[ the "me too" is implied in the softness of his smile that doesn't seem to last long. not because it disappears— it becomes more than gratitude! oh yes, it becomes . . . teasing. ]
You know how else I'd feel better? [ shoyo extends a hand to pal's shoulder. ] With Palamemes.
[ —he seems to be expecting something with this proud smile and broadened chest. is he expecting to hear some kind of actual meme to wrap the gift in a golden christmas bow? or a chuckle, or— something, he's waiting for something. ]
[Palamedes hums and continues to write, only glancing up again when Shoyo's hand has not left his shoulder for several extra seconds. Oh--]
—You're serious. I didn't know I was supposed to prepare anything.
[Was this part of the deal? He always assumed that the 'memes' thing was an extended prank that made him the butt of the joke, not the jokesmith or anything. Uhhh...]
Haven't you been taking pictures of me all afternoon? Are those not 'memes'...?
[Palamedes flips a page in his notebook, tilting it sideways and continuing to scribble. Hmm.]
I barely have anything to do with this 'meme' thing, you know.
[In fact, his meme-production has sat at a comfortable Just One, and this whole "Palamemes" thing was never his joke, as far as he's aware? But fine, because he has explored the inscrutable world of memes online, and so after a moment he holds the notebook up under his face.
[ he'll take that as a souvenir, thank you! and while they're at their friendly ramblings (about child birth??), shoyo takes the topic on with an air of joking seriousness. ]
Pal, meme labor is like osmosis, [ he's using the wrong word— ] suddenly, pop! There it is. It just happens.
I don't think you know anything about childbirth. Or osmosis.
[Not a dig! Actually kind of hilarious, but he reaches over to pat Shoyo on the shoulder, for his efforts. Palamedes doesn't understand memes, Shoyo doesn't understand osmosis, they're even.]
[ well, he’s right there. biology is hard and he’s starting to remember that maybe it’s mitosis but only because it sounds like “my toe” (he’s still wrong—) ]
—Oh, I’ll go check. [ gathering some extras in his hands, including water canteens, shōyō turns heel mid-step forth. ] —And don’t move yet! I still gotta ask you something. It’s about dead stuff.
[ a shame that now palamedes must ruminate in curiosity while shōyō checks every little hot wing for snack and drink. ]
[He will, in fact, wait. He still has some mysterious writing to finish, anyway, so he'll still be in this very same spot when Shoyo is done checking on all the baby wings.]
[ and away he goes . . . once all mini wings have been fed and hydrated, and even played around with as shoyo scurries them off, pal is left to his mysterious writing indeed. the rarity here is that when shoyo returns, he's quiet about it, and stands high on the tips of his toes to check out what it is that he's actually writing— ]
[ ohh a secret— that is clearly none of his business! thankfully, palamedes continues to be quite the golden baguette. shoyo couldn't see much of anything to begin with and jokingly claps the man's shoulders. "damn baguette" he mutters, but makes mental note to leave pal's diary be. ]
So you're kind of like a dead-thing doctor, aren't you?
I'm a necromancer and, separately, something like a doctor, yes. Why?
[His necromancy usually has much less to do with the doctoring part, which he feels like he should point out? Dead-thing doctor is a different concept.]
[ necromancer, that's the word. dead stuff. but if doctor is a side hustle, that also helps with where he wants to go. ]
You can probably, definitely stomach looking at dead things, right? Like blood, and . . . Hands, and . . . [ that thought makes his throat go dry. he doesn't want to go there. as far as he knew, no one knew about it but him. he wants to keep it that way, but that costs him. nightmares breaking through an otherwise undisturbed sleep, panic, memories— he can't get sidetracked. ] —Anyway, I can't. I get sick enough to throw up.
This place is harsh. I want to get better at handling that stuff. You know? So I was wondering if . . . You've got tips.
[Oh, he thinks, it's like that. This isn't a surprise - which isn't to say he expected it from Shoyo specifically, but he expected it from someone, eventually. Given how cruel and unusual the city can be, and how, not to put too fine a point on it, bloody it is, well.
Inevitable.]
Sure; I can try. The first thing you need to remember is that the body- flesh, bones, all of it- is something we built our whole culture around, back home. The first time I held a human liver, I was six years old. That's in class, by the way.
[They don't just hand out livers.]
So my first tip is this: it's going to take some time. You're starting decades later than I did, and you come from a place that isn't comfortable with what happens to a body when dies or gets hurt, can I assume that?
[ oh, shoyo manages to squeak out. a human liver. six years old. when he was six, he was holding a kickball. and a puppy. and making refrigerator art in class.
trying to keep a waning smile in place, he nods. ]
Only doctors and . . . Homicide detectives . . . Get into that, back home.
Well, like we've said: I'm a necromancer. I passed Flesh Morph Analyses when I was eight, because I had to. From what I understand, your culture doesn't path children into careers until you're practically adults, either. I'm sure even your doctors struggle.
[He learned that middle school exists, and also that you have to be in school until some specific age instead of accomplishment? Wack. Flesh Morph Analyses didn't have age requirements.
But don't ask about Flesh Morph Analyses. He holds up a hand, like, he gets it; the gulf between them when it comes to being used to touching viscera is vast and nigh unconquerable, but also: there's plenty of time.]
Why don't we start simple? Tell me what bothers you so much about... it.
[ oh, well— if that was true, then maybe there’s hope—?! ]
Whoo. Okay. [ what was it that bothered him, really? ] I think it’s theeee— smell? Maybe the smell comes first. If it’s something small, I can look. Until I can’t feel my legs.
[ although, he’s not exactly confident with his answer. it’s clear both in his verbal uncertainty as much as the way he’s scrunching his brows to think. ]
—Okay, no. It’s . . . The inside. Like all the blood and the stuff inside.
[Hmm. Palamedes waits for him to come to his- final?- answer, then thinks about it.]
The gore, you mean? You don't like the violence, or you don't like blood and insides at all? Some people only care about bloodshed when it's their blood and their shed, after all.
[palamedes.]
That is to say: does context matter? Would you faint if I scraped my knee outdoors, or is it— the violence?
The violence, then. There's nothing wrong with that; I know everything there is to know about human organs, for example, but I still wouldn't like to see one burst open in front of me.
[This, a gentle reassurance, like the one about how long this adjustment period may take— it is in fact totally normal to not be comfortable around bucketloads of gore.
That said,] Blood only 'gushes like a hose' from the arteries, which aren't as close to the surface of your skin. You've seen too many pictures. [movies.] Not that I recommend watching a person bleed live, but try to remember: spectacle will lie to you.
[Trust No Special Effects]
I have to ask— Do you really think you'll need to be comfortable with violence? I mean, so often that you need tips? What are you getting into out there?
[ he's avoided the goriest entertainment for this very reason. it hadn't gotten any easier, nor was he ever going to be prepared to see his own hand spliced right off and getting— all of that, burned into his memory. so that. that was an artery. oh.
the more he thinks of it as a cloudy nightmare, the more it comes back to haunt him. the question doesn't make it any smoother a task to answer back, either. ]
Just . . . Like, [ he's not looking at palamedes. he chooses to look at the floor. he's always maintained eye contact because he has always been honest. ] Whenever something like that, happens? Even if it's not all the time, I'm . . . Deadweight. To everyone including me. And, I guess, [ this part is said quickly, as shoyo rubs the bottom of his nose in an idle, meaningless gesture beyond a nervous fidget: ] The nightmares don't stop.
If you're deadweight, I don't even qualify. [He is a stick with glasses who is supposed to come with his own bodyguard-bestie because necromancers are all uselessly feeble? At least Shoyo has muscle mass.
Which, okay, he holds up a hand like, just a sec.]
Listen; I don't think I need to tell you that no one is putting any blame on you for not being comfortable with violence. If they are, well, that I can't help you with. Get better friends?
[He shrugs, because that one isn't a joke, if there's somebody out there putting him down for not being gungho for all the murder and gore, they're probably not worth it.]
So. Let's focus on the nightmares. Exposure is, again, a terrible option for this, so— have you tried any sleep aids?
[ shōyō stays quiet; he can’t even nod in understanding and simply pulls his gaze elsewhere. his feet seem more comfortable, in a little kick at nothing as he slipped his hands in his pockets. there hadn’t been anyone expecting that of him beyond, well, himself— so he should maybe get a better self?
in parts, true. he should stop pushing himself to that, but there has yet to be acceptance— or understanding that exposure wouldn’t rid his traumatic experience from him, but make it quite worse. ]
I’ve always used meditation and my sleep tapes for years. It’s not working anymore.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You know how else I'd feel better? [ shoyo extends a hand to pal's shoulder. ] With Palamemes.
[ —he seems to be expecting something with this proud smile and broadened chest. is he expecting to hear some kind of actual meme to wrap the gift in a golden christmas bow? or a chuckle, or— something, he's waiting for something. ]
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—You're serious. I didn't know I was supposed to prepare anything.
[Was this part of the deal? He always assumed that the 'memes' thing was an extended prank that made him the butt of the joke, not the jokesmith or anything. Uhhh...]
Haven't you been taking pictures of me all afternoon? Are those not 'memes'...?
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[ apparently, the lack of surprise hinders the hilarity factor quite greatly (no, it doesn't)— but can you deny such a star-twinkling-begger's gaze? ]
I want a Pal-certified Palameme. Straight from the Pal-factory.
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I barely have anything to do with this 'meme' thing, you know.
[In fact, his meme-production has sat at a comfortable Just One, and this whole "Palamemes" thing was never his joke, as far as he's aware? But fine, because he has explored the inscrutable world of memes online, and so after a moment he holds the notebook up under his face.
It says BOTTOM TEXT in chunky block letters.
Is this anything.]
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You gave birth to ‘em! And you tried your best.
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I would have remembered giving birth, I think.
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Pal, meme labor is like osmosis, [ he's using the wrong word— ] suddenly, pop! There it is. It just happens.
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[Not a dig! Actually kind of hilarious, but he reaches over to pat Shoyo on the shoulder, for his efforts. Palamedes doesn't understand memes, Shoyo doesn't understand osmosis, they're even.]
Are all of the snacks distributed?
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—Oh, I’ll go check. [ gathering some extras in his hands, including water canteens, shōyō turns heel mid-step forth. ] —And don’t move yet! I still gotta ask you something. It’s about dead stuff.
[ a shame that now palamedes must ruminate in curiosity while shōyō checks every little hot wing for snack and drink. ]
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[He will, in fact, wait. He still has some mysterious writing to finish, anyway, so he'll still be in this very same spot when Shoyo is done checking on all the baby wings.]
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Ask your question.
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So you're kind of like a dead-thing doctor, aren't you?
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I'm a necromancer and, separately, something like a doctor, yes. Why?
[His necromancy usually has much less to do with the doctoring part, which he feels like he should point out? Dead-thing doctor is a different concept.]
cw: emeto mention
You can probably, definitely stomach looking at dead things, right? Like blood, and . . . Hands, and . . . [ that thought makes his throat go dry. he doesn't want to go there. as far as he knew, no one knew about it but him. he wants to keep it that way, but that costs him. nightmares breaking through an otherwise undisturbed sleep, panic, memories— he can't get sidetracked. ] —Anyway, I can't. I get sick enough to throw up.
This place is harsh. I want to get better at handling that stuff. You know? So I was wondering if . . . You've got tips.
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Inevitable.]
Sure; I can try. The first thing you need to remember is that the body- flesh, bones, all of it- is something we built our whole culture around, back home. The first time I held a human liver, I was six years old. That's in class, by the way.
[They don't just hand out livers.]
So my first tip is this: it's going to take some time. You're starting decades later than I did, and you come from a place that isn't comfortable with what happens to a body when dies or gets hurt, can I assume that?
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trying to keep a waning smile in place, he nods. ]
Only doctors and . . . Homicide detectives . . . Get into that, back home.
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[He learned that middle school exists, and also that you have to be in school until some specific age instead of accomplishment? Wack. Flesh Morph Analyses didn't have age requirements.
But don't ask about Flesh Morph Analyses. He holds up a hand, like, he gets it; the gulf between them when it comes to being used to touching viscera is vast and nigh unconquerable, but also: there's plenty of time.]
Why don't we start simple? Tell me what bothers you so much about... it.
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Whoo. Okay. [ what was it that bothered him, really? ] I think it’s theeee— smell? Maybe the smell comes first. If it’s something small, I can look. Until I can’t feel my legs.
[ although, he’s not exactly confident with his answer. it’s clear both in his verbal uncertainty as much as the way he’s scrunching his brows to think. ]
—Okay, no. It’s . . . The inside. Like all the blood and the stuff inside.
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The gore, you mean? You don't like the violence, or you don't like blood and insides at all? Some people only care about bloodshed when it's their blood and their shed, after all.
[palamedes.]
That is to say: does context matter? Would you faint if I scraped my knee outdoors, or is it— the violence?
cw: description of injury/gore
[ minor injuries were part of sports. he could handle something as simple as that! but when it came to, hm, more— his imagination runs with it. ]
But if, like, your knee popped out, and if I could see the bone poking up and the blood started gushing out like a hose I’d . . . Not. Feel good.
[ he doesn’t exactly look good. ]
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[This, a gentle reassurance, like the one about how long this adjustment period may take— it is in fact totally normal to not be comfortable around bucketloads of gore.
That said,] Blood only 'gushes like a hose' from the arteries, which aren't as close to the surface of your skin. You've seen too many pictures. [movies.] Not that I recommend watching a person bleed live, but try to remember: spectacle will lie to you.
[Trust No Special Effects]
I have to ask— Do you really think you'll need to be comfortable with violence? I mean, so often that you need tips? What are you getting into out there?
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[ he's avoided the goriest entertainment for this very reason. it hadn't gotten any easier, nor was he ever going to be prepared to see his own hand spliced right off and getting— all of that, burned into his memory. so that. that was an artery. oh.
the more he thinks of it as a cloudy nightmare, the more it comes back to haunt him. the question doesn't make it any smoother a task to answer back, either. ]
Just . . . Like, [ he's not looking at palamedes. he chooses to look at the floor. he's always maintained eye contact because he has always been honest. ] Whenever something like that, happens? Even if it's not all the time, I'm . . . Deadweight. To everyone including me. And, I guess, [ this part is said quickly, as shoyo rubs the bottom of his nose in an idle, meaningless gesture beyond a nervous fidget: ] The nightmares don't stop.
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Which, okay, he holds up a hand like, just a sec.]
Listen; I don't think I need to tell you that no one is putting any blame on you for not being comfortable with violence. If they are, well, that I can't help you with. Get better friends?
[He shrugs, because that one isn't a joke, if there's somebody out there putting him down for not being gungho for all the murder and gore, they're probably not worth it.]
So. Let's focus on the nightmares. Exposure is, again, a terrible option for this, so— have you tried any sleep aids?
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in parts, true. he should stop pushing himself to that, but there has yet to be acceptance— or understanding that exposure wouldn’t rid his traumatic experience from him, but make it quite worse. ]
I’ve always used meditation and my sleep tapes for years. It’s not working anymore.
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