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

[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...

💔

[dustless]

Pitch Black is not the first person they have lost. Pitch Black will not be the last.

That doesn't make it any easier.



"We will not forget you."

Frisk bends down to press a kiss to his temple.

"'M glad," they whisper, "that we got to be friends."

[boogerman]

"Sssame." He can't continue stroking their hair, no more than he can keep talking. So incredibly tired... and not afraid. Not anymore. Comfortable, cared for. They did well.

[dustless]

Frisk will not say goodbye. Even if that's what this is.

They're here. They're staying. They're holding on.

That's all that's left for them to do.

[boogerman]

Neither will he. He hardly said goodbye when it wasn't serious. There's no clear moment when it happens--he didn't need to breathe, anyhow.

Eventually it becomes clear he isn't going to move again. He doesn't fade away, like he did before after the Sandman's attack. No fading, for this is real.

The few last timid Fearlings uncurl... changed from their eternity with him, for the better.

[dustless]

Frisk doesn't stop crying for a long time, or leave. Just in case there's a bit of something left for a little while, since he didn't fade--whether he comes back or not.

After all. He hated being alone. Just in case. Just in case.



After speaking his name a few times without response, Toriel finally succumbs to her own tears, wrapping her arms around her child tightly. She did not want them to see death so early.

"I am so sorry," she whispers.






Frisk puts the locket around their neck.






Eventually, Toriel convinces Frisk that they cannot leave him lying on their couch.






That night, they decide to bury him in the shadiest part of Asgore's garden.

[boogerman]

And if another night, they come across three shy, no-longer-dangerous little ghosts (?) in the house... well.

This is their home now.

[dustless]

Frisk finds them lurking in the hallway and freezes mid-step.

"...'lo?"

Their voice is softer than usual.

[boogerman]

Three pairs of eyes, three frightened faces. They're in a little shapeless black huddle. All glowing white eyes are on Frisk.

They don't know what to do, now that they've lost their leader, mobile home, and all their siblings...

[dustless]

...are they Pitch? Are they Pitch when he can't come back all the way? They remind Frisk of him so strongly, but not...

Cautiously, they kneel down to look more closely. "...Hi. A-are...you okay?"

[boogerman]

lostlostlost all gone

Their voices are strange, mixed up whispers, all speaking at once. A hivemind, and a not very bright one with only three left. That doesn't make their feelings any less real... and they remember Frisk as a Good Person.

They scooch a little closer...

[dustless]

And not Pitch's voice, either, they realize with a sliver of pain through their chest.

"'S okay. You. You're gonna be okay." They hope.

Frisk offers them their hand.

[boogerman]

They're so tiny, the tallest (longest?) perhaps all of one foot, and the smallest half that. Once upon a time when they were a proper swarm, thousands and thousands, they were dangerous.

These triplets don't want to be dangerous. They've unlearned violence, they can't remember killing a single soul. But they do love delicious fear.

Big streeeeetches its arm out until its hand touches Frisk's, imitating them. No way do the little critters have bones, if they can do that.

friend good ???

[dustless]

Rubber shadow they think and have to smother an inappropriate (and probably slightly hysterical) laugh.

"I'm...I'm...good." Frisk ever-so-gently puts their thumb over the tiny shadow hand.

[boogerman]

home gone body gone man gone

That wispy hand clings to Frisk, the shadow fingers stretching like the arm. It's neither warm or cold, but surprisingly soft. All is lost. Their life as they knew it is over.