It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?
i n s t r u c t i o n s• Post with your character.
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• (Or, if you want, you can write your usual TL based on the prompts, I'm no cop.)
• Have fun! o p t i o n s01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario. |
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pluviooc2025-09-02 10:11 pm
CHIRITHY
((OOC: I'm okay with any prompt! OR. you can have Chirithy pop into your room at random, if you'd like.))
Discomfort, pain (usual nightmares)
A string of swears dies on his lips when Aventurine gets to the bathroom and belatedly remembers there'd no mirror. Right. Stars thrice damned ship and its mass stored mirrors.
Looking down, the massive scar over his exposed chest reminds him why that is. The corner of his mouth ticks up wryly. Because it's not just the scar itching at him. No. Its-
Someone's here. He stiffens, whirling around, dress shirt unbuttoned enough to show an. Unusual scar over his shoulder, which branches and curls, seeming to originate from over his heart. Except...instead of raised skin, it's as if teal gemstone painted over it, holding his shattered body back together.
He stares at chirithy with wide eyes, hand raising as if to cover the worst of it but...it's too late. His breath hitches before a mask slams down over his features. He chuckles, dry.
"Caught me. Can't say I like the look; doesn't go with my eyes," he remarks, tugging his shirt into place, swallowing down how the movement pulls at his skin wrong and hurts. It's fine.
He's had worse.
no subject
((its a dream its fine its fine. says bullshit that's probably true about dreams or maybe not in kingdom hearts. who cares.))
"Aventur--" Chirithy stops mid sentence, as they actually take in how their friend looks. "...ine... oh..." Dreams are dreams, but sometimes dreams are real, too. And that means...
"Are you hurt?! What happened?!"
no subject
Aventurine winces at the shrill tone, the cat's worry cutting through his shoddily placed facade and the general hush of the night. Still he smiles, buttoning his shirt up fully, ignoring the slight tremor of his fingers. He then crouches down to be on a better level with the critter.
"I was. It- It's healing. Okay? Or...it did? I'm not really sure, to be honest, ha," he replies with more than a little forced cheer. "When I uh...stopped being a passenger for a bit," When he died again. And after he got stabbed for no freaking reason- "it got kinda foggy, and I came back with my cornerstone just. Here now, I suppose." He shrugs, sucking a breath in through his teeth because that was a stupid move too. Ow.
"Most days I forget it's there, but...I think the weather is making that hard to do right now..."
no subject
Chirthy knows a thing or two about injuries and scars - scars they could never heal on Mint after the war, scars that pulled a certain way with certain weather... But that looks less like a scar and more like... Chirithy doesn't know.
But also, Chirithy has never seen someone falling apart before. This is beyond the realms of hearts and Heartless and Dream Eaters. This is something a bit like Daybreak Town glitching, breaking down with corrupt data, and yet, nothing like that at all!
They reach a little paw out towards Aventurine.
"What's... a cornerstone? Is that yours? We don't have those, in my world..."
And then, because they were quite literally created to be the mom friend, they add:
"I know this is a dream, but that doesn't mean I don't know healing magic. Do you think it would help?"
MARIO
Hi I miss them????
...He's at least self-aware enough to recognize he's going to suffocate in this quiet if he keeps sulking alone like this. So here he is. At Mario's door. He rolls a coin around his fingers for...a long time, just standing there. Shuffling. All his nervous tics. He said it was fine. Mario said it was fine. He just needs to-
He sighs. He knocks. "Hey. You awake? I-" he's being very quiet. Maybe he's kind of hoping Mario is asleep and they can pretend this never happened. He feels horribly exposed doing this. But the thought of going back to that empty room... "I uh...dunno. Wanted to say...hi? .....remember I still look weird. Don't freak out. I- this was a bad idea, sorry, nevermind-"
Retreat!!!!!!!
I DO TOO WAAAAAAA
Unfortunately for Aventurine, Mario is an extremely light sleeper! So the knock wakes him up, and by the time Aventurine is done talking, Mario has already sleepily rubbed his eyes open, trudged over to the door, and it opens just before Aventurine can leave.
"Oh..."
Anything Mario might've wanted to say vanishes from his mind when he actually sees Aventurine. He too forgot that Aventurine looks weird right now. He knows why, they've had this whole conversation, but it's early in the morning (???) and he just woke up and.
"I'm'a... not gonna freak out. I'm'a not freaking out."
He says it so so so normally. Eugh, but his brain is still heavy with the leftover nightmare tang - it wasn't bad enough to wake him, but he still feels the afterimages, gross, like bile at the back of his throat, or a dry mouth. Well, that's not Aventurine's problem - or maybe it should be? They did have that whole converastion about being more open with each other - ugh, not 3am or whatever-the-crap time it is in the morning problems.
"I did'a tell you you could always come wake me if you needed anything - " Here, he puts on a smile, though it is pretty tired. "So you need'a something? Is okay if you just need'a company."
MALOS
((OOC: if he's awake, there's a 50% chance you can hear his printer making noise in his room))
Aventurine 🦚 OTA
no subject
[Once he's a short distance away, he calls out softly.]
Aventurine? ... You should be in bed, no? What's going on?
[He knows at least one of the reasons why he's awake, but that doesn't mean that other people should be!]
Alas I lack my usual icons. This will do
He knows Fridtjof is skilled at stealth and hunting. He'd heard his footsteps all the way down the hall. He'd...have to be an idiot to not recognize such a mindful gesture. So his smiles, while tired, are much more genuine here.
He pats next to him on the couch where he sits. He himself is lacking his usual baubles and jewelry, looking rather like a ruffled baby chick curled up in a blanket. If he didn't take the time to look more presentable, then he must have really left his room in a hurry.
The rain running down the window may be a reason why. Perhaps.] Come enjoy the lovely weather with me. [It would. Help. To have Fridtjof close here, actually...]
no subject
[He sits and puts an arm around his friend, pulling him close. Running his fingers through Aventurine's hair he hums part of a lullaby, careful to not pull through any tangles all that hard.]
... It rained a lot where I grew up. And where I was stuck for several years. I know it's different for you... but I'll protect you.
[A little hesitantly, he tugs the other to rest against his small chest.]
I've got you, little kit.
no subject
How could the rattled gambler not do the same? He doesn't care what Fridtjof looks like with or with less clothing. It's not like Aventurine's own brand repulses the man, or the scars, the gemstone suffusing them, anything. None of that changes how kind he's been, how when he pulls Aventurine in, he can't help but feel safe. The blonde sighs, humming softly as he curls up and nestles closer.
He's long past being embarrassed about nuzzling into the hand in his hair. It's nice, warm, settles his nerves in reassuring someone is here.] Mm. Yeah? [He pauses, listening....] ...did it flood often for you then? The rain, that's...it's fine, but... [Maybe he's making himself face it here. Maybe he's watching for floods, making sure it doesn't sweep anyone away when he's not looking.
Hard to fear that much more when being anchored by such soft warmth. So he lets his eyes close in quiet contentment.] You don't have to, you know. So...thank you. Truly. This...helps. [Thoughts of repayment still rattle around in his brain, which smooth out with each pass of fingers through his hair, when nothing is asked for. He's...still getting used to it, how this works. It's...terrifying, in its own way. Risky.
But he's always been a gambler, hasn't he...he snorts softly, fond.] I'm not that small, am I? [5 foot nothing little man say what-]
no subject
[He chuckles a little as his friend seems to relax. Gently he presses his cheek against Aventurine's head, closing his eyes and continuing to stroke his hair. It's calming here for him too... he doesn't get this kind of contact with most people. Not with anyone other than Mykha, and he's usually the one being held in that case. To be able to keep his friend calm... it's a gift, really.]
I know I don't have to. That's part of being close friends, though. Grooming each other, holding each other... it's nice. It's nostalgic. And as for being small... yes. Yes you are.
[Fridtjof laughs a little bit and gives his friend a squeeze.]
Doesn't mean you're any less deadly in a fight, though! You're a fierce one. ... But you don't have to be when I'm around. I'm... I'm here for you. You don't have to be afraid. ... I'll protect you. I swear I will.
[Is it because he couldn't save Gisli, couldn't save any of the others? ... Maybe.]
Executor Federico 🪽 OTA
1 ish . this ran away from me LMFAO
Drifting...
And then within the embrace of gentle half-sleep, rivers of red would seep from his hands, taking root in him. As he sits upright, purple and gold thorns creep up his frame, hugging close as he stands. The pinpricks keep him steady, grounded as the scent of blood struggles to leave his nose, even despite his ragged breaths as he struggled to come back to reality. Perhaps it had all been a strange dream, something he desperately needed to be real. (There is a sneering voice in the back of his mind, reminding him of the mirrors. Of the fear within his lover's face at the thought of losing another. How his dearest friend had been broken down, emotionally. Physically.)
Sunday crumples, legs no longer able to withstand the weight of his sins, the pain he'd caused. His selfish actions. The love that hammered away in his chest. It was his burden alone to bear, and he would not trade it for anything else. Those whispers could no longer reach him, and he was free.
Clipped feathers fall, no longer beholden to the framework of his wings. New growth will come, he knows. In time, as all things would. Sunday picks them up, cradling them within his hands, close to his heart. There is a bittersweetness to this, a feeling he isn't quite comfortable with. But was anyone, really?
A gentle twinge in his halo tells him that Federico may be near the lounge. He closes his eyes and breathes, feeling his anxiety rise, if only a little. The poor man really should rest. Instead of expecting his friend to hunt him down, Sunday chooses this time, to follow, to offer him company, to support him. Leaving the safety of his room and heading back out into the unknown.
The halovian steps into the lounge, hands bare and raw, to find Federico quietly crocheting away. The injuries on his body were well bandaged and maintained. The hardest was knowing some of them were his fault.
"My friend... How are you holding up?
Sunday sits next to his friend, a tired smile upon his face. His hands still tremble, remembering that expression, desperate, pleading for anything but this. It hurts just as much as it had in the moment. He reaches to lay his hand upon Federico's arm, but hestitates.
"It's. Hard to sleep. After everything."
Sunday's mind won't let him rest, not for long. He can only imagine what it must be like for everyone else. The halovian's eyes fall to the project within Federico's hands.
"May I ask what you're making?"
hi!!!! happy to run with ya!!
"Sunday. Greetings." His voice is a little rough from disuse, and his hair is a little mussed, perhaps having dozed off on this very couch at some point. There are crocheted sleeves on his wings already, perhaps to combat the chill in the air. Or perhaps to just be more restful, as instructed. But considering he's wearing the sweater and blankets from the ship, perhaps it's. A bit of both. His bandaged leg peeks out, stretched in front of him and elevated. All as it should be.
Everything is in order and as it should be. But why can he not sleep properly...?
Sunday comes to sit next to him, and he only relaxes a bit more, not sitting at attention as he might have before. Partly it is weariness, but also...there is a calm that settles over him with his friend nearby, warm, breathing, alive. Even if he can vaguely sense the halovian's own nerves ramping up. He's not sure why...so he sets his project down, then lifts the side of the blanket for Sunday to drape over his own lap as well, if he wishes.
'Holding up'...a casual request for a status report. "I am functional. Injuries are healing with no severe complications. One injury has developed an infection that has been treated and will resolve itself." So if he seems a bit warmer than he should be, his eyes a bit too bright...that's probably why. A low-grade fever, nothing truly debilitating or contagious. It came from moving around too much on the injured leg. He...pointedly does not share that bit of data.
Bleary blue eyes note the aborted motion with Sunday's shaking hands. No gloves, so the long-term damage to them is apparent. His brows furrow a bit upon noticing, and his own hand catches Sunday's before it can retreat. "Have you sought treatment for the state of these? Supplies are limited but I believe something adequate could be synthesized..."
He pauses. "For you as well then. Troubling. I..." His eyes lose focus for a moment. "Normally I have no trouble resting after missions or conflict. I merely return to routine and everything sorts itself out. But..." He did wake up with worst case scenarios running through his mind after returning from Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, didn't he? And it's similar here. Thoughts of Sunday's death, mirrors shattering and cutting them both to shreds, his own gun at the man's temple-
"They serve no purpose. They aid nothing. So why does the mind wish to fixate on such things to the detriment of health..." He sighs quietly, putting it aside for now in favor of the next question. His eyes flick to the square of black yarn he'd been linking with another. He pulls the loose loop out wide to not lose work, then holds the craft up for Sunday to hold if he wishes.
"I had an...encounter with a sentient plush creature on this landship. Its presence provided clarity and comfort I did not expect. So now I am working to craft the likeness of the automaton that would accompany me on my missions." Most people would be embarrassed to say such a thing, but he states it like a mission directive. Perhaps it is, being stuck on bed arrest as he is.
henlo!!!!
(But would he really want to wear those clothes? Who knew where those had been.)
An infection. Sunday's brows furrow some, only to slowly relax, as Federico assures him he's been treated for it and is on the mend. It helps the halovian's restless heart, mind, and instead of fiddling with his hands as he might normally, he lets the discomfort sit and exist within his body, allowing it space to dwell, and then pass, with the comfort of a loved one nearby, taking part of the offered blanket into his lap.
"I'm glad. You've had a difficult few days. You deserve as much rest as you can get."
As much as he can stand. Sunday knows he hates to sit still for too long. (The space around Federico did seem a bit warmer. Lingering effects of the infection. Increased bloodflow to his injuries. Indications that Federico was alive and well and not a mirror clone. There is a comfort in that, and it sets his mind at ease.)
Federico notices his hands, and is faster than he is, taking his hand and examining it. Sunday closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He hates to worry him, worry anyone. But that was the point of being friends. And it was the point of having people close to you. Sometimes you worry about each other.
"Not much can be done, in truth. I will wash them raw and then touch something dirty, or..." Think of something wrong. Horrible. "I get. Trapped. In a thought. And the only thing I can do is wash my hands until I feel like it's right. Like everything will be okay."
He points to his head, his expression weary, but gentle.
"The problem is in here. Healing the skin can only go so far. I am... I'm trying."
Hence the lack of gloves. Hence Sunday looking. Disheveled. Imperfect. He hates it. And yet... he'll live.
Federico mulls over the meaning of dreams, sleep, why the brain struggled to simply relax and rest. Sunday knows these are not questions he's meant to answer, but still, he wants to. Even if it only quells the other's anxieties somewhat.
"...Dreams help us process information that we take in during our waking hours. If you think of sleep as a sort of daily reboot, then dreams are something of a run down of everything we have experienced, and everything that might linger within our minds. As our mind empties itself of extra information, we see glimpses of it as it passes by."
Sunday's hand idly traces over a thorn, one of his vines finding solace wrapping around his arm.
"Our minds fixate on these things to prepare us for if it ever happens again. We mull over the right way to respond, we painstakingly focus on everything we did wrong... all if it is to ensure a better outcome, next time."
He offers Federico a smile, warm, kind.
"I.... Imagine that this experience has been harrowing enough that most of the other passengers are struggling with sleep as well." All in all, Sunday thinks this was the best case scenario, for any of this. It had not been good. But it could have been much, much worse. "There's a lot to process. You especially had a difficult time. I'm sorry."
Still, when offered the little plush to hold, he does, cradling the square in his hands, as though moving his hands might unravel it in its entirety.
A plush creature... Chirithy, he supposed. His brain was too muddy to remember currently, if he'd met them properly.
"It's very cute." He says, simply. He can see a weird loop here, a slightly too tight weave there, and yet... it's cute nonetheless. Federico was not afraid to be imperfect, not like he was. His art, in all forms, was... Human. Beautiful, but human. Sunday hopes to one day think the same of his own work. He gently surrenders the little black square to its rightful owner, folding his hands back imto his lap. "May I watch? I never did quite get the hang of crochet."
yknow I thought I'd make this short. I should know better by now
"Mm." The sankta nods a little, both agreeing but not wishing to worry Sunday further. He was the one who died after all. ...he sets the thought aside, settling in with the weight of his friend beside him.
Sunday explains more of his ailments, which gets a small, almost perplexed furrow of the brows as Federico carefully assesses the given information, analyzing the hands in his own like fragile glass.
Or a singed flower, alone in a mobile monastery. Not good enough for one, but everything to him.
It's not as if Federico is unfamiliar with mental illness. It's part of psychology training as an Executor, and he's had encounters with clients of varying states of mental stability in his work, grief serving as a potent catalyst for drastic measures. But having to face something like this in day to day life...
"It...sounds exhausting," he finally says, a twinge of sympathy, not the Empathy of his halo, inspiring his words. Would that it were as simple a matter as taking his gun to the problem at hand. But...what torments Sunday is his own mind.
And since he still experiences reminders in his sleep of pointing that gun at Sunday's head. He will distinctly not be doing that. ...Law Abide, he's never been this troubled over his actions before. He's shot at Arturia many times. Partly, he knew she could defend herself. He knew what he was doing, what she was doing. But then...this time was...
It is the past. Still, his hands shake ever so slightly, and he opts to gently run his thumbs over raw knuckles. "Even if the cause cannot be stopped, it would still...help. To treat the symptoms we can."
He looks up, listening intently to Sunday's explanations. Of course. The Halovian would be an expert on such a topic. He blinks, nodding slowly. "I appreciate such a perspective. It is like a debriefing. Or a self assessment." That...makes some sense.
Sunday's hands are released as he fidgets with the thorns. Federico can't help watching warily for extra damage. What a strange form of Arts...
...? His head tilts a little, confused. "It is past. And I am...glad?" Quick self-assessment. Matters of his own emotions are difficult...and it seems insufficient. "...Relieved. I am glad and relieved you've returned alive and whole. I..." His brow furrows again. "I am an Executor. I am meant to handle every sort of extreme condition. I have, to precision, through the majority of my employ." And yet he could not preserve Gerald's life. Clement's. Sunday's. His chest feels like it's tightening. Failures happen; he is not perfect. But this still... "...You have no need to apologize, Sunday. I...your experiences are keeping you awake as well, are they not?" A mere guess from inferred information. Still, it's asked quietly, as if still unsure if he should bring that to light.
Still, it all gets set aside as Sunday inspects his work. He calls it cute. Now Federico still struggles with such traits getting applied to inanimate objects (similar things were said about the actual drone on Rhodes Island...it baffled him to no end. It's a tool?? From His Holiness??) but the way Sunday's demeanor relaxes slightly saying it. Federico will take that as approval, appreciation.
To him, that is the purpose of this exercise. Familiarity, settling thoughts. He nods, taking up the yarn and wooden hook. "There was an operator on Rhodes Island who was quite fond of crochet and other fibercrafts. She'd taught me the basics during some downtime on a mission." He loops the yarn around his pinky (whole, healed, only possible through the quick aid he'd received) and pulls it around the back of his hand to hook over his index finger. "Many thought carrying yarn in her supplies regularly was a frivolity, but I appreciated the calculations that went into completing such a craft. And with little to do while recovering, it...can be a calming activity."
His head tilts toward Sunday, but his eyes do not leave his work, hooking in loop after loop. "Is there something you wish to make?" A pause. He remembers the state of Sunday's hands. "...It is alright if not. I do not mind being watched."