Work Text:
The last while had been hard on Chilchuck. After his wife had left him he fell, hard.
He threw himself into his work, letting it devour his whole being.
He couldn't let himself think about anything else. If he did, he would break. Splinter into a thousand tiny pieces so that no one could put him back together.
Everytime single thought about his wife, all alone and trying to support herself and their kids, in a world that despised half-foots. It was like more and more of him broke every time.
Chilchuck couldn't take it.
So he kept working.
He kept drinking.
To: Chilchuck Tims.
The box seemed to mock him from where it sat on his countertop. A simple brown paper package, neatly tied with a twine bow. His name written in large looping letters.
It takes him a whole day before he works up the courage to open it.
The paper tearing is satisfying but it does nothing to calm the pounding of his heart or the fact his hands are shaking.
Inside he finds a letter, the same looping letters spelling out his name.
Underneath he also finds a neck wrap, it's a grass green color and as he inspects it, turning it over in his hands he finds it a fairly soft yarn. It’s like water to his frazzled nerves, giving him something concrete to hold onto as he turns himself back to the letter.
The letter is short and to the point. His family, his daughters are safe, and his wife is currently living with Flertom. She is safe, but she doesn't want to talk to him.
He laughs, it's harsh and bitter. He already knew that, he knew she didn't want to see him. He had known that the moment he had come home to find her gone.
He feels the familiar sadness and rage start to fill him, the feeling he had been trying so hard to ignore.
That's when he flips the letter over, where he finds in small writing:
PS: I made this for you! I hope you enjoy it. - Love Flertom
His heart breaks. Even after everything he has done Flertom had still taken the time to make him a neck wrap.
He wants to cry.
But the anger rears its ugly head first, crashing over him like a wave.
“Fuck!” He screams into his home, it's horribly loud and echos off his walls.
What did he do to deserve this? His fists are clenched, and in the hand not holding the neck wrap he can feel his own nails digging into the palm of his hand.
How could he have been so stupid.
The rage is unbearable now as he kicks his kitchen stool. It hurts, sending sparks of pain radiating up his leg. But it's not nearly enough, the anger is bubbling under his skin like molten lava.
“God Dammit!”’
He knows why as he grabs a dirty bowl and launches it onto the floor, the sound loud and satisfying to his ears as it breaks into pieces.
“Screw it!”
He knows he's the one at fault, for not opening up, not taking proper care of his wife. Working too much, getting too close to his party members.
He grabs the stool he toppled and picks it up, heaving it over his head and throwing it onto the floor; it splinters where it collides with the floor.
He knows it's his fault. It was always his fault. He pounds his hands against the countertop, letting his anger flow into the wood even as small splinters embedded themselves into his skin.
He should have done more, he should have worked harder. Why didn't he?
His face is starting to flush, he can feel tears starting to gather in his eyes.
He wills them back but they come on too fast, and all at once everything was too much again. It feels like the weight of the world is back on his shoulders.
His legs are weak underneath him and he lets himself collapse, he lands hard on his ass but he doesn't mind. His daughter's neck wrap still gripped tightly in his hands.
He pulls it up to his face, tears now cascading down his face in a never ending flood. His shoulders shake with his cries and he curls forward, pushing the soft yarn to his forehead.
He misses his daughters.
He missed them when they were young, and he could tell them silly stories of the world, convince them the world isn't entirely evil. When he could be more carefree, his main goal was just to make sure they were healthy and happy.
That time in his life was hard, so hard. When he had to work twice as many jobs just to support them, take on more unsavory jobs.
But now, in the face of everything that has happened, he misses it.
He craves it.
He lets out a wet sob at the thought if they could look at him now.
Their dead-beat father crying over a letter and a neck wrap.
They would think he was a pathetic old bastard.
And they would be right.
—
He was hungry.
Chilchuck was almost always hungry, it was just a part of his way of living.
It was almost comforting the way his stomach would cramp, it makes him feel like he is in the right. He was doing it for a reason, to make sure he didn't set off any traps.
It felt like control.
For once though, it didn't feel like that.
It just felt like hunger.
As everyone else slept Chilchuck let himself relax and hold his stomach, trying in vain to ease the cramps that raged through his abdomen. He had refused dinner that night, even as Senshi gave him a long look before turning away, as though he knew it was a lost battle.
Chilchuck was glad at the time, he still felt in control, felt like he was doing what was best for him.
But now in the darkness of the dungeon, surrounded by the sleeping figures around his feet. It didn't feel the same.
It didn't feel good, it just felt bad.
As his stomach growled loudly into the darkness he reached one hand up to his head wrap. It sat heavy around his neck, weighing him down alongside his hunger.
Chilchucks hand roamed over the yarn, feeling for what he knew was there.
Normally he kept the neck wrap in a position where the letters were right at the base of his neck, closest to his heart.
But at some point, as it always did, the neck wrap had rotated. It took him a second to find it, but when his fingers finally brushed over the golden stitching he could feel a slight bit of comfort wash over him.
He didn't need to look down to know what he was feeling. He could picture it in vivid clarity in his mind.
M.F.P. Stitched in golden thread.
Meijack.
Flertom.
Puckpatti.
Chilchuck wasn't sure when it started, but after a while of wearing the neck wrap he had taken to rubbing his fingers over the letters, imagining the golden letters in his head and imaging each of his kids one by one.
It had helped him though a lot of expeditions. When he needed to calm himself during a rough fight, when he needed support with his party members. And moments like this, where he felt wrong, disconnected from his body. Where he had something smooth and concrete to hold onto, it helped to tie him back into his body.
He let his eyes fall closed, enjoying the silence.
—
Chilchuck turned the wrap around in his hands. It had been ripped when he was trapped with the mimic and the treads were threatening to unwrap more if he didnt do something soon.
So, as everyone else was preparing for dinner, Chilchuck reached into his pouch and grabbed the two knitting needles nestled beside his tools. He also fumbled around in his bag for a second before finding a ball of green yarn hidden at the bottom.
He lets himself lean back against the stone wall as he readies himself, threading his needle though as many of the reminding loops as he can.
As he lets himself get lost in the motion of knitting he can't help but think of all the other times he has had to do this.
The first time he had ever mended his neck wrap he had been a little lost. Don't get him wrong he knew how to knit, it was a skill all half-foots learned growing up. But he definitely had to relearn the skill. The first few rows were janky and uneven, the yarn tangling every time he stretched it out.
But eventually he had gotten the hang of it, muscle memory kicking in.
His eyes passed over his neck wrap, noticing a small area where his daughter had missed a stitch when she had been making it. Either she had never noticed, or when she did she was already so far ahead it wasn't worth it to go back and fix it.
He didn't mind.
Chilchuck made sure every time he mended his neck wrap that he kept that missing stitch.
It reminded him of his daughters.
Just as he finishes up his knitting, reconnecting the two ends of the neck wrap together Marcille speaks.
“Chilchuck, what are you? Are you knitting?!”
It seems no one had bothered to look at him as they had been cooking dinner, because at that moment three pairs of eyes turned to him.
“I didn't know you could knit!”
“When did you learn to knit”
“Could you make me something?”
He has to bite his tongue so he doesn't stab one of them with his needles.
He really wants to.
—
Everyone was asleep. Chilchuck was sure of it.
It had been a hard day for all of them. Fighting monster after monster. Running to avoid as many of them as they could. Finally eating their only meal of the day right before bed.
Chilchuck volunteered to take first watch, and the others didn't care, out the moments their heads hit the pillows. He still sits there for a while though. Watching and listening to make sure everyone was really asleep.
Once Senshi’s breath finally evens out and Marcille is no longer twitching in her sleep he decides he’s good.
He reaches for his side pouch from where he had placed it on the floor next to him. Silently he opens it and reaches behind his tools, where a secret pocket lays hidden.
It's a very small pocket, only a few coins would be able to sit inside without making the compartment obvious. But he had a pretty good use for it.
Using muscle memory he easily opens the pocket and grasps the worn paper inside. He’s slow as he does so, aware of how easily the paper tears.
It's a worn piece of paper, torn and wrinkled in many places, and the large looping letters on the front have faded from age.
Chilchuck opens it with care, mindful of the fragile the paper was at this point. He doesn't look at the front of the letter, turning it over to the back, where his daughter's name is still written.
He knows the letter is old at this point.
He's not the same man as when he got this letter.
He has changed. Flertom had changed. Times had passed and relationships had finally begun to mend.
But they would never be the same.
But he could change.
And he would prove it.