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

[unpocoloco]

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?"

Comments

[unpocoloco]

A fair point. Gon was a kind boy, human despite being a bear. He had meant the hollow thing himself but, stopping to look at his skeletal fingers for a moment, he guessed this counted too. It was something to make him uncertain of where he stood on the human thing.

"It does," He agrees, quietly. "Even more than just a change of minor to major key. More than instruments or the voice or the tempo it's played at. I taught Ernesto everything knew, everything I could, but these were things he just couldn't get. I told him to play as if for those you love. He wanted to play for as many people who would love him."

For a moment, he's not angry at his friend beyond a distant bitterness. He's just sad. Four years older Ernesto may have been, but he was the teacher. He failed in every way it counted. Probably just because they weren't lessons he could've taught back then as an overeager orphan kid.

"I wrote all my songs for people who mattered to me. For Imelda. For my Coco. Even that stupid one, I did that for my hometown." He laughs, shaking his head. The world is his family indeed. "It took me that horrible tour to realize it. I thought I'd find inspiration, but it was all at home, back with the people I loved. Every song I played just spoke of how I missed them." He doesn't blame Imelda, pushing away music. Sometimes it all hurts so bad he can't stand it. But then it helps sometimes. Like now. Sometimes missing was all you had. Sometimes you had to hold onto it to keep those better memories. He thinks he sees what Maya means a little better with that.

"...You're a kind girl, Mija. Thoughtful and earnest. You've got this conviction, you know? Stubborn, but in a good way." He breathes a sigh. "Thank you. For all of this."

[lastexit]

Mentioning Ernesto caused Maya to roll her shoulder and try to get comfortable again. It was a nagging feeling, something wrong, in the back of her mind that just caused an unease in her. Like her skin didn't fit right. Which is a poor thought to have when sitting with someone who didn't seem to feel his skin fit right either. More literally.

Is it skin? Not important.

"It's how I could tell the difference, that song means something to you while- he, it means nothing to him." She could hear it, Ernesto was technically proficient, but nothing more. "Mine were about how I felt, when I wrote them. I'm not sure I could play some of them anymore. Not- not the way they were meant to be played." Who she was and who she is are so different, the girl she was is lost. And her voice gone with them. She'd still write, she can create new songs, just not those songs. Those feelings.

"Friends help each other, and lift them up when something goes horribly wrong." She won't comment on how much trouble her stubbornness and conviction have given her. How much being earnest has gotten her her hurt. It wasn't the right time. "This time, I was the right person for the job."

[unpocoloco]

He nods his head. It's a sad thought but he more than understands. His song for the world is gone from him, Coco's lullaby nearly went to after he heard how warped it could become. How warped his own memory could be.

He doesn't doubt those traits could get her into trouble, but wishes he'd been a little more stubborn back then.

"It seems you were, He agrees. And then he asks, "Will I get to hear some of your songs sometime? I've heard your covers. Haven't heard what's yours."

[lastexit]

The quiet after that request was a little more pointed than Maya's usual silence. Mostly as she closed her eyes again. The request is a bit, well, it's a bit more than usual. Her writing has become a bit more complicated as of late. She's gone back to writing instrumentals, more than anything with lyrics. So really there's only one option.

And while she's shared it with others, she hasn't shared it by playing it. Just a copy she already recorded.

Her strumming is light at first. The tune is fairly tranquil, soft, content.

"Gotta pack my bags, Leave my world behind,
Take a different road, I know it’s my time,
To open up my heart, For another crowd,
Play it strong, And sing it loud."

The song is a part of her now. It's probably, if she had to guess, her sound. If she had one. That moment where, no matter how it went, her life was different. Everyone's life was different. It wouldn't go away in just a year.

"There’s empty places in my life,
And I need to breathe,
There’s empty spaces on the map,
Waiting there for me,"

She kept singing, hitting the rest of the song but a bit confused. Trying to put together why she was still so- content. Given what this song was when she wrote it, and who she is now. She's still- attached to the sentiment in the song. Just not in the old context. There were parts she wrote in, almost like an afterthought, that were still her. Just not the suicidal her. Still depressed, but still willing to go on.

She let the song speak for herself, she could try to explain it. But she couldn't think of words better for explaining it than- well, it.

[unpocoloco]

Just like she did, his eyes close when she plays. He holds the guitar carefully in his arms, keeping it muted and her song its original form. All the magic in this place and there was still no better way to share a soul, at least from his side of things.

He doesn't have to guess the song's original meaning. It's more than obvious. The irony strikes him sometimes, the two of them here, one with a song of travel and escape, and him, a dead man longing to return. But no matter what he couldn't think ill of her for it.

Instead he hears the hope, a change from what once was. The uncertainty adds something genuine to the sound. He hears her like this, not just her song. And then it's over.

"Thank you," He says. His smile is soft. "For sharing that with me. We've... travelled far haven't we?" A slight laugh slips. He loosens his grip on the guitar a bit.

"You know, there's a lot of beautiful places out there. Travel wasn't for me, but I'm sure there's plenty good out there to see still. And if I ever get home, if you're wanting to see somewhere new, Santa Cecilia has best sunrises and sunsets of any place I've been. No bias, I swear." She can decide if that's a lie or not.

[lastexit]

"That- that wasn't the travel this song was about when I wrote it."

The words are quieter than normal. Not her powers, she just can't put the energy into admitting it quite as glibly as she could anything else. The song was, at one point, about something very different. A travel away from- everything. It kinda became something else. After she stopped being so... what she was.

He needed that context for the song before she said anything else. "I'm terrified of traveling, especially to beautiful places. I want to see them, I'm just not sure if I should. I'd be hard pressed to ruin a sunrise though..."

[unpocoloco]

"I know, Mija," He says quieter, sadder. His smile slips right off before she's even going on. He lifts his head at that little confession that follows.

He sighs. "I don't know if it's easier for you, to have it spoken or not. When I was with the dead, things could be really mixed for who was prepared to talk about what. Sometimes it was nothing. Sometimes there were work arounds and small details. Some didn't talk of it at all. That... that should've been the first thing I asked you."

Hindsight. He'd been foolish there. Wouldn't be the last time.

"I hope you live. For as long as you can. So that if you are travelling, it's for life and joy and nothing less. I want to get terribly jealous of everyone's grey hair. I want you to live far longer than me. And with all other travel rescinded, I hope I still see you someday in Santa Cecilia. So then, when you sing of travel, you can sing of that."

[lastexit]

"A lot of the weight. That crushing water I couldn't breach. Looking out at a world through a haze of chaos and pressure? It was a question. 'Am I crazy?'" The downside to this veil of secrecy, matched perfectly to her powers, was she could only act believing what she heard was real. But could never be sure, no matter what she found with her powers. What she could confirm after hearing it, she always wondered what it was. "It- knowing this is real. Demons, candles, the other world. Knowing that was a big change. I'm still- I'm still broken, but I want to keep going."

For now.

"More people need to know, but I don't want them to look at me the way they will." There's this- look of pity and unease, that second-guessing nature of humans. Who fear carrying any weight on themselves. They don't want their words to be the ones that break someone. And eventually that just makes her want to scream. "A few people know how messed up I am. But- I haven't found the way to bring that night up with anyone. Just say 'it got so bad I tried to kill myself, to save people from me.'"

"Sharing my feelings isn't really my thing." Says the musician that pours her feelings into her songs. But that's not really saying them, is it?

[unpocoloco]

"You shouldn't have been alone in that," He says. "This place, all its secrecy. It doesn't help us near as much as it hurts. If people knew about this stuff, we could have... something of an idea when things go wrong. We could prepare. Just a little." But that's all what ifs. It's all should-have-been's and those are rarely the reality.

She wants people to understand. It keeps her wanting and wishing and aching to get that weight out. But at the same time, it's also what has her hold her tongue. It's a different thing, but he's fair certain this past experience is going to be like that for him, if he gets past it.

"You seem to share well enough with me," He points out. He sighs. "People do best with those who share some common experience. I miss the dead a lot because there are things that only they can understand. Things are just known inherently. It goes on with all kinds of people. But even if someone can't get it in that way, there's still people who understand in other ways, more abstractly. And... sometimes... sometimes you have to just tell them. Even if you know they're going to freak out and it's going to hurt. And it makes things hard for a while but... eventually things can sort out. It might even go better after that. You sit them down and you tell them it's something important but hard to talk about. Hopefully, they understand. If they don't... well, you're not without people who do, okay?"

He doesn't know where she'd put him in terms of those who get it. He just hopes he can be some manner of support. Even as fragile as his own balance is.

[lastexit]

"Guess the world isn't fair." Maya will get fed up with the secrecy and try to threaten it at some point. But for now there was no point dwelling on it. She only brought it up to explain the big shift between the girl who stood on that roof, and who she was now.

She did trust him, and sharing with him was easy. How best to explain it without it coming off as some cruel joke. Some bitter part of her felt it was more of her 'surrounding herself with death' a thing her depression put front and center when it could. Like now. But- no, that isn't it.

"I hear who people are, it makes it easier to know who will see the girl who survived, and who will just see the girl who almost died. Before knowing you were dead, I knew you went through things, and music was a part of who you are. It- made things easier." Seeing that, a similar set of values, similar set of pains. It sucks the pain is part of that, but it is how they ended up with guitars playing through their feelings, "Some people I trust with my depression- Sarona, Peter, Zaka, I don't think they'd fully grasp who I was on that roof. But worse, knowing that could hurt them in some way. And-"

She doesn't want to hurt anyone, she knows she'll have to. The world is cruel that way, so she only wants to hurt those that need it.

[unpocoloco]

That gets a bitter sort of laugh. "You don't say." Guess they had a bit of camaraderie there too.

The assumption she's drawn to death would be understandable, but he was drawn to her first. He heard the music and he stopped to play and that was long before she knew about him anyway. Her explanation makes far more sense.

"Sí. I understand." Too well. He doesn't much want to hurt anyone either. "Perhaps it would help to remind them that's not who you are now. I know it's not that simple, that it's... going to linger. But you beat it once. There is a strength to that." At least he thinks so. "But I know what you mean too. I've imagined going home a thousand times and then some, I'm sure. Still can't imagine what I'll say to my daughter. Barely managed to tell my wife she's a widow."

And it's not as easy as saying it's not their fault. Not her fault her mind conspired, not his that he died, but there's always some extenuating circumstance mucking it up. "You don't technically have to tell them, but I hope it goes well if you do."

[lastexit]

Maya doesn't say all the darker thoughts on her mind, the thoughts that she knows are bitter and 'wrong.' Not wrong, that isn't the word. Hard, cruel, and cowardly. A part of why she took those pills, and ended up on that roof, was the promise that death meant it'd be over. She didn't need to worry about the aftermath, she'd be free.

Cam, Hector, so much evidence that was a broken promise from the start. You die, and the pain just keeps on rolling in spite of that.

And Maya's not going to say any of this, it isn't fair to add that to the conversation.

"I have to tell people close to me, eventually," as much as it felt easier to hide, to just lock this detail away and never bring it up. Just never give it a name. It needed a name, she needed to not be alone in facing it, "I can't do to other people what happened to me. Let it- surprise them, if I ever end up in that place again. They have to know that's there, no matter how far I've gotten from it."

Maya let's that linger in the air for a bit, a dark thought from a dark mind. "...You tell her you meant to come home a long time ago, and you never wanted to be gone for so long. At least, that's what I'd do in your shoes."

[unpocoloco]

That was the trouble with this world, wasn't it? You never knew. Even if that supposed freedom were in reach, there was always chance of that last second panic thinking, wait, I'm not ready. Death was no more a promise than life was.

Which brought them back to Cam, didn't it? Even if she doesn't say the name. Part of him wants to point out that the best way to never do what happened to her is to stay alive, but like with everything else, it's not that simple.

Of course what Maya says of Coco is right. He would want to tell her that. How being dead worked it's way in, he wasn't sure, but maybe that wasn't the important part. But thinking of his own shoes, the metaphorical sort and not the ones Daybreak had given to him, it makes him hum.

"You could write," He suggests. "Not like those big public message things, I'm sure that would turn into a mess. But you could write letters. That's what I did, on the road. I know, phones exist, that's so old fashioned, but I wanted something she could hold onto, keep with her. Aside my songbook, that's where I put all my lyrics, all my... thoughts I felt I could share. You could write out what you need and then just hang on to it. Until you're ready to tell those people. Or even before then, if writing makes it easier to do." She could get it all out at once, her fears and hopes. She could have that conversation without having to go through it all in such detail over and over. It might hurt less... or maybe it'll just hurt in the right way.

Quieter, he says, "Maybe I'll write too. Get back into that now that I can. If I give letters to Imelda now, I'm sure they'll make it to her even if I still can't. Whenever Imelda goes back to visit. To be honest, there's probably a few things I should work up to telling people too. Beyond the being dead thing." But very related.