lmao pretend i know what i'm doiiinnnggggg

[transcendent]

[ By now, Rubedo should know where to find Albedo if he looks. For the last several weeks he's slept like an angel, enfolded in a warm space built from their shared consciousness and memory. A night of rest outside can stretch out over days in here; the day Albedo finally stirs, his awareness stretches out in the background of Rubedo's senses all muzzy and creaking like he's been out for a year. But it's not enough to just hover there, sharing sight and sound and thought—it's perfect, important and precious, but right now it isn't enough.

As his (their) physical body migrates toward bed, Rubedo knows where to find him. He's waiting already; less anchored to the real world, he has the luxury of drifting between the varying phases of consciousness available to a person. Not long ago he drifted back into awareness and left behind the bed he conjured without meaning to: the broad, sterile white and gray affair he remembers from the Institute, but bigger, plusher, safer. There's been a nagging anxiety inside of him that he knows Rubedo can detect, even if he can't see him just yet. How will he choose to show up, he wonders? The way Albedo knew him in their youth? Or the form gifted to him by Nigredo? Can he sense this anticipation?

Will he feel all the things Albedo feels that he doesn't know how to name? Will he understand?

He's awake and standing in that semi-empty space, hood pooling around the nape of his neck, and when he sees Rubedo for the first time he doesn't actually say anything—he takes a few steps forward, gaze enigmatic but bright.

They've never just been in the same room. Not for years and years and years. Albedo was supposed to die at his hands, alone but free. Now he's almost close enough to touch. ]

Comments

what nonsense that's such a nice starter dear lord how do i even...

[positron]

[Jr had often wondered when Albedo was going to wake up, and the difference is palpable when he does. At first he anticipates some sort of greeting, a comment - anything. But it doesn't come. Rather than that, he's left with a series of impressions both muddled and distinct, heavy in their own indecision. The lone certainty is that they're there, and it's clearly Albedo. It's such that any words he might've said himself fall short of his voice.

Somehow, it doesn't seem quite right to just talk, as he did before being left alone-yet-not. He knows with certainty that he's being waited on, by the time he turns in for the day.

Not long thereafter he finds himself sinking, pulled down into a watery dark, heavy and light at once. Though he drifts there's a clear destination, and he finds it without a thought as to how. Jr. simply knows that that's where he ought to be, some fixed point in an intangible sea.

He finds himself there with jarring rapidity, taking some instants to survey his surroundings as though he doesn't know the confines of his own mind. In some respects, parts are foreign now, and yet not unfamiliar to him. They're alien only so far as half-forgotten memories are, at first out of place, then fitting neatly into the gaps of some puzzle he hadn't set out to complete.

Secure in these findings, he takes in his appearance for a beat. Rather, the appearance he could only assume in the confines of this shared space, a reflection of his actual age that he may not match for some years. Jr. turns his hands under his gaze curiously, as though they fall outside the realm of his expectations. And then they drop to his sides as he turns to face Albedo.

There's a heaviness hanging about them, impossible to ignore. And Jr. grasps why that is without having to ask, or at least, he understands enough of it now. Words come to mind in no small variety, an awkward, tumultuous mess he isn't entirely sure is only his. It might be, but...

Well, for now he settles with something simple]

Was starting to think you'd sleep a decade.

it is i who must even bless this tag

[transcendent]

[ Albedo's never seen Rubedo as anything other than the man he is, no matter his size or the sound of his voice, which for the first time echoes the timbre of his own—of Nigredo's—but all Albedo sees is him. He doesn't halt his approach, though he's got this look approaching wonderment on his face like that moment at the anomaly's epicenter when Rubedo admitted, honest and bold, that they weren't so different after all. To Albedo it was nothing less than the acceptance of those inextricable chains holding them together: that he'd experienced the same thing all along. That he could run as far and as fast from their common roots as he could but they could never escape each other, not until now, and finally maybe now they could both find a little peace—freed, both of them, surely.

Albedo didn't want to live in a world where Rubedo was gone. Rubedo needed only a small push to unburden himself and Albedo in one fell swoop. It was always meant to be so simple.

As simple as the words coming out of Rubedo's mouth, closer now than ever.

Albedo's eyes show wry humor, alight with leashed excitement and a strange kind of determination. Deep joy and longing and wild grief flare across their link and it can't be stopped or hidden. ]

Hah. And miss another moment of our journey into the nihilistic unknown? Please.

[ They're practically nose to nose. Albedo just stares hard into him, doing nothing.

He really does mean it.

Please. ]

as you write circles around me, gosh

[positron]

[Being linked isn't foreign to Jr. to an extent. But being inundated with feelings that aren't his is well beyond the realm of his experiences. The Standard types had been a simplistic hive-mind, and in the past, Albedo and Nigredo had only shared what thoughts they intended to.

A pale frown twitches at his lips as he attempts to sort through it all. Jr. has always understood Albedo to be sensitive, but there's a stark difference between appreciating and experiencing it firsthand. He's unsure just how long he's silent for, sifting through the tangle of feelings that are impressed upon him, nearly losing track of where his own start and end.

But Jr. does remember to reply, planting a hand on his hip. The frown smooths away]

Hasn't been all that exciting, actually. Except I tried cooking something - you missed out on that one.

[Which is his cue for something of a lopsided smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, far too cognizant of the feelings crowding around him, but uncertain how exactly to address them.

This wasn't ever a strength of his]

nyoooo it's good you're so good we're so good

[transcendent]

[ Albedo would like to think all the helplessness and chagrin humming around in the back of his mind isn't his own. It may not be. After all, he's always known Rubedo was hopeless and loved him in spite of it. Maybe even, in its way, a little because of it. No one in the world has ever been so stubborn.

He wants to reply to that. In fact, his rebuttal blossoms like vapor in the bridge of their shared thoughts as an overlapping melange of possible snarky responses. None of them make it into his throat, which doesn't even exist but is paralyzed. It's just that it feels like every wound is open again, or at least aching: every hand Rubedo ever pulled away. Every drop of blood, every explosion of anger. Every moment of loneliness. Every regret.

Because he doesn't think he can say anything convincingly right now that isn't raw truth, he doesn't say anything, but his hand has grasped Rubedo's at the wrist without his conscious awareness. He sort of just. Looks at it for a second, bemused. ]

You'll just have to show me again.

[ It's soft. Distracted. ]

...and then dw eats my tag why

[positron]

[The moment his wrist is caught, Jr. notices. He can't help but feel his attention dragged to that gesture, sparing Albedo's hand a wordless glance. It's a distantly familiar gesture, conjuring the recollection of a time when his brothers were so much smaller. They'd changed so much since the last time Jr. remembers being held onto this way, while he really hasn't changed at all.

Or perhaps none of them had really changed all that much.

Though it's been a long time - and feels longer yet - Jr. remembers this old habit. What comfort was derived from being fixed to his arm had always eluded Rubedo to some degree. Countless were the times that he'd been latched onto for some sort of comfort or security, or something else he'd never discerned.

His words had never been much comfort. When he looked back on it, Jr. concluded that selecting the right words hadn't been his forte. Truth be told, he believes as much even now. Those thoughts only lend to his indecision. A pervasive thought, nagging at his mind alongside the awareness that he needs to respond. Needs to say something.

But he's just so bad at it. He never seemed able to really fend off Albedo's anxieties. And there's so much now. That may not be any different from the past either.

He shoves his thoughts aside and looks at Albedo's face again. Sizing him up, perhaps. Evaluating. It's a long, indecisively sluggish moment before he shifts his weight...

And puts an arm around Albedo to give him a clumsy rendition of a hug. Jr. isn't accustomed to being the same size anymore]

We've got time.

[His voice is smaller than he means it to be, but then... He really isn't good at things like this]

LAZARUS. U NEED IT.

[transcendent]

[ They've got time.

What Rubedo doesn't realize is that he doesn't need to say anything at all. They're both inside and right next to each other—Albedo feels their union in every one of his hypothetical cells, a holy and resonant synchronicity he hasn't experienced since before they were born. Knowing what he knows now, he thinks perhaps in previous iterations of this universe they weren't even two people at all. Albedo is holding onto Rubedo like the child he was so recently with a hand that still remembers the hot warping of viscera around it, the invasion of Rubedo's chest cavity like plunging into molten metal. That was the last time they touched before this. It's a breathtaking, wrenching memory. It locks around his lungs. He wonders if a part of him could feel these things from the other side, to relive the pain as Rubedo relives it, and if Rubedo could do the same. Maybe they've already started. They've only just begun. They've only just begun and they've missed so much.

But they've got time.

One disjointed movement flows into the next: Rubedo's arm makes contact with the back of his neck. Albedo's grip fails, momentarily hovering in empty space. He doesn't know when his subconscious spirited away so much of his Testament mantle, but the hands that fall onto Jr.'s shoulder blades begin to clutch fabric in naked fingers. Not quite crushing him, he stares into the middle distance behind Jr. for a spell and then slowly lowers his face onto his shoulder, turns it into his collar.

He can remember what Rubedo smells like. ]

Look at us.

[ The tired, wry, aching thought whispers over the link, his throat preoccupied with a thick swallow. It's an ambiguous, oblique observation, like those three words are meant to encapsulate everything they've ever been and done together over the span of their entire messy existence. ]

PROBABLY. WHEN IT'S LONG TAGS IT'S BRUTAL.

[positron]

[If he thinks about it, Jr. can't remember the last time they did this. Assuredly it was when they were children, since no other time would've allowed for it. The past two years in which their paths had crossed had been turbulent, and saw more fighting than anything else.

Of those occasions when they were small, memory eludes him as to when he'd last initiated a hug. He's sure he must've, at some juncture. But most often, Albedo had sought out contact before it occurred to him.

And between then and now, fighting and injury]

What, do we look funny?

[It's far from a serious question, cutting into the heaviness that seems to accompany Albedo's words. Jr. can't help but feel clumsy where these gestures are concerned, despite their deceptive simplicity.

Still...he doesn't particularly mind that being the case]

[transcendent]

[ Albedo chuckles, rough and soft against Jr.'s warm lapel; something in him chafes a little at the sound of it, like his skin's gotten too big for him. He remembers a time when things were better, when none of them were afraid of losing anyone, when the myriad little infantile fears borne of his own fitful mind could be soothed away with Rubedo's long-suffering sigh and a shift of his body to make room in the bed. ]

It's because you're too big.

[ He lets Rubedo speak, replying seamlessly in the best way he can. He doesn't want to let go. Rubedo has to feel as much; the sentiment's rolling off him in waves, along with the simple, embarrassingly palpable radiance of his relief. His affection. It's with a little frisson of sheepish abandon that the set of his shoulders slackens further (as if saying, don't say a word, Rubedo, don't you dare) and he stubbornly refuses to disengage, clutching the fabric at the small of his back. (Once a petulant child, always a petulant child.) ]

[positron]

[His initial response to that amounts to little more than a huff, the palest show of offense he can muster. It does little to belie a flicker of amusement, something he supposes Albedo will notice. Has he ever been called too big in his entire life? His has been a long tenure of unimpressive stature, regardless of age and time.

Of all the things to say to him, really]

Guess you're stuck dealing with it then.

[His words are punctuated with a pat on the back, and although Jr. isn't really accustomed to being held into anymore, he remains where he is. The last time they actually joked around feels like a lifetime ago now, and it's a welcome contrast to the tenor of many of their encounters in recent years.

Besides which, he's glad for the perceptible difference as Albedo's tension seems to wane]

[transcendent]

[ Like it had always been there, Albedo shifts back and his heel makes a tok sound against the phantom bedframe. He descends without looking, pretending as well as he can that the grip of one hand hasn't slid from Rubedo's back to his sleeve, incorrigibly tugging. Though he knows the puff of clean scent that billows from the linens is purely a product of their shared imagination, memory thunders through his senses: he can see the Institute ceiling in their mind's eye as vividly as if it were real as he lets himself fall back with a plush thump into the mattress.

He knows he's taken them back to a time when nothing was ever as right as he wanted it to seem—all that time, they were never anything but tools to be used in the achievement of the old man's arrogant designs, but the sights and smells and emotions in their old room have lingered in the most primal parts of his mind even after he'd supposedly enlightened beyond them. Funny how that is. ]

Heh... what a joke.

[ Albedo is lying half off a bed that he's inclined to think was always meant to be Rubedo's, safe and free of the nightmares that always used to find him in his own, the back of Rubedo's hand a spot of sorely-missed heat under his fingers—and as much as he'd like, he can't shake this thread of rueful feeling running underneath everything. Righteous anger, maybe. A wish that things could've been different.

He's not used to feeling that way. ]

It's just an illusion. Haven't you had enough of revisiting the past?

[ But Albedo's the one who's resurrected this place, this sensation. He knows it. Rubedo must know it, too. ]

[positron]

[When the bed makes an appearance - and Jr. could swear it hadn't been there just moments ago - it's easily recognizable. Regardless of how much time has passed, Jr. can't deny its striking familiarity. The structure, the smell, even a dent from an incident he remembers getting in trouble over. He wouldn't have thought that he remembered it that clearly.

And it's possible that he hadn't; Jr. has the sense that it's here because Albedo put it here. For what purpose, he's not as certain of...at least until hearing that comment. He hikes a brow at the words, shifting his weight slightly as he maintains some balance this his free arm]

You talking to yourself?

[The tenuous mirth is replaced by concern, his voice quiet. The question isn't really a question at all. It's difficult to sift through the feelings being relayed to him, confused and conflicted as they present themselves to be. Silence descends with the heaviness of winter snow, and to Jr. seems to linger on longer than it truly does]

...It wasn't this soft.

[He observes this, fingers pressed against the comforter. It's not entirely the past; made from it, certainly, but with evident differences]

BARRELS IN enjoy your pain

[transcendent]

[ The day everything changed Albedo had taken to his own bed earlier than the others, hiding his irreparably streaked red face under starched sheets and a sterile pillow—refusing to be consoled, unwilling to be, unable, and Rubedo and Nigredo had selfishly obliged him by leaving him to his grief. They didn't know what else to do. Albedo understands that now because he senses it in Rubedo's thoughts, that terrible powerlessness. Rubedo was Rubedo; Rubedo was the leader. It had never occurred to Albedo to think of Rubedo as a person whose strength might fail.

The betrayal had been devastating.

And as if foreshadowing the night of their descent, Albedo waited in the dark until long after curfew, a huddled mass beneath the covers, for a comforting presence that never came. ]

No.

[ Taken as a response to Jr.'s second statement, it's agreement. Taken as a response to the first, it's a transparent lie.

His head throbs under starched sheets and a sterile pillow, tight with tears, eyes burning, nose burning, hiccuping wet breaths, inconsolable, but still a small weight settles on the edge of the bed before long. Still Rubedo tries: he shushes and soothes, holds him tight enough to stop the tremors, and even if it's through a watery voice he tells Albedo there's no reason to be afraid because it all works out in the end. We'll always be together. It's gonna be okay. And Albedo nods because he can't speak and falls asleep with a mind quieted by the fact that Rubedo just knows the future, and nothing goes wrong, and everything ends up being okay.

This never happened, of course. But it's a beautiful falsehood, isn't it?

Rubedo?

Regardless of which part he's really chosen to answer, one or the other or both, Albedo's expression remains stubbornly resolute as his voice catches on something rough in his throat. ]

Not at all.

SCREECHING EVERYWHERE-

[positron]

[It shouldn't come as any surprise that Albedo's answer is vague. Neither forthright nor honest, something veiled just enough not to leave one with no purchase. Yet the lack of answer says far more than Jr. assumes Albedo means it to. When he skirts around a subject, it makes a statement all its own, and in that omission there's a louder message than colorful wordplay might convey.

Although in some ways that banter, however biting it was at times, felt lighter than silence does now.

For his part, Jr. chooses not to question it further. Albedo's emotions are a loaded jumble, louder even than loaded silence, and far more difficult to respond to. There was a time when dealing with his brother's feelings seemed simpler - more likely, he hadn't understood them as well as he'd assumed he had.

Eventually, he moves along with the subject at hand, responding not to Albedo's obscure answers but instead to his earlier statement]

The past's not that bad, as long as you don't get lost in it. What's anyone without memories?

[Though it's not really the point, at least it's something he believes. As painful as parts of the past are for Jr., he wouldn't discard them. Sometimes he'd wished he could, but in the end, they define who he is.

Whether Albedo feels the same about it may be another matter entirely]

gotta get all my gay out in here tbh

[transcendent]

[ Albedo tilts his head to the side, bedclothes rustling. He's a little paler than Rubedo where he's made their fingers overlap; most of Albedo's life has passed in space, while he imagines Rubedo grew up under some warm sun, synthetic or not but capable of emitting the ultraviolet wavelengths that would darken his skin just slightly. Albedo, of course, could've spent every day in the same places and nothing would change. That's not the point, either.

He realizes all of a sudden that he has no idea what Rubedo's been up to these last fifteen years, having always vindictively satisfied himself with assuming "living a life of blissful ignorance alongside Nigredo" and leaving it at that.

Rubedo's right, really. Why get lost in their shared past? There's so much more waiting just ahead.

Having shifted inward, loosely fetal, head pillowed on his now-retracted arm, he's able to feel the illusory dreamlike warmth of Rubedo's long legs soaking into his knees. He can't read Rubedo's expression from down here, but his hand is back again—the other one this time—curiously examining the first scar he can find on Jr.'s forearm. He couldn't tell you what his own face looks like, either, even if he cared; he's not even sure what this feeling is. It feels bigger than he is, like it could swallow him whole, and it hurts a little, and he likes it. ]

Hey, Rubedo... you went, didn't you? You and Nigredo. [ Greedy, questing; hungry for Jr.'s experiences. ] To the beach?

i see this. jr. doesn't but i do.

[positron]

Been to a few, while traveling for business.

[Jr. isn't sure whether he ought to admit as much. It was something the three of them were supposed to do together, something that they'd been excited about as children. The world outside of the Institute, a world beyond battlefields and encephalon dives, had been some mysterious yawning fascination for them all. They'd been so limited in where they could go, what they could do.

And then when those constraints were gone, it was only him and Gaignun. Not that they hadn't faced certain limitations of their own, but that was different. They'd seen a great many things that had been far beyond their reach, left only to vague whispy imaginings.

The beach they'd once all decided they'd visit was among those. Hell, he'd made his own beach. But none of it exactly captured what he'd expected as a child. What he'd anticipated alongside his brothers. It was different in a way he couldn't define.

And he'd supposed it was the gap between the imagining of a thing and its reality]

Was always different than I thought it'd be.

[He admits, though he doubts it changes the fact that Albedo wasn't included. That he wasn't there with them]

yeah albedo's definitely the smart twin

[transcendent]

[ If he's not mistaken—and he's not, is he—he'd think he detects a sliver of apology in that answer. And maybe melancholy, too, without knowing precisely whether or not it's his own—things never are exactly as you imagine them to be. Albedo closes his eyes and tries to let it all flow through him, at his most elated when he's not sure where his thoughts end and Rubedo's begin, hoping that if even a sliver of that rapture washes back into Rubedo that maybe—

That he'll... understand.

There's an indescribable shift in Albedo's perception that he's only just becoming aware of: it's like the mists are clearing between them, like his jagged edges are being sanded down by a slow tide. It's not that different from the moments following Rubedo's deathblow, he can suppose. Even less different from the moment of his resurrection. Open books can be read or written in, Rubedo reminds him without meaning to; an open door is accessible from both directions. Whether or not Rubedo's conscious mind only gives what he chooses to give, it's enough, and Albedo doesn't rightly know at first what to do with all this new perspective.

Rubedo's courage. His fear. His helplessness. His good intentions and bitterest regrets.

Seen through a lens other than his own betrayal, madness, it's Albedo who unexpectedly begins to understand. And in understanding, he finds abruptly that his forgiveness is uncontrollable. Hell, the grieving angry child in him doesn't want to let things go; he can feel the war it's conjured in his psyche and knows that Rubedo probably can, too. An embarrassing brat, willfully blinded by his own agony at being abandoned. Albedo understands, but he hurts, but he understands.

He swallows and sits up, perpendicular to Jr. on the mattress, legs in half-lotus and searching Jr.'s face for what to say like they're twelve again. ]

It's useless to cling to what could've been... [ he begins, slower and with less certainty than he intends. Annoyed. ] Rewriting history's a futile effort, anyway.

[ A pause, a smirk. His knee's in just the right place to bump against Jr.'s. ]

At least, it is now.