[tf2] - Slainte Mhath, Slainte Mhor
Title: Slainte Mhath, Slainte Mhor
Rating: PG
Pairing: none, gen (Solly&Demo)
Warnings: weirdness, langauge, War-Update spoilers
A/N: I had this idea/story in the back of my head for the longest time, so I wrote it when I shouldn't have. It's different, but I'm glad I got it off my chest. Inspired by this gorgeous Band of Brothers fic. Thanks topellucere for the beta. :D
The men are starting to act funny around you again. Giving you stares, whispering behind your back, shutting their gobs when you turn around - things like that. It reminds you of when you first joined BLU team, how they thought you were absolutely mad, yelling those battle cries and all that, even after the mission was done and over with.
But, eventually, they passed it off as some weird quirk, like how that poofer Frog is always puffing on his fags, or how that Commie likes to talk to his guns. The Runt and his nuclear drinks. The Medic sniffing his medigun. Hardhat and his sort of once-in-a-while-but-actually-all-the-time psychotic laughs.
And you? You yell and scream and beat a shovel over your head. If that doesn’t send fear shooting through your enemies, then nothing would - except for maybe a well-placed rocket.
But that isn’t the point you’re trying to make.
It’s the boots. They’re giving you trouble. Again.
It’s not about your regulation boots, the ones that BLU sends to every soldier in the company. No, those boots are fine. It’s the Gunboats you got from that bitch you call your boss.
It’s not like you can forget, you know. The boots you got for killing your best mate. That’s why all your teammates are skittish around you. You turned on your friend, so who knows what you’d do to your own teammates - the same team that didn’t mind that you were friends with the enemy, told you that they were alright with it.
So you’re wearing the boots. The end-bell rings. You stop fighting, lower your Direct Hit, and turn from the dead enemy Heavy.
It didn’t have to be a secret. Hell, the Spy on the RED’s side is even dating your Scout’s mum, and sometimes you’d catch the Engineers playing their guitars on the bridge between the BLU and RED forts while the Snipers take potshots at the jackrabbits from the roof.
You had gone through the whole battle with those Gunboats, but you don’t remember putting them on.
The team worries about you. It had made them uneasy, seeing you get into the competition, calling up your fellow soldiers to kill other demomen, involving more people, turning it into a campaign. All because you ached for the blood of your best mate.
And for what? A pair of boots? Because the Administrator got you riled up over your own pride?
After the battle, you lock yourself in the supply closet and mutter to yourself, pulling the Gunboats off and tucking them away in a dusty corner, behind the stocks of shotgun ammo. You don’t want them anymore- makes you sick just looking at them. You head over to the kitchen for some grub.
The team is in there and the murmurs abruptly stop when you walk in. Ignore it. Ignore that invisible kick to the chest and take a seat next to Spy.
“Uh, hi,” you say.
Lately, you’ve been trying to be friendly with the spook. It almost never works. Every time you try to strike up a conversation, your natural hatred for the French acts up and you end up spitting some inane, silly insult instead. But you’re stubborn and you desperately want to ask Spy how it feels to betray other people, if he likes it, and how to deal with it.
You sit, and Spy doesn’t even look at you, but he hands you a plate. Say thanks, just say it.
“I can get my own damn plate, you damn snail sucker,” you hear yourself snarl and - no, no, that isn’t what you meant, but the words just tumble out.
With the insults, Spy usually quips something as equally inane and silly back, like he enjoys the banter. Now, he just glances at Medic. Medic will either shake his head, nod or shrug, and depending on what he does, will Spy keep silent, talk, or walk away.
Medic shrugs. Spy’s going to ignore you. You know this, so you try to correct yourself.
“How does it feel to stab people in the back? I bet you like it, making people trust you and then breaking it. I bet it feels good. I get it now, spook. I get it.”
The table goes silent. Even Scout seems to hunch up his shoulders and look down at his bowl. Spy considers you with an anxious expression. He looks like he’s dealing with a sentry with the cloak running out of time, like any moment you’re going to jump up and pump him full of metal.
“I do not particularly care for betraying anyone,” he says carefully, “as they were never my friends to begin with. The literal ‘stabbing someone in the back’, I enjoy. Not the figure of speech.”
This isn’t the answer you wanted. In fact, you’re not sure what you wanted to hear, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not like Spy. You figure you’re something worse than that.
“Oh,” you say, and stand up. You’re not hungry anymore. You climb from the bench, stomping louder than usual.
It’s not your fault though. You look down at your feet and you realize you’re wearing the Gunboats. The blood drains from your face.
“Somethin’ a matter, Solly?” Sniper asks. He’s sitting the closest, reaches out to steady your arm, and looks up from behind his aviators.
It’s nothing.
“No - it’s nothing,” you mutter, waving him off and stomping out of the kitchen.
The last thing you hear is the team murmuring again, but you don’t care. You run to the supply closet and check the spot behind the boxes of shotgun ammo. There's nothing there, not even your old regulation boots. A hallway later, you’re in your room, checking under your bed. Sure enough, you see your old boots, right where you keep them when you sleep.
Sleep. Maybe you should try doing that. It’s been a long day and you haven’t been getting your hours in. Not since - well, you know. Not since you got the Gunboats. You swear you can hear the metal heels clicking together at night.
With a sudden burst of fear, you yank the Gunboats off, wrapping each one with a tattered shirt so they don’t click and move, and stow them into your trunk, along with the a couple of heavy books and an old sword to keep them in place. You haul the trunk outside your room for Scout to trip over. While you do this, you check your feet often. Just in case.
Finally, you go to bed - but not before locking the door to your room - and fall asleep.
The sound of the warning bell wakes you up. You slept well last night, but now you’re late as hell. Cursing, you pull on your coat and rub the crap from your blurry eyes. Sunlight streams from your window as you bend over to grab the boots from under the bed. Your hand closes over hard, laceless leather.
Without even looking at them, you know it’s the Gunboats.
You freeze, drop them like they’re on fire, and scrabble around for your regulars. You find them and put them on, tying the laces as tight as they go, even if it means going into battle five minutes late. When you finish, you pick up the Gunboats, open your window, and hurl them outside, not looking to see where they land.
An explosive breath escapes from your mouth and you start to run out the door.
The trunk you left out last night is still there though. You trip over it and land flat on your face.
Your anger flares up and you kick the trunk. The lid flips open under your heel and you see a glint of metal and dull shine of leather.
As you peer into the trunk, your mouth goes dry.
“Jesus Christ,” you croak, shutting the trunk with a shaky hand.
A few days later, you’re in no better shape, even if you remind yourself over and over again that it doesn’t matter if the Gunboats are following you around. Sometimes, they behave. They let you wear your regular boots, but then you forget you’re not wearing them and start to respawn more often from rocket jumping too much.
“Piece of shit!” you exclaim to your old boots, just as you respawn next to Demoman, who hurries out the locker room without another word. It understandable. Your own Demoman still harbors a grudge from the campaign.
But the rest of the team is avoiding you too. They let you go off on your own and dog around during the battles. Most of the time, you find yourself sitting alone behind a pile of wood scraps for no good reason. Sometimes, you get bored and take off the Gunboats, switch them for your regular boots, and close your eyes.
When you open them, you see that you’re wearing the Gunboats again. Not on your feet, but with the straps around your neck. You’d freak out for the first couple of times, thinking that there were spies around, but spies would have better things to do than dangle boots in your face. Now you just stare and feel nothing but tired.
For once, you think you might be going a little crazy.
You corner Engineer one day, ask him nicely to follow you to your room. Engineer - god bless the man - does, making small talk on the way. You smile for the first time in days.
“Look at this,” you say, opening your door. Today had been a good day. The Gunboats are in your room, in your trunk, and you wore your regular boots to the battle.
You have to show Engineer. Out of everyone on your team, you think he’s the smartest and the most logical. He’s a doctor too, but not like Medic. All Medic ever wants to do is drag you to the medical ward and talk and give you tiny colorful drinks in caps. Engineer, you think, would know what to do about this.
“It’s my boots,” you explain, letting him in.
Engineer looks around your room, seeing everything in order. By now you’ve moved the trunk back to the foot of your bed. “What about ‘em, Solly? They broken?”
“No. They keep following me,” you say, holding up your hands, “I try to get rid of them, but they keep on coming back, those sonsuvabitches.” If your voice cracks at the end, Engineer doesn’t seem to notice. “It sounds damn crazy, I know, but I gotta show you.”
You open the trunk, pull out the books, extra uniform, sword, and the blankets.
The Gunboats aren’t there.
You frown into the empty trunk, and kneel down to check under your bed. They’re not there either.
You start to panic. They can’t do this to you now, not when you’re trying to show Engineer that you’re not daft or wrong in the head. The room starts to spin as your throat closes up. You check your closet, on top of the bed, in your chair, the tiny table, the trunk again, back in the supply closet-you can’t find them anywhere.
“Oh god, oh god, where are they-“
“These ones?” Engineer asks, checking behind your door.
You look up quickly, but the relief snaps apart when you see Engineer holding up your regulars.
“No!” you yell, slapping them away. “No. The Gunboats! How can you not know? The ones I killed Tavish for! Those damn fucking boots!” You’re shrieking now, and you can’t stop. You just keep tearing up your room, overturning the mattress and the table.
At first, Engineer steps back. He lifts the goggles from his forehead and stares at you for the longest time.
“Solly, you’re wearing them,” he says, very gently.
You can hear your own ragged breathing in the room, loud and uneven. You don’t even want to look down at your feet. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
“Was I wearing them before?”
Engineer rubs the back of his head. He is shuffling towards your door, in case you start going nuts and, by god, you don’t blame the man.
“Before you - came in? I don’t know,” he says, “I didn’t look.”
“Goddamn it,” you say, and your eyes start watering.
Now the team’s going to think you’ve really lost it.
Engineer sticks around for a while longer, helping you straighten out the mess you’ve made. You talk about anything but the boots. When he leaves, you close the door and slump against it. The Gunboats somehow make their way beside you, even though you saw and made sure Engineer had put them away in the trunk just a few moments before.
With your forehead against your drawn up knees, you run your hands over them, silent. Confused, tired thoughts circle your mind before you shut your eyes and speak.
“Was this what you wanted, Tavish?” you ask the Gunboats, “I bet you’re laughing now, you son of a bitch.”
The Gunboats don’t answer you. Of course they don’t. They’re fucking boots. You throw one, hard, at the furthest corner of the room. The other you keep in your hand to shake. The calm you try to find escapes you.
“I’m fucking going crazy!” you shout, turning to the other boot, the one in the corner, and give it the finger. “You want it to be just like the stories, huh? Nessie out in the fuckin’ lake, fairies in the fuckin’ meadow, son of a bitchin’ haunted fucking boots! Are you out of your drunken goddamn mind?”
You laugh to fill the silence.
“Just what the hell do you want me to do? Apologize? Send all my money to your ma? Iron your skirt for ya? Well, tough luck, Tavish, you ain’t budging me! You of all people should know.”
You pause, straining your ears, and bite back a sob.
“This isn’t like you, Tavish,” you choke out.
You stare hard at the ground, thinking. How do you make this stop, you wonder.
“Do you want me to come with you? Is that it?” you continue, voice flat. “How should I do it then? Rope and a chair? Gun to the mouth? Head? How about I just jump right out the goddamn widow-“
You make your way over, stumbling over the one Gunboat you had thrown into the corner while the other bops you on the head, which is pretty strange to see, especially since it’s in your own hand.
“Fuck you, Tavish! I’ll do it! I’ll jump! Just you watch!”
You’re not going to though, since all you’ll do is respawn back. It’s not like what you did to your best mate, when you had him just outside the respawn lines, bashing his brains out with your shovel. By the time you realized you guys were out of bounds, it was too late.
But that’s old news. You got to move on now.
In frustration, you hurl the Gunboat, shaking your head. The boot sails through the air and makes a sharp turn so that it lands on your trunk.
There's an exasperated, meaningful silence.
You stare, open mouthed. It’s not every day you see a flying boot suddenly change its trajectory. You looked around, wildly, and see no one there. You check for spies, patting the air. Nothing. That hamster wheel in your head starts turning.
“You goddamn skirt twirler,” you say, “It’s not about the boots, was it?”
Rushing to your trunk, you claw it open, turning it over so that the contents spill out. Clothes, blankets, books, and, finally, the Eyelander.
You had kept it all this time, and you weren’t sure why. Maybe you knew - somehow, in the very back of your mind - that I was there.
You stare at the blade, lift a hand to your neck, then your stomach. You press down with your fingers, like you’re testing the blade out. A thin line of blood wells across your hand. You’re not seriously thinking about-
I whack you over the head with the Gunboats.
“Ow! Christ,” you say, “Okay. Before you go and do that again-“
You think for a while and explain to me what you’re going to do; you’re going to take the Eyelander, hold it over my grave, my body, and shake loose my soul you got trapped in there. Then you're going to get rid of the sword, somehow. Maybe throw it into a lava pit, you muse. Then leave some flowers on my grave. Haha, very funny. You’re pretty sure it’s going to work. You promise. You’re also going to - whack - not kill yourself, and - whack - visit my mum, and quit talking to your fucking boots like they’re haunted.
As for me, I’ll be leaving. It’s not that I don’t want you there with me, but you got to understand, I’m still pissed off at you. Just a tad bit. The whole bloody mess was on both of us, but maybe next time when I see you, I’ll be a little less angry.
You can’t hear me, but you listen and nod, understanding the feeling, if not the words.
I hand you the Gunboats and you put them on, picking up the Eyelander, and head out the door, where I’ll follow, until you can let me go.
Rating: PG
Pairing: none, gen (Solly&Demo)
Warnings: weirdness, langauge, War-Update spoilers
A/N: I had this idea/story in the back of my head for the longest time, so I wrote it when I shouldn't have. It's different, but I'm glad I got it off my chest. Inspired by this gorgeous Band of Brothers fic. Thanks topellucere for the beta. :D
The men are starting to act funny around you again. Giving you stares, whispering behind your back, shutting their gobs when you turn around - things like that. It reminds you of when you first joined BLU team, how they thought you were absolutely mad, yelling those battle cries and all that, even after the mission was done and over with.
But, eventually, they passed it off as some weird quirk, like how that poofer Frog is always puffing on his fags, or how that Commie likes to talk to his guns. The Runt and his nuclear drinks. The Medic sniffing his medigun. Hardhat and his sort of once-in-a-while-but-actually-all-the-time psychotic laughs.
And you? You yell and scream and beat a shovel over your head. If that doesn’t send fear shooting through your enemies, then nothing would - except for maybe a well-placed rocket.
But that isn’t the point you’re trying to make.
It’s the boots. They’re giving you trouble. Again.
It’s not about your regulation boots, the ones that BLU sends to every soldier in the company. No, those boots are fine. It’s the Gunboats you got from that bitch you call your boss.
It’s not like you can forget, you know. The boots you got for killing your best mate. That’s why all your teammates are skittish around you. You turned on your friend, so who knows what you’d do to your own teammates - the same team that didn’t mind that you were friends with the enemy, told you that they were alright with it.
So you’re wearing the boots. The end-bell rings. You stop fighting, lower your Direct Hit, and turn from the dead enemy Heavy.
It didn’t have to be a secret. Hell, the Spy on the RED’s side is even dating your Scout’s mum, and sometimes you’d catch the Engineers playing their guitars on the bridge between the BLU and RED forts while the Snipers take potshots at the jackrabbits from the roof.
You had gone through the whole battle with those Gunboats, but you don’t remember putting them on.
The team worries about you. It had made them uneasy, seeing you get into the competition, calling up your fellow soldiers to kill other demomen, involving more people, turning it into a campaign. All because you ached for the blood of your best mate.
And for what? A pair of boots? Because the Administrator got you riled up over your own pride?
After the battle, you lock yourself in the supply closet and mutter to yourself, pulling the Gunboats off and tucking them away in a dusty corner, behind the stocks of shotgun ammo. You don’t want them anymore- makes you sick just looking at them. You head over to the kitchen for some grub.
The team is in there and the murmurs abruptly stop when you walk in. Ignore it. Ignore that invisible kick to the chest and take a seat next to Spy.
“Uh, hi,” you say.
Lately, you’ve been trying to be friendly with the spook. It almost never works. Every time you try to strike up a conversation, your natural hatred for the French acts up and you end up spitting some inane, silly insult instead. But you’re stubborn and you desperately want to ask Spy how it feels to betray other people, if he likes it, and how to deal with it.
You sit, and Spy doesn’t even look at you, but he hands you a plate. Say thanks, just say it.
“I can get my own damn plate, you damn snail sucker,” you hear yourself snarl and - no, no, that isn’t what you meant, but the words just tumble out.
With the insults, Spy usually quips something as equally inane and silly back, like he enjoys the banter. Now, he just glances at Medic. Medic will either shake his head, nod or shrug, and depending on what he does, will Spy keep silent, talk, or walk away.
Medic shrugs. Spy’s going to ignore you. You know this, so you try to correct yourself.
“How does it feel to stab people in the back? I bet you like it, making people trust you and then breaking it. I bet it feels good. I get it now, spook. I get it.”
The table goes silent. Even Scout seems to hunch up his shoulders and look down at his bowl. Spy considers you with an anxious expression. He looks like he’s dealing with a sentry with the cloak running out of time, like any moment you’re going to jump up and pump him full of metal.
“I do not particularly care for betraying anyone,” he says carefully, “as they were never my friends to begin with. The literal ‘stabbing someone in the back’, I enjoy. Not the figure of speech.”
This isn’t the answer you wanted. In fact, you’re not sure what you wanted to hear, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not like Spy. You figure you’re something worse than that.
“Oh,” you say, and stand up. You’re not hungry anymore. You climb from the bench, stomping louder than usual.
It’s not your fault though. You look down at your feet and you realize you’re wearing the Gunboats. The blood drains from your face.
“Somethin’ a matter, Solly?” Sniper asks. He’s sitting the closest, reaches out to steady your arm, and looks up from behind his aviators.
It’s nothing.
“No - it’s nothing,” you mutter, waving him off and stomping out of the kitchen.
The last thing you hear is the team murmuring again, but you don’t care. You run to the supply closet and check the spot behind the boxes of shotgun ammo. There's nothing there, not even your old regulation boots. A hallway later, you’re in your room, checking under your bed. Sure enough, you see your old boots, right where you keep them when you sleep.
Sleep. Maybe you should try doing that. It’s been a long day and you haven’t been getting your hours in. Not since - well, you know. Not since you got the Gunboats. You swear you can hear the metal heels clicking together at night.
With a sudden burst of fear, you yank the Gunboats off, wrapping each one with a tattered shirt so they don’t click and move, and stow them into your trunk, along with the a couple of heavy books and an old sword to keep them in place. You haul the trunk outside your room for Scout to trip over. While you do this, you check your feet often. Just in case.
Finally, you go to bed - but not before locking the door to your room - and fall asleep.
The sound of the warning bell wakes you up. You slept well last night, but now you’re late as hell. Cursing, you pull on your coat and rub the crap from your blurry eyes. Sunlight streams from your window as you bend over to grab the boots from under the bed. Your hand closes over hard, laceless leather.
Without even looking at them, you know it’s the Gunboats.
You freeze, drop them like they’re on fire, and scrabble around for your regulars. You find them and put them on, tying the laces as tight as they go, even if it means going into battle five minutes late. When you finish, you pick up the Gunboats, open your window, and hurl them outside, not looking to see where they land.
An explosive breath escapes from your mouth and you start to run out the door.
The trunk you left out last night is still there though. You trip over it and land flat on your face.
Your anger flares up and you kick the trunk. The lid flips open under your heel and you see a glint of metal and dull shine of leather.
As you peer into the trunk, your mouth goes dry.
“Jesus Christ,” you croak, shutting the trunk with a shaky hand.
A few days later, you’re in no better shape, even if you remind yourself over and over again that it doesn’t matter if the Gunboats are following you around. Sometimes, they behave. They let you wear your regular boots, but then you forget you’re not wearing them and start to respawn more often from rocket jumping too much.
“Piece of shit!” you exclaim to your old boots, just as you respawn next to Demoman, who hurries out the locker room without another word. It understandable. Your own Demoman still harbors a grudge from the campaign.
But the rest of the team is avoiding you too. They let you go off on your own and dog around during the battles. Most of the time, you find yourself sitting alone behind a pile of wood scraps for no good reason. Sometimes, you get bored and take off the Gunboats, switch them for your regular boots, and close your eyes.
When you open them, you see that you’re wearing the Gunboats again. Not on your feet, but with the straps around your neck. You’d freak out for the first couple of times, thinking that there were spies around, but spies would have better things to do than dangle boots in your face. Now you just stare and feel nothing but tired.
For once, you think you might be going a little crazy.
You corner Engineer one day, ask him nicely to follow you to your room. Engineer - god bless the man - does, making small talk on the way. You smile for the first time in days.
“Look at this,” you say, opening your door. Today had been a good day. The Gunboats are in your room, in your trunk, and you wore your regular boots to the battle.
You have to show Engineer. Out of everyone on your team, you think he’s the smartest and the most logical. He’s a doctor too, but not like Medic. All Medic ever wants to do is drag you to the medical ward and talk and give you tiny colorful drinks in caps. Engineer, you think, would know what to do about this.
“It’s my boots,” you explain, letting him in.
Engineer looks around your room, seeing everything in order. By now you’ve moved the trunk back to the foot of your bed. “What about ‘em, Solly? They broken?”
“No. They keep following me,” you say, holding up your hands, “I try to get rid of them, but they keep on coming back, those sonsuvabitches.” If your voice cracks at the end, Engineer doesn’t seem to notice. “It sounds damn crazy, I know, but I gotta show you.”
You open the trunk, pull out the books, extra uniform, sword, and the blankets.
The Gunboats aren’t there.
You frown into the empty trunk, and kneel down to check under your bed. They’re not there either.
You start to panic. They can’t do this to you now, not when you’re trying to show Engineer that you’re not daft or wrong in the head. The room starts to spin as your throat closes up. You check your closet, on top of the bed, in your chair, the tiny table, the trunk again, back in the supply closet-you can’t find them anywhere.
“Oh god, oh god, where are they-“
“These ones?” Engineer asks, checking behind your door.
You look up quickly, but the relief snaps apart when you see Engineer holding up your regulars.
“No!” you yell, slapping them away. “No. The Gunboats! How can you not know? The ones I killed Tavish for! Those damn fucking boots!” You’re shrieking now, and you can’t stop. You just keep tearing up your room, overturning the mattress and the table.
At first, Engineer steps back. He lifts the goggles from his forehead and stares at you for the longest time.
“Solly, you’re wearing them,” he says, very gently.
You can hear your own ragged breathing in the room, loud and uneven. You don’t even want to look down at your feet. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
“Was I wearing them before?”
Engineer rubs the back of his head. He is shuffling towards your door, in case you start going nuts and, by god, you don’t blame the man.
“Before you - came in? I don’t know,” he says, “I didn’t look.”
“Goddamn it,” you say, and your eyes start watering.
Now the team’s going to think you’ve really lost it.
Engineer sticks around for a while longer, helping you straighten out the mess you’ve made. You talk about anything but the boots. When he leaves, you close the door and slump against it. The Gunboats somehow make their way beside you, even though you saw and made sure Engineer had put them away in the trunk just a few moments before.
With your forehead against your drawn up knees, you run your hands over them, silent. Confused, tired thoughts circle your mind before you shut your eyes and speak.
“Was this what you wanted, Tavish?” you ask the Gunboats, “I bet you’re laughing now, you son of a bitch.”
The Gunboats don’t answer you. Of course they don’t. They’re fucking boots. You throw one, hard, at the furthest corner of the room. The other you keep in your hand to shake. The calm you try to find escapes you.
“I’m fucking going crazy!” you shout, turning to the other boot, the one in the corner, and give it the finger. “You want it to be just like the stories, huh? Nessie out in the fuckin’ lake, fairies in the fuckin’ meadow, son of a bitchin’ haunted fucking boots! Are you out of your drunken goddamn mind?”
You laugh to fill the silence.
“Just what the hell do you want me to do? Apologize? Send all my money to your ma? Iron your skirt for ya? Well, tough luck, Tavish, you ain’t budging me! You of all people should know.”
You pause, straining your ears, and bite back a sob.
“This isn’t like you, Tavish,” you choke out.
You stare hard at the ground, thinking. How do you make this stop, you wonder.
“Do you want me to come with you? Is that it?” you continue, voice flat. “How should I do it then? Rope and a chair? Gun to the mouth? Head? How about I just jump right out the goddamn widow-“
You make your way over, stumbling over the one Gunboat you had thrown into the corner while the other bops you on the head, which is pretty strange to see, especially since it’s in your own hand.
“Fuck you, Tavish! I’ll do it! I’ll jump! Just you watch!”
You’re not going to though, since all you’ll do is respawn back. It’s not like what you did to your best mate, when you had him just outside the respawn lines, bashing his brains out with your shovel. By the time you realized you guys were out of bounds, it was too late.
But that’s old news. You got to move on now.
In frustration, you hurl the Gunboat, shaking your head. The boot sails through the air and makes a sharp turn so that it lands on your trunk.
There's an exasperated, meaningful silence.
You stare, open mouthed. It’s not every day you see a flying boot suddenly change its trajectory. You looked around, wildly, and see no one there. You check for spies, patting the air. Nothing. That hamster wheel in your head starts turning.
“You goddamn skirt twirler,” you say, “It’s not about the boots, was it?”
Rushing to your trunk, you claw it open, turning it over so that the contents spill out. Clothes, blankets, books, and, finally, the Eyelander.
You had kept it all this time, and you weren’t sure why. Maybe you knew - somehow, in the very back of your mind - that I was there.
You stare at the blade, lift a hand to your neck, then your stomach. You press down with your fingers, like you’re testing the blade out. A thin line of blood wells across your hand. You’re not seriously thinking about-
I whack you over the head with the Gunboats.
“Ow! Christ,” you say, “Okay. Before you go and do that again-“
You think for a while and explain to me what you’re going to do; you’re going to take the Eyelander, hold it over my grave, my body, and shake loose my soul you got trapped in there. Then you're going to get rid of the sword, somehow. Maybe throw it into a lava pit, you muse. Then leave some flowers on my grave. Haha, very funny. You’re pretty sure it’s going to work. You promise. You’re also going to - whack - not kill yourself, and - whack - visit my mum, and quit talking to your fucking boots like they’re haunted.
As for me, I’ll be leaving. It’s not that I don’t want you there with me, but you got to understand, I’m still pissed off at you. Just a tad bit. The whole bloody mess was on both of us, but maybe next time when I see you, I’ll be a little less angry.
You can’t hear me, but you listen and nod, understanding the feeling, if not the words.
I hand you the Gunboats and you put them on, picking up the Eyelander, and head out the door, where I’ll follow, until you can let me go.