altimit | [ closed ] Winter in September (October, November...) (dungeons + catchall)

[ New patch means a need for more gear, more gear means more dungeon runs...

Winter is confident enough that any full party should be fine now. No, it's not the party that's the problem. When they load into the area he looks at the volcanic wasteland with a despair as bleak as the landscape. ]

Is the randomizer broken? Is it always this environment?

[ Someone should probably have been tracking the keyword effects more meticulously, oops. Winter is melting. ]

You've been getting these places, too? 'Least I'm not the only one.

[She looks so unimpressed. She's also currently a Flick Reaper.]

[ Decorating is far from a hobby of Michel's, as his real-life room would attest to. But the crafting system has been a way to pass the time, and making their private rooms more functional is worth expending a little effort.

(Of no object is the fact that his freeform crafting experiments had been less than fruitful. It doesn't matter. He'll stick to the security of the regular craft menus now.)

That's why he's sitting on the floor of Ganymede's room with some paper for scribbling layouts beside them, fiddling with his crafting menus. ]

...What did you need in here? The system has most basic furniture.

[ And Michel has only the loosest idea what kind of furniture humans usually make use of, to be honest. But he somewhat suspects Ganymede is on the particular side. ]

Maybe something like a dresser? If we start off with that, it'd be simple.

Plus, I don't know how many clothes I'm going to get in-game, so I'd like to keep it where I can access it easily so that my inventory doesn't explode somewhere down the line.

[ One of the most convenient things about having a guild to place stuff in, as far as Ganymede is concerned.

Sure, it makes it feel more realistic, but there's something nice about that too. It's a game, he should be able to enjoy it however he likes. ]

Maybe some chairs afterwards as well.

[ What is a room without chairs? Not one at all, that's what. ]

What colors do you like? Dark or light?

[ Michel might be silently patting himself on the back for this strategic maneuvering, but it mostly doesn't show on his face... probably. Yes, he has his own ideas about Ganymede's taste from what he's observed so far. But why do guesswork when he could have certain answers right from the source?

Alright, no amount of stoicism can keep a small smile from his face. As he thought, Ganymede has plenty of ideas how he wants things. ]

...You might get so many clothes that you'll need dressers at every guild.

[ Is he suggesting Ganymede seems like the type? ...Yeah. ]

Light. Darker colors aren't my style unless it's some kind of blue.

[ Unsurprising, perhaps, that he goes to list his preference as well. That being said... ]

I wish they had compact mirrors too. Sure, it's a game, but can you imagine the convenience, and realism? All without it being nonsensical like unreasonable temperature changes.

[ Yes. He's still complaining about that. Will he stop bringing it up? No.

Though he does notice the smile, and thoughtlessly sneaks a loose blond hair behind his ear. For no reason at all. ]

Is that why you made your avatar's eyes blue?

[ Ah... he hadn't meant to ask that, either. Averting his eyes busily to tap through menus — although not before he catches that little hair fiddling gesture. Hm.

Elm is light, and that should make an adequate dresser. Building that first so Ganymede can be a little distracted with it too. ]

They might add something to a future patch. That's usually how these systems work... they put most of the desirable things at a high level to give the player a reason to grind. And a false sense of accomplishment for doing so.

[ Chairs next, Ganymede said? Let's see... ]

[ ...A small pause. ]

...Something like that. The aesthetic appearance of the color looked a bit better.

[ Not that he has anything against anyone having green eyes. But, for some reason, on himself, it makes him think of that man. It's not really a healthy thought, and Ganymede knows that, but... ]

That's dumb. They should just give it already.

[ It sounds a bit childish for him to say that, but is he wrong? Some people making games have little to no braincells, he swears. ]

Edited 2023-09-04 21:58 (UTC)

[ Michel pauses for a moment at that answer in mild surprise. He'd asked it himself, but somehow, he hadn't expected that answer. All artists must have a certain amount of aesthetic sense... but he hadn't seemed to lack confidence in his appearance.

He shakes his head and taps the menu to move along. Chair next... ]

You could submit another feature request. I don't think Zelkova—

[ There's not really a process to crafts. There's not a way to mess it up, with the requisite parts gathered. But the system still makes an unfamiliar sound, and what appears isn't a chair, but a mirror. ]

[ ...Yes, aren't they fortunate to have Zelkova around (lmao) for requests of this nature (hahahaha)? Ganymede is considering it seriously, considering everything, though he doesn't make a habit out of requesting frivolous things. But all the same, no one knows if...

...and there's a mirror instead of a chair. ]

Michel, how did that even happen? Did you misclick?

[ Maybe select the wrong parts? Because otherwise he can't fathom how that's even possible. But, Ganymede steps closer to get a good look at his reflection because a mirror isn't so ba— ]

[ —and then there's that fiery red hair alongside those eyes, staring right back at him. When he raises his hands, the reflection—his—follows. . .that red-haired demon was there instead. Ganymede can already hear it in his own head, that voice, speaking many words, when he had no one else. Nowhere else he can trust, and to survive, Ganymede could only look at those who took him, and see them as companions.

He hears, in his own head, "Isn't it tiring? This world...if it did end, its demise would be interesting."

Ganymede doesn't want to examine why he never ignored him whenever he said things like this; when his other compatriots spoke eagerly about the world itself coming to a demise. He tells himself he never agreed with what they wanted or planned. He remembers feeling the cold metal in his hands, the dagger at that time too. His security until that man turned it against him. But his reflection still stands. Yet, he laughs almost in complete disbelief, for a moment smiling...just like him...

...No!

He's nothing like him...nothing like him at all—

Ganymede feels weak, feeling like he's been running this entire time. ]

D-Don't look at it...it's like that place at the carnival we went to before!

[ His voice sounds weak, even to himself, like he's out of breath—looking right back at Michel. But he said it. He's out of his own head. ]

There was nothing to misclick.

[ For a moment he'd wondered if there was a hidden crafting feature after all. He's been doing enough of carpentry, and the coincidence of them talking about a mirror... allowing users to customize recipes wouldn't be beyond reason. Perhaps.

He gets to his feet to follow, peering curiously over Ganymede's shoulder as he approaches the mirror. It doesn't even take a second to recognize with a shock that the person staring back at them isn't Ganymede. He only needed to see that memory once for it to be seared into his mind, burned deep with the shock and despair of that moment. ]

Why would it show him...?

[ It's not the same as before. Perhaps it's the engineer habit in Michel that keeps him from turning away, his eyes fixed on the way the reflection follows Ganymede's movements — if not his expression. He reaches for Ganymede's waist to try to turn him away, but his brow furrows as he watches his self in the mirror touching the redheaded man instead. ]

Why only him?! It's unfair!

[ Michel is a little too slow.

He hears his question, but he's already beyond furious, already moving quickly. He reaches for the mirror, presumably standing up, and slams it down on the floor, followed by his foot.

There's a sickening cracking sound at the glass shattering as he stomps over it. Again and again until the reflected image has been splintered enough that he can't, nor anyone else can see the man within it.

Then his hands rise to his own arms, his neck, and then finally settle on his own face. ]

It's the same...it was the same—I never asked for him to appear. Don't you feel the same way—that none of us asked for any of those things to show up, but they did anyway?!

And now this!

[ He's breathing so hard that he feels like he's hardly anywhere at all. Light-headed. ]

Edited 2023-09-05 21:47 (UTC)

[ Michel startles a little — only half for the outburst, although isn't that familiar, a reflection of a self Michel knows very well. The association touches a curious chord in him. It's not the same thing. Of course Ganymede would react like that for the sight of a man he must hate more than anything. Of course he would...? ]

I know. I know... These things are... being pulled from our minds without our permission.

[ But that's not quite how Ganymede framed it. Michel hesitates, and then reaches for him again. His boots crunch on broken glass as he steps closer and wraps his hands gently around Ganymede's waist. If the dancer will allow it right now, he's going to be lifted bodily up out of the wreckage of the mirror before he cuts his feet. ]

You hate him that much. Of course you never asked to see this.

[ How can Michel be so calm?

His head turns a bit almost, to question that, and to begin to rephrase the question, because he worded it slightly different than that. He thinks? Ganymede isn't sure of much right now, other than anger.

But, Michel's upon him sooner than not, so he doesn't make the full turn, and the question dies on his lips. He's not expecting to be lifted from the pile of broken glass. ]

The way you say that...it makes it sound like...

[ Still, somehow, he can feel a bit calmer because he's being held. Or maybe it's because it's Michel. He feels incredibly childish and yet not at the same time. What's wrong with him? He just blurts out: ]

Nevermind. Don't you—don't you hate someone too?

Edited 2023-09-05 23:34 (UTC)

[ Is he calm? It steadies him a little that Ganymede lets him touch him. That that transparent, panicked tension in him hadn't yet spurred him to lash out, or made those fingertips sliding over his own neck and face turn harsh and gouging.

He steps carefully away from the mirror, not lowering Ganymede to the floor again until he doesn't hear or feel the discordant snap of the shards beneath them. Still, his hands encircle Ganymede's waist. ]

...I do, yes. But I didn't see her in my place. I only saw — what you saw.

[ True, he hadn't seen his full reflection in the mirror. At most, his hands and the man from Ganymede's memories. But if he had seen Aimee... he can play through the reaction in his own head. He might have punched the mirror just for the sight of her. Angry, not shaken. He wouldn't have touched his own face, as though questioning what he would find there. ]

[ If Ganymede was still uncertain and lost his senses, he might have done that, even if his intentions would not be to aim to harm himself, but only to injure his reflection who had taken on the form of his kidnapper...

Former kidnapper. But in Michel's arms he feels more of the tension drain from him, slouching a bit more, and wanting to lean against him. So he will do that. ]

I'm glad you didn't see that wretched woman. [ He practically spits. ] Even if I hated that you saw him too.

...That demon always said I was hopeless. That I would never escape. And that it was a pity I couldn't die. Maybe he pitied me, even after he stabbed me, hoping I would die, thinking himself as some sort of misguided savior. Or he just wanted me for himself, and played with my feelings like he always did.

Either way, looking at that reflection...I couldn't help but be afraid I had turned into him. Because, I...

[ He lets the words stand for themselves, the rest caught in his throat. Whatever other reasons he has for that fill him with disgust and utter loathing. ]

[ It's becoming gradually more natural, the idea that some people might find physical comfort in this body. That contact isn't something that might burn if he lets it linger. It's him, but not him. So he accepts Ganymede leaning against him with something approaching grace; his hold loosens just enough that he can reach up with one hand to wind his fingers through Ganymede's hair.

It's everything he hadn't pressed when he asked before. Because it still hurts Ganymede. But it's still hurting him even now, and even Michel can hear it in the way those words spill out of him. ]

Stabbed? Wait--

[ He'd assumed it was bad. He'd assumed... all kinds of possibilities, honestly. Without thinking, his hand in Ganymede's hair drifts down to touch his side, then up his back again, as if searching for any lingering signs of a wound. ]

...I want to hear the rest, if you'll tell me. Why he took you. What happened. You don't need to tell me all the vile things he said, or what you aren't ready to talk about, but...

[ It still might be too much to ask. The thought of dragging up his own memories of the same makes his skin begin to crawl. He knows too well what it's like to be helpless as someone with perfect control over your life or death pours poisonous words in your ear, day after day after day. ]

...I want to understand why you think you could ever be like him.

[ Did some part of Ganymede come to feel the same after all that time? That death would be an escape? That any part of what had happened had been good intentions, however twisted? ]

[ There's still a lingering, burning anger, but every time it rises, it feels subdued by the way Michel holds him still, and doesn't push him away when he leans against him. Or those fingers run freely through his own hair, touch steadying him even further than he might have imagined.

For a moment, he closes his eyes, silent, even in the face of the other's reaction. Wanting to instead take in this warmth, even if it's brought on by virtual means. He feels the way the other touches at his side, then to his back—

That's where the man was standing, behind him, when he stole the dagger from him and stabbed him.

But Michel would never stab him from behind. ]

I started to believe in the same things he did. That this world was better off the way he said it should be. He was always making vague comments about the end result of society as we know it; that it would make things less boring.

The kind of chaos that would result from that would make life worth living again...it'd been years since I'd seen anyone else. Since I could listen to anybody else. I became tired, hateful, and even pitied him too. It doesn't—didn't—make any sense.

[ That's why he hated it. The idea that he can sympathize with his captor at all makes him feel...ugly. Isn't that the first step? To turning into someone you hate? To believe their ideas hold any sort of foothold? To even consider partaking in them.

There was nothing good about that. Nothing.

That's why, there were those feelings. He'd be better off left there instead of rescued. Better off dead. The person he was before had died an unsightly death. When he saw that hand reach for him, shouting at him to snap out of it, he was already empty, and full of nothing but hate and despair. Blaming the world, and feeling content to watch it burn after losing all hope.

Then even afterwards, he remembers sitting in that hospital, feeling trapped. Unable to move forward. ]

As for why I was kidnapped, it was because...his client wanted a pretty doll he can come and look at whenever he pleased. He paid a high price for my capture. Though, I never really saw his face, either.

[ Michel looks down at the top of Ganymede's head, letting the words wash over him in patient silence. Does it help Ganymede at all, to know the reason it happened? What reason would be good enough? Perhaps a tiny part of Michel can feel relief that it's something like that — not something uglier still. And yet.

To be treated like an object for other people's enjoyment. To be reduced to something less than human. Alone with only the voice of the man who had taken him... People who had never lived something like that couldn't hope to understand how fragile "reality" was. How easy it became to question whether a place different from the hell you were in had ever existed. ]

That man may never have deserved your pity. But—

[ We are the same type of person. The type who has the right to curse others. No one is going to come and save you, my dear. The only thing that can save you anymore is your loathing.

He slides his hand through Ganymede's hair again, the silk against his fingertips anchoring him in the present. This isn't "reality," either. Perhaps the true reality doesn't hold anything as warm as this. But all the more reason to accept this ephemeral joy while it lasts. ]

...It's difficult to believe in anything in the darkness. Wanting to see the humanity in the only company you have left... is a way of reminding yourself of your own. But he was wrong. You did escape. That you survived is — is a victory, and not a pity.

[ Even though it must still be painful. How long could someone keep walking, keep waking every day to the knowledge that they had to shoulder the old, familiar hurt one more time? How often had Ganymede wanted to scream that it was unfair? To tell the world that he had had enough? Michel's throat feels tight with pain more present than remembered as he finally lets his hand rest on Ganymede's cheek. His thumb traces the pattern of the wave marking, more by memory than sight. ]

And you aren't hopeless. You're like hope incarnate, Ganymede. Like light.

[ It's probably one of the only solaces about the indignity of the situation. He can't ever claim to have ever anything worse happen to him, despite the chances for even worse to be visited upon him. But even so, it truly is bad enough as it is. Even if he counts his blessings that he has a family to return to. That he can say he achieved his dreams, dancing on a stage in front of so many people.

That's why, he sometimes grapples hard with the idea that it still hurts. That saying anything at all...and yet, ever since coming here, no one here, when he talks about it looks at him as something to be pitied. As someone who might be an inconvenience for sharing such revelations—no one has told him that he should be grateful. Or perhaps joked crassly about being fortunate to be desired so much to that point.

Instead, even Hani has told him he was strong and that he could handle him knowing, Oria told him not to blame himself, and Fai spent time with him, knowing that he experienced the same, didn't immediately say they should part ways. Now, Michel, knowing more, holds him close, speaking words of understanding.

When, sometimes, Ganymede wonders if he had any humanity left to give to the people who cared for him. When he couldn't say a thing at the time.

He doesn't have anything to say against it. Because it feels like a lot. He starts to cry, soft hiccups escaping him.

Ganymede turns in the embrace and buries his head into Michel's chest, hands reaching to return it, clutching onto him. He doesn't know what he can say. He doesn't make a habit of crying. Yet, he clearly remembers doing so before, at least once, before Hani.

But now he's found another person he feels safe enough to show his tears. Fingers holding on for dear life, he thinks Michel saying these things to him mean more than he can ever articulate. ]

Ah—

[ Michel's eyes widen in unseen panic at the first sound of quiet, painful tears. His hand jerks a tiny bit against Ganymede's back — did he say the wrong thing? Why had he even let all of that spill out of his mouth? — before Ganymede turns and hides his face against him.

This... he knows this. He can do this. He wraps his arms more securely around Ganymede to hold him closer, letting one hand settle on the back of his head, just stroking his hair lightly. Until Ganymede has cried himself out, he can do this. Maybe the tears will take some of the most painful feelings with them. Michel has never tried. But holding Ganymede's smaller body in his arms, feeling each hiccup shake those slender shoulders, he feels humbled all over again by how honest Ganymede is capable of being with his emotions.

This isn't weakness. It's a strength of his own, the endurance to acknowledge that pain. The trust to let Michel see it. The part of Michel that can never fully stop thinking stirs, ugly tendrils of uncertainty coiling around him again. What next? What can he do more than this? What if Ganymede actually trusts him enough to depend on him, not realizing how powerless he is? He shuts his eyes against that and forces all of it down, leaning until his forehead is almost pressed to the top of Ganymede's head, his body enfolding Ganymede's protectively.

If this is all he has, then so be it. At least in this moment he can do this much. ]

[ It takes awhile for him to cry himself out.

Soft sounds as he trembles, that eventually begin to peter out as he's held tightly, and close to the other man.

Feeling the gentle touch of the other male's body as it shifts makes him feel content to stay where he is even after. As for any immediate words? There are none; there can be none, after all of that.

His eyes are still closed tight and a few more tremors escape him following some sniffles, but... ]

...to think that this would happen just because I wanted some cosmetic additions to the room.

[ Hah. Funny how that works, right? But he doesn't want to pull away either, judging by how he's still holding on, and he refuses to still open his eyes even just to see into the virtual world. Like this, he can even feel Michel's heartbeat, and maybe he just wants to continue to indulge in that. The warmth of this embrace, the closeness of a man he trusts. ]

[ It's probably the juncture where he should laugh, but it's hard to find something humorous in any of this. The game keeps having these mishaps that keep reopening Ganymede's wounds. All of theirs.

He's silent for a moment longer in thought as he turns that over, running his palm slowly up and down Ganymede's back now, over his hair. He can feel the trembling subsiding, at least. He hopes that's a good sign. ]

At this point... we can only expect that things like this will keep happening, in every part of this game. Are you certain it's worth continuing?

[ He should probably wonder that more for himself. But at each step that something like this has happened, when he reexamines it... he still has no reason to be anywhere but here. Or — this place contains his only reasons to be anywhere, perhaps. ]

I...I—

There are reasons why I have to keep coming. And it's harder to...nevermind.

You might also play with or without me. Hani too.

[ "And it's harder to see you if I don't play," He almost said.

Ganymede also remembers Hector saying something about if they banded together, then legal proceedings against the company would be easier. Or at least he thinks so. At the time, there was a blip in between his words, but he understood the gist. ]

As long as we stick together, these things...aren't so intolerable. And it's not impossible to get through. Especially when you're there.

[ Still... ]

...I won't force you to keep doing this either, however. If you want to leave, you should.

Edited 2023-09-07 21:59 (UTC)

[ closed ] Winter in September (October, November...) (dungeons + catchall)

Dungeon: Chasing Sunshine's Two Wings

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fine wine private rooms - mirror mirror

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1/2

2/2 cw: mentions of captivity/kidnapping

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cw: implied self harm

cw: more implied self-harm

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cw: less implied suicidal ideation

cw: suicidal ideation

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