entrancelogs | black then white are all i see in my infancy [closed + open]

Entry tags:

black then white are all i see in my infancy [closed + open]

Who: Frisk and a few closed prompts + a few open ones!
Where: Alphys's lab, by the vendors, maybe more?
When: 11/01 - 11/08-ish (may be subject to change)
Rating: PG-13 for children in peril, suicide ideation, depressive mindset, and bad decisions
Summary: Shit happened. Someone give this cast an intervention.
The Story:

[A hot oil-slick of numbers running through their mind in a burning cacophony does not lend itself to anything but pain, bright and blazing. It cuts into their teeth and their tongue and the inside of their cheeks - or maybe that is simply them biting deep into the flesh in their mouth to taste the warm tang of it to remind themself that they are not simply numbers they are not simply numbers they are not simply numbers they are real.

It crests in a burgeoning wave. There is no tide there is no pattern there is no regularity there is no respite it simply is and it tears through them, every jerk and wrench of their body shuddering in its place like hot marks shearing them open.

They can taste blood.

Is it yours?

Or mine?

It does not matter.]

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[This is one of the more civil conversations they have had lately, and it makes Mettaton feel sick. He shifts uncomfortably, though it is purely psychosomatic reaction rather than anything physical.]

I've been better. Mostly I have been worried about you.

[He regrets his honesty the moment it slips out, wishing he could wrench it back into his mouth. But he doesn't have the power to RESET and neither does Frisk, so they both sit trapped with whatever conversation choices they make.]

I see you are still learning how to play the ukulele. How has that been coming along?

It doesn't feel right.

[That's an honest answer, though it's...a little too frank for them, maybe? That might spook people out, if they say stuff like that. Stuff like how they don't feel anything, don't enjoy anything, don't touch anything.

They feel like maybe they should pick the instrument up out of a show of...something. Solidarity, maybe. But they don't. Can't? It would be a lie to pretend they were genuinely interested. It would require more effort than they think they have in them too.

So they don't.]

Doesn't feel like anything, I guess.

[He sighs a bit. He was expecting a response like that. They probably don't feel much of anything right now. A portion of their SOUL has been taken away, and now they're this shell of who they used to be.

Even if they can't be friends like they used to be, he hopes they get back to normal sometime soon. For their sake.]

Well, when you're in this state you can't really rush artistic genius, you know? It's fine that this isn't coming to you like before.

[His words ring hollow. He knows it's the Right Thing To Say, or somewhat adjacent to it, but his fears for Frisk's health rob most of the genuine weight that should have accompanied his words.]

["Hollow" is one word for it. Frisk regards him blankly, his words passing through them like a gust of wind overhead. Intellectually, they understand what it is he's said. They know each word separately and they know what they mean put together. But nothing inspires the remotest bit of confidence in their chest, or any emotion at all. He could have told them they were garbage at playing ukulele, and that they should just give up, and then smashed the thing right in front of them until it flew into splinters and chunks of varnished wood, and he would have achieved the precise same reaction.

They're probably being a huge let-down right now, aren't they?]

All right. [They should try to be agreeable. Be good for the adult, right? Yes. That sounds right. Just remember that adults know best for you. Then it'll all be fine.] I guess you're right.

[He must be right.]

[Frisk is so complacent and agrees with him, and for a wild moment Mettaton wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and yell in a wild bid to get them to feel anything, anything at all.

He holds back the impulse. They're going to be all right. They'll come back, won't they? They're Frisk. No matter what they do, no matter what choices they make, they always come out on top in the story. That's how it always is.]

I have a tendency to be right quite a bit.

[It's a light stab at a joke, and he grins a little at them, hoping that maybe they'll crack some sort of smile, or perhaps tease him, or...

Then again, if they weren't like this right now, they wouldn't even be talking to him, now would they?]

Yes.

[Possibly the most affirming their tone has ever been. He's older than them, so he knows best. This is axiom. It's just how things are. They don't feel very determined, but they don't have to be to understand the truth when they hear it.

He must be right quite a bit. So that means they...aren't friends, right? Isn't that what he said to them before?

Why's he here now? Maybe he's just here to make sure they don't get into trouble. That makes sense. Kids are always ruining things.]

Right about being friends too, I guess.

[They agree once more, and he feels wrong somehow. Like he confirmed something within them that he never meant to. He'd try to fix it, but this situation continues to unseat and unsettle him, and he finds himself having a hard time being as fast as he usually is.

Then they mention their "friendship" and he looks at them curiously, if a bit warily.]

What do you mean, darling?

Whatever you want it to.

[That's...what he wants, isn't it? If he says they're friends, then they're friends. If he says they're not, then they're...not. They shouldn't argue. Children aren't meant to argue. Don't talk back. Never talk back.]

[He sighs again, shaking his head.]

That's not how this works, Frisk. Friendships don't exist because one person wants it and not the other. It has to be a mutual exchange of trust and love and... we lost that.

[They did. They lost it the moment Frisk revealed the truth about never caring about him.]

Even if I told you that I wanted to be friends again, it wouldn't change that you didn't want my friendship in the first place.

Oh.

[They didn't want his friendship in the first place? Did they though? Maybe it was just...utilitarian. Being friends because that's just how things were supposed to be.

Still. He says they didn't want his friendship, so they suppose he must be right. He'd know better than they would what they were feeling and why.

So they shrug.]

Okay.

[He sits there next to them, silent for a few moments. He doesn't know what to say, really. This all feels so, so wrong, on so many levels. He looks to them, their stoic face matching their stoic words, and he feels a tightness in his throat and tears prickling at the side of his eyes. Even in this robotic body, Mettaton cannot shake the expressions of his family.

The silence stretches. His ears ache with the heaviness of it. So he reaches out for the ukulele lying prone next to Frisk and picks it up gently.

Before the last Mirror event, after his birthday, he had been privately studying how to play. He had been hoping to surprise Frisk whenever they met up to try and learn it by showing he could play a few chords. Clearly Frisk had been learning on their own as well, and he wishes, once again, that he could have put the conversation off just a little longer so they could have played together.

But the time for that is past, and he focuses on tuning, gentle but firm as he sets the strings to the right tension and, when that is complete, begins to play.]

[They didn't know he could play too. But he would, wouldn't he? It seems silly now that they think about it, that he wouldn't know how to play. He's a musician. He probably knows how to play all sorts of things.

Just another silly thing they never stopped to consider.]

I didn't know you could play.

[They shouldn't say the observation aloud. It's...rude, they think. Rude in assuming that he wouldn't know something like that.

So they bow their head and shut up.]

[The melody is light and soothing, if a little melancholic. As his fingers pluck the strings, he messes up but he keeps going, letting the discordant chords and uneasy tone balances hang in the air. Years of performing has taught him to push on through the mistakes; if you're confident in your misstep, everyone will think it's a part of the routine.]

I started teaching myself how to play recently.

[Because I wanted to play with you he thinks, but no matter how much his SOUL cries to say it, his mouth remains shut.]

I had been hoping to have someone to play with who had been interested. But things change, I suppose.

[It's better than anything they could do right now, probably. Music, art, creation - they think that requires a sort of eagerness and lust for life that they're lacking, currently. Maybe they always did.

Maybe they were only fooling themself this whole time.]

Ask Napstablook. They taught me.

[A blunt answer, and one that should work well enough, they would think. It's a logical progression of thought, as far as they're concerned.]

[The bluntness of their statement stabs deep into his heart, and he knows now, more than ever, that he needs to step away. Hold them at a distance like he holds Sans and everyone else. Clearly Frisk was already doing the same to him.

But the thought that Napstablook, so afraid of Frisk in the first place, opened up to them enough to teach them something like this is sweet, all the same. If they can't care about him, at least they can care about Napstablook. That ghost deserves the world.]

Did they now? I'm happy to hear that. They don't let themselves use their skills for other people all that often. They're usually too shy.

Edited 2016-11-24 17:42 (UTC)

Yes. They wrote the music out for me.

[Is that...a good thing to say? They don't know. They can't tell what's insensitive or not anymore, or what might be construed as offensive or cruel. Perhaps bringing up his cousin at all is to be considered cruel.

Does it matter, really? He's already made it clear that they're not friends. So they suppose they don't have to really worry either way.]

[He doesn't respond for a bit, continuing his musical ministrations. It gives him time to formulate a proper response.]

I'm glad you two have found some common ground with each other. They really need more friends.

[They need more people who will support them, he thinks. He worries about them quite a bit.]

They...

[Should they make that a question? That'd be polite, wouldn't it? To say that they really need more friends or something. But it'd be ruder to push back against that pronouncement, because Mettaton's right, they know he is, because he's older than them and he knows better than them and he's Napstablook's cousin, so of course he'd know best for them.

They should agree.]

...do. They do.

[Mettaton doesn't know the mental gymnastics Frisk is jumping through to try and be the "perfect" child. All he knows is the quiet pain of this conversation, as he finally stops strumming the ukulele. The notes wither and die in the autumn air as he looks out over the gardens.]

Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you for much longer.

[He places the ukulele down next to Frisk.]

Eventually you'll be able to enjoy playing this again. Maybe not now, but eventually.

[He wants to believe that they will.]

[Keep them from what? They're not sure what he'd be keeping them from, but...that's all right, isn't it? It doesn't really matter anyway. He's probably right.

They stare down at the ukulele and dip their chin faintly in a vague nod.]

Okay.

[They'd say that they'll try, since he seems to want them to, but that'd be a promise they're not sure they can keep. They can't try much of anything right now.]

[He looks to them a bit sadly, trying not to make this more painful for either of them. Frisk may not be able to feel anything now, but eventually they will. Eventually these memories will cause them pain upon reflection and he hopes that this one won't sting quite as much.]

Good bye for now, Frisk. Take care of yourself.

[It feels odd to be making the same walk back to his room after the last time he spoke to Frisk in the gardens. Now, however, he wonders what is worse: their argument, or this gaping void they have stretched between them.]

[Take care of yourself.

They suppose they should. Better than they have been, anyway. If they took better care of themself, they wouldn't have ended up in this mess. They've really messed things up, haven't they?

Oh well. Can't care about it. It's happened, and now they're just...here.

So they nod.]

Okay.

[And they let him go.]

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