singillatim | See the sun set;

Entry tags:

See the sun set;

Character Name: Heartman + you
Who: TDM continuation + a few open prompts re: prelude
What: The prelude dream doesn't bode well for someone like Heartman
When: Night of Jan 1st
Where: Community hall, Outside

Content Warnings: TBD, will update as needed

i. The Dream;
Heartman's a very light sleeper. Doing everything in 20 minute cycles means his body's circadian rhythm is severely off, if nonexistent at this point. There's no Beach to go to, no wandering black sand and smelling the salt and decomposing fish, following familiar footsteps until he tires himself out. It's just him.

When he does sleep, his dreams are never. It's usually the same dream, one Heartman stopped dreading once he knew the scientific reason but still finds deeply unpleasant. He should be glad--is glad--that he only suffers a mild case of DOOMS. He lacks the homicidal tendencies for one, the suicidal behaviour is thankfully non existent. The dreams, though. The nightmares are relentless, sharp and vivid but never in colour.

This dream is not the same.

Heartman wakes with a gasp in the community hall, hand flying to his chest out of habit--no, his heart is fine, it's still fine here--and knocking the sleeping person next to him in his hurried attempt to rise. His brow furrows, determined, panting from the adrenaline as he scrambles up and shoots to the closest scrap of paper on a table, knocking over a chair in his haste to reach for his glasses at the same time.

"It's different--" His lips frown deeply, immediately twitch into a half smile in a temporary moment of sheer scientific excitement, and his face eventually settles on a very stern sort of look, lips parted as he scribbles madly.

"This... is... different."

ii. Outside;

He can't go back to sleep. Time seems to stretch on here, elongated and like a giraffe neck in comparison to the nice, neat, short and compartmentalized moments he's so used to. He's left rudderless, aimless without his research, and while he's already started to shift his work to solving this puzzle and trying not to focus too much on the one back home in order to retain his sanity here, it's difficult.

This dream, the wolves and the voice, even the word interloper is both a blessing and a curse. Heartman decides to go for a walk, bundling up as tightly as possible and throwing a blanket around his shoulders for good measure. The air is crisp, reminiscent of the mountain air swirling around his lab, but it has far more of a bite. Temperature, perhaps. Or the sense of foreboding that new dream has weighted him down with has clouded his judgement.

If someone else is taking a night walk, Heartman will politely raise his hand in greeting, sticking to the town itself and never straying too far from the community hall.

He does nip out a second time, this time to watch the sun rise, bundled just as tightly. For all of the unanswered questions he has, Heartman still has time to enjoy the natural beauty of it all. There's no Timefall to worry about. Just sheer, natural beauty.

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She's already awake. She'd hoped she'd be too tired to dream, she's been so busy with the feast. Maybe just once she'd get a night of quiet, dark sleep. But no. She's awake. The flashing of light still burning in her mind's eye, the strange, groggy feeling seems to bleed into waking. She lies in her cot under blankets and deer fur, trying to even out her breathing and still her panicked heart — listening to the sounds of sleep around her.

There's sounds. Not the usual sounds of sleep. Not the sighs and snores and grumbles that usually come in the dead of night. Something else, something far more panicked — a cry. She sits up in her cot, looking around in the dim light. It takes her a moment to identify it: one of the newer Interlopers she thinks. Plenty of them stay in the Community Hall at first until they find somewhere else to stay.

(She never does. Four months and she watches plenty of the others come and go.)

Quietly, she gets up. Padding over until she finds the right cot, something painful twanging in her chest. Oh, no—

"... Mr Heartman—?" He's asleep, dreaming she guesses. Brow pinching in a mix of quiet horror and concern, she gently leans over and reaches for him. Her hand finds his shoulder, grips a fraction.

"Hey, Mr Heartman." she speaks softly, but firmly. "Wake up, you're dreaming. It's just a bad dream. You're okay. You're okay."

Heartman wakes like he does when he revives: the mere touch to his shoulder is like a grounding shock to him, and he's instantaneously awake and alert. He doesn't jump so much as lurch, completely upright in corpselike faction in a fraction of a second, face not startled but instead incredibly serene and, surprisingly given his situation, completely alert.

Tears are sliding down Heartman's cheeks, twin tracks, and he either doesn't notice they're there or doesn't feel the need to brush them away, eyes narrowing to adjust for the lack of his glasses. He looks around the room, raises a hand to his heart--and lack of box--and then tries to make out the small blond in front of him with his extremely poor eyesight.

"Kate?" He's awake and alert, no hint of sleepy mumbling despite his confusion.

It's such a sudden thing that it makes her jump back a little, straightening up again. It's one thing to jolt awake, but she doesn't expect him to wake up like that. And she makes up for his lack of startle, too. Her eyes wide for a long moment until she finally relaxes again, although there's still some degree of bewilderment to him.

Is— is he crying? Even in the dim light of the Hall, something catches on that very light — a glint of something at his cheek.

"Yeah, it's me— I'm— are you okay?" she keeps her voice low to spare the others, realising he's squinting at her. Oh, yeah. His glasses—!

"Um, hang on—" she pauses, looking about to find him his glasses. Carefully, she picks them up and presses them to his hand. "Here."

Kate is there, small and kind and gentle, and Heartman can't help another bit of a smile. He's not averse to being happy, but the intrinsic act of niceness will always warm his deformed heart. If he wasn't casually wiping away tears and taking his glasses back with a murmured 'thank you' he'd probably give her a thumbs up.

Ah. Vision restored, he takes a better look at Kate from where he's sat up, eyes widening a fraction out of worry.

"Please, there's no need to be alarmed, I'm quite alright. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I— I was already awake." There's a quick shake of her head, and she pauses for a moment. "I... get bad dreams, too."

It's kind of weird he does this whole thumbs up thing. But not a bad kind of weird. Like maybe it's just his thing, a quirk thing. Kate smiles, a little sad. Yeah, she's still worried — wringing her hands a little as she stands. Dreams where you wake up crying are... never great, are they?

"... Do you want to talk about it?" she offers gently. There's no insistence there. It's his business, and she's still kind of a stranger to him. "People have been nice to talk it out with me when I have bad dreams."

Heartman clears his throat as he considers things briefly. He's not secretive at all--if anything he overshares, spending three minutes of talking where two words can suffice. But Kate has confessed something that breaks his already deformed heart. He thinks of his own daughter, distressed from her nightmares, hovering at the door to her parents bedroom and trying to be brave because her father is sick. He inhales sharply.

Kate couldn't be having bad dreams at all. This place, for all its beauty, seems inherently cruel for bringing her here let along giving her nightmares.

"I would," he confesses, and then levels his gaze to Kate. "And it would be my utmost pleasure to listen to yours, too, if you're willing to share. However... If we're going to be sharing, as I imagine it'll take a few moments--" He's starting to get up, voice still hushed as others are sleeping.

"Fear is best combated with a warm drink. I usually prefer warm milk to go with a late night talk, but as that's not an option, perhaps we could make some of your rosehip tea to aid in our discussions?" His smile is soft. "Find a comfortable spot. You've done me the distinct pleasure of waking me from a horrible nightmare. The least I can do is boil some water for us."

Kate falters a little at the offer. "I.. don't really know about that." Her brow pinches a little, fretful. "It's— kinda... uh, messed up. For people to hear. I doubt there's going to be anything for it to be a pleasure to hear about."

There is nothing pleasant in what her dreams are about. Even if she can't quite grasp what's going on fully — the visuals aren't kind to her, nor the sensations or anything else. But— she does acquiesce that it's a very kind offer, and there's something quietly appreciative in her expression.

"But... um, tea would be... really nice." she says with a tiny nod, stepping back to give him some room to get up. She does like tea, and it's... actually kind of nice that he noticed that — about the rosehips.

"The... fire in the stove in the kitchen should still be going." maybe dying down a little now, but it shouldn't take much to stoke it back up again. It's far easier to use that than the fire in the main room. It's kind of a miracle that the people of Milton chose to keep that old thing rather than replacing it with an electrical one.

Heartman nods, rising, giving the other a soft smile. It's a reflexive habit when he reaches down to squeeze her shoulder as he passes, a small, encouraging gesture.

"Thank you, Kate. For waking me up. Truly."

Tea, though. Calming tea. Heartman removes his hand to gently touch his chest--another reflexive habit for a different reason--and begins to move towards the kitchen.

--

"Heat, fuel, oxygen. The three essential components to make a fire. One of the most simple and common chain reactions, and by far the most useful."

They're out of the way now, Heartman less worried about waking everyone up now that they're in the kitchen. He hands Kate a warm mug of still steeping tea.

"I won't force you to tell me your dreams," he says suddenly, picking up the conversation like they hadn't spent a while in silence. "But I am more than happy to lend an ear. Certain burdens can be easier to lift if you have someone who will listen, right?"

Thank you, Kate. For waking me up. Truly. There's nothing in reply, nothing but a little nod and a tiny, shy smile at that and the touch at her shoulder. He doesn't need to thank her, it's the least she could do.

Tea made soon enough, she takes the offered mug with a quiet thank you, looking up as he continues the conversation exactly where it had dropped off. There's a moment where she pauses, mouth opening and closing briefly — mentally debating the offer. She's not... sure.

It's not her own discomfort she's thinking about, in truth. It's his. While she's not exactly accepted the dreams, it's like she's gotten so used to them now. But to talk about them, out loud, to tell them to someone new — who'd have no idea to expect something like this. Her hands hug onto the mug, warming her fingers.

Certain burdens can be easier to lift if you have someone who will listen, right?

It's true, she knows. It's why she talks to God. He listens. But she knows that God also works in the actions of others. She asks for Him to listen, He sends her someone to listen. There's a inhale and her gaze drops.

"I've... been having the same dream for a little while now. Maybe about two months now? It started about a month after I ended up here. I don't... know where it comes from." she's quiet for a little while, trying to wrestle with how to... describe it — her stomach feels tight, nauseous.

"It feels dark, like... maybe I'm underwater. But it's... bright, like a hospital. The light hurts, it's too bright." she's frowning, working through it slowly. But even as she continues, there's a quiver to her voice, her breathing quickening a little in panic. "I realise I can't move, no matter how much I try. And... there's a voice. He speaks to me so... so softly. But it's— he's— not safe.

I can't move, but— I can feel hands reaching for me. Moving me like I'm... some sort of mannequin being posed in a store window display. I want him to stop, but— I can't even speak to tell him, and—"

She stops, shuddering, her eyes squeezing tightly closed. She takes a breath, steadying, and shakes her head. She can't go on.

Sleep paralysis is his first guess--being unable to move, auditory hallucinations, being awake but not. Surely, Kate's brain is responding to a slightly muddled REM cycle. Lord knows Heartman's own sleep patterns are wild, to say the least.

But she continues, and his blood runs cold, and as she speaks all he can think about is his own daughter when he hears the fear evident in her voice. To his understanding, Kate comes from a fairly normal world. She seems to be a fairly normal teenager as well--brilliant at art, quick with a smile, bright and kind and selfless. But the dream is something else.

This doesn't sound like a dream at all to Heartman. It sounds like something repressed, something buried. He's not a psychologist by a long shot, nor is he particularly gifted at talking to others, but he's far from an idiot. He's very good at putting two and two together.

"Kate." Heartman's voice is surprisingly stern, watching her intently. "It's alright." It's not. But she's safe. "You're alright. Thank you for telling me."

Heartman presses his lips into a thin line. Decides it's best to put her own agency in her hands and not just wrap his arms around her immediately--not with that loss of control she's most likely spiraling into, reliving the mess.

"May I give you a hug?"

"I'm sorry."

It's the first thing she's able to say, after what seems like an age. Even then he thanks her for telling him. Even despite that, she's sorry. Because it's awful, and she feels awful for describing it — even if he'd offered to listen to her. Guilt is an all-too-easy feeling to settle itself over her. She feels... small, head ducking downwards and shoulders hunching and brow upturned.

And it's so dumb. It's so dumb that she's like this. She can already feel the sting of tears in her eyes.

May I give you a hug?

She... doesn't remember the last person who hugged her. A real hug. It would have been... months ago, now. Long before she came to this place. Her mother or father? Her sisters? Maybe Max? ... Probably Max, who would always ask. Who would extend the offer to her, if she wanted to take it. She'd always hug Max. Max is her friend.

He isn't Max. Maybe not even close enough to call him a friend. She fiddles with the mug in her hands for a moment, considering. The offer is there, if she wants it. He asked. She nods, silently and then inhales suddenly, shakily — putting her mug down on the side.

It's a quick, almost desperate motion — the brief flash of a face of upset. A step forwards as she wraps her arms around his middle, burying her face into his chest — trying to suppress the urge to cry.

Heartman can't remember the last time he'd hugged someone, let alone the last time he'd had something other than his AED pressed against his chest. But Kate needs assurance, a the small sliver of guilt from Heartman for bringing it up dissipates when he sees only a flash of what the girl's been dealing with. Pain. Confusion. Loneliness. Isolation.

That's something Heartman understands. He focuses on that to dim the protective feeling of anger.

Kate presses her face against his chest, fabric between the marred and scarred skin from countless operations and revivals. Heartman's still here, despite it all. Kate will be, too, even if mental wounds need a lot more time to heal than physical.

"It's alright."

He doesn't say she can cry, not explicitly, but it's what he means as he pulls the other even closer, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, smoothing out her hair in a fatherly gesture. He kisses the crown of her head softly like he used to with his own daughter.

"I sleep in 20 minute cycles. Hardly a bother if you woke me up the next time it happens."

It's alright. She doesn't know which part is, and her throat feels tight — tiny little twitches of sobs she tries to fight back, but there's already tears in her eyes. She feels the kiss in her hair and she misses home. She misses her dad.

And the light shines in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

A sob escapes, on she can't hold back. She shakes her head a little at his insistence, her head shifting a little so she can speak.

"I... always feel bad." she says quietly. "When I woke people, or... putting this on them. It's not fair, it's too much."

Even now, she feels terrible for telling him. It's such a horrible, disturbing thing to recount and she feels like she's The Worst for telling him — even if he asked, even if he offered to hear it. It's not fair on him. It's not fair to put it on any of them. None of this is fair.

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See the sun set;

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cw: ............ god, I don't even know

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