hadriel_logs | In my head, I am still there

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In my head, I am still there

Who: Fruks and anyone of the nosy sort.
What: A small child holes up in a library with indecipherable notes from a man who doesn't exist. Nothing goes wrong.
Where: The librarby.
When: Evening of the 20th, through to the 21st.
Warnings: Ten year olds have all the existential queries, really.

i. ssssSSSHHHHH!

[With the discontent rumblings (and...explosions) of the past few days beginning to die down, Frisk decides, in a token flash of alacrity, that some personal space is necessary.

Or- no. Not really. What's needed, more than anything, is a break from the cycle they're in. A rinse and repeat of getting up, trying to clean streets that are never really going to be clean, having dinner and going right back to bed. They've been in such a cycle before. It never ends well for anyone. Sans left them a hot dog, a month ago.

Sans left Chara a hot dog. Things aren't going well.

Still, better things to focus on. Things like the fact that large, white bookshelves prove to be over twice Frisk's height in many places, and problems like how many of the books and papers within reach are filled with nothing but nonsense, or information that doesn't help. They don't really need to know about the statistics of immigration throughout the year 201X, thank you, or The Most Ridiculous Laws Still In Place Today, even if it's kind of funny, that wearing hot pink pants is illegal on Sundays.

Hence, climbing said bookshelves is fine. It's fine. It's- its fine until they reach the top.

Then it's just a matter of contenting themselves with the view for a few hours, until they figure out how to get down.]

ii. Can you even call this a librarby, I didn't get a chocolate on my pillow or anything.

Whilst it does take most of the night to traverse the many, many shelves for something even close to useful- as well as sort out the issue of how one gets both up and down from such fixtures- inevitably Frisk makes a small pile for themself in corner, just beneath one of the many luminous light fixtures. It's not the most comfortable position, but it is out of the way.

From there, it's a matter of opening each book in turn, and burying their nose into it. It would be in bad form to leave permanent marks on the paper, but a small, lead pencil to write in the margins, and they think- well, it should be okay, right?

It would be okay, if anything they'd found so far was useful. The most recent book lands back on the pile with a loud smack, and the child slumps back against the wall, rubbing their eyes. If it feels like they've been at this for hours

That's likely because they have.

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[It's a really great thing he didn't ask them to promise. They're certain that the longer they stay as they are, the more red their cheeks will be. Their eyes. Their nose will get all snuffly. As it is, they don't even get a chance to prepare for the jump; turning round has them so shaky their foot just- slips, and down they go.

Hitting the floor before momentum has them running straight into the shelf opposite, suddenness stealing away any semblance of fear with the shock. Shoving their face into their sleeve, Frisk blindly throws Sans a thumbs up.

All good, absolutely fine.]

Thanks. [They muffle out. Knee aches, but that could've been a lot worse.

[They land roughly. But given the way they more or less just launched themself off the thing, he can't say he's surprised. Maybe a kid used to death and dying as part of an obstacle don't care much for bodily safety.

Or maybe they just don't care, if it means they get to get away from him.

He turns, halfway. Keeps his eyesockets trained on a line of books in front of him without seeing 'em. Traces one of the spines idly with a phalanx.]

I know things're different. That's the thing about this place. The real strange, funny thing. Everything's always changing.

[He huffs out a laugh.]

Weird, right? And I know. I know some of the changes - you got LOVE, and there's no helpin' that. But here's the thing.

[And now he does look at 'em square. His gaze is neutral.]

Chara's up to 20. 20, kid, and y'know the thing? I'm thinkin' maybe they ain't beyond a second chance.

[Not now. Maybe that'll change too. That's the fascinating thing. The fascinating, terrifying, dizzyingly uncertain thing.]

So why don't you think you are?

[Why does he still think this is their choice?

Laughter is supposed to be Chara's thing. Frisk is still capable of giving it a good go. With a smile that doesn't match their face and red cheeks rubbed raw from the rough material of their sleeves- plastic smile unlocked.

This really is a nightmare.]

I don't get to wake up.

[That's not funny. An exhale; hands cupping their elbows as they look down, smile slipping away and leaving behind- not much at all. The usual, then.]

Sorry.

[They don't actually feel much like smiling, honestly. Or laughing. Or much of anything at all; because for all the thems and all the Chara's and Sans' they met, they met someone else, too. He was happy to remind them, why they were really here.

And that's why it doesn't matter.]

You can't help me.

[For a moment, seems like a bit of Chara leaks through. A false, plastered-on grin, bright and bladed and meant to unsettle. Too bad that trick stopped working when Chara started runnin' it into the ground. Seemed to be the only intimidation tactic they could reliably trot out at their leisure, unless you count the glistening redness with which they'll occasionally infuse their voice.

He folds his arms, watches 'em closely. Watches their expression drain of the smile that doesn't suit them, and back into nothing at all.]

Then what will help ya, kid? 'Cause this, right now...

[It ain't sustainable. But hell, maybe they're stuck livin' day by day the same way he still is. Maybe that's all they can do.]

I ain't sayin' it's easy. That it won't take work. And hey, y'know how I feel about work. [Somethin' to lighten the mood. A halfhearted effort at best.] You ever think maybe you've earned a little break?

[Would've thought he'd given up, by now. They haven't really given him much reason to think the best of them over the past months, and today is hardly stacking up into anything different. Still, here he is, asking what could help.

Monsters are...heh. They're really weird. Rubbing their arms, Frisk glances off to the side for a moment, considering. If there was anything they could ask him to do, anything at all.]

I just want everyone to be happy.

[Chara, Asriel. Sans and Papyrus. Alphys.

Having Frisk around really isn't beneficial to that. Never has been.]

You count yourself in that?

[The question whip-cracks out with a startling immediacy, and he ain't gonna question if it's instinctive or somethin' else entirely. Problem is, he thinks he might already know the answer.

They just want everyone to be happy. How long'd it take for them to figure that much? After the first time? The second? The third? The...however many?

How many?]

[Maybe he'll never know. As it turns out, maybe Frisk doesn't know. And maybe that's for the better.

The silence lingers, deciding to stay as Frisk plays with the sleeves of their sweater; tatty and a little more discolored than it had been when they arrived. It's still the only thing they have to wear, outside of a silly, overly large shirt they use for bed, for when the laundry simply has to be done.

They could answer him on that, they could. But silence speaks volumes, and he didn't really have to ask, did he?]

[A long pause in which no one says anything stretches and strains, and Frisk don't look at him, and they toy with the fringes of the sleeves of their sweater. Says a lot, don't it?

Yeah. It says plenty.

If he could blow out a stream of air in a sigh, he would. As it is, he simply stares at the kid with a flat sorta acceptance, an absence of surprise.]

Y'think maybe there's other people who want the same for you?

[Do they?

Chara probably would. But that's Chara, and Chara is kinder than they like to think they are. Chara cares deeply about people; even people who kind of cheated their way into their heart, stole their ability to run, to push them away, just by being there at all. It's no surprise that Chara would care.

Asriel used to, they think. Just not for them. Not really.
They hope the friend he always wanted is doing okay.

Who else does that even leave? Sans?

...]

Why?

[He arches a supraorbital ridge inquisitively. It ain't easy to say how, really, not for Frisk and certainly not for Chara; however the hell they ended up where they are in Sans's withered little rock of a SOUL, he can't rightly say. But that's the point, see. They're there now. And there ain't no rhyme or reason to it.

Don't have to be.]

You need a reason to care about people?

No, but-

[Their lips remain parted as Frisk thinks on it, brow furrowing. They know he feels bad for what he's done, and they've forgiven him; discarded it easily in the wake of what's new, what's now.
They know he hasn't forgiven them. It's over. They know.
Some things just aren't reciprocated. Some things never should be.]

The other Frisk's.

I can't do what they did.

[You shouldn't have to settle for second best, Sans. Not even that.]

[The other Frisks. That's right. There's plenty of 'em, and he can't sort out what each of 'em are in comparison to the kid in front of him now. He ain't sure what the differences are outside the distinct ones, the ones he can see - age and height and general disposition.

They're always determined, though. Always got that little thing called "determination."]

And? Not much either of us can do about that here.

[They hesitate, for a moment. Pretty certain that he's not going to like what they say; fairly certain he'll argue. Doesn't change the fact that it's-]

I think you should pick a better one to stay.

[Possible, to replace them. Possible, to have their pick; the better partner, the better Fallen Child. The friend he always wished he'd had. Someone who always liked bad jokes, and good friends. Not just food.

One who never, ever raised their voice. Wouldn't that be nice?]

There ain't any better ones, kid. There's no picking. And even if there was -

[He don't finish the sentence, though the meaning is likely - it's clear enough, huh? Even if there was, what the hell would a guy like him do anyway?

He can't get the words to sound like anything other than what they are: resigned, weary. 'Course they gotta stick themself on a gradable scale, don't they? Maybe tick it down based on the LOVE they've earned, or the number of times they've died.]

And what happens to you then, huh? You think everybody here would up and let that happen, just like that? You think Chara would be all right, havin' another Frisk there without knowin' what happened to their Partner?

[Knew he wouldn't like it. Probably- doesn't really understand. That's fine; they don't really get how all of this works, either. Frisk just knows that it does.]

There are.

[He shouldn't have to question that. He's met some of them, hasn't he? Told them as much; they know him well enough to get that a guy like him doesn't miss the chance to compare. There were better ones; they were all better ones. None of them were left standing on the middle ground.

They'd finished, and just by being here, Frisk- the one that is them, in the here and now- they never will.

Fifty percent, twenty percent. They're both failing grades. No one wants that. Sans doesn't want that. Chara doesn't want that. And Frisk certainly doesn't.]

...Chara would figure it out.

[And they sound so sure of themself. Sure that there's better Frisks out there, just as there must be better Sans-es. Imagine that. That'd just really make his day.

He looks at 'em long and hard. Trying, failing to keep the stern frustration from his tone.]

Real generous of you. Makin' it their problem to deal with. Like that'd be makin' it easy. But hey, guess sharing is caring, right?

[Too scathing. Too accusatory. Yeah, go ahead, guilt them into feelin' even worse for a purely hypothetical situation. Hypothetical, sure, but it plays into something real disconcerting he's picked up on, regarding the way the kid thinks. And - god. If he could figure out how to talk to them without just hammering home every scrap of bullshit he blazed into their brain early on - ]

Look. Point is, it ain't happening. [Wasn't gonna happen before, and sure as hell ain't about to now.] You're stuck with us, kiddo.

[Why are you like this?

They stop breathing, for a moment. Fingers curling under the edges of their sweater, stock still. Open their eyes a little wider, so he knows they're looking at him. Don't let your lips move- don't make a sound.

Can't they just
Haven't I done enough for you?
do one thing right?]

Sorry.

[The word is so tiny; not going to be enough, but they don't lower their head, so maybe-
I just don't know why I bother anymore.
Probably won't help either. They don't dare to breathe until he speaks again; until the words change; until the tone's gone, until they're sure they can speak at all.]

Sorry.

[Repeating themself isn't going to help either.]

[And yeah, 'course he takes it too far. Makes it seem like it's their fault. Judge, jury, executioner. Verdict: guilty.

This ain't helping anyone. He stops. Shuts his eyesockets and takes a moment.]

It ain't your fault, kid. I'm sorry.

[How many times does he gotta screw up before he finally manages to get through to 'em? How many times does he make 'em feel bad for everything before their seemingly limitless forgiveness snaps and severs?]

We're gonna do what we can with what we got. Not any of us chose to be here. Can't choose who we care about either.

And like it or not, I, uh, I wanna see you be all right.

[...And so, the answer to everything still remains the same: monsters are weird.

Frisk can't really bring themself to relax fully. Softer and quieter; wanting them to be okay, but things like to linger. It's almost sad, to think that this is the part of him they've missed seeing for so long. They were never really friends after all, were they?

But he said he wants to try. He does that; doesn't make a very good job of it. It's the opposite problem than Frisk has, they think, even if it seems to constantly lead to the same result. They both mess up.]

Okay. [They agree externally. No more talking about it- in fact, don't think about this anymore, Sans.

They'll sort it out on their own from here.]

[Yeah, he's sure that with that pronouncement everything will be good and fine and hunky-dory. Really put his foot in this one, didn't he? As is his wont, really, but when's he ever gonna say or do somethin' that don't make the kid feel like absolute shit?

More than they do already, anyway.]

Kid. [A pause.] Frisk.

[Their name is an important factor, and he's still cursin' himself for never askin' for it back home. And they never offered it either, huh?

Yeah. Funny how that worked out.]

You can choose who you're gonna be, y'know. That's somethin' else we all gotta do.

[So he says. Using their name like it's of the utmost importance; and maybe it is now. They don't know. Aside from the clothes on their back, it's the only thing left from home- which isn't so different than before, when they first fell into the Underground. Their name, the clothes on their back. A voice in their head, telling them to stay determined.

But the voice is gone, now. They've killed it once already, and even if it told them that was okay, it's obvious that a lot of people- two people, the only other two who know- don't agree. Wasn't that a choice? Haven't they had choices to make already?

Why can't you just do one thing right? So they nod. They nod, and they don't tell him they're tired, or that they don't want to make choices anymore. He doesn't want to hear it; in the same way that no one wanted to hear excuses when they hurt something, when they broke it. When they did it wrong.

If they want him to be happy, then they have to pretend, for a while, that they're happy too.

And maybe that won't be too hard. After all, most people...

They don't really pay much attention, once they think they've gotten their way.]

Yeah.

[Who's to say if he's gotten through to 'em? They're hard to read, just the same as he makes himself. He ain't any good at this, and he can't rightly say why he's had so much more success understanding Chara than he has their partner.

What a world, huh?

He scratches at his cervical vertebrae, tryin' for something marginally lighter.]

And, uh. Next time you get a gift from somebody - maybe think of keepin' it. They gave it to ya for a reason.

[Strike two. One more, and they're out. At least when it comes to Sans, Frisk knows well enough that retribution doesn't come swift or hard. It comes in a disappointed rumble, and a reminder to take a good look at themself.

They're looking. They are, most definitely; it's just a pity that they can't (haven't, won't) share that.]

Sorry. [For making him feel bad. Thinking on it, even a child can understand, or assume, that perhaps, he's feeling a little...upset. Next time, they should just- keep it.]

It's a good 'dog.

[Until someone else needs it, at least.]

'S not your fault. It's 'cause you care. 'Bout Chara, right? You worry about 'em.

['Cause they learned to put everyone else's lives above theirs, tiering it out. Chara's more important. Asriel's more important. Everyone's more important than Frisk, when Frisk gets due consideration at all.]

But y'know we worry about you too.

In my head, I am still there

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