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You aren’t exactly taught how to deal with someone else's emotions in school, or by anyone in general. You just have to experience it whenever the chance comes. You comfort people, you yell at people, you observe and you participate. That's how life goes.
You don’t ever really expect your best friend to admit he wants to be dead, though.
You’re sitting on your bench - the bench that has somehow survived time after time, that has flowers and clovers growing around it, that has ants climbing its leg, that has bird poop on it. The bench that you’ve watched countless sunsets and sunrises together sitting on, that you’ve listened to countless songs on.
The ants are wandering in a dirt patch in front of your feet, soldiering on even though you know they’ll barely live a life. They’ll live days at most, and they seem to handle that fact well. You’ve lived for 17 years, and you don’t know how to handle the fact that your best friend has just told you that he doesn’t want to be alive.
You can understand where he’s coming from. You’re both filled with trauma, full to the brim. His has probably boiled over much worse than yours ever will. He watched his brother die at his fathers hands, and he was abused by a fucking god, because his best friend ( you, your mind distantly reminds you. ) was forced to exile him.
So yeah, you can see why he wants to die. You can sympathise with him.
The ants carry one of their own across the ground, likely dead or close to it. You watch. Tommy waits. He’s always been really patient, in these quiet moments. In the serious moments. In the breeze, you swear you can hear the laughter of children. You know it’s not real; you’re the closest to children this server has seen in a while and neither of you are laughing.
“That’s okay.” You murmur towards your feet, because you don’t know what else to say. Nobody has taught you what to say in moments like these. And Tommy doesn’t complain about your response, just breathes next to you. “I think I do too.” You add after a few moments of silence. He doesn’t seem taken aback. He doesn’t really react at all. You’re not surprised by the lack of reaction; it comforts you more than it startles you.
“I nearly killed myself twice when I was in exile.” He says next. You’ve talked about it before, briefly; he’d been standing at the edge of a pit of lava, longing to jump in. The dirt tower he’d built in the ruins of Logstedshire. He’d felt a calling to these things, but more than that, a need to get away from everything. You can understand that.
“I’m sorry.” You reply sympathetically, finally turning to face him. He’s looking out over the landscape. His face isn’t really anything out of the usual, but his eyes are glossy with tears. You don’t comment on it, because you’re sure yours are the same. Instead, you move your hand to his, and just… hold it.
His hands are bonier than you remember. His whole body is bonier than you remember. He’s grown a lot, and he’s kind of lanky now. He doesn’t look healthy. You’re sure you don’t look healthy either. You both haven’t looked healthy since the first war, really. Nobody takes notice of it anymore.
“I smoke.” You say, still watching your hands. He still has the friendship bracelet you made him when you were 10 around his wrist. Even though it looks tattered, you can still see the letters “BFF” on the beads. He nods knowingly and looks down at your hands, too. He wriggles his fingers in your grasp.
“Is it because of your dad?” He asks you. You shrug, not really knowing if he is the one that gave you the habit, but knowing he was the final straw that made you give in. Tommy readjusts your arms so you’re both more comfortable. You shuffle closer to him.
“I dunno.” You reply, because you couldn’t really lie to him. He’d know if you were lying, you think. He’d be able to tell. He probably wouldn’t comment on it, though. He knows he wouldn’t be able to get the truth out of you. So you bypass the bullshit, because he deserves the truth.
“I’ve burnt myself a lot.” Tommy admits. You know he doesn’t mean that he’s done it by accident. You know he means he’s done it because he can, because it’s all he really knows how to do, to get rid of stress. You know he can hear the fire and lava calling for him. You don’t comment on it, don’t question it. You never have and don’t really want to.
You sit in silence again. You look up at the horizon. The sun is closer to setting now than it was when you first sat down here, when you were still laughing and joking. Before you let the silence swallow that up. You don’t mind that the silence swallowed it up. This was a conversation you both needed to have.
“Can I hug you?” You ask, because you feel like asking is the best thing to do here. He nods. It takes you a second, caught up in watching some birds and a butterfly or two that fly past, but once you’re back in the moment, you lean over and hug him. His hugs are how you remember; warm and safe.
It’s awkward though, because you’re two teenage boys on a bench and he’s taller than you by a lot. You end up settling in a position that doesn’t hurt either of you too much. You hold his hand again, because it comforts you and because he offers it to you. You know he can feel your gratitude, rolling off of you in waves.
The silence settles in once more. It’s not a bad silence, it’s comforting and stable. Neither of you address anything you’ve said. You don’t address the tiny burns on Tommy’s hands, and he doesn’t address the smell of smoke lingering on your newly bought jacket. You both know there isn’t really a point to addressing it, because you’ve addressed it as much as either of you are comfortable with right now.
In this silence, you think that you’ll be okay. Even if your families are dead and have abandoned you. Even if your bodies are still growing and you’re both pretty fucked-up hybrids. You’re both trying, and you’re both slowly healing. You can do that, you think. You can heal.
“We haven’t sat like this in a long while.” He says - not directly to you, more to the air. You nod. The tree beside the bench sways, nearly as if whispering ‘You were missed’ . In the back of your mind, you think you need to talk to another bug hybrid about the talking plants. You shrug it off, for now, opting to share this moment with your best friend.
The disc stops turning, the jukebox emitting record static, and then stopping.
“I think we’ll be okay.” You murmur as the sun finally sets on the lands you’ve both grown up in. Somewhere in your mind, you know you’re right.