towerofanimus | [CLOSED/OPEN] No words can heal a broken heart

Characters: [AU1] Eridan Ampora & [AU1] Equius Zahhak; Eridan Ampora and YOU.
Setting: Meadow floor (closed/backdated to the January event), Floor 64 (open/current)
Format: Starting with action but I'll match you.
Summary: Two logs for the price of one, lmao so I don't flood the comm: closing up aged up shenanigans, Equius is displeased and Eridan is about to learn just how much. Also back in real time, Eridan finds a deliciously tempting slice of home.
Warnings: Violence and swearing for the Equius log. Eridan being actually honest and pathetic and stupid, for the open one.

[Closed: Meadow floor.]

[He wasn't tired so much as he was trying to hibernate. He wasn't entirely sure trolls, undead or otherwise, actually did the whole hibernation shtick, but he could at least try. Save up his energy. Make his last feeding last. He was pretty sure things didn't really work that way but he was lazy and this was a good enough excuse. So there he is, as long as he is, lying on his back and sunbathing in the meadow without a care in the world.

Not that he didn't have cares. He had a lot of them, actually. But if he started thinking about all of them he'd probably implode. Or go on a rampage. Or both. Really, it was for the best of everyone involved, if he just laid there, soaking up sunlight and carefully thinking of nothing in particular.]

[Open: Desert floor.]

[It's so familiar it hurts, really. The heat, the sand, the occasional blast of wind. It's probably a bad idea to head out, and given the last few terrible ideas he's indulged lately, mostly as a result of the experiment last month, Eridan resists the urge to go.

But he wants to, dear god, he wants to so bad.

He's curled up on the sandy floor, barely two steps off the staircase, staring aimlessly at the distance and quietly drowning in nostalgia. He's never really stopped to sit down and miss life before the Game... but now he does and the wave of homesickness is almost entirely too much to handle.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Gamzee's eyes went wide. No fucking fair, he wasn't used to negotiating techniques specifically catered to the juvenile. He glowered, not wanting to show defeat.]

...They ain't got fuckin' none at here, though...

They do, you just don't know the magic road to sugar high.

[Eridan snorts, arching an eyebrow at the highblood.]

So happens I do, though. So get those fucking pants back on, or you ain't getting any.

[Gamzee stared at Eridan for a long while, skeptical as ever. One could practically see the rusty cogs trying to turn in his pan as he carefully weighed the pros and cons of each decision.]

[With a long-suffering huff, he stuck a foot into the waistband of those polka-dotted monsters.]

...Promise!?

[Eridan smirked at Gamzee, spreading his arms in a 'who, me?' gesture.]

Has a brother ever gone back on his word to you?

[Vague squinting, and a slightly open mouth. He was really, REALLY trying to remember.]

Uh...

[Tapping a few untamed fingernails to his lips, gnawing on one or two of them in the process.]

Actually, I ain't never been recalling a motherfuckin' time what all you fucking have, motherfucker.

What a fuckin' pussy-ass angel you're all at motherfucking being, now.

[He laughed, quite obnoxiously, stuffing the other leg in his pants and hiking them back up around his non-existent hips. With a tug of the drawstring, he then proceeded to take forever remembering how to tie the a bow.]

[Hopbeast ear... hopbeast ear... over... around...]

[Ah, fuck it. He ended up just tying a quadruple knot in the thing and calling it a day.]

Well, someone has to balance out your fucking bitchery.

[Eridan gives Gamzee the sweetest, most loving middle finger in the world, but once those pants are up again, he saunters over to provide the stupid fucker with the required amount of syrupy goodness necessary to make the clown shut the fuck up for a while.

God, friendship is so hard sometimes.]

[The "required amount of syrupy goodness" was precisely one (1) bowlful of sticky sweet goo. Not those shallow piece of shit bowls where the liquid slops out with each slight movement, no. The nice, deep bowls that keep everything in no matter how rowdy mealtime gets. And let me tell you - it was about to get real rowdy.]

Ooooh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

[Eyes wide and grin plastered on his face, Gamzee practically bounced from foot to foot waiting for Eridan to get his food, holding the bowl (which wasn't as good at keeping the substance in as I had originally praised it for) in both hands, syrup rolling over the edge and coating his hands from all of the jostling.]

Hurry the fuck UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

[Eridan is utterly unruffled by Gamzee's screaming and his fussing over syrupy goodness, instead going over to pile up a few waffles in a plate for himself.]

Goin', goin'. See?

[He shows his plate with a risen eyebrow.]

All set, let's goo.

[Why did he even bother waiting for him? What a grave mistake - he wouldn't let it happen again.]

[Running over to the nearest table, Gamzee threw his (now clothed) ass into a seat, dropping his bowl onto the surface in front of his excitedly. He'd forgotten utensils. I use the term "forgotten" very loosely, because, honestly, he never uses utensils in the first place.]

[So, he ate the bowl of syrup the only way he knew how - by dipping a few fingers in and raising them to his mouth. He didn't bother to let the excess drip off before moving them, though, so he got a shirt and lapful of maple mess.]

[...how attractive.

Eridan sat at the other side of the table, hopefully far away to avoid the syrupocalypse going on there, and began to methodically work his way through a pile of waffles.

At least he didn't get shit all over his clothes. Like certain wigglers he knows.]

[Too bad, so sad. If you're gonna cry about his table manners, you can leave him alone with his bowl of syrup, fuck you very much.]

Mmm... lemme fuckin' help you out with that.

[Those waffles looked way too naked. Lifting his bowl up, Gamzee began to move it toward Eridan's plate, intending on dumping the stuff over his boring, plain waffles.]

[The change is immediate. Eridan pulls his plate away from the incoming hideous sugar apocalypse with one hand, and points a rifle at Gamzee's head with the other.]

You get fucking sugar in my waffles, Makara, and I blow the horns off the top of your head.

[Gamzee continues sloshing the syrup around in his mouth, a flat, bored expression on his face even as the barrel of the gun presses up against his forehead.]

Fuckin' gods a-mother-fucking-bove, you be such a fucking princess. Shut the motherfuck up and start all eating shit what ain't meant for fuckin' hoofbeasts, you prissy nookflap.

I'm sorry, do I have fins in my face?

[Eridan twitched.]

No? Your argument is invalid.

[Now watch him shove a handful of waffle into his mouth with the prissiest huff in the world.]

Don't seem to much be motherfuckin' mattering no more.

[He shoved a handful of syrup into his mouth, mocking Eridan's huffy display.]

You be givin' my fishdude a run for his fucking boonies.

Do you want me to shoot your head off?

[There's something hilarious about Eridan saying that while he's busy licking his fingers. The tone is entirely cordial, too. It's like they're talking about the fucking weather or something.]

Because you're using words and yet all I hear is "Eri, be a fucking bro and shoot my fucking head off."

That's 'cause that all be the only motherfuckin' thing your fuckin' ass gets its hear on of when you know this gangsta be spinnin' the God damn truth.

[He laughs, syrup dripping between his teeth as he does so.]

Truth. Right. Is that what you're calling it now?

[So fucking unconvinced, bro. Your argument ain't holding up in this court.]

[CLOSED/OPEN] No words can heal a broken heart

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