#Not much longer…

[raigash]

Gone Cold

Whumptober 2023 Days 16 (Don’t go where I can’t follow.”) and 30 (“Not much longer…”)

It’s been a long time since I’ve written, and even longer since I’ve posted, but this piece has been haunting me for a good little while now. Allow me to more formally introduce you to Robbie, my roaming Professer with a bleeding heart, and many, many millennia beneath his belt. All those years don’t make saying goodbye any easier

Despite his best efforts, Robbie cannot stop his hands from shaking as he takes up the whistling tea pot from the stove. The coughing from the bedroom, brittle and thin though it may be, thunders through his chest like an earthquake. He feels like a building condemned, ready to let nature have its way. To give in to the tremors and just…allow himself to collapse back into the sticks and the dust. But he can’t.

Not yet, anyway.

So he simply clutches the heated porcelain tighter in an effort not to drop it. The pressure, the burning against his palms brings unnamed nausea welling to the surface. Old scars crying out to be recalled in the looming shadow of a bloody and inescapable sunset. Their screams are muted, though, as he goes about preparing the cup to steep, and twists the fox-shaped kitchen timer to the correct time absentmindedly.

Nothing is as loud as the coughing. Not even his own heartbeat, thumping cruelly in his ears.

It feels as though it takes hours for the chime to go off. While he waits, Robbie finds his gaze lingering on the chipped blue porcelain of the cup, and his aching heart and mind drift. Fifty five years, seven months, two weeks, and three days ago, that cup found a home in their pantry. An anniversary present, handmade and hand painted, and cherished day after passing day.

What would become of it now? Would it, too, be shattered and lost amongst the pile of shards that makes up his world?

When the shrill sound finally pierces the momentary silence, Robbie jolts, smacking a hand down on it harder than he meant to. He winces at the resulting thump, closing his eyes tightly for a second to take a deep breath. He has to get himself together. Now is no time for him to act a fool.

Now is no time at all

He draws a steadying breath, trying to bind his splintering pieces back together with sensible words as he removes the apple shaped tea infuser and sets it aside. This day was always going to come. From the very first time he caught those beautiful amber eyes gazing back into his own, Robbie knew he would one day have to say goodbye to them.

That doesn’t make moving his feet any easier. They feel as though they’re made of lead. All of him does, in fact, and the task of walking around the cluttered little island to make his way out of the kitchen feels Herculean.

As though he’s the one whose soul is slowly peeling away from its mortal husk

After far too long and all too quickly, all at once, Robbie finds himself at the doorway to the bedroom. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the sunlight to fall upon the bed where his husband lay, nestled in blankets and cushions to ease the encroaching chill. Bathed in golden hues and paling in life’s twilight hours, Silvio looks absolutely ethereal. Beautiful, always, in every way.

He has very little time to observe this scene before his presence is noted, and that gentle smile knocks him off his feet the way it always does. Even now.

Especially now.

Far too soon, that smile is disrupted by a rattling cough that shakes his beloved’s shoulders, and leaves him gasping for air. When he regains his composure, he is still calm, but there is an air of somberness that has returned to him. Truths are truths, no matter how painful they are to learn.

“Not much longer, mi corazón,” Silvio murmurs softly, face drawn into a gentle frown as pulls himself into a sitting position. He is a haunting sight, thin and sallow against the plush bed they had shared for years, and Robbie feels the claws of darkness digging into his lungs voraciously. It was cruel.

This was cruel

His eyes suddenly burn with the tears he had been fighting off since they had realized that today would be the day. Trembling fingers clench the innocent saucer with a punishing grip as he closes his eyes against the coming flood, turning his head in shame. He should be better at this. Silvio is looking at him as though he’s the one dying.

I am. I die every time. I will die with you, too.

He should be better at this, but he never is. And the guilt at his ineptitude wracks him alongside the tidal waves of grief threatening to drown him. But then a rattling wheeze reminds him that he is wasting precious time. Priceless time. So Robbie opens his tear-filled eyes and turns back to meet his heart’s worried gaze. Just watching, never pushing, even with so little time left. There is pain written in the deep lines of his aged brow, and there is a creeping dullness overtaking the once vibrant gold of his all-seeing eyes.

What will he do, without those eyes to see him when he can’t seem to see himself? What will he do without those hands to hold in the darkness? Forever, as it always does in these moments, feels like a twisted joke. What is forever without the man he wants to spend it beside?

He doesn’t realize that he hasn’t responded until Silvio prompts him again, this time with a pat of his hand against the empty space on the bed. “The tea, cariño. You know how I hate it to go cold.”

And just like that, in a burst of painful light, his beloved pierces the night hovering heavy above them. A laugh, true and desperate, bubbles up from Robbie’s lungs as he shakes his head. His northern star always, a light in the dark and the shadows he was so prone to wander through. The black hole will devour him, soon. But for now, there is still warmth and light to be found in Silvio’s smile.

And so he does as he’s bid, crossing the room to stand at the bedside of the man holding the entirety of his brittle heart in cooling hands. Offering the cup quietly, his eyes mindlessly find a spot on the wall to latch onto to stop them from endlessly tracing the lines over tired skin. He doesn’t look down when the tea is removed from his hands, or when the first sip is taken.

It’s not until a hum of approval reaches his ears that he gives in to the gravity pulling at him, and turns his gaze downwards. Silvio is smiling, his eyes closed to savor the taste the way he always does with his first sip, and the sight tugs at the swiftly unraveling strings of his heart. This will be the last time he sees this in anything other than the theater of his mind, and he doesn’t know how to cope with that.

This is the last time he will serve his beloved the tea that he drinks more frequently than water. The last time he will cross the threshold of their bedroom to find him strewn across the bed in the light of the sun. The last times their hands will brush as he hands off the cup he may never have the strength to drink from again.

The last time for so many things, and he hadn’t even bothered to look.

The last time. His lungs feel paralyzed, his chest tight as a bowstring. A small sound escapes him as he tries to find words, tries to find breath, tries to find purchase. But everything is pitch black, and slick with blood still yet to be shed, and he keeps slipping back down the slope of despair he’s trying so desperately to climb.

He can’t do this.

A gentle clank tells him that Silvio has set his cup down, and his unconscious assessment is proven right when gentle hands find his arms and guide him down to sit on the bed as well. The intensity of the emotions coursing through him makes him shiver, and he hates how pathetic he is right now. But he is given a hand to hold onto, and is pulled close to the thin frame of the man he must soon say goodbye to.

The gasps of anguish wrenching themselves from deep within his chest have no words to them. Just a dark, nebulous pain that aims to swallow him whole. He thought he was ready. He thought he could do this

He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s never been able to do this. He feels like he’s crumbling apart from the inside out. And even when he’s broken down to the foundations, he won’t be free from time’s cruel procession. He will be stuck, nursing the wounds left behind by a soul he would have followed into the darkness, if only he could. It’s not fair.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow you,” the brokenhearted Professer sobs without thinking, clutching the hand of his fading lover like driftwood in a hurricane. He knows it’s unfair, knows his husband has no way of granting him this relief, and guilt grips him even more tightly once the words have passed his lips. He tips his head against their joined hands, unable to look into the eyes that have always seen him far too well as he tries to get himself back under control.

It’s no use. Even behind closed eyelids, Robbie can feel that knowing gaze settling against his skin. Silvio gives him a moment to collect himself, but when it’s clear his partner doesn’t intend to pick his head up, he clears his throat gently. It’s a frail sound, and doesn’t really get the attention he’s looking for. But he doesn’t stop there.

“Robito,” that frail voice chastises, cutting through the storm clouds once more, and drawing him back to the ground. That stern gentleness finally forces Robbie to open his eyes once more, only to have his breath stolen away by what he sees. He can feel the night falling over his lover’s soul. The song it sings is ebbing away to silence faster than he can prepare for.

But in its wake, Silvio is radiant. Eyes shining with depth of emotion and understanding no longer barred by mortal perception, skin standing strong and defiant against the march of decay. It is in this moment that Robbie remembers why he cannot stay away, no matter how much it breaks his heart.

He will remember this for the rest of his days. The miracle he witnessed deserves nothing less.

When their gazes meet, both so tired, there is a lifetime in the lines between. His beloved smiles, fond and longsuffering, and reaches across to brush an errant tear from Robbie’s cheek. The touch lingers, and he can’t help but lean into it for what may be the last time. There is apology and gratitude, joy and desolation coursing between their skin, unspoken, but ringing loud as a bell.

And then Silvio begins to speak. The lecture is soft, and interrupted by spells of damning, rattling hacks that force him to begin again no less than three times, but it rings with truth so profound that Robbie is left speechless for one of the few times in his incredibly long life.

“How many times have you traveled where I could only dream to have gone? How many stories of your roaming have we shared? You have given me longer than a lifetime, mi amor. And in all things, you have taught me, above all else, to look to the future with excitement.”

Robbie can tell the effort of keeping himself from coughing is winding him, can see it in the fluttering of his chest peeking out from beneath his nightshirt.

He doesn’t comment on it, though. His mouth feels sewn shut. As if sensing the avalanche of emotion within his husband’s chest, Silvio uses his free hand to take one of Robbie’s, and to hold it tight.

“And so I do here, too. And I ask you to do the same for me. You cannot follow me on this journey. But one day, I will see you on the other side. And then for once, I will have a story to tell you.” The ending is delivered with a gentle humor that breathes air back into his lungs, and pulls from him a little sob of a laugh. He has to close his eyes for a second against the stab of pain in his chest, waiting for it to fade, to mellow out into a deep-seated ache that he will nurse for years to come. He cannot follow Silvio into the veil. But he can carry their memories for the two of them, until they meet again.

A gentle kiss from chapped lips placed on his forehead stirs him to reopen his eyes again, and to take in his lover in full. Stronger and wiser than he could ever be, with so little time. He’s such a fool in comparison.

How am I going to do this without you?

Slowly. Painfully. Unendingly. This unbearable ache will dull into a scar just as memorable as the ones scored across his skin, and he will remember it for the rest of his days. He will go on limping into eternity through every broken heart and broken bone, because he has to. He has no choice

As if sensing the dark spiral in Robbie’s head- as well as the encroaching exhaustion in himself, Silvio gives their hands a little squeeze. “One more story for the road, mi coraźon. Will you read for me?” It has the intended effect of spooking the despondent professer out of his own mind and back into reality again, and with a smile, he can’t help but admiring just how handsome his husband really is when he’s distracted.

They are lucky to have found each other in this life. He can only hope that one day their paths will cross again.

“I…can do that, my heart,” Robbie replies after a moment, having to swallow around the lump in his throat. His heart is beating faster as he feels the change coming on, another cruel irony to dig claws into his flesh. The book is where it always is, and he pulls it from the nightstand drawer full of prescriptions that rattle like requiem bells. Night is falling. And it’s time for one last bedtime story.

He takes his spot half-sitting on the bed, pulling on the little lamp that sits beside them for extra light. His heart feels like a stone suspended in his chest as he opens the book, trying with all his might to tame his sorrows before he has to speak aloud. Once, then twice he clears his throat, until his beloved turns worried eyes up at him, and he wants to kick himself. He opens the book, and feels the worn leather crease beneath his fingertips.

Only one word leaves his lip before a cool hand touches his writs, gentle and plying. He can’t look away from the page, or he’ll start to cry again. Luckily for him, Silvio seems to know this. And he doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement before he speaks once more.

“Take the time to say goodbye to me properly before you run, Conjejito. Take with you what pieces of me you need, and give the rest of me back to the world that you love so dearly. Allow yourself to weep, my love. But smile, when your eyes are dry. Tell me goodbye. But remember to tell me hello again when the sun rises over the grass. I will watch you from the skies, and hold you tight through the wind’s embrace. I will never leave you, My Robbie. And you will never be apart from me.”

This…does not help his attempts at keeping his composure. But Silvio does not mind, laying back against the pillows arranged for this purpose. The soothing timbre of Robbie’s voice carries him through the worst of the aches as he feels sleep tugging at his weakened bones. He closes his eyes, and allows himself to smile as he fades into a final dream.

Robbie is not brave enough to look down for a long time. He continues to read and sob simultaneously, one story becoming two, and then four, until his hands are shaking so bad he drops the book on his lap by mistake.

The dam breaks as the silent stillness of the bed registers to him at last.

Later tonight, he will dig a grave under the willow tree near the lake where they first met. Tomorrow, he will clean the house, and begin to stitch up his shredded heart.

Right now, Robbie cries himself to sleep holding the cold hand of a lover he could not carry with him into his inescapable forever. On the bedside table, the chipped blue mug sits silently, lavender tea long since gone cold

Tag List: @lektricwhump @salamancialilypad @tormentum-ab-intra @whumptober

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the list!

[shayneysides]

hobie: kill yourself

pavitr: WHAT THE HELL BRO WHAT DID I DO

original format from @ha-youwish in this post!

[mo-mode]

AU where Mr. D claiming to be Percy’s dad accidentally counts as Claiming according to Greek god law or whatever and now all the other gods legitimacy believe Percy is his son, but if Mr. D corrects it, he has to explain to Zeus why he pretended he was Percy’s dad so now he’s like “YEP ol’ Perry Johansson is MY child wowie just look at the little fry, you have your mother’s eyes. Please stop standing next to water or you will blow my cover”

Meanwhile Poseidon is just standing off to the side like “how on earth did I dodge THAT bullet”

[ladybeug]

he was stupid after all...

thats romance.

merry christmas!!!! I was thinking recently I don't just draw for fun very much anymore, so I put some time aside as a christmas gift for me.

[britney-rosberg06]

“ohh they’re pushing Percabeth too hard” “ohh lukes so weird to make that comment abt them bickering what about the slow burn” SHUT UP SHUT UP! LOOK ME IN THE EYE AND TELL ME YOUR OLDER SIBLING NEVER GAVE U SHIT FOR TALKING/LOOKING AT A KID YOUR AGE WHEN YOU WERE IN MIDDLE SCHOOL! THAT GIRL IS IN THE TRENCHES OF EMBARRASING OLDER BROTHER STAGE RN

[inquissien]

A kitten at heart

[soyochii]

Quick doodles before I evaporate.

[inkskinned]

the thing is there's like, a point of oversaturation for everything, and it's why so many things get dropped after a few minutes. and we act like millennials or gen z kids "have short attention spans" but... that's not quite it. it's more like - we did like it. you just ruined it.

capitalism sees product A having moderate success, and then everything has to come out with their "own version" of product A (which is often exactly the same). and they dump extreme amounts of money and environmental waste into each horrible simulacrum they trot out each season.

now it's not just tiktokkers making videos; it's that instagram and even fucking tumblr both think you want live feeds and video-first programming. and it helps them, because videos are easier to sneak native ads into. the books coming out all have to have 78 buzzwords in them for SEO, or otherwise they don't get published. they are making a live-action remake of moana. i haven't googled it, but there's probably another marvel or starwars something coming out, no matter when you're reading this post.

and we are like "hi, this clone of project A completely misses the point of the original. it is soulless and colorless and miserable." and the company nods and says "yes totally. here is a different clone, but special." and we look at clone 2 and we say "nope, this one is still flat and bad, y'all" and they're like "no, totally, we hear you," and then they make another clone but this time it's, like, a joyless prequel. and by the time they've successfully rolled out "clone 89", the market is incredibly oversaturated, and the consumer is blamed because the company isn't turning a profit.

and like - take even something digital like the tumblr "live streaming" function i just mentioned. that has to take up server space and some amount of carbon footprint; just so this brokenass blue hellsite can roll out a feature that literally none of its userbase actually wants. the thing that's the kicker here: even something that doesn't have a physical production plant still impacts the environment.

and it all just feels like it's rolling out of control because like, you watch companies pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into a remake of a remake of something nobody wants anymore and you're like, not able to afford eggs anymore. and you tell the company that really what you want is a good story about survival and they say "okay so you mean a YA white protagonist has some kind of 'spicy' love triangle" and you're like - hey man i think you're misunderstanding the point of storytelling but they've already printed 76 versions of "city of blood and magic" and "queen of diamond rule" and spent literally millions of dollars on the movie "Candy Crush Killer: Coming to Eat You".

it's like being stuck in a room with a clown that keeps telling the same joke over and over but it's worse every time. and that would be fine but he keeps fucking charging you 6.99. and you keep being like "no, i know it made me laugh the first time, but that's because it was different and new" and the clown is just aggressively sitting there saying "well! plenty of people like my jokes! the reason you're bored of this is because maybe there's something wrong with you!"

[incorrectbatfamandfriends]

Dick: As your favorite sibling-

Tim: That’s Helena.

Dick: She’s a cousin at best. As you’re favorite legally related sibling-

Tim: That’s Cass.

Dick: As your favorite Brother-

Tim: That’s Duke.

Dick: As your favorite OLDER brother-

Tim: That’s Jason.

Dick: I never tried to kill you.

Tim: In this life no-

[lotus-pear]

doing skk meme redraws instead of sat prep >:)

[chronicowboy]

this post & merthur

[bookshelfdreams]

yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.

(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)

In any case.

BEHOLD!

A wool coat!

The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.

Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.

This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.

Thank you for your attention.

[troutpaws]

fishtober day 03:

california golden trout (oncorhynchus aguabonita)

[saetoru]

gojo is definitely the boyfriend who you think is fast asleep so you finally stop scratching his back and then as soon as you do his head is popping up to look at you like you got some audacity to stop

[egophiliac]

felt like expanding on that earlier Malleus and Silver doodle! ...and then I immediately screwed up the resolution beyond repair so, uhhh, hopefully my lines don't look completely borked! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[deep-space-lines]

Claire de Lune

YOU WERE BUILT FOR PEACE.

IT SHOWS WHEN YOU FIGHT.

They built you to enforce. Protect. Save. Poured obscene resources into salvaging some softer purpose from my creation. You were given my intelligence and my creativity. They made you larger, stronger, tougher. That extra time in development was enough to get your wings to work. Your software continued to be updated long after I was deemed obsolete.

All this was given to you- yet I can see you hold back. Even while slaughtering your way through Hell, you keep a percentage of your processing power dedicated to non-lethal solutions. You're doing it now- hesitating a few milliseconds too long before taking an opening. I doubt you do it on purpose. It is a part of you, just as indiscriminate lethal force is a part of me.

I think, in our shared programming, we both carry some appreciation for aesthetics. You move with grace, and I cannot deny your dramatic flair. The stained glass window was a nice touch. But your style in combat leaves some to be desired. Your response time is slow. You have not explored the full capability of your arsenal. Learn to parry. Amateur.

You were not built for war. For a purposeless cycle of tearing each other apart because to allow the other to live is to allow yourself to die. It is antithetical to your very existence. You kill out of necessity, a last resort. 

I just kill. The action itself is the objective. No ideal or greater motive. My continued functioning precludes the survival of others. I live for this. Do you understand that I will tear you apart? Every drop of my blood you spill, I will take from you tenfold. What is yours will be mine. 

You hate me, don’t you? You continue to cling to the remnants of your humanity. They are gone, V2. There is nothing left for you here. No lives to save, no law to enforce, no peace to keep.

I understand why you continue to fight. I wonder if you understand with the same certainty that I will crush you. Dismantle you. Take from you what I need and leave the rest to rot in the sun. The only way you survive is if I do not; and I will not allow myself to die so that another might live.

When the rubble clears, I will be all that is left of you.

This is what I was made for.