devoutish | IC contact for wethelost

[The stew is threatening to bubble over, so Alfie reaches over again, cutting the flame under it.]

Royce.

What?

I want you to believe me when I tell you that this is my choice.

I do believe you, Alfie. But if you will only do this if I do it, then I have to decide if it's worth it to make you suffer along with me.

[He grunts, annoyed.]

If you think you're making me do anything, then no, you don't believe me.

[ Huff. ]

I know I'm not making you do anything. It's cause and effect, Alfie.

Yeah, and the effect is avoidable. I'm choosing not to avoid it.

Don't put this on your shoulders.

[ All of the humor in him is gone. ]

What do you mean, don't put this on my shoulders? Either I choose to do this and you do as well, meaning both of us remember. Or I don't, and neither of us do.

There's no way for this to only affect me. So I am responsible for the extra trauma you'll have if I decide to do it.

[Alfie pushes himself down off the counter, spinning around to face Royce.]

No, you're fucking not. For fuck's sake, Royce; you always--

[He grits his teeth, cutting himself off there.]

[ Royce looks at him, resolute, sour. ]

I always do this, yes. [ His knuckles are white, gripping the counter. ] But this time it isn't because I'm being stubborn. I am explaining to you why I would feel responsible and you are not listening to me.

I am listening.

I need to go for a walk.

[He turns to head out of the kitchen, boiling with the pent-up frustration of words that he can't say - because he knows, he's positive, that to Royce they'll sound too much like you wear your trauma like a badge of honor.]

[ Royce opens his mouth to snap something out, but Alfie turns and leaves, and Royce's chest tightens up. He's angry. He's really fucking angry, and it surprises him. Not before he gets off the counter and sends a vase to the floor, though - he hears the shatter and it's almost cathartic.

His heart thudding in his ears, he spins and heads out of the house, out into the woods. He wants to kill something. Might as well be food. ]

[Alfie hears the clatter and the break behind him, and he winces, but he doesn't stop or turn around. Bear jumps down from the couch and high-tails after them, whining confusedly and running back and forth between them when it becomes clear that they're heading off in different directions. In the end, he takes off to find Emily, the Not Angry One.

Alfie makes it back to the house a few hours later, finding it empty, the vase broken on the floor and the stew gone cold on the stove. He kneels down, intending to sweep away the pottery shards - but then changes his mind, and starts trying to fit them back together instead.]

[ When Royce comes back, he's... less angry. It's still right under the surface, how pissed he is, but it's less. He walks in through the back, carrying a few rabbits over his shoulder, and when he sees Alfie, he stops. The fury rises up in him again, and he has to swallow it down and turn on his heel, heading back out of the kitchen.

He's not leaving, he's just outside, throwing the rabbits to the ground so he can skin them, trying to calm himself down. Anger feels better than misery, but he doesn't want this to be a thing.

He's so tired of all of this. ]

[Alfie doesn't go after him. He actually assumes he's left the property entirely, gone to the treehouse or maybe the woods. He'll spend a couple more minutes trying to glue the pieces together, but in the end, gives up; it's not worth it.]

[ Just about the moment that Alfie gives up on the vase, Royce comes back in, with a freshly skinned rabbit. He heads to the fridge, opening it aggressively and shoving the rabbit into the freezer, slamming the door. And then he goes to wash his hands, stony and silent. ]

I don't know what to say that I haven't already said, Royce.

[He says, woodenly.]

I don't know what to say that I haven't already said. [ His voice, by comparison, is cool and calm. ] I explained myself, and you won't look at this from my point of view, so we have nothing else to talk about. I won't do it.

You think because I don't agree, it means I wasn't listening. No. I listened, but you're wrong, Royce; my choices are not for you to feel guilty over.

[He stands, looking him dead in the eye.]

I'm doing it.

[ His expression gets sharp. ]

Don't be stupid. You said you would not, on your own, wish for your memories of Norfinbury. But you would if I was going to. How do you expect for that not to weigh on me?

Don't do it to prove a point at me.

It's not about proving a point--

[He turns towards the wall and smacks a hand against it, holding himself up with it. His voice isn't angry, exactly, but it's tight with emotion.]

Your trauma isn't a badge of honor that you wear proudly, Royce, it's a fucking cage. Everything around you, you see through its bars.

[ Royce goes rigid, the words sending a sting through his chest like a sword. Like he's been stabbed clean through. It's not as accusatory, sure, but it still feels... bad. He's angry, defensive, and he doesn't want to back down, he doesn't want to say he's wrong, he's always wrong, even when he's trying to do things the right way, trying to talk about what bothers him. It's never right, it just ends like this, with Royce feeling like an idiot. A sour taste rises up in his throat and for a second, he grips at the edge of the sink so hard that he thinks if he was just a little stronger, he'd leave marks. ]

Yes, well. This is what you signed up for. [ He says, tone icy. ] You need to pick one narrative, Alfie. Either it's okay for me to feel upset and talk to you about why I find something upsetting, or it's not, and I keep secrets from you so that we don't end up with you fucking scolding me.

[ It's not really fair of him to say, but he's frustrated - he thought he was doing really well. ]

Scolding you, fucking scolding you; I'm trying to help.

[He forces himself to stop and take a breath so he doesn't yell.]

Yes, you can feel upset; yes, you don't have to hide your troubles. But let me ask you something, right - why am I not allowed to disagree, or tell you when you've got something wrong? I'm not telling you you're in a fucking cage because I want you to hide away in it, Royce, I'm telling you I want you to keep trying to come out.

[ He turns, furious. ]

Because I'm not wrong! [ He snaps. He tries not to yell, but - he is, by the end of it: ] You are telling me right now that what I am feeling, my feelings, are wrong - that's what you're doing right now. It's not an objective argument. I'm telling you that I'd feel guilty and I'd have to think more about this decision because of that, and you're telling me what I'm feeling is wrong! It's not! Because you're not the one feeling it! You can't fucking tell me that I'm feeling wrong!

Feelings can be wrong! Feelings are wrong all the fucking time! Feelings can be fucking nasty to you, they can trick you, they can do all sorts of things. And when your feelings tell you you're responsible for something you're not, Royce, and that you should feel guilty about it - I am never going to tell you that they're right.

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