~Jealousy, Jealousy~
The festival! Times of joy all of Hometown looks forward to! Fun activities, delicious food, volunteering on your parents behalf because they think you’re a hermit! What’s there not to love? Oh? You don’t like the festival? Oh? You haven’t gone in years? Oh? Your ex-best-friend Kris is going with all their new (and old) friends and you’re left in the dirt because of a certain looming past that hangs over everyone’s head? Well then, it sounds like your day’s going to be fantastic!
~~~
NO MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CH 5 BESIDES FESTIVAL. and even then id say thats a stretch LOL
we are SO FUCKING BACK. 11.7K WORDS WE ARE STARTING OFF STRONG THIS YEAR. i really didnt want to start off super angsty but anons ask was too good and festival angst sounded so good to me ugh i couldnt help myself SO WE HAVE MIX OF BOTH NO SAD ENDING MAYBE BITTERSWEET IF ANYTHING
i also had way too much fun with the non-kris interactions but i havent written these guys in so long i miss them all man. I MISSED U GUYS LIKE HELL ALSO SO ENJOY THIS MESS OF EMOTION !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ps i missed u too kris if ur reading this plz text me back
~~~ the ask + another ask i got like a year ago (one of my first ever) that semi inspired a certain aspect of the story but i still wanna do smt with it as the focus so im KEEPING IT IN MY INBOX FOR SAFE KEEPING
~~~
Hometown isn’t one for extravagant events. Not compared to the holiday celebrations in every major capital across the globe, anyway.
While the world’s out parading with bright – albeit quite extra – fireworks that paint the sky, sweet treats that add up to an average mortgage for the month, and events that accumulate all friends and family into one claustrophobic, sweat-drenched room…
…Hometown is different. Whether it be good or bad is up to who you ask.
Concentration from a thousand square kilometers to a single, measly square kilometer takes care of the fill-all-the-empty-space issue. Less ground to cover means that the residents can appreciate the measly half-a-dozen games all the while more. Can’t make a few carts look scarce when the end of the street’s in view, right?
And, of course, with the lack of property value (and property at all), less people live here. Population’s barely hit a hundred. At least, last time you checked.
Which means, chipping in makes all the difference. Strength in numbers, after all!
Damn. You’re starting to sound like your father.
The festival’s today. It’s been in the forefront of your mind like a tick that won’t leave you the hell alone; sucking every last bit of life force from your soul. And, better yet, it’s not your fault.
You do anything that puts you outside the house? Something meager, something that should be simple, like taking out the trash?
Your mother catches you halfway down your driveway. “Oh, dear! Would you drop these decorations off at the church?”
You’re trying out some crappy dessert recipe you saw online, that you just so happened to write down before the angel struck the town with the worst fury ever conceivable to the living eye? (internet outage)
Your father appears from what you can only assume to be a puff of smoke – because damn is he sneaky – looming over you like he’s seven feet tall. “Honey, that looks delicious! Should I talk to Carol? Ask if you could open your own booth this year?”
You’re watching TV. That’s it. And boom.
Parents corner you on both sides of the couch. A scrapbook in hand– your scrapbook. Well, it wasn’t entirely yours, but you take credit for it now. Because who else will?
“Awwhh,” your mother coos like she's taming a wild skunk, scared you’ll spray your defence juices (running to your room). “And there’s you trying to hit the target. You could barely lift up the hammer! Look how cute you were!”
Were. As if you aren’t adorable now. Thanks, mom.
You should’ve known. With how much your parents make you run their miniscule, slightly inconvenient errands, your senses should’ve alerted you for something big. It’s not like they found a way to bring up the event in every conversation for an innocent reason. Reminiscing? C’mon!
No one should reminisce in this town. Time’s arrow merely marches forward.
Only when you were woken up at the asscrack of dawn from your mother shaking you awake with a sense of urgency and nervousness you’ve never seen from her, did you really understand what all of it meant.
Oh no. She volunteered your lazy backside to set up the festival, didn’t she?
Your question was answered not shortly after it appeared.
“Get up, get up!” She seemed to have wrapped your arms and body into your blanket like some security burrito, fully immobilizing you from attack. “Today’s the festival! You’re helping out this year, no arguments.”
Shoveling something into your mouth as a poor excuse for breakfast, your mother led a groveling you to your front door. A box of pennant bunting banners sat near your shoes, nesting a plastic bag of deflated balloons.
You were outside before the mere evidence of the sun shone through the horizon. It was almost too dark to see the street. Or, maybe your eyes were closed. You could’ve been sleepwalking, for all you knew.
You would’ve put up more of a fight, but it was difficult. You were so tired. Still are.
And now you stand, box flipped upside down to act as a makeshift stool, hooking the flimsy string from wooden post to wooden post to tree to tree. Just the sight of them makes you a tad queasy.
The festival hasn’t exactly been something you look forward to on a yearly basis. At some point, it might’ve been the highlight of your holidays.
It all leads back to Dess. Not that it’s her fault, but it’s hard not to recall the events and label it as an obvious turning point.
Everyone used the excuse. Whether it be from shock, depression– it was an easy reason to cancel the festival that year. Or, it wasn’t cancelled. You can’t remember. If it did happen, you didn’t go.
The Dreemurrs didn’t go, either. The Holidays? They practically host the damn thing. If they did do it, it was much smaller than years prior.
You remember wanting to go. You remember thinking it wouldn’t be nearly as fun going alone. You might’ve begged someone. Noelle? Asriel? Kris? They all must’ve shut you down, one way or another. Grief works differently for everyone, after all.
You’re not too sure how you feel about it. About the festival, you mean.
Lost in your own head, you accidentally tug the string with too much gusto, causing them to unravel from their perfect place on their respective trees.
“Goddamnit,” you curse, tossing your useless end to the grass. Thankfully, the streets are rather barren of people. Half-empty boxes litter alongside adults too absorbed in making their stands look appetizing to care.
As long as no one asks why you’re out here. You haven’t made an appearance in damn near a decade. Change is obvious, when it happens. They’ll all definitely notice if you bring too much attention to yourself.
Speaking of attention to oneself.
Someone’s voice booms through the quiet streets. In your humble opinion, they’re far too loud for a sun that low in the sky. And it’s not constant chatter, either. They’ll pause for a few seconds, absorbing the dialogue from a far more hushed, likely imaginary voice.
You feel your eyebrows tighten, wanting nothing more than to bury your head in the tuft of leaves.
But you force yourself into indifference. You find yourself tuning out most voices nowadays.
Collecting your previous failed attempt, you leap back onto your cube throne and double-knot the thread around a different branch. The obnoxious source of sound grows near, enhancing your already-unbearable migraine from lack of sleep.
You kick your box to skid underneath the next tree. Your hands paw at the drooping string, almost as slouched as your hunchback, only catching hold when a pair of footsteps come into hearing vicinity.
“Oh, what?” The feminine-yet-masculine voice calls from behind you, panged with familiarity. “Wait…”
Your eyes couldn’t roll back further if you tried. Your head might’ve tipped off your neck, but you’re hoping it wasn’t assholish enough for her to notice.
Of course, the only person who’s loud enough to make your morning more grueling (“only”? You could think of a dozen others) is halted at the base of your box. Maybe if you stand completely still, she’ll think you’re some unflattering statue the festival’s using as decor this year.
Susie… something. Last names aren’t important. She’s your classmate. If you count showing up fifty percent of the time as a valid classmate. She’s friends with–
Y’know, her friends aren’t important to note! Who is she friends with? You don’t know!
She kicks your box to get your attention, but it only startles you into crumbling the leaves between your fingers. You hear a huff, maybe a laugh? And then–
“Aren’t you the kid who got stuck on the school roof? After school, like, a week ago?”
Really? Is that what you’re remembered for? What happened to “leave your mark on the world”?
You quickly tie your second knot between the branches, throat filled with a spite you cannot control. “C’mon. I have more of a legacy than that.”
“Oh yeah?” She bites back. You can vividly imagine her shit-eating grin.
“Yeah,” you sigh, shuffling the box down the grass with your feet once more. You make a clear intent not to face her, even through your peripherals. You probably look like an idiot. “I was napping.”
“Your foot was hanging off the ledge.”
It’s not like you would’ve rolled off! You have pretty good muscle control in your sleep. And, besides– “I purposely did that– the ledge‘s good for wind circulation. Keeps you from getting heat stroke up there.”
Another knot done. It’s muscle memory to you now. Or you’re just rushing to get through it. Either’s okay with you.
“You sure?” She questions, accusation embedded in her speech. “Could hear how loud they were yelling from ICE-E’s. Seems like you were dead as a corpse.”
Corpse, shmorpse. “More like sleeping like one. And I wasn’t stuck. If I can get up, I can get down.”
“Isn’t that what cats think when they climb trees?”
“Yeah, maybe in old-timey cartoons,” the box rolls on its side, stuck on the root of the next tree. She must be following you closely. It’s like you’re not moving from her whatsoever–
Realization dawns on you. You pucker. “I’m not a cat–”
There’s a loud crash, bang on the other side of the street. One quick peek shows one of the stands tumbled over another. And, despite your self-imposed rule, your peripheral fails you. You make out a purple blob following your line of sight, and something else…?
When Susie’s snout whips back to you, you’re instantly on the tree once again. “Damn, how’d you do it? Some secret rooftop door? The vents?” You hear her rustle, as if she’s nudging her elbow into something. “Climbing some vines?”
You find yourself answering with dead seriousness, tying off your end of torture. “Maybe a mix of that? And some loose bricks.”
You’re a bit lost as you ramble, fishing around for the bag of inflatable nightmares on the dirt. You fiddle with one and – despite your slight annoyance – you decide to be a polite person and actually face the monster you’re talking to (mostly because you don’t have the excuse of bunting banners anymore).
“There’s some sweet spots to lodge in long handheld stuff,” once you’ve got a good handle on the mouth of the balloon, you make eye contact for the first time today. “Like knives. Their handles are good for… stepping… on…”
Your heart drops into your stomach. Yeah, you should’ve known.
Expecting it might’ve made the shock just oh so slightly easier to cover up.
With bulging, wide eyes, you make an intense effort to stare into the purple monster’s soul. But it doesn’t matter; your peripheral vision has failed you for the second time.
Kris, whose stealth may rival your parents’, stands statue still adjacent to Susie’s ever moving form. A striped sweater, permanently burnt into your abused retinas. A glare so effortlessly neutral, so effortlessly calm, it strikes fear into those willing to take a peek (in some messed up, contradictory way).
You look so normal right now. You should sign up for the “most normal” competition. That’s not a thing. You should invent it. That’d show how normal you’re being. At this very moment.
“Uh, you okay?” Susie’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t hide her confusion. Like how you don’t hide your normalness.
You think you’re smiling, but it might be frozen in some awkward, forced lip-tilted-up mess. In your tightening grasp, the balloon’s orifice is assaulted by your thumb. (Ew. You’ve gotta put your mouth on that later.)
A rush of ballsy adrenaline shivers up your legs. You decide to spare them a teensy, weensy glance.
And your worst nightmares come true. They don’t react. Deadpan.
You instantly grimace. It’s ugly, too. Like your entire face’s drained of water, wrinkled like a prune. You swear you’re not usually this much of an open book.
They seem unsure if they should be here. In this free space of road. That you’ve claimed as your temporary stomping grounds. But alas, they’re obviously following the leader.
They’re almost waiting for something, too. As if you’ve got a million things to say and they need to hear all of it. The eye contact is driving you insane. Like, who can say so little with such a stare!
And besides, you have nothing to say! You’re horrible with… saying things.
Susie’s oblivious, too. Your brain’s just focused enough to see Susie’s attention shift from you, to the human, and back to you.
Does she not know? Who you are? Besides the whole roof thing– she doesn’t know who you really are? At least, to Kris?
Not that you’re anything. They aren’t anything to you.
Are you not important enough for Kris to say? Mention, even just a tad? Maybe some late night vent session about their respective deep, mysterious pasts? Just your name? Your description? Something?
Not that you care. Just curious. Everyone’s curious.
Are you a sensitive subject?
Not that it matters!
You sure as hell know who she is.
Or it’s just because she’s loud. Hard to miss. Whether that be a positive or not.
They hang around all the time. Attached to the hip, like–
Like nothing. Yeah, show off your healthy blooming friendship. Everyone wants to see it!
You’ve been so cranky with the idea of going outside– festival. With the festival. You touch grass. Promise. But you almost forgot that you, despite the lack of people to see, still need to see said people. It’s a festival. Duh.
Which means: front row seats to their intimate bond!
Which does not eat at you when you think about it for more than a fleeting moment. What’s there to think about? You’re completely fine with it all.
It might’ve been actual years since you’ve made eye contact. You haven’t seen those ruby eyes in passing, by accident, nada. That’s how careful you’ve been.
…does Susie really not know who you are?
Your face might’ve twitched. You’ve got a horrible poker face.
And yet, you’re surprised when you face the angsty teen once again. She’s beyond engrossed, scribbling something onto her exposed arm with a permanent marker. Definitely saw you weren’t answering the question she asked multiple minutes ago.
You manage to get a glimpse. It’s a step-by-step list of instructions for a certain roof heist she seems to be planning. How on topic.
You release a breath deep within the caverns of your chest.
This isn’t worth your time.
“Yeah,” you suck in through your teeth, feigning disappointment. “So I gotta get another box.”
Your stupid box of bunting triangle whatever they’re called are still three quarters full. But you don’t let either of them peep a word of suspicion. You’re stiffly shuffling away. A doll with frozen limbs.
Susie might’ve not noticed. You didn’t check.
Kris’ eyes followed you smoothly. You tried to smile; friendly, easy, a mutual understanding. But you couldn’t get your lip to turn up.
You’re still well within earshot when you start blowing up your balloon, beginning your trek to the Church to kill some time.
Those same pairs of eyes are glued to the back of your skull. A bad itch you can’t reach. You’re only relieved when you turn the corner.
Once your plastic bubble’s inflated to your standard, you tie it shut. Fishing a loose string from your pocket, you knot the ends together.
You release it.
And it slowly drifts to the ground.
Fuck. You need the stupid helium tank for those.
Double fuck. That would’ve been the perfect excuse.
This is gonna be an unbearable day, isn’t it?
~*•*~
The good thing about expecting torture is that you won’t be disappointed when you receive it.
The festival. This is still about the festival. Just to clarify.
You thought, as a shift into a more optimistic lifestyle, that you could be hopeful of what your volunteering duties actually entail. Who knows? Maybe you’d just be doing setup. And you could just go home after. Grueling morning for a totally worth it escape.
Yeah. You were stuck between that and knowing you’d be booked the whole day.
Good thing you leaned towards the latter.
Your dad is apparently a good friend of Sans. Mr. Sans? You haven’t heard of such a relationship between the two, but you don’t know lots of things. Like how people think coffee tastes good.
He asked you to meet the skeleton at the ice cream stand. You’d have willingly volunteered around the police station if you knew it’d get you out of working a stand in the middle of the damn town.
You gave him your standard greeting, and he took it just fine. You didn’t really have the incentive to ask what he needed help with, so you’ve just been hovering around while he slacks off an equal amount.
The regret starts to kick in when more and more monsters double-take. Surprised you’re around, as if you’re some enigma. Hell, you might’ve turned human in their eyes!
You didn’t think that many people cared to keep up to date with your life. Or they don’t, and that’s why it’s so shocking to see you now. They probably thought you were dead.
Maybe if you were actually doing something, they’d feel more inclined to ignore the random person leaning against the convenience store.
You tap the skeleton’s shoulder, careful to apply enough pressure to where he can feel it, but not enough that your fingers awkwardly slide under his clavicle. Is that possible?
He barely tilts his chin to you, displaying his lazy grin. You ask, despite already knowing the answer. “Is there anything you actually want me to do? Or am I just here to do nothing?”
You watch the lights in his eyes zip to your own, raising a nonexistent eyebrow. It freaks you out more than you’d like to admit. “didn’t know you wanted to do something.”
“Well, I don’t not want to do something.”
He turns back to his array of imaginary customers. “sounds like you’re gettin’ a pretty sweet deal, then.”
You swallow. You can’t take the staring anymore. Time to be a responsible citizen! “So I am here to do nothing?”
“nah,” he checks his wrist for a watch he doesn’t have. “i’m going on break. you gotta run the stand for a sec.”
Your jaw unhinges. You’re allowed breaks? “On break?”
He shrugs. “hey. workers union says we need more breaks. helps with morale.”
“We don’t have a workers union. You barely have a real job.”
“pretty sure janitor is an official job title.”
“I mean for the festival–” you stutter, waving your hands around like a psycho.” It’s, like, mostly volunteer work.”
His head tilts, ever so slightly. “volunteering means you’re willing to do stuff for free. you don’t seem very willing.”
“I am beyond willing!” You are not beyond willing, but he doesn’t need to know that! “And don’t you run, like, three stands? Doesn’t that mean I have to do all of them?”
But he brushes you off. “nope. those ones are covered.”
“By who?”
“a ton of other dudes.”
You deadpan. “A skele-ton?”
“uh, what?” He almost laughs, as if you made the most offensive statement of all time. “c’mon kid. that’s the easiest joke in the book,” and his shiteating grin widens. “i wasn’t bone yesterday.”
Goddamnit.
“Okay, whatever,” you try to shoo him away. “Go on your break. I’ll figure it out.”
He’s already halfway down the road before you finish your sentence. “you got it, boss.”
What a weirdo.
You ignore the crank in your back, pulling up a chair that he (for some reason) refused to use. It sits somewhat snug against the ice cream stand, leaving enough space for you to criss-cross.
Besides the few kiddos here and there, there’s not too many running up to the stand. But you’re not complaining. It’s practically perfect.
While the stares are subverted to the ice cream, you find people-watching to get boring quickly. Lack of people to watch. Lack of variety in selection. You’re picky with your self-imposed main characters.
And so, with nothing else to do, you rest your forehead on the edge of the stand. Gravity pulls your eyes to the grass, to your feet.
Your eyes drift closed before you can stop them. Not that you’d try to, anyway.
It was years ago. Back when someone else ran the ice cream stand.
You remember it vividly; you, Kris, and Noelle getting ice cream on a day like this. Walking through the streets wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the general media made it out to be. You were familiar enough with the town that your parents didn’t feel the need to accompany you.
Asriel and December were off doing “teenager things”, as the latter deemed it. He always shoved her shoulder when she’d describe it like that, but he never denied the label.
There’s a new flavour, much to your big, beady eyes’ delight. It’s astounding to you; you’ve never seen more than the set selection of creams.
The lady’s very kind when she describes it to you. You don’t really understand some of her words, whether they be too big or too unfamiliar to you. All you heard was “candy” and you were sold.
The regret never kicked in, even after receiving the cone. An unnatural, pure red colour. Might have that stuff your mother puts in some of her pastries? Food colouring? It has little chunks of candy. Maybe cherry. They don’t look quite as solid as you thought they’d be.
Noelle gets something similar in concept; a rosy strawberry with little frozen chunks of said fruit. Kris gets butterscotch cinnamon pumpkin. You thought it sounded like a handful, but it even smells homey.
With the lack of a line, you three barely shift to the adjacent sidewalk, enjoying your ice cream in peaceful bliss.
After a few kitten licks, a child Noelle glances at your cone. “How is it?”
“Sweet,” you comment; not necessarily in a negative connotation. “But good.”
You both go back and forth for a minute, describing your flavours (as if Noelle hadn’t done the same for hers last year. Or the year before that). After that, much of the in-between is blurry; Noelle gets a mild brain freeze, panics, and stuff starts leaking everywhere. You’re alone with Kris before you realize it.
“What’s yours taste like?” Like you don’t know the answer.
They don’t respond traditionally. Instead, they tighten their double-handed hold on their cone, lifting it to your face.
You don’t deny the offer. Obviously. You collect a dab on your tongue before repeating the same question.
“You just tried some,” they state blatantly.
You’re not put off by their confusion. “Yeah, but I wanna know what it tastes like to you.”
Their shoulders bounce for a moment. You realize, hidden by their palm, they’re smiling.
It makes you smile, too. Child smiles are always contagious.
“It tastes like…” they seem to think for a moment. “Pie.”
You recognize the similarities, specifically in the beige colour. “Pie? Like, mom’s pie?”
You never realized that you used to call two people by the same name. Mom.
“Yeah.”
No further explanation needed.
You’ve stopped licking your ice cream. Instead, you watch their eyes scan your sweet treat. “What’re the bits?”
You scoff, as seriously as you can manage. “What? You weren’t listening to the lady?”
“Not really,” they admit.
“Well, it’s… uh…” you trail on, mind blank with any ideas. “I dunno.”
Your tongue shapes into a scoop, attempting a large lick to collect one of the chunks. It swishes around in your mouth. You’re careful not to bite into it before ensuring all the ice cream’s melted and swallowed.
Your jaw unhinges, as wide as you can go; the small candy resting in the center of the muscle. “‘ere ‘ou go.”
They don’t waste a single moment, getting as close to your face as possible. Their eyes are glued to the treat in question, brain whirring for something to compare it to. You feel their nose brush your bottom lip.
“It’s like a gummy,” they decide to settle on.
“Weally?” You slur. Your tongue pushes the aforementioned gummy between your teeth, intending to cut it in half. For them to try. That was obviously the best solution your child brain could come up with.
Underestimating your strength (and their unmoving proximity), you chomp hard on the chunk. While you expected to bite right through it, the gummy proves itself to, in fact, not be just a gummy, as random spurts of juice explode onto your lips.
…and Kris’ entire face.
They barely flinch, only squinting to avoid getting the sugary liquid in their eyes.
“Oops,” you say earnestly. You swallow the outer gummy shell and instantly reposition your face to inspect the liquid misting their own. Not that you had to move far.
The larger splats have begun dripping down their soft skin. Who knew the small thing could have so much juice in it?
You involuntarily lick your lips. The taste is nice, you think absentmindedly.
“Hold still,” you demand with complete seriousness.
They seem a bit lost when you cup the back of their head. You’re careful to not dislodge their horns (which, now acknowledging, you actually thought they had said appendages when you were younger).
And yeah, you were just a kid. And yeah, it was probably some form of a health violation.
But you, without a drop of hesitation, stick out your tongue to lick up the red droplets from their face. Your gross, sticky tongue. Lapping up their salty skin.
You can literally feel their face morph into a smile. The way their cheekbones lift; the way their eyes begin to crinkle. It’s a weird feeling under your tongue of all things, sure, but it’s become oddly ingrained into your memory. One of those things you can’t forget.
“Stop,” they giggle. And it’s such a lovely sound. You didn’t appreciate it enough back then.
They shove your cheek with their little human hand, rendering your attack immobile. You’re rather defenseless as they seize your own cone, bite into the ice cream (yes, bite), and use their newly attained triple gummies to squirt sweet nectar all across your face. And neck. And shirt.
“Ewww,” you drawl despite your matching grin. You’re somehow drenched. Definitely sticky. Definitely gross.
And, without another word, they’ve begun lapping you up now.
From a bystander, you two’re just mutually, nastily licking. Like you’re trying to eat each other. And yeah, they’re definitely right.
The cones in your hands aren’t forgotten, either. Half of yours is smudged on their jawline while half of theirs is painted across your cheek.
Thank the Angel Noelle’s paying.
Speaking of–
“Eeeaahh!” The deer wallows, pointing an incriminating finger between the two of you. “What happened!? You’re both bleeding!”
And the look Kris gives you. Man, you couldn’t have held back your howl if you tried.
“W-what’s so funny?”
A groggy sound escapes your throat as your eyelids struggle to open.
It’s trippy as balls hearing Noelle’s child voice morph into her deeper, current one. She’s with Susie, and Kris, in an intensely deep conversation about octopus balls. Or something just as riveting as that.
You’re not a spiteful person, but it’s perhaps a smidge, just a tad, eensy weensy bit aggravating to see the trio together. C’mon, Kris and Noelle? When the fuck did they rekindle? Maybe mutuals with Susie? Like hell Susie’s social enough to fix that trainwreck of a falling out–
And oh, just your luck! They’re in the mood for ice cream today, aren’t they? They couldn’t have come an hour earlier, when you weren’t running the stand? How’ve you pissed the Angel off this time?
Noelle, previously far too infatuated with Susie to notice, now realizes who she’s headed right towards.
The alarm is instant. She halts like a deer in headlights (ha.); her eyes engulfed with a million different emotions, all leading back to let’s not go this way, please.
However, Susie ignores the deer’s obvious panic and laces her claws through Noelle’s equivalent to tug her along. All without breaking the doe’s line of sight from you.
Kris, at the very least, pretends to act natural. Walk side by side with Susie. They’re so lucky their bangs cover your view because damn if you could confidently stare them down? You would.
Things’ve changed since you last saw them. You’re not backing down. You’ve grown balls.
Noelle’s noticeably dragging, struggling to keep up her polite smile. You’ve had conversations with her, somewhat recently. More than Kris, but that bar’s in hell. With her, you’re civil at best, snarky at worst. Medium highs and higher lows.
Thank the stars you’re too exhausted to say anything crazy, right? Unless that’s the perfect formula for an unfiltered mess of a dialogue.
“Hey, rooftop,” Susie unwinds her digits from Noelle’s, leaning a large forearm on your stand. What a nickname.
You copy her nonchalance, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. “Yo. You want ice cream?”
Stupid question, but you almost feel inclined to make sure they’re not here to torment you.
“Yeah… what’s the one with all the chunks in it?” She points to one of the colourful rectangles. You almost cringe from the C-word. “Are those marshmallows? Uh, nuts?”
Your heavy restraint stops you from making a deez nuts joke. “Rocky road?”
“Yeah. I’ll have one of those,” she glances over her shoulder. To Noelle. Who’s been staring at you when she thinks you’re distracted. “What’d you want, again?”
When all attention’s on the deer, she freezes up. You can’t tell if you should be disrespected or flattered that she thinks about you this much.
It’s when she says your name. All robotic and forced. That’s what startles you. “I will have mint chocolate chip, please!”
You blink, pausing mid-scoop. Nice self control. “Don’t you hate that flavour?”
Her facade crumbles instantly. “Oh– god you’re right, wait, uh…”
It’s odd. When she turns into a babbling mess, you feel just a bit looser. Like things aren’t a bit weird.
You exhale through your nose – the closest you’ve gotten to laughing all day. “It’s not like the flavours change every year.”
It’s an educated guess. It’s not like you’d have known.
“Right, right, uhm…” She gains a bit of confidence; she’s waddled up to be at arm's length of the stand. She stands on her tippy… hooves… and tries to peek into the little compartments.
Her brain’s scrambled. You don’t really blame her. You decide to be a good samaritan. “How ‘bout strawberry?”
And that seems to hit an imaginary bell in her brain. Would you look at that? “Yes! That– I’ll have that.”
Hoping to speed up this slightly awkward experience, you turn to Kris. They appear no different than they did five minutes ago. This morning.
“B. scotch?”
They shake their head. “Cherry bomb.”
“Really?” You blurt. And you instantly want to punch yourself in the face for it.
“Mhm.”
You’re so sure you remember agreeing the flavour was way too sweet. The ratio of gummies to ice cream was far in favour of the former. You don’t think you minded, though.
You don’t even know if they liked it! It’s not like they asked for more. Not that you had much more to give. You’re certain it ended up on the pavement.
Whatever, idiot! None of your business.
You don’t dare to peep another word, choosing to occupy yourself with scooping the sweet treat with precision only given to people like Dess. Damn could she bat.
Once you finish with the first two, Susie gives you a look as you hand her Noelle’s cone. Probably wondering why your hands are shaking so bad. To your surprise, Noelle chirps out a thank you and then they’re walking away why’re they walking away–
You’ve never shoveled ice cream so fast in your life. But why? Kris won’t make conversation! What’re you so worried about?
It’s just you and them and you and them and your balls apparently ran off to do shots with Sans and where the hell is he?–
“There ya go,” you say like some shitty customer service worker, practically shoving the treat in their mouth for them. You pretend you feel nothing as their fingers brush yours.
But they’re not leaving.
They’re lingering!
They do not linger. Well, not in the traditional sense.
They don’t even lick their ice cream.
They just… pick out a lone gummy from the top.
And hold it out in their hand to you.
You swallow, preparing as if you have the guts to say anything. Maybe you seem offended, eyebrows furrowed as you glance from their hand to their eyes. You don’t like that you can see their eyes. You’re too close.
You try not to sound irritated. “What, don’t like the bits?”
They cock their head. “You like them, don’t you?”
Your face instantly softens. Fucking damnit.
Because yeah. You do. And you don’t like how they remember that.
You’re slow to take the piece; careful when your fingers move too close to their warm-blooded surface. Maybe you feel something when you accidentally touch. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter what.
You’re not surprised when they instantly leave. It’s not like they’re the type to look back.
Unlike yourself, who's staring at their head like a madman.
Once the trees block your vision, you give up. The counter’s cool against your flaming forehead.
You stare at the gummy, pinched softly between your nails.
You don’t have the heart to eat it.
~*•*~
After Sans comes back, he relieves you of your duties. You’re still not sure why you had to be there an hour before his break, but whatever. More time killed.
You’re sorta lingering around, not entirely sure what to do. It’s not like they gave you a manual on how to help out. So you’re just pretending to look busy so people leave you alone. Like fiddling with decorations. And… actually yeah that’s pretty much it.
The best part about this festival in particular is how much it emphasizes the importance of tight friendships and bonding opportunities. Two things, of which, you currently do not have. Lots of group games. Group activities. Group eating booths.
That last one might not be true. But you swear, shitty food tastes better when you’ve got a group to laugh at it with.
And maybe it’s your low standards, or maybe you’re just feeling particularly lonely right now (after pocketing the gummy instead of eating it). But you decide, after accidentally making eye contact with a certain bluebird in the middle of the street, that… that…
You take a breath. Your ego shrinks. Because c’mon. You’re choosing to talk to Berdly. What’re you doing?
His head zips around every few seconds, as if he’s trying to look for someone. Conspicuously. Failing tremendously, might you add.
When he sees you’re not making a beeline for him just to turn at the last second, he looks like he wants to tell you off. You definitely don’t have the best relationship. And yet, it seems as though he refrains.
“Ah,” he pronounces your name wrong. Damn. “Lost as always, hm?”
You scoff. Your heart’s not really in it. “Says you. You’re the one scanning the place like you’ve committed a crime. Watching out for the police?”
His beak flies open. “Of course not! I’m patiently awaiting my three bachelor/ettes!”
It doesn’t take you more than a moment to realize. “You mean Kris, Susie, and Noelle?”
You’d say he was impressed by the way his eyebrows fly off his head. “What an astute observation coming from… a below-to-mid average student such as yourself!”
“It’s not that difficult to assume.”
He’s practically talking to himself. “Ah, you share many characteristics with Kris! They’d be top of the class with me and Noel– with Noelle and I if they tried.”
You thought this dude was an asshat before. The hell changed?
“It doesn’t assist in your academic journey that you sleep through every lesson,” he continues. “Quite similar to–”
Don’t need to hear the end of that! “Sleep is private time. Stop watching me sleep.”
He gawks. “B… but you sleep in class! You sit right next to me? It’d take an absolute plebian not to notice!”
“How ‘bout you make like a plebian and stop noticing?”
Totally not worth the headache. You’re about to trash-and-ditch, as you’d like to call it, when–
He wraps his feather-coated chicken fingers around your hand. “Wait!”
He almost appears… earnest for a sec. “Wait,” he repeats.
You’re instantly terrified that Kris and Noelle said something to him. About you.
You saw them coming out from the computer lab a few days ago. Seems like they were awfully buddy-buddy. Like… with Berdly. Buddy-buddy. That’s insane.
But then…
“I need you to vote me for king.”
“What?” You rip your hand from his. “No. That whole voting thing’s for, like, kids.”
He’s automatically defensive. “No! It’s a testimony to demonstrate your superior bonds of friendship with your average peers!”
“Am I an average peer?”
“Um,” he pauses. “No. You’re above average. Now vote for me.”
“No.”
His lackluster coolguy persona drops. “You owe me! I allowed you ownership of my notes on Wednesday!”
“Ehm, no, I stole them. And–” Your tongue gets caught between your teeth, a bit unsure if you should be admitting this next part. “–they weren’t even yours. I know they were Noelle’s.”
“Erm, actually, they were replicas of the notes acquired by Mrs. Alphys that Noelle was fulfilling for Kris while they–”
“Really!?” You snap, shaking the bird by the shoulders. “How fucking close are they!? They sure didn’t care to reintroduce me into their rebudding friendship!”
He seems utterly confused at your outburst. It’s not like he was paying attention, either. Something else caught his eye are you fucking kidding me–
“Ah, there they are!” He watches from behind you.
No, nope, you’re done with this. No more bunting banners, no more ice cream, no more Berdly. No more Susie. No more Noelle. No more Kris.
You lightly shake him until his eyes are set on yours, panic strung through your fingers. “Okay, Berdly. I’ll vote for you as king and queen. Have a good day!”
And you really try to leave. You really do. But he tugs you back like a man– boy set on a mission.
“Uhm, actually!” He somehow seems more stressed than you. “I only need the king vote. I am a king. Not a queen.”
You very unsubtly whip your head to the trio. They’re gaining on you. “Yeah, okay! I’ll do whatever you want! Just let me go!”
That seems to strike a realization in him. “Erm, I also need those notes back.’
“You said they weren’t yours!”
“I mean the ones from Monday, not Wednesday. Also maybe Tuesday’s and last Friday’s– not this Friday but last Friday–”
“Yes, Berdly, I’ll give you every note I’ve ever had! In fact, you can take all of mine, too!”
“No, I don’t want your inferior– I mean, I don’t need your notes, I want mine–”
“Fine! Yes! All your notes! Given!”
He taps his beak. “Actually, you can keep some in exchange for an exquisite walk around the festival.”
The bird waggles his eyebrows. You’re about to go off on him, when you hear a pair snickering behind you.
It’s Susie and Noelle. They’re laughing at your pain.
Kris isn’t emoting nearly as much as them (or at all), but you swear you see a twitch at the edge of their lip every few seconds.
However, Berdly’s got other priorities; he steals the spotlight rather quickly. “Ah, if it isn’t my three potential partners.”
Whatever. As long as the attention’s off of you.
You’re not really listening to his speech. It’s long, drawn, dramatic. You’d prefer to just… rest your eyes. They’re all too occupied to notice, anyways.
There was a festival morning. Not nearly as grueling as this one.
You’re at the Dreemurr’s, planted right at their front steps, not quite listening to Toriel’s own speech about having fun and staying safe alongside Kris and Noelle. You’re too busy watching Dess and Azzy.
They’re together at the end of the driveway, huddled like they can’t help but share the same bubble. You’re not quite sure what proximity like that means, but you know it means something different. Something else.
She’s showing him something on her phone, right before intertwining her fingers with his.
It feels natural; the way your body’s inclined to act on impulse. You’re grazing Kris’ hand before slithering your digits between theirs. Nothing about their expression changes. But you feel their fingers rest between your knuckles. It’s just so right.
“Can I go with Kris this year?” You peep, directing your question to Toriel. You feel their hand tighten.
She almost instantly swoons, ruffling your head like you’ve just asked the cutest question imaginable. “Of course! You three go together every year!”
You’re not sure what the feeling is, but you feel inclined to look away. “But like… I mean like… how Dess and Azzy go every year… together…”
Any emotion from her face vanishes in an instant.
Instead, she’s calling out to the aforementioned two, who’re too busy giggling to prepare for her anger. “The HELL are you teaching these two?”
Asriel’s entire body morphs into fight or flight (definitely flight), scrambling for an explanation, even a question.
Thankfully, December comes in for the save. “Nothing inappropriate, ma’am!”
But she sounds far too cocky for it to reign anything but false.
Despite that, Toriel decides to take it. She flips some internal switch; smile wider than she can manage. “Okay! Have fun! Do not make bad decisions!”
The latter’s not directed to you. But that’s not what you’re focused on.
You’re still holding hands.
Back then, you wouldn’t know what a shiteating grin looked like. Dess’ own actually might’ve been the first you’ve ever seen.
She calls for her little sister with intentions horribly impure, leaving you and the little human alone on their porch.
When the three are out of view, you’re shifting closer to their heat, whispering in their ear. “Okay. How about, this year, you climb on top of the ferris wheel thingy–” the gondola, “–and I’ll sit in it and I see how long I can shake the thing until you fall off.”
They already seem on board. “We’re gonna get banned again,” they smile. It’s rather contradicting with the assumed concern of their words.
“Then we gotta do it fast.”
And you watch each other for a moment. Formulating more ideas through your telepathic minds. Your grin grows a bit too big for your small face.
It’s sad. You have the face for a big smile now.
You don’t hide how intently you’re staring at Kris. You don’t know when they started mirroring you, but they’re gazing right back. It’s hard to care. How many times has this happened today?
Berdly’s practically white noise. You only stop to glance when he shifts from Susie to Kris– from Susie to Kris.
Oh hell no. That better not mean what you think it means.
“Kris…” he coos. “Kris cross applesauce–”
Before Susie can interject, you’re yanking him by the back of his shirt. “No.”
Because screw that. Like hell you’re gonna let them get close with Berdly of all fucking people.
Like hell you’re gonna let them get close with anyone before whatever the fuck happened fixes itself.
And of course all eyes dart to you! Of course you look like a psycho for– you’re actually saving them from future years of torment! Why’s everyone staring at you like you’re crazy!?
Kris doesn’t look at you like you’re stupid. Their eyes widen ever so slightly.
Your teeth clench, as if saying ‘don’t you dare’.
Don’t you dare what? Who knows!
Too late to back down now!
…actually, what do you do now?
Susie’s the first to move, snaking an… octo-ball from her pocket. There’s little hairs and furs and lint sticking out of it.
She displays it to you like it’s a million dollars. “Want it?”
You’re too lost to say anything other than: “Okay.”
They all watch as she tosses it to you. You chomp on it slowly. The lint instantly gets stuck in your teeth. Or is that the hair?
Noelle’s almost more confused than you. “Didn’t you eat yours, Susie?”
“I did,” she admits, like it’s a felony. “Then Kris stole another one. And I stole it from them.”
“Kris? You wanted another one?”
Before they can interject, Susie’s shrugging her shoulders.
“Of course they didn’t,” she waits for the second half to enter your mouth before continuing. “It was gonna end up with rooftop anyways.”
And you’re practically choking to death.
You’re not sure what’s more multicoloured: their rosy cheeks or your face from lack of oxygen.
~*•*~
Some kid stole the balloons from one of the trees. Of course it was one of your trees. That means you’re legally responsible. And it’s hardly an hour past noon. Who’s out here stealing before the festival hits its peak? Does it even have a peak?
You’d like to think the hooligans would only come out at dusk. Hooligans? Did you really just say hooligans?
Sure, you might have the same sleep schedule as someone in their eighties – sleep for sixteen hours and take little naps between – but you didn’t think you’d start talking like them until your, like, thirtieth birthday. There’s not much hope to go around.
Due to your amazing star-child track record, you felt awfully obligated to go get replacements. At the Church. It’s rather out of place of the festival’s whole vibe.
While the sun crisps up the top of your head, your eyes don’t immediately dilate at the dark foyer. There’s a few tables to your left; the vague shape of bowls displayed on their surfaces. You think there’s someone further in front of you, maybe someone to your right?
It doesn’t really matter. Get in, get out.
Not only are you partially blinded, you’re also mid-eye-rub, stepping blindly towards the storage room. There’s a sound, maybe a thump above you, and–
“Gyyah!” You shriek.
Someone’s dropped in front of you dangling on a string and you’re trying to get your brain up to speed but you’re too exhausted to think straight–
Your feet do all the decision-making, stumbling over one another, right into the unexpected guest behind you.
Fate tests you, and it tests you hard.
The moment you smell that apple shampoo, the moment you feel their hands hover near your shoulders in an obvious attempt to help you right yourself, you instantly cower away, shuffling to one of the tables with the… blood juice.
Alphys – the one hanging from the string, dressed as a vampire? – stutters your name in a confused panic. “I d-didn’t think I’d see you here, hehe…”
Well, her priorities are certainly in check.
“Yeah, I just…” you start, but don’t find yourself continuing.
It’s the trio (woah, really?), all previously distracted with Catti’s fortune-teller table. You’re assuming. Judging by the way Susie’s finger’s only a few moments from tapping the cat’s crystal ball.
Kris is oddly far from the pair, though. Closer to you, the middle of the foyer; their hands still slightly raised from your quick departure.
“That–” your voice cracks. “That wasn’t… uh, I wasn’t trying to– I didn’t see you. There. My, uh, my bad.”
Why’re you trying to explain your very natural reaction to getting spooked?
It’s not like you scare easily. You’re really not on your A-game.
“Haha, don’t worry. It got me, too,” Noelle chirps from her safe distance, offering a rather understanding smile. “Memorized every scare here. Guess we both didn’t expect anything new this year, huh?”
‘Expect anything new this year’. Fucking hell.
She hasn’t even noticed you haven’t attended this stupid festival in the last, like decade? Really?
Some friend she is.
Your fists… unclench.
Guess you can’t really call her that.
“Sorry,” you say to no one in particular, staring at your feet like you’re some timid moron.
You retreat past the floating Alphys, squeezing into the storage room and shutting the door with more aggression than you’d rather they hear.
The trio doesn’t seem as thoughtful, though. You can hear their murmurs through the door. It’s a chore to try to tune them out.
The place is filled to the brim with boxes. It’s rather apparent that they didn’t have the time to keep it all organized before the big day.
You scan through the first few, only rummaging into decor-themed boxes. First, second, third, and on your fourth, you find it. A half-empty plastic ziplock of balloons.
You didn’t kill nearly as much time as you wanted to. What if they’re still outside?
They’re not. You heard them spout their goodbyes.
Maybe you just want to kill time for yourself. It’s not like anyone’s looking for the balls of air, anyways.
You contemplate sitting on the floor, but decide against it. Bits of glitter and confetti’re already stuck to the bottom of your shoes.
As if beckoning you, you glance to the piano bench. You feel it staring back.
Begrudgingly (and thoughtlessly), you take a seat. Memories that’ll spark, feelings that’ll emerge. You don’t feel like dealing with that. You don’t ever do.
And yet, you find yourself resting your arms on the keys, pressing just lightly enough to hear the jumble of notes play. You’re the only one who gets to listen.
Your head rests on your nest of arms. And you close your eyes.
You had much more space to shuffle on the bench, having been half the size. But it didn’t matter; you still sat shoulder to shoulder. You were both small, despite this being one of your later memories.
You can’t really remember why you’re here. You think they’re practicing for their festival performance. You don’t think you asked. You just wanted to hear them play, to be honest.
Their fingers, nothing compared to the bulk of the keys, press with a practiced confidence. Something you rarely see from them.
Not that they don’t display ego at times, but you’re pretty sure they don’t intentionally do it.
You wait until after they finish to praise them. “Cool song,” you press the keys, completing a clunky c-scale. “What other ones do you know?”
Either you’re horrible at hiding your true intent, or they’re really good at reading you. “Know how to do ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’?”
Just the question alone gets you excited. “Nope.”
Their left hand disappears behind their body. When they gesture to their right hand, you hold your own up with purpose.
Their fingers envelop your wrist, guiding you to a placement two octaves from their own. Your thumb rests on the C.
“You ready?” They return to their own position.
“Mhm.”
Their thumb presses the note twice. C note. Their eyes drift to your own, waiting for you to copy. You do.
The rest continues en suite. Your notes follow like an echo to their own.
Once you run through it together, they silently urge you to play it again, without them. You try.
A few notes off – an A instead of a G, an E instead of an F – but it sounds recognizable to the source material.
Stubborn as ever, you play through it again. You pause a few times, but you don’t press any wrong notes. Feels good.
“Okay,” you pretend you’re not beaming with pride. “What’s next?”
“Next step up?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m ready.”
Somewhere near their feet, they bust out some insane looking sheet music. Notes you’ve never seen before, shapes you’ve never seen before. Just based on their struggle to keep a straight face, you scoff. But you don’t back down.
“Ehm, how ‘bout you play through once? And I’ll do the thing where I’ll learn by listening,” you offer, as if you have the right to negotiate.
They feed into your bullshit. You wouldn’t have called it that back then; you’d have called it a ‘joke’. “Playing by ear?”
“Yeah. I got it,” you ready yourself with your misplaced confidence.
You can tell they’re not taking you seriously.
They abruptly start playing, both hands heavily involved. You pretend to mimic their hand placement at your comfortable two octaves higher. It’s definitely not working. You have no idea what you’re doing.
Your smile only grows when you notice their speed increase. Oh, yeah. You’re absolutely lost.
But then, their composed music starts to deform, and you realize they’ve just started (lightly) smashing the keys at random.
You copy their spam of notes, piano deafening to the listening ear.
And yet, you hear them laugh. It’s louder than anything in the room.
To you, at least.
Maybe only to you.
It’s so unbelievably contagious.
Or it’s only contagious to you.
You slow your clutter when you hear them play the lowest note on the piano.
You copy an equivalent, playing the highest.
But they keep playing it.
You’re confused. This isn’t how the memory goes.
The sound bleeds through your ears until you realize it’s not just in your mind.
You barely shift your head. You leave just a small enough peephole above your arms to see who’s trying to ruin your peaceful, much needed rest.
You don’t have it in you to act surprised anymore.
Kris stands at the edge of the piano, watching you wake up.
Much of your face is shielded, but you’re sure they can make out your furrowed eyebrow.
Their finger falls from the note, back to their side. “That’s not good for your back.”
You’re still woozy. “What?”
They give just the slightest of nods. “Slouching over like that.”
You’re instantly peeved. Oh, come on. They’re hunched over, knocked out in class, like, every day. “Says you, zombie.”
And you instantly want to take it back. Because you’re not close enough to make a joke like that anymore.
You pretend to take their advice, lifting into a half-assed sitting position. “Sorry.”
They don’t seem offended. They don’t seem anything.
You watch their eyes drift to your hands that naturally rest on the piano. Said hands instantly go to your lap.
But they’re not leaving.
“Where’s Susie and Noelle?” You ask. Out of courtesy, for the most part. You don’t really want to know.
Their gaze refuses to leave your fists. “Holding hands in the eyeball bowl.”
They either came back as a group, or Kris is straight up lying to you. Either way, you can’t help but laugh. “Didn’t they ban that specifically?”
They hum. You heard it from adults this morning. Weird subject to eaves drop on, but it’s all you could find that was semi-interesting.
“That’s not as surprising as it should be,” you continue. “Az and Dess did some nasty finger shit in there–”
And your mouth zips shut tight.
Is stating their names a violation of the unnamed policy? Lighting the already-crossed line on fire?
But they don’t falter. In fact, their lip tilts up, just enough. You know you’d be the only one to notice. Like the weirdo you are. “You sound like Catti.”
“The hell did Catti do now?”
“She hates Susie,” they shrug. “Something about corrupting Noelle.”
It’s not a great feeling. To not understand the dynamics that Kris talks so casually about. But you pretend to get it.
“Oh, Noelle,” you coo. “Such a pure soul. Far too pure for Catti, though. Or Susie,” from what you can gauge from watching her. “Or you.”
To your unhideable shock, they perch on the edge of the bench. Yeah, as far as they can be from you, but they sit nonetheless. “Or you.”
You’re surprised to even be a part of the equation.
They glance past you, to the floor. To the box next to your feet. Right.
“Dad ask for help?” They ask. They’re starting a lot of conversations. More than you’re used to.
You also can’t tell if they’re asking about the crate specifically, or about the entire day itself. “Didn’t want to, but yeah. Could be doing more important things right now.”
“Like sleeping?”
You sigh dreamily. “Yeah. Like sleeping.”
They seem to hesitate for a moment. It’s nice to know they’re just as unsure as you are. About any of it. About all of it.
They settle on: “Don’t let me stop you.”
You waver. But it’s Kris. You don’t know how to say no to Kris. You never did, you never do, and you never will.
You rest your head again, mimicking your attentiveness from when you first got to this hoarder’s paradise. And you close your eyes.
Sleep approaches quickly. Right before you let it take you, cocooning you in its wanted grace, you hear that same song.
The one for the festival. The one meant for an audience.
But this time, it’s just for you.
~*•*~
You awake with the most grueling back pain. It travels from your tailbone right up to your neck. Guess you should’ve listened, after all.
There’s a tissue resting on the music rack. It blankets a red gummy.
You dig for the one in your pocket, only to bring it up to your eyes. It’s sticky, covered with little fabric hairs. You’re sure there’s an unpleasant residue waiting for you where you kept it.
You pop them both in your mouth. The juices coat your tongue like a warm hug.
The festival’s practically over. You spent the last few hours in your own head.
With empty streets and emptier thoughts, all you can think of is the ferris wheel.
Your trek there is short, efficient. You ignore one of the pole’s bald spots. Could’ve definitely used a balloon or two.
As you stand at the base of the contraption, all you can think is: Damn. It’s a lot bigger than you remember.
You break off a lone branch from one of the surrounding trees, keeping it with you throughout your mission. Behind the booth sits a few buttons and levers. It doesn’t take you long to press the right ones, ultimately pulling the latter to get it moving.
Its spin is slow and aged. You wait for the next gondola to appear at your feet, hopping into its unlocked side door.
When your ride hits the halfway mark, you hang out the open hatch, aiming your stick at the booth’s protected lever. Once you cross the three-quarter mark, you toss it violently.
It whacks the lever with enough pressure to just lodge it over from on to off. You’ve got a stronger throw than you thought, ‘cause wow you didn’t think that’d work.
After you’re certain you’ve hit your peak, you crawl back into your gondola, leaving the door open a crack because you know you’ll find some dumb way to get locked inside.
You’re above the trees, in view of the horizon. The sun swims in oceans of red, orange, and pink hues. It’s beautiful.
You sit yourself on the uncomfortable metal benches, resting your head against the hard frame of the heart.
Your eyes drift shut. This would be such a good time for another nap.
Maybe you’d dream about the times Kris would rock the seats. Or when they’d manage to jam the machine so you’d get stuck at the top for half an hour. You can hide from everyone up here.
Maybe you want to think about those moments, whether involuntary or not.
But as you phase in and out of consciousness, you can feel your sleep to be dreamless.
And it just… ruins it all.
You’ve seen Kris more in the past twenty four hours than you have in the past couple years. And now, when you’re too tired? That’s when you can’t spark up a single memory that your brain wants to dream about?
And not only that, but you feel like you’re being watched. You can knock yourself out in minutes, sure, but not when you’re paranoid.
You turn your back to the sunset. Towards the trees.
There’s a tuft of brown hair hanging over the heart’s arch, framing those damn beautiful red eyes–
You better shut your corny ass up.
And yeah, you scream. Much louder than you did in the church. It’s like your thoughts summoned them to your location.
From what you can see, they don’t react. But there’s just the slightest raise (lower?) in their cheekbones. Your pulse quickens, for some reason.
They disappear, retreating back to the top. You don’t feel the metal groan from the relieved pressure of their departure. But then again, you didn’t hear them get on, either. So who knows?
There’s two distinct taps on the roof. A fingernail to the frame.
You exhale, long and measured. Your day’s already been fucked as is. Might as well make it worse.
And you sorta hate yourself for thinking that. You would’ve said the exact opposite years ago.
The idea of interacting with them feels like so much work. But… not them, specifically.
You think you like it when they go out of their way to see you.
Maybe.
But it’s been so long.
Has nothing changed? Has any of it changed?
You’re both so different.
How different could you really be?
You climb out the side door effortlessly, as you’ve done a million times before. Instead of hearing your conjoined parents holler for you two to come down, there’s nothing but trees waiting at your feet.
They watch you settle on the opposite arch. You refuse to look in their general direction.
“That’s not how you play.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What?”
They criss-cross their legs, leaning back on their palms. “Didn’t feel you rock it once.”
You don’t like how easy it is for them to bum you out. At least this time, it feels like you’re more mad at yourself than you are at them.
You pull your legs to your chest. “Where’s Susie and Noelle?”
Better question. Why do you keep asking?
“Off doing stuff.”
And c’mon. You can’t help but flush at the implication. “Not like that, right?”
Out of the corner of your vision, you can see their fingers bunch into a tight fist. “Not like that.”
You feel shitty for even asking. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
You don’t even know why they’re here. You don’t know why you’re okay with them being here. It’s probably their voice. Maybe their presence.
Doing nothing. Doing something.
It doesn’t really matter to you. You feel indulgent.
Before tomorrow comes and you’re both back to normal.
“How was your day?” You ask, hoping they don’t think you’re being disingenuous.
They pause. You might’ve thrown them off.
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Noelle and Susie seemed to have fun.” If you were anywhere close to making eye contact, they’d have broken it instantly. “They did most of the games.”
You find yourself staring at the side of their head. Greedily. “But did you have fun?”
“Sure.”
“‘Sure’?” They can totally feel your gaze.
They drum their fingers on the frame. “Forgot how many duo games there are.”
“Damn,” you sigh, partially feigning sympathy. The other half? Couldn’t tell you. “Third wheel?”
“Somewhat.”
“I mean, I can't tell if I’d rather be left out of a trio or straight up have no one to go with at all! Haha… ha..”
Wow, nice joke. Really funny! You couldn’t have sounded more pathetic.
That’s when they turn their head to you. Curiosity? Confusion? Maybe just a hint of alarm?
You break it, glaring straight ahead. No need to look over anymore.
You kick your feet off the ledge, hoping to get a nice breeze on your calves. But your knees bend over the end, feet flush against the glass.
Your feet were never long enough to go over the edge before. It’s a weird feeling.
…
Fuck.
You push down the bile rising up your throat. “I think I hate this festival.”
“Why?”
“Why not? It’s just another reminder that this town’s smaller than a dime. Why’re we– they pretending nothing’s changed? We all know she’s gone. No one’s moved on. One less than ten isn’t the same as one less than a hundred.”
Woah, there. You’ve gotta slow down.
“There aren’t ten people in town.”
But they’re not even treating you seriously. “Might as well be!”
“Have you moved on?” They accuse. Neutral as ever.
Your voice gets caught in your throat. You recover quickly. “More than most!”
They give you the most earnest look you’ve ever seen. It doesn’t feel right.
“Then why aren’t we friends?”
Oh, what an attack!
That you’re not!
Going to!
Respond to!
What could you say to that? There’s nothing you could say!
You shuffle away like they’re leaking poisonous gas and oh right! You’re on the heart’s slope!
You start sliding fast, legs taking a dive for the ground, arms thrashing like you’re a drowning baby, when–
Kris’ hands latch around both your biceps, carrying you with the sole will of their determination. And all you can think is damn, they’re stronger than you thought.
Which is not the right thoughts to be having right now!
You’re sure you look like a flailing idiot, but even they look far too relaxed for someone who’s slipping by the minute.
And they continue as if this isn’t happening!
“Maybe everyone’s pretending nothing’s changed because they have moved on.”
You squeeze their biceps, only to skid a bit further. “Then, I don’t know, they’re lying to themselves!”
“Are they?”
“Yeah! W-well, have you moved on?”
They lose their grip for a second.
You’re actually gonna die. “Wait!– don’t answer that–”
And yet, their eyes. It’s like they really want to tell you.
Their mouth remains sealed. But they give you a quick shake of the head.
And, for some reason, knowing that…
…gives you relief.
Wow.
You’re not the only one stuck in the past.
You can’t believe you just admitted that to yourself.
You feel their grip weaken even more.
That’s when you start really panicking.
“Well, maybe we aren’t friends because I thought you didn’t wanna be around me after it all went down!”
Their mouth’s thrown agape.
And you slip from their grasp like butter.
But adrenaline’s got your back, baby! You use whatever grip on their arm you can manage to tug yourself up, delaying your fall.
Great! Now all you need to do is–
Your fingers dig into their sweater.
Right next to their soul.
And you’re dragging them off the gondola like a sacrifice.
As you’re both falling, you watch their shock contort into panic. Yeah, you kinda butchered that one pretty bad.
All you can do now is close your eyes.
This is the end.
You’re gonna die after admitting your life’s biggest secret.
Something you hold so close, so dear.
To the person you’d rather have never known.
It was probably selfish to think it; that they specifically went out of their way to remove you from their life. Especially when you knew they were struggling.
They were all struggling, weren’t they?
You were, too.
Even if you didn’t know December too well.
You still felt it.
The emptiness.
The lack of closure.
And now, you–
“Uuf.”
Your backside slams against the dirt, lungs slightly winded. There’s a silent (still heavy) weight that falls on top of you like you’re some specially made pillow.
As you groan, lids shut from the pain zapping through your bones, you feel a shadow crowd over you.
You squint. It’s Kris, practically sprawled over your body, arms bracketing you. You can feel their breath on your lips.
You’re close enough to watch the red engulf their face as they try to leap away, but–
“Wait!” You tug at their shoulders, positioning them right back over you. You just don’t want them to bolt.
The flames spread down their neck. You bite your tongue. “Are you okay?”
“Are you okay?” They echo, sounding slightly out of character.
Your eyes drift closed. Because you can feel the rounds of laughter rise up your chest.
You’re the only one laughing. You might be crying, too. It’s hard to tell.
You only catch their confusion before they force themself back into neutrality.
“Did you mean to push everyone away after it happened? Or were you just doing that because everyone else was, too?”
They don’t answer. You didn’t really expect them too.
“Bad question,” you croak, releasing your tight fists from their sweater.
After a second of debate, they get up. But they choose to sit next to your corpse-like body instead of retreating into the forest. You’re not sure how they’re not in excruciating pain right now, but you think you can take two for the team.
“Noelle hasn’t moved on,” they comment randomly.
“Duh,” you caw rather bluntly. “That was her sister.”
There’s a moment of silence before you reach for their leg. Just to rest your palm under their warmth. “Did you go willingly? To the festival, I mean.”
“I don’t willingly go anywhere.”
You cackle at that. “Yeah, but that’s because school sucks. And it’s not fun when people talk to you as if they know you.”
You don’t need them to say you’re right to show they agree.
They poke at your fingers like they’re alien sausages. “Mom makes me go.”
“Yeah, that checks out.”
The sun’s practically gone. You watch the empty, black sky like it has something to offer.
They lay next to you. The entire lengths of your arms sit snug against each other.
You’re about to say something else, when their hand brushes your hip. You totally weren’t about to throw hands when they start digging through your pant pocket. Their fingers escape; between their index and middle lies a key. Definitely not your key.
Oh, yeah. You forgot to return that.
“Wanna go grab free ice cream?” You offer mindlessly. “Apparently, I still have the key to the cart’s top.”
They look at you like you’re a genius.
“Or we take the whole cart.”
You gasp. “Damn, you’re right. Even better.”
~~~ and then they make out the end
this whole fic takes place over a day and i dont think ive ever done a fic contained to 24 hours bruh im surprised i got enough out of it. also first time writing sans yooo
I love doing fics where reader is just going through the fucking ringer like bros struggling HARD in this one and its only them like get over it LOLOL
lowkey the mood was all over the place like sad one minute goofy the next but i tried to mix them nicely I HOPE U ENJOYED I HAVE ANOTHER ASK THAT I ALR WANNA DO SO WAIT ON THAT I GUESS ??? OR SEND ME ONE AND HOPE I LATCH ON LEECH STYLE LMAOOO LOVE U GUYS OK BYE <<<3<3<33333
