[It speaks to something horrible, they think, that they see Frisk digging in their pocket and feel a sick twist of fear. Nobody checked Frisk's inventory - ha ha! Nobody frisked Frisk! - and there's a contradictory squirm of relief that Frisk didn't have to endure that intrusive degree of touch, but there's a part that writhes in terror now that they know Frisk is willing to carry weapons. Might have been doing so much more than raking fingernails over scabs. Might have done much, much worse than pulling hairs until you have to hide a thin nearly-bald patch or biting or scratching and scratching and scratching the cuts until they're all open and oozing.
What they pull out, though, isn't sharp.
It's familiar braided string. A little wooden charm, the red paint starting to rub off at the edges from months of always being worn, from repetition upon repetition of restless anxious fingers toying with the smooth surface instead of scratching, picking, digging nails into skin.
* The Bracelet.
Did they keep it, even when they were empty...? Set it in a gift box, waiting in a room full of dusty toys until their friend came home?
It's so much more than they could ever think to ask for. They gave up on Frisk, after all. Returned an earnest, handmade gift. Slid the word "partner" back to them like they were simply handing in a badge. It aches to think that Frisk could still patiently wait for someone who bolted like a spooked horse, who fled from their side when they needed someone to lean on.
The intensity of it aches. For all the eggshell-caution and uncertainty and empty spaces between them now, it still roils underneath, in the hollow of their chest. They miss Frisk. "Alone" has been a scavenger eating them away piece by piece, and it hurts so bad they can't stand it anymore. On their knees, they inch forward, reach out to Frisk's offering hand. Clasp it in both theirs. They're holding too tight - so tight, they're going to press a little heart-shaped imprint into both their palms - but they've never known how to be anything but not gentle enough, too bright red and forceful and spilling over with a burning devotion they keep pretending doesn't exist.]
You kept it.
[Didn't bury it in the sand or throw it in the ocean to rust or - or whatever string does - or give it away to someone else. Didn't cast it aside like Chara did, as if everything it represents can actually just be set down and left behind like a quiche on a bench. As if it really is possible to distance yourself from this. As if they hadn't forever altered their destinies, hadn't resolved to never truly go home, hadn't sworn to follow if Frisk were to disappear, even for a day or two.
Frisk kept it.
One promise, despite everything, Frisk can know they kept better than anyone.]
Still...
[Friends. Best friends. Twins. Family. Partners. All the words they tentatively reached for, one at a time, over tenuous and uncertain months. A dozen thin threads, all woven together.]
no subject
What they pull out, though, isn't sharp.
It's familiar braided string. A little wooden charm, the red paint starting to rub off at the edges from months of always being worn, from repetition upon repetition of restless anxious fingers toying with the smooth surface instead of scratching, picking, digging nails into skin.
* The Bracelet.
Did they keep it, even when they were empty...? Set it in a gift box, waiting in a room full of dusty toys until their friend came home?
It's so much more than they could ever think to ask for. They gave up on Frisk, after all. Returned an earnest, handmade gift. Slid the word "partner" back to them like they were simply handing in a badge. It aches to think that Frisk could still patiently wait for someone who bolted like a spooked horse, who fled from their side when they needed someone to lean on.
The intensity of it aches. For all the eggshell-caution and uncertainty and empty spaces between them now, it still roils underneath, in the hollow of their chest. They miss Frisk. "Alone" has been a scavenger eating them away piece by piece, and it hurts so bad they can't stand it anymore. On their knees, they inch forward, reach out to Frisk's offering hand. Clasp it in both theirs. They're holding too tight - so tight, they're going to press a little heart-shaped imprint into both their palms - but they've never known how to be anything but not gentle enough, too bright red and forceful and spilling over with a burning devotion they keep pretending doesn't exist.]
You kept it.
[Didn't bury it in the sand or throw it in the ocean to rust or - or whatever string does - or give it away to someone else. Didn't cast it aside like Chara did, as if everything it represents can actually just be set down and left behind like a quiche on a bench. As if it really is possible to distance yourself from this. As if they hadn't forever altered their destinies, hadn't resolved to never truly go home, hadn't sworn to follow if Frisk were to disappear, even for a day or two.
Frisk kept it.
One promise, despite everything, Frisk can know they kept better than anyone.]
Still...
[Friends. Best friends. Twins. Family. Partners. All the words they tentatively reached for, one at a time, over tenuous and uncertain months. A dozen thin threads, all woven together.]
Still soulmates...?