Work Text:
Buster Moon sighed as he placed himself on the couch. It was three in the morning, and this was something of a ritual by now. He strugfled to keep his eyes open, yet was far too awake to close them.
His little paws clung to a cup of steaming tea, where a teabag bobbed up and down at the surface. He made it for the smell more than anything. He hated himself for his trauma, and for the trouble it caused. He was always so anxious and jumpy, and it made it hard to get anything done.
Rosita and the others noticed, of course. It was hard to miss. But he hated to see the worried stares of his friends. He hated to know he was hurting them. And yet still when they inquired about his wellbeing, the lie that escaped his mouth was impulsive, and he could never even think before it slipped out.
When he said he was fine, he never meant it at heart. But oh, how he wished he did! It hurt him to know that his words dampened the spirits of those he cared about. He was aware that not a single on of the troupe believed Buster was 'fine,' or anything of the sort, for that matter.
He wanted to tell them how much he was hurting, but his thoughts would not allow it. Most of the time, his pain presented itself in the form of a tight feeling in his chest, nightmares, and little flashbacks. Sometimes these flashbacks were just little flickers, fissures in the present reality, but he couldn't ignore them.
He couldn't help the stab of fear when the face of a friend, a warm and loving figure, was suddenly replaced with the face of those who wished him harm. Sometimes that face was Jimmy Crystal, sometimes it was Angus Chrome, and other times it was Norma Hawkins - as the freshest trauma in his mind.
And these faces plagued his nightmares. He couldn't control it - despite his fervent wishes - but they did. And the fact that Buster was becoming increasingly phlegmatic plagued the dreams of his friends. No, his family.
Buster was slowly forcing himself to appear emotionless. He didn't even realize it himself. And when he wasn't, the happiness and charisma he put on display were just that: a display.
But wanted to apologize. So why couldn't he? He had the capability, of courze. Maybe he just didn't have the heart, as much as it pained his to say.
He sipped at the tea, looking down at it and watching the little swirls in the liquid drift apart and together in the surface, a paper-thin barrier. He closed his eyes for a brief second and breathed in the scent deeply, taking it in.
Maybe he should tell somebody. But how? He knew that the moment they said something, his mouth would only spill lies. He was disgusted with himself. Is this all he was? A charlatan and a negating runaway?
That. That's what he was doing. He was running away from his problems. He sniffed, looking up and out his office window. He could see the odd car driving by, headlights illuminating the streets and the darker corners of his room. A few street lamps flickered dimly, the light just enough the draw his eyes, and he saw an animal walk down the sidewalks once or twice.
And he had to wonder now as he tilted his gaze to look at what little of the night sky he could see through the window: would he be like this forever?
He felt like all he did anymore was chase the approve of others, trying to find some way to, what, confirm that his own self was valid? Why did he need a random stranger to validate him? Ash had told him so many times, as had the others, that he didn't need strangers to tell him he was good enough, he just had to believe it himself.
And that is where it all went wrong. He didn't. And so he took desperate measure after desperate measure to try and fix some part of himself that he couldn't even recognize.
First he flooded the theater, then he lied and got him and his family incoorporated with Crystal, then with Angus Chrome, and again with Norma Hawkins. It felt a god-awful Groundhog Day at this point.
And each of his mistakes came back to haunt him. He would have been willing to do anything to escape his problems at this point, but instead he just wallowed in his sadness.
As another flash passed before his eyes, a milisecond of Norma's talons, he made up his mind. He opened up his laptop, clicked Ash's email, and finally said something.
"Can I talk to you?"