Work Text:
"These are the things you cannot change," said a voice as cold as winter.
Dial looked up at the walls, the panels. Pink and black, interspaced. Words were there, but backwards. He was there, but backwards. And there-
"That TOby?" he asked, motioning with a newly ungloved hand. The metal felt bare and exposed, and had he the skin for it he supposed it might have felt cold.
"Yes," answered the voice.
"An' that-" He was going to motion to the other figure, but instead his hand curled inward. He shoved it into his pocket to hide his shaking.
"Is there a problem?" the voice demanded.
Dial looked up at the panels. His throat burned, the "yes" he'd been so confident in earlier sticking and scalding at his pipes.
"No," he said, and turned away.
*
He couldn't help it that he liked books. A brain that moved as fast as his and an inability to sleep granted him oodles of free time and not a lot to do with it, so frequenting the Bookshelf was to be expected. It was near the door, after all.
And if the doll happened to be there, well...
*
As it turns out, TOby couldn't sleep either. An unfortunate side-effect of getting your eyes sewn open, which was an unfortunate side-effect of getting sewn back together, which was an unfortunate side effect of being ripped apart. And that, in turn...
Well, it was better than spending the nights alone. And better than spending them in the white purgatory with Her.
The doll wasn't the worst company, and it wasn't like he could just up and leave.
*
He'd read to him so TOby wouldn't have to be turned around. Often, he'd just pick a book off of the stacks and go to town. He could do all the voices, which TOby said he hated, but he would also always point it out if Dial forgot so Dial did them anyway.
TOby hated a lot of things. He hated when the wind would blow him over. He hated when the days jumped between short and long with no warning. He hated Hate. He hated being a shelfwarmer.
He hated when Dial would do the voices, or when he wouldn't stop talking, or when Dial'd make puns about either of their situations. He hated when Dial played music too loudly or when his accent was too harsh or when he'd pick the doll up by the wrists and swing him around.
He hated when Dial would hold him. He hated when Dial's voice would go soft and his accent would fade and he'd say something more truthful than he'd thought himself capable of. He hated when Dial refused to answer when he'd ask why he said "yes" to Her.
Dial hated it too.
*
He watched Her use her scissors to surgically remove a line of pink panels. The excision fluttered and curled in on itself. She snatched it and its contents and tucked them away for later before looking back up at her handiwork. With a sudden shudder, panels began to flip and stretch and change, reforming around each other, giving birth to new blocks or vanishing entirely.
Dial's eyes were drawn expectantly towards a pink page down the line. It stayed, a solid sentinel in the rippling line of alterations.
"I thought you said these things couldn't change," said Dial, surprising himself with his boldness.
"They change if I say they do," said the voice. "Is there a problem?"
"No," said Dial, and the word hurt on the way out.
*
He couldn't be sullen. The pages said he couldn't. These were the things he couldn't change.
"Dial..." said the doll in his arms. "Just tell me what's wrong."
What was wrong was that this could not be changed. What was wrong was he knew what would happen and had known for longer than he cared to admit. What was wrong was that he knew what TOby's answer would be even when he gave one last lifeline to keep him close, to keep him safe, to keep him.
What was wrong was that he'd known what he would have to do and he'd gone and fallen in love anyway.
But he couldn't say any of that. He had a script to stick to.
These were the things he could not change.