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[so it looks like today is Robin's equivalent of "spring cleaning" day at the hideout. he's mostly getting his shit in order, tying up some loose ends, trashing the old stuff that no one wants anymore, aaaand... dealing with some business.]

[Euri]

[he hasn't spoken to her in a looooong time... but today he decided to change that.]

Hey. You really still hiding out in the woods?

Come on, come back. You must be bored to tears out there.

[Murdertastic Filter]

So, hey. Can't help but notice there's been an awful lot of murdering going on.

Think you guys could maybe not attract the attention of the whole fucking city?

[Public]

[with that finally out of the way and him waiting for responses (if they come at all), he's decided to just hang around on one of the couches and distractedly hum something that sounds a little like the Wren Song. there's a distant tapping that might be his foot on a wall.

but eventually he stops that, too. his attention span isn't all that great on a normal day, but today it's even worse. he'll start talking to no one in particular (which means the journal).]

You know what I miss? Fight rings. And not that publicly broadcasted shit they clean up for TV and radio, no--I'm talking real, messy, Underground fights. Those were the best fucking nights. Always a party.

[tap tap tap tap.]

I wonder if they've got anything like that hiding around here... Some corner of the slums, maybe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[this is new. and it's again the unexpected element that gets through to him. he's got defeat glazed over his eye, but he at least turns to look at Robin again.

questioning, but not out of an active interest--he's wary. he can't guess where this is coming from]

[that look... is that what he used to look like?

makes him sick. he's got no right to even think he has that sort of thorn in his heart. he tightens his fingers and pulls up again.]

You little shit.

[and then he smashes Coil's face back down against the floor.]

[whatever was going on his head is temporarily made irrelevant as his face suddenly bounces off the floor. half-stunned, he follows it with a pained cough and the automatic attempt to curl in--covering his face with his hands and trying to pull his legs underneath him. in those first dazed moments, it's all he can mange.]

[Robin yanks on his hair again to jerk his head away--but with him curling up like that, he ends up grabbing the front of his clothes instead.

and this is the part where he cheats. with a little help from his gift (curse), he lifts Coil off the ground like he's nothing.]

You're gonna give up? You're gonna run away? [he laughs--devoid of mirth, sharp and empty.] Don't be so fucking pathetic!

[he throws him across that little room, back in the direction he'd been before. he'll land all over his notes, his books--but really, those are just starting to piss him off too. not his problem.]

[he hits the ground and flops over onto his back like a ragdoll, rolling bonelessly with it until he finds himself blinking uncomprehendingly up at the ceiling.

he needs to wake up. recalibrate. he doesn't understand what the hell is going on.

his face hurts, and now the wind is half knocked out of him. he's quickly grabbing for a moment to struggle to even out his breathing, while his sense of how the world works lifts off its track and spins a little bit]

[and he's going to give him that little moment. he's not quick to catch up to him. he waits for a moment, watching the kid try to get his bearings on the situation. it's very close to the way he tortures people, actually--but lucky for Coil, he won't be getting into the really horrible stuff.

he steps around the papers, the books, toe-to-heel in a semi-circle to Coil's bad side. once there, he lifts his boot and presses the toe down on the other's throat. not enough to choke him, but enough to make it... worrisome. he knows Coil's a little more fond of breathing than most people (and that's saying something).]

Well?

[yeah, for the panicked rasp of breath at that, he might as well have been choking him. a hand automatically darts to Robin's ankle, thumb digging into the sensitive nerve there under the joint, going right for the pressure-point out of habit.

but that's all. he stops there, freezing, anxiety making it unnecessarily difficult to breathe. he turns his head so he can stare up at Robin with a much clearer look of fear, now.

there's no misinterpreting his desperate look of 'what do you want??']

[the thumb at his ankle hurts--but he doesn't show it. he more absorbs it at this point, toe jerking up in slight reaction only to press down just a little harder.]

Come on. You're still alive, so do something.

[he leans over him, very careful about his foot. he doesn't want to make it hard to focus on what he's saying.]

Yes, you lost. Yes, you died, but so-fucking-what? There's fight in you. I can see it. Even now.

So don't waste it. Come on.

[and then, the fear in his face changes from one sort, to a very different one. He is listening, eyes wide and searching with it... and his expression starts to slip suddenly toward something helpless.

He get it, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't know why Robin has made this his business, doesn't know why he's looking for something that Coil doesn't know how to give. He doesn't even know how to have what Robin's looking for, and he's too startled to fake it.

All he has is the horrible sting that comes with the first part of that. He lost. He died. He doesn't know what he's supposed to have after that.]

[he wants to press down harder, but he knows it wouldn't get any point across. instead, something else about him changes. he eases up a little, harsh and cold expression melting back into that bizarre, unfitting smile of his.]

You're strong. You're smart. I've seen it.

You've been given a second life. A second chance. Fight to make it worth something. You could be anything. You could do it again.

Your body knows. It doesn't want to die.

[and then he moves his foot. no more pressure.]

Show me your worth, Coil. Show me what you can be. I want to see it again. All right?

[he can't breathe, and it's more from Robin's words than physical pressure. He's lightheaded with it, having trouble even accepting the fact that someone is saying this to him, let alone approaching the idea that it might be true. It's built into his bones. Years of punishment and careful sculpting of his character, versus a failure that he can't swallow or cope with.

So, as soon as the pressure eases up, he's sliding away and pushing himself up, dragging in breaths like he'd been buried underground.

And then Robin's words come down to... show him.

How can he? For the first time in years, Coil wishes he could speak! There's suddenly words and phrases going on in his head--some angry, some heartbroken, and all of them desperate. Robin has backed him into a corner of his mind that he spends all of his energy staying away from, and he can't even explain--

...And then it hits him.

There is a way.

One more panted breath like he's in pain, and he's suddenly moving. Going right for him, Coil gets up in his space, grabs onto his collar, and presses his forehead against Robin's. Insistently. Pleading. He doesn't know how this works, but he remembers it happening before, so as soon as he feels like he's not alone in his own head, he shouts a thought.

'--STOP IT.' ]

[--and he's not expecting it.

he knew he'd do something, hoped he'd be driven to action, but this--he doesn't know if it's good or bad, right or wrong, barely recognizes the shout that fills his awareness as something that could come from of Coil, but it is. It's Coil's voice. and all his intentions are put aside with the immediacy, the weight of what he's just done.

Robin takes the sides of his face and keeps him there, his own thoughts clear and simple. 'Why?' He needs to know. Needs to know more than anything. 'Tell me.']

[he did it... he broke his biggest cardinal rule--the vow of silence that went so deep that he'd tried to carve the possibility of breaking it out of his own body.

But what did it really matter anymore, right? He'd already failed in worse ways.

So, with that defeat, it all starts to just fall out of his head and into Robin's. It starts with 'I can't--' but quickly devolves and overflows into a tangle of thoughts and crashes of feelings. Like he's so unused to speech that he can't keep things arranged into words even in his own head.

The biggest thing, the thing that swallows up everything else, squashing the breath out of it, is the finality of it all. And he doesn't know how to explain that, so his mind just spins with the attempt. He's only good for one thing--and here are little bitter offshoots twisting up in thoughts of death and horror and worthlessness--but he failed at it. He's failed over and over again, but this was the last one, the worst one. She'll hate him.

She'll hate him more than she already does, because he's used up any good he can possibly be--but no. He knows he's not going back, anyway. He'll be stuck here forever, forced to face his failure and a whole lot of nothing, because none of it is worth anything at all. None of it. What is he supposed to try for, when there is nothing...]

[he doesn't say anything--doesn't think anything tangible, rather. nothing solid, nothing to interrupt. he's done this before, makes himself an empty shell for someone else to pour everything into. he soaks it up, hungry for it, with his own presence shrinking down to small tendrils that reach for him and pull a little, hoping for more.

he wants to know. he wants to know. so tell him everything.]

[it's easy to keep himself from speaking, the ingrained aversion to making sound enough to keep him from ever coming close to trying.

This, though... it's similar enough to the whirling thoughts that he gets swallowed up in when he doesn't properly lock them down that it's easier to just let it keep going than stop them. He doesn't have time to check himself. As quickly as he's thinking it, he's sharing it, and it just keeps going...

He doesn't know what to do with himself now, because he doesn't have a reason. He was born for a reason, and it's all that has ever mattered. It's a truth that simply is. It's all for family, and a god, and the fate of this entire world that deserves to be unmade. What is he compared to all of that? What could he possibly be now?

And whenever he tries to think of an answer, he runs into walls built of ugly, unholy bricks. He can't help but let it leak in now and pollute what he's trying to explain--because it's always there--the sights and sounds and smells of it. The lessons that were ground into him with knuckles and whips and ornate rings with sharp edges that left marks. They were just trying to make him into something useful, because he isn't enough. He still isn't. And he was trying to fix that, trying to make it better.

But that doesn't matter anymore. He has to keep reminding himself.

It's over.

There's nothing left to do besides try not to make things worse.

Stay out of the way, and shut your mouth-- said in some voice that isn't his.]

[he steps back in, then, presence filling up the space between them, looming almost overpoweringly over Coil. it's mean, the way he digs in and doesn't let him go, but he wants him to listen. he wants him to know.

wants him to know that he's being a fucking coward.

treating it like it's final, treating it like there's nothing else here--that's bullshit. Coil is still here, breathing shaking living, and he's treating that like it's the end of the gods-damned world.

if that purpose was really all that mattered, he'd stop running away and chase after it, knowing what he knows now. Coil knows nothing of agony--a thought spit out with such contempt for the world around him that he tightens his fingers in Coil's hair--he's got no reason to sit there, wallowing in self-pity. so you failed, so. fucking. what.

it doesn't matter. they won't even know. so stop being a bitch about it and do something, anything to prove those ghosts wrong.

because Robin wants this. he believes so strongly that there's worth in Coil, even if he can't see it himself. he... cares what happens to him, even if that truth only leaks out around the edges of his bitter, harsh thoughts. he could be great, but he's wasting it on a 'nothing' that doesn't exist.]

[he's not used to discussion, let alone one this utterly overwhelming, so at first there is just this wall. The mental equivalent of trying to plug up his ears, dodging and trying to deflect every thought that Robin's throwing at him.

He can't succeed in that, of course. So he just mentally writhes for a minute. ...Until he loses traction and things finally start to stick. It might not be in the way that Robin intends, but Coil begins to surrender to some of it.

Coward-- reflected back with some of his own memories, agreeing, he's heard it a thousand times. His own suffering is nothing. It is worth absolutely nothing, and it doesn't stand up when compared to anything. He's being selfish, he knows it.

And he's sorry.

But he can't pretend that it didn't happen. It matters, whether or not they would ever know the details. He knows, and gods see everything--he'd be even more of a coward if he forgave himself.

He's crushed, but he's been crushed for a while. So, it's the tired, chopped-up kind of desperation that he's leaning with.]

[he can't help a sick sort of feeling that rises in his chest. it's this too-familiar lump of thought that climbs it's way up until he can't take keeping it down. he lets go of Coil's face to wrap his arms past his shoulders and hold him, pull him close. he holds on too tightly, presses too close. it's the sort of grip that'll leave a bruise where his fingers are digging into his arms.]

You don't have to. [he's still angry, but it's the kind of angry that hurts.] You don't have to forgive yourself. Just stop running. Just do something.

[there's absolutely no resistance when Robin pulls him in, passively letting the breath be pressed out of his chest like Robin has his arms wrapped around something lifeless. Left alone in his own head again, it's like his thoughts are being squeezed in around him too.

Argued into a corner where all he has is hatred for himself.

And it seeps out, the pain of it just silently gushing all over while Robin hugs him.

He can't do anything, he can't fight it, when he feels like simply continuing to exist without paying for his failures would be doing everything that has ever mattered to him an unforgivable disservice.]

[it's frustrating. he wants to lash out and just beat it into Coil until he gets it. that's part of why his shoulders and arms are so tight, wound up with the only way he really knows how to show how he's feeling. and it bothers him a little that he likes the way Coil feels, an open well of despair and agony. he cracked him open for this, he had kind of hoped... and he drinks it up just like he drank up his words a second ago. it makes him stronger, makes him sharper. helps clear his head.

but his frustration doesn't quell and how familiar all the separate parts are doesn't go away, and he is in no way inclined to give up. he wants to--needs to make him better, because it makes him sick otherwise.

so he moves. one hand keeps the other close, wrapped around his neck (fingers pressing gripping digging into his shoulder). with the other, he guides their heads back together and digs to find Coil's mind, projects a single idea, a question. 'What do you need?']

[he flinches at the mental contact again, but he's too exhausted to fight it more than that. He asks himself that same question--has been asking for a while--so his mind just slowly careens around as it searches for an answer, and Robin gets to watch while it does.

There is still that important pitfall of why bother, even though Robin's argument of the same reasons as always, just keep trying should have satisfied it. It does, partially, but that wound is still left hanging some of the way open and he can't really figure out why.

It just sits there, ever-present in the background while he rakes his thoughts for what he needs, looking for what could possibly make this any better.

He doesn't get very far in any direction however, before violent thoughts crush in from the darkness on all sides. He doesn't deserve any of this. How can he learn from anything, how can he correct himself when he hasn't even paid for what he's done. He can't forgive himself, he can't let it go, because they wouldn't have. The only thing he deserves is suffering. Punishment. There is just this terribly guilty weight on his soul without anything to balance it back out.]

[...ah. that he finally understands.

and Coil can feel him understanding, and reaching into himself to pull up a little something, a glimmer. if Coil wants punishment, suffering, Robin can do that. he can reach into every part of him and rip out those useless shards. he could run his fingers under his skin and blister through veins and snap tendons tissues muscle fibers and even bones. he could make it hurt in every way conceivable. he could even show him new ways.

because that's what he is. he shows him, just that little bit. he is suffering. he is pain. and there is no one better suited to serve as Coil's deliverance from the depths of his own guilty soul.

with that on the table, the fingers at Coil's shoulder press harder and harder and harder and harder until the things that make him up start to make an audible protest against it. until something snaps, or strains, or crushes.]

[it's wordless, the way thoughts start gravitating toward and clinging to that picture that Robin is painting in his head. It's automatic; he's not thinking about what he must be conveying back. Robin sends pain and punishment, digs in to tangibly show him the barest example... and he gets overwhelming relief in return.

The thought of real agony--enough to really be enough to pay for his transgressions--sends this tentative thrill through him.

For the first time in ages, he has hope.

...He needs this. It's the only way out. As much as he'd wanted out of this endless pit he's sinking in, wanted an answer for an unsolvable problem, he wants this. More than anything.

Nerves scream in his shoulder, and already the knot in his soul begins to loosen.]

[there's nothing else he needs to see. he finishes his shoulder with a violent twist, dislocating at the very least, cracking something important at the very most. that's just a gateway, something to get them started; he pushes Coil away and then shoves him, toppling him back down onto the ground where he'd been not even minutes before. he aims to get him to land on that shoulder, but that's just extra.

his eyes glean red, filled with purpose and possibility as he examines his new charge. he bites at his own knuckle while the agony settles in, drawing enough blood to give him a tool. he's not completely sure where to start--he could start anywhere. it's exciting. exhilarating.

but he knows what he wants, and this is equal parts duty and self-indulgence--so crouches down and crawls over to him like this is just some night between lovers and presses his palm down on that injured shoulder and tugs too hard at the other's collar to tear it wider.

it's easy. humans are delicate. fabrics are nothing. his fingers run over scarred skin and for a second he desperately wishes his hands were uncovered. but he can do better--he leans over him, lips feeling the skin at his collar instead before he bites, tearing hard through the flesh at his neck. sinks his teeth in too far, reaches down to crawl fingers under Coil's shirt and press until he can feel the warmth of his body through his gloves. he tugs at the other's blood, starts to prick and stab and slowly press on his ribs until they start to crack.]

[when he hits the ground, his first thought is worrying about the damage in his shoulder. He's allowed a few seconds to writhe and distantly fret over the thought of permanent damage... until he remembers how little that matters anymore. It's either this or nothing, so he's just going to have to accept whatever consequences that means. If it destroys him, even kills him, he has no right to complain.

And then, when that hand comes down on his shoulder and Robin leans in close, he's not thinking about anything at all. There is that white-hot click that confirms his guess about his collarbone being broken, and suddenly there are teeth.

It floods out everything else with a pang, stomach twisting--and he twists with it. It's unexpected; he can't keep himself from reacting. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he tries to push himself back with his elbows, sucking in a shocked breath.

...And that's when he notices the pressure in his chest. Robin's fingers settling over the new scars that bone-spikes left behind, and this crushing crushing weight. He can't breathe, he's being smothered, his kicking and writhing starting to turn desperate as he struggles to gasp air past the crushing and the cracking]