[They don't want to be reasonable. Want to scream about how yes, they're grateful for a handful of breadcrumbs, but they're still starving. Want to wail that none of those little things are Asriel, there isn't going to be more Asriel - or worse, there will be more Asriel, and they won't even care anymore because what's the point? Because it's too tiring to do this he-loves-me-he-hates-me yo-yoing, to have their world come to an end all over again. Why bother, if it won't last, right? You must not have loved him at all, if you're already thinking like that! You're the kind of creature that gets told somebody's your friend, and all you see is a pile of EXP!
They wrap their arms around their aching, uneasy middle. Still hugging themselves, like that's any kind of comfort. No point wishing anyone felt safe enough to hold, you can just hold yourself! Be grateful you even have a body to hold, because you sure didn't always have that much! It's not a dignified way to stand - a little bent over themselves, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Looks sick and defeated and pitiful.]
...This is the worst part. Walking away from... the edge, I guess.
[Being so prepared for respite, even temporarily, and being pulled back. Realizing all over again that you have to Continue. That there's no stopping. You're already dead, but you have to keep living. Feeling like you aren't actually better just because you were stopped. Knowing you should be back to locks on the closets and surrendering sharp things, but knowing you can't - can never, ever surrender the Knife, never again. Knowing you're supposed to want to live now, knowing Frisk's trying their hardest to lay reasons out, and all of it still not being good enough.
They... start walking. Heavy, dragging footsteps. They must look every inch as crushed as they both feel, huh?
They just assume Frisk will follow. Leave this mess behind. Go get cleaned up. Put yourself together, you sloppy disaster.]
Tell me you love me again. Tell me how much you trust me.
no subject
They wrap their arms around their aching, uneasy middle. Still hugging themselves, like that's any kind of comfort. No point wishing anyone felt safe enough to hold, you can just hold yourself! Be grateful you even have a body to hold, because you sure didn't always have that much! It's not a dignified way to stand - a little bent over themselves, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Looks sick and defeated and pitiful.]
...This is the worst part. Walking away from... the edge, I guess.
[Being so prepared for respite, even temporarily, and being pulled back. Realizing all over again that you have to Continue. That there's no stopping. You're already dead, but you have to keep living. Feeling like you aren't actually better just because you were stopped. Knowing you should be back to locks on the closets and surrendering sharp things, but knowing you can't - can never, ever surrender the Knife, never again. Knowing you're supposed to want to live now, knowing Frisk's trying their hardest to lay reasons out, and all of it still not being good enough.
They... start walking. Heavy, dragging footsteps. They must look every inch as crushed as they both feel, huh?
They just assume Frisk will follow. Leave this mess behind. Go get cleaned up. Put yourself together, you sloppy disaster.]
Tell me you love me again. Tell me how much you trust me.