dec open log

[pethetic]

WHO: Till + whoever
WHEN: Mid December!
WHERE: Near the shops, and somewhere ambiguously park-like
WHAT: Till's sanity is finally giving up and he's starting to crack... aka he's being a big stupid baby
NOTES\WARNINGS: brackets or prose equally welcome. warnings for self-harm, kind of?

1 ► WASTING AWAY _

[Till was sort of okay, when he first got here. he was sort of pissed off, and still certainly freaked out—he'd died in a horrific fashion during an extremely traumatized, death-burdened day already and woken up a second later in this place and was...forced to cook in a potluck. then he'd discovered his dead friend (who he saw die) was also here...which was a relief, but.

he hasn't seen him since. at first, he thought that maybe he was imagining things. then he worried Ivan had left this place entirely, which he couldn't fault him for. then he'd seen him in chance passing, which made him realize he hadn't; he was avoiding Till. which pissed him off more.

he's also realized, since processing, that the girl he loves—whose lap he died in—is probably dead. and if she isn't, that means Till has to fight for his world.

all this shit has been fiercely gatekeeping Till from sleep. the food here is hard and weird on his system—by now he would have adjusted, if he'd eaten enough for his body to get used to it at all. he's more unstable than he would be as is, underfed and underslept as he is, compounding in a sort of delirium.

but he can't bear to be alone. it's always the same result. just heaving sobs, hair pulling, trying not to implode... he feels less lonely out and about, and it keeps him grounded.

well, not literally. feeling weakened (it wouldn't be surprising if he was maybe getting sick, actually), Till staggers in his steps as he wanders the row of odd shops, and looks a bit confused by it. blearily, he blinks, holding his head as he tries to step again, and he stumbles forward, the exhaustion sinking him like a bag of sand in water. his vision blurs and smears a bit as he reaches out blindly.

he accidentally grabs onto someone's shirt, nearly pulling them down with him.]

Sh-shit, sorry—

[his speech is a little slurred.]

2 ► MELTDOWN _

[Till has also felt blocked from his art; since realizing the one he loves might be dead, or at least doomed, and that his best friend (...who is a complicated connection) is avoiding him... he feels like he has nothing beautiful to pull from, inside. he sits with an empty sketchbook open to his right, guitar sat heavily in his crossed legs, shoulders sagged and slumped forward.

he didn't want to be alone in his apartment because of the result being so predictable, but it seems he can't quite totally get away from it. he's at some little pocket of land without much structure around, but he's not totally off the beaten path, either. maybe something like a park, but I couldn't find one on the map, so...we are using our imaginations here—feel free to assert the setting.

something inside Till finally snaps, and he... shoves his hand down in a brutal strum across the strings of his guitar, snapping one of the strings, cutting into the flesh of his fingers somewhat. he fights the guitar and its strap off of him, then in a bid to channel out all of this negative excess energy, though in a gesture hardly so intentional in that way, Till begans to just...pound the shit out of the ground beneath him with his fist, eyes wild and teeth grit as his breath struggles through them. his eyes are quickly glassy from the pain, but. he doesn't stop, and instead just curses loudly in frustration, chant-like, like he's pissed at his dominant hand for its lack of utilization like it isn't his stupid brain's fault.]

[ooc: mostly Till just being...angsty and useless lol i'm sorry about him. normally he's a bit more spirited but he's having a rough time at the moment cuz all his recent trauma's caught up with him and his best friend is being an avoidant loser.

if needed, feel free to DM, msg at poisonparfait or @ dimyellow on discord!]

Comments

not here(?!)

[ivan]

[ somewhere, ivan sneezes like four times... ]

[pethetic]

[GOOD, DIE]

[ivan]

WASTING AWAY _

[banworthy]

[ Vincent comes to the odd shops in order to acquire the items he needs to make his stay in his new home comfortable. He does notice the young man seemingly stumbling his steps along - his mouth curves into an unpleasant frown - but he attempts to walk around him.

It doesn't actually work as his shirt is grabbed onto - and gravity seems to keep working! He is dragged down to kneeling on the ground with a stranger. The person, at least, has the sense to apologize for what he did.

Turning his head, he lets out a sigh; chewing on his bottom lip, he muses over the best response versus his response. He lifts his hand to lightly pat the young man's back -- pat, pat, pat. ]

There, there. Let it out.

[pethetic]

[Till is fleetingly cognizant of this interaction; his head spins to Vincent's reassurance, his vision almost throbbing with his weak, urgent pulse. he blinks blearily, clumsily palming his eye.]

...Let...what out? I'm not...throwing up...

[this time. weird wire crossing. it reminds him of the day he first got here, Till realizes belatedly; he then also realizes there's no way that statement is gonna make a lick of sense to Vincent.

Till detaches, arm folding across his brow as a bid to hide away, staggering. he latently registers the back pats, and feels embarrassed. jeez.]

Shit, I'm really sorry. I'm okay. I'm just tired. Fuckin' embarrassing...

[banworthy]

If you were throwing up, the two of us would be having a much different conversation.

[ He does his best to keep his tone neutral versus irritated at the idea that he might actually vomit on him. The corners of his mouth turn down but the young man isn't looking at him, so he can make whatever face he wants. (Lucky him.)

When he detaches, Vincent mulls over standing up. He could brush himself off, call the situation excusable, and return to his shopping. However, there is something here. A weakness that can be exploited. Perhaps, this young man is a good candidate for the Order. His eyes slide to the side before nodding, as he decides that he seems like a pretty good pick.

So, he remains kneeling on the ground, sitting in front of him, and lightly patting his back. ]

This seems more than just exhaustion. I'll let you catch your breath... and maybe we can go somewhere warm. [ A beat. ] When was the last time you ate? [ Another pause. ] What's your name? Mine's Vincent.

i think i've seen this true crime doc before

[pethetic]

Vincent...

[even if Till weren't so unwell, he probably wouldn't be quite smart enough to be suspicious of Vincent—though Till is a guarded person, regardless, because he's aware of his own weakness. typically. right now, he isn't aware of much of anything. but he's cursing internally, embarrassed and ashamed to have a strange fretting (...as Till interprets) over him and wasting their time. maybe he should have stayed in after all, but...

no. he can't.]

...I'm Till, [he answers a bit late, a bit distracted by how horrifically shitty he feels. he furrows his eyebrows, trying to think of his answer to Vincent's other question.]

Uh... I'm not sure...

[Till's hand presses against the hollow concave slope of his belly.]

A few...days...

[longer than that. Till's just embarrassed. the food here is kind of hard on his stomach and he hasn't adjusted—on top of his screwed up nerves.]

haven't we all...

[banworthy]

Till.

[ Vincent bobs his chin a few times, repeating the name back to him in a sincerely thoughtful tone. He breathes out slowly as he tilts his head away; like he's thinking of something difficult to ask. It is more like counting so many beats before doing the next action. ]

That's one day too long, I think.

[ He has to be careful how he acts. Heather would see through what he's doing - and possibly throw whatever solid object is closest to her at him. Others have seen the real side of him. This leads him to a situation where he has to be manipulative enough that if his actions are brought up later, they won't cause too much pause.

Or -- it may be a situation where he could use it as an advantage to be seen as someone who may not be a "good person" but is a "person who would help someone in need despite being bad." If he could get that description for himself, that would be ideal.

Being a "good person" comes with too many extra criteria that he just does not have the time or desire to emulate or maintain. Being a "good person" in a cult is much easier to uphold that persona than being a "good person" in the rat race of society. ]

Come on. Maybe we'll start with some soup. [ He holds his hand out first before he attempts to get up himself. ]

[pethetic]

[Till feels queasy with shame, though he isn’t sure why; it heats his face, burning the tips of his ears as he cups the lower half of his face, his other arm squeezing around his middle.

truthfully, which makes the reality of this entire encounter kind of comically tragic (how appropriate), Till just isn’t that used to people being kind to him. he cuts a dodgy, unsteady glance up at Vincent, hesitantly taking Vincent’s hand to let him up.]

Y-you don’t have to do all that…. I almost ran you over…

[banworthy]

No, you pulled me down to the ground.

[ Which is different from running him over, but if there is one thing that Vincent is a stickler for, it's semantics.

He really hopes that Till assists with being helped up because his twink body doesn't have as much strength as one would think that it has. But he's also tugging up a malnourished young man, so it probably balances itself out. ]

Anyway... [ A long pause as he once more is counting the seconds between his next thought. ] ... well, it's unfortunate that you don't have someone looking out for you here... making sure that you're eating well and not feeling so close to a collapse.

[ He flashes an awkward smile. It's not so much that he feels awkward, but smiling just never feels too natural on his face. ] I'll worry if you're left out like this... [ Because someone else could capitalize on this weakness. ]

[pethetic]

[they are both but brittle twinks, alas

normally, Till would bite that he doesn’t need someone taking care of him! because that used to be true. but Vincent putting it that way makes Till realize he really is kind of as helpless as he is hopeless. fucking degrading.

but it doesn’t really matter, anyway. Mizi’s probably dead, Ivan hates him or something, love is fake, young person angsts, etc. point is, Till is resigned to this “kindness” because he has no energy to fight.]

It’s…not like you can die in this place…

[but it feels bad to just spit in the face of kindness, so Till rubs the back of his neck.]

If it’s not too much of a detour, though, then okay…

meltdown

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[There really should be a park here. Why isn’t there a park? Where the hell is Hank supposed to walk his dog when he gets him? Which is soon. So soon that Hank is already sneezing at the flurries of Saint Bernard hair, and —

There’s a guy just pounding the ground, and Hank’s first thought is: ‘Yeah, just another day here in hell,’ but then he’s rushing over, because that’s what he does.]

Jesus. The hell you doing, kid?

[Hank reaches out to touch the guy’s shoulder, but he drops his hand. He’d told his partner here that he wouldn’t go off and die, and he has no idea what the people here are capable off.

Destruction of property, at the very least.]

You’re hurting yourself — [he says, as if this isn’t obvious] — and I’m sure the dirt isn’t too happy, either.

[pethetic]

[Till snaps back to reality when he's addressed—his eyes roll towards the mangled flesh of his knuckles and fingers, breath unsteady as an answer to Hank's question.

what the hell is he doing?

Till finds himself disturbed at his own behavior, and it makes him rescind into himself a bit, cradling his injured hand. he normally takes great care with them; they're his precious tools as a multifaceted artist.]

S...sorry, [he stammers quietly. the confusion and shame on top of his feelings that were already too big prior to him snapping his guitar string sting his eyes with glassy tears. the awareness that he's losing his mind makes him desperately afraid.] I...I d-don't know what came over me.

I...

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

You don’t gotta apologize to me. Just — don’t hurt yourself.

[Hank isn’t sure what he expected, but not this. The way this guy stammers — and, hell, is he crying? — hits deep, in a way Hank hasn’t experienced here till now. Something he’d been hoping to avoid.]

Do you need to go to the hospital, or...?

[He hates hospitals and it’s the last place he wants to be, but this guy’s hand looks pretty messed up.]

One of the stores might have a first aid kit, or something, or... hell if I know. But let’s get your hand looked after, all right?

[pethetic]

N-no, it's okay, I'm okay, [Till says hastily, eyes wide as he hunches over his hand, which he shields away from view. he can feel that it's...

wet.

but Till doesn't want to look at it. he doesn't want this kind stranger to see it. he feels so unbearably burdensome. he misses Ivan. but he wishes it was Ivan's face he was fucking up his hand with.]

It's not that serious... Nothing's broken or anything.

[just his mind. and his heart, probably.

which is fair. Till broke Ivan's heart first, didn't he?]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Jesus fucking Christ.

[Hank is bad at this. Terrible. Seeing young people hurt shakes something in him loose. Something he had to shelve years ago — till he met Connor, but still. It’s hard to care, because it hurts. It’s the hardest goddamn thing.

Especially when it’s some stranger who’s insisting that he’s fine, despite Hank seeing all of... that.]

I may be stupid, but you’re obviously hurt. And I’m not going to just — [he shrugs irritably] — what? Leave you here? Is that what you think I’m gonna do?

[He chances a hand on the guy’s shoulder. No squeeze or grip or anything, just there. A touch.]

My name’s Hank. And I want to help you. Will you — [he has to bite back yet another “fucking”] — let me help you?

[pethetic]

...yes?

[IS THAT WEIRD? Till isn't used to kind treatment from others, outside of his friends...]

...Alright...

[Till reaches for his sketchbook guitar, pulling them loosely towards himself. he feels weirdly guilty. both towards his items and for this stranger's care.

he can't lie, though...

it feels good, which makes Till feel like shit. he feels unable to reach his art for the first time in his life, and it makes him feel a little lonely.]

Hank... Thanks. Sorry to be a bother.

I'm not usually so... [well.] crazy.

[he's always been volatile. unstable, even. but he'd always felt like he at least had some control over himself... so fucking unsettling.]

cn: alcoholism

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Okay. [Hank breathes out a sigh of relief.] Good. And you’re not a bother, kid.

[He thinks of all the times he’s gotten wasted, spent all night feeling sorry for himself, before going into work hours late the next morning — that was a burden. And there was that time, too, when Hank was passed out drunk on his kitchen floor. Connor busted through the window to make sure he was still alive.

Now that’s being a burden. This? This is nothing.]

We all have shitty days. I get it. Just try not to hurt yourself, yeah?

[The hypocrisy of this doesn’t escape Hank, but he doesn’t care.]

If you need me to carry anything for you, just let me know.

[His hand is still on the kid’s back, trying to steer him ever so slightly down the street — that market is nearby, right? They can get stuff there, because hell knows Hank hasn’t bothered to assemble any sort of first aid supplies for his apartment. But he should: if not for himself, then for others.

And the market should have booze.]

Just gonna go to that little store for some stuff, okay? The fuckin’ — Quik. Quik-whatever-the-hell.

[Hank hasn’t done much exploration but he’s been there, at least.]

1

[wolfish]

[ Considering the fitted nature of Yuri's layers of clothing, getting a good grip absolutely could haul him down. And where he normally would hear someone coming and maneuver himself away from potential collision, that isn't the case today, preoccupied as he is with a fruitless hunt for someone who'd been here until recently.

A gloved hand snaps out to catch the stranger just above the elbow, some attempt to brace him as Yuri stumbles and regains his own footing. He stares for an instant before uttering a not-unsympathetic: ]

...You look like hell.

[ What even happened to this guy? The month has been curiously quiet, so far as Yuri has seen. ]

[pethetic]

[Till staggers as well, still pretty heavily light-headed for a moment. his eyes roll and his eyelids flutter a little as the worst of it occurs, and as it clears, he blearily clutches the side of his head.]

Oh. Fuck.

[Till manages to right himself, realizing he’d almost just passed out. fainting suddenly… that’s probably not good.]

Yeah, [Till responds blearily, blinking somewhat unevenly as his ribs heave. he feels like it, too. he’s sure he must look like shit. good thing he doesn’t have to worry about being pretty for entertainment with his life on the line or anything. not that he ever gave much of a shit.]

Sorry. I’m okay now.

[wolfish]

Okay now, huh...

[ Yuri's not quite convinced, but he does let go. Keeping a grip on a stranger can do more harm than good, depending on the situation, and Yuri's quick enough to react if the guy starts in the direction of keeling over again. ]

When's the last time you ate...or slept?

[ Showing up here — or rather that vessel that had hung among the stars — had left Dimitri paranoid enough to be leery of sleep. He'd done it when Yuri was around, but only when they'd holed themselves up where any attacker would have a hell of a time finding them.

Does this guy feel unsafe like that? ]

[pethetic]

[Till boggles (wobbily) at Yuri.

how was he able to peg that so specifically, instead of maybe assuming he has a cold or something?? it makes Till think this is somehow familiar to Yuri…?

Till glances away, holding his arm awkwardly. he’s too depleted to even think of a convincing fib. he could just…ignore him, and keep walking, but…Till can’t bring himself to do that.]

Uh…

A bit.

Fuckin’ embarrassing…

[wolfish]

[ Can't fool a man whose country's claims to fame are jousting, famine, and picking the finest of hills to die on. Yuri doesn't linger on being correct though, and neither does he scrutinize his features further. Pointed attention is difficult, he knows.

So instead he angles his line of sight toward a diner down the way. ]

I've got sharper eyes than most.

[ He offers this as a form of consolation, and it's not a lie, even if anyone could surely tell the guy's ailing. ]

Been meaning to give that diner a try, seems popular. Want to have a sit, at least?

[pethetic]

…I—I dunno, I… I feel bad.

[a stranger being kind to him feels—wildly strange. shamefully, it’s kind of a reprieve from how gutted he feels all the time.]

And anyway… I haven’t had a lot of luck holding food down…

[wolfish]

Nothing to feel bad over when I'm hardly going out of my way.

[ If Yuri is headed there anyhow, and so far as present company need be concerned he is, where's the harm? ]

The fare here's a far departure from what I'm used to, so it's down to strategy. Have you tried something light or mild?

[ Not eating for long enough does make for a sensitive stomach, he knows. ]