There's no good reason to answer that, so he doesn't. But it's harder to ignore another request for him to get out of the stupid cupboard already. He nods, and scoots forward a little. Not quite out, but closer to the edge. It's the change in temperature when his face starts to poke out that stops him. Inside the cupboard there's body heat, but outside, it's chilly. At the moment it's genuinely disconcerting to him, though he wouldn't be able to explain why if anyone happened to ask. Stanley scrubs a palm over his face, and takes a minute to psych himself up.
When he finally does slide out of the pantry, he slides into a crouch below it. Give him a sec, Collette. He's not some loser who can't get out of a pantry. Well, not now that he's out of it, anyway.
"Not bad," she says after a moment. "You're almost there!" She leaves off any further encouragement for the moment. It's far enough out to see he's making an effort. Not like she can drag him out any faster as it is.
He'd forgotten about breathing again, but at her prompt he sucks in a lungful of air and nods. Ow, his lungs. There's no reason his body should hurt just from existing, but at the moment it seems to. The breath rushes out of him again in a sigh.
"I'm good. Well, actually I'm shitty. But I think...I think people are. Everyone with...I mean, it's not me. The shit. It's-it's just everything. I feel like shit because everything is shit."
The answer isn't nice, but it's honest at least. His tone is still vacant and confused, but his words aren't nearly so uncertain. He's had enough of all of this, but no matter how hard he pinches himself, he just can't wake up from the nightmare. There's no use denying that things aren't alright. It's obvious anyway, it has to be. People don't hide in food pantries clicking their heels together in hopes of courage or a way home or a reset button or a new outlook if they're alright. He's not, and he can't imagine how she could be either. Everything just keeps breaking.
"Yep." She doesn't deny reality in the way people tend to assume. It's just that he doesn't stop or fall back just because reality sucks; she spins what she can, sits on her insecurities, and looks for the better things. There is always something of a better thing, somewhere.
"Kind of up to us to do what we can, even in deciding when we can be happy, 'cause it's here and gone so fast. I know we can. Maybe not all in fighting, everyone doesn't have to fight like, with fists and weapons to make things change, but they can help by believing in anything. Even if it's that everything is shit. It'll be better and worse... Right now is more of the worse. Again."
Losing Exsilium how they had at the start of October had been worse before, but personal worst, and far reaching, hard to process worse, they're different.
He wouldn't believe her if she said she was alright anyway. People who are totally fine don't bother tracking down casual acquaintances and talking them down from the pantries they happen to be hiding inside of like that. She's here because she needs something, too. He just doesn't know what yet, or if he can even give it to her. But it'll come out in the wash eventually.
Meanwhile, he shrugs and tries to answer her. "Was there a better?" Because since the plague infested day he set foot on the soil so far down below, all he's ever seen things do is getting worse.
"There is when you make one. Or you can let everything be terrible forever. Some people thrive on that," she says blithely. She's seen it -- to her, it's a given truth. "It's life, it's filled with choices, even the pretty shitty ones," she says, trying to imitate his tone of voice from his own commentary on how shitty everything has been. Her lips quirk at the end.
The response isn't a challenge, his tone is back to the flat and disinterested tone that he often defaults to. That's her comforting speech? Get over it? Choose not to mourn? Yeah, that's great. Not like she's the first one to say it to him, but he'd expected better from someone his own age. Maybe she was more fucked up than anyone knew.
Stan glances up at her, and fades back out of sight. It's tough to tell whether it's intentional or not. He doesn't acknowledge it either way. It's frustrating, and disappointing. He brushes invisibly past, probably on his way out, but he stops in the doorway. There's one more thing.
"She was here. Now she's not. I choose to care about that."
"You should." TO Collette, caring about things like that matters. There's simply been so much for her, it all feels a sort of numb, overwhelming and almost impossible to take in. She didn't have anyone to make it too intensely painful, outside of Terri, and only Caesar knew the story behind Terri.
She hadn't needed to take care of anyone. She's always been that person.
But no way does she think less of Stan for being in this place now. "So right now, it'll keep sucking. If you stopped caring about people important to you... I don't know. I think you lose more and more of yourself if you do things like that."
It's not something to reassure over -- great, you're a person, things hurt, life gets shitty. It's reality in her eyes. That's all.
He doesn't have a concept yet of what it means to lose himself. He's never even bothered to find himself to begin with. He knows his name and his home address and his grandmother's maiden name, but he wouldn't know what to say if anyone asked about him personally. Luckily, it never happens.
He frowns anyway, invisibly, and rocks on the balls of his feet. He's still a little irritated, still unsure if she's making light of the things that matter to him. Unsure, even, how it is that the things that came to matter to him all ended up centered around a girl he was never supposed to know to begin with.
It's an oddly sickening sensation, to realize that all of this happened because he'd stepped over the lines that were drawn in the sand. He doesn't get to accept this and move on. That's for other people. People who didn't ruin any lives this week.
No response comes. Unless Collette is listening carefully for the sound of someone sliding down in the doorway, it's easy to assume that Stanley has simply left the room.
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He does know, actually. It sucks. What's weirder is if no one else in that room ever wakes up screaming. But it's probably better not to say that.
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When he finally does slide out of the pantry, he slides into a crouch below it. Give him a sec, Collette. He's not some loser who can't get out of a pantry. Well, not now that he's out of it, anyway.
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"Breathing okay?"
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"I'm good. Well, actually I'm shitty. But I think...I think people are. Everyone with...I mean, it's not me. The shit. It's-it's just everything. I feel like shit because everything is shit."
The answer isn't nice, but it's honest at least. His tone is still vacant and confused, but his words aren't nearly so uncertain. He's had enough of all of this, but no matter how hard he pinches himself, he just can't wake up from the nightmare. There's no use denying that things aren't alright. It's obvious anyway, it has to be. People don't hide in food pantries clicking their heels together in hopes of courage or a way home or a reset button or a new outlook if they're alright. He's not, and he can't imagine how she could be either. Everything just keeps breaking.
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"Kind of up to us to do what we can, even in deciding when we can be happy, 'cause it's here and gone so fast. I know we can. Maybe not all in fighting, everyone doesn't have to fight like, with fists and weapons to make things change, but they can help by believing in anything. Even if it's that everything is shit. It'll be better and worse... Right now is more of the worse. Again."
Losing Exsilium how they had at the start of October had been worse before, but personal worst, and far reaching, hard to process worse, they're different.
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Meanwhile, he shrugs and tries to answer her. "Was there a better?" Because since the plague infested day he set foot on the soil so far down below, all he's ever seen things do is getting worse.
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The response isn't a challenge, his tone is back to the flat and disinterested tone that he often defaults to. That's her comforting speech? Get over it? Choose not to mourn? Yeah, that's great. Not like she's the first one to say it to him, but he'd expected better from someone his own age.
Maybe she was more fucked up than anyone knew.
Stan glances up at her, and fades back out of sight. It's tough to tell whether it's intentional or not. He doesn't acknowledge it either way. It's frustrating, and disappointing. He brushes invisibly past, probably on his way out, but he stops in the doorway. There's one more thing.
"She was here. Now she's not. I choose to care about that."
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She hadn't needed to take care of anyone. She's always been that person.
But no way does she think less of Stan for being in this place now. "So right now, it'll keep sucking. If you stopped caring about people important to you... I don't know. I think you lose more and more of yourself if you do things like that."
It's not something to reassure over -- great, you're a person, things hurt, life gets shitty. It's reality in her eyes. That's all.
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He frowns anyway, invisibly, and rocks on the balls of his feet. He's still a little irritated, still unsure if she's making light of the things that matter to him. Unsure, even, how it is that the things that came to matter to him all ended up centered around a girl he was never supposed to know to begin with.
It's an oddly sickening sensation, to realize that all of this happened because he'd stepped over the lines that were drawn in the sand. He doesn't get to accept this and move on. That's for other people. People who didn't ruin any lives this week.
No response comes. Unless Collette is listening carefully for the sound of someone sliding down in the doorway, it's easy to assume that Stanley has simply left the room.