“FUCK. THIS IS SO STUPID!”
Rocket kicked his desk, causing everything to rattle. On his laptop was a crochet tutorial, and in his hands and desk were crochet supplies.
He wanted to make something for Sword, really badly. He knew he missed the sparrow’s birthday this year and he wanted to make it up to him…
Instead, doing whatever this was just made him feel even more guilty and angry.
The irritating text-to-speech bot narrating all the steps. The way they literally covered up every single fucking stitch with their fingers. His yarn kept falling apart into multiple threads instead of one, causing it to unravel due to how tight he was pulling it against his fingers. His claws scratched at his own skin, trying to maneuver it so it would work better. None of it helped.
After about failing only five times, he broke. He slammed the tip of the crochet hook against the desk, hard enough to bend it inwards and curl up. Tears threatened to seep through his face.
He stood up, taking all the supplies and tossing it at the trashcan—although not in it. He still wanted the supplies, after all. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away when it was supposed to be for Sword.
He sat back down at his laptop—his fury seeping through the cracks as he closed the tutorial video. Clutching the laptop mouse in his hand. He glanced—no, glared over at the stupid looking box that was supposed to be “for beginners.”
Out of pure rage, he started stomping, crushing, demolishing that box. It was fucking stupid. He was stupid. Stupid for thinking that he could have any kind of talent whatsoever aside from breaking things. Like he always did. It hurt his foot from stepping on it over and over-but what he finally seemed to realize was that he was shouting and yelling at the top of his lungs. He only noticed once it started to hurt his throat. Tears flew off his face, soaking into the cardboard box he was destroying. He didn’t wanna see it anymore. Not only did the irritation bother him, but the guilt it brought too.
Finally his dad arrived, panicked and wondering what was wrong. ”Kid?! What’s happening? Are you okay???”
Rocket didn’t respond. Just panted heavily, teeth too heavily clenched to get out a word.
“Use your words, kid. C’mon. What’s wrong?”
He stomped it again, making sure it was extra painful, for him and the inanimate box.
“Hey. Rocket. Calm down, what happened? The crochet kit bother ya’ again?”
He backed away from it, trying to sit down. He ended up clutching the back of a chair instead. Like he was trying to hide behind it.
“…Kid. You know you don’t have ta’ do that for him. You barely got enough sleep last night, first o’ all-“
“You also know how hard it is to do those things. Heck- I haven’t even been able to do mine I got from Traffic a few years back…”
“Just… just calm down, kid. You can do it when you’re ready. If ye’ want, I can get us some easier ones. Make ‘em together so it’s not too bad.”
No answer, as expected. He sat down on the couch, a pillow clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
“Its fucking stupid…” He mumbled into the pillow. Zuka didn’t hear him at all.
“Just… maybe don’t stomp on this next time. And take a break. Aight kid?”
“Whatever…”
“Good enough. Go get some rest, son.”