There’s no escaping the hug of the former Elder God. Seriously, Robbie can’t disentangle himself in good conscience. Rich needs a hug, so Robbie will do his best to hug the stuffing out of the larger man without making either of them say ow. It’s delicate work and obviously requires both arms to ensconce one so broad.
So there are no extra fingers to plug his ears and keep himself from hearing. Robbie tries to not listen to them, but they seep into his brain and the effect is immediate. Like putting a paper towel to a spill, everything tinges red.
It was the squids, and not Rich, giving the advice. Robbie hadn’t really believed it until now, despite seeing the purple tentacle mess they made of Rich. Despite getting personally attacked. The advice was Rich, and the latter recitation to Grif was the squids. It had to be.
Robbie feels sick, and he’s not supposed to strain his ribs. Heaving would do that… and throwing up on Rich’s shoulder is a bad plan.
“Shut up,” he whispers. Disassociation used to come so easily, but now, when he needs it, Robbie can’t force himself into that zone where nothing that happened to him mattered and he could hear all manner of insults without blinking, because nothing was worse than what was in his own head. He was safe there. He knew all the demons. His own personal Kingdom of Yr. He’d liked that book, what was it called again? (Think about that, don’t think about Vance.) “Just shut up about it. It’s over with.”
I Never Promised You A Rose Garden. (Truer words were never written.) How did they say hello in the book? “I texted Vance that day and took care of it.”
Oh, right. Suffer, victim. No one loves you. (Think about the book, don’t think about what Rich is saying and it won’t hurt. Don’t think about it, don’t think, don’t think…)
He can hear the thick, wet sound in his own breathing. Maybe he could’ve hid how upset he was in the hug, Rich can’t see his face, but he had to go and make noise like Rich isn’t dealing with enough. “I’m just glad you’re safe, buddy.”
no subject
So there are no extra fingers to plug his ears and keep himself from hearing. Robbie tries to not listen to them, but they seep into his brain and the effect is immediate. Like putting a paper towel to a spill, everything tinges red.
It was the squids, and not Rich, giving the advice. Robbie hadn’t really believed it until now, despite seeing the purple tentacle mess they made of Rich. Despite getting personally attacked. The advice was Rich, and the latter recitation to Grif was the squids. It had to be.
Robbie feels sick, and he’s not supposed to strain his ribs. Heaving would do that… and throwing up on Rich’s shoulder is a bad plan.
“Shut up,” he whispers. Disassociation used to come so easily, but now, when he needs it, Robbie can’t force himself into that zone where nothing that happened to him mattered and he could hear all manner of insults without blinking, because nothing was worse than what was in his own head. He was safe there. He knew all the demons. His own personal Kingdom of Yr. He’d liked that book, what was it called again? (Think about that, don’t think about Vance.) “Just shut up about it. It’s over with.”
I Never Promised You A Rose Garden. (Truer words were never written.) How did they say hello in the book? “I texted Vance that day and took care of it.”
Oh, right. Suffer, victim. No one loves you. (Think about the book, don’t think about what Rich is saying and it won’t hurt. Don’t think about it, don’t think, don’t think…)
He can hear the thick, wet sound in his own breathing. Maybe he could’ve hid how upset he was in the hug, Rich can’t see his face, but he had to go and make noise like Rich isn’t dealing with enough. “I’m just glad you’re safe, buddy.”