completelycrazy | in the night: ic inbox

[This is what she gets for doing something nice.]

Early 20's.

[He snorts. Oh, boy, she's so lucky she can't hear him.]

Oh my god, you did NOT think I was that much of a baby! I have 6 phds! Even child prodigies aren't THAT good.

How old are YOU?

[Thank god for the relative darkness. It means the odds are on her side that he won't see the heat in her cheeks, pale skin or not. This is why you shouldn't be nice to people.]

I earned my degree when I was sixteen, and you're far from dimmer than I. It isn't inconceivable.

[And while she doesn't actually fuss over her age, it's not a question she's used to hearing.]

36. 37 in two months, if we're counting from when I died.

[Blush away, Ros. Newt is busy being delighted by this turn of events. Mission accomplished, sort of?]

I'm gonna choose to take all of this as one big compliment even though its maybe a little bit insulting that

WAIT ACTUALLY omg you just said I'm as smart as you and you thought I was like ten years younger AND you said it in writing. I'm gonna frame these texts, hang em up right next to my degrees.

[Which he will get from Pluto next Night Market visit if that's what it's gonna take to beat this dead horse.]

Would it be totally insulting if I'm not surprised by your age? I figured we were in the same ballpark.

[Oh my god who knew her fingers could type so fast]

I didn't bloody think you were ten years younger, I'm not an idiot, I was trying to

[no you know what forget it]

Stop smirking.

Edited 2020-01-25 04:32 (UTC)

[He does, mostly, but not because she's told him to.]

Trying to what?

[Her mouth purses, her sharp sigh unheard.]

You were obviously feeling upset at the thought of your birthday. I thought you'd prefer to argue about something nonsensical.

Edited (ohhhh my god) 2020-01-25 04:47 (UTC)

[Oh.

Ah.

Hm.]

Thanks.

[It's a lame response, but it's not as if they're solely limited to text. She can watch him hesitating and typing and deleting before eventually landing on one word as a placeholder as he tries to figure out where to go next.

The parade's still raging outside—he can feel the thump of bass drums through the wall at his back—so they'll be stuck here for some time yet. While he's not sure he wants to talk about any of this... he probably should, right? The pile of Things He Doesn't Want To Talk About keeps growing. At least he can edit himself over text.

Besides, it's Rosalind. She's his closest friend here, and it sounds like she can relate, and it... She did just go pretty far out of her way to try and make him feel better. That's a rarity.]

You ever think about how young everyone here is? Not that everyone's a kid and I mean I'm glad we're not stuck with a bunch of geriatrics I guess.

But I'm gonna be 34 forever because that's how old I was when I died. Did ANYONE here just you know live a full life and die quietly from old age?

I never thought of dying as some great tragedy. Now IDK.

Edited (sometimes you just stroke out mid tag ig) 2020-01-25 05:08 (UTC)

[If it helps-- and it probably doesn't, not in a situation like this-- but if it helps, at least Rosalind isn't staring intently at him, waiting for some sign of gratitude. She's as fumbling as he is with this, the two of them tripping their way into a topic they hadn't intended in the least.

Another thing that might help: she goes through just as many rewrites as he did. Her eyes flick up once or twice, focusing on him: not expectantly, but rather studying his expression in the semi-darkness.

There's so many things to say, but each answer she tries feels too false or clumsy. And maybe there is no answer. Maybe that's the trick of it. Maybe there's nothing to do, no action to take, no thread to chase. Maybe there's just far-off, chilled regret, painful but not overwhelmingly so, and doing nothing but sitting with it.]

Tell me what constitutes a full life for you.

You must have had plans.

[Newt has never been particularly good with "doing nothing but sitting with it", is the problem. People like him, people like Rosalind—they fix stuff. They generate forward momentum. But something like this, he can't even figure out how to put his hands on it, let alone drive it forward.

At least there's solidarity there.]

Actually I didn't. Not really. My world's been on the brink of apocalypse for over a decade, most of my adult life. I didn't want to plan stuff because if the world was ending, what's the point? I've always been an "in the moment" kind of guy anyway.

But man I haven't touched my keyboard in like probably a few months. I can't remember the last time I even left the Shatterdome or had a day off all I did was work, because I chose to and all, like again the whole apocalypse thing? I love the work too it's not like I've been miserable.

But you think you have time to do stuff later, if you don't it's because the whole earth goes down and that's kind of Ok? Not really but its not the universe flipping you off specifically.

Don't get me wrong, I'd probably be regretting this same stuff if I'd made it to the end of the world, you know, like staring down the barrel of the Anteverse, like, well this wasn't what I wanted to be doing today, but I'm gonna be flattened by a 4k ton alien in about 2 seconds, so no biggie. You wouldn't have time to linger on IDK not getting to listen to the new LCD album and never settling on a design for the last parts of your tats and putting off skype night for like the 7th week in a row.

[He's halfway into the next chunk of whatever winding tangent this is when he realizes he hadn't talked to his dad in almost two months when he died. He stops typing. Instead, he tabs away, pulls up his tablet's storage where he's imported the contents of his phone, his texts... He closes it all again before he gets too far down that rabbit hole—he knows without looking that the last thing he said to his father was some version of an excuse, some promise to call him in a day or two.

But he didn't, and now he's dead, and there's a high probability that his dad is dead by now, too. Time may be relative and universes may be infinite, but his universe is done. If his Pons system hadn't been such a piece of shit, maybe they'd still have a shot, but Pentecost is gonna go ahead with Hermann's plan, and it's not gonna work, and everyone's gonna die. Everyone did die. Time is relative.

He sinks against the cold, concrete wall of the armory and tries to think instead about how this would suck a lot worse if they were talking, if she could hear his voice crack. There, he's lucky in that respect. He sniffs, takes a breath, makes a show of resettling himself against the wall as an excuse to turn for a moment and blink away some of the wet in his eyes.

Bam, no big deal. Back to normal.]

Not that I'm pissed to still be alive or anything but it'd be cool to not be in a world thats also on the brink of destruction via big fuck off aliens. I can't even dissect these ones.

[That is not at all what his point was earlier, but he's not about to backtrack.]

[Her eyes flick down for a moment, pretending to reread the text just so he has a moment to collect himself. It's too dark for her to see the tears, but his shifting is just as dead a giveaway.

Skype night, he says, and she wonders who he was calling. In some ways, it doesn't matter: the feeling is the same no matter the recipient. That awful, hot panic swaddled in a thick coat of shame and grief and regret, sitting so heavy in her stomach. Surely he's feeling that now. Surely he's ruminating on how he'll never again talk to them, nor see their faces, nor tell them how much he really loves them, even if it's hard to show, even if he doesn't always say it.

Of course he's blinking back tears.]

I've a few ideas for the next time we attempt it.

[She types it swiftly, sending it off even as she rises to her feet. Eyes cast downward, keeping out of sight of the window, she moves to carefully sit next to him.

She knows that grief. And when it was still raw, when her heart was bloody and aching, Riku had held her hand. His grip was steady, firm, something that pulled her up if not out of the raging sea of her grief. Javert had too, once. His grip was rougher, his hands worn for far longer than Riku's, and yet the gentle reverence with which he'd done it had soothed her so easily.

In the end, she can't. But she at least sets her hand down between them, and if he feels the need to set his down as well, until such time as he gets himself under control in one way if not another . . . she would not object.]

Edited 2020-01-25 07:03 (UTC)

[If she notices his little moment, she doesn't show it, and while he knows she obviously did, she's not stupid, he's gonna go ahead and accept the ruse as fact. Add that to the list of small-yet-weighty kindnesses she's done him today.

Oh, but then she's settling in next to him and of course he notices the hand, he's not stupid, either, but he's not sure what to make of it all. Ugh, this is exactly why being holed up in the Shatterdome for months on end did no one any favors.

There's a beat or two of hesitation—he hates this new habit of second-guessing his every instinct, but that's what happens when you accidentally murder yourself—and then he slips his hand into hers. It's easy, once he's there, past having to make the decision.

In part because god, he's missed human connection. He's missed being around people who even like him—and Rosalind has to like him, doesn't she? Of course she does. She's not the type of person to go through the motions just because they're stuck together. She'd tell him to pull up his pants and fuck right off with the self pity if that's how she felt about it.

One-handed, he futzes with his tablet for a moment before scooting in closer to her, close enough so that their legs are touching and he can prop up his tablet between them. On it, the town map, screenshotted and pulled into the tablet's drawing app.

In green, messy handwriting, he scrawls out:]

What else do you think we have here?

[He draws a little bowl of noodles between the bike shop and Bonfire Square, then writes RAMEN SHOP!!]

[He's not the only one who's missed human contact. Rosalind relaxes by degrees, tentatively trusting her weight against him slowly. His hand is warm against the slight chill her skin always carries, but that's no bad thing. It's still January, after all.

Despite herself, she scoffs out a laugh at that theory. Picks out another color (red, then, if he'll take her usual favorite) and draws a few swift lines near the armory. Oh, it's a needle and a spool of thread.]

Tailor.

[Do her eyes pointedly drag over his clothes? They do.]

[A tailor, oh my god, she's so very From The Past, but then she gives him that look and he throws up his free hand in overblown disbelief. How dare???

But sure, that'd probably be useful around here. Next to her tailor, he draws in... a house that says TATS on it because this is a hard thing to illustrate.]

Then I could finish my leg. 👍

[...]

Not run by spirits tho.

[She nods her head, a wry response that doesn't need to be typed. Although--]

How much of you is covered in tattoos?

[She's genuinely curious. But hm . . . ah, and this next drawing is a box with a circle attached.]

Sawmill.

[There, a proper answer.]

Edited 2020-01-25 08:09 (UTC)

[He gives her a smug grin and motions with his hand: arms, torso, entire left leg, and he does a little cut-off motion just above his knee to indicate that's where he stopped. Oh, and, afterthought: he sits forward a bit to point around to his back. So, like, most of him, to answer her question.]

Gotta take drastic measures when ur name's newton &

[He taps the side of his glasses, then just kind of... gestures to himself. Holds up a hand to indicate his short and spicy build. It's accompanied by a sort of helpless eyeroll. Like, what are you gonna do, right?

Oh, hey, speaking of nerds, his next doodle is a little castle.]

Hogwarts. I'd learn the shit out of some magic.

[She follows the motions of his hands, and yes, she understands what he means, glasses and shorter stature (although still taller than her, but isn't everyone?). And god knows tattoos on that much of his skin is drastic. But she doesn't know about got to.

Anyway.]

You're a scientist. Act like it.

[But UGH FINE. It takes more of an effort for her to be ~whimsical~, but if he insists . . .]

A sweets shop.

[There. Not, perhaps, a questionably ethical boarding school full of owls and wands, but at least something that isn't practical. Also: the sweets shop is a little box with one of those giant swirly lollipops on top, so. There's that.]

[He lets out a little laugh at her doodle, so yes, good work, Rosalind. But then she gets a really? look at the comment.]

Not JUST a sceintist.

[...Wait, shit. He crosses that out.]

scientist

English is a BS language jsyk. Figure your vowels out!

[Oh, hey, a night of firsts: Rosalind actually looks mildly baffled.]

Figure your own vowels out.

[She actually says that out loud, not really for him so much as her own incredulous response. And there's a lot of things she could type, but in the end, what she draws is this: a very crude rendition of an American flag, with an Eng and then N.G. next to it.]

Edited 2020-01-25 09:25 (UTC)

[He spots her saying something out of the corner of his eye, and he's way confused. The drawing doesn't answer any questions, either. What?? He's not American. Why does everyone always think he's American?

He shakes his head, crossing out the flag and replacing it with a German one. Then comes a very shitty, entirely green Union Jack with an arrow pointing to Rosalind. And then a question mark.]

[She hesitates, then nods. Yes, she's English, even if Columbia was its own nation. But oh, this is foolish, and she grabs her own tablet:]

Have you been forcing yourself to speak English this entire time? You can simply write and speak in German, if that's what you are.

[Whoop, now she looks mildly amused. Honestly, she deserves to be amused, typing one-handed as she is. Truly a feat.]

[.........................WHAT.

Forget the map! He needs a keyboard! And, oh! He's just realized they've been casually holding hands this whole time! A lot is happening for Newt in this moment.]

You speak German???

[Wait, no, wrong takeaway.]

You can understand this even though you don't speak German because idk magical afterlife universal translator shit?

[He wrote all that in German, so, time will tell.]

Yes.

What the hell I didn't know that was a thing why didn't you tell me!

[This is the coolest shit, but also, he's so incredulous that he is just now finding about this. He shakes his head at her in mock disappointment.]

I've been speaking English this whole time for the record. Still speaking it now. The translator thing is cool but ya boy dont need it.

But you really thought I was American this whole time?

[Ya boy, she mouths, but okay.]

You went to an American university. You live in Hong Kong, and presumably, whomever you skype with lives in State-side as well.

[So, like, yes? It's not honestly an unreasonable assumption to make-- it's not as if he ever reminisced about the good old days in the mountains (or whatever Germany has, it's not like she's ever really looked at the country in detail).

But this is getting a little uncomfortable, and anyway, it's been far too long-- so she pulls her hand back, fingers flexing, ignoring the loss of heat in favor of typing more quickly.

She doesn't pull away, though, legs and hips still pressed together.]

And you're speaking to someone with a mastery in French, so let's not get ahead of ourselves in the bragging game.

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