Well, date for next week just got cancelled.
Said he decided he was spread too thin already and not feeling it enough to continue.
I thought there was a good vibe there. I wonder which thing I said and/or did fucked it up. Argh I can't even lower my standards correctly.
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Ghost is a walking dichotomy, Soap has discovered. He's watched him strip the layers of a man's skin away to get information from him, seen him snap someone's neck in as little time as it takes to take a breath. But he's also so capable of heartbreaking kindness. His genuine concern for the fish, the way he saves the best part of his plate for Soap; offering it to him with reverence. The way he's cleaning Johnny's wound so tenderly. It's in these moments of gentleness where Johnny almost forgets what they do, what they've seen, who they are.
So when Ghost's voice snaps into that serious tone it's almost like a slap in his dizzy, goofily smiling, face.
"Wha?"
"Where is it? I'll get rid of it for you." Under the sharp tone is still that lethal gentleness, and even under that is a shaking fear.
"Oh, oh Ghost." He shifts, uncomfortable in his skin and wanting to be anywhere but here. "Ye... Ye cannae get rid of it."
His Lieutenant draws back a little, a mix of apprehension and offense in his eyes.
"It hurt you, nothing else matters."
Soap can feel his heart splitting as his throat starts to burn. Ghost stares up at him with fiery eyes, hands still holding his wrist so so softly.
"Where is the snake Soap? I promise you it'll never hurt you again. Whoever brought it in is going to have hell to pay too." He earnestly promises and Soap feels a single hot tear slip out of his eye.
"Ghost..." He chokes out. "Simon... It's mine."
The small room goes silent. Nothing even dares to move but for the violent flinch the sentence rips out of Ghost.
He doesn't dare say anything, doesn't dare to move or even breathe. He looks down at Ghost and Ghost meets his stare with turmoil roiling in his gaze.
Soap doesn't know what he expected, screaming or sobbing or angry silence but the frantic confusion he can see in the other man is as far as can be from what he'd thought he'd get.
They sit there like that for a few long moments, each absorbed in his own thoughts, before Ghost slowly rises from his kneel. If Johnny were in better spirits he would tease him for the quiet cracks his knees make. And with that violent tenderness he slowly curls an arm around Johnny and leans him down into the bed, pressing behind him and holding him close just like they'd done on any number of frigid nights out in the blind. And they just sit there holding each other in silence as they slowly drift into a dreamless sleep.
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funny thing is I don't really have any interest in hoarding knowledge or resources for myself in any way, I'm just bad at publishing stuff because I feel like that'd require a bit more stringent quality control than what I might expect of something made largely for my own use.
sometimes I think maybe I should set up something like a google drive or a git or something to just throw my personal- and work-in-progress stuff for people who are interested, but I dunno what limits for space or bandwidth or anything are like.
like I'm sure some people would possibly find the ColorSet unpacker python script useful?? It kinda sucks through and I want to make a better version of it and maybe one that could work as a standalone executable instead? and possibly a packer counterpart to the unpacker?? But also I keep thinking like "would this even be useful to anyone lmao??"
in theory you could probably make some kind of art program plugin that does all of this for you - even the bit with loading actual colorset information into layered colorset pairs, but I mean that's a lot of effort and I still largely use a 20+ year old version of Paint Shop Pro myself so...
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I have made my peace with being forgotten
and yet you think of me.
I have made my peace with being unloved
and yet you continue to try.
I have made my peace with this silence
and yet your knuckles rap at my door.
I have made my peace with letting go
but you continue to hold on.
what do you think of me?
what do you love?
who do you speak to?
what are you holding onto?
is it me you perceive?
or a shape of something you thought was real
created from dreams and wishes and the promise of a thousand people before you.
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