daybreakacademy | Lost through time and that's all I need, so much love, then one day buried

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Lost through time and that's all I need, so much love, then one day buried

WHO: Héctor, semi-open
WHERE: Around the Academy
WHEN: Post Hollow plot.
WHAT: Sad trauma skeleton. Not a single happy prompt in sight.
WARNINGS: Standard spoilers, possible mentions of death, murder, body horror, etc

A - [Closed to Peter]

He wakes with a gasp. His body stings with cold, weighed down with it, but he pushes immediately upward, against the lid of the freezer, scrambling for the light the breaks through on shivering limbs. The climb out is almost never graceful.

But the climb out doesn't usually feature somebody else, right there and ready for him. First his mind's got to register what he's seeing. Then, all the last few weeks come crashing back. It's enough to make him forget the ice stuck to his bones and his hair. He tries to focus on the boy.

"M-Mi-jo? Wh-what are you doing here?"

B - [Closed to Imelda]

It's not the moment he wakes, like he promised. He feels a little guilty about that, but it couldn't be helped. Still, he does show up as soon as he's able. Wearing a grey blanket like a veil. Looking around him, seeing the hall's empty for now, he reaches out with bare-boned knuckles and lets them sound upon her door.

There's a fear in him he can't push down. Maybe he dreamed it all up, tricked himself. Maybe she really did just say it to keep him calm. Maybe he'll have ruined things to the point it doesn't matter if she meant it then.

He dares to speak. "...Imelda? Are you awake?"

C - Open

He'll give it right back. He will. Not like those other times he thought he'd give something back like those backpacks or that van or Chich's femur. Definitely not like those times.

The hoodie he takes from the lost and found would probably be too small for his frame on a normal day, but it's perfect right now, when he can't bear being flesh a minute more than he's got to. He'll be alright. He always pushes through. He just needs a little more time.

The hoodie keeps him hidden, his hands can hide in (borrowed) gloves and the hood can mostly hide his head. Ducking it and wearing a scarf on the lower half of his face does the rest of the job. It's still quiet at night and he's still got the ability to go part way on his power last minute if he needs to. If he's going to keep seeing Imelda, speaking to her, he can't just hide in his dorm. He's got no choice but creep his way across the grounds through the night, only the cane revealing who it could be, but he grips it like a lifeline. Or a weapon. Sneaking up now wouldn't be the best idea.

On the other hand, any person lingering outside of the Lumiere dorm might catch him going still and abruptly turning back at the sight of them.

D- Open

He sets up on a path close to the school. It's as far as he can will himself to go. He's got no picture for the man, no piece saved he can leave. But he's got a small candle lit and he's got a bottle of cheap brandy with two glasses. He knows the man isn't coming back to drink it. Not even his ghost. But Garcie deserved more than to be killed in an alley. The dead in general deserved to be remembered.

So he sits there, in a hood and blanket on the path, facing the candle, the fencing, and the filled glass he won't touch.

"You never did tell me who Valentin was, amigo..."

E - Open

There were more than a few people he needed to see. At least a few he needed to talk to. Orihime. Ekkehardt. Maya, Minako, Tyzias. All the kids he was tutoring or generally making promises to that he couldn't keep. Gamma. He doesn't know when it became such a list but it seemed that it was now.

In at least some cases, he might have messaged those people, or even found the nerve to knock on their door. Others he might have run into by now. But for a good portion of time, he's in his room and that's where he stays, running out of things to mark and work to do and things to write. Sitting in his bones because if something, anything, touches him right now he might scream. He certainly startles to hear a knock at his door.

He gets up, walks to it, presses close, but doesn't open it. There's a pause before he calls, "Who is it? What do you want?"

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He had two good months before everything fell apart. Frankly, that's kind of a miracle all by itself? He's so bad at keeping secrets and so good at finding out things he shouldn't know in the first place. But it doesn't matter now. The damage is done; the knowledge can't be plucked out of his head so easily.

For a moment, he just leans against Héctor. Since finding out, he's barely had a chance to cope with the knowledge himself. Texted Gwen, mostly, and cried on his own when he'd thought no one else was watching. That more than anything keeps his eyes dry now. He's just tired now, worn out by stress and worry. "You didn't do it," he says, head bowed. "Not really. Just like you didn't mean to try to attack us." As far as Peter's concerned, Hollow Héctor was someone else entirely, dammit. It's the only way his own sanity survives any of this.

"I remember it like I did," He all but whispers. He feels so, so sick. He's not prepared to forgive himself like Peter's forgiving him.

"I'm sorry for that too," He says, just to get it out before he's silenced. "I'm sorry for all of it."

He holds Peter close, stroking his hair again. Then says, "Let's sit. We can talk. You can tell me what I've missed. Or we can figure things out. Or... whatever."

He just bows his head a little more at Héctor's apology. Accepting it, because what else can he do? Not blaming him won't make anything right. Hell, it might just make it worse. So for now he just lets Héctor apologize. And leans in close, letting Héctor pet his hair.

"Y-yeah," he says after a moment. "Let's - let's get you up to speed first." That seems important. Peter knowing he's dead now is a big change, of course. He's still not really coping with that. And he's going to have a lot of questions for Héctor now - how he manages, who he talks to. All of that. (God, what is he going to tell Aunt May?) "Do you need help getting out of the freezer?"

They really do have a lot to talk about. He gives Peter another brief squeeze before pulling back and looking down at his icy casket.

"I can manage if you don't mind me falling apart for a second." The thing is a bit to tight to really lift his legs up out of. For now, he leans a bit over the side, either to fall out or be caught. He'll accept either, but if he's going to pieces he'll be a minute, blinking before the bones he's lost zip back in place.

He'll do his best, anyway, though given his strength he's gonna let some pieces of Héctor fall rather than risk breaking something. Afterwards, he steps back carefully, giving Héc a moment to pull himself together. Also, kind of staring. He has to wonder if that's something he's going to be able to do now. The thought is frankly kind of horrifying.

"Yeah, sure, no problem," he says. Hovering close, but letting Héc do his thing. He'll just web a couple chairs over for them. "Long as you get it together eventually."

Always good to be sure. While Peter didn't mind his skeletal mannerisms much before, things were a little closer to home now.

He falls back and hits the ground with a clatter. Not too much separation this time, just a few rolling bits of his spine which go back in place quick enough. His head is a little loose though. His body sits up without him and reaches down. He pops his head back on, gives a light spin, blinks when he stops it and shakes himself out.

He gets up and goes toward those chairs, settling in one. "Don't worry. I'm good at that. Practiced it in the outlands, so I never lose pieces I still have. Always bounce back."

Yeah uh. He's definitely staring a lot more now - though more in morbid fascination than anything else. This is going to lead to some painful and frankly weird experiments later but for now - business as usual, Héctor is a skeleton, that's good. He just flops down in a chair and looks kind of tired.

"You didn't lose any more right?" he asks, looking Héc over again. "Between - between turning into a monster and all of that."

His eyes close in a wince, expression twisting. He remembers feeling himself be torn apart-- in two ways-- but he shakes his head.

"No. No, I'm... all accounted for. Only missing the old rib and teeth." Thank God for that.

A pause. "I'm going to hold off on... checking how my other form is. It should be fine, it always restores to my point of death but..." But he can't make himself do it without feeling like something is squeezing on his heart, not physically there but there in a way he can feel.

Looks about right to him too. One of these days he's still going to replace that rib fragment, he swears.

As for Héc not checking his other form - Peter shivers a bit in relief. He's not sure he could handle seeing that transition right now. "If it doesn't, who do you go to? Ekkehardt again?" And under that is a different, implied question: who does Peter go to now? Does he have to go see someone who specializes in the undead now too?

He's in no particular rush to replace a fragment that causes little pain and has little use, but on the day Peter gets to that there will be thanks. Probably.

The shiver gets a look of sympathy and a much deeper sadness. He doesn't comment for now.

"I'm not sure. I'd try with him first but it would really depend on what's wrong. If I'm not resetting right, that's one thing. Or even resetting to a new point. If it were something else, it might be a different story." He tries not to panic at the thought. "But, very worst case, I'd have to stop hiding I'm dead in that way."

The implied question requires a different sort of thought. Actually, of how horrible this is, there might be one good thing out of it. "You've got your healing, but you're still going to need to be more careful. You're alive enough you can still be killed by all the same things as the living, but if someone needs to treat you, we need that number of people to be as low as possible. I couldn't ask you before but I can now; when you were in the infirmary before, do you remember another of your scars forming and who was there?"

Edited 2019-03-04 12:05 (UTC)

Right. Héctor only has so long to "live" despite being dead already. If he can't get back to his previous state of undeadness, then that means all this has taken a toll, hasn't it? And - well, why wouldn't it? If he somehow manages to make it back to his old self that will be kind of crazy, probably. "Which would suck," he says after a moment. "But - you'd be mostly safe here, right?"

Peter sure doesn't care that Héctor is a skeleton. Maybe most of the others wouldn't to? But then he wouldn't be able to see Coco ... oof, he winces just thinking about it. Hopefully Héc still has a human option to go back to.

He pauses at Héctor's question though, trying to think. He's not very good at knowing when he got new scars under normal circumstances - they're really hard to see - but this time? Recognition flickers in his face immediately. "Hieke," he says immediately. "I - didn't know what he was talking about at the time. He tried to heal the scars on my face but they came straight back. And a new one showed up." A pause. "Is that - is that from people finding out about me? Is that why you warned me not to tell anyone?"

How the hell is he supposed to live like this without telling anyone?

Thankfully, he's sure his resistance to change right now is a little more based in the psychological than what energy he does or doesn't have. But it's a possibility too.

He comes to Peter's same revelation far faster, grimacing at the idea of trying to reach Coco while permanently skeletal. It's the one reason he'd be bothered at all at this point but it's not a small reason. "I'd be..." Safe doesn't feel like the word, after what's happened. "I'd figure something out."

It's a huge relief, on the other hand, that Peter summons a name so quickly. And the name being Hieke's? He breathes a sigh. This they could work with.

"Si." He nods solemn. "That's what those scars are. The first is from me. The second one must be Hieke's. I don't know if you have any from Gwen or Tía May, but... they know." And they knew what the bigger one came from. "You have to stay from everyone who could figure out. I... want you to come with me to Santa Cecilia when your schooling ends here. I've already offered to your Tía too. I know it's not your home but..." He looks uncertainly from Peter to the ground.

Look. Figuring something out is better than being imprisoned or taken apart for science or something. Peter still shivers to think of Hollow Héctor trapped, even if it had been for the best.

He's a little more concerned with the rest of what Héctor says. One hand drifts to the white gash on his neck, just kind of feeling the shape of it. And the rest of him, well ... He goes rather pale as Héctor offers to take him home. It's a hell of a thing, and he is grateful, truly. But he's going to have to freak out first.

"No, that's - I can't, Héctor. I can't just leave New York and hide in Mexico or something. I gotta be Spider-Man again." He's hyperventliating a little, kind of panicking. Not thinking this through. "And I can't just leave all my friends, okay? Ned and MJ - they've gotta be worried sick. I have to tell them I'm okay. I can't just disappear."

(But May had spoken the truth in that first conversation: Peter can't come home, not until his friends all forget him. And by then, what's the point? He's better off in Santa Cecilia with Héctor.)

Peter takes it about as well as he expected him to. He doesn't try to argue with a think the boy says. It feels unspeakably cruel, all of this, forcing a boy to be forgotten, making him disappear. He doesn't wish that fate on anyone but especially not Peter.

It's what they have to do. He keeps his eyes down, expression twisting, because the only thing he can really do is try not to cry.

That and one another thing. He gets up from his seat and drags it over so he's right next to Peter. He pulls the boy into a tight hug.

Quiet as a breath, he tells him, "You're not missing. They had a funeral for you, Mijo. Your friends... they're not wondering where you are like that." Just wondering whether afterlifes were real and how it might look. "I'm sorry. This isn't something anybody should have to go through from this side, especially not at your age, but I promise, we can get through this. Gwen and your Tía May and I are all gonna make sure you get the best life you can."

They had a funeral for you. That - makes him stop, eyes wide, breath stopped for a second. He hadn't even thought of it like that. But they would have, wouldn't they? Gwen said he'd been dead for over a year. And even if the Avengers could have told his aunt what really happened, what was she supposed to do? Not bury her nephew on the off chance that someone might magic him back to life one day? No, there would have been a funeral. And probably a decent chunk of his school was there, as they always are for any student that has their life taken from them so young ...

It's a good thing Héctor's hugging him because he's going to just burst into a choked sob. That more than anything is his response to Héctor. The grim reality of working out the pieces, putting them together, coming to the obvious and cold conclusion. MJ and Ned think he's dead. And if he goes back to them, if he tells them he's not ... maybe he wouldn't be hurt too much by MJ and Ned knowing. But Ned, god, he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. The damage would explode exponentially from there.

"It's not fair," he says finally, voice wavering with both grief and anger. "Why? Why do I have to deal with this? What did I do? I just wanted ... "

He wanted to save the world, and look where it got him.

The sob is expected. It still hits like a physical blow. He holds the boy, cradling the back of his head.

"I know. I know, I know," He says, voice wavering too. It's something that people say to calm but maybe in this instance he really does know. He hadn't wanted to save the world, no, but he remembers this pleading, he remembers the pain, and it's not really the sort that one stops feeling but just finds easier to set aside with time. Ten years later and some part of him is still crying out that he just wanted to go home. He just wanted...

"This is something everyone deals with, Mijo. We don't get to decide when. Or how." He pulls back just enough to try and meet Peter's eyes. "It's nothing you did. I worry about you but, the truth is, these things happen. To whoever, whenever. No matter how careful you are. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just bad luck."

They don't need to hear how unfair these things can be.

"It's going to hurt. But just remember, you're still here. You can still live without being one of the living. You're going to be remembered." No matter May's hopes. "And you're still so, so loved. It'll get easier. You'll see it as a second chance, not the loss of the first one. But for now, let yourself feel it. No shame in grieving what you've lost."

He just cries for a long moment. It’s sort of the first time he’s cried about it? He’d fought back tears texting Gwen, and he’d been in a state of shock since first finding out. But this is the first time he’s talked to anyone about it in person, and it’s Héctor, one of the people he’s closest to in the world right now. If there’s anyone he was going to cry on, it’s him. The man understands, at least. How desperately he just wants to go back to his normal life, with his aunt and his dumb classes and his silly classmates. He wants to hang out with Gwen at band practice. Or build legos with Ned, or sit around coming up with excessive literary analyses of children’s cartoons with MJ …

None of those things are ever going to happen again. He’s never going see MJ and Ned again. And Gwen? Gwen’s changed, trapped in her own decisions, made because he died and left a hole in their lives. The only one he is going to see again as-is would be May, which is good because oh god it’s bad enough already without his aunt in his life.

After a moment of just sobbing, he calms again. Not completely, but enough to rub at his face a little and maybe talk. As much as this wavering voice counts as speaking. “When does it stop hurting?” he asks, looking up at Héctor. “How - how do you live with it?”

This moment? This is critical. It's so important. He doesn't dare interrupt it. Like a rite of passage in both loosening one's grip on life and making it tighter than ever before. All his new primos they picked up along the way did it. Or at least, the ones who managed better.

He just waits and holds the boy, being as strong a pillar he can manage now as ever. His boy, his poor boy, he deserved better than this.

When the question finally comes, he looks sadly at Peter. The second one though? That's easier.

He says, "You live, Mijo. You live in the ways you didn't let yourself before." His smile is oh so fragile, but he manages it all the same. "You slow down, take the moments. Hold them so tight. And you hang on to those you love. You look out for them to the best of your ability, teach what you can, share yourself where it's needed. And you let their memory push you as much as you want your memory to help them. In a normal death, it's our memories that keep those who've passed alive. The stories we leave behind. The only difference here is the chance to leave more than we would have. To try and be the best of who we are and remind those, no matter how little time there was, that it could be worth it. That all that hurting won't let us forget how precious our time, our dear ones, can be."

In a lot of ways, it's what he failed to do. But for Peter, he knows he's already more than succeeded. That, at least, he can be glad for. He gives another brief squeeze, gentler this time, and pulls back again.

"As for the technical aspects, we work that out as we go. We talk about it, you and me. Because that's what families do. Especially our kind."

He shouldn't have asked that first one, huh. Not when he knows what the answer is going to be already. He just shudders a little more, trying to pull himself back together again.

"Does that work for you?" he replies, his voice small and genuine. No sarcasm here at all - he honestly wants to know if this is how Héctor does it. Clearly he cares about Coco and the other kids in his life. Imelda... is complicated, and he's not going to touch that if he can help it. In any case, it seems like some kind of sense, which is all he can ask for right now. Something to cling to until he can get the ground under his feet again. "It seems - it seems really, really hard to do. All of that just to keep moving."

Not living any more, no. Just continuing whatever existence they can, now. Whatever their kind can do. Those last few words sink in slowly, like a lead weight settling to the bottom of a lake. He's one of the dead now. Has been for a while.

His laugh is a soft pained thing. His nod is sincere.

"Yes. It does. I mean this in general, but for my kind of undead, specifically, it's really important we hang on to what we have. When I was in the outlands, it could be so easy to give up, fall behind." Fall to dust. "We had to have something to push ourselves on. Whether it was a better future or a return to our pasts."

It was pretty obvious what he was trying for. He's heard clinging to the past can be bad, but he doesn't think so. Not like this at least. He pulls back to his own chair so Peter can see him, though one hand remains on Peter's arm. He lifts the other, turning it over, bringing his hand to close and open.

"Most of how I function is through willpower. Whatever magic keeps me together, I use it to push myself. I use it to maintain how I am. It's hard sometimes, but that's how it is and I'll always take it over not. Playing for Coco... and being here now, it's done a lot for me." He smiles a little wider at Peter. "You function just like the living as long as that pact holds up. It shouldn't be so hard for you. But, if things ever get harder in another way, that is what I'd say to do. Carry what you love."

It makes sense, though. Maybe Peter doesn't have the same kind of access to the past that Héctor does, given the terms of his pact? But he's still got Gwen and May and all the friends he's made here. That's something. He'll just have to hold on with both hands.

"Maybe we can help each other then," he says slowly. "If - if I'm held together by a pact and you're held together by willpower, then you can make sure my pact doesn't fail and I'll always be here to remember you." He has no idea if that would actually work? Surely enough people would wear Peter down eventually, or Héctor's magic would start failing, or something. But it gives him a little hope, at least, knowing that there could be one person always there to help keep Héctor moving, even if he never reconnects with his actual family.

That's actually something. He'd still want to be there for his daughter, even if she didn't want him, but someone actually wanting him around... maybe he'd avoid simply slipping into a Santa Cecilia graveyard to fade away. He could push to stay for Peter.

His smile goes a little wider, almost a grin. His hand lifts, brushing the boy's cherk.

"Mijo, if you thought for a second I wasn't already comitted to helping you, you haven't been paying attention." Both in keeping him alive and in general. "But thank you."

His hand drops. "With any luck, we see in a year if you age. You're alive every other way, you might still and then with time you might even forget all this. Live a long life. If not, we can make good of that too."

He ducks his head a little at that. "I knew you were gonna help," he says. "No question there. I just want you to stay as long as you can." Since that probably does need to be said, okay. Don't go dump yourself in a graveyard you dumb skeleton uncle.

Anyway. He keeps his head bowed even as Héc drops his hand. Just. Thinking. Unhappy, but calm enough to at least consider the logistics of what the hell is even going on with his unlife. "I haven't aged yet," he says, uncertain. "I should have realized Gwen looked different." That doesn't mean he can't age though - he hasn't hardly been alive again for that long.

It makes his heart ache to hear it. It hurts because he doesn't fully know how much time he's actually got. Because to be missed is something he's found himself longing for, but it's a bitter, bitter drink, to actually see the pain.

"I'll do my very best," He promises. Maybe he'll wind up the longest lived of his kind. That would be a sort of irony.

"It's easier to find a simple explanation for those things," He says with a shake of his head. Easier to brush off a change in appearance than think time's been missed. Easier to be seen alive than dead.

"You haven't been back with us very long, if I understand right. But I already got your height. Five foot, six inches. Opposite to me. So we find out and... well, there's lots of tricks out there if we need them. If you don't age, you could hypothetically live forever if you're careful-- though probably more likely just longer than average, very few people die of old age. We pass you off like those actors-- you know, the ones who look so young they play teens. Can go an extra fifteen to twenty five years anywhere on that. More if you don't go out much. Go away for a while, come back, dye your hair, you're your own son or whatever and no one's the wiser. Super easy." He pauses. "When's your birthday? We should do something then. Like, symbolically."

It would be ironic if he lasted longer than anyone else. Maybe Peter really can help with that; maybe he can't.

Anyway, he quiets again. Listening to that, thinking it through. He probably could pass for one of those baby-faced actor types, yeah. And when people finally catch on ... they can cross that bridge when they come to it, right? Peter isn't sure he's good enough to lie and pretend to be his own son or something, but maybe he will be after two decades of being dead. (He - can only hope he isn't really immortal. The thought scares him more than it comforts him.)

"I guess we'll figure it out," he says, sucking in a breath. "I'm really glad I have you to help though. I haven't even thought about any of this stuff."

How could he? Things have been too damn crazy. No room at all to think about what to do with being dead.

"August 10th," he says after a moment. "That's my birthday. I turned sixteen almost seven months ago."

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