08-20-2020, 08:36 AM
tw for references to past trauma and violence; heartbreak and depression?
Longer OOC notes at the bottom; for context this takes place after a trip Brendan and Milo went on. It'll be explained during the writing. Des gave me permission for the Milo bits!
Rule number one of survival: never let anyone in.
Brendan remembers watching his father pace around the kitchen, grumbling on and on about some "poor choices" and a "traitorous bastard" or whatever. He remembers sitting across from his mother, watching her tear a picture of the parents that broke her heart into a million pieces. He remembers opening the door for J, blood splattering against the wall as a bullet eats through his foot. He remembers looking up to Bruce and Dick, waking up after they disappeared into the night without a word. He remembers helping Hayley with her children, wondering why she disappeared without a trace. He remembers learning to trust Mickey, watching him wander off towards Northstar District. He remembers greeting new faces at the border, never hearing from them again.
He remembers it all: every heartbreak, every loss, every defeat. Whenever Brendan approaches one at the border, he reminds himself to not get too close. Don't show anything, he'd tell himself, brandishing his staff, don't let them think you're weak.
Weak, because any sign of weakness clearly leads to a world of hurt. That's why his heart has been broken so many times—he's weak. Not just physically, no, but emotionally and socially. If he never locks his doors, never closes the gates, so many people could come into his life and hurt him. Maybe not purposefully, but it'd still happen; that's what happened with Bruce, with Dick, with Hayley, with Mickey, with...everyone, really. They're all gone, without him, leaving behind a boy who only felt loved for a second before his heart was crushed.
The first rule of survival is to never let anyone in, because in the end, everyone will hurt him anyways.
"I think that's everything," Milo says, dusting off his pants. "Thank you, really."
"Mmh." Brendan merely bobs his head up and down, sinking into the inviting mattress of his bed as he presses Roosty close. Even though the rooster stinks, Brendan nuzzles the chicken and welcomes the nostalgic scent.
Jeez, how long has it even been since he's last been in the lodge? He scours through his brain for an answer, but nothing pops up—he's lost count of the days. Too long, he settles with, and when he sits up he flinches at the various aches and bruises scattered across his frame. Now that he's no longer forced to sleep on freezing dirt and concrete, he only prays that the pulsing aches go away quickly; he cringes at the idea of working with all the pain.
The trip with Milo was dreadful. A few months ago they set off, Milo having some intrusive thoughts about his old home. Even now, when they've been back for an hour or so, Brendan still questions why he tagged along. He can scrounge up a few quick excuses: "I wanted to see the world," or "I was curious about something else up there," but he knows Milo wouldn't believe those. After all, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself, even Brendan can't believe his own lies.
The truth, though? He bites his lip and swallows, his brain forming something that sends shivers down his spine when he gazes at Milo rubbing his dog's cheeks. Brendan can't help but notice that he's been slipping lately. He's becoming too open, too...vulnerable. And when he watches Milo, his muscles and heart softening at his roommate's smile...a stone falls in his stomach.
The first rule of survival.
Well…
For just a moment he eyes Milo up and down. Does...does it really apply here...? After all, they went on that journey together, and he's still alive now...but when he remembers Bruce, Dick, Mickey, Hayley...
Fuck. That trip with Milo was a mistake.
He jolts upright. Roosty flaps his wings and fluffs out his feathers, possibly clucking a few startled insults in his own chicken tongue. (He needs to get out of here.) Brushing past Milo, Brendan grabs his staff and hurries out the door, forcing himself to think about anything else (Milo's voice sounds behind him, but he forces his ears to drown it out). He could always work on his kicking techniques, he supposes. (He needs to stay away from Milo.) Clean, too, maybe. Patrol. Anything, really, so long as he isn't stuck with his weak brain. (God, what was he thinking?)
Brendan's feet lead him to the dining room and kitchen. At his arrival people gawk at him, and he shrinks in his own skin, face burning. (Perhaps he should've picked somewhere less intense, especially considering the fact that his stomach explodes into butterflies at the sight of just one person, but...well, too late now, isn't it?) Desperately, he scurries for the counter, and—and a plate slides his way. Eyes widening a bit, he stares at the person who holds the plate out towards him. Uhm. For a moment, he remains still, but his face contorts into that of frustration as he knits his eyebrows together.
"I'm not five," he spits, pushing the plate away and grabbing his own.
Ignoring the person's exasperated comments, Brendan picks his way through the food line, and once his plate is half-full he immediately makes a course for a table in the corner. Sitting down, he hunches over his plate, toying with a measly pile of mashed potatoes but not eating it. Sooner or later, a figure steps forward and—and of course it's Milo, who is now reaching to sit down at the table. Brendan glares up at him, and Milo steps back, confusion plastered all over his face. Crap. Begrudgingly, Brendan rolls his eyes and erupts from his seat; his appetite now completely and utterly destroyed, he shoves his staff under his armpit, sets the plate on the counter and stomps off towards the training room.
It's empty.
Closing the door behind him, Brendan breathes a sigh of relief. Light swallows the area whole in the setting sun's orange and red hues, casting harsh shadows for the spots where it cannot reach. Brendan sits in those shadows, leaning against the leather punching bag as he stares down at his staff. Occasionally he flickers his eyes upward to watch the floating dust particles dance with one another without a care in the world; when he glances out the window, he sees a duo chasing one another, giggling and laughing their hearts out.
His heart aches. Shoulders sagging, he listens to that joyous sound, the sound that echoes throughout the room and taunts him. And when the sun hits the window just right, it nearly blinding him, he grits his teeth and jumps to his feet.
Brendan slams the blinds shut.
The light slinks away, leaving behind a dark blanket that covers the room. When the laughter roars, Brendan slaps a fist against the glass with a bang!—it stops. Exhaling through teeth, he rolls his eyes and steps away. The door creaks open; Brendan whips around and stares at Milo, who tilts his head as he drags his vision across the room. Gulping, Brendan brings his eyes to the two plates in the fellow teen's hands.
"I grabbed your plate," Milo says, raising one hand to show the food; a frown tugs on Brendan's lips. "You gotta eat—"
"I'm fine," Brendan snaps, "can't you leave me alone for five minutes?"
Milo closes his mouth. Brain feeling fuzzy, knees growing shaky, Brendan can't bring himself to look Milo in the eye; instead, he stares at the floor, hands curling into fists. It feels like Bruce and Dick all over again. Hayley all over again. The scolding, the angry love. It twists his stomach into knots, touches a part of him he despises. He feels twelve again—lost and alone and helpless. But he’s not twelve anymore, he'll never be twelve ever again, and—and...
The door closes.
Brendan lifts his head, bringing his vision over towards the door where Milo once stood.
There, on the floor, lies his plate.
He couldn't sleep that night.
Granted, most nights it's hard for him to. Sure, Brendan is mature enough to understand that nightmares are purely fictional, even so he always jolts awake from them in cold sweats, holding his blanket close and waiting for his adrenaline to die down.
This isn't that kind of night, though. Instead, he lies in his bed, propped up on his pillow and absentmindedly staring at the painting Milo gave him for his birthday. It's a silly painting: an army of chickens, Roosty the general, ready for war. Their cute ninja headbands that flow in the wind, the grim expressions on their plump faces...it makes him smile, just a bit. But every time he smiles, he reminds himself of other things; how precious a smile is, how easily it can be taken and smashed into a million pieces.
His parents broke his heart. Bruce and Dick broke his heart. Mickey broke his heart. Hayley broke his heart.
Why wouldn't Milo be the same?
And if Milo is just like the rest of them, why does Brendan sleep in a bunk, right underneath Milo? Why did Brendan go on that stupid trip with him? Why did Brendan accept the painting? It's so fucking stupid, all of it, and when Brendan begins to conjure up a million possibilities in his brain, his eyelids get wet, and he's forced to try and change the subject—but he can't. For some reason, his brain loves to play with the fact that he fucked up, and now he has to deal with the consequences.
Milo is going to break his heart. Brendan knows it.
The only way to get out of this is to break Milo's heart first, just like he did to everyone else, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t even imagine himself doing that.
Arms trembling, Brendan hops out of his bed, frowning at the thud of his bare feet against wood. He paces for a moment, running a hand through his hair, and when he hears the sound of blankets shuffling from the top bunk he immediately whips open the door and storms out of the room, shutting it behind him. His mind is a war zone; pressing fists against his temples, Brendan growls, slamming his eyes shut.
You know what's going to happen, his mind hisses. He's going to hurt you. Leave—now.
But when he turns a corner and wraps a hand around the front door of the lodge, another part of his mind pipes up: When did it all go wrong?
He...he thinks it went wrong when he met Milo.
Slamming the door behind him, Brendan sniffles, staring blankly at the wooden porch. Tears drop from his eyes and splatter against the deck, his feet, whatever it may be. Solemnly, Brendan sits down on the steps, hunched over and picking at blades of grass beneath him. The door opens behind him, and he stiffens, heart skipping a beat at the voice.
"You okay?" Of course. Milo.
When Milo sits down on the steps, next to Brendan, Brendan scoots further away, bunching his shoulders together and refusing to make a sound. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a hand reaching out, oh so carefully, but when Brendan flinches and glares Milo swiftly yanks his hand back.
Milo isn't at fault for this, Brendan knows that.
(He rests his cheek on his palm, letting his muscles relax. Milo does the same.)
No, no...it's all on him, isn't it?
He stares up at the stars, sucking in a deep breath.
...Milo doesn't deserve this.
"Hey, Brendan?" Milo shifts around, sucking in a breath and puffing out his cheeks before letting it all go: "Are we friends?"
(It was December. Christmas. Brendan's birthday. The two stand in front of a painting, one Milo made himself just for Brendan.
"Wait, do you want...me to give you something or...?" Brendan's face burns.
At his inquiry, Milo knits his eyebrows, refuting the question with a shake of the head. "Nah! That's not necessary. I'm not really the...gift-receiver type of guy, uh...if you ask me, you being my friend is enough.")
The first rule of survival.
Brendan draws his knees in close, wiping his tongue across his mouth before he parts his lips. He's silent, staring up at the stars blankly; his heart aches when he parts open his mouth.
"I think so."
2060 words.
I'm going to admit this OOC part will be very ramble-y, since I'm writing this at 4am and I'm kinda an emotional wreck LOL. A positive kind of wreck, though—sentimental.
I never really expected Brendan to become the character that he is. IC-wise I had his growth staged out, but OOC? Hell no. I never thought he'd become a character that's a staple to my online identity; a character that, despite all odds (and his beginnings as a fucking pokémon character), would stick around in my mind for three years and continue to inspire my writing choices. I was 16 when I created him, and I'm 19 now. It's insane. This fucker is like a movie franchise, there's always a new addition via a different roleplay site, au, etcetera. I still don't know why I continue to roleplay him, why I continue to develop him. To this day he's my most successful character—I really doubt I'll ever be able to top him.
Of course, I hate patting myself on the back so much, and I'll admit there are MANY things I regret with him. TNW-wise, I should've stopped with his edgy ass backstory. He didn't need to be shot in the foot, kidnapped, beaten up, yada yada—he would've been just fine with like,,, his parents dying and that's it. But nah, leave it to me to project all my trauma on this bastard KFNCMCNVM. (No I wasn't kidnapped.) Anything-else-wise, though, like I said: he's a movie franchise. I've been milking the fuck out of him and, while he's still fun to roleplay, I do need to try new things. I've gotten way too comfortable with just him, and poor Piper needs some love!!!
But I digress. Needless to say, Brendan affected my life in more ways than just online. I've literally changed my entire art style to match his "aesthetic," and hell—I even considered becoming a comic book artist to create his superhero au LOL. It's a bit sad/embarrassing considering he's just a fictional character that, in the end, holds no value or weight, but eh. When I was going through some really shitty things, he really was therapeutic. If I was sad, he was sad. If I was lonely, he was lonely. His distant parents are basically replicas of my own, and his pain sometimes reflects my own as well. Hell, even now when I'm angry I sit down and imagine superhero au shenanigans just to lash my anger out in a less harmful way. Yeah, I need therapy, but let's save that for a different day.
Hope y'all don't mind the rambles, and I especially hope y'all like the oneshot. I really don't like the trope of "friend heals other friend’s trauma," it's incorrect in so many ways, but I do think friends are a large part of the healing process. Milo especially means a lot to Brendan rn, legit the only dude that hasn't left within the span of a year LMFAO, so I fancy with the idea of Milo at the very least assisting in the healing process. Brendan still needs to grow on his own, but it's a start. (Not only that, but a large portion of Brendan's growth revolves around how he perceives others anyways.)
...It's a bit emotional for me, seeing Brendan grow while I grow as well. Call me cheesy, but we're both growing past our traumas—healing—and it's very...nice.
Anyhoo time to watch Moomins, see ya fuckers later
Longer OOC notes at the bottom; for context this takes place after a trip Brendan and Milo went on. It'll be explained during the writing. Des gave me permission for the Milo bits!
Rule number one of survival: never let anyone in.
Brendan remembers watching his father pace around the kitchen, grumbling on and on about some "poor choices" and a "traitorous bastard" or whatever. He remembers sitting across from his mother, watching her tear a picture of the parents that broke her heart into a million pieces. He remembers opening the door for J, blood splattering against the wall as a bullet eats through his foot. He remembers looking up to Bruce and Dick, waking up after they disappeared into the night without a word. He remembers helping Hayley with her children, wondering why she disappeared without a trace. He remembers learning to trust Mickey, watching him wander off towards Northstar District. He remembers greeting new faces at the border, never hearing from them again.
He remembers it all: every heartbreak, every loss, every defeat. Whenever Brendan approaches one at the border, he reminds himself to not get too close. Don't show anything, he'd tell himself, brandishing his staff, don't let them think you're weak.
Weak, because any sign of weakness clearly leads to a world of hurt. That's why his heart has been broken so many times—he's weak. Not just physically, no, but emotionally and socially. If he never locks his doors, never closes the gates, so many people could come into his life and hurt him. Maybe not purposefully, but it'd still happen; that's what happened with Bruce, with Dick, with Hayley, with Mickey, with...everyone, really. They're all gone, without him, leaving behind a boy who only felt loved for a second before his heart was crushed.
The first rule of survival is to never let anyone in, because in the end, everyone will hurt him anyways.
————
"I think that's everything," Milo says, dusting off his pants. "Thank you, really."
"Mmh." Brendan merely bobs his head up and down, sinking into the inviting mattress of his bed as he presses Roosty close. Even though the rooster stinks, Brendan nuzzles the chicken and welcomes the nostalgic scent.
Jeez, how long has it even been since he's last been in the lodge? He scours through his brain for an answer, but nothing pops up—he's lost count of the days. Too long, he settles with, and when he sits up he flinches at the various aches and bruises scattered across his frame. Now that he's no longer forced to sleep on freezing dirt and concrete, he only prays that the pulsing aches go away quickly; he cringes at the idea of working with all the pain.
The trip with Milo was dreadful. A few months ago they set off, Milo having some intrusive thoughts about his old home. Even now, when they've been back for an hour or so, Brendan still questions why he tagged along. He can scrounge up a few quick excuses: "I wanted to see the world," or "I was curious about something else up there," but he knows Milo wouldn't believe those. After all, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself, even Brendan can't believe his own lies.
The truth, though? He bites his lip and swallows, his brain forming something that sends shivers down his spine when he gazes at Milo rubbing his dog's cheeks. Brendan can't help but notice that he's been slipping lately. He's becoming too open, too...vulnerable. And when he watches Milo, his muscles and heart softening at his roommate's smile...a stone falls in his stomach.
The first rule of survival.
Well…
For just a moment he eyes Milo up and down. Does...does it really apply here...? After all, they went on that journey together, and he's still alive now...but when he remembers Bruce, Dick, Mickey, Hayley...
Fuck. That trip with Milo was a mistake.
He jolts upright. Roosty flaps his wings and fluffs out his feathers, possibly clucking a few startled insults in his own chicken tongue. (He needs to get out of here.) Brushing past Milo, Brendan grabs his staff and hurries out the door, forcing himself to think about anything else (Milo's voice sounds behind him, but he forces his ears to drown it out). He could always work on his kicking techniques, he supposes. (He needs to stay away from Milo.) Clean, too, maybe. Patrol. Anything, really, so long as he isn't stuck with his weak brain. (God, what was he thinking?)
Brendan's feet lead him to the dining room and kitchen. At his arrival people gawk at him, and he shrinks in his own skin, face burning. (Perhaps he should've picked somewhere less intense, especially considering the fact that his stomach explodes into butterflies at the sight of just one person, but...well, too late now, isn't it?) Desperately, he scurries for the counter, and—and a plate slides his way. Eyes widening a bit, he stares at the person who holds the plate out towards him. Uhm. For a moment, he remains still, but his face contorts into that of frustration as he knits his eyebrows together.
"I'm not five," he spits, pushing the plate away and grabbing his own.
Ignoring the person's exasperated comments, Brendan picks his way through the food line, and once his plate is half-full he immediately makes a course for a table in the corner. Sitting down, he hunches over his plate, toying with a measly pile of mashed potatoes but not eating it. Sooner or later, a figure steps forward and—and of course it's Milo, who is now reaching to sit down at the table. Brendan glares up at him, and Milo steps back, confusion plastered all over his face. Crap. Begrudgingly, Brendan rolls his eyes and erupts from his seat; his appetite now completely and utterly destroyed, he shoves his staff under his armpit, sets the plate on the counter and stomps off towards the training room.
It's empty.
Closing the door behind him, Brendan breathes a sigh of relief. Light swallows the area whole in the setting sun's orange and red hues, casting harsh shadows for the spots where it cannot reach. Brendan sits in those shadows, leaning against the leather punching bag as he stares down at his staff. Occasionally he flickers his eyes upward to watch the floating dust particles dance with one another without a care in the world; when he glances out the window, he sees a duo chasing one another, giggling and laughing their hearts out.
His heart aches. Shoulders sagging, he listens to that joyous sound, the sound that echoes throughout the room and taunts him. And when the sun hits the window just right, it nearly blinding him, he grits his teeth and jumps to his feet.
Brendan slams the blinds shut.
The light slinks away, leaving behind a dark blanket that covers the room. When the laughter roars, Brendan slaps a fist against the glass with a bang!—it stops. Exhaling through teeth, he rolls his eyes and steps away. The door creaks open; Brendan whips around and stares at Milo, who tilts his head as he drags his vision across the room. Gulping, Brendan brings his eyes to the two plates in the fellow teen's hands.
"I grabbed your plate," Milo says, raising one hand to show the food; a frown tugs on Brendan's lips. "You gotta eat—"
"I'm fine," Brendan snaps, "can't you leave me alone for five minutes?"
Milo closes his mouth. Brain feeling fuzzy, knees growing shaky, Brendan can't bring himself to look Milo in the eye; instead, he stares at the floor, hands curling into fists. It feels like Bruce and Dick all over again. Hayley all over again. The scolding, the angry love. It twists his stomach into knots, touches a part of him he despises. He feels twelve again—lost and alone and helpless. But he’s not twelve anymore, he'll never be twelve ever again, and—and...
The door closes.
Brendan lifts his head, bringing his vision over towards the door where Milo once stood.
There, on the floor, lies his plate.
————
He couldn't sleep that night.
Granted, most nights it's hard for him to. Sure, Brendan is mature enough to understand that nightmares are purely fictional, even so he always jolts awake from them in cold sweats, holding his blanket close and waiting for his adrenaline to die down.
This isn't that kind of night, though. Instead, he lies in his bed, propped up on his pillow and absentmindedly staring at the painting Milo gave him for his birthday. It's a silly painting: an army of chickens, Roosty the general, ready for war. Their cute ninja headbands that flow in the wind, the grim expressions on their plump faces...it makes him smile, just a bit. But every time he smiles, he reminds himself of other things; how precious a smile is, how easily it can be taken and smashed into a million pieces.
His parents broke his heart. Bruce and Dick broke his heart. Mickey broke his heart. Hayley broke his heart.
Why wouldn't Milo be the same?
And if Milo is just like the rest of them, why does Brendan sleep in a bunk, right underneath Milo? Why did Brendan go on that stupid trip with him? Why did Brendan accept the painting? It's so fucking stupid, all of it, and when Brendan begins to conjure up a million possibilities in his brain, his eyelids get wet, and he's forced to try and change the subject—but he can't. For some reason, his brain loves to play with the fact that he fucked up, and now he has to deal with the consequences.
Milo is going to break his heart. Brendan knows it.
The only way to get out of this is to break Milo's heart first, just like he did to everyone else, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t even imagine himself doing that.
Arms trembling, Brendan hops out of his bed, frowning at the thud of his bare feet against wood. He paces for a moment, running a hand through his hair, and when he hears the sound of blankets shuffling from the top bunk he immediately whips open the door and storms out of the room, shutting it behind him. His mind is a war zone; pressing fists against his temples, Brendan growls, slamming his eyes shut.
You know what's going to happen, his mind hisses. He's going to hurt you. Leave—now.
But when he turns a corner and wraps a hand around the front door of the lodge, another part of his mind pipes up: When did it all go wrong?
He...he thinks it went wrong when he met Milo.
Slamming the door behind him, Brendan sniffles, staring blankly at the wooden porch. Tears drop from his eyes and splatter against the deck, his feet, whatever it may be. Solemnly, Brendan sits down on the steps, hunched over and picking at blades of grass beneath him. The door opens behind him, and he stiffens, heart skipping a beat at the voice.
"You okay?" Of course. Milo.
When Milo sits down on the steps, next to Brendan, Brendan scoots further away, bunching his shoulders together and refusing to make a sound. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a hand reaching out, oh so carefully, but when Brendan flinches and glares Milo swiftly yanks his hand back.
Milo isn't at fault for this, Brendan knows that.
(He rests his cheek on his palm, letting his muscles relax. Milo does the same.)
No, no...it's all on him, isn't it?
He stares up at the stars, sucking in a deep breath.
...Milo doesn't deserve this.
"Hey, Brendan?" Milo shifts around, sucking in a breath and puffing out his cheeks before letting it all go: "Are we friends?"
(It was December. Christmas. Brendan's birthday. The two stand in front of a painting, one Milo made himself just for Brendan.
"Wait, do you want...me to give you something or...?" Brendan's face burns.
At his inquiry, Milo knits his eyebrows, refuting the question with a shake of the head. "Nah! That's not necessary. I'm not really the...gift-receiver type of guy, uh...if you ask me, you being my friend is enough.")
The first rule of survival.
Brendan draws his knees in close, wiping his tongue across his mouth before he parts his lips. He's silent, staring up at the stars blankly; his heart aches when he parts open his mouth.
"I think so."
2060 words.
I'm going to admit this OOC part will be very ramble-y, since I'm writing this at 4am and I'm kinda an emotional wreck LOL. A positive kind of wreck, though—sentimental.
I never really expected Brendan to become the character that he is. IC-wise I had his growth staged out, but OOC? Hell no. I never thought he'd become a character that's a staple to my online identity; a character that, despite all odds (and his beginnings as a fucking pokémon character), would stick around in my mind for three years and continue to inspire my writing choices. I was 16 when I created him, and I'm 19 now. It's insane. This fucker is like a movie franchise, there's always a new addition via a different roleplay site, au, etcetera. I still don't know why I continue to roleplay him, why I continue to develop him. To this day he's my most successful character—I really doubt I'll ever be able to top him.
Of course, I hate patting myself on the back so much, and I'll admit there are MANY things I regret with him. TNW-wise, I should've stopped with his edgy ass backstory. He didn't need to be shot in the foot, kidnapped, beaten up, yada yada—he would've been just fine with like,,, his parents dying and that's it. But nah, leave it to me to project all my trauma on this bastard KFNCMCNVM. (No I wasn't kidnapped.) Anything-else-wise, though, like I said: he's a movie franchise. I've been milking the fuck out of him and, while he's still fun to roleplay, I do need to try new things. I've gotten way too comfortable with just him, and poor Piper needs some love!!!
But I digress. Needless to say, Brendan affected my life in more ways than just online. I've literally changed my entire art style to match his "aesthetic," and hell—I even considered becoming a comic book artist to create his superhero au LOL. It's a bit sad/embarrassing considering he's just a fictional character that, in the end, holds no value or weight, but eh. When I was going through some really shitty things, he really was therapeutic. If I was sad, he was sad. If I was lonely, he was lonely. His distant parents are basically replicas of my own, and his pain sometimes reflects my own as well. Hell, even now when I'm angry I sit down and imagine superhero au shenanigans just to lash my anger out in a less harmful way. Yeah, I need therapy, but let's save that for a different day.
Hope y'all don't mind the rambles, and I especially hope y'all like the oneshot. I really don't like the trope of "friend heals other friend’s trauma," it's incorrect in so many ways, but I do think friends are a large part of the healing process. Milo especially means a lot to Brendan rn, legit the only dude that hasn't left within the span of a year LMFAO, so I fancy with the idea of Milo at the very least assisting in the healing process. Brendan still needs to grow on his own, but it's a start. (Not only that, but a large portion of Brendan's growth revolves around how he perceives others anyways.)
...It's a bit emotional for me, seeing Brendan grow while I grow as well. Call me cheesy, but we're both growing past our traumas—healing—and it's very...nice.
Anyhoo time to watch Moomins, see ya fuckers later
![[Image: QSmy0xRZs0xBlBMLavVA_auDNWC9pDAbtunOEaWd...18c-lQRPSg]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/QSmy0xRZs0xBlBMLavVA_auDNWC9pDAbtunOEaWdX0pfmJ17VjY0W7FtfjaBQDmMFFf4yX-WXymIbxD_T2f9xMDQ5mU7bSTfW2SDZyNTij0ytpcASVeGS38P6Aq40EsE5aJy18c-lQRPSg)
![[Image: D2nUNt-X4AEOwbE.jpg]](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D2nUNt-X4AEOwbE.jpg)