I heard you like suffering (for dustless)

[boogerman]

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.

Comments

smash it with a hammer, no more problems

[boogerman]

What a good friend, suffering through another nightmare for his sake. He lies there, eyes closed, mouth open, blackness escaping onto the towels, somewhere in between awareness and oblivion.

He daydreams of dancing, strong and taller than everyone, the life of a party. Surrounded by people enjoying his presence.

Soon enough Frisk's dream will stop being a nightmare, as his power wanes.

such sound logic

[dustless]

They dream of walking through a field of golden flowers. They start in a cave with only a few, and then more and more as they head to the exit.



Periodically, Toriel stands to take a different towel to wipe at his face properly.

[boogerman]

He does look at her each time, not sure what to say at being treated like a filthy child...? It really is a first, this sort of luxury treatment.

And soon, he speaks. "They're... not afraid. No nightmares."

[dustless]

"...you said that was impossible."

Toriel's voice is soft and unaccusing.

Frisk rolls to unconsciously press their face against Pitch's side again.

They dream of flowers blooming beneath the night sky. There is no moon. There are children around them, looking up and pointing out the constellations with voices they cannot hear.

[boogerman]

"Should be." It terrifies him, both the possibility that Frisk is having a good dream... or that he can't sense fear anymore. "...it was."

And so he knows it must be the end for him. He feels he might be panicking, up and running, if he had more energy to spare for being scared at all. He's... not. He's only numb. Maybe it's shock.

[dustless]

"You..." Her voice has the slightest tremble to it. "...must be far more ill than I believed."

Toriel is not stupid, but--she does not want to face...this. She does not want Frisk to have to face it.

[boogerman]

Slow breath in. "If you get it darker. I can go." Go, and end this quickly for them. Send himself down the street a mile or so, where no one can see him and no one has to watch.

[dustless]

It is nearly as dark as it can be. She was reading just by a crack in the curtains.



"Pitch."

...It would hurt less. But Frisk...well. They would forgive her. But could she forgive herself?

"Do you truly wish to be alone?"

;;

[boogerman]

It's what he'd always expected, to wither away alone in the dark. And it's what he'd thought they'd tell him to do eventually, anyway, Toriel and Frisk: to go away.

But his lack of response is all the answer she needs. No, he doesn't want to be alone. That's simply the way things are.

[dustless]

She gives him an aching smile. It is all she can offer.



"...Frisk. Frisk, my child. You...should wake up."

Still affected by their worries from the other nights, their eyes snap open before her second sentence is finished.

They're pretty disoriented, though. This isn't their room at all. And something's off, isn't it?

Toriel comes to stand by them both. Pitch is no child, but...she cannot resist the urge to brush his hair around his forehead back.

"Frisk. There is...something difficult we must discuss."

[boogerman]

Pitch blinks at her hand, blankness in his eyes. So many thoughts all screaming to be heard, and he can't seem to decide what to feel. Everything. Nothing. All at once. Maybe this is him, having a nightmare, and none of it is real.

The pair of them are being too nice for it to be a nightmare, though. He clamps his mouth shut after licking his lips, eyes on Frisk again. Dignity. There's more of that if he isn't being a leaky sieve.

[dustless]

They're next to Pitch.

They're next to Pitch after trying to give him their nightmares.

They just woke up from something that was sad and strange but definitely not a nightmare.

Their eyes flick between him and Toriel, instinctive dread coalescing in their chest.

Finally, they speak. "What is it?" Their tone is flat and distant.

Toriel will not force him to be the one to explain.



"Frisk. We...we do not have the medical supplies for a spirit, and our tries at healing...are not working." She looks them in the eye. It is hard. "I am not sure he will get better."

Frisk sits up, staring at her, down at him. There's a flicker of disbelief on their face and not much else.

He's a spirit. He's died before. Been banished. Whatever. This...this is just...it must be a slower, worse-than-usual way for it to happen.

[boogerman]

Not his idea to tell Frisk the truth right away. Maybe it's best they think he's coming back... or is false hope worse? It certainly would be for him. Hope is pretty nearly always false as it is.

Better they are upset with him than Toriel, who they need.

"Not banishing." he forces himself to say. "Not this time. Almost sure."

[dustless]

Frisk stares down at him in silence.

...that doesn't make sense.



Oh, but Toriel hopes there is some time before he fades. Frisk needs time to process this.

"I am...so sorry." To Pitch, to Frisk. She too wishes she could have done more.

[boogerman]

"Yes." Regret and sadness are in the hurricane of feelings going on inside his head. He's fumbling around inside a well-hidden pocket inside his shirt as he speaks, and even that is almost too much effort. "I'm sorry for, for a few things."

[dustless]

Frisk doesn't feel as much as they probably should be feeling as they lean over, murmur in his ear.

"Two days. Back. Would that be enough time? To try fixing it?"

[boogerman]

"No. Did something when I escaped. Overload." While he was already weak, and then burned out beyond anything he'd ever been. And so ends the story. Science killing fairy tales.

He pulls out a little golden locket on a chain, a plain little thing, nothing ornate. Just so he can open it and look at the mystery within one last time--the mystery of the young black haired girl's picture and the strange inscription on the inside. It's written in a language even he can't remember.

[dustless]

Frisk's face itches. They rub it, and then stare uncomprehendingly at the smear of dampness from their eyes. When did they start crying?



Toriel is silent. She should offer comfort, perhaps. But there is nothing to say.

They feel full of lead when they lie down again, higher this time, gently resting their chin upon his shoulder to peer at the locket.

They wonder who it is.

"A friend?" they whisper.

[boogerman]

He holds it about an inch from his face, still curled up on the couch, elbows tucked against his chest. It would be a cozy picture if everything was alright.

"Don't know. I've had this since. Forever. And I never remembered who." A longer pause. "Except she was important. To me. Mnh... whoever she is."

[dustless]

Family, maybe. Or close enough to be it. There's a locket that used to be another's around their throat that meant just the same thing.

Maybe you'll see her soon, they think. But the words won't leave their mouth. That's probably for the best.

They backtrack to what he'd said before. "You. Don't need to be sorry."

[boogerman]

Family he doesn't remember... not even her name. Only a vague feeling of love towards the mysterious ancient girl. And loss.

Loss and loneliness is the story of Pitch Black's life, isn't it?

"Wasn't always nice to the world." That's an understatement... "...keep this?" The locket, which he offers to Frisk, being the only present he really has to give.

[dustless]

"Nobody is. Not always." The world can be tough and painful. As they're distantly remembering now.

The locket is cradled in their palms.

"I'll give it back." They brush a thumb over the chain. "You know. If you wake up."

And that, oddly enough, is what breaks them--the image of triumphantly returning the golden locket a few weeks later to tuck around his neck, going on to plan the next cooking lesson or scare.

They curl their body around it--around him, as much as they can--and go from simple crying to sobbing. Silently, but their whole body rocks with it so as to be unmistakable.

Toriel circles around the couch to settle her hand on their back. There are no words for this.

god I need sleep but it ain't coming

[boogerman]

"Thank you." he says, meaning more than just for taking the locket. Much more. The world was rarely nice to him.

He stretches his legs out, reaching one last time to stroke their hair at the same time. He's so tired. Tired, hurting, hungry, freezing cold. Maybe this rest is going to be a relief... finally, peace and sleep.

They'll take care of each other, those friends he finally found. He can just rest.

same. also i am crying a little maybe

[dustless]

And of course they pet his hair back. Frisk and Toriel. Comfort in the face of the end.

"You're welcome," Frisk breathes between sobs. And--"'M gonna miss you, Pitch."

D: let us be sad and cranky from sleeplessness today

[boogerman]

It feels... good. Maybe he would have held out a little longer if he hadn't burned up energy talking, petting Frisk like a kitten, but. Some things are worth it.

"That's okay." he says breathlessly, eyes closed now. Selfishly, more than okay. "You're nice." He doesn't say any more, flat out unable to. Rest...