Got around to watching Mat’s final stream today, I had no time to watch it live sadly, but I got to watch it and I got super emotional and teary eyed at the end. GTLive is probably my favourite of the Theory channels because of how personal it is, from adorable moments between Mat and Steph, the witty moments they shared with Jason and Chris, and the pure chaos of Mat, Ash, and Mirror Mat, and Sam as of recent, GTLive has always brought me so much joy, and honestly, that final stream hit me more than the final Game Theory, because now Mat really and truly has left, and I’m gonna miss him a lot, but as it’s been said multiple by times by everyone in this community, now he has more time for Steph and Ollie and for other projects he wants to do for himself, and that’s awesome! And I know Ash is gonna kick ass as the new GTLive host, they’re the perfect person to take over after Mat, and his speech to Ash at the end of the stream was so heartfelt and wonderful, I’m glad they’re the one taking the reigns, and I can’t wait to see Ash and Sam’s first GTLive video!
(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sol, go here. For more information on ColosSeptic, go here.)
(This story is a continuation of a sneak-peek I included at the end of Day 2. Originally, this was going to be a sneak-peek itself, but plans have changed, and I'm on a bit of time-crunch, so...)
(As usual, I got tons of help developing these characters from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)
(One more thing: if you’d like to use the distorted fonts you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, body horror, mentions of experimentation, specimen preservation, implied murder/death, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 7
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Sol Magee considered herself equal parts flexible and responsible.
After all, if anyone thought they could run an entire museum-and-art-gallery-combo without those qualities, they’d be in for a very rude awakening.
And that was just talking about normal establishments. The ones that didn’t come with a slew of provisos that managed to be kinda funny and deathly serious at the same time.
Namely, the fact that the building was connected to an outer monstrosity who had a habit of collecting oddities and making his own oddities by experimenting on humans unfortunate enough to fall for his schemes.
And yet, if you managed to get on his good side, he could be pretty chill.
Sol had already worked under their fair share of human managers who were just downright insufferable for no actual reason, so it was simultaneously amazing and depressing to know that literal monsters could sometimes have better manners with staff.
Hell, Sol even had some things in common with him. Eccentricity had been the source of bonding between the two of them. It wasn’t that neither of them were playing with a full deck; rather, they each played with two-and-a-half decks and had managed to make up a new game where most of those extra cards benefited them.
Most, not all.
And that was probably why he seemed a bit on-edge tonight.
Even if Sol didn’t mind squeezing random rituals and the like in with their typical nightly tasks, her latest assignment was…strange.
“Wait, hold on—” Sol fidgeted with the notepad and pen they’d been carrying. “You want me to hide out in the attic and spy on…you?”
“ñð† jµ§† mê,” replied the nine-foot-tall mass of nightmare flesh that loomed beside her. As usual, his skin seemed to squirm of its own accord around whatever horrible skeleton he may or may not have had underneath.
(Sol had learned to call him Pat, since apparently her eyes and teeth would melt right out of her head if she tried pronouncing the other half of his name).
The Abnormal Orchard nearly resembled a tower from the outside, unless you counted the huge sign that hung over the main entrance, covered in wires that glowed with a mix of violet and blue light. They all worked together to form the image of a pomegranate with a cluster of eyeballs where its seeds should’ve been.
The building was just as imposingly tall as it was wide. So, of course there was a broad, spiraling ramp that stood at the center inside, just about a hundred feet from the main entrance.
Despite the elevators positioned across from her office, Sol almost always opted for the ramp instead. They just enjoyed the way they could see pretty much everything no matter where they stood on it. It seemed to keep all five of the museum’s expansive floors in a suspended tornado.
Tonight was no different as they strolled along, footsteps muffled by dark green carpeting that was adorned by splotches of black. The pattern almost resembled malachite and complimented the wallpaper’s deep yellow shade.
“Äñ ðlÐ ßµÐÐ¥ ð£ mïñê ï§ gðññå ßê §†ðþþïñg ߥ £ðr å ¢hå†,” Pat continued as he kept pace beside them. His current movement was a mix between crawling and slithering, due to how his slightly-too-long-torso ended in what honestly looked like blistering tree roots instead of legs. But then, those appendages would likely take on a different shape in about five-or-so-minutes. “Ððñ'† ¥ðµ rêmêmßêr †hê þrêÐïðñ§ Ì måÐê l姆 wêêk?”
(Pat was a creature of many talents; one of them being semi-regular visions of the future. Some were less clear than others, but then, there was nothing to stop him and Sol from theorizing on what they could mean. And it wasn’t often at all that he turned out to be wrong.)
“Yeah, I do. Just like I thought you’d remember that your predictions aren’t always the only ones,” Sol jokingly snarked, craning her neck to look up at his eyes…well, his primary eyes, at least. A few extra ones had sprouted along his cheeks and temples, seeming to glance at the ideas she’d been jotting down for future exhibit designs. “I found out that The Chocolate Guy made something disturbingly normal before you even knew.”
For most people, making eye-contact with him would lead to a migraine at best and a sudden case of blindness at worst, considering how his eyes were much too wide, how they glowed with the sickly-pale color of a corpse, how his pinprick pupils refused to stop shuddering in place.
But Sol wasn’t most people…plus, they also had a mask that had apparently been crafted with some serious protective juju. That certainly helped.
Putting it on had long-since become the first part of her nightly routine, right up until she officially closed up and clocked out to the apartment-suite that came included on the property.
The mask’s black material was smooth and compact, like porcelain or marble. Even after so much time, the interior never stopped feeling cold against the skin of Sol’s face. That soft chill always seemed to race up and down along her forehead and cheekbones.
The base of it had been molded into a shape that sort of resembled an upside-down pentagon. The center protruded forward, stretching out just enough to make you wince; there was no outline of a nose, but this still gave the impression of a triangular snout that ended in a smooth, simple stub.
Sculpted veins curved around the eye-holes, stretching from aforementioned stub all the way to the top-half that rested on Sol’s ginger hair. The paint that coated them seemed a bit tarnished, leaving them a dull shade of reddish-violet.
They could remember Pat saying something about a goat when he’d directed them through the museum’s basement to find it years ago. But honestly, they thought it looked more like a fox. A freak-of-nature fox with a pair of layered horns growing just below its long, oddly sharp ears to curl by its jaws.
Yeah, that’s right. Jaws. The mask’s design included a mouth that wrapped around the bottom-half. It would’ve been open, too, if not for the sets of gleaming porcelain teeth that gleamed like polished chinaware, jagged enough to make a piranha jealous.
It portrayed two emotions fused together: on the left side, the corner was quirked up to simulate a winding grin. The corner on the right side was the opposite—it tugged itself down in an almost feral grimace. This extended to the glass-lensed eyes as well. The left was scrunched-up, and the right almost looked like it was drooping.
“…Älrïgh†, ålrïgh†. †ðµ¢h'ê ðñ †hå†,” Pat relented, the first row of jagged teeth in his maw actively lengthening as he chuckled. “Èvêñ ï£ ¥ðµ jµ§† §ð håþþêñêÐ †ð ßê ðñ ¥ðµr låþ†ðþ whêñ †hå† vïÐêð wêñ† þµßlï¢.”
“Nuh-uh! I sensed some legit wrongness before I even opened my laptop—I woke up in a cold sweat that same morning, and that damn video was the reason!” Sol contended, snickering herself, trying to ignore the memory of all that sudden dread.
(The Chocolate Guy was a cosmic abomination himself, after all; one who was just apparently more comfortable with wearing a human disguise than Pat. And judging by some of the stories Pat had told Sol about the baker-creature before he’d made a home on Earth…well, she was extremely grateful that he was so focused on using his powers to simply create all kinds of amazing, life-like sculptures from sweets.)
“Yeah, I have.” Sol offered both a nod and shrug. “It’s just—I don’t know. I wasn’t too sure you’d want me getting close to that kind of stuff.”
“Èh, ¢êr†åïñ †hïñg§ håvê gð††å håþþêñ §ðmêÐå¥.” Pat mused. A keening, sheering noise rippled through the air as he clicked his teeth in thought. “§ð, ï£ ¥ðµ wåñ† ¥ðµr §êñ§ê§ †ð kêêþ gꆆïñg §hårþêr, åñÐ ï£ Ì håvê †ð mêê† wï†h å §þê¢ïål gµê§†...wêll, wh¥ ñð† ¢åþï†ålïzê?”
“Why not?” Sol echoed. They didn’t bother to hide the spark of excitement growing in their voice. There was no point; as far as they knew, Pat could already taste the adrenaline that was now coursing through their mind.
Plus, it just felt kinda great to know that she was trusted.
Pat was a centuries-old monstrosity whose life-purpose revolved around a very literal type of mad science. Sol had seen what he was capable of, how he could easily twist and warp humans (whether the victims of his casual hunting or organized sacrifices) in all sorts of horrific ways just to see what would happen. He fed on emotions, thoughts, entire minds and souls like it was nothing. He’d told her stories about eating the odd star or two in his past.
So, for something like him to see something like her as someone he could include in his surreal business matters—as a friend…
There just wasn’t much like it.
…Even if he had sarcastically spat out the word special guest like it was fried feather that had somehow found its way into a box of buffalo wings. That didn’t seem like the best omen out there.
“How much time do we have before this guy gets here?” Sol asked.
Pat gave pause, brow furrowing in frustration. He quickly shrank down until he only stood about four inches taller than Sol’s five-foot-seven.
“ñð† å whðlê lð†,” He finally admitted as he sidled over to perch on one section of the ramp’s safety-railing, far too little effort in his movements. By now, the spire of his lower-half had split into a pair of actual legs. They looked pretty human-esque for the most part, though the calves were bent backwards like those of a quadraped, each ending in a clutch of talons. “Ì kñðw hê'§ ðñ hï§ wå¥, ßµ† Ì'll ðñl¥ rêåll¥ ßê åßlê †ð †êll ðñ¢ê hê'§ 墆µåll¥ ðñ †hê þrðþêr†¥.”
Sol offered an understanding shrug, stuffing the notepad into the breast pocket of their purple leather jacket. “Well, I can just pick this up where I left off sometime after your meeting, right?”
“Rïgh†,” Pat agreed, nodding in a way that was just too fluid for comfort.
A cluster of long, sinuous tendrils manifested from his back with a terrible chorus of snaps and pops and cracks. He leaned back, allowing them to press up against the wall behind him. And with that, his form seemed to churn in on itself as he effectively melted out of sight. He left a black, blurry silhouette-stain behind, but even that didn’t take long to shrink and fade away from the yellow wallpaper. In less than a minute, there was no evidence he’d ever even been there in the first place.
Sol knew where he was headed, so they quickened their pace, ascending along the ramp and passing everything by to meet him there.
The first four floors were all dedicated to anomalies and curiosities. Despite all the organization, none of them adhered to an actual category. They each just held a vast collection of things that people were either disgusted and terrified of, or morbidly fascinated by.
All sorts of preservation was practiced here.
Specimens floating in concoctions of decay-defying fluids (formaldehyde, casualdejekyll, the works).
Apothecary jars lined certain shelves, all coming in various shapes and sizes. A few veritable truckloads of pickled organs or appendages, or, or, or. One held a pair of human hands, the fingers of which seemed to have been fused together. Another contained an entire mouth—skin, lips, tongue and everything—that had been propped open unnaturally wide to display a horrific amount of crooked, rotting teeth.
Specimens frozen in resin cubes or slides.
Where wet preservation typically led to discoloring, the resin was honestly a bit like amber. Somehow, it kept the tissues looking vibrant, like they could still be full of life and functioning as intended.
Except for the fact that they absolutely couldn’t, considering the states they’d been left in.
A set of intestines twisted into several knots, the end-results of a brain-bleed, an appendix that somehow seemed to be captured mere seconds after rupturing, an arm’s worth of branching veins forced to swell because apparently the blood inside them had gained a consistency similar to tapioca pudding…
Specimens kept in simple, tightly-sealed display cases. Those ones were often completely skeletonized, just for the sake of convenience, but still.
In all classifications, sizes varied.
Some were small enough for Sol to pinch between their index finger and thumb. Such as one little vial which held the phalanges of a pinkie-toe with an uncomfortable amount of joints. (Not nearly as disturbing as the teretomas, though. The mere thought of those sickly, fleshy spheres that had been sliced open juuuuust enough to reveal piles of teeth inside…it was enough to make even someone with Sol’s experience itch all over.)
Others, meanwhile, were so big and heavy that the only safe way to move them would be via forklift. Such as what was basically a glass coffin housing an entire human body, mummified and infested with a subspecies of cordyceps. A much stronger, much more aggressive variant. Though the mold-colored stalks protruding from a jagged hole in the corpse’s head had been stiff for so many years, the way they all bent and just barely rubbed against the inside of the case suggested they were still trying to break out and spread their spores every which way to find fresher hosts.
Just a few examples out of many. And yet…none of the upper floors could ever even dream of comparing to the collection in the basement. The collection that was kept under heavy lock-and-key, kept hidden from mortal customers. Sol herself had only been down there a couple times, though apparently she’d be able to more often the more she adjusted…
The Fifth Floor stood out from the rest. It was much more of a gallery than an archive; it hosted art of all mediums. (Though, in order for a new piece to be accepted, it had to be crafted with the darker genres in mind. But that wasn’t much of a problem. Horror and surrealism were all the rage these days, after all.)
It was also the only floor to not have any windows in its walls, whereas the others seemed to have a few too many.
Instead, the carpet seemed to be the only space not covered by glossy frames that came in various shapes and sizes.
Sol had to be careful to keep at least three feet of distance as she passed by.
Some of the drawings had an odd type of gravitational pull.
The colors of specific paintings never seemed to fully dry; not only that, but they often gave off powerful scents at certain hours. Some smelled soft and sweet and enticing. Others, meanwhile, were heavy with the stench of rot and pain.
Suspicious shapes would bulge out from under the canvases on occasion. The struggle was obviously desperate, despite how slow the movements were.
A fair number of the focuses didn’t have eyes. Those that did, however, always seemed to stare after you, no matter how far away you walked.
(Especially one ancient-looking portrait that offered the etching of a cyclopian triangle with spindly arms and legs. Sometimes, if Sol looked at it for too long, she’d start to hear a faint, muffled chorus of cackling and wisecracking comments.)
Sol ventured over to the little corridor that stood off to one side of the gallery.
A sleek black cat had apparently beaten them there, pacing the floor in small circles, occasionally jumping up to try and paw at the long pull-cord that hung from a white panel in the ceiling.
Charcoal couldn’t really be blamed for his trance, considering how the string swayed to and fro despite the fact that there was no breeze to move it. (In fact, it even seemed to be fluttering in time with his movements, and if that didn’t count as taunting, then what would?)
Sol knelt down and invoked the undeniably powerful chant of pspspspspspsps.
Their pet’s ears twitched, and he almost immediately came trotting over to greet them.
In the nick of time, too; in less than a heartbeat, that white panel swung open, leaving a dark hole in its place. The ceiling-door’s hinges let out a scream like a dying cow as an old ladder came sliding out to hit the floor with a heavy thump.
Sol gathered Charcoal up—even with their mask on, they still got a faceful of the brimstone that never seemed to leave the cat’s fur. Using one arm to awkwardly cradle him to their chest and the other arm to keep their balance, they climbed on up.
As usual, the museum’s attic was dark and cold.
A large, perfectly circular hole had been cut out of the far wall. That space used to be filled with a decorative window, and it had stayed that way when Sol took over The Abnormal Orchard.
They’d opened it for perhaps the very first time on that fateful night when Pat had arrived, and…well, he hadn’t exactly meant to tear out the glass and its framing, but hey. He’d already made it clear that it was to stay open at all times.
Long ago, the attic had been used as an extra storage space, and technically it still functioned as such. A plethora of crates and chests and boxes were pushed against the walls, stacked on top of one another, each holding something that Pat wasn’t quite ready to add to any of the main floors just yet.
Some of them ever-so-slightly trembled, like whatever was inside them had stirred in its sleep…or struggled against strong bindings. Some were covered in stains that glistened in the dim moonlight that seeped in from outside.
As soon as Sol got their bearings, the ladder folded back onto its track, the door lifting to shut itself behind them. They crossed the center of the room and gazed up.
The attic’s entire ceiling had been swallowed up by a mass of gauzy threads. Thick strands had been attached to the corners, allowing even more to all come together, twisting and criss-crossing in layers upon more layers upon even more layers to form some kind of huge, silky, cocoon-hammock…thing.
If not for how all the fibrous stuff boasted the splotchy colors of bruises, it would’ve resembled a combination of spiderweb and wasp nest.
Pat was lounging inside of it, just like he usually did during the museum’s business hours (whenever he wasn’t busy hunting or experimenting, that is). He’d shifted into a truly massive size, his lower-half now coiled up beneath him like a snake or a centipede. A few extra arms sprouted from his sides to idly pluck at some of the strings around him. While the nest-cocoon-hammock-thing swayed to and fro as he shuffled in place, it never seemed to strain under his weight.
“Anything I need to look out for?” Sol asked, heading for a crawlspace door that had been built into the side of the adjacent wall `a la Coraline. Snug would’ve been a generous word for the inside, but it’d already proven to be a fine hiding spot. Plus, it offered a good vantage point of everything on the outside, even when its door had to be held ajar. “When he gets here, I mean.”
“Ìñ†êr꧆ïñg ¢hðï¢ê ð£ wðrЧ,” Pat chuckled, a searing, buzzing sound reminiscent of glass splintering apart at the bottom of a boiling pot. “Hê †ê¢hñï¢åll¥ Ððê§ñ'† håvê å ßlïñЧþð†, ßµ† ¥ðµ'll ålrêåÐ¥ håvê §ðmê ¢ðvêr. þlµ§, ßrïgh† lïgh†§ ¢åñ måkê †hïñg§ ßlµrr¥; hðlÐïñg å §måll £låmê wðµlÐñ'† hµr†.”
“Gotcha.” Once they’d pretzeled themself inside the crawlspace, Sol reached for another one of their jacket-pockets; the one where their striker-knife and chunk of rainbow flint had free real estate.
But Charcoal seemed eager to participate. Just before his owner could fish their tools out, he perked up on their lap. He rolled his shoulders, his chest puffing out as he took a deep, quiet breath.
He then opened his mouth, allowing thin flames to lick out past his bared fangs. And yet, the little ball of fire he’d brought up from his lungs seemed content to just linger at the back of his throat, casting short shadows that flickered and danced around his teeth.
“...Never mind, then. Thanks, buddy.” Sol smiled, scratching her pet’s ears just in time to feel a pair of horns ease their way out of his little forehead.
Charcoal purred, a sound that grew ever-so-slightly deeper and raspier as some of his fur pulled back, showing off a coat of dark scales underneath. Strangest of all, his eyes didn’t even reflect the glow like those of a normal cat would. Instead, his pupils just grew and grew until his eye sockets resembled bottomless pits in his face.
Pat’s neck stretched out from the mouth of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing. He nodded at the little display.
Pat stiffened, trailing off as a seam manifested in the middle of his forehead. With a sickening, almost rubbery sigh, that seam peeled itself open to reveal a eyeball. It was larger than his primaries, its sclera was pitch-dark. Pat’s ever-moving skin was already a void in itself, but this particular eye was even more abyssal than that. Save for a tiny, shivering, pale-as-snow iris with no pupil at all.
Pat could summon as many extra eyes as he wanted at will, but this one was different.
This eye only bloomed on his face at serious times. (In the grand scheme of things, this was perfectly logical. Pat already had far more senses than mortal creatures. This third eye was just a sense all of its own.) Sol privately called it the Illuminati’s Cousin.
A low, dangerous hissssss crept out through Pat’s teeth, his neck retracting and his head snapping back into place.
Sol got the hint; they silently shuffled themself and Charcoal even further into the crawlspace until their back hit the wall. They reached over and pulled at the little door, only leaving a small crack to peer through.
As if on cue, all the nighttime hubbub echoing from outside—the drone of insects, the hollow screeches of owls, even the wind and thunder that had just started rumbling a few moments ago—came to an abrupt, uncanny halt.
The far wall of the attic shook.
Sccrrrrrp
A sound so low that it managed to be soft and piercing at the same time. Like a person who, despite only having a set of bloody stubs left of their nails, decided to drag their fingers along a chalkboard just for the hell of it…
Scccrrrrp-sssccrrrrp
…Or a cluster of ragged claws scratching against a brick wall.
It followed a distinct rhythm. Even with all the screeching, there was no doubt how the source was moving so carefully, so deliberately.
Like an ambush predator stalking after its prey
Sccrrrp-scccrrrp, sccrrrp-sccrrrrp
The noise finally reached its peak when a pair of too-large hands adorned by too-long, too-crooked digits wrapped around the edges of the attic window.
They dug further into the wall as a distorted shape spilled into the attic, momentarily blotting out the moonlight. The sight reminded Sol of all those edutainment videos of octopuses using their boneless nature to squeeze through openings that would’ve been impossible for literally anything else to bypass.
After a batch of long, uncomfortable seconds dragged by, the shape slithered from the window frame and onto the floor. It almost seemed to spread there like a pool of viscous liquid…and then, thick clouds of smoke began to rise from it. They pulled the shape up like it was magnetic putty, coaxing it to weave itself into something much more solid.
Without warning, a harsh emerald light beamed to life from somewhere inside the figure. Sol flinched back, having to wrench her eyes shut. But once she re-opened them, she felt something cold and clammy start to churn in her stomach.
Thanks to all their time working with Pat, Sol was much more prepared to accept the unacceptable than the average human.
But the scene unfolding before her…she had to admit that it was something else.
In the span of mere seconds, the visiting monster already grown to roughly the same size as Pat.
And, keeping up with the similarities, his head and torso followed a vague human shape.
And vague was an extremely generous term here, folks.
His skin was almost completely transparent—that green illumination had tapered down some, allowing Sol to realize that the monster’s bones and organs were glowing from the inside. Similar to a diaphonized specimen with its container positioned over an LED stand.
As Sol stared, she managed to see how his misshapen heart squirmed its way out from under his lungs; though it didn’t escape his jagged, bending ribcage, it seemed perfectly fine with crawling around in tight circles to press up against bone. His intestines shuffled and writhed over one another like a pile of worms.
The jagged, organic crater taking up space by his abdomen suggested that he’d been ripped in half at the navel. That smoke from earlier was now drifting out of it, veils curling through in the air in a very unnatural way.
Before Sol could stop herself, she looked up at the monster’s face.
The corners of his mouth stretched quite literally from ear-to-ear. A few inches before those corners, thin strands of flesh stretch out to connect his upper and lower jaws. It was honestly miraculous that they hadn’t been accidentally shredded by the unnecessary amount of glinting teeth nestled inside. Hair grew over his lips(?) and along his chin, forming a short beard that was just as dark as the thatch on his scalp, which draped over his shoulders and back in long tangles.
And to top it all off, both of his eye sockets were completely hollow, as well as disturbingly wide. In fact, the glistening flesh inside them stretched out of his head to curve alongside his temples in shapes somewhat similar to the ears of a bat.
Pat’s warning echoed through Sol’s brain…but where were this guy’s eyes? How could he see at all?
Sol’s own eyes drifted down, and she just barely managed to catch herself and pin her focus to the opposite wall instead. Because she’d gotten her answer: displaced peepers were littered about the monster’s arms and hands and neck, with the largest one blinking on that spot right where his collarbones met.
Eye Guy shuffled in place, surveying Pat’s cocoon-hammock-nest thing before his vision finally settled on his fellow monster. Pat stared right back, the Illuminati’s Cousin rolling around in his head.
“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥” Eye Guy greeted, his voice seeming to splash through the air, rough and loud and…laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent?
“Hê¥,” Pat echoed, the edges of his voice spinning like a swarm of cicadas.
A trio of his back-tendrils suddenly stretched out from the cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, reaching across the attic to a little mini-fridge that had been set up in the corner. One of them pulled the little door open, then heaved it shut once the other two each coiled around a can of Diet Coke.
The tendrils weaved their way back over, one of them hovering near Eye Guy while the other two vanished, probably wrapping around Pat's spine and ribs, the other can of soda sticking the landing in his outstretched palm
Eye Guy tilted his head, quietly reaching up to accept the offered beverage. “𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”
“ñð þrðßlêm,” Pat responded, using the tips of his claws to pop the tab.
Eye Guy followed suite, the two of them drinking until the cans were empty…at which point the aforementioned cans simply followed the soda’s path, aluminum crunching and tearing and screeching against horrifically sharp enamel, likely leaving jagged scars and opening up thin rivers of monstrous blood in its wake as it was swallowed.
Pat hummed affirmative, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head in a prideful manner. Another awkward few seconds came and went before he let out a grating sigh.
Eye Guy clicked his long, forked tongue. “𝗜⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗪⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗚⃥𝘖̸—𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘔̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗡⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘖̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘑̸𝗢⃥𝘠̸.” He briefly cut himself off to wave a dismissive clutch of talons at the way Pat snarled. Although there was no denying the mischievous smirk in his tone as he added, “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”
Pat leaned out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, clicking his teeth as his eyes narrowed.
“†hå†'§ §†rïkê Öñê, þål. †r¥ ågåïñ,” he warned.
“𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥'̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥. 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸!⃥” Eye Guy huffed. He got the privilege of taking the rolling-your-eyes-with-your-whole-body thing to an extremely authentic level. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗗⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘏̸’⃥𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥-̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸.⃥”
“¥êåh, Ì Ðð kñðw åll †hå†,” Pat agreed. He shifted in place, soon lying on his back, the Illuminati’s Cousin still glaring at Eye Guy. “Lêmmê gµê§§: ¥ðµ wåñ† †ð mêê† µþ wï†h mê åñÐ m¥ kñðwïñg-†hïñg§ §¢h†ï¢k ïñ å ¢ðµþlê ñïgh†§. †hå† wå¥, åñ¥ þð†êñïål †hrê冧 ¢åñ ßê þrêÐêÐ ßê£ðrê †hê¥ Ðï§rµþ† å ¢êr†åïñ rål?”
The way he spoke made it sound much more like a statement than a question.
Out of the corner of their eye, Sol glimpsed how Eye Guy’s collar-eye (wow, that was way too many eyes in one sentence, huh?) lit up. It seemed he was about to reply, but Pat interjected with a theatrical gasp.
“ßµ† wåï†!” After an overexaggerated pause, he continued: “¥ðµ ÐïÐñ'† êvêñ mêñ†ïðñ åñ¥ rål§ ïñ ¥ðµr êlêvå†ðr-þh, Ðê§þï†ê †hê ðßvïðµ§ñꧧ ð£ ï† åll!”
He let himself fall out halfway over the edge of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, now hanging upside-down, all six pairs of his arms folded across his chest. “Wh¥'Ð ¥ðµ Ðð †hå†?”
A sour look flickered in the collar-eye; Eye Guy’s bioluminesence shifted into a more toxic shade of green. An aggravated groan seeped through his gnashing teeth.
“Öh, Ì'm ñð† §å¥ïñg ¥ðµ ÐïÐ,” Pat agreed, his pitch dripping with honey that was so obviously pumped full of venom. “̆'§ jµ§†—†ð ßê ¢lêår: ï£ ¥ðµ åñÐ I årê §µþþð§êÐ †ð ßê ïñvðlvêÐ, †hêñ whð årê ¥ðµ †hïñkïñg åß𵆠£ðr †hå† †hïrÐ þår†ï¢ïþåñ†?”
Now it was Eye Guy’s turn to hissssss, talons leaving long gashes in the old attic floor panels.
“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘒̸𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥,̸” he finally muttered.
Pat nodded with a snarky hum, his eyes all narrowing to slits. “Èx墆l¥. §ð, wh¥ †hê HÈLL årê ¥ðµ å§kïñg mê †ð ßê ïñvlðvêÐ ï£ HÈ'§ gðññå ßê †hêrê?!”
“𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘉̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸!⃥” Eye Guy snapped back, his voice now booming enough for Sol’s ears to ring.
“Wêll, MÄ¥ßÈ ¥ðµ jµ§† håvêñ'† ßêêñ lððkïñg hårÐ êñðµgh,” Pat snipped. With an awful crunching sound, he twisted his torso around on itself in a way that would've been more than enough to snap a mortal spine five times over, turning his back to the other monster. “Hðw åß𵆠¥ðµ jµ§† jðg ðñ åñÐ kêêþ †r¥ïñg?”
“Öh, å§ ï£ Ì'M †HÈ þRÖßLÈM!” Pat’s neck swiveled in the opposite of the direction he’d just shifted, soon staring daggers at his guest yet again. “Ì£ ¥ðµ rêåll¥ £êêl †hå† wå¥, †hêñ wh¥ §hðµlÐ Ì ¢årê?!”
Following the new pattern, one pair of his arms bent backwards as he raised them, wrists popping and cricking as he made air-quotes with his claws. “ÐïÐñ'† ¥ÖÚ †êll mê †ð 'jµ§† §å¥ ñð' å† †hå† £ê§†ïvål årðµñÐ 4000 ßÇ?”
Eye Guy growled deep in his throat. He then shook his head, pressing a hand to his temple and dragging it down his face (and nearly getting one of his claws caught in his eye-sockets).
“Wêll, ñêï†hêr ¢åñ ¥ðµ!” Pat finally slid all the way out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, his form unfurling to land on the floor with a heavy thud. He arched his back, drumming his talons against wood.
Eye Guy lightly shook his head, began pacing in small, tight circles.
“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸” he responded after a moment, “𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗗⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘏̸𝗨⃥𝘎̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”
He halted, all eyes now focusing on his host. “𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”
He crawled a few paces closer, only stopping once he was a mere few inches away from getting in Pat’s face. “'⃥𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘍̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”
Silence.
Though he didn’t shrink back, still baring his fangs and fuming…there was no denying how Pat stiffened. As quick as he was to mask the spark of anxiety in his eyes, he was somehow still far too late.
Sol swallowed a lump in their throat. Even with how well they’d gotten to know him, they’d never really thought that Pat could actually be…perturbed by anything, considering the hobbies he carried out.
It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that Eye Guy had a hidden-in-plain-sight lair of his own. Was it connected to The Abnormal Orchard? If so, how? Why?
Not only that, but Sol could remember a few of Pat’s semi-recent ranting-sessions; all vague venting about some other abomination. There was no way aforementioned monster wasn’t the ‘HE’ Eye Guy had admitted to involving with whatever ritual was on the table.
But that other name that had been brought up…Ah’ Mung-Stus. Sol had never heard anything like that from Pat.
Who—or what—was this other creature? And what did any of this have to do with the moon?
Without warning, Eye Guy shifted in place.
“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘒̸ 𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸,⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘊̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗬⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘎̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸,” he declared, turning away to crawl toward the attic window. He paused as his hands grasped the edges of the hollow frame once again.
And with that, he reared back and dove through the window. All the smoke that had accompanied him was suddenly drawn out after him, like he’d opened up some kind of invisible vacuum. It took a long few moments, but eventually the air was clear again.
Slowly-but-surely, the lively sounds of various nocturnes echoed through the world outside the museum.
Even so, Sol didn’t move, no matter how much their cramped muscles screamed at them to.
Not until Pat climbed back onto his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing and turned his head to regard their hiding spot. The Illuminati’s Cousin had finally closed, disappearing from his forehead altogether.
“Çð姆 ï§ ¢lêår,” he called, his voice drenched in something that was soft yet bitter.
Sol gently tapped Charcoal on the shoulder. He finally closed his mouth, smothering the flame that had been part of their cover for what felt like hours. As the cat hopped away from his owner’s lap to stretch, Sol clambered out of the crawl space, quickly getting to their feet almost like a soldier called to attention.
They reached into their jacket, palming their flint striker-knife. They couldn’t help it; as dangerous as it could be, it just made for a shockingly good stim-toy at times.
“...So.” Sol chewed their lip. “I take it the moon is very angry or something?”
“ñð† qµï†ê,” Pat replied as he curled back up, his pale, shining eyes contemplative and…wait, was that an iota of actual dread? “̆'§ å† rï§k ð£ gꆆïñg êå†êñ ïñ å llê whïlê.”
“Oh.” Sol rocked back and forth on their heels, not sure what else they could really say to that. Still, they were nothing if not tenacious, so they pressed on. “Eaten by what, exactly?”
Pat clicked his many teeth again, eyes tracing all the network of the silk he’d woven to make himself a proper den after going far, far too long without one.
Sol nodded, politely ignoring how their question had gone unanswered. “Yeah. 2024 PT5. What about it?”
A hollow chuckle slithered up and out of whatever misshapen lungs were hiding inside Pat’s system.
He glanced down at his mortal companion, his mouth stretching much too quickly and fluidly to form a wry, exhausted grin on his features. “Älrïgh†. ñðw, †êll mê êvêr¥†hïñg ¥ðµ kñðw åß𵆠åggrê§ïvê mïmï¢r¥…”
*Side note* I am still in the process of fleshing them out so some things may be subjected to change and be inconsistent!!
About them~
Arlyn is an entity born out of chaos, hence the name Arlyn the Chaos Gremlin. This means that they dont really abide by any supernatural rules or laws. They pretty much do what it wants. They have an indefinite "true" form, so identifying them can be tricky if someone is trying to locate it. They are also a lot younger than most entities, so they have the mentality of a child, maybe even an immature teen(8-12 maybe).
It's able to mimic sounds and people but staring at them for too long, even in their child form, can cause insanity or uneasiness in the person. Inconsistencies will slowly become clear, giving more of an uncanny valley vibe. Their most human like form would be their child form which looks to be around 8. If they age themselves up it becomes more difficult since they don't actually look like that and making a whole different person is tricky.
FYI if I'm drawing little Arlyn it's usually from Dayton's perspective. Arlyn looks different for everyone which is why Day is able to stomach their appearance. Day seems them as this little child that he has to care of and protect(I'll probably delve deeper into that) so they look like this child to him. To others, let's say...a stranger looks at Arlyn, they'd more likely to be able to detect something wrong with the child, or maybe they don't even see a child at all.
They feed on human flesh. They prefer living but they dont mind scavenging either. Since Day isn't very knowledgeable about the black market, he has to lure people in himself. He might know a few people but bringing up how to feed his demon child is quite a conversation starter..
Back to Arlyn being able to mimic things, the only thing they're not able to replicate are their dead lifeless eyes. They can be quite intimidating or concerning depending on who's looking at them. They are chaotic neutral. They aren't necessarily bad, but they aren't necessarily good either. They just want to eat and cause some drama so usually it isn't out of malicious intent. The percent when it's with malice is if the person is trying to hurt them or their human caretaker. Then they'll gladly take their time with their meal😊
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Fluff, RPF (Real Person Fic)
Summary: When a mishap at work proves to be the final straw for Y/N, Ash is there to be the best friend and offer comfort.
Requested by @freakshows199 Hi dear! Sorry for the wait on your request but I hope the final product makes up for it! Love, Vy ❤
It's been quite the week for you. It's exam week, after all, it's to be expected.
Pushing through college while working on Team Theorist means your plate is constantly full but you've gotten used to it. You've built a routine and dynamic around it that allows you to manage your time in a way that allows you to excel at both and still enjoy a decent chunk of free time. Or at least seven hours of sleep.
At the end of the day though, you're only human, and having such a lengthy to-do list is pretty anxiety inducing no matter how organized you are. Just looking at your daily schedule of things that need to get done is enough for stress to start creeping in. It's admittedly not fun, but the final product - whether it be a GTLive video, a theory video you did the research for or a successfully passed midterm - is so rewarding. It makes it all worth it.
This week, however, it's been rather difficult to feel proud of the work you do and even find the motivation to do it. Stress and anxiety have riddled your mind and bleed over into your dreams which has by extension made falling asleep very difficult.
Stress and anxiety coupled with very few hours of sleep and a particularly high dosage of caffeine in your system, it's all a recipe for an inevitable crash-and-burn. Or burnout, in short,
Currently you're setting up the camera and lights for an upcoming GTLive recording session. You got to Steph and Matt's house an hour early because if you were to make a pitstop at your dorm you'd undoubtedly fall asleep and be late. You didn't wanna risk it so you just thought you'd get ahead with your work.
Ash beat you to it though, seeing as how you found them already seated behind the screen, editing the footage you recorded yesterday.
It was only after seeing them that you realized just how much you didn't want to take on the task alone. Ash is one of those people that exude such a calming and comforting aura and they are the most amazing friend to have by your side. It especially shines through when you're going through a period such as this one. They're always there to look out for you when you forget to do it yourself.
"Hey, Y/N?" They grab your attention, removing their headset as they look up at you from behind the monitor.
You stop your ministrations with the ring light and turn to give them your full attention, "Yeah?"
"Can you do me a small favor?" They've barely had time to finish their sentence before you nod, "A lot of people have mentioned that the VHS filter in the game makes it hard on the eyes when they watch the video. I guess it brings down the video quality or something. Could you take a look at the game settings and see if it can be turned off?"
"Oh yeah, I saw a lot of complaints about it. Let me see..." You stabilize the light before sitting down on the couch in front of the TV and opening the game.
You spend an unhealthily large portion of your day staring at a screen. Looking at a bigger one makes no difference as it immediately causes a migraine to start taking over, blurring your vision. That may be due to the lack of sleep or the fact that you forgot to drink enough water today, but before you know it or have been able to blink the blurriness away, you've accidentally pressed the left mouse button.
Once you do you come to realize you've made a big mistake.
Horror floods your whole body when you see that the 'continue game' option is now a darker shade, suggesting it is not available. There is no longer a game to continue. You've accidentally deleted all of the progress Matt made the previous time he played the game. It wasn't small either, he'd made it almost halfway through the story.
And you have just deleted all of it. Two hours of gameplay and effort down the drain.
You cover your mouth with trembling hands, tears already starting to form in your eyes.
This catches Ash's concern, "Y/N? What's wrong?" They ask, removing the headset completely so they can get up off their chair and come over to you, squatting down next to you. The worry you see in their eyes only makes the urge to cry worse.
"I....I-I deleted Matt's progress..." You explain in a shaky, mousy voice, a sob racking through your chest when the words reach your own ears.
Had it been any other day, sure, you'd still be upset about it. But not crying level upset. You'd see it as nothing more than an inconvenient hurdle you can easily overcome in a rational way. There's no rationality at play now.
It just happened at a very wrong time. It's nothing more than a small mishap in theory but its timing is feeding into the self-doubt you've been struggling with since exam season started. Academic insecurity and impostor syndrome have been eating away at you all week and now this feel like a confirmation that all those doubts were in fact warranted.
Even though they aren't at all, whatsoever.
"Hey, hey, hey...." Ash doesn't say it but they're relieved. Seeing your reaction without context scared them into thinking the issue was way worse. Still, they can see it's a major deal to you and they respect that. Especially since they've been well aware of how much stress and pressure you've been under. They've been through similar situations and have had similar reactions. They understand you on a personal level. And they'd never let a friend feel that way without doing their best to intervene and comfort them. Which in this case would involve just putting the whole predicament in perspective to show you how miniscule it is.
"It's no big deal. Please don't cry, Y/N. We'll fix it." They say, their arm wrapping around your shoulders to give you a tight, reassuring hug you immediately fall into. You've needed nothing more than a hug this whole week and getting it brings you such relief. It provokes even more tears to stream down your face. Turns out, you've also needed a good cry.
"How?" You manage to say through sniffles, "We're starting filming in twenty minutes."
"We'll play a different game. Last minute game switch. It's happened so many times before. Matt doesn't care, he'll have fun regardless. We'll find him something to play, don't worry." Ash explains calmly, letting you start to grasp on how simple this problem is to solve when the panic takes the backseat. "Tomorrow's Saturday so I can just stick around a bit longer after we're done and play up to the point where Matt left off last time."
There's not a moment you're not grateful to have Ash in your life. This is just one of those moments where you also start believing in angels because they have to be one.
"Thank you so much, Ash." You pull away from the hug to wipe your eyes and be able to look at them properly, "But you're not doing it alone. The least I can do is accompany you. I genuinely want to."
Ash shakes their head, "No way, you need to go home and sleep..."
You cut them off with a wave of your hand, "I will. As you said, tomorrow's Saturday. I can sleep in till 3 PM if I want to. I'd want nothing more than to help fix the mistake I made."
Knowing that your resolve is impossible to shake, Ash decides it's best to just sigh and nod and agree. So that's what they do, "Alright, fine." Suddenly, their eyes light up as they get an idea, "We'll make a night out of it! Get snacks and stuff. It'll be great!"
You can't help the smile that brightens up your face as you nod, "I'd love that."
You truly would. There's very few people whose company you enjoy quite like Ash's. You don't know what you did in a past life to deserve a friend like them but you are very certain that everyone needs an Ash in their life. Everyone needs a ray of sunshine like them to part the rainclouds.
i feel like matpat says "i'm so sorry, i hate myself" a lot whenever he makes a bad or cringy joke, but the fact that during the edith finch playthrough, ash's immediate reaction to it was "noooo, matt :(" is still really cute to me-
