point. On the bedside table, there's a small stack of belongings that clash rather astutely with the layout of the place. A snowglobe, a binder, an ECHOcomm, and at the very far right of the frame, a folded-up sweater vest.

He dropped in to visit some pals of his, you see. Only to find they ain't around anymore.]

For those of you who knew 'em, seems the docs've gone home. You know the ones. Newt and Hermann. [A pause.] Dr. Gottlieb.

[Being a pain in the coccyx suddenly gets to be less funny when there ain't anybody to yell at you about it, huh?]

Hope it's home they went, and not, uh...wherever it was before they got here. Yao know what I'm talkin' about.

[He folds up the cloth in his hands and stands up, grinning at the camera without a lick of despair. Maybe there's somethin' a bit tired to the whole facade, but who can say? He's always tired.]

I hate to tell ya, but it looks like my bro might'a been the guy to slack off for once. Funny, right? Takin' that hard-earned title from yours truly. Here I thought I was supposed to be the guy who nips off without a word.

[Those with sharp eyes might pick up that the cloth ain't just any old thing. It's Papyrus's sash delineating him as an official member of the City Guard - twice torn, twice mended, and now without an owner. Like hell Sans is cut out to wear a thing like this.]

'Pologies to the Guard. Looks like you're one member short. 'Fraid I can't help ya there either; Papyrus, he's got some big shoes to fill.

[He winks at the lens before reaching for the communicator and then, almost as an afterthought, adds:]

Someone ought'a take care of the lab the docs built. Lotta their stuff's still in there, too, and lyin' around my place. Figure it should go to the people who knew 'em best.

[Y'know, whoever that is. But you all know who you are, don't ya?

Yeah. He'd think so.

He cuts the feed.]

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[Is that good?

They don't know. They don't know; never done this before. Most of the time (all the time, always) they didn't have the resources to do anything or make anything or- give anything. They tried, once. They never tried again.

People don't really like to be bothered when they're sad. Except Sans reached out to everyone first, and they know he spent time sharing jokes with Chara, and they know he spoke to other people, too. Maybe the way he responded was Okay, but... he did respond. He wasn't mad.

They have to trust he isn't mad here either. So they get up, taking a few steps forwards. Take the hand that's offered. Just as hesitant.]

[It's slow. Gives 'em every chance to retreat, back away, say no. And it's fine. It's fine if they - it's fine. He's got no right. He gets shakily to his feet, hand cupped carefully 'round theirs.]

I'm gonna...

[He's never done this before. Never had to ask. But he should ask. Should make sure it's okay before you do something like this to a kid who might have unkind memories of being - well, it's like the them that wasn't them said: he's an adult. They got reason to be weary.]

D'you want, uh - [For a guy who's all about gettin' to the point, he sure is being infuriatingly vague, ain't he? Clear that nonexistent throat of his and try again:] Is a hug maybe...okay?

[It's not his fault if they tense, just a little. When he stands up. Not his fault, and they try not to let it be apparent, or a big deal, because they've sat next to Sans before (leaned on him, or let him lean on them. Let him use them as a prop when he was at his most dangerous, and he gave them their jacket. Didn't hurt them once) and they know- they think they know, they

They hope he wouldn't. Wouldn't pretend it was all okay if it wasn't. They let him fumble a bit with his words, and when the actual question is out, they look up. Quickly, and the shock is clear enough. That he's asking, for one. That he wants to?

That he wants to. That he wants to hug them. Their lips part for a moment, a whisper of a noise that doesn't do anything, before they just offer a nod, hasty and fast because yeah, okay, yeah.

Yeah, says the way they bring their other arm up. Yeah. I'd like that too.]

[They tense, just a little. It's purely reactionary, and he can't blame 'em for that. He's an adult. He's given 'em plenty of reason to be wary, and he don't wanna overstep his bounds yet again. He can do a little bit better, can't he? He can try.

They don't manage a verbal answer, but there's a nod, and their arm comes up. The shock on their features, the sheer unexpected nature of the thing - they'd never assume he'd think a thing like that, let alone ask, huh? Can he blame 'em?

Not as such, no.

He goes slow. Moves slow. Keeps giving 'em an out if they require it. Bringing one arm up and then the other and then careful, easy, the rounded bottom of skull that comprises his chin lifting to rest over that tangle of brown hair.]

I, uh...

[Don't hold too close, too tight. Papyrus could take it, but he knew to expect it, and he never flinched because Sans made a motion to stand or backed away or looked at him, nervous. Don't ruin this now.]

Thank you. For...all of this.

[Toriel's hug was always tight and warm. She hugged them like she didn't want to let go, like she never expected to see them again- and she was right, wasn't she? She never saw them again, she just...met them, again. All over again.

And Chara; back when things were bad. Two kids with their LOVE fluxing all over the place, when Frisk could barely stand- worse than they had been the past week, much worse than they are now, with bruises that have steadily faded to yellows and uncomfortable purpley-greens; breathing in deeply doesn't hurt anymore. Chara had held them up. Collapsed on Frisk's bed and stayed with them, for the most part. They held hands; like Asriel had held their hand, and

And that was it, wasn't it.

So he moves slow and careful, and they don't complain. Try not to think and compare all too much, because his jacket might be thick, but he's still all bones. Warm. Smells- he doesn't smell all that great, honestly. They think again about how Alphys says his clothes never get washed.

He says thank you. Lets his chin rest on the top of their head, nice and and careful, and Frisk- eventually moves, as well. Unfreezes to move their own arms round his back, let their fingers grip the fabric there.
so, so tightly. they hold onto his jacket tightly, let all their nervous energy go there. pretend that if they hold tight enough, they'll never have to let go.
Another nod, against his sternum. They'd say something, but the impulsive sorry gets stuck in their throat, and stays there. Probably better that it does.]

Edited 2017-02-05 00:25 (UTC)

[Can't imagine he's what you'd call comfortable, when it comes to hugs. He probably clings too tight or not enough, as slack and lazy as he is on the daily. All bone, padded out with a jacket and a roundness that don't make much sense considering he's all skeletal the way he is, but hey - magic don't make much sense, do it? It's what he is: big-boned.

Takes 'em a minute, but they get there soon enough. And their fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket and they cling, and he don't wanna hold on too tightly.]

I'm glad you're here. Not just now, but -

[That'd be the point where he'd break off to make a looping, equivocal gesture with one hand.

But, uh, funny thing.

He don't want to let go.]

Y'know. In the city.

[Like it or not, there's a way thing's've played out. He ain't free, he's realized; he's been touched by their SOUL, and they've touched his in turn. Made their way in there regardless of his intention.

Well, hell.

Objectivity is overrated anyway.

[Validation.

They don't really know that word. It's not one Chara's told them about, not something they'd picked up Before. The word means nothing, though at their age, they could break it down a little. Valid. To validate something. To feel wanted, like you've done something good.

They don't know the word, but the feeling exists, all the same. Takes a moment to breathe again, with eyes uncomfortably warm- don't really want to let it be more than that. Don't want to ruin anything.]

Me too.

[Small and croaky; they're glad- that he's here, too. If it can't be the happiest end, if he had nothing left to go back to, they're glad he has something. Something is always better than nothing. Something means Okay can become something meaningful, one day, even if it's just in little ways. Like joke books and stars.

Even if they fight. Even if he asks things sometimes, or says things that hurt- in this moment, and every moment. With all of their being, they hope that this moment, surrounded by this warm feeling, helps SAVE him, even a little bit.

They've never had the objectivity not to care. Another word they don't know.

Perhaps Frisk should brush up on their dictionary.]

[It ain't much. It's just one moment, suspended in a whole slew of unhappy ones, and yet for now, just for this minute right here - he hopes to god it's enough. Enough for 'em to be happy, just for a second.

There's a list of things he should'a started off with instead of the interrogatory tone he's taken with 'em this whole time, that caution and that Judgment he'd fired at 'em darkly with an icy grin.

Things he should'a done and never did.

Story of his life. When's he gonna learn, huh?]

You deserve more than I've given ya. And I don't -

[The part where they want to die isn't your fault...mostly.

The part where they think they're a huge joke?

That's you.]

I don't think you're a joke, kid. Never did.

[Never should'a turned any of their deaths, their words, their pain - never should'a made those things into jokes, like they could all laugh and laugh and move on, unhurt.]

[They wish they didn't know what he was talking about.

In a way, they don't, really. But they can imagine, what kind of things- what they could have said, if they didn't care anymore. If the strongest feeling they had left was just...being mad. They can imagine.

Don't even need to imagine. They know.

And they don't know what to do with his words. Not only due to the usual difficulty they have with formulating a sentence, but part of them (small, and angry, and terrified) whispers that he's not telling the truth. That he's still making sure they don't turn into that, what they were before. They can't blame him.

They never did.]

I forgive you.

[Remember?]

[They forgive him.

And it's like gettin' one of Undyne's spear to his chest. Feels like the biggest lie in the world - rote, ridiculous, stupid, trotted out 'cause it's The Right Thing To Do and not for much else, not for any reason like you deserve it.

Is that the cynicism talking?

He believed that he could, Papyrus. Believed anyone could be a good person, if they just tried. Do a little bit better, he said. He believes you can do a little bit better. He should. He should do better but it's so hard.

It ends with me, he told the thing wearing Chara's face in a sneer, even as they gloated, lording their permanence over him. It ends with me. So it's time - for the kid's sake, for all their sakes, for everybody's damn sake, for Papyrus's because it's what he would've wanted - to do better.

So, try.

Don't grip too tight.

Don't cling too tight to things you might lose.

Once you care, you're fucked.

He ain't Papyrus. Never was. He can't be Papyrus because no one can be Papyrus. No one else can fill that bright spot he is, fill that hole his dispersal left, the dissolution of his body into dust and then - into nothing.

Once you care, you're fucked.

What right's he got, huh? What right's he got to drop something like this on them, like it'll make a difference and if it all comes down to nothing then it'll be like none of it fucking mattered and he can't - he can't live with this, he can't live with this, this weight on him and on his SOUL and they've ended up in there. Get the hell away from my kid he growled, and he'd - goddamn this and goddamn him, he'd meant it.

So, try.

So.

Try.]

I.

[It's not...

It's what he needs. What they need, both of 'em, to maybe - begin again, right? To start anew. To stop living with the weight of someone else's sins crawling on their back, someone else's unearned guilt poisoning the well, and try.

So try.]

Frisk.

[It's hard.

Maybe the hardest thing he's ever done. Eyesockets slitted closed, hoping to hell he ain't gripping them tight enough to hurt, skull bowed and resting atop their head as they hug him like they're scared to take too much. Scared to hurt him or scare him away if they grip too hard.

Couple of porcelain dolls, the two of 'em, yeah?

He can't

He can't

He can't. But because he can't, he -

has to.

You can do a little bit better.
It's time to begin again.]

I -

[The word's barely more than a whisper. It's hard. It's hard and he has to try and he'll try and he'll try and he - he owes it to them. He owes it to them and to Chara and Asriel and he'll Try.]

Forgive you.

[His grip does get tighter. They try not to worry; try not to see that as them doing something wrong, when they've been hugging for a good minute, and nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad is happening. He doesn't sound angry, or judgmental, or anything. He-

He doesn't forgive himself, that's all. That's why they need to be the one to do it for him. Make sure they keep listening, no matter what, to catch him in those times when he thinks he's messed up, and thinks he should stop trying.

That's why they need to listen. He needs someone to listen, because Frisk has Chara, but he doesn't have anybody. And remembering when no one else does.

It's hard.]

[So they don't interrupt. They don't make a sound, or a motion. They let him struggle in however he needs to, until he's composed what he needs to say, and then, only then, do they react.

I forgive you.

They react, recoiling, shoulders drawing up as they seek to become smaller- and not let go. Don't let go. They won't let go.

I forgive you.]

...Sorry.

I'm sorry.

[They're sorry Papyrus is gone. They're sorry his friends are gone. They're sorry all they can do is bring him some things and hope that it'll help, even just a little bit. They're sorry he had to ask if he could hug them.]

I'm sorry. I'm-

[And they're sorry they weren't good enough. They're sorry they never figured it out. They're sorry they snapped at him, sorry that there's a lot of rumors, about a mountain like that. Sorry they fell. Sorry falling didn't do what it was supposed to.

Sorry for causing him and everyone else so much trouble. Sorry he had to remember. Sorry he was alone. They're sorry for being scared and sorry for not knowing how to SAVE people, they're sorry they couldn't fix it all. They're sorry they're scared of Asriel, they're sorry they tried hurting people. Sorry that they got tired of being hurt. That they weren't happy with sitting in a bar with good food and bad laughs.

They have so many things to be sorry for. The word becomes a litany, and their voice breaks. Stops being soft and withdrawn and contained because they're sorry, they're so sorry, and they couldn't SAVE him here either, or Chara, or Asriel, just like they couldn't SAVE anyone before. Their mom, Papyrus, Asgore.

They're so sorry.]

[And the floodgates open.

The reaction is immediate, and painful. A breathless chain of apologies and for what he can't say. Everything, most like. Everything he's ever made 'em feel like garbage about, and everything they've felt like garbage about on their own, and everything he's driven into their head like it's the most important thing in the world. And all he can do is hold on to them like a lifeline and they don't let go.

It's like they just - break. Like everything breaks. Sorry after sorry after sorry after sorry and he's - did he do this too? Or is he too selfish in makin' that assumption?

He's an adult. And they got reason to be weary.]

I forgive you. I forgive you, okay?

[Because Papyrus -

Because Papyrus would'a wanted it.

And 'cause if he can actually do a damn thing to honor his brother, honor his memory, honor something about him, then he can do this.

The kid deserves a break. From the world, and from him. And he's the wrong guy for this, for all of this, but he said it - he said it ends with me. You say something like that to someone who won't forget it...almost makes it a promise, maybe. Almost. Not quite. But near enough for him to know - it's the first step. It ain't much, maybe. It's something. Not near enough to mend everything he's done and watched be done and contributed to being done.

So.

It's time to do a little better.]

[It's a rough and tumble slew of slurred words and half finished syllables, caught up in the way their throat keeps closing up. They're going to get his shirt wet. Their nose is blocked. It's gross, and he's not going to appreciate that, but he just tells them- I forgive you. One more time. Twice.

Doesn't make it any easier to calm down.

What does is the loud voice that reminds them; they're here to comfort him, that this is selfish, that he doesn't want his shirt dirtied because they acted out, and soon after, they're working on catching their breath. Tiny jerks and quivers run through their body from chocked back sobs, and they try- they try to lose that tension. Try to loosen the grip of their fingers, prepare for the fact that he's not going to want to hold onto them after this.

In a voice thick from the turbulence of dealing with their own- dealing with themself, again, they default. Go back to what they're supposed to, like a good child would. Like Frisk does. Because it's not just about them.]

Sorry. I'm- Are-

you're okay?

[It's the most out of sorts he's ever seen 'em, he thinks. Sure as hell never let it all burst open like this back in the Underground, not when he rendered his cold and final Judgment and not when they reached the End, he don't think - though he wouldn't know, would he? The End was never anything special, for them; little more than a phone call crying meekly out into the darkness, only to go unanswered.

They withdraw almost immediately. He did something wrong again. Did something...

Maybe it just takes time. He wouldn't know. Time is still an utterly alien thing to him, to them, to damn near everyone from home. Adjustment. A foreign concept, still, even now.

A quiet chuckle escapes him, like a balloon deflating, metacarpals going gently to the back of their head.]

I'm fine, kiddo. I'm...

[He's "fine." He's always just - "fine," ain't he?

Another lie of his. He keeps throwin' those damn things up like firewalls.]

Well, uh. Maybe I will be.

[Maybe he will be. "Okay" is a distant, bizarre concept, the same way "fine" eventually came to translate to "not actively feeling like garbage at the moment." So maybe he ain't all the way there yet. 'Specially not now. It's hard for "okay" to be anywhere in the vicinity of somebody who's lost someone as great as Papyrus.]

...you okay?

[It's... good. It's good, to hear him say (or not say. Avoid the word for once, acknowledge that maybe sometimes, the best he can do is say he will be, just like they did. It's the sort of trust they gave Chara. It's the sort of trust he's giving them now) and they nod their understanding, breathing shallow.

Mostly because they're trying to keep it quiet. That's a much more difficult feat, when their nose is blocked and they're forced to attempt soft breaths through their mouth. Bone against the back of their head; no memories to compare it to. Frisk can't say they're against the motion, no matter how new it seems to be.]

Will be.

[It's the sort of trust they gave Chara, and it's the sort of trust they're giving him now. They will be okay; because they have to be. That's all there is to it.

But maybe it's alright if they aren't, for the moment. They let go with one hand, carefully pulling their arm up between them, rubbing at their nose. And as stupid as it is, they have to laugh; shoulders shaking in quiet humor.

They're supposed to be making him feel better.]

You smell like hot dogs.

[That's probably not helping.]

[Will be. Yeah.

It's...something. Not a promise, but maybe - hell, maybe better than a promise, 'cause it ain't an obligation. It's something he wants, maybe. Something he genuinely wants for himself and, fuck it, for them, for Asriel, for Chara, for Alphys. He don't even want to be livin' in sunshine and rainbows and absolute ecstasy. He just wants to wake up one morning and not feel the weight of several lifetimes of sins shackled to his back, yoked atop his ribcage, the bleak emptiness of nothing tellin' him to just keep sleeping it off, 'cause it ain't ever gonna get better.

He just wants to wake up and feel - okay. Not great, not ecstatic, just - okay.

He wants Frisk to wake up and not want to die.

He wants Chara to wake up and not feel they're better off never existing.

He wants Asriel to wake up and feel like there's something worth waking up to.

He laughs, faintly. Glances over to the little hot dog cart the kid brought, must've scavenged from the shops.]

I, uh. Yeah. I need to do some laundry 'round here sometime.

[That's a joke, and it ain't even all that funny. Papyrus always did the laundry. Always reminded him that things needed washing and just general doing around here.

He already misses him.]

I'll help.

[They'll take care of it.

Him and Alphys- they'll. Take care of it. Come over more. Spend time with them. And maybe, if they're quiet, they can help around the house a little, make sure things don't get too bad. It's something they can do; something they're good at, since sometimes Chara's more pedantic than their- than anyone else they've met.

Doesn't really fix things, but it's one more reason to get up. Any reason at all is enough. Knowing they can do something to help out, it-

Fills them, in the usual way.

Right now, though. They should really let go. Can't hold on forever. One first (and last) squeeze of their arms- no matter the smell or the hard edges, they'd hug tighter if they could- and Frisk starts to pull away, rubbing their face on their sleeve, trying to keep their sniffs quiet. Blocked noses. They're not fun.

There's a smile on their face, once they're done. Small, but it's not going anywhere. So maybe that's just as good as a hug.]

[Whole mess of things well up in his head that he don't put words into. They don't have to. Don't have to bother, don't have to try - not when he's given 'em no reason to bother one way or another. But maybe trying is just...what they do. What they are as a form of comfort, or somethin' along those lines. It's their equivalent of Alphys's long hours watching the same episodes of the same show she's seen a dozen times over. Recharge.

It's not much. They let go, and he lets them.]

Heh. Yeah, okay.

[Instead of pushing back at every impulse they have, maybe it's the time to let 'em...be for a little bit. Let Frisk be Frisk. Let Frisk live their life. Let them feel like they can think and say and do as they will without his every word being a criticism.

Just let them - be.

Little snuffles, quiet sounds, and...cripes, he's forgotten humans are so damn leaky. He casts about for a second, digging 'round in his pockets that always happen to have exactly what he needs in 'em. And he comes up with a little wrinkly, rustly ball of what must've been a handkerchief at some point, screwed up into a hot dog-smelling little wad.

He shakes it out.

And, uh...offers it to them, his grin going slightly lopsided, almost apologetic.]

'S okay.

[Seems like he's okay with it. That, more than a crumpled (and greasy, but they don't tell him that as they fumble with the fabric to find a clean spot) hankie, is worth the world. Eventually, they blow their nose, wiping their face on their sleeve soon after.

Smells like Grillbys.

They'd give it back, too, but-- Frisk looks down at the crumpled fabric, bottom lip tucking under their teeth as they stow it away; just for cleaning, that's all. He'll get it back.]

...Can I stay?

[Does he want them to, right now? Or does he need to be alone? Time to think is good; they like it too. Is it imposing, to do the exact opposite of what you need, when you're not doing well?

Probably.]

[Eh, he can find something in the laundry, maybe. The last load Papyrus did before he, uh

Yeah. He'll find something in the laundry. A clean handkerchief, or somethin' along those lines. A washing machine that works, that he'll have to figure out since he never rightly bothered to work out the finer points of the mechanics on his own. That was more Newt's area. Hermann's.

Papyrus's.

They ask like it's an imposition on him, like they're an obstacle, somethin' to tolerate. Like this ain't a too-empty house that he can't bear to be in alone.]

'Course you can.

[He crashed on their couch, didn't he? Figures he should leave the door open for 'em, just the same. He's gotta lot to make up for. But maybe payin' back what he owes is a way to start, some.]

Stay as long as you need, kiddo.

Okay.

[Not so much what they need. What he needs.

But they don't push. Pushing- pushing is something they both do a little too much, Frisk thinks. They don't spend a lot of time just being, and maybe there's something for that. Just being, in a silence that's comfortable, where there's no pressure to talk.

The first thing they can do for him is collect up the ketchup bottles, take them into the kitchen. Put them in their proper place; in the cupboard, or the fridge, make sure the dishes are done. If he wants them to be, then all Frisk intends is a quiet imposition; a figure in his periphery, there but unobtrusive.

It's enough, just to be there.]

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video; what's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it

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"We'll never get to use these icons" we said

we were young and foolish

kill me dead i am Done

1/2 and i hope you die

i hope we both die

1/3 I am drowning, there is no sign of land

you are coming down with me

hand in unlovable hand.

and i hope you blink before i do

and I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say

and i hope if i have the strength to walk out

you'll stay the hell out of my way

i HoPe our few remaining friends

give up on trying to SAVE us

i hope we come up with a failsafe plot

to piss off the dumb few that forgave us

i hope the fences we mended

fall down beneath their own weight