WHO MOURNS THE MOURNER?

hi! i figured i’d make a list of my sideblogs to this blog, just so you all know what i have going on!

The shift had been a gradual one, in retrospect — something that crept up, a shadow sneaking its way along the floor, lurking in corners and the silence between moments. Bonnie had written it off, considered it to just be Monty being moody, as he sometimes was, figured it was something that would pass with time. Bonnie had ignored it — they all had, busy with their own things. 

fast-fast-fast: whirling thoughts, dancing and twisting, slipping through moon’s fingers as he tries to focus on them. danger-risk-threat! but they are formless dangers, ephemeral and phantasmal, whispering words that crawled along his wires and circuits, embedding themselves, burrowing deep.

( little worms, little fears, dancing-crawling-tapping themselves against his metal, against his code, lighting-fast! )

rest with me, sun says, and moon is fit to jitter out of his skin. he knows that sun, his sun, knows that something if off; moon can sense the concern, sense the difference in the way he is treated. sun has asked if he is alright, but moon cannot articulate what is wrong, cannot articulate why-why-why he fears, why he wants to crawl out of his body.

still, when the request is made, moon agrees. he cannot say no, cannot turn down this comfort. thoughts are quick-darting-fast, but when moon is around sun, around his other half, they seem to…still.

“ …alright, ” moon says, the fizzing of nerves still chewing at the corners of his mind. “ just— just for a while, i must— “ must what? he asks himself, and words fail. ( what is wrong with me? )

the sentence hangs, unfinished, and moon settles himself on the ground, a quiet whirr ( wrong, why does it sound wrong! ) accompanying the movements. he wants to get up, wants to move! to search-find-hunt anything that could get them, that could be a threat!

but he does not. instead. he makes himself stay. nervous fingers tap-tap-tap, dancing-flitting fingers, but moon stays.

sitting beside sun, moon does not hesitate before resting his head on the other animatronic’s lap. it is natural, familiar, moon’s eyes closing as his racing thoughts start to slow, start to quiet themselves.

sun’s fingers smooth the fabric of moon’s shirt, the action soothing and familiar, and moon feels himself relaxing, feels himself calming: he is here, he is present. this moment is real, and there is nothing to be afraid of.

( safe, safe! with sun, they are both safe. no danger creeping-crawling-skittering. nothing can get them, not when they are together. )

the sound of sun singing, familiar and comforting, fills moon’s mind. the racing, ephemeral thoughts drain away, and moon lets himself drift, relax. nervous fingers are calmed, shadowy thoughts chased away, and they are safe-secure-together.

in retrospect, benrey had known that this is how it would always play out. he shouldn't have expected anything else -- shouldn't have tried to get any other out- come, but he had tried, and by god, if he hadn't burned every single bridge that he ever had.

the air is cold, the air is empty: it is silent, aside from the...squishy-watery-biological sounds of xen, the alien landscape feeling far lonelier than benrey had ever felt before, even when he was on his own.

god, i'm so fuckin' stupid.

benrey sits with his back to a cave wall, knees pulled to his chest, forehead resting there as he forces himself to come to terms with the fact that this is his own fault. his choices got him here. benrey had chosen this path, had wanted more, more, more, and damn, if this wasn't a fitting punishment for the crime. ( a prison of his own creation, so to speak. )

if he sheds a few tears, there is no one around to see, so it doesn't count, right?

time seems to pass oddly on xen: benery isn't certain how long it has been, how long he has been feeling the cold of the wall seep into his skin, when he hears what sounds like another person's voice.

( great. he's already losing it -- if he ever had it to begin with. )

it takes a second, but benrey realizes he knows the voice, he knows who is calling for him. surp- rise blooms in his chest, and benrey is on his feet in a second, heading towards the source. the hell was tommy doing here? he had left with the others, and benrey had figured that was that.

and yet: that was unmistakably tommy, tommy calling for him, tommy saying he came back.

" tommy? " benrey hesitates a few feet away, brows knit together as he looks at his old friend. " why're you, uh... " ( shit, tommy just explained why, didn't he? ) " do the others know you're--? "

benrey fidgets with his hands, shifting his weight from foot to foot. " ...you didn't have to, " he mum- bles, unsure if tommy can even hear him, before clearing his throat and blinking hard. " ...you came back-- for me? " he finally repeats -- asks --, arms folding over his chest, sharp nails digging into his own forearm. ( god, he prays the crack in his voice wasn't audible, that tommy can't tell he may or may not have been upset... ) tommy was always the better of the two of them, has always cared so much and been so, so kind. why is he surprised tommy came back? why is he surprised tommy seems to be offering him-- something?

parker doesn’t notice owen right away, instead closing the door behind him and dropping his bag onto the floor. he is lost in thought, trying his best to plan what he has to get done this evening ( god, why is he so busy?! it’s not like he even takes part in clubs )—

it is a familiar shock of red hair catches his eye, and parker shakes his head, sighing to himself. the fact that this isn’t startling to him definitely says something, he reflects; getting used to one’s space being ‘broken into’ probably should be some sort of…warning sign? red flag? ( either way, parker can’t really bring himself to care. it’s just part of his life, now. )

“ hey, owen, ” parker says, smile tugging at his lips. he goes to make a comment — a joke about how owen let himself in, but he is cut off by owen’s speaking.

“ what are y— ” and, as owen remarks upon his current find, parker realizes what the other boy is holding. no way. he did NOT find that. a guilty pleasure? sure! something he didn’t want anyone, especially owen to find? oh, for fucking sure.

heat rises to parker’s cheeks, blue wide. ah, fuck. “ owen! did you go through my things?! ” indignation and embarrassment colour his words, voice cracking, and parker crosses the room to where owen has made himself oh-so-comfortable. as he flounders for words, he attempts to snatch the book from the aware’s grasp.

" i could kill ya' so easily right now... " he hums, as if thoughtful at his realization, " i could just snap ya' neck. it wouldn't be hard, y'know. "

(but, he won't. not ever.) // for parker, obviously! <3

cold skin presses against parker’s cheeks, the gentle press of sharp nails a reminder that owen is something dangerous, something deadly: a fact that, after all this time, parker sometimes finds himself almost forgetting.

almost.

it is the little things that bring this fact to the forefront of his mind at times — owen’s clawlike nails, the sharpness of his teeth, the way he carries himself…. things that could be overlooked, but sometimes, sometimes parker is reminded that owen is a killer, is dangerous, and he himself is so very fragile.

still, even as owen speaks of how easy it would be to kill parker, there is no thrill of fear, no sense of danger. he is a rabbit, owen a lion, but there is no roar, no flash of teeth. the claws do not pierce parker’s flesh, there is no twist of his neck being snapped, no blood spilled.

instead, parker smiles, blue eyes lighting up with mischief. “ you could, huh? ” he asks, teasing lilt to his words. he knows that owen could, that his life is quite literally in owen’s hands, but oh, he trusts owen. how he trusts him!

there was something about jellyfish that eva has always loved: the way they move effortlessly in the water, drifting wherever the current takes them, uncaring about what those around them might think. their effortless grace, their simplistic beauty, calls to eva -- it always has, ever since she first saw jellyfish as a child.

standing now in the memory of their current client, watching the jellyfish float about, they remind eva of a galaxy. they are colourful, the way the light hits them bringing out the cosmos of colour, long tendrils sway- ing in the water and reminding her of a ballgown.

eva smiles, warm and full, reaching out to gently place her hand against the cool glass of the aquarium.

when neil speaks, eva glances over to him, smile still in place. she opens her mouth, lips parting to respond, to explain -- at least partially -- why she likes them, why watching them in all their freedom relaxes her, but then-- then, neil finishes his thought, and she finds herself at a loss for words.

( god, does he ever think before he speaks? does he ever consider what he is about about to say?! )