[whenever he wakes up from a nightmare, there's always a lull, where he just tries to catch his breath and slow his heart down and stop panicking. but then that point passes and he starts thinking about what he'd dreamed of, and the panic creeps back in.
he's there now, up and pacing the kitchen, typing and deleting again and again. finally:] i'm gonna take a walk i think
[ Will knows how to be patient, but that doesn't mean it's easy. He waits out the delay on the other end, feeling like he's at risk of spooking something back into the bushes it came out of. ]
i don't usually know what i want after a nightmare, either.
you shouldn't go alone. what's your address? [ Maybe someone demanding your address at 3am is almost as spooky as the rest of Deerington, but hopefully it's at least a little lower on the list of 'things to avoid'. ]
3253 castle road it's got a bunch of bikes out front
[clearly will is from the early to mid 80's, because what is stranger danger? he's already stepping into his shoes and pulling on a sweatshirt to tiptoe outside and hover on the front porch.]
[ And he is, relatively speaking. Will lives at the edge of town, almost as far away from his neighbors as he does back home, so even with a cab, it takes a little while.
But he's not fussy about getting ready to leave, clearly. Will's still wearing flannel pajama bottoms with his sneakers and jacket, looking about as hectic and sleepless as he feels.
He's way too aware of his hands as he approaches the address and spots someone by the porch. ] Thanks for waiting. [ It feels weird and stiff, like talking to a colleague, but Will isn't sure what else to open with. ]
[will's still hovering on the front porch steps, both arms loosely hugging one of the pole-like supports, watching down the street. when the man's close enough, the boy lifts one hand in an awkward, hesitant wave.]
Hey.
[it's now he realizes, with something strange and exhausting, that he doesn't know this man's name.]
Hey. [ This is...uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But it's also something Will wants to be doing.
Will, meanwhile, got Will's name from Steve a few weeks ago, which means...he completely misses the fact that Will might not have realized his own name is the same as his network handle. Not a ton of them actually use their real names, after all. (Will's just wasted all his creativity on figuring out murders, he didn't have any left for usernames.)
He stands in front of the porch for a beat too long, maybe, and then nods up the road, hands in his pockets. ]
[will nods, shifting from one foot to the other, then seems to remember something.]
Be right back. [he scurries back inside, tiny and quiet and careful, and reappears minutes later with his backpack. he rummages around in it, amid the loose colored pencils and crayons and paper, and pulls out a large-ish sketchbook.]
Um. I made you something. As -- to say thanks for. Listening to me. [the sketchbook has some loose pages tucked inside it, and will pulls a couple of them free, holding them out hesitantly. on them, he'd done his best to draw the older will's dogs -- all seven of them -- based on the descriptions he'd gotten. the drawings are...actually surprisingly well-done for a thirteen-year-old kid. clearly he agonized over them, erasing and redrawing the lines until they fit his exacting self-standards.]
[ Will's mild surprise is still on his face by the time the teen's turned and headed back into his house. Extra layers isn't his first guess, seeing as none of his body language had suggested he was too cold...
...but even with his lack of current suspicions, not much could have prepared Will for what the return trip was actually for. He blinks, stunned, and reaches out a cautious hand for the paper. He's staring at Will while he does it, until he's the only one holding the sheet and finally looks down at it in full. ]
These are— really nice. [ His tone says he's genuine about this praise. He's bad at guessing exact ages, but Will can't be more than what, a very short fourteen year old? Thirteen? ] I'd, uh. Yeah. [ He's nodding before he's organized his thoughts, touched and unsure the best way to express that.
He holds the papers like they're important, close to his chest and already uncertain of the best way not to wrinkle them. ] If you're— okay with giving them away, I'd. I'll keep them.
[ A beat. ] I guess now I do have pictures of them. [ Since he'd described them so much entirely because of the lack of photos to share. ]
[will shrugs, an awkward raise and lower of one shoulder, a quintessentially teenage boy gesture. it's his go-to, shrugging, deflecting uncomfortable questions or tense situations.
this is neither, but he's mildly embarrassed still, ears turning pink.] I'm okay, yeah. I made them for you. I've got lots of others. I-I mean, drawings. I draw a lot.
—I can tell. [ The response comes after a pause, embarrassed in turn by the reminder I made them for you. ] That you draw a lot, I mean. These are— [ A considering pause, and then with a little less self-consciousness and a little more ease, ] ...better than I can draw, actually.
[ He's rolling them, very carefully, not used to having valuable pieces of paper to keep track of. This way they won't wrinkle, like posters stored in a record shop. ] Does it help? [ He doesn't elaborate for a second, until he catches back up with himself and winces. ] With the— nightmares. Drawing about it, or drawing distractions.
W-Well, there's...not a lot else to do here. I don't go to school, and I only work in the afternoons. So. [he says it simply, matter-of-fact, like it's something everyone could do.]
...sometimes. [will looks away, hugging the sketchbook to his chest, feeling the pictures inside with images of his nightmares burning like a brand.] Sometimes it helps to get them out of my head.
[ Will just-- watches him while he offers up an explanation, trying to decide if he wants a conversation about it or is dodging the possibility of one. It feels like the latter - the soft heat of embarrassment touches the tips of Will's ears and he doesn't think it's his. He frowns but doesn't feel so unbalanced that he doesn't know what to do.
His eyes are naturally drawn to the sketchbook and he nods. He knows the polite thing to do might be to sidestep this issue, but he also knows the polite route did approximately jackshit for him as a scared kid.
Softly, almost distracted: ] Like lancing a wound. Get the poison out. [ And then he shakes his head, just a quick twitch back and forth. Hadn't this kid said-- something had been in him? Will tastes bile and swallows hard. ] Do you want, um. Would you rather draw or walk?
Yeah. Poison. [will says it faintly, looking down at the sketchbook for a long moment, thinking about how much of his own poison he's leaked out all over the pages.
the question recenters him, though, and with a soft huff, he lifts his chin, looks down the street.] Walk. I -- walking is good. [Moving around gets poison out too, right?]
Okay. [ Will nods before he speaks, and he speaks before he moves, visibly convincing himself to snap out of his own visions of whatever this kid's gone through so they can go for that promised walk.
He leads the way, out of simple desire to communicate it's okay, just start walking. When he gets off the porch and his boots hit actual road, though, he looks both ways and then back at Will. ] Which way?
[Will crosses his arms over his chest, bouncing on his heels for a moment as he looks one way up, then down the street. Finally he points towards the woods.]
That way. [He sets off, having to take a couple steps for each of the older Will's long strides. They're quiet for a while, just the footsteps, the wind in the trees, the soft exhale of visible breath in the cold. After a few minutes, he ventures:] Why were you awake?
[ Quiet is something Will's always had a strained relationship with. On the one hand, it feels safe, or he desperately wants it to feel that way. It ought to feel safe, considering how unsafe being around too many people can feel.
But in reality, it's often just a space to let his own dark thoughts echo endlessly. This, right now, isn't a comfortable silence...but it's not a completely lonely one, either. It's somewhere in between discomfort and relief.
He supposes he should have expected that question, but it still takes him by surprise in the moment. Will glances over and then tucks his free hand into his jacket pocket. ] I'm usually awake. I've never been very good at sleeping.
[ Will doesn't want to pry, but he also is driven by a perpetual instinct to understand. He looks over again. ] Were you good at sleeping, before?
Aren't you tired? [pot, meet kettle. still, will has an expression that's genuinely, gently concerned about the man's sleep health. he's seen what long, repeated sleep deprivation can do to someone, after all -- his mom is an excellent example.
the question makes him shrug, vaguely.] Not really. I don't sleep very deeply, so if it was loud I'd wake up. [it's a very simple, almost innocent way of saying he hasn't exactly grown up in a peaceful home.]
Always. [ Said with a half-there laugh, like the very concept of not being tired is hilarious (but like he's still too tired for a full laugh about it). It's pulled up short when Will glances over and sees not childish lack of understanding, but— sympathy. Receiving that expression from a teenager feels oddly wrong even while it soothes something perpetually-wounded.
When the other keeps going, Will swallows and makes a concerted effort to offer just a little bit more direct looking at him than he's usually comfortable with. ]
...I'm sorry. [ It comes from genuine compassion. He looks unsettled by it, but he's also unconsciously slowing his gait, making it so the other doesn't have to work so hard to keep up. ] I've talked to— a few other people who were unhappy back home. It sounds like Deerington is better, for some of us.
[will's footsteps stumble a little at that, because that's...the first time anyone else has voiced aloud that deerington is better in some ways. usually it's all i hate this place and i need to get home.
hearing it aloud makes something in his tense shoulders loosen a little, and he lets out a soft, relieved sigh.] Yeah. Y-Yeah, that exactly, that...it's better. It's better in a lot of ways.
[ Will's expecting it to be a controversial opinion based on that fact as well — the vast majority of people trapped here are eager to leave. Hell, Will's own conversations her revolved around that when he first arrived. Now, though...
His surprise that the other agrees with him shows on his face, a soft consideration of why that might be.
Maybe it's why he shares his own reason, impulsive and quick even as it comes without eye contact: ] I'm not as— lonely here.
It's probably just bonding through shared trauma, [ he laughs, mostly a sudden change in expression more than a sound, ] but it's...working better than anything did back in my home world.
[will laughs a little too, an equally humorless sound, but he walks a little bit closer to the man, hands in his pockets.] Me neither.
I mean...I wasn't always lonely at home, I had my friends and all, and they're great, but... [he trails off, looks out at the trees.] It's different here.
[ Huh. That's actually not what— Will expected. Will's happier here because he was lonely back home. He's found something, here. Several somethings. The boy he's staring at right now is one of them, in fact.
So what was missing for this one? Or— what's missing now? ]
The— whatever was hurting you back home, you mean. The creature. It didn't follow you. [ That guess feels like it might be part of it, but...
Will can't help sense he's continuing to miss something, and it's unsettling to have a piece missing from his intuition. ]
...yeah. That part's good too. [an understatement, but one that will shivers at the mention of, feeling the empty space where the monster was like a hole in his chest.]
But it's...it's also...it's okay to be different, here. To be...not-normal. A freak.
[ The longer the other talks about this, the more certain Will becomes that there's an undercurrent here that he hasn't quite been caught by. He's slow to nod, does so just once.
But he also steps closer as they continue, taking the other's lead with that. ] In...some ways. [ He allows, because it doesn't feel like they're walking completely separate paths about this. Just that one's got different twists and turns than the other. ]
I think it sounds like we might be feeling relieved about different things that don't make us freaks here. [ It's said carefully, Will feeling out the boundaries of what this question might even look like before he asks it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wontgraham) wrote2019-04-10 08:46 pm
no subject
either
no i
i don't know
[whenever he wakes up from a nightmare, there's always a lull, where he just tries to catch his breath and slow his heart down and stop panicking. but then that point passes and he starts thinking about what he'd dreamed of, and the panic creeps back in.
he's there now, up and pacing the kitchen, typing and deleting again and again. finally:] i'm gonna
take a walk
i think
[at 3am. in deerington. great ideas.]
no subject
i don't usually know what i want after a nightmare, either.
you shouldn't go alone.
what's your address? [ Maybe someone demanding your address at 3am is almost as spooky as the rest of Deerington, but hopefully it's at least a little lower on the list of 'things to avoid'. ]
no subject
it's got a bunch of bikes out front
[clearly will is from the early to mid 80's, because what is stranger danger? he's already stepping into his shoes and pulling on a sweatshirt to tiptoe outside and hover on the front porch.]
text > action
[ And he is, relatively speaking. Will lives at the edge of town, almost as far away from his neighbors as he does back home, so even with a cab, it takes a little while.
But he's not fussy about getting ready to leave, clearly. Will's still wearing flannel pajama bottoms with his sneakers and jacket, looking about as hectic and sleepless as he feels.
He's way too aware of his hands as he approaches the address and spots someone by the porch. ] Thanks for waiting. [ It feels weird and stiff, like talking to a colleague, but Will isn't sure what else to open with. ]
action
Hey.
[it's now he realizes, with something strange and exhausting, that he doesn't know this man's name.]
no subject
Will, meanwhile, got Will's name from Steve a few weeks ago, which means...he completely misses the fact that Will might not have realized his own name is the same as his network handle. Not a ton of them actually use their real names, after all. (Will's just wasted all his creativity on figuring out murders, he didn't have any left for usernames.)
He stands in front of the porch for a beat too long, maybe, and then nods up the road, hands in his pockets. ]
I'll just-- follow wherever you need to go.
no subject
Be right back. [he scurries back inside, tiny and quiet and careful, and reappears minutes later with his backpack. he rummages around in it, amid the loose colored pencils and crayons and paper, and pulls out a large-ish sketchbook.]
Um. I made you something. As -- to say thanks for. Listening to me. [the sketchbook has some loose pages tucked inside it, and will pulls a couple of them free, holding them out hesitantly. on them, he'd done his best to draw the older will's dogs -- all seven of them -- based on the descriptions he'd gotten. the drawings are...actually surprisingly well-done for a thirteen-year-old kid. clearly he agonized over them, erasing and redrawing the lines until they fit his exacting self-standards.]
Here. If...if you want them.
no subject
...but even with his lack of current suspicions, not much could have prepared Will for what the return trip was actually for. He blinks, stunned, and reaches out a cautious hand for the paper. He's staring at Will while he does it, until he's the only one holding the sheet and finally looks down at it in full. ]
These are— really nice. [ His tone says he's genuine about this praise. He's bad at guessing exact ages, but Will can't be more than what, a very short fourteen year old? Thirteen? ] I'd, uh. Yeah. [ He's nodding before he's organized his thoughts, touched and unsure the best way to express that.
He holds the papers like they're important, close to his chest and already uncertain of the best way not to wrinkle them. ] If you're— okay with giving them away, I'd. I'll keep them.
[ A beat. ] I guess now I do have pictures of them. [ Since he'd described them so much entirely because of the lack of photos to share. ]
no subject
this is neither, but he's mildly embarrassed still, ears turning pink.] I'm okay, yeah. I made them for you. I've got lots of others. I-I mean, drawings. I draw a lot.
no subject
[ He's rolling them, very carefully, not used to having valuable pieces of paper to keep track of. This way they won't wrinkle, like posters stored in a record shop. ] Does it help? [ He doesn't elaborate for a second, until he catches back up with himself and winces. ] With the— nightmares. Drawing about it, or drawing distractions.
no subject
...sometimes. [will looks away, hugging the sketchbook to his chest, feeling the pictures inside with images of his nightmares burning like a brand.] Sometimes it helps to get them out of my head.
no subject
His eyes are naturally drawn to the sketchbook and he nods. He knows the polite thing to do might be to sidestep this issue, but he also knows the polite route did approximately jackshit for him as a scared kid.
Softly, almost distracted: ] Like lancing a wound. Get the poison out. [ And then he shakes his head, just a quick twitch back and forth. Hadn't this kid said-- something had been in him? Will tastes bile and swallows hard. ] Do you want, um. Would you rather draw or walk?
no subject
the question recenters him, though, and with a soft huff, he lifts his chin, looks down the street.] Walk. I -- walking is good. [Moving around gets poison out too, right?]
no subject
He leads the way, out of simple desire to communicate it's okay, just start walking. When he gets off the porch and his boots hit actual road, though, he looks both ways and then back at Will. ] Which way?
no subject
That way. [He sets off, having to take a couple steps for each of the older Will's long strides. They're quiet for a while, just the footsteps, the wind in the trees, the soft exhale of visible breath in the cold. After a few minutes, he ventures:] Why were you awake?
no subject
But in reality, it's often just a space to let his own dark thoughts echo endlessly. This, right now, isn't a comfortable silence...but it's not a completely lonely one, either. It's somewhere in between discomfort and relief.
He supposes he should have expected that question, but it still takes him by surprise in the moment. Will glances over and then tucks his free hand into his jacket pocket. ] I'm usually awake. I've never been very good at sleeping.
[ Will doesn't want to pry, but he also is driven by a perpetual instinct to understand. He looks over again. ] Were you good at sleeping, before?
no subject
the question makes him shrug, vaguely.] Not really. I don't sleep very deeply, so if it was loud I'd wake up. [it's a very simple, almost innocent way of saying he hasn't exactly grown up in a peaceful home.]
no subject
When the other keeps going, Will swallows and makes a concerted effort to offer just a little bit more direct looking at him than he's usually comfortable with. ]
...I'm sorry. [ It comes from genuine compassion. He looks unsettled by it, but he's also unconsciously slowing his gait, making it so the other doesn't have to work so hard to keep up. ] I've talked to— a few other people who were unhappy back home. It sounds like Deerington is better, for some of us.
Aside from the monthly monsters.
no subject
hearing it aloud makes something in his tense shoulders loosen a little, and he lets out a soft, relieved sigh.] Yeah. Y-Yeah, that exactly, that...it's better. It's better in a lot of ways.
no subject
His surprise that the other agrees with him shows on his face, a soft consideration of why that might be.
Maybe it's why he shares his own reason, impulsive and quick even as it comes without eye contact: ] I'm not as— lonely here.
It's probably just bonding through shared trauma, [ he laughs, mostly a sudden change in expression more than a sound, ] but it's...working better than anything did back in my home world.
no subject
I mean...I wasn't always lonely at home, I had my friends and all, and they're great, but... [he trails off, looks out at the trees.] It's different here.
no subject
So what was missing for this one? Or— what's missing now? ]
The— whatever was hurting you back home, you mean. The creature. It didn't follow you. [ That guess feels like it might be part of it, but...
Will can't help sense he's continuing to miss something, and it's unsettling to have a piece missing from his intuition. ]
no subject
But it's...it's also...it's okay to be different, here. To be...not-normal. A freak.
...y'know?
no subject
But he also steps closer as they continue, taking the other's lead with that. ] In...some ways. [ He allows, because it doesn't feel like they're walking completely separate paths about this. Just that one's got different twists and turns than the other. ]
I think it sounds like we might be feeling relieved about different things that don't make us freaks here. [ It's said carefully, Will feeling out the boundaries of what this question might even look like before he asks it. ]
no subject
What things? [it's a loaded question, because will has a loooong list of all the reasons he's a freak.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: homophobia/child abuse
cw: homophobia/child abuse
cw: homophobia/child abuse/homophobic slurs
cw: homophobia/child abuse/homophobic slurs, insanity/institutionalization mention
cw: homophobia/child abuse for like the whole thread tbh
cw: homophobia/child abuse
cw: homophobia/child abuse
cw: homophobia/child abuse
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)