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singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
ployboy) wrote in singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
Entry tags:
the more you suffer the more it shows you really care.
Who: Tim Drake's broken arm and ____
What: uselessly tidying up the graves at the churchyard
When: Nov 1, 2
Where: church, the community hall
Content Warnings: general depressive moods, some bashing of traditions, a very superficial understanding of a culture, death and talk of death is a given
Tim is actually pretty sure he's managed to snag himself a women's coat: it's black and long and elegant, and it has this faux fur lining it and the big hood. It's very quickly become his favorite garb on account of it fitting stupidly well and the aforementioned fuzziness. Paired with sufficient layers (as if there is such a thing) and the heavy black (sparkly) scarf snaked around his throat, the attire even looks good. Good enough, anyway.
It'll have to do.
Dark circles under eyes seems to be a common symptom of Milton's lifestyles and Tim isn't too far behind already. The fitful sleep has him moving excruciatingly slow as an additional precaution. (If he hurts his arm again he will fucking. shoot. someone in the face in feral retaliation.) The thought makes him snort. It's the closest he's come to emotion since he started his day's pet project. It's hard to scrape off ice and years' worth of snow packed onto stone with only one arm functional, holding the shovel.
A few names on grave markers have been freed. Other memorials just have parts of them newly unobstructed through Tim's efforts but are still well buried in white.
Tim works in silence. Kinda hates it, honestly.
But it's whatever.
Between clearing snow from plots and trudging carefully around the yard, Tim ducks into the community hall to warm himself. Or maybe to hear some chatter around him, to see people who aren't, like, ghosts.
And so goes his day, and the next.
He's never put so much effort into something so fruitless before.
][ooc: prose, brackets, wildcard or bump into this fool elsewhere, go wild! HMU if you want anything specific][
What: uselessly tidying up the graves at the churchyard
When: Nov 1, 2
Where: church, the community hall
Content Warnings: general depressive moods, some bashing of traditions, a very superficial understanding of a culture, death and talk of death is a given
Tim is actually pretty sure he's managed to snag himself a women's coat: it's black and long and elegant, and it has this faux fur lining it and the big hood. It's very quickly become his favorite garb on account of it fitting stupidly well and the aforementioned fuzziness. Paired with sufficient layers (as if there is such a thing) and the heavy black (sparkly) scarf snaked around his throat, the attire even looks good. Good enough, anyway.
It'll have to do.
Dark circles under eyes seems to be a common symptom of Milton's lifestyles and Tim isn't too far behind already. The fitful sleep has him moving excruciatingly slow as an additional precaution. (If he hurts his arm again he will fucking. shoot. someone in the face in feral retaliation.) The thought makes him snort. It's the closest he's come to emotion since he started his day's pet project. It's hard to scrape off ice and years' worth of snow packed onto stone with only one arm functional, holding the shovel.
A few names on grave markers have been freed. Other memorials just have parts of them newly unobstructed through Tim's efforts but are still well buried in white.
Tim works in silence. Kinda hates it, honestly.
But it's whatever.
Between clearing snow from plots and trudging carefully around the yard, Tim ducks into the community hall to warm himself. Or maybe to hear some chatter around him, to see people who aren't, like, ghosts.
And so goes his day, and the next.
He's never put so much effort into something so fruitless before.
][ooc: prose, brackets, wildcard or bump into this fool elsewhere, go wild! HMU if you want anything specific][
no subject
It's another small scoff escaping him, this one with a livelier undercurrent. Which means it's attitude in most catalogs of Teen Speak. Which means it's as genuine a sound as Tim's uttered in-- way too long. It's a funny question. The answer isn't so much. So Tim says, "No kidding." and doesn't say that pebble death is something a skateboarder learns about once, and only once, in their career.
And as he measures his steps, adds the math on sections and the deteriorating centerpiece to the yard, he comes to an abrupt stop.
Does Conner even know how to drive? Did he learn how to-- with a freaking tractor, moving cows from one pasture to another, or whatever the hell he does-- did-- on that farm? Tim looks up and out to the right.
There really is no point to any of this. It's not a question in his mind, hasn't been for a while. He hasn't thought about a lot of things in a while-- Cassie is probably the only one of them to have not wrecked a car she's driving, because she's the fearless leader and the only one of them with a lick of sense. Bart will never live down what he did to the Batmobile that one time.
Live down is probably a bad choice of words.
And Tim exhales and is dizzy and the ugly crawl of everything terrible in him makes his skin itch. He lowers the hood of the coat and doesn't feel any better. He doesn't feel any better knowing the orientation of the graves in this lawn don't differ from the dozen others he's walked.
"I lost the grid," he says. It's said to the wind or to his shovel or to the grave fence that's six meters behind. It's a tired voice, and a failure more than an apology.
He's lost, and has no idea what to
but, you know, it's not like it's new or anything.
He treks back to Shovel, his trusty shovel, and it's like his bones are too old to be in this cold. Blue eyes acknowledge March, and he even nods to the far end of the perimeter gates.
"Hey, be careful if you come along," like it's a stupid thing to warn when this man will certainly not be game to follow. But it'd be rude to not offer the... the out. With mechanical rising and falling of his chest, Tim hears himself go on above that muffled ring of panic in his ears. "There's some dog... uh, footprints. On that side. I didn't think the wolves made it out this far."
no subject
He also has no idea what Tim is saying, not really, but he's not exactly the right person to call out getting too in your noggin about shit. The head turn turns into March turning his whole body, which leads to him sitting back up again.
"Where you going?"
He's surprised it's a genuine question. Even more surprised that he's getting ready to move off of the fence and follow.
no subject
Or maybe Tim's just fucking cold and tired, whatever.
"I think this is the only cemetery in the town. It got pretty large. I'm sure there's a registry of the plots... maybe actually in the church. I don't know. Are you coming?"
The last three words are, of course, surprising to Tim. He looks thoroughly uncomfortable at hearing the ask.
no subject
March looks around, looks at the the cemetary, looks at his half-smoked cigarette. Maybe the kid needs help. Maybe he's offering a helping hand to March. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe he should ask.
"Have fun."
Maybe March just wants to finish his smoke and not think about things for half a second. He offers a lazy turn of the wrist in a wave farewell.