[They hate this. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. There's no way to keep Frisk from being hurt. Only the choice of hurting them through action or inaction. No possible way to win the game. Once again, they're just going to make it worse no matter what they decide.
Story of their life, huh.]
Whatever excuses you make, I gave you a chance to tell me if you didn't like this plan. I did. I can't read your mind or, as you so helpfully point out, instinctively sense what you want. But you agreed. I refuse to be told that "yes means no" or "no means yes." I refuse to be told that everyone but me gets the right to pretend they aren't responsible for their decisions if they don't like the outcome.
[They don't stop being a person just because part is missing, do they? "You're still human," they insist, even though the whisper in their head was borrowing its soul, its determination, rather than supplying their own. Even though this independent shell houses nothing more than a few incomplete, trembling shards of what should have been a heart. You can still do the right thing, even if you're built a little differently than the people around you, can't you? Or is that all just hollow lip service? Empty platitudes meant to soothe a human surrounded by beings made of compassion, meant to placate a rusted little tenth of a SOUL surrounded by whole, complete people?]
I am holding you to your word at all times, not just when you're at your best. You do not get to tell me that I was not the only one at fault, then insist that I not think of that as really being you. You made your choice.
[Their hand tenses around the door. For just a moment, they're seized by the sudden thought of - of something wild and drastic, of just kicking Frisk out of the way and slamming it so hard it breaks. So hard it snaps in half cartoonishly, impossibly, as if they had that kind of ridiculous superhuman strength. Instead, with a slow, reluctant exhalation, they open just a little wider. Offer a single arm.
They hate hugs. But.]
One. You may have one, then no more. Then, you leave.
no subject
Story of their life, huh.]
Whatever excuses you make, I gave you a chance to tell me if you didn't like this plan. I did. I can't read your mind or, as you so helpfully point out, instinctively sense what you want. But you agreed. I refuse to be told that "yes means no" or "no means yes." I refuse to be told that everyone but me gets the right to pretend they aren't responsible for their decisions if they don't like the outcome.
[They don't stop being a person just because part is missing, do they? "You're still human," they insist, even though the whisper in their head was borrowing its soul, its determination, rather than supplying their own. Even though this independent shell houses nothing more than a few incomplete, trembling shards of what should have been a heart. You can still do the right thing, even if you're built a little differently than the people around you, can't you? Or is that all just hollow lip service? Empty platitudes meant to soothe a human surrounded by beings made of compassion, meant to placate a rusted little tenth of a SOUL surrounded by whole, complete people?]
I am holding you to your word at all times, not just when you're at your best. You do not get to tell me that I was not the only one at fault, then insist that I not think of that as really being you. You made your choice.
[Their hand tenses around the door. For just a moment, they're seized by the sudden thought of - of something wild and drastic, of just kicking Frisk out of the way and slamming it so hard it breaks. So hard it snaps in half cartoonishly, impossibly, as if they had that kind of ridiculous superhuman strength. Instead, with a slow, reluctant exhalation, they open just a little wider. Offer a single arm.
They hate hugs. But.]
One. You may have one, then no more. Then, you leave.