There's a tone in Chara's name and a breath in the silence that whispers meanings. None of them are spoken, but Chara understands them all the same.
Frisk. Doesn't understand, still.
It's a hate-worthy offense. Chara does hate them, because they're not listening, and Chara is trying to curl around the fact that it means Frisk doesn't care about everything Chara's done, and that that means they're evil, evil, and worse than evil.
The thoughts won't burn them. Maybe it's because Frisk doesn't know the true depth of Chara's depravity in the first place, or maybe it's because the thoughts need a bit of time to heat up before they can really boil against them. It's true that Chara can't do more than picture a caricatureish parody of Frisk dismissing something like death, but. Maybe Frisk will give them adequate inspiration for that, soon.
They can't bring themself to strike that final blow to their image. It'll shatter like a mirror when they do, and Frisk's face will crumple and Chara's sins will follow them for seven years for that alone, but... Chara's mouth is open, yet their tongue is numb. Words won't come.
...
... They don't have to do this right now. They don't. There's always plenty of time for it later. There's something despicably selfish about letting Frisk keep loving someone who hurt them so deeply, but Chara just can't not refuse to prevent themself denying they didn't--
--their gaze has dropped to the floor like it weighs a thousand pounds, and Chara ghosts away from their bed. Not meekly. Quietly. Empty like a scarecrow.
They sit down by the bars, and their gaze just barely rises to the edges of Frisk's fingertips. Chara is sitting very straight. The rigidity of their position is like diamond. If anyone were to force them to move, they'd impact against Chara like the side of a mountain, or Chara themself would crack.
...
... Apparently they're a hideous enough person that they'll let Frisk reach out unanswered. And they're doing this. Every step that they've done. They look back at the floor between them and the bunk.
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Frisk. Doesn't understand, still.
It's a hate-worthy offense. Chara does hate them, because they're not listening, and Chara is trying to curl around the fact that it means Frisk doesn't care about everything Chara's done, and that that means they're evil, evil, and worse than evil.
The thoughts won't burn them. Maybe it's because Frisk doesn't know the true depth of Chara's depravity in the first place, or maybe it's because the thoughts need a bit of time to heat up before they can really boil against them. It's true that Chara can't do more than picture a caricatureish parody of Frisk dismissing something like death, but. Maybe Frisk will give them adequate inspiration for that, soon.
They can't bring themself to strike that final blow to their image. It'll shatter like a mirror when they do, and Frisk's face will crumple and Chara's sins will follow them for seven years for that alone, but... Chara's mouth is open, yet their tongue is numb. Words won't come.
...
... They don't have to do this right now. They don't. There's always plenty of time for it later. There's something despicably selfish about letting Frisk keep loving someone who hurt them so deeply, but Chara just can't not refuse to prevent themself denying they didn't--
--their gaze has dropped to the floor like it weighs a thousand pounds, and Chara ghosts away from their bed. Not meekly. Quietly. Empty like a scarecrow.
They sit down by the bars, and their gaze just barely rises to the edges of Frisk's fingertips. Chara is sitting very straight. The rigidity of their position is like diamond. If anyone were to force them to move, they'd impact against Chara like the side of a mountain, or Chara themself would crack.
...
... Apparently they're a hideous enough person that they'll let Frisk reach out unanswered. And they're doing this. Every step that they've done. They look back at the floor between them and the bunk.
The silence they've brought fills their ears.