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╰┈➤ Every day is the same. Work, get told off, fix mistakes, self-loathe.. rinse, repeat.
LEADS INTO FLUFF MENTIONS OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AHEAD!!─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Even the most emotionally blind individual could see the difference between companionship and tolerance. There are many examples, but in Arlan's case, he finds himself working to the bone for little to no reward beyond basic necessities. He tolerates the debilitating headaches, the blood, the pain, and all of the mental tolls whenever he is required to. It's always been this way. He leaps to every opportunity to sacrifice himself, earning himself a scar-riddled body while others flaunt their purity. That particular aspect has never truly bothered Arlan. He has learned to love his scars for what they are, maybe even as badges of triumph. But apparently, the scars covering his body aren't enough proof of his work. Arlan often finds himself being torn apart by Herta's sharp-tongued language. Of course, her words leave deep impressions on him. He can defend himself, but when it comes to talking back to Herta, Arlan feels too small. He feels pressured, backed into a corner with no hope for escape.
His head is full of ideas, all of which are destructive, but effective. All plans lead to Arlan's self-destruction with a slim chance of recovery. Was his hopes to crash and burn? At that point, Arlan was so lost that he had no idea what his own mind was trying to say. Some might suggest seeking Asta's help, to which Arlan would immediately shut down. He can't afford to show up at her door looking like powerless prey. That was possibly his worst fear. Being perceived as weak and like prey is something that Arlan frequently frets over. His thoughts soared about in his mind, all unclear and fuzzy. He almost felt lightheaded, unable to walk straight, no matter how much he tried to push himself forwards.
Somehow, Arlan felt tied down. Each step that guided him deeper into the space station felt too heavy to continue. It wasn't just physical exhaustion, but also mental exhaustion. It felt like Arlan's own mind had clocked out, leaving nothing but an empty skull and shell, functioning on autopilot alone to get through the days. All the overhead lights in the station beamed down on Arlan, leaving his whirling head pounding. He almost shied away from the light. In a sense, he wanted to run away from the endless cycle of work and tolerate. Herta is not exactly an ideal boss, no matter how much Arlan has tried to reason with her, she doesn't seem to budge. She leaves whenever she pleases, and to some, that seems amusing: but not to Arlan. He always has to clean up after Herta's unexpected abandonments. Sure, he doesn't entirely blame Herta for it, but he does expect some form of reasoning to happen at some point.
The omnipresent sense of dread welling in Arlan's chest would certainly drive him mad sooner or later. He could only blindly lead himself into a dark corner of the head research unit, disguising himself amidst the benches and houseplants that truly did not smell favorable. It wasn't exactly what Arlan would want to sit through his thoughts around, but it made for better company than sitting out in the open under the eyes of researchers, some judgmental, others kind. Arlan felt like a cowering rabbit, pressing his gloved hands against the sides of his slightly unruly hair as he crouched and hid. He couldn't shut his own mind up. He imagined that even if he bashed his head repeatedly, he'd never stop thinking. It was impossible to grasp a coherent thought. At that point, Arlan wanted to simply melt and just drift off to sleep— it'd be better than staying awake and hearing his own mind shriek at him about things he couldn't understand.
"Hiding in the shrubs, huh?"
The voice brought him no consolation. "No, I just dropped something." Arlan deadpanned as he spoke, refusing to look you in the eye. You seemed to ponder for a moment before nodding, "Need help finding it..?" You hesitantly asked, unsure of if that was your signal to leave. Arlan shot a sharp glare in your direction, confirming your suspicions wordlessly. Nonetheless, you sat down on the bench that rested on the floor before Arlan, using your presence to mask his. Arlan lifted his head. "What are you doing?" He harshly whispered. You shot a glance over your shoulder with a soft smile, "I'm just takin' a rest." You casually replied. Arlan heaved a defeated sigh, "Fine, fine," he shook his head aggressively. "Hey, uh, do you ever notice that Lady Asta gets annoyed by me..?" He hesitantly asked.
There was a brief moment of silence that followed, where Arlan figured he already got his answer, but your voice managed to convince him otherwise. "Not really," you leaned forwards, sparing Arlan several glances. "I mean, sure, she worries about you— but everyone does. When you care about someone, sometimes you think and do stupid stuff." Your words truly did resonate well with Arlan, as he hoped they would. A soft smile began to hint upon Arlan's lips, "Yeah. I got that," he huffed a bit. "But it feels like I somehow always manage to put her in a bad mood." "Well," you shifted to face Arlan. "You don't put me in a bad mood, you never have, and you never will." The confidence in your voice easily swayed Arlan's original, self-hating resolve. The sharpness in his tone thawed. "...you're right. Thank you." He hurried to latch onto you, hugging you tightly and ignoring his gear that smacked against you.
It didn't bother you, actually. You instead wrapped Arlan up in a tight hug, nuzzling into his neck and eagerly squeezing him. It was hard to enjoy the hug beneath all of Arlan's clunky gear, but you found a way to, just like he'd find a way to move on. There was no certainty of the future, yet the security of the present brought unfathomable comfort. That alone is enough.
