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[Chara's outside. They have their device on the ground, propped up against a rock, so their hands are free. They're crouched down in the mud, on the shore of a pond somewhere - there's a bush of purple flowers in the background, mostly obscuring the maze of massive tree-trunks. They're out having some kind of childish adventure, presumably. Two things sit by their feet: a thermos of something-or-other and a freshly-gathered bouquet of white flowers.

They're washing that favourite old switchblade off in the water. Must have cut the flowers, not picked them. They flick it dry, click the blade shut, and pocket it. Pick up the bouquet, hold it up so their face is all but hidden by the lovely white blooms.]

Pretty, are they not? Narcissus. A member of the daffodil family. They get their name because... well, I'm not entirely familiar with the myth, actually. I know Narcissus was some guy who loved himself. He loved himself so much, he died.

[A very abridged version, and they might be wrong, but they think they've got the base details down. They shrug, smile, start to neatly divide their bouquet: a pile of flowers on this side, and they pluck all the leaves off and set them down on the other side.]

It is a tangent, Wonderland, but I wonder. Could you get me up to speed on what we know about the mirror side? Can we cross to that side if we want to? Can the mirror folk cross the barrier as they please? If not, is there someone or something in charge of the decision? I'm curious.

[Their flowers sufficiently... de-leafed... they pick up the thermos. Ginger tea, sweetened with honey. Good for queasiness. Honey makes it taste better, soothes a sore throat. They think, fleetingly, of Asgore. Because they think of Asgore, they think of Toriel. Don't... quite know how to approach the topic of Asriel. Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to think about it. Don't want to bear acknowledging they live in a world without him again. But is anyone else... checking on them?

...Couldn't hurt. Maybe. To just... maybe not about him, can't utter his name. To just... say hi.

They cut the video feed. Reach for their phone, type some texts out.]

[Private text to Asgore]

I was going to attach a picture. I've started work on a sweater - pink again, if that is okay. It's back in our room, though, and I don't think I'll be back there for a couple days.

I suppose I just wanted to let you know you'll have something to look forward to. =)

[Private text to Toriel]

I know it is unkind to gossip, but perhaps you ought to know that Sans took poorly at the end of this last event. I am aware he is a friend of yours, so I feel you should be aware. Perhaps he would feel better if someone came to check on him? Company always makes a hard time easier.

Here is a joke that the both of you might like:
Why did the pie go to the dentist? Because it needed a filling.

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I'll be there soon.

[It's not much. They'll take it.

It takes them about ten minutes to find the place. They've been in the woods a few times now, exploring, if one can call it that. "Exploring." More like treading the same swathe of ground over and over again.

Picked flowers, the crisp scent of freshly crushed stems. The heady smell of some hot herbal liquid. And, of course, the striped shirt.

They stop at the edge of the pond. Around the other side. How dramatic.]

How many?

Edited 2016-08-12 04:05 (UTC)

[They rushed. No more counting to twenty, not when there's someone coming who could rip the leaves right out of their hands.

It wasn't the best idea they've ever had. These are easily some of the worst-tasting things they've ever put in their face. Worse than buttercups, maybe. The longer it sits in their mouth, the longer they have to taste it, and the longer saliva floods their mouth to a ridiculous degree. Their fingers are starting to itch a bit from picking the flowers already. They'll be all dry and scaly and nasty later, probably. Just another way this isn't a romantic or beautiful way to go at all, huh. Death by daffodil itch.

They know it takes a while to digest. To start getting symptoms. But they're pretty sure they're gonna hork, just based on taste alone. Maybe their body remembers, even if it's an entirely different species of flora.

Chara wishes they could say they stayed smiling and placid the whole time, but the look on their face as they force one last mouthful of leaves down is more of a scrunched-up, disgusted grimace.

See? Not cute at all.]

Forgot to count. The flowers are still there. Guess you could, if you want! Mind the stems, they'll give you an allergic reaction on your skin.

[The joviality in their voice is strained. They don't make it for very long before they have to go for the thermos, try to wash that taste out of their system, try to convince themselves the ginger is helping.]

[It's all arrayed out nice and neat, isn't it. Efficient, methodical. They planned this well. Took the time to broadcast it publicly, though, and they must've known that would draw Frisk's attention. They must've known it would draw everyone's attention.

A half-remembered misty fragment of something they read drifts lazily across their mind. A host, of golden daffodils; perhaps something they picked up in the library. Probably something they picked up in the library. The only books they had on the surface had a disproportionate ratio of pictures to words.

They step delicately around the pond. The ground is spongy underfoot, water-dense and depressible. Chara looks awful already. Not physically, but it's evident in the twist of their expression, the uncontrolled lurch of motion as they grab for the thermos.

Frisk is certain that their expression is just as revealing. They're always open to Chara, readable like a book. Terrified, pale, shaking. Bandage wrapped around their right hand, like the one they had when they fell.

Slowly, they reach the other side. They drop into a crouch. Cast their eyes along the flowers. They're beautiful. Golden flowers and buttercups are too.]

There are easier ways, you know. Less painful. Quicker, like you told me. More likely to work.

[The pick up one of the bulbs.]

How are you feeling?

I don't go gentle into that good night, on principle.

[They're in on the joke. They know what they deserve just as much as their world did. They can have two days' respite, but only two days. Then it's right back to being a demon prowling a world that never wanted it. Right back to having to live in a world without Asriel.

It'd be cheating karmic justice, surely, if they got it quick and painless.]

I'm not really feeling anything at all, actually. It takes time.

[Sort of an uncomfortable lingering on the tongue. Did they scald themselves with tea, is it just the unpleasant flavour that won't go away? Well, they'll know for sure one way or another. Just have to kill time. Their job now is to wait and to keep everything down.

...They don't let go of the thermos. Gonna need it. Maybe they should have brought two.]

Didn't you promise me a story about Oreos?

[Frisk sits, cross-legged. Tired. Drained. They flex their injured hand. They wonder if Chara hates them too much to let them near them. Even to ease this. Even to save their life. Kick away the thermos filled with whatever liquid they're using to keep it all down.]

I did. You just...didn't think this through very well.

[They feel too exhausted to still be here as they point at the thermos, at Chara, at the flowers, the mechanism of their own engineered death.]

You don't trust me, and I wouldn't blame you. I could take the Knife off you once you're dead. I could make you throw up, right now. I could have called Toriel, or Asgore, or Sans, or Shepard, once you told me where you were.

[A plan full of holes. But the original plan was too.]

I still could.

[Even more confused, now, as to what's narcissus and what's just in their head, because whatever's churning and writhing in the pit of their stomach when Frisk talks definitely feels poisonous.

* Just when you thought you'd hit the bottom of the barrel, you sink even lower.

They've been... manipulated, huh? Frisk talks about not wanting to be alone, and Chara recalls the frantic, pleading texts that came last time they were apart. Frisk talks about how they hurt themselves, and Chara answers only with dry, biting responses, but... ha. But. But Chara's convinced themselves they have to come every time Frisk calls out for help.

Look where that gets them, huh? Same place surrendering the Knife got them. Same place asking to keep secrets got them.

Aren't you supposed to be more cunning than this, Chara? Supposed to be able to outsmart sincere kids like Frisk. Supposed to be able to outsmart adults.]

Wouldn't be the first time you stole from the dead.

[They lie back on the cool earth, careful not to spill the thermos. There's going to be mud in their hair, probably. They'd laugh, but they know what laughing with a sore throat is like.]

Is that why you're here? To mock me? Rub it in, how much power you've got over me? How stupid it is to fall for "I miss you?"

No. I just thought after your first plan you'd have made things come together a little better. Learned from your mistakes, or something.

[Because they're invincible, right? They're a clever, brilliant, demonic mastermind that wants desperately for the world to not see them for what they are. A hurt, scared, angry kid. A kid who's been kicked too many times while they're down to see the point in bothering to get up anymore. Who's elected to claim that title of evil human and fashion from it the densest psychological armor Frisk has ever seen on anyone. Maybe even Sans.

They know them too well to give up now.

They pick up one of the leaves, sniff. Crush it into a little ball and roll it between their fingers. It's crisp and green and breaks easily under the pressure of their fingertips.

Thoughtfully, almost as a second thought, they stick it under their tongue. The awful flavor leaches in at once, almost prompting them to retch. Almost. They don't chew, they don't swallow. They just hold it there. Their gag reflex might kick in any time.

Frisk lies down next to them.]

Can I hug you?

Whoopsie doodles. Guess I'm just a screw-up.

[Really are supposed to be better at this, though. Could have chosen a place with no sentiment, no stupid dramatic irony or poignance or whatever. Could have researched, picked a plant they knew had high toxicity instead of guessing based on knowing picking them gives you a dry rash. Could have timed it so that something was setting in already. Could have just stayed quiet, because when they're quiet enough, it's hard to tell they still exist, right?

They glance over at Frisk. Just watch, silently.]

Careful with that. You'll get daffodil itch in your mouth.

[Don't know the science. Ought to take at least an hour for the real symptoms to show up, right? Because it takes time, when you're swallowing poison. The itch and rawness don't take as long. Something in the sap that scrapes you up on the way down, or something. Don't know.

They're kind of just talking to make noise, maybe. Buy some seconds to think Frisk's request over. Don't really want a hug, not when they're muddy and full of a lingering bitterness and scratchy ache, not when they know they're going to have to fight a battle with their body because it knows, it's full of a pointless wretched will to live, it recoils on reflex from the unpleasant vegetal taste of plants a person oughtn't eat.

But maybe Frisk's asking for their own sake. They don't get up. Just look at the canopy of trees up above.]

...Sure. I guess.

[Chara sounds tired. Didn't plan this out very much at all. Maybe there's still time. They're not showing any symptoms. The awful bitterness is almost too much to bear, their mouth filling with saliva as their throat tries to generate a gag reflex. They could stick their fingers down their throat, turn it all back. But they've kind of made this a whole thing now. Not so easy to do. Not unless they've got a chance to save Chara from it too.

They'd probably hate them for that, but that's a consequence Frisk is willing to live with. Not like they can hate them any more than they do already, right?

Frisk rolls onto their side, lying one arm gently over Chara's middle. Not really a "hug" except in the loosest definition of the term, but maybe it's soothing. Or maybe they'll smack it away in a few minutes. Either way.]

Orpheus was a musician. [It's hard to speak around the thickening sliminess in their mouth. They do it anyway.] He was such a good musician that all of nature would stop to listen to him play. He was in love with a woman called Eurydice. They were young and happy.

But one day she died.

[Pause, stop to swallow. Something goes down. Their stomach lurches. Whoops.]

And so filled with grief, Orpheus traveled to hell and asked the god of the dead to let her go.

[God, they hope this isn't a story with a moral. They're not in the mood for any It Gets Better or Try A Little Harder to Look on the Bright Side or Other People Have it Worse.

They listen anyway, because they don't have anything better to do. They can tell. Can hear the difference between trying to talk around a mouthful of unpleasantness and flooding saliva, and talking around nothing at all.

One leaf isn't enough to kill a person. They don't think it is, anyway. They don't even know if their tasty little salad (ha ha) was enough, because they are a screw-up, they can't plan things right, they probably just look like they're pulling some kind of pathetic stunt for attention. Had just figured they could pick more, if it wasn't enough.

...They grab hold of the arm draped loosely over them. The arm, not the hand, not the wrist, because they didn't think to look if it was the bandaged one or not. Not going to be picking more, after all, maybe. Guess they'll both just have to lie there.]

It was that easy back then? Boy. Does death mean anything at all anymore?

[If you can still laugh at yourself, you're doing just fine.]

[They have to wait, pause to let their organs settle and stop rebelling against the thing they just slid down their esophagus. Frisk smiles thinly, sadly, the motion pulled easily from their lips, lacking the motivation to prevent it. Chara dispensing their typical commentary. Like nothing's wrong.

Maybe someone will find them here. Maybe someone will find one or both of them dying, Frisk telling stories to a corpse, or maybe they'll both be coiled over one another and puking their guts out.

Lie here and die together. That was the original plan. Too bad Frisk doesn't want to get up and finish the job. Their breathing hitches for a short moment, and then they press forward, their tone even, the words steady.]

The god of the dead had heard such pleas before. Many, many times. But moved by the power of Orpheus's music, he finally agreed that he would let Eurydice return to the land of the living, on one condition.

[Focus on the curve of fingers around their arm. Touch. Always a sticky point for them. It's nice of them to allow this one thing, even if they're the one who's straddling the dangerous line here.]

He had to walk out of hell, and never once look back to check that Eurydice was following. He would simply have to trust that she was behind him.

So he agreed with the terms. He began to walk back out of hell. It was a long journey.

[They pick up one of the pre-picked leaves with their free hand. Toy with it, folding it between their fingers.]

He always wanted to look back to make sure his beloved was there, but he kept his promise. He did not look back. He only trusted she would follow.

[What a story, huh? Loving someone so much you'd follow them to hell. Being so special that you could actually save them from hell.

They have a feeling they might hate this story, no matter how it ends.

Their fingers tighten around Frisk's arm. Bunch up the fabric of their shirt.]

Don't.

[Spoken softly, with a too-casual smile on their face. Like they're asking Frisk for a tiny favour. Like it's just a "hey, get your own Cheetos" instead of a "hey, please don't die in an atrociously inefficient and unpleasant manner."

It'll make their throat hurt if they start laughing.

They try to pile together reasons, pick one out that's nice enough. I don't wanna die with YOU anymore? You're not supposed to want this, you're supposed to be getting better? I don't want this for you. All kind of harsh, aren't they? Not reasons they could lay out without getting them thrown right back in their hypocritical face.

So. Well. There's always...]

If you do, everyone will blame me.

[Maybe they would. Maybe they'd assume, that since Chara was apparently alone, that Frisk simply couldn't handle the sight of them lying there and followed suit. Maybe Sans or Toriel will find them first, and remember...

Maybe...

They hate themselves so deeply for the idea that forms in their gut, amidst the hot boiling of stomach acids eating away at a volatile, potentially fatal thing. Breath catches. Breathe out through their nose and continue the story, a little fainter.

They crush the leaf into another ball, but make no motion to do anything else to it.]

Finally, he felt the sun on his skin. He had made it to the surface, and all without looking back once. Overjoyed, he turned back to face his beloved.

[Fingers digging into their palm, cutting through the leaf and into their skin. Getting the toxins into their body the hard way, huh?]

But in doing so, he'd made an error. You see, Orpheus was meant to wait until they were both out of hell, and Eurydice had not yet reached the surface as he had. He saw her face one last time before she disappeared, forever lost to him now, for the god of death would not allow him to traverse the underworld a second time.

[Whether the horrible dark pit in their stomach is a result of what they just did or what they're about to do, they have no idea.

Slowly, Frisk lifts their hand with its bunched up leaf matter, holds it over Chara's face. Like they're about to feed them their own death.]

Perhaps it was a lapse of trust. Perhaps he simply hadn't realized that they both needed to be free. But because of his error, the lovers were doomed to always go where the other could not follow, united only in death.

[They hold it overhead. Asking permission.]

...Kind of a pointless idea, wasn't it? If he wanted to be with Eurydice so bad, why didn't he just off himself instead of going to all that trouble?

[Question with an obvious answer, that. Normal people don't want to die. Nobody wants to be dead. Death is terrifying. Orpheus wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Didn't wanna give up anything he had. Wanted to be with Eurydice, but not if it meant he had to sacrifice something.]

At least death can still bring them back together. He can't mess that up, right? One promise that we all keep, sooner or later.

[Death won't take them to Asriel. LOVE or suicide. Kill or be killed. None of it really makes it okay, none of it solves the problem. Just makes it easier to not care about a problem that will never be fixed. No wonder they say this kind of behaviour is self-centered, huh?

Their smile goes lopsided, wry, halfhearted. They gaze at the crushed-up leaf that Frisk holds. Wonder idly what Frisk's game is. But they nod their assent, lips parting around a thin little puff of air, not quite forceful enough to qualify as either a sigh or a laugh.]

[Frisk has no answer to the questions, the pointless mockery of a sad story they'd picked up and read in a library, in a compendium of assorted myths and tales about the follies of gods and children of gods. There'd been an awful lot of gods. An awful lot of names they couldn't pronounce. Orpheus's story had stuck in their mind the longest. It had left them feeling melancholy for reasons they couldn't define, feeling like the story had no real resolution. No real ending. Orpheus and Eurydice never get concretely reunited. Maybe if they imagine it very hard, picture Orpheus's cruel demise, they can see the ending that was never written out in the story they read.

Chara nods. Frisk shuts their eyes. They think achingly of Asgore, who may have known the mechanism by which his children died if only after the fact, of Toriel, who had carried the small, empty body back to the Ruins, of Flowey, who had arisen from good intentions and scientific error, of Orpheus, who trusted implicitly but not enough, of Eurydice, who must have faded knowing he loved her, knowing he had tried, and perhaps not hating him for making that fatal misstep at the last second.

They think of Asriel.

They lower their hand. Chara's mouth is open.

The only warning is the split second in which their fingers tighten across Chara's front, bunching into the fabric of their shirt, and they bring the hand down sharply, the leaf still clenched to their palm, two fingers extended as they aim to drive them down their throat with enough force and depth to trigger the reaction they're hoping for.

They'll hate them. They'll hate them.

But they already hated them, that was the point.]

[They should have known better. There's the fleeting instant where grip tightens, where they're prisoner to someone else's touch, and Chara's not the one who's better at dodging, because for that necessary half-second, they freeze, lock up, go immobile and compliant, and that costs them everything.

Chara bites down, vicious and wild, but it's too late, it's after the fact, it's clamping down on fingers that are already intruding, and it's a stupid, stupid reflex, because it keeps them in place, because the damage is already done, because skin touches the back of their throat and the horrific, repulsed noise that ruptures out of them is more of a shuddering wretch than a scream.

They wrench away, shove themselves up with a strength born of pure desperation, but escape doesn't mean much of anything. All they have time to do is lurch forward, crash through the reeds into the shallows of the pond, sleeves getting soaked and knees smeared with mud as they collapse hands-first into the water, trying to cough for air but it's useless and stupid because coughing turns into gagging turns into horrible, body-wrenching heaves. That horrible bitter taste comes back up a second time in a stinging, awful rush. Stomach acid burns their throat, their tongue. The noise is absolutely vile.

Disgusting. They're so disgusting.

They recoil, pull their arms out of the water, can't look at the filthy mess they've made. Can't back away, because their stomach still twists and shudders violently, like it'll happen again at any moment. Can't look at Frisk, because their eyes water and their breath comes in tight hitches and it must be on their breath and maybe it's in their hair and they're so disgusting. Shame and revulsion boil even hotter than whatever's left in their stomach.]

Why do I keep trusting you?

[A trembling, breathless laugh. Their voice strained, raw in the wake of the... of this. Look at what a mess they are. Befouling a perfectly picturesque little oasis.]

[It's a hideous sound and an even worse sensation, and they know Chara knows the instant something's changed. Their teeth sink into skin and it's less painful than the glass, the glass, the glass that had broken beneath a similarly ill-advised and just as impulsively self-righteous an act. Teeth in the skin don't bury themselves in fragmented, glittering slivers.

The awful sliminess coats their skin an instant before Chara tears away completely, and Frisk lets them, half-collapsing into the mud, because they remember hearing somewhere or reading somewhere or having it said on a TV somewhere that vomiting while on your back will cause asphyxiation, exactly the end result they're trying to prevent. They prop themselves on their elbow, teeth gritted, and now their left hand can exist in painful symmetry to their right - burning and bloodied and coated in what they're reasonably sure is some of the contents of Chara's stomach. That will need to be washed and cleaned so it doesn't get infected. So they don't have to live with that poison in them.

As if it were that simple. They already are poison, poison inside them, and they just spread it to everyone they touch. Chara's hacking up their awful, awful meal. They can smell it, hear it, taste it in the air, rancid with bile and acid and half-digested greenery.

They lie in the dirt, feeling bereft.

Why do they keep trusting Frisk?

Some nebulous answer swells on their tongue, something arcane and vaguely insulting in its abstraction:

Because I'm Orpheus, and I can't let you go.

Ha-ha. They've been listening to Chara too much, haven't they. They breathe, try to inhale the smell of fresh-picked flowers and dirt, and not the results of the pain and frustration they've just inflicted on their alleged best friend. They fail. That's fine.

The words, when they come, are small and defeated and rasping.]

* But I decided... It wasn't worth living anymore.
* Not in a world without love.
* Not in a world without you.

[It's like their body's been given permission to utterly fail them, now, because it tries again. Drowns out their pathetic attempts to make willpower overwrite reflex. They bend over again, retch again, set the reeds rustling with their trembling great heaves. Their nose runs and their eyes run and everything tries to force its way out of them until they're reduced to dry heaves, to being so stuck on emptying themselves out that they're even trying to expel hollowness itself.

It's not fair, using those words.

He said them first. To Chara. In their empty, silent home. He called out for them, and they failed to answer him. Should have been determined enough to overcome death all on their own, should never have reduced him to that. Should never have made him suffer, either with words or with silence.

He almost followed in their footsteps here, too. Because of Chara.

Now he's gone somewhere Chara can't follow.

Now it's Chara's turn to live in a world without him. All over again.

Their breath comes in weird spasms. Coughs, gasps, sobs, whatever they are. They scrub their damp sleeve over their forehead, wipe away the clammy sweat prickling on their skin. Scrub their sleeve over their mouth, and that's gross, they're gross, they're such a vile stain on this place. They look horrible. Why are they even alive?

Chara pulls back from the water's edge. Lets the reeds conceal the evidence of what they've done, at least a little bit. Think of looking for the thermos, trying to rinse this away, but they don't make it that far. Just sink onto the muddy shore, curl up in a pitiful little ball in the dirt, arms wrapped around their stomach.]

I don't want to live without him.

There's no point to me. Why am... why am I the one who's still here? Why not me instead of him?

[You did this. You did this. You brought this upon yourself. Brought this upon them, dragged them away from it. Make yourself a tether. Chain yourself to them. Make sure you never let them go, even if they want you to, even if they ask.

The answer is clotted with foul-tasting saliva in their throat. They spit a few times into the grass and wonder if it means anything. Will they get sick? Lie queasy on a bed for a few days? Their hands close into fists as they push themselves onto all fours, and then onto their knees. The motion hurts uniformly for both, oddly satisfying in its synchronicity. The mud stains their knees and shirt and has gotten tangled in their hair.

They wait for the next wave of sickness to fade, for Chara to speak again. They do their best to look at them, but it doesn't matter. They're huddled on the ground, miserable.]

I don't know.

[It aches to admit it aloud. Why Chara, and not Asriel? Why him, and not them? Why Frisk and Chara? It always comes down to them, hands clasped on the event horizon of their own hatred for their choices and their mistakes.]

You know he'd say the same about you. Didn't understand why he was here. Thought that you were more deserving, that I...

[The words die in their throat. Resolve into a dry sob-like sound. God, they'd all give each other their SOULs in a heartbeat, wouldn't they? Pass along the will to live and succumb to the end they know they deserve.]

None of us wanted to be here. We'd all give it up for each other if we could.

[They don't actually believe that. Maybe, just maybe, Asriel would be charitable enough to find an "I still love you, despite what you are" within himself, but they aren't stupid enough to think anybody would think they deserve anything but... ha. Where kids like them ought to be on days like these.]

He tried to be better.

[Gracious enough to attempt an "I love you," even if he feared them so much he didn't dare put his own name to it.]

You're trying.

[And Chara? It'd be a waste to give them anything. Look how fragile this little act of their is. One tiny snag, and everything unravels. Miles and miles of work to reshape themself into a solid, interlocked web, and the merest tug turns them back into the useless, formless pile of thread they were at the start. They were never what this world asked for, nor can they mold themselves into something newer, better. It's just... this. Relapses into the same tiring antics every time he's here and gone, huh?]

I can't be as good as either of you. I can't even fake being as good as you. What happens if I go after someone again, and you aren't there to save them?

[They don't have a memory of it. It's something that's going to happen. It's a future. Their future. Their inescapable future. Words he gave to Chara, never to Frisk. Frisk would never hurt their friends like that. Frisk wouldn't sink as low as Chara sinks over and over again, like it's going out of style. Frisk gets to be the kind of friend people wish for, the kind of friend who saves people from themselves.

And Chara...]

Please don't kill me.

[That bitter recitation again. Please don't kill me. Frisk's shoulders curl around themselves. They'd done it again, stolen that choice away from beneath Chara's hands, self-righteous and self-interested, wholly self-interested, and simply because they hadn't wanted to be alone. Had this failed...

Had it failed, would they have been content to back away and go home quietly and wait two days in tortuous suspension?

They already know the answer.]

Yeah. Asriel and me, we're the pictures of little angels, huh?

[They can't even inject the words with a degree of exasperation, or resentment. They just feel tired. Tired as Chara probably feels.]

He goes after Alphys. Attacks her. He tries to kill her, then himself. He kills everyone in the Underground, just because he can, so he has to. But he didn't have a SOUL. He was empty.

What's my excuse?

[Their bandaged hand goes to their shirt, over their chest, gripping at the material over their heart.]

It feels better, not to feel anything. It's great. You don't have to worry about how others see you. You don't have to hurt, or care, or anything. You think I don't feel that? You think I don't still want -

[The closure and contortion of throat muscles chokes them into silence.]

[Didn't they see this coming, back when they had been adamantly willing to believe that every bad choice had been because of Chara? That every bit of violence and cruelty could be chalked up to demonic possession, while every bit of kindness and compassion was the real Frisk?

They're Frisk's excuse. Take that away, and...

Chara squirms, curls in tighter, feels their cheek pressing into the uncomfortably damp earth.

He trusted Frisk with the knowledge he was empty. Didn't trust the person who was supposed to be empty, too. Maybe they ought to make another biting remark about leaked secrets, broken promises. Maybe they don't care anymore.]

But that's not what you choose, huh?

[Being good is a choice, people say. A choice you make over and over. And on one side of the scale... there's LV 8. Lunging at a sick monster with a knife in their hand. On the other:]

LV 1.

0 AT, 0 DF. You don't even carry a weapon. I gave you a weapon, and you gave it away so someone would like you more.

[Trying. Constant, exhausting effort. Never hurting a single soul, except maybe for themselves.

...Themselves.]

You should probably... you know. Too. One leaf probably won't hurt you, but you'll...

That was a mistake. I shouldn't have broken that promise.

[They're tired of saying it, and maybe the implicit sorry there is enough to be frustrating and irritating, because it irritates them too. Reliably unreliable, that's them. Lowering ethical standards everywhere.

Their throat still feels slick and bitter from its treatment earlier. They nod, remember Chara isn't looking at them and therefore can't see, and breathe out.]

Okay.

[They shift away a little bit, crawling on their hands and knees because standing is simply too difficult a prospect right now. They could cram both hands down their throat, but with the mud and bloodied bandage and...stuff coated all over the pair of them, that's probably unsanitary. It's definitely unsanitary.

So instead they cast their mind to the abyss in the back of their head that they always pretend isn't there, reach in deep, dredge up all the things they hate most about themselves. Papyrus's head parting from its spine. Toriel's expression, sick and horrified and furious when they crossed the room and ran for her. Asriel, blank-eyed and empty and motionless on the floor. The delicious upward tick of a number. Harvesting the LOVE they knew was meant to be a bad thing, but could it really be so bad if it made them feel stronger?

It comes easily after that. A few dry heaves and their head is spinning, but they sit back on their heels and breathe out and it'll be okay. They hurt, ache all over. They're tired. They're so, so tired.]

I'm tired, Chara. I'm tired of living like this. I'm tired of smiling and being everyone's friend. I'm tired of them pretending I'm not...this.

[They gesture at themselves one-handed, shakily.]

Every time I push them away, they just say that it's fine, it's all okay, because I'm good. I don't feel very good. I don't feel very good at all. I keep breaking promises. I keep saying I trust you, and then I take it back at the worst time.

[Only when it's convenient, right?]

[They don't get up. Just shift in the mud so they can clap their hands over their ears, breathe slowly through their nose, squeeze their eyes shut. Feels like just hearing the sound of someone being sick will set them off all over again. Don't want to remember the feeling of someone else's fingers in their mouth. The goosebumps and clammy sweat seem to start up all over again at the mere concept of fingers inside of them.

Wait until it passes. Wait until it's over. Just lie there shivering in the mud until Frisk is ready to speak again.]

...You're good to them.

[As far as Chara knows. For whatever that's worth. Frisk helps Sans when he's down. Frisk comforts Alphys when she's lonely. Frisk comes to the rescue when Asriel hits a breaking point.

They know Frisk's broken promises they've made to Chara. They know Frisk doesn't trust Chara. But that's...]

It's different when it's me, anyway.

[It's for the greater good. Can't let Chara have the Knife, because who knows what they'd do with power like that? Can't risk Chara cutting Sans down, because who knows how much EXP that will actually give them?]

You don't have to weigh your friendship against managing the threat that Alphys, Sans, Asgore, Mettaton present, because they don't present one. The only one they'd ever hurt is... ha. The human. And it's different when it's the human.

It's always different when it's us, huh?

[They push themselves up on spindly, wobbly arms. Try a steadying breath. Look at the two of them, huh? Filthy, putrid, pathetic little things. Not fit to be seen by civilized company.]

The thermos has... it's ginger tea. Honey. Nothing else. It'll help, if you...

[They cast around, a little aimlessly.]

I might have dropped it.

[It's always different with the both of them, because they're the ones that are like no one else. Anomalies, humans, fallen children with red SOULs. Too much determination for their own good. Even when Frisk wanted, needed, wanted that silence, that peace after death, it was never...well, they could never stop. They were never in that emptiness, that void, for very long. Asgore's voice rumbled in their direction, and then they would be awake again, back at their SAVE point. There was never a choice. They can't remember if it was one or both of them that made that happen, or if it was simply an inherent factor in who they were, anomaly, that made giving up in that sense a physical and metaphysical impossibility. Thing could fling themselves a line of bullets all day if it suited them, relatively speaking, but they'd always come out the other side. Intrinsically, permanently, forever determined. Will that be how it always ends? Will they live on the surface for years and years and find themselves dying of old age and wish for an end to it but see their SOUL splinter into fragments and be greeted by that familiar memory, that familiar tug forward to proceed? There was never an option there. Nothing but RESET and CONTINUE.

And if they CONTINUE, where do they go after death? Can they? Or do they simply start at that point in time all over again, relive their death by kidney failure or cardiac arrest or whatever it is old people die by, because they can't bear to effect a RESET?

You're good to them.

Yeah, they're real nice to all of them. Are they good to Papyrus when they're taunting him for his happiness? Are they good to Mettaton when they're talking about LOVE and EXP, explaining the way by which his world is built and the means through which monster lives are measured? Who are they good to, exactly? Certainly not to Chara. Certainly not to themselves.]

It's okay. It'll pass.

[It'll pass.

Everything passes.]

I guess I...never really realize how much I look up to you. How much I...need you until you're gone. I'm not me. Not really. I'm just half of a whole. Waiting for you.

private text --> action

action, suicide cw from here on hhhha ha

help these kids

they're Fine

absolutely Fine

Finesk and Charalright

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cw emetophria thoughts and gross invasion of personal space????

CW NASTY GROSS PUKES

CW CONTINUES

GOOD LORD DOES IT EVER

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cw emetophobia continues

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