bigapplesauce | the funtime friendship adventures of little shit and the reluctant truthsayer

Current Location: Rebel apartments
Current Music: it actually is Tuesday (August 27th)

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the funtime friendship adventures of little shit and the reluctant truthsayer

He wakes up engulfed in a hot, smothering prison with no distinguishing qualities. Everything is white, mostly dark with some light seeping through, everything is uneven and collapsing. Fabric? He scrambles and can't find any edges, any way to breach the coverings. Where is he?!

He flails around wildly, trying to fight his way out but he can't seem to push any of it back. It's definitely fabric but it's too heavy for him, and the strangely cushiony surface he's on is vast and difficult to navigate.

Distantly, muffled, he can hear Tim calling his name. "Tim?" he answers, but his voice must be so dampened by everything on top of him, can Tim even hear him? He tries again, desperate: "Tim, help me!"

Nothing. He keeps struggling, having picked a direction that seems right somehow, crawling and fighting his way through. He can barely breathe in here. He has to get out. He has to.

There's a harder line of light up ahead. Escape. He scrambles for it like he's coming up for air, almost there, almost-

The air is suddenly a little cold on his sweat-soaked skin as he breaks free, though he's still on this same surface, something huge and equally, abnormally soft in front of him. He's not covered up anymore but he's still - wait, what the fuck is-

He can hear Tim a little more clearly now, but his voice is all wrong, deeper maybe, or just more resonating? He clambers awkwardly toward the edge of the surface and peeks over it.

Like a cliff's drop. He jerks back quickly, gasping for breath.

That was the floor. That was the floor.

He's on his bed.

"Tim!" he cries. He stands up awkwardly, shaking, wobbling unsteadily on the mattress, waving his arms and bouncing slightly. "Tim, I'm here!"

Everything's starting to make more sense now. Well, a certain level of 'sense'. He can see the rest of the room looming around him, his bedside table and his - that must be his phone. The pile of cameras, the windows. He can see Tim, too, looking like a fucking giant.

"TIM!" he yells again, enough that he hurts his voice and starts coughing a little. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He's about the length of Tim's palm and he has no idea why.

Must be Tuesday.

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It's not really comfortable sleeping on the ratty couch but Tim's not about to kick Jay out of his own bed. Besides, it's better than a lumpy hotel mattress - if by virtue of simply not being a hotel mattress - and it's definitely better than a hard-angled corner of an old hospital room.

Why does he let his brain go off on these tangents.

Tim's not a heavy sleeper by nature, and he's up before it's even gotten truly light out. He knows by experience that he's beyond simply getting back to sleep at this point - as if that was ever possible. The fitful hours he snatched will have to be enough. They always have to be.

It's a little reassuring, at least, to know he's with the one other person who kind of gets it, who sleeps just as little and as restlessly as Tim does. He shoots a glance in Jay's direction and -

And he isn't there.

Shit.

"Jay?" he asks, wariness creeping into his voice beneath lowered brows. He moves cautiously toward the bed. There's a tiny, wriggling lump beneath the covers. What the hell. Do they have mice? "Jay," he says again, less of a question and more a sharp demand. "Cut the bullshit. Where are you?"

Then the small dent in the covers thrusts its way out, and Tim freezes for an instant as he scrambles for an adequate reaction to what the fuck he is looking at.

Jay didn't get up. He didn't leave. He simply got shrunk down. He's mere inches tall, waving his arms in an unbalanced disarray as Tim stares in gaping confusion.

Tim's looking at him, which is a little terrifying, being stared at by something so towering, but at least he's been seen.

"Tim," he says, though he has no idea how to follow up. "I... I'm... I don't know what happened."

Of all the shit they've been through together, this might actually be the weirdest.

He makes some weird, halting, high-pitched noise that might have been trying to pass itself off as a laugh.

"Really?" he says, because even in this - this weird-as-all-fuck mess, Jay apparently can't keep himself from stating the fucking obvious. "Yeah. No. I figured that out for myself, funnily enough."

He runs one hand through his hair, still staring numbly at the miniature version of his - sort of - friend.

"You just - wake up like this?"

Well what is he SUPPOSED to say here? He makes an irritable shrugging gesture which probably looks pretty comical on his tiny shoulders. "Yeah," he says. "I don't think I dreamed anything super weird, I mean, apart from, you know, the usual." He looks around, not sure what to do, how to cope with this situation. He can't go anywhere, can't - basically can't function like this. Not without Tim. He knows that already. "What do we do?"

The usual, right. Tim sobers up slightly, shuffles back a few steps. This could be potentially disastrous. What does Jay even eat? What if he starts turning things into cameras? Would they be regular-sized cameras or would they just - and before he can complete the thought, Tim just has to privately note that he can't believe this is life right now. This is so beyond the level of weird he's used to. So unbelievably beyond it.

"I mean," he feels like an idiot suggesting it, but what other choice do they have, exactly? "I can - you want me to carry you?"

It's hard to say it with a completely straight face, and he's pretty sure the vague amusement leaks through the last two words.

Ugh. Well at least he didn't have to be the one to suggest it. He can see Tim's amusement and he does not appreciate it, but he also can't quite blame him. This is pretty ridiculous.

"I think that's probably our only option," he grumbles. He looks up dubiously. "Can you get me to the table, maybe?" Just so he's not on the stupid bed anymore. "Just... just be careful."

"Uh." Right. Okay. He can do this. God, the guy already seemed so utterly breakable when he was normal-sized, all bone-skinny limbs and fragility, and now there's a legitimate possibility that the wrong bump or jostle or tight grip could actually, actually -

Tim quickly stops thinking about that.

He carefully lowers one palm, making it as flat as possible, beside Jay. "Just, uh. I'll try to move slow, I guess."

This is ridiculous.

This is so embarrassing.

Jay eyes Tim's open hand with immense displeasure. The nicotine smell on his fingertips hits him full in the face but he manages not to gag. He's used to that smell anyway.

He climbs onto Tim's palm, feeling awkward and deeply uncomfortable - touching people isn't really a thing he does usually, and now it's so pronounced, like wow he is just really like, all up on there, oh god, stop thinking about it. He can see every line and detail in Tim's hand. It's really, really weird.

"Um, okay," he says, pulling his knees up to his chest, trying not to actually touch Tim's hand with his hands. His feet are bare. No helping that. "I'm ready."

Tim can't really help the shiver when tiny, undersized, cold-feeted Jay crawls onto his palm and sits there like some absurd pet bird or something. He looks just as uncomfortable with this set-up as Tim is. Okay. So this is weird for both of them. Good to know.

He stands up slowly, unable to really help the slight pitches and wobbles of his hand that come with movement, and Tim's never really been aware until just now how much his hand moves when he's just trying to walk across the room and not shift his hand a whole fucking lot.

A steady advance upon the table and a whole lot of muttered 'fucking goddamnit's later, Tim rests his open hand on the table and breathes out a tiny sigh of relief. Success. Sort of.

He's not ready.

The moment Tim lifts his hand he feels his stomach drop like he's on a fucking rollercoaster. He pitches forward and catches himself, curled over against the air being pushed past him as Tim carries him across the room. He's being slow and reasonably gentle, but it's still so much worse than he thought it would be. Oh god oh god.

When he's finally lowered back down to the table he almost rolls off Tim's hand, landing on the hard wood with a little gasp.

"Okay," he says. "That wasn't terrible."

He was never a good liar.

'Nope' is what Tim means to say, flatly and dryly, to establish some sense of normalcy on top of this bizarre, bizarre situation.

"Yes it was," he says instead for a reason he can't really describe to himself. He halts for a moment, annoyed that that's what his brain apparently settled on, then decides he's just gonna move on. No point in dwelling. "You, uh. I mean - how are you supposed to eat?"

Jay huffs out a vaguely surprised laugh at that little bit of truth and picks himself up warily.

"I'm not even hungry, to be honest," he says. "I want to figure this out, I don't want to like get used to this or anything. There has to be someone who can like... help with this. Daine, maybe?"

He has no idea what to suggest, really. They barely know anyone. But this can't just be in a vacuum. There has to be someone who can reverse this. Fuck, he doesn't want to be tiny forever.

Honestly, he has no idea how to deal with this, but this can't be permanent, can it? There's no way. There's no way. Weird stuff like this does happen, doesn't it, with something like the Rift always getting in the way?

And here Tim was thinking their lives couldn't get any more unreal.

"Yeah," he says, staring fixedly at the wall without seeing it. "Yeah, maybe. Kinda falls outside her area, don't you think?"

Thanks, brain. He didn't really want to supply that last thought, but whatever, no changing it now. He shoots the miniscule Jay a knitted-brow frown. "Would, uh - would I have to carry you, like, in my pocket?"

Oh god. Would that be better or worse than being carried in Tim's hand? He can't really decide.

"I guess so," he says hesitantly. "At least I can't think of any other way to do it without, like... attracting attention." He glances up at Tim, trying to get used to the idea of being in his pocket, and really not liking it. "Do you have any shirts with pockets? I'm gonna be honest, I really don't want to be in your pants pocket."

Tim snorts quietly and wordlessly starts rummaging through his bag in search of a shirt. Yeah. They're being so honest with each other today, aren't they. That's new. But the guy is fucking tiny and Tim doesn't want him in his pants pocket either, so it's really in their best interest for him to go along with it.

Thankfully he still has the plaid shirt he arrived in, complete with pockets on its front. They're pretty small but then, so's Jay, and this is their life now.

He's pretty sure the shirt reeks of nicotine, but he can't really find it in himself to care. He returns with an exaggerated swish of one hand, like presenting himself to a committee, and awaits Jay's approval or, more likely, disapproval.

What's there to disapprove? Everything about this is absolutely terrible, so he may as well just nod and go along with it. "Sure, that'll be fine," he mutters. "Should we just go to the Base? There's got to be some kind of... information desk or something. If something's going on, or whatever."

He considers it for a minute, then makes a weary, noncommittal sound and nods. As loathe as he is to admit it. Jay shouldn't, in his experience, really be the idea guy, but it's not like Tim can think of anything else.

"Yeah. Okay." Grimacing, he holds out his hand again. "All right, well. Guess we'd better figure this out now rather than, you know."

Jay nods and draws a slow breath, trying to steel himself for a return to Tim's hand, and then, into his pocket. This is going to suck so much.

"Just don't forget I'm in there," he says, sardonic tone tinged with a little bit of anxiety. He climbs again onto Tim's palm, perched on his knees. "Okay."

It is seriously not okay how Tim has to transfer Jay from hand to pocket, and it's not helping that he can feel how tiny and easily damageable he is in this state. Fuck, if Tim tripped and fell with Jay in his pocket he could actually crush the guy. Oh god. He swallows hard and just lets the guy scrabble his way in there, fuck he is not okay with this.

He moves pretty gingerly once he's in there, out the door and then out the building, but once outside he halts, annoyed, and glances down at the conspicuous lump in his pocket.

"You know where the Base is?"

He is totally not asking himself a question because that would be weird. He's consulting Jay with a problem.

Well this is entirely horrifying. Tim holds him really close at least, so he doesn't feel like he's going to plummet when the hand tips, but it's still awful. He squirms his way down into the pocket, which actually isn't too bad, all things considered - dark and awkward but it's not as awkward as being held in a hand, and it's almost comfortingly closed off. If he doesn't think about it too hard, anyway.

Moving around is a little better too, though it takes some getting used to. It helps that he can't see and he can't feel air moving past him. It's a little stifling in here but nothing like being under the bedsheets.

"Can you hear me?" he calls up experimentally, and receives no answer. Okay then. This is going to be boring.

He realizes he can feel Tim's heartbeat right next to him. That is... both incredibly weird and weirdly soothing.

Then Tim addresses him, his voice a soft rumble. Jay can feel his chest vibrating.

"Uhh." He can't really stand up, so he just raises his voice as much as he can. "South corners of the Park. You get in through the subway."

He kind of has to strain to hear it and he shouldn't be surprised at how oddly squeaky Jay sounds, but South corner of the Park manages to ring through.

Tim scrubs a hand over his face for a minute, then gives himself a little shake and a nod.

"Subway, huh?"

This is going to be a fun day.

He sets, reluctant and resolute, in the direction of the subway.

"You'll get off at Columbus Circle," he shouts, then quiets, slumping back into his little nest, hoping Tim can figure this out on his own. Probably. Tim's always been reasonably good at that, hasn't he.

He really doesn't want to think about that. Or anything. Nothing from before. He needs to do something. He needs a distraction, something that isn't the gentle thump of Tim's heart and the swaying motion as Jay's carried along with him on this ridiculous journey.

He nestles into the pocket a bit, casting around, and eventually picks up a little piece of grit. Gross, but it'll serve its purpose, won't it.

He turns it into a camera. It's only after he's done so that he realizes holy shit that could have been really bad if the cameras weren't scaled down to his size - a camera suddenly bursting out of Tim's chest, tearing the seams, and Jay left to crash to the ground- okay, enough of that. He shudders and clings onto his little creation. Checks the tape deck, which is loaded as always. Well. Not much else to do, is there?

He flicks on night vision, presses record, and turns it on himself.

"So," he says, "I'm tiny. And I'm in Tim's pocket."

As good a place to start as any.

Columbus Circle. Okay. Well. Tim's gonna figure it out as he goes. Manhattan's brand new to him, and he can already say that he can't really appreciate the spilling crowds that grow steadily thicker as he goes down the stairs, doing his best to huddle awkwardly away from everyone else. There isn't really an away to huddle to. He draws into himself, resists the stupid, stupid urge to cover the lump in his pocket protectively with a hand - what good would that do? - and sort of wishes he'd brought his jacket to cover it. Fumbling hands take too long with the turnstile and the card takes several tries to process and he's shaking, he's really really shaking as he follows the tide into the train itself because this is the first time since college he's had to deal with this many people all packed together into one space, and he's breathing, and he's breathing and he's dealing with it, and god he needs to get out.

He's trembling.

No he isn't.

His heart is pounding.

No it isn't.

This is way too many people, and it's a constantly shifting tide, crowds flowing in and out at each stop and he has to count one. two. three. with uneven, rapid breaths, tensing each time someone brushes past and jostles the front of his shirt, even slightly. He gets off at the subway's merciful promise of Columbus Circle and experiences a tiny, short-lived thrill of relief before discovering that out at the stop it's even worse.

Tim can't even find space in his mind to be concerned about Jay, stops caring about moving gently or slowly. He just needs to get away.

Edited 2015-03-21 02:11 (UTC)

With the distinct changes in movement, noise, and distant environment, Jay realizes they've descended, are in the subway now, Tim is moving slower and more clipped, jostled by people. Jay tenses a little in his enclosure, hugging himself closer to Tim's chest for fear of being accidentally caught against another body; Tim's heart is beating harder and faster.

Jay looks at his camera. "I think Tim's getting on the train," he says. "He's really... really on edge. I mean, I would be too." He hesitates, jolts and looks up at the sudden rush of noise that must be the train, the jerk of Tim's body that follows, gravity suddenly pulling him hard back from the burst of forward motion. Tim steadies himself moments later and Jay struggles to slow his own breathing.

"I'm starting to think we should have just walked," he says. "Or Tim should have, anyway."

He doesn't have much to say, waiting and listening to the stations go by until 59th St - Columbus Circle is announced. Tim is on the move again and Jay focuses on tracking his movements: off the train, through the turnstile, up to the next level-

He seems even worse off than before, moving suddenly much faster, jerkier.

"Tim?" There's no way Tim can hear him. He tries to pull himself up, gripping awkwardly at little folds of Tim's shirt. "Tim! Tim, down here!" He slaps his hand on Tim's chest with as much force as he can muster and it's still so light, he doesn't know if it'll register.

"I know where to go," he calls, waving an arm. "It's a maintenance entrance by the east stairway. Just go there!" Is any of this getting through?

The faint thumping against his chest is too irregular to be part of the rapid tattoo his heart's been churning out, but it still takes Tim a minute to process what and why. He glances down, blinks at the tiny arm jabbing, pointing to one of the entrances. The roar of the crowd and the blood rushing past his ears drowns out anything its owner might be saying, but the meaning is still clear.

Tim cups one hand over the protruding arm - is Jay trying to get himself seen? - and, ducking his head, shoulders drawn in, makes an unerring line for the indicated entrance. It looks like some sort of maintenance place, not something public, but maybe that makes sense - doesn't it? He's trusting Jay's intuition here which, under any other circumstances, would be a very poor idea.

He just needs to escape. He needs to get away from here. He disappears from the overcrowded stop, fleeing down the mercifully empty concrete-walled corridor. The echoing clang of voices against his skull fades the further he goes, breathing steadying with each step he puts between himself and overwhelming surge of people.

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tw: social anxiety

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