IT'S!! TV!! TiME!!

Till’s eyes widen the more the TV talks, his mouth dropping open. He is so sure, for a moment, that the man is actually talking about Till and Ivan using a thinly veiled metaphor, until he mentions the other person being 4 feet tall, which Ivan certainly is not.

“…What the fuck, man…?”

“YEAH. That’s almost our exact situation… Look! I even punched a wall, too!” Till waves his splinted hand, absolutely flabbergasted. Shakily, he runs his hands through his hair, tears momentarily stemmed in his shock.

It’s at times like this when Till wishes that alcohol affected him like other people. By some miracle, here is a person who seems to know exactly what Till is going through, and Till is determined to talk it through, ghosts and flashbacks be damned. He drains the rest of his mug and then orders a triple shot of tequila for good measure, which he throws back immediately. Finally, five drinks in, he thinks he can start to feel the alcohol work like it’s supposed to—but that could just be because he truly wants to talk to someone about this.

“…Ivan is dead. Or, at least, he was. I… I watched him die…” Not to be held back any longer, tears that were welling up in his eyes spill over onto the wooden bartop. “The duet we did… We were both forced into a singing competition. Tournament style. Only the winner lives. Loser dies. I was… There was never any doubt in my mind that he would win. But I… I just didn’t wanna be without him, y’know? I was so scared t’ be alone… I didn’t see any point in continuin’. I… stopped singing. B-but Ivan, he… he threw his chances away even harder. He—”

Till chokes up, unable to continue. He feels cold rain prickle against his skin, though he knows logically he’s inside. As if summoned, the ghost with Ivan's face stands in the corner of his vision, staring at him with piercing red pupils and a sharp-toothed smile. Till tries to scratch at his neck to alleviate the pressure there, but the bandages are in the way. Luckily, his own touch is grounding enough that he finds it in himself to continue.

“He made sure I would win. He saw that I didn’t wanna keep going and… and he didn’t care what I wanted. For some reason, he… he must’ve hated the thought of losing more.” Till’s breath hitches, properly weeping now as the memory practically plays out behind his eyes.

“He’s so stupid,” Till agrees with a laugh that’s tangled up in a sob. “I’ve already hurt myself! I don’t even care if there’s nothing I can do, I-I just want to be there for him like he was always there for me! It’s so, so hard for me t’ talk about, an’ every time I try, we just get mad an’ start fightin’ all over again!”

“You know what he told me?! He thought I “wouldn’t care” if he died! How could he think that?! An’ when I try to tell him, or show him, how much I love him… he just shuts down! He doesn’t believe me! Th-they had t’ pull me, kickin’ and screamin’ away from his c-corpse… I never would have left him if I had any other ch-choice! I… I would’ve stayed with him! I n-never even had t-time t’ grieve him b-before they dragged me a-away t’ my next round! I w-wanted t’ st-stay—”

"E-easy there..."

Oh, this was so much worse than two lovers having a falling-out. This was some sick and horrible tragedy, the cruelty of which he'd only witnessed in fiction. He's not even sure what to say to him at this point, or if he should say anything at all. ... Maybe he should text Kris and Susie that he'd be home late. They'd understand.

"I'm, sorry. I don't... know what to say." ... "That's horrible."

Someone he loved so much that he was ready to throw everything away for him, being ripped away by circumstances out of their control. And there was no time to recover: keep performing, or die.

The show had to go on. What good was a TV that didn't work? After Dess disappeared, they needed him more than ever. The kids needed him more than ever. Bury the guilt and keep going. To keep looking for someone who didn't want to be found would only get him and the entire Dark World shut down.

At the very least, he could stay with him. Something idle and mindless plays on his screen, giving some kind of background noise so that the poor human didn't have to deal with only his own sobs to cut the silence. He did the same for Toriel the night Asgore moved out. What else could he do?

Not that the tight, uncomfortable smile that replaces it is much better, but he can't get rid of that one as easily.

"H-hah, I wouldn't go that far. It's still a little out of tune." Wukong puts the instrument back into its place, less interested now in pilfering it than before. He's still not quite looking Tenna in the- face (which is kind of a pain to do on a good day) as he shakes the dust off his hands and turns towards the exit. Which is blocked. "I think I'm done for now. So I'm just gonna- you know."

"What, you're done?? I've got a tuner in the back somewhere, we can fix it! C'moooonnn."

Instead, his entire frame crouches down to beam at the other at screen-level.

Till throws his arms up in frustration. “But then again, the interview you did with Ivan was in some ways more truthful than he’s ever been with me 'bout how he feels about our— about what happened, so who the fuck am I t’ judge?!” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in order to rein in his frustration before he can vent it at the wrong person.

“Sorry… What I’m tryin’ t’ say is… I’m glad you didn’t have any hand in planning it… and I’m kinda glad it happened. Actually, I’m not sure it was planned on Ivan’s part either, ‘cause there’s no way he would’ve been that honest 'bout his feelings knowing I was watching.”

He’s too tired to smile, but Till’s eyes definitely curve up in amusement at Tenna’s choice of drink, though he doesn't say anything. He barely glances at the menu before he orders a tankard of the house ale, something cheap and quick. The bartender pours the drink right there in front of them, and Till downs the whole thing in one go before gesturing for a refill.

“…You could say that,” Till finally mutter bitterly. “Then we were here an’ we talked about it and… and I thought we were good—well, not good, but I thought we were okay—but apparently, we didn’t talk about it enough, ‘cause I didn’t know that song he was talkin’ about was so special t’ him! I-I… I thought he’d never wanna think about it again! I never wanna think about it again!” He can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he stops to take a long swig of his beer.

Both he and the server share a mutual look of understanding; the guy was having a rough one (poor thing.) Tenna would take him home. With another refill, the server left the two to their conversation. It's not even the second time something like this happened to him; Toriel talked to him a lot when she thought no one else was around.

Hell, he was in the same position years ago, bawling his screen to static with Ramb, Lanino and Elnina beside him.

"Well... Can't say I know a lot about being an idol, and I don't know what went wrong with your duet. And I don't have to know. What I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, based on a true story..."

"Is that men like that decide to go off and do their own thing because they think they're doing you some big favor. Oh, don't worry about it, life partner who I trust my whole life with, except for this one life-altering event that I'm not gonna let you in on because I need to suffer alone. It's STUPID, is what it is. Guessing your Ivan pulled one of those on you."

That's... not very encouraging at all. Maybe he's the wrong one to talk to about this.

"You meet up again here after he up and disappears so bad you think the guy is dead, you start talking, you think you're through it, and then oh! Would you look at that! You've gotta find out through someone ELSE that there was something much BIGGER going on, and you end up screaming at each other and fighting and getting so pissed off you throw a punch at the wall and knock out the electrical wiring because he's 4''something and you'd flick the guy and you'd kill him. And then have to deal with all that bull@#$%. Ugh."

...

Perhaps the only reason he could tolerate this day-to-day style of living was because he knew eventually it would end and he would resume his real quest. He didn't have to think about what would come after that. There was something comforting about the certainty of the time loops, just as there was comfort in knowing the mundanity here would not last, even if what was coming next would be worse.

"Eeeeeexactly! There's way too much going on here to worry about what's going on back where we're from right now, right?"

With the conversation successfully steered away from himself, he finishes the last of his drink, and goes back to the notebook.

Back his face returns: smirking!

"No future with that attitude, you mean! Weren't you just complaining about how boring stories are when everyone tries to follow what the big prophecy says? And here you are, saying you can't see a future because you have to go back eventually. Why?"

"When we get here, things stop back home. Time's not moving--everything'll just start up again the moment we're kicked out of here anyway. Why not enjoy seeing where the drama in the dollhouse goes without wondering why there is drama."

His companion gets a few pokes on the top of his head for emphasis.

"Ah- Sorry." He tucks both hands into his lap. "I suppose that is one nice thing about this place, if I'm being generous. At least I can set myself on other goals. Even if that goal right now is simply to survive with my wits intact."

At some point he'd have to go home, though, and all of this would be lost to him.

"I'm holding you to that. Don't do anything stupid, don't try and go off and change the world on your own. You've got this whole city to do something with!" He cautions, moving his arm in a big, sweeping motion toward the window facing the street.

Not to mention, he has more pressing concerns. The longer this conversation goes on, the more confused Till becomes.

“Uh… I… I think I always talk like this? I’m almost always tired too… An’ my face is busted up more often than not, especially when I was younger… So… I guess I’m gonna be honest here: I’m not really sure why you’re… concerned?”

——————

It’s not like Till had any other pressing matters to attend to today. And with how he publicly lamented not being nicer to Tenna, as well as how worried the other man seemed, Till easily lets himself be dragged to the pub of Tenna’s choosing.

He’s seen how tiny the normally tall man can make himself, and he doesn’t want to be the cause of the poor guy getting stepped on—even if Till genuinely doesn’t understand what the problem is.

“So.” Till figures he might as well be the one to start when they’re both sitting down. “I’m just gonna jump right in. Yeah, I’m the person Ivan was talkin’ about. We were singing a duet on stage, and it… went wrong. We never got t’ finish it.”

"Nope, had no idea. When an idol that popular and talented is interested in an interview, you'd be an idiot not to say no--that's just business. But notoriety aside, I like doing interviews and hearing about all you Lightners on the island. It's an honour to talk to ya!"

If what Till was saying is true, then Ivan was dangerously good at playing nice... Not once did the CRT catch on to any dubious intentions. (Though, he's not very good at judging Light moral compasses, and assumes all of them have good intentions by default. It's gotten him into trouble before.)

"I, uh. Take it the two of you had a falling out."

"I..." Octavo licks his lips. There are a lot of reasons he could give.

It's the right thing to do.

I want to help people.

I wanted to end their suffering.

None of those are untrue, but one reason stands above all others. The real reason he can't give up and leave it to someone else to fix.

But the gouges that mar the host's face, seen clearly when the one he projects is gone... are deliberate and haunting. Damage seen not only on him, but in what it reflects from the darkness behind it.

". . ."

If he understood correctly, the reason Octavo kept going was for himself. Not for some other person, but to have a reason to justify living itself. It made sense; he would probably have done the same.

He did do the same. To keep pushing and fighting to have a purpose in the Light World, even if it meant driving everyone else away.

"Guess... that's as good a reason as any I could come up with."

The voice returns, trying to fight the ambient static that came with it. He's got a job to do, right? There's a Lightner in need of a distraction. Just, file it away for later.

"Fine! Dunno what came over me." He fibs, forcing the grip on his shoulder to loosen. They both still throb, but that's an issue for another time. Not in the public eye.

"...aye, I remember. Sort of. Much of it blends together." Sometimes he'd come back with no memory at all, only for it to trickle back in later, or all at once when triggered. Some old attempts he still remembered clear as day, while others had faded and blurred until it was impossible to tell whether it was a dream or reality.

"It's always the same me, though I am... rewound," he mimics the act of winding a pocket watch, though the word probably brings a different sort of image to Tenna's mind. "Any age, any injury or other changes I accumulate, it's all put back how it was at the beginning. Then, I try again."

He can't help but see the similarity between the bard miming winding a watch, and someone pulling up ropes on a winch backstage to begin another performance. Winding up those green strings.

" . . . . . "

There's an image of a short-statured man on the screen, turning paler, holding the end of a receiver. He looks more horrified with every step backward he takes from Tenna--it cuts out.

Stop.

[ Why do you keep trying if it always ends like that? With you ]--

The screen fights an image of that same man running away before returning.