They start to think of a polite lie to dance around the fact they're trying to keep their corrosive influence out of Frisk's life now, but it occurs to them that it wouldn't be necessary. Souji isn't asking why they aren't looking after Frisk themself. He's asking if anyone's looking after them.
Which - which just strikes them as utterly absurd. "I'm the one responsible for the problem. Why would I need anything of the sort?" They point out. You comfort the victims, you punish the bullies. It's not supposed to be the other way around.
They look away. Stare down at the cola he brought them, instead. ...Ha ha. They don't like soda. Frisk does. They remember the surprise of finding out, of being able to sift a bit of individuality out of a tangle of blurred identities. They remember how being around people made Frisk feel better. They remember the way sugar and staying up late had made Frisk giggly and rowdy. They remember trying to dance, but not quite knowing how. Remember Frisk playing tricks. Remember how scared they'd been that they might have hurt Frisk. Remember... remember feeling like kids. Running through crowds of adults and only seeing them as background obstacles, not threats. Being messy and noisy and playing and ducking under tables.
There's no party to make Frisk feel better after this death.
Try as they might, they cannot tune out the ache.
"Frisk is the one who needs somebody. They're hurting, not me."
no subject
They start to think of a polite lie to dance around the fact they're trying to keep their corrosive influence out of Frisk's life now, but it occurs to them that it wouldn't be necessary. Souji isn't asking why they aren't looking after Frisk themself. He's asking if anyone's looking after them.
Which - which just strikes them as utterly absurd. "I'm the one responsible for the problem. Why would I need anything of the sort?" They point out. You comfort the victims, you punish the bullies. It's not supposed to be the other way around.
They look away. Stare down at the cola he brought them, instead. ...Ha ha. They don't like soda. Frisk does. They remember the surprise of finding out, of being able to sift a bit of individuality out of a tangle of blurred identities. They remember how being around people made Frisk feel better. They remember the way sugar and staying up late had made Frisk giggly and rowdy. They remember trying to dance, but not quite knowing how. Remember Frisk playing tricks. Remember how scared they'd been that they might have hurt Frisk. Remember... remember feeling like kids. Running through crowds of adults and only seeing them as background obstacles, not threats. Being messy and noisy and playing and ducking under tables.
There's no party to make Frisk feel better after this death.
Try as they might, they cannot tune out the ache.
"Frisk is the one who needs somebody. They're hurting, not me."