#most normal pizzaplex in ohio | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

happysaddca · 8 months ago

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CONTEXT! This is a drabble of sorts that originates from a pizzaplex rp server. "You" used to work at a different location when the Afton virus hit and affected all locations. You had spent 8 years with your Sun and Moon before the virus. And now you're starting over at a new location, where you've already started feeling protective over this Sun too. Context over I'm too proud not to share

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It’s late, very late, the kind of late that leaves your mouth feeling like it’s been partially replaced with cotton, tongue barely able to fit behind your teeth. Your fingers pluck at the thread you’d been knotting through slivers of bamboo for the past… six hours? No wonder you’re tired.

Sleep has never been your strong suit. Even as a child, you found yourself struggling to go to bed at the “proper” time and being extra grumpy when you had to be up at five to catch the bus. Your parents (let’s be real, your mother. Your father barely exists in your personal narrative except as the occasional villain), blamed you reading books and took them away. You just laid in bed instead, staring at the ceiling, letting your thoughts overwhelm you.

It’d been a point of contention between you and Moon. Your end of shift naps had come about as a compromise. It helped with your janitorial duties and you’d sleep for the last couple of hours before getting ready for school. Your use of Moon as a bed came from it threatening to burrito you like a cat and you not taking that seriously. Neither of you had put serious thought in how dependent you’d become on that little routine.

You sigh and put aside the su. The idea of making a massive sheet of paper taller than (most) of the animatronics at the plex was tantalizing, but there are no sugeta big enough for what you’re wanting, and you don’t want to think about the *how* of forming the sheet once you’re done weaving the mat. The muscles in your left arm twinge as you stretch, and you flinch, rubbing at the scars cut deep into your face. The partially finished su and its materials are put aside at the foot of the bed, and you fiddle with your headphones, turning up the music. Sinatra croons in your ear, reminding you again that you should sleep.

The pill calendar sits in plasticy judgment on the overly modern black quartz counter. You dump the rest of your coffee from last night into a mug. It’s bitter and cold, but it washes away some of the cotton building in your mouth. The numbness in your fingers and at the top of your head lingers, so, reluctantly, you pull the calendar closer.

Most of this stuff you’d started before. You flip open one of the nights, poking at the little pills, scooping out most and avoiding the smallest tablet. You’d forgotten to take the day too, so maybe that’s why you feel so cloudy. If you doubled up, well, then you’d feel twice as sharp in the morning. *It is morning*. So twice as sharp after a short nap.

Everything is downed with a swig of coffee. You’re not tired yet (that’s a lie). There’s a box sitting in the living room, waiting for you to get to it. No time like the present, so long as you’re quiet. You thumb through your playlist, skipping the next few songs, and grab a butter knife to cut open the tape.

It’s a frame for Sunny’s print. You’d ordered it right after he sent you the size of his poster, wanting it to match the frames of the other art Lilly's let you hang in the living room. Mostly from classmates or ordered online from artists you admire. It’s a very eclectic collection, and there’s not much space for Sunny’s work unless you start a second gallery wall by the window. But then you’d need *more* work and more frames and the only ones you have available are Sun’s.

Your Sun.

You pull down a *Bioshock* poster and hang Sunny’s piece instead, snapping a photo. There’s a notification from Ellis, a picture of a cosplay they’re thinking about making. You clear it without opening the text. Your feelings on *them* have become complicated, and you’re not dealing with complicated right now. You’re hanging art and making a sugeta and learning how to create the perfect mirror glaze and

Your fingers slip and you drop the old poster on your toes.

You’re exhausted. And you can’t call out, not to your internship. You haven’t missed a day yet, and you’d rather not set a precedent. You can’t take your sleeping pills. They’ll leave you groggy for days. And you can’t take your painkillers for similar reasons. Your body aches. You should shower and stretch, but it’s late and you can’t wear headphones and you play your music too loud without them. Lilly and you have a tentative agreement right now. You don’t want to mess that up. And you can’t *not* listen to your music because then your thoughts will come back and swirl around you until you’ve been pulled under and you’re not doing complicated right now.

Sinatra comes back, and you know it’s Moon telling you to go to sleep. The coffee took the edge off, but removing the edge of a cliff still leaves a cliff. You sigh and rub at your eye and push away your bangs from your forehead. And snap a picture of the poster. You can show Sunny later, when it’s not three in the morning. You’re not certain he would understand.

No, that’s not right. Sunny would understand. There’s two photos of the poster. That’s the problem. You should delete the duplicate photo. It’ll disappear forever.

You don’t delete the duplicate.

“Okay,” you say, voice inaudible to yourself. “I get it. I’ll sleep.”

You change out of the jeans that left deep red imprints against your belly and the binder that leaves your ribs aching. Everything hurts now, masking the pain from sitting bowed over your work for far too long. Your bed is soft, a pile of overly fluffy mattress toppers and pillows and blankets that you never properly remake, preferring to crawl into the nest and fish out the charger for your phone and headphones. You have to turn down the music for Lilly’s sake, but it keeps going as you yawn and snuggle into your favorite plush. It’s the DJ, shaped like a cube, something you very strongly suspect Moon hadn’t won so much as fished out of the claw game. *Well, it wasn’t cheating. I do have claws.* It’s the only FazCo branded item you keep in the open.

You snort and sigh. Things have been so *complicated* lately. Why did you seek out this Sun and Moon? Why did you come back to FazCo at all?

Okay, maybe you can do a little complicated. You pick up your phone, pausing the music. Silence tastes like cold, burnt coffee. You scroll through your archived videos, tutorials and recovery and exercises meant to help keep the muscles in your face and arm mobile. You stop in the middle of 2017, thumb trembling. The choice is taken away from you with an involuntary flinch.

*”And here we see the Moon in its natural habitat.” Your old voice comes through overly loud and tinny, and you turn the volume down as you flinch. Did you really sound like that before? “Being an absolute menace.” The camera sweeps over the ceiling outside the glamrocks’ green rooms, following a pixelated swath of nothingness.*

*“Here to serve.”* Blue. *Its voice is as loud as yours and the phone drops, camera catching a glimpse of blue and green and your own startled face before focusing on the ceiling. Moon’s hat dangles in the camera, and you can hear your old self giggling. “You need to work on your videography skills.” Moon bends over, hiding its face as a paw-like hand scoops up the phone. The world spins and it focuses on you. Younger, unscarred, trying very hard to grow out a mustache despite being only a couple weeks on T. “Here we have the overnight janitor, absolutely not doing his job and trying to keep me from doing my own as well.”*

*“Please, you do that plenty without my help.” The old you reaches for the phone but Moon holds it out of reach, still angled down to catch you trying to climb it, fingers digging in its shoulders. “I don’t let you pick out the playlist one night, and you have to pout about it. You’re a child.”*

*”Takes one to know one.” You’re still giggling in the video, but it gets muffled as Moon is dragged down to your level. You can’t see what’s happening, the angle is bad, but you remember. You’d kissed the silly bot’s face. Its giggling starts up, hands lowering, one cupping your cheek. You get a glimpse of you both, faces close as Moon pushes forward once more.*

The video ends abruptly, leaving you to stare at your own reflection, distorted over thumbnails over your past.

It’s not really that complicated, you suppose, flipping through the videos to find another. Most of them have been saved to an external hard drive, but you’ve kept a few for days like this. Days when you need to remember. When you need to cry.

You keep telling yourself it was easier away from the plex but the truth is, you aren’t sure that’s true. You lost six… eight months to recovery, then finished school and immediately started a residency. You’re still healing physically, and outside of a monthly check in with your psychiatrist to make sure you’re taking (most of) your meds, you’ve been ignoring your mental health entirely. Most of the time it’s “okay.”

You close out the videos, locking your phone. It’s dark and quiet and you feel so tired. It’s time for a nap, you decide. The swirl of thoughts settle over the sound of Moon’s laughter, and you try not to let the thoughts expand past that. Just the sound of laughter and the taste of silicone and coffee, fingers cramping as you stretch them out.

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