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The snow was thick outside, the day coming to a close.
Terry decided to invite Player over to Roadtown’s bar for a celebratory outing because of the success in grabbing the Ghostwalker, though for Terry it was more of an excuse to spend the extra tix he snagged from tourists in Telemon’s Manor. Shedletsky had no lead to where the Firebrand was, so why not go out with Player while they wait for him to figure it out? Shedletsky’s a busy man, so reasonably it’d take some time to track the next sword down.
Terry and Player definitely had time to go out for a drink. They weren't exactly friends, but he guessed he could call the both of them.. Buddies. Associates, maybe.
He tucked Jerry into bed, sneaking out of his hotel room after double checking he was asleep before practically sliding down the stairs to meet up with Player, who was already waiting for him at the bottom.
Player grinned at him with their usual shaky smile, sliding onto the seat with little effort– Terry struggling to hop up, but eventually achieving his goal, sitting right next to Player.
“You order whatever, I'll pay.” Terry said, nudging Player.
Terry was never one for alcohol, ordering some cherry-looking soda— Player ordered a beer.
“Dude, so you know that hat I found in Blackrock’s kitchen? Turns out I can do anything with it. Like— There’s this brand of sardines on the top shelf of the market that I've been dying to get my flippers on. In just a snap, it’s mine!”
Player nods enthusiastically, “Technically you stole that hat.”
“Well the original owner is dead. Doesn’t really matter anymore.”
“TERRY.”
Terry continues to share small stories, Player occasionally butting themselves in to make small comments. Terry failed to notice how many drinks Player had taken. He rambled on about his favorite brand of sardines.
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Over time, Player put less effort into the conversations the both of them had, Player’s head nodding along instead of them making their usual cocky remarks. It seemed like they were paying attention— staring blankly at him —so Terry gave into the delusion, continuing to ramble about recent events. Player was on their.. Fifth drink?
Terry paused.
They weren’t in their own head— certainly not. Gazing at the wall, completely distracted? Yeah, that’s unusual.
Terry eyeballed the bartender, who got the memo, then walked over. Terry leaned over the counter, “Don’t give them any more drinks,” He jutted his flipper in Player’s direction. “If anything, replace it with water.”
He was given a thumbs up from the bartender. Terry continued on with his story, regardless if Player was truly listening.
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Terry’s usual grin was plastered on his face as he finished telling a tale on how Jerry slipped on ice when the both of them were younger.
He turned to face Player.
Player was still zoned out, fidgeting with their own thumbs as their tired eyes clouded over with thoughts. They hunched over the counter, staring into space, their eyes glossy with tears.
How freaky.
Terry nudged Player, “You good? I mean— we can leave if you want to.”
A droplet fell from their eyes, Player breaking the silence with the first choked sob of the night.
“It hurts, Terry. I can't do this anymore. It really gets to a point.” Terry turned around in his seat, looking straight into the face of Player. They looked as if on the brink of tears, their voice beginning to split, “It’s so damn much, I can’t do this for much longer. It hurts.” They sniffed, teetering on the edge of the barstool. “I’ve been running around for so long, my legs hurt and my arms are sore and there's no—” Player hiccuped, upset. “a-and there's no breaks between anything I do, it's like everyone's out to get me and it hurts— And the nightmares— It's always nightmares since the Ghostwalker and even before—” Player’s red, flushed face matched their puffy eyes, their bottom lip trembling as they tripped over their own words. “The Ghostwalker took a core part of me. I don’t yearn for things like how I used to, I don’t feel normal anymore. All of my usual senses are now scraps. I need to use my sword on myself to just feel something— And when that doesn’t work—” They blubbered, pausing to catch their breath.
Oh yeah. They were definitely drunk. Without a doubt. More than 100%. Terry didn’t know why he even debated on it as his concern shot through the roof solely from listening.
“WOAH. Ok. Dude, pause.” Terry cut in, his brain mildly fried at the information Player’s dumping on him. Player ignored him, waving their hands in the air trying to explain the weight on them. “The Ghostwalker– I had to tear myself open, all I could see was red— I was walking through HELL, Terry, I genuinely believed it— and Hatred— Builderman—”
Player broke down into sobs again at the mere thought of the admin, yet still continuing their explanation, “I don't think I can see Builderman the same way I used to ever again.”
Oh. Oh gods.
Latching his flippers onto Player’s wrist, Terry dragged them out of the seat. “Alright, I think that's enough for tonight.” Player— slowly, given their drunk state —looked at Terry, about to speak, but their thoughts were broken when he spoke again.
“What's your room number?”
“...Room 2.”
They walked down the hall together, Player stumbling over their own feet, unable to keep up with Terry’s pace.
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Terry didn’t think it was wrong of him to hide Player’s bag when they got to their room, but they literally admitted to self mutilation minutes ago.
Player sat on the bed, head in hands, hiding their puffy face from Terry. Terry’s back was turned from them, contemplating his next move— Whether he should stay and wait until Player fell asleep, or to leave the room and the problems that came with it. Either way, his choice wouldn’t matter as Player soon swooped Terry up in their arms, wrapping around him like a stuffed animal. Their tears soaked into his feathers from behind.
“Brat!!” Terry let out a shocked gasp, squirming in their hold before eventually going limp with a defeated grunt. He felt obliged to say. Not like they’d remember this in the morning, anyways.
Player wasn’t any of his business, but… They’re still a person, you know? The whole.. ‘hurting themselves’ thing. It really shocked him to a degree. They’ve never really shown signs of it— Always bouncing up and down, almost vibrating with energy that could possibly match Terry’s —so if the only way for them to open up about it was to get them drunk, then..
That's going to be a big issue.
He can't just leave them here, can’t leave them in the dust alone.
Player cries on Terry with their aching heart, slim fingers wrapping around his body and pulling him closer so much that they might break a bone of his.
They continue to ramble, their words slurring together, “The nightmares.. it’s so awful.. it's so tiring, it’s like I'm gonna drop dead at any second— it makes me feel sick to my stomach, nauseous. The headaches, migraines— It fucking hurts, it feels like I’m losing myself and it hurts—” They broke down into more sobs, accompanied by the occasional repeat of ‘it hurts’.
Terry didn’t feel like he’s the right person to help out. He was beyond underqualified, and if anything he felt like he’d worsen the situation. He wasn’t the most sympathetic, but.. he tries. That’s what counts.
Tears fell from Player’s cheek onto Terry’s feathers, his body completely stuck in place, held like a plushie.
He didn't mind as much as he thought, though.
“I don’t want to get the Firebrand.” They pleaded in a raspy voice.
“..I’m not sure it’s optional,” Terry replied, his words carefully chosen. Player shakily exhales, hugging Terry once more. He was quick to continue, “We can work something out with Shedletsky and arrange a break for you..? Or send someone else after the Firebrand..?”
“It’s not as easy as that,” Player whispered, “I don’t belong here— Those swords are my way home. Those swords took something from me and I want it BACK. You don’t even know what it’s like to hold one of these things, either.” Player hissed in their newfound drunken anger, “Each passing day I hold these damned weapons I'm reminded that I had to kill a man for this quest. I hospitalized someones son, practically beat him to a pulp in front of his father’s eyes. I had to walk through my personalised hell, purging every negative emotion of mine for WHAT. A sword? My own wellbeing over a SWORD?? Not to mention IT’S NOT EVEN MINE, and i’m doing this for somebody else!!! Hell, what if Shedletsky calls me selfish!!” They shaped their voice to make a bad impression of the admin, “Hohhhh Player’s so selfish for wanting to keep their emotions in check! So selfish for not wanting blood on their hands! So selfish, selfish, SELFISH.”
Player snapped, huffing, out of breath. Their fist clenched, “I don’t want to do this anymore, Terry. Yet at the same time I have to. Builderman’s going to die, I’m not going to get sent home, ‘n like.. Everything else.”
Silence followed Player’s extensive rant.
“We’ll figure something out. It’ll be ok, got it? If the swords themselves are the issues, we can just take them away.” Terry squeezed his flipper on Player’s hand in an attempt to assure them.
No, it wouldn’t be ok. They needed the swords to feel fine. They’ve tried distancing themselves from the swords, and it only brought them more pain— More insufferable agony. The usual hushed whispers in their head shouted when away from the swords. They practically need them to feel normal, to function properly.
Player didn’t speak up about it, instead nodding. The fire inside them extinguished, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Terry forced Player to get comfortable in bed, “You’re very obviously drunk, so settle down. We’ll figure this out in the morning when you get through the hangover.”
“Uh huh.. ‘Kay.. Sorry for crashing the mood.”
“..It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Player pulled Terry closer, who made himself comfortable in their arms.
The buzzing in Player’s head calmed down, their tired eyes falling shut.