[ closed ]

[userunfriendly]

Who ❄ Michel, various
What ❄ memshare and assorted overflow
When ❄ ~August
Where ❄ Lumina Cloth carnival
Content Warnings ❄ child abuse and violence, captivity, torture, gore, pet death, transphobia, misogyny, TBA. Specific warnings in headers.


[ Plotting post here! ]

Comments

[sicklysweet]

[The way Winter stops mid-sentence is - alarming isn't the right word, but it makes Owen tense. He can't see what he sees, which might be for the better.

The way he whips around unbalances Owen, shakes his confidence just a little. His brows knit together and he draws back, trying to make sense of the look on is face.]

Why are you looking at me like that?

["What did you see?" is what Owen really wants to ask, his skin crawling with the thought of Michel seeing something he shouldn't have. It would only be fair, but it still makes him feel faintly ill, wondering what secrets he has now.]

[userunfriendly]

[ Looking at Owen like... what? Trying to get his expression under control at the same time as he gets his thoughts in order is one task too many. He tries to let his face lapse back into the icy impassivity he would swear takes no thought at all. ]

You didn't see...? No, sometimes it doesn't.

[ Like he'd experienced with Sinclair and Justy. If he had intended to threaten Owen for his silence it would have made an excellent bluff. Before he'd seen that memory, he would have assumed it was useless. And after seeing it, he's reluctant to. ]

It would be best if we both left this place.

[sicklysweet]

[So he saw something. Undeniably, he saw a piece of Owen’s past- but what was it? Owen’s lived a chaotic, eventful life. It could be anything. There are some things he wouldn’t mind Michel seeing, things he cares less about the world knowing at large, but there are things nobody should know.

There are things Owen doesn’t even know, which is what compels him into grabbing Michel’s shirt and looking up at him with narrowed eyes.]

What did you see?

[He sounds almost… afraid.]

[userunfriendly]

[ He knows, too well, the fearful uncertainty of guessing at what incredibly personal or incredibly painful thing a near-stranger might have seen. By contrast — the electric aura of potential violence on the air holds relatively little fear for him. He lets Owen grab his shirt without protest. For the moment.

Despite himself, there's sympathy in his eyes. ]

You were in the hospital, as a child. Emaciated. [ That doesn't do justice to his condition at all, but Owen likely doesn't need more details. Provided... ] ...Do you remember that much?

[sicklysweet]

[The sympathy makes him feel worse.

His hands holding onto Michel’s shirt are shaking, but he can’t force himself to let go.

Does he remember that much?]

Do you think it’s funny, asking me something like that?

[It’s too targeted to be an innocent question, as far as Owen’s concerned.]

[userunfriendly]

[ He knows full well he has no tact in situations like this... Michel's brow furrows quickly, and he lifts his hands halfway to Owen's arms, hovering uselessly. ]

No, that's not... no. It isn't 'funny' in the least. [ Ah. ] There were gaps in that memory, so I thought...

[ It might have happened again. For better or for worse, he knows very little about the conditions of memory loss. ]

[sicklysweet]

[Well, things keep going from bad to worse. This sucks. Can't they go back to Michel's memory? That's far more interesting then this!]

What does it matter to you what I remember or not?

[They're not friends.]

[userunfriendly]

[ Too late. Michel thought he would be happy to leave that one behind at any cost, but... he can't exactly be pleased about this outcome, either. ]

It was neither my intention nor my choice to see any of that. But given that I did, I don't intend to leave you guessing about what, exactly, I saw.

[sicklysweet]

[Owen sags, like a puppet with its strings cut, letting go of Michel. He takes a breath, shoving all of his emotions as deep down as he possibly can, and lets that breath out solely.]

This place is a fucking nightmare.

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel lifts his hands, startled — he isn't a touchy person, but for a second it almost looks as if he might reach for Owen to keep him from folding outright. ]

I won't disagree with that. [ And a touch acerbically, despite the worried crease between his eyebrows: ] I did tell you to leave. ...But I should have been more specific.

[sicklysweet]

[This is all Michel's fault.]

Maybe you should have.

[All his fault!!]

Whatever. Just forget you saw anything.

[userunfriendly]

[ Yes, yes. Everything is Michel's fault, such is his life. ]

I can't promise that's possible. But at the least, I'll keep it to myself. If you could do me the same courtesy...

[sicklysweet]

Do you really think that lowly of me?

[If so, fair but also rude.]

[userunfriendly]

I don't know you. But I find it's best to expect nothing from anyone.

[ That's him, rude! Although his flat and level voice is maybe a shade softer than usual. ]

[sicklysweet]

[Again, he can't be mad because that's how Owen views the world and he's deliberately trying to come across as someone detestable but...

Hm.]

You don't have a lot of friends, do you?

[userunfriendly]

And you don't have any tact.

[ Look at each of them, with their respective lacks. Michel begins to move towards the exit again, not looking at the mirrors this time. His pace is careful to not evoke the appearance of a retreat. ]