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Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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He settles into the couch, grateful for the cushions sinking under his weight and encircling his legs.

The silence this time is bittersweet. Missa's already given up, so theres nothing else to talk about. Something unspoken hangs in the air regardless. He sneaks a glance towards Phil, unsurprisingly, emotions well up in his skull again. A nice warm soup in his brain bowl.

Silently, it takes off its mask, resting it on its lap, his stark blank eyes standing out against thick dark eyelashes. He turns towards Phil, left hand resting on the space between them, and softly reminds him of the most obvious thing in the world, "I care about you. Too much. Please remember that." Countless feelings behind the simple statement.

It's hard to tell if he's making eye contact, but whatever this is is close enough.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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A spark of something ugly pangs in the back of his mind. Anger.

Half of her limbs are gone. Forever. It hasn't even been a month since it happened. He'll never roll out of bed the same. Look at a set of stairs the same. The sky. A shower. Cooking. Doesn't he mourn himself? The explosion probably lasted less than a minute. In just a minute everything about who he was and how he lives his life is gone.

She takes a deep breath. An attempt at dismissing their anger in the same way Phil dismisses everything with an insincere chuckle. A couple months ago she'd be able to focus on the skin of her lungs stretching out to accomodate the air. Now he can only rely on the memory to calm himself.

He's probably been standing here for too long. The silence turning sour.

"Ok." he sighs. His shoulders dropping in resignation. He takes the kind offer, in spite of everything he feels. Because it would be rude not to, and stupid to pass up an opportunity like this.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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"Oh."

He swallows, bile singes his throat. He wonders if anything would come out if he threw up or if his body would mock him with pointless gagging and retching. Feeling with no purpose. They're granted the closest thing they can get to the respite of a stomach empty of sick with Phil's answer. Though the taste of vomit lingers. He got what he wanted, but he's still nauseous.

Did it hurt? Who did it? Why didn't you come back sooner? Did it hurt? Do you care? Was it so horrible you couldn't stomach the thought of reconnecting nerve to soul? Did it hurt?

She doesn't move. Doesn't dare to step towards him. Childish dread of a kid caught with a broken vase claws up his spine.

"Im sorry." it offers uselessly.

I'm sorry for bringing it up. I'm sorry for ruining the atmosphere. I'm sorry that happened to you. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything. I'm sorry I can't do anything.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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He nods and gingerly takes the towel, stepping over to the guest room he's claimed.

Like someone suddenly blowing air into your ear a mist of guilt sprays over her mind for just a moment. He never properly settled into this room, the guilt of taking up space never letting him get too comfortable but subsiding just long enough for him to forget. It waves it off as quickly as it comes. Clothes, bathroom, decide what to do from there.

He picks out some old loose-fitting clothes that he wears as pyjamas most nights. Might as well get comfortable. They outgrew the shirt ages ago, just a tad too short to reach their belly button, but it carried a sort of sentimentality with it. He can't just get rid of it now! It's like a brother to him.

Onto the bathroom.

He awkwardly shucks off his clothes, wanting to separate himself from the gunk as much as possible while also failing to get a good grip without brushing against the mud. A difficult balancing act.

During the painstaking process her mind wanders. To squawking laughter and crinkling crows feet. To sunlit locks of wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. And then to wings wrenching off flesh. To legs slicing clean off. To whatever horrific hypothesis his mind decides to throw at him next. He should ask. He will ask. He has to.

She eyes the sink and decides to briefly run the soiled fabric under the water. Just so they don't stain. He hangs the clothes over the shower curtain, letting them dry a little before he throws them in the wash later. Much more efficiently than he did taking them off, he slips his new not-muddy-clothes on.

He hesitates before turning the knob to leave. Oh god, what's he even gonna say. How do you even bring this up. Should he even bring this up? Maybe it's better to just leave it. To just forget it ever happened. Like they seem to. Before she can mull it over any further, suddenly, shes shuffling up to the living room like a toddler who just threw up.

"How did you die?" he blurts out.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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He knew that was a bad idea. The moment it came out of his mouth he knew it was over. A sense of dread came over him, but only for a moment, before flushing right out of him as soon as Phil replied. She was mortified. The consequences of her own actions she guesses.

Phil's face, inches away from his own, was illuminated a slight blue from how bright his white hot face must be. A few, agonizing seconds, pass. Then they walk away, and it's over. Ze begins a futile effort to get a word in, stuttering for far too long, before giving up. It nods even though Phil's back is already turned.

Missa takes a moment to recover from the event before following suit. Eyes glued to the groud. They step into the house, and Missa shakes away fantasies of what could've been.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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Giant Skeletons by Jocelin Carmes

This artist on Instagram

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BADASS AWESOME SKELETON STIMBOARD

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He tries not to linger on the image of Phil in front of him. The way the light behind her illuminates her curls isn't captivating at all. Missa would never feel a spark of electricity run up its arm taking Phil's hand. She tries to put most of the pressure of getting up on her legs, lessening the weight on Phil's hand as he pulls. He'd never soak in the brief moment of warmth between their palms before he lets go. That would be embarrassing.

He tries to recover from the high of mirth, laughter dying down. "Glad you're having fun off my MISERY Philza." they say, trying their best to put on a faux-sorrowful tone. Little gasps and giggles betray his delivery.

"Ok." A risqué retort pops into his mind. In a spurt of impulsivity he playfully says, "If you wanted to get my pants off all you have to do is ask."

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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He chuckles with them. "And you always will." he mutters as genuine as his voice can convey.

The ache in her bone marrow fades for the second time this conversation. In its place a stronger ache settles in his chest, he doesn't mind this one as much.

They turn to Phil. Its entire body language immediately brightens at the idea. He radiates excitement as he nods enthusiastically a couple times. "Yeah!—That would be—That sounds fun! I can like melt some sugar and make caramel popcorn too!"

He doesn't stop facing Phil as he shifts his grip on the hoe and lets the diamond blade drop down, knocking into a sprinkler. The sprinkler immediatly starts doing its job, spraying water all over the crops and unfortunately, Missa. She sputters, dropping her hoe completely. She waves her hand around frantically as if she could stop the water with sheer force of will. In his panic he backs up and knocks into a basket of potatoes behind him. He, of course, trips, falling straight on his ass on the now un-farmed dirt.

He heaves a heavy sigh, exasperated. The sprinkler stops. There's a few moments of silence, then giggling. The laughter evolves until he's downright cackling.

Phil, quite frankly, was going to go insane.

Of all the things he expected to return to, it really wasn't the one he ended up coming back to. It was like the world tilted sharply on it's axis, everything moving infinitely faster than his brain could comprehend, things changing and abruptly shifting out of place in the time he had lost. The world moved without him. And while, admittedly, he's fine with that; it's hard to say he was entirely comfortable.

There's his own changes, too. Kristin, by some god-altered reason he didn't know, had made her way onto the island. Into his arms, thank the gods, and- that was amazing. Missa is actually around- and not just around, active within their home, doing more than Phil could've ever really asked of him.

(Admittedly, with a little shame, he hadn't expected Missa to step up as much as he had. That's a bit startling to- returning home to having to do nothing. What was he supposed to do with his hands?)

The biggest change, however, was the altering to his own person. Even right now, actively trying to work, it was a hassle. Unbalanced, forced to even the scales with the skull-decorationed backpack, he picks at potatoes. A task he could normally do brainlessly, almost effortless, now felt a thousand times more difficult as he managed the lack of a leg and the lack of wings. All the things you take for granted, you know?

He's not mourning. He's not going to. If he does, it would feel worse; like he lost more. So he doesn't mourn.

He just tends to his crops. He goes right back to the before-death routine. He works. As long as his hands are moving, he won't go insane. Surely.

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