atowncalledtreffy

And if there isn't?

Then I'll burn that bridge when I get there.

...Look, we're alike in certain ways, granted. But if I tell you what I did, you'll throw a fit, and I'll feel bad about it, and it won't get you any closer to graduating.

I do not throw fits. I might get pissed, but I don't throw fits.

Ah huh.

You're going to get pissed when I tell you, then. Because it's not something you can just repeat.

[Fuck you, she does not throw fits.]

It's information I don't currently have.

...Just remember, I warned you; it's useless information.

I showed up on the Brigantine as a warden. Or their equivalent, or whatever.

And that meant I could go home. They offered me a choice; stick around and warden, which, fuck that, or rest in peace.

And I woke up with Lark's stupid fucking inmate file in my hand, and it wouldn't have been right to leave him to suffer. So I stuck around.

Then the stupid bastard starts talking to me about mutiny and blowing up the ship and demoting myself on purpose and how that's the 'only way' to save him. And I don't give a shit about graduation for me but Lark does, so I say, fine, fuck it.

Apparently the Necromancer thinks I did that for him and graduated me when I came back here.

[She listens. Really listens. And Trevor is fucking wrong. She's not mad, there's nothing to be mad about. It just didn't fucking make any damn sense.]

What's to get pissed about? You wouldn't have left Lark like that anyway.

What I am is confused.

Mmn.

Like I said: different people. Different graduation plans. Once upon a time I might have, purely because he was a fucking werewolf, and I wanted to die instead of help him.

Edited 2022-10-24 03:24 (UTC)

[Trevor. Come on.]

And you don't want to die, anymore?

I don't want to supernaturally prolong my life with the help of a faceless fucking djinn. There's a difference.

Agreed, but also not really what I asked.

Infer.

No.

I'm going back to bed.

Why can't you give me a straight answer?

It's personal. You don't tell me everything about your innermost fucking thoughts.

No, I don't. And I'm not asking for everything, just this one thing, because I've been worried about you for months, with no idea how to help you.

Yeah? This is the first I'm hearing about it.

Relax. Nothing's going to happen to me.

Bullshit. The last time I tried to reach out, you shut me down.

[And then the whole summer basically went to hell in a hand basket, several times over. And then she was unconscious.]

I'm the first to admit am really bad at saying the right things, but if you think I don't care about you, you're just dense.

M'not saying you don't care. It's just weird to talk about things as personal as this. I'd rather we didn't.

And that's not a slight on you; I'd tell that to fucking anyone.

And what about when you called me up during the flood? You wanted me to talk to you. You fought me about it.

Because you were going to get hurt if you didn't. And you fucking didn't.

I was already hurt, but the point is that you wanted me to talk about it because you wanted to help. That street goes both ways.

I don't really want help, if I'm being honest.

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