boxfullofzeroes | I heard you like suffering (for dustless)

I heard you like suffering (for dustless)

The ordeal had started suddenly one night (as if it wasn't always 'night' for Pitch), while he was somewhere in Europe, amusing himself pacing around in an older home to make the floor creak while their children try to get to sleep. Funny how simple things like that--which should be dead boring by now--still make him feel good.

But the little game ends when he senses something odd about his network of shadows, his means of travel all over the world. Something cold and icky and bright that doesn't belong. He enters them, curious and wary, and--

He ends up being pulled, yanked along a path he didn't mean to take, full of panic.

From then on, it's a blur of madness, screaming, light and terror. He loses all sense of time. He starts to lose his Fearlings too, those old friends he didn't even know were there, poor lovely things. He's not alone, people are there, studying him. Scientists. Experiments. The scientific study of magic. He tries to hold on to the memories, but he's in too much pain most of the time. He's also blind as a bat while trapped in the light, with magical wards up that he doesn't have the strength to fight past without killing even more of his Fearlings... until there are only a few dozen left and he knows it's now or never.

He bursts out, more pieces of himself exhausting themselves and dying for their master, and flees to the nearest place that he knows is safe. His underground home is across the ocean, too far away. Frisk and Toriel's home is closer. They'll let him recover, won't they? That big plush couch in their living room has room for a Boogeyman.

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He looks more worried when Toriel leans down, eyes meeting hers. It's so hard to trust--even now he's expecting rage, some sort of pain to follow for him intruding and corrupting Frisk's dreams.

He'd run, if he could. Instead, he tenses up, staring. "I can't even go."

She is still not happy, but...she knows her child. Frisk could have left him, or condemned him, but they have not. And he is hurt. Toriel is many things, but she does her best not to have one of her descriptors be outright cruel.

"Do not worry."

She is unsure of what, exactly, he is speaking of. She allows him to continue to speak if he so wishes...or if he can.

Gentle, careful, she slides her arms under him and lifts. As soon as she ascertains how much that may have hurt him, she just-as-carefully gets to her feet.

"I'd love to leave--" he says with a bit of his normal manner, "But I can't." A very small spark of life. He's cold to the touch through that strange clothing that seems part of his skin. And light, for someone her own height.

There's no way to lift someone with arms and legs which want to get everywhere that isn't awkward as hell, sorry, Toriel. He grits his teeth, silent now. Funny taste in his mouth...

"I do not think that would be advisable, even if you could."

The walk to the living room is incredibly slow. Toriel has no worries about dropping him, but knocking his limbs into the walls is another story.

But they do, eventually. Frisk is sitting on the couch arm, anxiously tapping their fingers on their knees, elbows shoved into the handful of towels they'd gathered up.

"Frisk, please put the couch pillow beneath his head," she says as he's lowered. The pillow itself is just a little less comfortable than Frisk's, but surely the couch itself is much better than the floor.

Toriel plucks up a light blue towel in her claws and begins examining his face.

No wounds on his face. He's been bleeding out the mouth, perhaps he bit his tongue... but sticking fingers into his mouth is probably not the best idea. Sharp teeth lurk in there.

Relief shows on his face once he's on the couch, without being harmed on purpose. No flames consuming him, Toriel was... quite nice about it, in fact. How strange. Is it safe for him to relax yet...?

"Tonight. I can try to go home tonight." Please let him be closer to 'well' by sunset, please.

No wound on his face, but that spirit blood very much is. Toriel carefully dabs at the skin stained with it.

"Only if you are feeling well enough. Do not push yourself."

Frisk...tentatively reaches down to stroke his hair.

It's like tar. Pitch is another word for tar. How punny.

Not.

"Oh." he says, at both the sight of the not-blood and Frisk petting him. Strange role reversal. "I'm bleeding?"

Frisk won't stop unless it clearly hurts him, or he asks.

"Yes." That is all Toriel says.

Perhaps, if he can focus enough, he can sense the nuances of her fear--yes, he was bleeding. Enough that Frisk's pillow case is likely entirely ruined, she noticed once she had lifted him.

He's sucking all their fears down, however this is down, and yet still feels so empty and cold inside... cold outside, each time he's touched. He can't get warm.

"Ah." No, it doesn't hurt him. No, he doesn't ask. It's... nice. Not adding to the pain.

Their fears will not dissipate, not as long as he's there. Even if there was some miraculous recovery they'd still be worried for him.

Pet, pet.

Toriel quietly settles down on the edge of the couch herself.

Frisk finally finds their words. "...d'you...want...me to get you some tea?" they ask meekly.

If only he could get himself to a crowd of sleepers, a dozen nightmares all playing at once... why does he keep wishing for things? Stupid thing to do, he's no child. He lives in reality.

"Healing tea?" Hm. That's going to require sitting up. He makes an attempt, and aborts that fairly quickly, feeling dizzy.

Toriel presses her hand over his chest. "Do not push yourself," she repeats.

Healing, though.

"Yes, Frisk. Go make some." The both of them can make sure he does not choke.

They nod and disappear.

She looks at him, through him. "I know for a fact that you have a SOUL. If the tea does not help, I will attempt to heal you as well."

He swallows whatever nastiness is in his throat, licking his lips, disturbed. "Something isn't right. You should try." He should have either recovered or not, and woken up in his lair in better shape than this. He's never felt so hollow.

No. Something is not right. Pitch does not ask for assistance easily.

"...Would you like me to try now?"

It's not that he trusts her not to harm him, it's just that she could do it whether or not he asks for healing.

"Tea first. Give me some energy." He coughs, but fortunately on the towel. It's not nice. "Nightmares should have helped."

"No doubt. Frisk would not have stayed if they had suspected differently." To her grief, she knows they have nightmares on their own, Though they never speak of them.

Frisk is only a few minutes, though there's a small puddle on the counter now that they'll need to clean up later, hands a bit unsteady from nerves.

The speed into the room as fast as they can without spilling more. "Here." They hold it out to him.

His hands are shaking, and it's difficult to drink lying on your side. He knows he must be making a terrible mess, but better a bit of spilled tea than blood. Pathetic, to not be able to control himself in this way. He manages a few sips.

"Shouldn't have come here." That was meant to be a thought, oops. It slipped out.

Frisk's hand shoots out to keep it from spilling too much.

"...think 's good you did."

"You yourself said you could not make it home."

Better to die there than here, like a cat, crawling off to be alone. Instinct. These thoughts he keeps to himself, luckily.

"Could you send me there?" Somehow. They seem to have quite a lot of magical solutions to everything.

Frisk silently climbs back up onto the arm of the couch and gets to petting again.

"None that I know of, I fear. Is there something there that you think may help?" She could try to find a solution if she had an idea.

"No." It's only that it's comfortable. His domain, his home. "Nice to be there, I mean."

He sets the teacup down, finished. And the petting seems to be making him relaxed. Who would have thought Pitch's hair would be anything but wirey?

"I am sorry. I hope the couch itself is not too uncomfortable for you."

Still stroking his hair, Frisk leans forward to study his face. The tea should've helped.

"Your couch is fine." he says. Because the tea was only a drop in the bucket, he feels so weak. Like he may just fall apart, numb, cold, and a little delirious. He doesn't look any better. There's still blackness on his tongue when he licks his lips. "How long until night?"

Frisk is so unsettled by this. Fear and their own little bit of numbness aren't helping their voice.

"...quite some time." It is still only morning. "I will make sure all the curtains stay closed." And Frisk's already shut the off the lights.

Come to think of it, he can't feel his feet anymore. That's worrisome.

"Yes. No more light." Please please no. Even the floor where he was kept had lights embedded into it. "Think frightening thoughts."

I heard you like suffering (for dustless)

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