Chapter Text
Masky remembers during a stateout, actually, which was the worst possible thing that could happen.
Toby was humming some obnoxious song, tapping along with his fingers on the table, his voice rising in pitch every time his neck would spasm.
After a few minutes of this, Masky had tried whacking him on the back of the head, just to get the message across, but Toby remained unaffected, and finally Tim turned to the proxy, a snarl dying in his throat as he recalled a boy, suspiciously familiar.
-
Masky remembers a mess of brown hair, flashing gray eyes, lit by silent laughter, a pale, skinny face. He remembers boney hands, fingers decorated by odd wounds- teeth marks, perhaps.
He remembers a bridge, something so old from his past he thinks it's probably a crumbling, concrete mess, forgotten in disrepair.
Tim could count on one hand the number of times he had been prepared to end it- some of them he could not even recall. This particular time- when he was about seven (the universe seemed to hate him, before he had done anything to reserve this hatred. Alcoholics for parents were just the start.) he was testing the waters, teetering back and forth on the edge, steeling his courage.
Finally, all in a release of breath, he fell. Gravity pulled his down as he surrendered control, imagining his outstreched arms morphing into birds wings, feathers flexing with the wind as it pulled him up, carrying him away-
Eyes snapped open as he was pulled, visciously, away. He can almost feel the pain lacing up his back. It had been intense then, for a kid. He remembers- embarrassed, crying out and being helped to his feet by a boy, younger than him, Tim could tell, maybe five years old, shuffling about in a jacket too large for his frame. Large, warm gray eyes peered at him, innocent and non-judgemental, but concerned.
"You... okay?" He said, just barely above a whisper. Tim's younger self thought he must know what death is, too. That's why he was so quiet.
"No." Tim had answered truthfully. He wasn't, never would, possibly. His bruises hurt- a throb pulsed on his arms, stomach- he hope his makeshift band-aid didn't fall off his leg. Blood scared him. His own blood.
The boy blinked owlishly at his reply, surprised. The boy paused- it was a while before his juvenile brain put together something reasonable to say. Tim shifted, uncomfortable, under his gaze.
"Come with me." The boy said, and Tim strained to hear it. The boy cleared his throat. "If you want to. We can play."
The eldest allowed a small smile to cross his solemn face, one which the boy mirrored brilliantly. Tim nodded, just after someone called out for the boy. Toby, they shouted, a woman and a girl, maybe eleven jogged into view.
"Toby," the boy said, confidently, speaking loud and with enthusiasm, unlike before.
"Tim," He had said, all prior thoughts of falling off the bridge and flying away, to a safe place disregarded.
After that, he went with them- His family let him stay for food, drinks, let them pkay in the backyard.
-
"-a picture, it'll last longer."
When Tim's senses began to function again, he realized he was but inches from Toby's face.
Jerking backwards, nearly falling into the vase, he stumbled away. The brunet had nowhere to go, hidden behind the table, against the wall, inbetween the two proxies-
Masky had managed to stutter through the night, and in the end Hoodie finished the job, clean and effective as usual, minimal blood.
When they returned to the mansion, Masky retreated to his room right away and leaned against his door in the safety of his room, running a gloved hand through his matted hair.
Toby- Toby, was his childhood friend.
But Toby lost his memory.