Miguel O'Hara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninjavampire) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nightlogs2023-11-13 11:02 pm
ninjavampire) wrote in nightlogs2023-11-13 11:02 pm
Entry tags:
talking to ghosts
Who: Miggy & You??
What: Miguel stays behind to do dead honoring activities
Where: the Pole to start
When: Late October, Early November (Day of the Dead time)
Warnings/Notes: themes of mourning, though it can be lighthearted also
Miguel would be reluctantly absent during the action around Halloween. A strange enough decision, given his first instinct would be to throw himself into the fray as a distraction.
But as of late, he couldn’t hide that something was eating at him. The gloomy spell over his mood seemed more intense than months prior, burning away his patience and making short tempered remarks and the flashing of fangs more easy to let slip. He'd done okay keeping things somewhat under lock, but it was clear now something was definitely wrong.
And so, after some tense, but persuasive conversation just convincing enough to accept staying behind, Miguel finds himself idle on a quieter and lonelier Pole for a few days.
((prompts incoming - brackets or prose are fine))
What: Miguel stays behind to do dead honoring activities
Where: the Pole to start
When: Late October, Early November (Day of the Dead time)
Warnings/Notes: themes of mourning, though it can be lighthearted also
Miguel would be reluctantly absent during the action around Halloween. A strange enough decision, given his first instinct would be to throw himself into the fray as a distraction.
But as of late, he couldn’t hide that something was eating at him. The gloomy spell over his mood seemed more intense than months prior, burning away his patience and making short tempered remarks and the flashing of fangs more easy to let slip. He'd done okay keeping things somewhat under lock, but it was clear now something was definitely wrong.
And so, after some tense, but persuasive conversation just convincing enough to accept staying behind, Miguel finds himself idle on a quieter and lonelier Pole for a few days.
((prompts incoming - brackets or prose are fine))
no subject
Then, the footsteps stopping at his door, leaving him guessing who the hell was hovering outside. It was a little too heavy to be Puss or an elf (the total lack of jingling also nixed this) yet too small to be any of the human-sized individuals running around. All trains of thought that were taking away from the original purpose of him setting things up here, in private and away from distractions.
And then comes the SQUEAK of wood that may as well have been blasted right next to his ear with the way his shoulders jerk and talons flick out. The peaceful moment earlier? Very firmly blown out like a candlelight.
"Do you need something?" he snaps back over his shoulder. He... dislikes that this is his immediate reaction while trying to celebrate someone much kinder than he was. But all he wanted was one night without something stupid happening at his doorstep, damnit.
The narrow glare widens somewhat when he realizes he's looking at Branch, only several hundred times larger. This ridiculous new development does nothing to cool down the burning irritation in his chest. But it doesn't seem to escalate things either, so maybe something can be salvaged..
no subject
The problem here is they're both bristlers. They bristle with anger easily and that means they're especially good at bristling at each other in a self-perpetuating porcupinian cycle.
But Branch isn't heartless. And while he's not always good at its he's learned to sometimes push through his own catankerousness to something softer on the other side. He has Poppy and his friends to thank for that.
Miguel is mourning someone. He didn't catch sight of a photo but he sees candy and that - is it a spouse's favorite set of sweets? A grandparents?
...is it a child's?
Miguel has reason to bristle. Branch puts his prickles away first.
"Sorry, I wasn't trying to pry. It's just my people do memorials like that." He nods towards it. "Or, well, we did. We did it a lot more when we didn't have a body to bury in a normal funeral. Fortunately, that doesn't happen anymore. Some people kept them up for a long time."
He wonders if he should volunteer anything, wonders if showing throat will lead to it getting bit. He does it anyway.
Clearly, Miguel feels vulnerable, so he evens the score by showing vulnerability. So Miguel's not the only one feeling exposed.
"Back home, I have one for my grandma."
They were for the ones where there was no body.
She didn't die of old age.
no subject
Horrifying Raptor Hands Spiderman still had a beating heart in there somewhere as well, it seems. His shorter fuse came with an equally reduced fuel source to keep it going. So, it burns out. He rubs the back of his head, pondering how to explain what was going on to a woodland creature with no contact with human civilization beforehand.
"Well, this is a holiday back in my dimension." he begins, a little stiffly at first. Not pissed off, at least. The appearance of the CLAWS was mostly a surprise reaction, rather than trying to be aggressive. His very literal sharp ends disappear back into their appropriate sheaths once he settles.
"It's supposed to be about remembering your family that's passed. And... celebrating life, and all that." he waves his hand around in a weak attempt to demonstrate celebration, lacking the energy for an Encyclopedic description to Some Guy he didn't even like that much. "Not really in the mood for a party."
He internally debates switching the subject to the mission to get this conversation to end faster. He is extremely not used to being vulnerable out in the open like this.
no subject
He's not sure how to extricate himself from the situation either. 'Not really in the mood for a party' makes it sound like he wants to be alone.
But saying 'I'll just go,' feels sort of abrupt when Miguel just sort of opened up? Like 'You just admitted you're grieving on a special grieving holiday with an altar dedicated to grieving but it's super awk so I'm leaving immediately.'
In a weird way it's like Branch's catankerous asocial-ness is clashing with his trollish sense of how he's supposed to over-aggressively empathize. Supposed to. Even if he's always been bad at it.
But. Branch has also been on the other end of that when he wanted to be alone.
Counterpoint: he also sometimes thought he wanted to be alone when he really didn't want to be deep down.
(Why leave the door open? Forgetfulness? Wanting to let people in but only people other than Branch?)
He thinks of something.
"My people like to give gifts. Back home, people would still leave gifts for someone they didn't really know for something like this." He doesn't know if it's okay or not. "On this holiday, can anyone leave a gift for a person who's gone? Even if they didn't know them? Or would that be, like, offensive?"
no subject
But instead, he was here. Branch was here. Branch just made a strange offer that very effectively throws him for a loop, and his brows raise up.
"A gift?"
Was this a joke? Was Branch about to turn this very weirdly exposed moment for the both of them into something annoying? Say sike about everything, and go knock something over for the chaotic fun? After an even more awkward beat of staring at each other, expecting the punchline and never getting it, he slowly realizes that's not what's happening.
"I... suppose that's all right." he starts, cautiously. "The point is to leave things that they would like if they were to visit."
Something that only Miguel knows, really. But he's not outright rejecting the idea.
no subject
Besides, lots of people like puzzles.
"I'll be right back."
His room isn't exactly close since it's a random hole in the wall but changing size to enable swinging off surfaces or walking where most appropriate helps and he's finding the shifts a little less disorienting after spending the morning practicing.
When he comes back, he has a box in his hands. When he sees Miguel again, he shrugs a shoulder awkwardly. "My grandma and I used to do a puzzle everyday. She loved them and it helped calm me down. I was an anxious kid."
That's what happens when you grow up in a cage surrounded by looming, giant would-be-murderers.
He looks at the box with an expression that's soft and sad. "I've got a little puzzle corner for her where I still go to do them with her." Every day. Like she's still here. "I made a new one here, even though I don't have her picture with me."
He's running off his mouth but he's struggling with feeling vulnerable here too. You can't be kind without leaving your heart wide open after all but the byproduct is leaving his heart even more open, whoops.
"The yetis have been nice enough to remake puzzles at my size if I like them. Although apparently with this new size magic thing I can grow and shrink stuff with me so...here."
He holds the puzzle out. It looks a tiny bit crude, like the yetis had to cut and glue everything, including the box and its cover, with teeny tiny exacto blades or something. Truly they're masters at what they do to actually build puzzles at such a tiny size.
He didn't pick it knowing about Miguel's situation. He missed who he was speaking to. He picked it because it was one of the ones he liked the best. He thinks his grandma would've liked the design too. That's why he requested it.
"I don't know who - uh...or-or if they liked puzzles but -"
He huffs out a little breath, decides he's already talked way too much, thinks better of saying anything else and holds it out and up with both hands.
no subject
Miguel in the midst of trying to process all this could never get himself to cry. His eyes remained stubbornly dry, even as it felt like his chest was being flipped inside out trying to confront everything he worked so hard to lock away. Even if it felt like the right reaction.
The forlorn look on his face was the closest he’s gotten in a while. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a breath in, and regains his composure.
“Yeah. That works.”
A hand reaches out to take the box and look at its contents.
“This kind of game isn’t that common in Nueva York. All relegated to hard light and holograms, for the most part.”
The subtle, comb-like ridging on his palms were more discerning without the suit, and he could feel the imperfections right away on his fingertips. This hand-carved game couldn’t be more different from the machine world they both came from.
“Kids have more fun with something physical to move around, I think.”
no subject
But then Miguel gets to 'kids' and his expression morphs to one of soft, pure empathy. Children hadn't died of unnatural causes in Troll Village for twenty years but before...
Well, there's a reason his grandma sacrificed herself to save him. Because Chef was reaching for him. They hid the kids and elders in the half-finished tunnels on Trollstices but the Bergens sometimes came in between and caught the village off guard.
Everything about Miguel suddenly makes sense. Coping with anger, intensity, and anxious control. Branch created an environment he could control but Miguel seems to like when he can control the environment around him. When it makes sense.
When the pieces fit together perfectly just like they're supposed to.
A troll laying traps everywhere conflicted with that even if it had been Branch's own way of controlling his environment and his fate.
"My grandma was great with kids. If...if this is about what a loved one would like if they visited then... then they can share the candy and do a puzzle together."
He liked that image. He knows it's what his grandma would do, draw some child in close while they did a puzzle together and happily point out the loving presence of said child's parent. He can almost hear her voice, saying, 'Look, sweetheart! Look what your daddy left you! He loves you so much.'
no subject
"Hm. Thank you."
He sets the box on the wooden surface at the bottom of the altar. He figures doing the puzzle at some point in the night would be good. Maybe when he was alone with his thoughts and needed an activity for his hands. He then reassumes his place watching the candles, looking away.
"Seeing one of you would be quite the surprise." he says, steady but comfortless. "She'd be enamored."
no subject
For the better really. He wants to briefly pay his respects.
"Yeah, I guess that's apparently the whole reason I'm here. Human kids seem to like my world."
He looks up at the ofrenda, initially fidgeting his fingers, but ultimately clasping his hands in front of him in a polite sign of respect.
"What was her name?"
no subject
Honestly, he is feeling too tired to be angry about it. Just cautious. He's exhausted himself trying to confront all the tangled emotions of something very painful, something he'd kept completely bottled up, trying to find an ounce of peace by the end of it and barely managing to scrape anything aside for the trouble.
He hesitates when Branch asks the question, like saying the answer might dissolve whatever defenses he had left. But Branch seemed sincere so far...
"Gabriella."
no subject
Branch comes over next to where Miguel is sitting, kneeling next to him.
He doesn't clasp his hands in prayer. Different world, different cultures, different ideas of the afterlife, different beliefs. Instead he just rests them on his knees.
He does close his eyes and start whispering, speaking to her, the way someone would at a troll funeral or memorial services.
Most of the words aren't audible, but Miguel might catch the beginning "Gabriella, I'm sorry that you're gone -"
But the rest is under his breath, so Miguel can't hear. Branch tells her he's sorry that she's gone. That he wishes she could still be with her father. That it's not fair that she had so little time. That if she wants some company where she is, his grandma will watch out for her until she can be with her father again.
There are no tricks. There is nothing insincere. It is just something that happens in Miguel's world and many others, someone quietly paying their respects, with the tender sympathy they would for a child.
Eventually Branch opens his eyes and stops muttering under his breath, quiet. He looks sidelong at Miguel.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he says softly.
no subject
His calmness falters, struggling with finding the correct way to respond. Miguel's usual way of dealing with these things was to run away.
Running into his work, getting lost in the past, having voice messages pile up until he finally deletes them all and pretends they never existed. Letting anger get the better of him, because the anger was easier to deal with. Never showing his throat, because that would let someone else get the impression that they could comfort him.
He didn't know what to do with comfort. The sincerity felt alien, but also wrong to reject. It would never be okay. Not really. But some part of him wants to hope he can get close, someday. Maybe after he'd worked hard enough to fix his mistake.
"The gift is more than enough." he says, finally. "Thank you."
cw: cannibalism ref, child death
"My people tried to protect us, but sometimes the Bergens surprised us and came between Trollstices. They thought the kids were - that we -"
He breaks off because he doesn't want to go too deep into something as dark as ;they thought we were more delicious.' Children were happier. Children' had more joy inside to suck out.
"So I know better than to - than to say certain things."
You didn't say that it wasn't someone's fault, especially if you didn't know the situation. You didn't know if they'd been there, desperate to save their child as they were ripped out of their arms. You didn't know if they'd tried to knock them out of the way of a massive hand but were a second too late. You didn't know if they blamed themselves for letting them play outside at all, even if it wasn't Trollstice.
Even if it really wasn't their fault, kind words wouldn't change that they felt it was.
(There's a lesson in there, somewhere, maybe, about fault. About how Branch can grant that grace of "it was the fault of the aggressor" to everyone but himself. But he doesn't see it yet.)
"But one thing I do know is... is how much parents are willing to give for their kids. That they'd give anything. Everything."
His hand tightens on the door frame, and now he locks his eyes on the floor outside.
His voice gets subtly raspier. "Because of what my grandma gave up for me."
It isn't something he offers up easily to anyone. It's not something he's told the people he gets along with more, like Stacia. But in this place of grief, with someone else who apparently knows grief like he does - because there is no other way for a parent to lose a child than that child being ripped away too soon - he finds the words.
"I also know sometimes the world makes that not matter." He quickly adds, "I'm not going to ask anything or say anything else about that, just that I wish -" He thinks of Miguel's face when he saw the design on the puzzle, of the two hands, and about how many troll-lings had been ripped right out of their parents' arms, and about how if his grandma had been a second later, she might have been one of them. "I wish the world had let you hold on."
He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't elaborate further, doesn't want Miguel to feel pressed to offer up anything more, doesn't want to look him in the eyes, and certainly doesn't want to be in a position where he feels like he has to elaborate more about his grandma, so he books it after that, away from the door and quickly down the hall.