noonelaughed | Dated Monday, August 8th, post ageswap

The weekend was fucked.

Chris remembers all of it, though. He remembers waking up as a kid, he remembers being little again and not knowing where his mum and and dad were. He remembers, even as a little kid on the island, liking the fish in his hut most of all, all the bright colors of the tropical ones and how they fit in with the duller colored-ones. He'd been worried about missing cubs, and about whether or not he'd be able to get his knots right when he was stuck on an island and not able to practice properly.

It's all fucked, and when he wakes up as himself again, the age he's supposed to be, it's all still stuck with him, the fact that just twenty-four hours ago, he hadn't remembered about Peter, or his mum or his dad or any of it. In some ways, he kind of wishes he could have stayed that way, not remembering how everything'd gone for him. Maybe he could have lived it over again and done it right this time and not been such a fuck up.

It's back to normal now though, and Chris decides to head up to the compound to see try and find people he knows, to make sure they've all changed back as well. At least that's one good thing about when the island decides to fuck around with them all: it's generally good about putting things right in the end.

He doesn't make it far though, before he sees it.

It's sitting there behind his hut like it belongs there, stone and solid, and if it had eyes it'd be staring back at him, it would.

Peter Miles
Brother, Son and Angel

There's even a bunch of flowers on the ground like his mum's just been there. Like somehow, she's found Peter's grave on the island but didn't think enough to come and shake him awake to say 'hi' to him. Everything's back to normal, alright.

Chris doesn't even remember walking towards it, or sitting down on the ground there, but the next thing he knows, he has. Before he knows it he's rolling a joint, remembering again how his little fingers were never able to do the knots properly, but how they've always been able to at least do this.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The island seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief that morning, everyone's bodies returned to normal— age, sex, and all. Claire knows that comparatively speaking, she's had little to deal with. Sure, waking up as Maxxie threw her for a loop, but the shock of it quickly pales when one considers people who had age lumped on top of everything else. Whose minds hurtled back in time, whose memories erased. If there's anything Claire can't imagine, it's the stress of that, of having forgotten lessons learned long ago. (Or, even, simply the burden of having that weight rushing in again.)

Which is why, after a minute of basking in being able to wear her own clothing again, Claire sets out to look for Chris.

If there's one thing she doesn't expect, it's to spot him sitting next to a grave.

Walking over and not saying a word, Claire sinks down to the ground next to Chris, eyes grazing over the name— and that's all she really needs to know.

Chris honestly doesn't remember how much of Claire he saw over the weekend. He'd been focused on a bunch of other stuff, really: on exploring, on watching the fish, on wondering whether or not his mum and dad would show up to take him home. But it seems like just about everyone he knows ended up changed.

"S'pose everyone's all gone back to normal today," he says, looking up at Claire for only a moment before he goes back to making sure he hasn't put too much spliff in the joint.

Her eyes linger on the joint, wanting to pull it away, but maybe this isn't the right time. Or maybe it is— Claire has a hard time telling these days, biting at her lower lip as she watches the easy motions, practiced, like he's done this a million times. The indecision, Claire thinks to herself, is always what results in life unraveling itself over time. Can't deny him whatever amount of relief he might get from the pot. Can't help thinking that the longer he indulges himself, the greater chance that something else will go wrong. It's an impasse, and merely standing at it makes Claire feel like she's on the cusp of breaking into tears— she can't imagine how it must feel on Chris' side.

Nudging herself closer, she gives the headstone a wary look before she tries to reach out for Chris' hand, running her own down the side of his arm before she leans in, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Things are never really normal around here," she says softly.

He'll grab her hand eventually, but not just yet. Not while his fingers are busy rolling the spliff into a neat little cylinder. He doesn't have a lot of these rolling papers left, and it'd be a fuckin' shame to waste one just now.

Satisfied he's got just the right amount settled there in the slight bend of the paper, he starts to roll it.

"Did I ever tell you how Peter was my mum and dad's favorite?" he asks her without looking over.

That's the sort of thing all kids dread and fear, Claire thinks quietly to herself, even as she pulls over to sit closer to Chris, until their arms touch, until she can see every lash and the way they seem turned down to hide his eyes from view. Parents are supposed to love unconditionally, equally, and while Claire can't say that she's felt anything but from her own adoptive parents, she remembers how it felt to watch her biological father turn up and turn away the thought of even meeting her at all. There's a part of her that wants to tell Chris that it can't be true, that no parent would be unable to love someone like him, but she doesn't know that. She's never met them.

And if there's something that Claire can't do, it's offer comfort in the form of lies or uncertainties.

"No," she answers quietly, falling silent for a moment. "Maybe... maybe they were just afraid. Even adults can run from what scares them."

"No, it's okay," Chris replies, looking over, and there's no bitterness in his voice at all as he says it. He pauses for a second, then runs his tongue along the edge of the joint to seal it. He's fumbling the joint between his fingers before he talks again.

"You would've fuckin' loved Peter. Pretty much everyone did. Nicest person you could ever meet."

"Hey," she quickly replies, not quite wanting to interrupt, but needing Chris to understand her nonetheless. It's hard to imagine someone kinder than Chris, but in a way it makes sense too, that his older brother might have rivaled him in that much. If anything, it seems to suggest that Chris himself probably learned a great deal from that older brother, that Peter was the one who set the example, and that part of Peter lives on in his younger brother, who continues to still look up to him so much. Although Claire's eyes linger on the joint, her hand reaches out for his arm, trying to slow the movement there. "Don't sell yourself short. You're one of the nicest people I've ever met too, you know."

Biting her lower lip, her gaze lingers on his cheek, slides over to trace along the curve of his lashes. "Maybe you learned that from him."

"Yeah. I dunno. Maybe," Chris says, and Claire's hand on his arm doesn't go unnoticed. Everything between them's as fucked as it is that Peter's headstone's right there in his backyard. Even now, he wonders whether or not it's alright to even kiss her. Not that he would, just now, but he fuckin' hates how they are right now.

He pulls the lighter out of his pocket to burn the crease of the joint, but mostly just looks at it in his hand, vision blurring a bit as his mind wanders.

When he doesn't respond, Claire's hand drops again, to where it feels cold resting in her lap (even though that thought alone is a ridiculous one, on an island as humid as Tabula Rasa, where warmth is the standard and cold days are rare). She's not the one who should be seeking comfort, after all, between the two of them. Not right now. And if her presence doesn't afford him any of it, then that means that she'll watch from a distance, just make sure that he's okay rather than trying to shape his every move. It's just frustrating at times, Claire wanting to mold everything until it's perfect, encourage everything to go the way she wants, the way sometimes she feels she needs, nerves stretched thin.

Happiness is harder to find on the island than anyone would have them believe.

"I think we should take a walk," she says quietly, voice hoarse. Half-expecting for him to refuse.

Dated Monday, August 8th, post ageswap

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject