#teen!fresh

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The Sleepless Wake - Ending Summary + Bonus Content

Title: The Sleepless Wake

Series: Part 2 of 2 of The Breathing Dead

Words: 42,221

Rating: T

Fandom: Momma CQ

Summary: Fresh struggles to cope with his brother’s death and the onslaught of emotions it gave rise to.

Content warnings can be found in the tags.

[Part 1: The Endless Sleep] Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

[Part 2] Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Ending Summary

It’s been 84 several years. As you may know, I started writing this summary ages ago, when I reached the decision to officially let go of TSW and give it a proper send-off. Things happened and my motivation strayed, but I am now done writing out the plans I had for the final chapters, so all of you can see the end of Fresh’s nightmare of a journey.

I’ll start by sharing the 5.4k words I wrote of Chapter 5 before the story was discontinued, and then a summary (with commentary) based on what I remember and made notes for. To be clear, I don’t love all these ideas and scenes—I’d reconsider and change some things if I did want to turn them into full-fledged chapters—but these are the events as I originally wrote and planned them, unless otherwise noted.

Disclaimer: Despite the limited research I did on psychiatric wards and other subjects, I don’t expect all of this to accurately reflect the way things work in reality. I could have spent more time digging deeper into that research, but...this is a fanfic... I may take my writing seriously, but in the end, having fun and writing the story the way I want comes first, which sometimes means allowing for inaccuracy.

Anyway, at the end of this, I have a few extra TBD-related things to share.

Without further ado, I present the ending of The Sleepless Wake.

The psychiatrist, Dr. Henriksen, looked up from his notepad and began asking a series of routine questions.

“Do you feel like hurting yourself?”

Fresh answered with silence. He had struggled enough giving a choppy account of what had brought him here and his own psychiatric history (or lack thereof). This question had a much simpler answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit how far he had fallen, that he wanted to die. Not that it made much difference; he knew his silence said plenty, and it wouldn’t take Dr. Henriksen long to gather more information from Fresh’s doctor and CQ if needed. Still, Fresh needed to try harder. He had finally figured out what to do…right? This had felt like the right direction at first, but he couldn’t see where it headed, how he could make it that far, or if there was even an end in the first place. He still felt lost, adrift in the middle of the sea with no land in sight; but at least now, ever since he opened up to CQ and Asy, he felt himself moving again. He felt a current carrying him somewhere. In a way, it was even scarier than staying still.

Eyelights full of patience and understanding, Dr. Henriksen tried a few more questions with little success before moving on. 

“I’ll need some time to determine which medications to start you on. In the meantime, you’ll have group meetings every weekday. I’d like you to attend them all and participate as much as possible, okay? Now, there are two goals you need to meet before we can discharge you. First, you need to complete detox, which should take about a week. But that’s just the first step. Addiction usually requires long-term treatment. To help prevent relapse, you’ll need to follow up with counseling and therapy, which we can get you started on while you’re here. Our second goal is to improve your mental state to where you’re no longer at immediate risk of hurting yourself.”

Until now, despite Asy’s mentions of therapists and medication, Fresh had somehow never connected what he was going through to mental illness. Was this not just how emotions felt? Wasn’t it only this bad because he wasn’t used to them, because he was weak and stupid and kept making things worse and worse for himself? That was just it, though. Emotions had roots in psychological and physiological mechanisms that his body had functioned without until recently. That abnormality was what had made him “sick,” but gaining emotions didn’t make him suddenly healthy. His soul couldn’t process them normally after fourteen years without them. This condition could, debatably, be classified as a mental illness, but because it was so unique, there was no precedent for treating it. Yet here he was in a psych ward for people with anxiety, depression, and other disorders.

Here he was in a psych ward. Him of all people, in a psych ward, in a wheelchair and a cast for the foot he had mutilated himself.

It felt unreal. Wrong. He felt wrong, like he was trapped in someone else’s skull, looking out of a stranger’s eye socket.

How had this happened? How had he become…this? Who was he anymore? What was he? CQ had said he was still in there, but Fresh didn’t see it at all. His old self had disappeared. Good riddance, he had thought. He hated that freak. But…something important had vanished with him. Something more. He wanted it back.

Dr. Henriksen finished talking to him, and a psych tech brought Fresh to his room, which had two beds. His roommate was a rat Metazoan named Emilio, who seemed far too cheerful and healthy to be there. He chatted to Fresh with little pause, going on about life in the psych ward and mentioning his plan to leave soon since he was feeling better. He didn’t pry about Fresh’s reason for admittance or how he got hurt; in fact, he seemed unbothered that Fresh hadn’t said more than a few words to him. Fresh knew it was rude to ignore him, but he was having trouble focusing on anything aside from the part of him he had lost.

Soon, the tech brought him to the small cafeteria to eat lunch with the other patients. She sat next to him, not only watching to make sure he ate, but taking notes on a clipboard as well. Fresh already hadn’t been hungry, and this didn’t exactly make him more inclined to eat. He ate anyway, trying to distract himself from the tech and his suicidal thoughts by assessing the patients he would be sharing this space with. Most of them, like Emilio, seemed to be of sound mind, but at least a few made Fresh feel less alone.

There was a girl with long, scraggly hair who seemed to be eating on autopilot, her face gaunt and her eyes glazed over. One guy sat fiddling with his plastic fork, shoulders and eyelids drooping. He spotted Fresh watching him, tensed up, and glared, even after Fresh looked away. Among a group of girls, one wiped at her eyes, quietly sobbing that she felt fat and couldn’t eat any more. She was the skinniest girl at the table, and her tray looked almost untouched.

The food tasted better than Fresh had expected, but it wasn’t long before he started feeling sick. The tech had warned him he would lose points for not eating; in other words, he might have to stay in the psych ward longer. Fresh wondered if they were literally on some sort of point system, but he decided that didn’t matter. His family would want him to eat well and be released as soon as possible. The nausea wasn’t too bad. He could handle this much food, so bit by bit, he choked down the rest. The only thing he wanted in his mouth for the rest of the day was his pills.

After lunch, nurses took all the patients’ vital signs and weighed them. Shortly after that, they had to go to their rooms. They were allowed to nap or do any other quiet activity for an hour. Emilio worked on a crossword puzzle. Fresh lay in bed, trying to sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t have managed to even if it weren’t for the scratching of his roommate’s pencil, his occasional whispers to himself, and the tech who checked in on them through the Plexiglas window on their door every fifteen minutes. Only painkillers could help him sleep. Quiet time finally ended, too soon.

The patients gathered for art therapy. From the moment it started, all Fresh could think about was Ink. How he might be doing. What Fresh had said to him. How he couldn’t take it all back, that Ink would never forgive him, that Fresh didn’t deserve forgiveness, he deserved to lose his friend, it wasn’t Ink’s fault, it was Fresh’s and it should’ve been him who died, not Ink not Error not Error—

Someone had wheeled him out of the room, into an empty one. She sat in a chair close to him, reminding him to take deep breaths and reassuring him that it would be okay. By the time he calmed down, his face was drenched in tears and sweat, and the art therapy session was almost over.

“Do you want to talk about what you’re feeling?” the tech asked. Fresh shook his head. “It’s important to address these things.”

For a couple of minutes, she tried to gently persuade him to talk, but all he did was sit in guilty silence, unable to get the words out.

He joined the other patients for an educational meeting about mental illness. While the woman leading the group spoke, he twiddled with the hem of his teal T-shirt. It and his pair of dull blue pants were among the clothes he had asked CQ to buy…was it only two days ago? It wasn’t as nice a change as he had imagined, wearing clothes that weren’t so bright. He felt less gross (that might have been because these clothes were clean), but without even one of his hats or pairs of sunglasses, they also made him feel fake, like he had betrayed a part of himself. This plain look wasn’t for him—his old self or the new. But the nineties neon look wasn’t for him anymore either. So what was? What did he even like? Who was he anymore? What was he? Nothing. Just a filthy parasite, taking up people’s time and energy and offering nothing in return. The world would be better off without him in it.

By the end of the meeting, he had forgotten what little information he had heard. He cursed himself the whole way to the day room. He had to start taking this seriously. Stop spacing out. Did he want to get better for Geno or not? Pull yourself together. God, it was hard. He was so tired… No, stop whining. Stop making excuses. He wasn’t even trying. He wanted to give up without trying. Lazy, selfish piece of trash.

On an intellectual level, he knew inadequate sleep impaired concentration and memory. He knew his mind wasn’t clear enough for sound judgment. He knew none of this was entirely his fault. But that didn’t change how he felt. His emotions had taken control over him, changed him, and left him weak. How was he supposed to fight something like that?

He was nearly in tears again as visiting hour arrived. CQ and Asy came in with a few other visitors, and they gathered in the day room with the patients. No privacy. They greeted each other, but Fresh didn’t return his mother’s hug.

“How is it here?” she asked as they sat down. Fresh shrugged. He’d rather be at home, or better yet with Geno, but complaining wouldn’t do him any good.

“Has anyone talked with you yet?” asked Asy. “A therapist, or…?”

Fresh gazed at his hospital wristband, not meeting their eyes. All they had asked of him was to try. He kept disappointing them, worrying them. He wished they wouldn’t worry so much. He knew how exhausting it could be, and it kept showing more and more clearly on their faces. Didn’t they have more important things to think about? That reminded him.

“Why ya even here? Uncle Asy.” He looked taken aback. “Ma said ya friend’s in a bad spot. It’s Book, right? Ya didn’t mention who ’cause I might worry? I don’t know him dat well, but…he’s important ta ya. Don’t ya need ta be there for him? Or is he better now?”

Asy’s hands clenched slightly.

“He’s doing all right.”

Fresh watched Asy’s face. His eyelights shifted, and Fresh’s body tensed. He felt sick again.

“No he’s not. Did he relapse?”

“He…”

“Forget it, I don’t need da details!” Fresh took a breath and lowered his voice. “What are ya doin’ here? Ya don’t need ta worry ’bout me. He needs ya more right now.”

CQ looked at Asy, worry knitting her brow. Asy hesitated.

“It’s fine. Star’s with him… And Fresh, you’re important to me too. I can’t visit whenever I want, so I have to come when I can.”

“Ya don’t…”

“I want to.”

Fresh watched them for a moment longer.

“How long has it been since ya set aside some time for yaselves? Forget about me. Dey lookin’ after me here. Ya need ta look after you.”

“Ah…”

They smiled slightly.

“You’re right,” said CQ. “I’ve been trying to take breaks here and there, but… I could use some proper rest.”

Fresh gave her a stern nod. Asy chuckled.

“Scolding your mother and uncle… Okay, we’ll look after ourselves, and you do the same. But we’re still going to visit. Spending time with family is good for us.”

“…Deal.”

CQ’s face glowed through her exhaustion. “Thank you, Fresh.”

His own face grew warm.

“Ah—it’s, it’s nothin’.”

“It’s not nothing,” said Asy. “You’re looking out for us. That’s your kindness showing.”

“Huh? No, I just, there’s no sense in puttin’ so much time an’ energy inta other people dat ya forget ta take care of yaselves.”

“Are you still trying to deny it? Don’t be so quick to downplay your own goodness.”

His face grew hotter. Okay, maybe kindness was a part of it, but this was also an ungrateful rejection of their own kindness.

“I’m just…” …not worth it.

He felt sure that it hurt to hear him say things like that, but they already knew how he felt about himself, and he wanted to practice opening up more. Maybe they could keep pushing him in the right direction. He needed their help…but wouldn’t it stress them out more to keep fighting his battle?

“Ya said…dat helpin’ me lightens ya load. But, ya both been tryin’ so hard for me, and, ya look exhausted…” He rubbed his eyes. He was no better. “I don’t want ya ta help me if it’s gonna do dis to ya.”

“We’re not exhausted from helping you,” said CQ.

“But…it’s still ’cause of me, isn’t it? ’Cause it hurts ta see me like dis?” The tears were back. “W-wouldn’t it be easier, if ya didn’t care?”

“Fresh… Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to stop loving you.”

He was trying hard not to break down in front of all these people. He could already hear their own conversations getting quieter, but not wanting to check if anyone was watching, he kept rubbing his eyes.

“Why? Why would ya do dis ta yourselves? I’m not worth it…”

“You are worth it,” said Asy.

He knew he couldn’t change their minds. The only way to help them was to get better, to stop giving them reason to worry. But to get better, he needed to let them help, and that meant sharing his pain, the parts of him it hurt them to see. Could he really not get better on his own? But…he didn’t have to. He was in this psych ward for a reason.

“Da people here are gonna help me get better, so ya don’t have ta try so hard anymore. Ya don’t have ta visit every day. If ya just wanna see me now and then, fine… But don’t worry about me. Please, just, take care of yourselves. I can’t watch ya hurt yourselves for me. I…I love you.”

CQ stood up and hugged him. This time, he hugged her back.

“We love you too. That’s why we have to help take care of each other.”

“Y-ya don’t… Ya don’t have ta fight my battle…”

“It’s not your battle. It’s our battle. We’re fighting to get better together.”

He squeezed her, still trying to steady his breathing, even as it kept getting harder.

“It’s okay,” said CQ. “We’ll take care of ourselves and trust them to help you. But try not to worry about us too much, either. If you ever want to talk to us, we’d rather you talk than keep it to yourself. Being able to help you, even just by listening, will make us happy. Okay?”

“…Okay.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. Asy stepped up behind CQ.

“All right, move over. It’s my turn to hug him!”

Fresh gave a shaky laugh, and CQ stepped aside. Asy wrapped his arms around Fresh, nearly lifting him out of his wheelchair. This was the lightest his soul had felt all day. The lightest it had felt since overdosing, actually. He tried to hold on to the feeling, but as Asy let him go and they sat back down, he already felt his soul growing heavy again. He fixed his smile in place and wiped away his tears. They were quiet for a moment.

“Is there anything else you need?” asked CQ. “Anything you’d like me to bring over next time?”

“Nah. Just a well-rested mom and uncle.”

“Of course. Maybe we can bring some kind of game to play together? We don’t have to talk the whole visit. It’d be nice to just do something fun and relaxing.”

“Yeah.”

He lowered his smile. It wasn’t working. There was something he needed to ask, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Ma?”

“What is it?”

He squeezed his own arm.

“…Do ya know how Ink’s doing?”

They fell silent again. Fresh drew a shuddering breath. He had just stopped crying, too.

“Could ya find out, if he’d be willin’ ta visit? I need to apologize…”

“I’ll ask him.”

Fresh nodded.

“Hey…” He looked up at her. “I’m sure he’ll understand you didn’t mean it, and that he’ll forgive you.”

Fresh knew she was just trying to calm him. It didn’t help, and neither did the next few minutes of reassurance. For the rest of the visit, Fresh sat sniffling while CQ and Asy tried to distract him with other topics. They stayed until the last second of visiting hour. After more hugs and a subdued goodbye, it was time for supper.

Fresh managed to eat only a little before stopping. There was no point in forcing himself if he was only going to throw everything back up. When had this become such a big problem? The tech was watching him again, so he explained how sick he felt. She assured him she would let his psychiatrist know. 

He spent the evening in his room, refusing to leave for music therapy. It would stir up too many painful memories. Even from this distance, though, he faintly heard music, singing, and occasional applause. He lay in bed and tried not to think of Error and his violin. He tried not to remember the times he had sat in his room, listening to Error play it two doors down the hall from him and clapping when he finished. He tried not to remember how happy it had seemed to make him, or how little he had played it since the night Fresh suggested he let go of Geno.

Emilio walked in only half an hour after Fresh stopped crying.

“Hey Fresh! Dude, that was a really good session, you should’ve come!”

His grin faded. Fresh looked away.

“Eh, it’s fine. Maybe you’ll feel up to it next time.” Emilio plopped himself down on his bed with a yawn. “So how was your first day here?”

Fresh didn’t feel like answering that, but Emilio went on as though he had.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough. It gets pretty boring sometimes, but the people are nice. Well, actually, you should watch out for Jakob. And by watch out, I mean don’t watch him. He hates people looking at him. I think he hates me too. He keeps giving me these dirty looks!”

Emilio chuckled. Fresh didn’t get what was funny about that, but then again, nothing seemed funny when he was thinking about dying.

“Anyway, yeah, it’s not so bad here. My favorite part is music therapy. Especially when I get to play the piano. Though most people look forward to visiting hours…” This all sounded familiar. Fresh couldn’t quite recall, but he thought Emilio had said these things earlier, too. “…saw you with your parents. They seem really supportive.”

Fresh blinked and looked over.

“Ah, he’s not my… Dat was my mom and uncle… He’s not really my uncle, but…”

He trailed off, not sure why he was explaining. It didn’t really matter.

“Oh, cool! So, what about your dad?”

“Never had one.”

“Really? Oh, sorry if I’m getting too personal.”

“It’s fine, ya not…”

“So your mom’s raising you herself? Cool. Gotta respect that. My mom’s been raising me alone too since my dad finally went to jail.”

Silence punched a hole in the conversation. Emilio’s tail twitched.

“Sorry, I just made things awkward, didn’t I?”

He scratched his head, looking away. Fresh tried to think of something to say.

“What’s your dad in jail for?”

“Haha, you don’t wanna know.”

Emilio fidgeted for a moment before getting out a journal and letting the conversation die. Fresh stared at the ceiling, wondering if he had gotten too personal or if he was just that bad a conversation partner in this state.

Mandatory bedtime was at ten o’clock. A tech continued checking on them every fifteen minutes, just as they had all day. Fresh closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking. His head ached. They had already started tapering the dose of his new painkiller, which didn’t work as well as his old meds in the first place. It wasn’t enough. He still felt sick. His back hurt. He couldn’t even shift into a more comfortable position because his foot ached worse than anything, and he didn’t dare move it. All of this would go away if he died.

A breathy noise distracted him. Emilio was crying. A sinking weight fell through Fresh’s chest. Emilio had seemed to be in such a good mood before talking with Fresh. This was his fault, wasn’t it? No, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe something else was going on. Maybe Emilio hadn’t been as happy as he had appeared.

Fresh only got what felt like a few minutes of sleep, on and off throughout the night. In the morning, Emilio didn’t speak or even look at him. The tech who handed out their morning meds gave Fresh a new medicine alongside his painkiller, but he still felt sick afterwards, and he nearly threw up his breakfast from all the nausea and guilt. He wanted to sit out the first meeting of the day, but he had already lost points for skipping the evening meetings, so he joined the other patients.

The group leader had them all introduce themselves to Fresh and share why they were there. As Fresh had expected, several of them had been admitted for depression or anxiety. A few had eating disorders, two were bipolar, one was a recovering addict, and one had admitted herself for having the urge to kill her ex-BFF. Jakob, who Fresh recognized as the guy who had glared at him at lunch the day before, kept his head down and his mouth shut when his turn came. He seemed especially tense. Fresh tried not to look at him.

When Emilio shared that this was his third time admitting himself for thoughts of self-harm and suicide, Fresh felt numb. Lightheaded. He was trembling, sweating. The group leader asked if he was all right, but Fresh felt so far away.

He was slumped over, head on his knees. Someone helped sit him up. Before he knew it, they were bringing him out of the room. What was happening?

A nurse looked him over and checked his vitals. His head ached, and his whole body felt heavy. He felt sure he would throw up any minute. The nurse handed him a cup of water, which he drank obediently. Soon, they brought him to the room where Dr. Henriksen sat waiting.

“How are you feeling, Fresh?”

He looked concerned. Fresh kept his arms wrapped around his middle.

“…Sick.”

Right on cue, he gagged. Dr. Henriksen snatched up the trash can by his desk and held it under Fresh’s mouth, just in time to catch his vomit. Fresh gripped the trash can and spewed up a bit more. Dr. Henriksen gave him a moment to catch his breath, then offered him a water bottle. Fresh rinsed out his mouth.

“And now?” asked Dr. Henriksen. “A little better?”

“Yeah…”

He took the bottle and trash can back from Fresh.

“When did you start feeling sick?”

He got out his notepad and pen, and Fresh tried to think.

“After I got here yesterday…? Maybe before… But it gets worse…every time I try ta eat…”

“Did the medication you took before breakfast help at all?”

“No.”

Dr. Henriksen jotted something down.

“Okay, we may need to increase the dosage. Did you experience any dizziness or lightheadedness before this morning?”

“No…”

“How were you feeling emotionally before you passed out?”

Fresh lowered his head. Dr. Henriksen waited a moment.

“Did something happen?” The guilt had sealed his voice in again. “We need to address your emotions, especially when they start impacting your health like this. They’re just as important to talk about as physical symptoms. If you keep them to yourself, they could get worse and cause more problems.”

He knew that, but emotions were a lot harder to talk about. He needed to try. For Geno.

“I…was talkin’ with my roommate last night, and I think…I might’ve asked something I shouldn’t have… I think I really upset him, I dunno, maybe it wasn’t me, maybe it’s not my fault, but…”

“Have you asked him about it?”

Fresh glanced up. “No…”

“It is possible something else upset him. But if it was something you said, apologizing can go a long way.”

“I know…”

“Then, are you going to talk to him?”

“…I’ll try.”

Dr. Henriksen smiled.

“Good. Now… Aside from this and the nausea, have you been experiencing any other problems?”

“It hurts…”

“What hurts?”

“My head…and my foot.” He shut his eyes. “I’m so tired…”

“How are you sleeping?”

“I didn’t.”

The pen continued scratching on paper.

“Anything else?”

I want to die.

Fresh shook his head.

“How have you been doing emotionally?”

His body had grown stiff. Keep trying.

“Bad.”

“Do you feel like hurting yourself?”

Deep breath in, out.

“I…”

Dr. Henriksen waited patiently. Fresh squeezed his arm. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t…

“I want it to stop. But I don’t—want to hurt myself—I want…to get better.”

He pressed his hands to his eyes, teeth clenching.

“It’s okay to cry,” said Dr. Henriksen. “Crying is a release of emotion and stress. Suppressing your tears is unhealthy.”

He was just so sick of needing to cry as often as he did.

“It’s good that you want to get better. We’re here to help you do just that. For now, I’d like you to take it easy. I’ll have them give you something for the pain. If you still feel nauseous by lunchtime, let them know. Eat what you can. If you feel well enough later, join the others for group, okay? And if by then there’s no improvement, or if any of your symptoms worsen, please tell someone.”

“Okay.”

He lowered his hands. Dr. Henriksen was watching him.

“Lastly… Could you tell me what happened in art therapy yesterday?”

Fresh didn’t answer. He saw only one possible solution to that problem, and it rested entirely on Ink.

With the new meds reducing his pain and nausea, and the fog in his mind smothering his thoughts, he managed to take a nap after lunch. A tech woke him just before visiting hour. She kept talking to stop him from going back to sleep, then helped him into his wheelchair. He wheeled himself to the day room and found the visitors already there. His eye snapped to the spot they had sat the day before, scanning to see who had come.

Just CQ and Asy.

Soul growing heavier, he approached.

“Hey. How are you?” asked CQ. Their faces told him they had heard what happened.

“I’m feelin’ better…” He gripped his own hand, keeping his head down. “What did Ink say?”

They paused.

“He didn’t say much,” said CQ. “But he wanted us to give you this.”

She pulled a card out of her purse. Full of uncertainty, she handed it to Fresh. It was completely blank except for three words in Ink’s handwriting:

Get well soon

There wasn’t even a signature.

Fresh stared at it for a while, a strange heat rising in his chest. He didn’t quite understand what this meant, but one thing was clear. Ink didn’t want to see him.

With this card sucking out the little energy he’d had, he tried to brush it aside and turn his focus to the board game they had brought along. CQ and Asy went along with the topic change, but for the rest of the hour, Fresh couldn’t concentrate enough to play properly or even remember much of what they said to him.

Still having no appetite, he ate supper and returned to his bed. Emilio came in a few minutes later.

“Hey. You okay man?”

Fresh didn’t move. Talking seemed too difficult right now. Maybe it could wait.

“Sorry… Was this because of me? You started looking really sick after I spoke this morning. Was that just, weird timing, or…”

“…What?”

“Uh, what do you mean what?”

With great effort, Fresh turned his head to look at him. Emilio was sitting on his bed, looking confused and worried.

“No,” said Fresh. “Why are you apologizing…? Last night, I… You were doin’ so well till I talked ta ya. I shouldn’t have asked about your dad…”

Emilio’s frown deepened.

“Huh? No! I’m the one who brought him up… I thought I was getting better at talking about it, but… Dude, you didn’t do anything wrong?”

“But…dis morning…”

Emilio paused. “Did you think I was mad at you? Oh my god, no. I’m sorry, I’m the worst at mornings, I’m basically a zombie for a good half hour—and I thought you were mad at me? I know I can be a bit of a chatterbox; sometimes people get annoyed. But you’re not?”

“No…”

Emilio laughed.

“Wow, looks like we were both worried for nothing… Guess I still need to work on communicating my feelings.”

Fresh grimaced. He needed to work on that a lot more than Emilio did. If he had apologized sooner, this wouldn’t have gotten so bad. At least Emilio didn’t seem upset with him.

“Hey, you coming to music therapy tonight?”

If he was going to hear the music and probably cry either way, he’d rather do it in the near-privacy of this room, but he hadn’t been to a meeting since that morning, so he forced himself to go. The music therapist started by going around the circle, asking each of them how they were doing (Fresh answered with a shrug). He then passed around some small percussion instruments and invited everyone to sing or play along as he strummed a tune on his guitar. Several people sang with him, some shook their instruments, but a few, like Fresh, only listened.

Fresh hadn’t listened to music properly since Error’s death. There had been music in the movies he tried to watch, of course, but he had never been focused enough to appreciate it. It had never struck him in the soul like this. Something about the song, about being in this room with all these people singing and making music together, drew out not just memories, but raw emotion. The song wasn’t even sad, in fact it was rather upbeat, but within a minute he was weeping. The therapist was kind enough not to draw attention to him.

After an exercise in improvisation and a brief discussion about emotion in music, the therapist had them all sit back and listen while he played a peaceful tune. At the end, he asked how they were now. Judging by the others’ answers, Fresh wasn’t the only one who felt more relaxed.

Emilio joined him on the way to the closure group.

“Pretty good, huh? Hey, if you like listening to music, uh… Well, I have permission to play the piano in there whenever we have free time, and some of the others like to come and listen to me play. We have a really good time. You’re welcome to join us, if you want. I’m gonna play a little after night meds are passed out.”

“Ah… Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

He did think about it, and after listening to everyone review their success or failure to meet the daily goals they had set that morning, he decided it should be good for him to spend more time with them instead of hiding out in his room. These people were dealing with problems and trying to get better, just like him. He needed the reminder that he wasn’t as alone as he felt, and isolating himself made that feeling worse. So even though he’d rather sleep, he returned to the music room where a few others already sat, some of them talking with Emilio. He smiled at Fresh and waved.

It turned out Emilio not only loved playing piano, he was really, really good at it. With his first note, the ache in Fresh’s soul sank deeper. Emilio didn’t just play the piano; he played Fresh’s emotions. He spun a story out of sound and drew Fresh’s soul along for the ride:

This is as far as I got. Yes, I stopped in the middle of a sentence, trying to figure out how to describe this experience where Fresh resonates with the emotions in his roommate’s music, forming a kind of empathetic connection between their struggles. From this point on, I think Fresh begins to get out of his own head a little more, indeed feeling a bit less alone as he spends time with and gets to know some of the other patients. He also develops a deeper appreciation for music, though that makes it hurt more to think of Error and his violin.

Soon, someone new is admitted to the ward: Decans. I can’t remember any definite ideas I had regarding the circumstances for his admittance (maybe I was still working them out), but in the alternate universe this story takes place in, where he and Fresh never met as children, suffice to say that Decans is not doing well. Incidentally, he was going to have his arm in a sling, and Fresh was going to feel like he’d seen Decans somewhere before... Which he did, back during his first visit with Geno after the stairs incident, while he was looking out the hospital window. I wondered if anyone would re-read that scene and realize it was Decans, but now I’m not even sure it makes sense timeline-wise for his arm to be in a sling for that long.

Anyway, he recognizes Fresh as his neighbor, and when they end up talking, Decans reveals that he was the one who called the police the day of Fresh’s fight with Ink; he admits to having seen and heard some of what had been going on lately next door, what with being stuck in his house most of the time due to his condition. He had gotten a really bad feeling when he heard the two fight and saw Ink flee the house, seemingly injured, yet Decans almost talked himself out of calling the police.

Whether he says so here, later, or not at all, I believe a huge contributing factor to him making the call was his memory of the night Error attacked Fresh—all the crashing when Error destroyed his room, seeing through his window when Fresh was taken to the hospital, and then all the sights and sounds he pieced together to realize someone next door had died. What with all the things going on in that house lately, even just as they were observed from the outside... Catching glimpses of his neighbor in such a bad state (and perhaps seeing some of his own bad state reflected back at him), Decans didn’t want to dismiss this last incident as nothing to interfere in. So he called the police, just in case.

Fresh struggles with some mixed feelings, but ultimately thanks Decans for making the call that saved his life.

After learning of Decans’ condition, Fresh is initially anxious he’ll accidentally hurt him, but as the days go by, they talk more and start spending more of their free time together. Fresh continues to struggle with his cravings, sleep, emotions and identity. Yet his detox proceeds more smoothly, and with the help of Decans and his other new friends, he comes to see that he still likes his old nineties style beneath all the self-hatred and his understanding of Error’s hatred toward everything he was—that the problem isn’t his style, but himself, and his old clothes won’t feel right again unless he can make peace with himself.

Now this is a new line of thought, not part of my original plans, but I like it: Fresh feels undeserving of how nice these people are to him, and for a while, he doesn’t know whether to accept their kindness based on a lack of true understanding or to tell them everything he’s done and thus lose their friendship. Finally, he decides he doesn’t want to lie or be fake or hide the truth of his ugliness. He wants to be open and real, not the person who put on a smile or a facade, who Error had hated. In private and/or during group therapy, perhaps taking multiple attempts because of how hard it is to talk about, he recounts his experiences to the other patients. And they praise his courage in opening up. Decans, Emilio, and at least a few others offer him understanding, forgiveness, and their continued support. Cue another flood of mixed feelings within Fresh, that take him some time to sort through.

The days go by, with no word from Ink. I severely miscalculated how many chapters this would take. One night, a sound wakes Fresh up. A figure stands over the other bed, suffocating Emilio with his pillow. Fresh panics and tries to call for help, but his voice won’t come out. Emilio claws at the figure, Jakob, legs kicking feebly, slowing down. Fresh tumbles out of bed, scrambles over despite his injured foot, and fights to drag Jakob back. He manages to pull the pillow off Emilio’s face for but a second, moments before a couple of psych techs burst in and restrain Jakob.

I don’t know Jakob’s motive or what brought him to the psych ward, and I don’t think either was going to be mentioned, but I can say he has personal issues and reasons for trying to kill Emilio, and I never wanted it to come across as a case of Insane Equals Violent. As to how he got into the room without being caught...I hadn't figured that out yet either I guess. I was making most of the story up as I went along. Now that I know more about the universe of Worldview, though, I suppose his ability could have helped him? Kind of a stretch, since I imagine there would be some kind of restriction in place to prevent any patients from using abilities that could cause trouble in the ward.

Jakob is dealt with, security tightens, and Emilio comes out of this unharmed. He thanks Fresh earnestly for trying to save him, and though his injured foot is paying the price (it’s not more broken or anything, but trying to stand on it has gotta hurt), Fresh’s burden of self-hatred lightens ever so slightly. His friends praise him for his heroic deed, even when he tries to dismiss it by insisting he wouldn’t have been able to stop Jakob and it was the psych techs who had really saved Emilio.

Not long after this incident, Decans is discharged from the psych ward, but he is reluctant to leave. Fresh, also saddened to see him go (and to hear Decans’ parents would be unlikely to let him visit Fresh here), promises to meet up after he too is discharged.

I had no plans for the rest of Fresh’s stay, but while he has gotten relatively better, it’s by no means a full recovery. The first thing he does after leaving is visit Geno. This little reunion isn’t technically part of my plans, so while of course it would happen, I don’t have anything in particular in mind for it, other than the two seeing that they’ve both recovered somewhat. Maybe Geno is out of the hospital at this point, in which case Fresh goes home to see him.

Soon after, Fresh stops by Com’s house to apologize to Ink and swear he doesn’t blame him for Error’s death. No notes on this visit either, but it seems fitting for Fresh to speak with a door between them, and Ink staying silent at first. Then I’d say that upon seeing Fresh’s progress and sincerity, Ink forgives him, at least enough for them to start moving onward from the fight. He forgives, but doesn’t forget.

My notes say that Fresh tries to pretend he’s better so his family doesn’t worry, but now, though maybe he slips into that habit a little here and there, I’d prefer to say he pushes past it and keeps trying to stay honest.

Then there’s a note about Fresh learning of Decans’ home situation and that it hurts how he can’t help; Decans assures him he helps plenty.

Late at night, Fresh texts Ink in the hopes of distracting himself from his suicidal thoughts. Ink comes over to make sure Fresh doesn’t hurt himself. The whole situation is clearly tense and painful for both of them, and Fresh fears that despite their efforts, their friendship and Ink’s trust in him are broken beyond repair. I’m actually tempted to overwrite this bit and say Ink doesn’t come over at all, just stays up texting until Fresh says he’s going to sleep. Maybe their friendship stays rocky, leaving it ambiguous through the end as to whether they ever work through it or remain somewhat distant. Either way, I can see Fresh starting to spend more time with Decans than with Ink.

Christmas comes around (painful memories everywhere), and noticing the condition of Geno’s scarf, likely stained or ragged or simply with a loose thread, Fresh recalls the other scarf he made with Error years ago, for Geno. With possible help from CQ, Asy and/or Decans, Fresh works up the courage to search Error’s room. He finds the wrapped scarf in the closet and gifts it to Geno. As the last present he will ever receive from both his brothers jointly, Geno treasures it, and he may be too anxious that something might happen to it to risk wearing it, at least until his old scarf someday becomes unwearable. Alternatively, he might feel it’s safer to keep it on him at all times.

Geno starts reading the journals that Error left him. Though he struggles to hold them up or turn the pages, Fresh leaves him to it (CQ or Asy helps him instead), too scared of what the journals might say or make him feel to give them a look himself. They weren’t for him to read, anyway. But one day, at Geno’s tearful insistence, Fresh caves and reads a page that his brother tries to show him: in the middle of Error’s last journal, his final message.

In it, Error apologizes for giving up and says there was nothing anyone could have done. It was Error’s fault, not theirs. And at the bottom of the page, tacked on like an afterthought, is a message addressing Fresh directly, apologizing for hurting him and failing to be a good big brother.

Fresh breaks down.

As much as this flood of emotion crushes him, beneath his confusion and guilt, it sweeps some of the weight from his soul.

He soon starts talking to Error’s dust, expressing aloud all the things he wishes he could tell his brother.

After a time skip to Error’s birthday, one of Fresh’s roughest days since reading Error’s message, Asy catches him absentmindedly scratching himself until he bleeds, and it’s implied that this isn’t the first time. (I think this would fit better if he last did it sometime before the time skip rather than during the skipped months, but I’d rather just exchange it for a milder sign of heartache.) Asy gives him a Band-Aid, and they talk.

“Everything will be okay in the end. And?”

“If it’s not okay, it’s not da end.”

This next note feels pretty unnecessary for the story, but Decans visits and mentions his parents are going to divorce.

Fresh and Geno open up to each other about feeling they were born “wrong.”

As a “birthday present” to Error, Fresh promises to be the best brother he can for Geno, even if he’s too late to do so for Error.

I wrote some possible final lines for the story. I imagine the last scene taking place in the front yard of the house, with a get-together of Fresh, Geno, Decans, Ink, Asy, CQ, and some of their other friends and family (like Com, Star and Book, who’s doing well now) chatting and relaxing in the afternoon.

Something about their faces, and even the air, felt soft and clear. It felt like Fresh had woken up from a long dream. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to go back to sleep. He had a different kind of dream to look forward to. He took in the sunlight, took in the air, letting it fill him, and breathed it out. He was alive.

The End.

Everyone, thank you for reading!

To start off the bonus content, I want to share a poem excerpt I found when trying to come up with a title for the series, The Breathing Dead. This is where I got it from:

And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?

Thy senses, thy affections, fled?

No play of fancy thine, to keep

Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?

Then art thou but the breathing dead...

~George Crabbe (1754–1832), “The World of Dreams”

The Endless Sleep and The Sleepless Wake are both titles I made up myself. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this before, but I originally considered calling the second part The Sleepless End as a reversal of the first part’s title. Then I thought it might be too confusing or easy to mix them up, that they just sounded too similar, so I changed the last word, haha. The result definitely fits better. I do love me some titles with multiple meanings or interpretations. Layer ’em like parfait, yum yum.

Next up! As I recall, I mentioned a long time ago that I was working on a secret project. I’m not going to finish it at this point, so here’s a bit of what I did make...

A shimeji of TSW!Fresh!

And some rough drawings for a few of the sprites I didn’t get around to:

What a cute, squishable li’l marshmallow. It would be really neat to have the finished shimeji, but these things are a lot of work to make.

One of the last things I can think to share are the couple of side-fics I started (basically just self-indulgent fanfic of my own fanfic adjllsafhjdl), but I didn’t write enough for them to be worth showing anybody (also they’re kinda bad). One is a time travel fic where Fresh wakes up a few weeks in the past, in the hospital after his eye surgery, and has a narrow window of time to save Error. The other fic follows Decans, who discovers he can see ghosts—Error’s in particular. Error tries to use him to communicate with his grieving family, which naturally does not go too smoothly. A great source of more angst from both Fresh and Error.

And finally, I have a playlist for TBD. I wanted this to be an experience that flows seamlessly as it follows the story, but to finish ironing it out would take more work, so this will have to do. Keeping in mind that some songs fit better than others, I hope you enjoy!

The Endless Sleep:

Without You - Ashes Remain

Not At All - Get Scared

Anthem of the Angels - Breaking Benjamin

Say Something - A Great Big World ft. Christina Aguilera

Take It Out on Me - Thousand Foot Krutch

Nothing Left to Say - Imagine Dragons

If My Heart Was a House - Owl City

The Sleepless Wake:

I Can’t Breathe - Bea Miller

Give Me a Sign - Breaking Benjamin

Magenta - Nano

Hope of Morning - Icon For Hire

Don’t Wake Me - Skillet

Surrender - Digital Daggers

I Am Machine - Three Days Grace

Addict - Get Scared

Again - Crusher-P

Friend Please - Twenty One Pilots

Same Mistake - James Blunt

You Don’t Know - Katelyn Tarver

Second Guessing - Get Scared

Self-Inflicted Achromatic - Nekobolo (personal favorite cover: Mafumafu)

Tomorrow - Avril Lavigne

Ride - Twenty One Pilots

Never Surrender - Skillet

The Reason - Hoobastank

Thanks again for reading, and for supporting the story while it lasted, or even afterwards! It was quite an experience for me, with all its ups and downs. While things didn’t go the way I hoped, I definitely learned from writing this story, and I expect my writing will be better for it going forward.

If you ever have any questions about TBD, ask away!

[circusinarun]

Someone pay him for a therapist, he doesn’t seem to be taking out 2 children, business, federal prosecution and showdowns with local bandits...

Oh yes, I wanted to redesign Hueso Jr. (thanks to this little man for the push in this direction with this post, check her art btw, it's juicy and curvy, I like her ary) and no... This is not Swap papyrus

[qoldenskies]

i think about splinter walking in on the aftermath of caged lungs a lot

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: two sets of drawings of Viktor and Five as centaurs. The first is approximately s2-s3 era; Viktor, whose horse half is a brown pony, is grinning smugly at Five. Five's horse half is a black foal and is shorter than Viktor. The second set of drawings is during s4; Viktor is still a brown pony but now Five's horse half is mostly grown up and thus significantly taller than him. (Five's horse color has also changed to a dark gray). Five is the one grinning smugly now, and Viktor says "Fuck you." End ID.]

omg guys season 4 made centaur au canon can you believe it. somewhere out there, every au you can dream of can be true in the reality of the show. wow!

[abandonedpie]

Aah! Thank you! :D

@abandonedpie

Did a redraw of my 2016 cover for your fic.

Still love your fics 😊

[daftpatience]

finally sending my busted old montblanc in for repairs after sitting on it for over a decade everyone wish me a not too expensive quote

[etchif]

I feel like one of the reasons options like 'I'm unemployed' 'I don't drink or smoke' 'I've never had sex' etc keep sweeping on polls is that a large chunk of tumblr's userbase is made up of children/teens but no one ever seems to consider this it's always just 'lol this is the virgin loser website' like guys. Maybe they're just still in high school

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Victims meet Victims

[toomanyfanficsbruh]

just got a 92% after a bunch of 70%...

Im feeling an academic comeback, it feels nice to know I'm not a let-down or a disappointment.

Hope everything goes well for the test of y'all, I hope the universe comes into balance again xx

[greektragedybitch]

BAARISH BAARISH BAARISH FIRST RAIN OF THE SEASON AA GAYA YAYAYAYYAY

[charlotteee013]

This holiday, surprise your teen with the gift of a serene space! The Renpho Air Purifier and Mini Massage Gun bring tranquility and freshness. 🌬️ Visit the link here: https://go.renpho.com/christmas 2023

[misssclumsy]

Why don't you just slip into something more comfortable like ......... A COMA

[crimeronan]

there's a teenager on this bus with izuku midoriya hair like. dyed and styled with the Exact shades of green and black. to the point that it's unmistakable. i'm so fond. love imagining this kid walking into their hairdresser with a pic of this anime boy like "him. please" and the hairdresser going "yeah okay sure" and then immediately Knocking It Out Of The Park.

[smol-bean-boi13]

😬

Uh oh part 1 - (this is part 2)

[Paused]

Main masterpost

[contributingtothechaos]

I shouldn't have to be afraid to walk home from school in broad daylight, next to a busy street because people in my school keep trying to run over anyone visibly queer with fucking dirt bikes.

I'm so fucking tired of having slurs yelled at me (including the n word when both the ppl yelling it and me are white) and dirt bikes being driven up onto the sidewalk at me and knowing no one around us cares and no one would stop them if they actually hit me.

[shipping-world1994]

Peter: [Leaning out seductively from behind the closet door] I'm going to slip into something that's going to knock your socks off.

Chris: My socks are already off. Just step out naked.