#maybe tim

"Which is better, 1 or 2?" "What hurts more, A or B?" Etc

“you guys went to the mall??? without me???? 🥺”

“it wasn’t planned, Dick.”

“so????”

new chapter was so fun!! somewhere deep inside of my brain a kon fangirl switch has flipped back on once again 🧐🫡

- 🪷

glad to bring out your fangirl for kon again with this chapter 🥰😘

Grilling ribs.

Obviously, thinking in my head.

Who does the ribs, Jack or Toby?

Jack can't see and has a limited palate, but Toby has a history with arson and typically isn't allowed around fire unless necessary. But Jack, more likely than not, has more skills when it comes to cooking in a more restaurant style. Toby, who probably would have had more time fending for himself in the kitchen would have a better knowledge of what goes well together in having to experiment.

Muldoon: “Cut the music, cut the music-

SOMEONE LEFT AN ICECUBE ON THE FLOOR AND NOW MY SOCK IS WET

--

He’s sitting.

And he knows this, because he remembers sitting down. He remembers walking out to the balcony and slipping his legs through the gaps in the railing. He remembers wrapping his arms around one of the supports.

Yeah, he remembers.

What’s weird is that he also knows he’s supposed to be… upset? Distressed?

That part he isn’t real clear on, but he knows that he isn’t feeling. He isn’t doing anything but sitting there and staring at the life under his dangling feet.

What he knows is that something happened. There was shouting—he wasn’t shouting, though—and there was yelling, and cursing—he wasn’t doing anything, just standing there—and it was…

It was… his fault? He’d watched his brother scream at his friends; watched him seethe with anger and disgust and disappointment.

And it’s weird because he knows it’s his fault. He did something. He watched everything go down. He contributed to the issue—was the issue. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault but his.

But he can’t… can’t make himself feel anything about it. He’s tired, yeah. Real, real tired. He’s drained. Emotionally exhausted. So stressed he can’t even feel it anymore.

The main thing is apathy, though. It’s like, if the world were to start going up in flames—if someone was dying right in front of him—he’d just…

Watch.

On any other occasion it would fucking terrify him. He’d lose his mind about even the idea, but for now he’s just.

Nothing. There’s nothing.

It feels like someone swapped his heart out for one that pumped Novocain through his veins instead of blood; like he traded his soul away for nothing in return.

His friends had tried reassuring him it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t have known, there was nothing he could have done different, it wasn’t his fault.

Really, he appreciates it. He truly does. It makes him feel good to know that he has such wonderful friends and family, it makes him feel good to know that he can count on them at least.

He just…

He’s feeling too much of nothing.

It’s not their faults. It’s his.

There’s a deep, aching throb in his chest whenever he thinks about what happened. That’s the only thing he feels. Ache.

He’s fine, though. He’ll be okay.

He just needs some time.