ArchivedLogs:In Which Taylor And Karrie Have A Small Birthday Celebration, In Violation Of Some Rules

In Which Taylor And Karrie Have A Small Birthday Celebration, In Violation Of Some Rules
Warning: deals with suicide.
Dramatis Personae Karrie, Taylor
In Absentia	Daiki's birthday "{But here? Now?}"
Location <NYC> Empire State University - Greenwich Village
"{Please don't tell me you joined their motorcycle gang.}" There are other things, so very many other things, that come flooding into Karrie's mind -- and no doubt Taylor can hear the jumble. But that's the first one that tumbles /out/, Japanese not so much chiding as worried, when the hoverbike lands outside her dorm building at Empire State University. She's been waiting, tense, arms wrapped around herself -- but as she throws them out for a hug she's derailed. Baps him with a closed fist on the shoulder instead. Taylor accepts the bapping with equanimity. He climbs off the bike, and even if Karrie doesn't offer a hug, /he/ does. Two regularly bony arms, the rest of his limbs tucked away under his coat; he squeezes Karrie tight and hard before shaking his head. "{Nah. Shane lent me his bike to escape. Pretty sure the Professor wants me grounded for /life/.}" His tone is wry. Light chuckle, muffled behind his scarf. What-can-you-do kind of shrug. Karrie looks at the bike. Looks at the street around them. She hooks an arm through his, dragging him inside and off towards her dorm. "{/That's/ working out well, I can see.}" The room she brings him to is tiny, cramped with both the beds and dressers and desks inside. Papered with photographs on one side, sketches on the other, books and laundry scattered around. Karrie's roommate is nowhere to be seen. "{Well, they can ground me double.}" Taylor sheds his coat once he's inside, drapes it over the back of Karrie's desk chair. His arms all shake out once they're freed -- several of them are still red and raw, malformed where they're not /quite/ finished regrowing. There are at least a half-dozen knives tucked under his coat, sheathed along his belt. He peels off his gloves, unwinds his scarf. The knotty mass of scar tissue along one side of his face, at least, /has/ healed. Which doesn't stop Karrie's breath from catching. She pulls closer to him, lifts a hand to press her fingertips to the twisted scarred skin. "... Oh." Reflexive, her eyes skate away from Taylor's face towards a photograph on the wall -- taken only a few months ago, it has Hope and Taylor and Daiki tangled together in a (bandaged) (bruised) (laughing) heap on a couch at Evolve after Fight Club. "... oh." Taylor's eyes follow Karrie's. Then close, squeezing hard. His face presses in against her fingertips, a shudder rippling through all his limbs. For a moment. Then a sharp jerk away, pulling from her to move the short distance to the bed. He drops onto the edge of it heavily, slumping forward with elbows propped on knees and fingers laced together. "{... do you get mad at me?}" It takes a while for Karrie to ask this. She stays by the desk, kneading her fingers into Taylor's discarded coat. Taylor wrings his fingers together, unlaces them, wrings them back together. "{You can't save the whole world. That's just not...}" Karrie shakes her head, a flash of memory -- rotting tentacles, a gnash of teeth behind blackened lips -- flickering through her mind. "{I didn't mean for leaving them. I meant for bringing you back.}" Behind his back, Taylor's limbs sink down against the bed. His fingers lock together hard. There's a sharp catch of his breath, and then silence. Karrie's fingers squeeze down against Taylor's jacket. She pushes herself up, crosses over to the bed, folds herself onto it beside him. She sits back against the wall, head thunking back against it, hugging a pillow to her chest and tucking her knees up. "{There's not ever any way to know. It's like. It's like sex. When you're drunk. You know? And maybe /before/ you got drunk you said it was fine but once you are...}" Her chin drops against the pillow. "{OK I don't really know how far I can go on that analogy. I don't know I don't /know/. Were you happier? Did you just want to stay -- does everyone just want to stay. Gone. Why do we keep assuming people /want/ me to...}" "{You don't do it for them, I guess.}" Taylor's eyes are fixed very firmly down on his folded hands. "{You do it for everyone still here. Because whatever the /dead/ people want, for /us/ it hurts too much to -- not.}" Four of his arms curl in, wrapping around his torso. "{I don't remember. If I was happier.}" "{But here? Now?}" Karrie presses. Not urgent, really, whisper-soft -- though a leaden weight drops in her mind behind the words. "{/Here/? Now?}" Taylor's voice is a little choked. Brows lifting. The rasping edge of laughter caught in his words. Flustered, Karrie shakes her head, frizzy hair falling down over her face. One hand waves, quick and irritable, brushing this question off. Sweeping wider in a more generalized sort of -- /you/ know. Taylor pushes back on the bed, leaning against the other wall, now. "{There's been so often I think it would have been easier. Just stay dead. Even if these days I don't know what the fuck /that/ means.}" He shrugs quickly. "{So goddamn often. Here, now, it's like. Every fucking. Day. Maybe it's quieter, there. Maybe it's more peaceful. Maybe you get to see everyone who...}" His head rolls to the side, eyes skimming back towards the wall of photographs. "{Most days,}" Karrie says quietly, "{I want to see for myself.}" Taylor closes his eyes. His expression hasn't changed greatly. A small tensing of his jaw, that's all. He nods, once, slowly, and scoots closer to Karrie's side of the bed. One long snakey arm slides out, curls around her shoulders, wraps there and pulls her closer to him. After a long silence his hand drops to his side. Picks up one of the knives sheathed there, drawing it to turn it over and over in his hand. Karrie has rested her head against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed; they open again to watch the glint of light against the knife blade. "{Maybe,}" she says softly, "{it's more peaceful. Maybe you get to see everyone.}" "{Every fucking day.}" Taylor's mind touches to Karrie's, the firm solid feel of the knife hilt in his fingers reflected to her. << {When I get back, I'll let you know.} >>