loungelizard | Prisma ♦︎ Inbox

[Larry's smile immediately falls.

The silence that follows is thick enough you could swim through it. Larry stares at Ford with a slight frown, brows lightly furrowed, long enough that he languidly blinks at him several times before finally speaking up again:]

Are you really sure you want to know the answer to that, Ford?

[Once he opens this Pandora's box, he won't be able to put the knowledge back in.]

[For what is not remotely the first time in his life, Stanford Pines looks at what is very clearly a dangerous situation and yeets himself directly into it without pausing to think of how wrong it might go.]

Yyyyyes?

[Maybe it's really bad. Maybe Larry only sees four colors. Or maybe Ford's just a text box with a physical description, if Larry's really old school. That would almost be funny.]

[There are very few things in this world that make Larry go into Serious Mode. This, apparently, is one of them.

Larry pushes himself out of his loungey and artful position to sit up. Despite him being stoned, he manages to give Ford an unusually stone-cold stare.

Even though it's not really an appropriate time for subeeisms.]

I'm being serious.

I'm a self-aware video game character. That means I'm aware of everyone else, too, and I can tell who else of us is from fiction and who isn't. I know the reason why we're here -- beyond the--"what the Moon Knights tell us".

Do you know what you're asking, Ford? Do you really want to know?

[See, the problem with there being few things that do it is that Ford hasn't really had the opportunity to see it yet. They've had discussions about more serious topics, sure, but Larry's never quite acted like this. Ford's brain once again does several very quick leaps all in succession. The first is a horrible intrusive thought that says 'he's trying to say you're fictional too', but surely that can't be it. The second is the realization that Larry is being too serious, really too serious, and that must mean he's joking. Right? Playing it up for effect? Maybe the real answer is boring. Maybe that's the punchline. 'You look normal'. Ha, ha. There's a little bit of a laugh in his voice when he responds and it's just a tinge nervous.]

What, do I look bad in 4bit?

[It's not what it sounds like, surely. He's just jumping to conclusions because he's already in a headspace where the possibility might seem plausible.]

[Four--

Ugh, this is the problem with being a constant jokester. People don't take you seriously when it's time to be serious, which is irritating -- but not irritating enough to just blurt it out. It's enough to break someone's psyche if they're not ready for it and Larry is not going to do it to his friend. He crosses his arms as he stares at Ford, carefully choosing his words, before deciding on:]

...You look exactly how you're supposed to.

[Which is intentionally unhelpful as possible, hoping that in some way it'll end this unnecessary and dangerous conversation. "Supposed to" - either because he's fictional and has an intentional appearance, or that he looks like a real person even through the eyes of a video game character.]

Exactly how--

... I'm supposed to.

[That would have been the time to say the joke, if there was a joke. Ford might be high but he thinks he can tell the difference between a joke and not a joke regardless. So that wasn't a joke. None of that was a joke. And surely if the real answer was just 'you look like a normal human being' Larry wouldn't be sitting there staunchly refusing to say it. And that means--]

You're SERIOUS?

[He holds up a hand like this assumption he's making will pull the wool from his eyes and he'll suddenly see beyond whatever fourth wall may or may not be there. It looks the same as it ever has: six fingers, wrinkles and calluses, light dusting of hair. Real. Unless it looks real because he's fake, and he sees everything that's fake as real, and--]

Tell me what I look like!

[There is a very distinct crack on 'look'.]

[Larry's eyebrows raise in alarm. Oh, yeah, he's definitely not ready for this knowledge.

...but he's clearly not ready to let it go, either.

Larry brow lowers again and he lets out a defeated sigh. He unfolds his arms and holds out an empty hand in silent request to be given Ford's sketchbook and drawing implement. Larry's no artist, but he can at least draw a decent communicative sketch. In fact, his less-than-artist skills are probably going to do them both a favor in the long run.]

I'll show you.

Edited 2020-04-27 09:20 (UTC)

[Ford almost doesn't hand over the sketchbook. He literally just asked to be told but the gravity (ha) of what it might feel like to see it is... a lot. It's a lot. It's hard to tell if it's better or worse to be doing this while high. Worse because his brain is going a mile a minute making assumptions based on nothing at all. Better because he's more open to it to begin with.

This isn't the first time he's thought about this possibility. It's crossed his mind on occasion ever since that first conversation, and then even more frequently after the second, the one in the bathroom. He just always dismissed it because, well...

Because it was safer. And that's not in his nature, to take the safe path over the one that leads him to the truth. That's always been one of his biggest strengths and his greatest weaknesses. Now is no different.]

Okay.

[He holds it out, along with the pencil. He's almost at the point where he hopes this isn't a joke, because it's an awful long way to go for one and it sure won't be funny at this point.]

[Larry takes both from him and flips to an empty page. He holds it open on his naked lap while he fills said page with a schematic of Ford. He's at it for a while - and for the entire duration, he doesn't even look up at Ford. He's doing it entirely by memory, which is not that much of a challenge because he's spent many a quiet moment late at night or early in the morning drinking in the image of...well, him. Attuned to the vibe of whatever drug this is, he recalls every detail - the relation of facial structures to each other, the way the lines change direction and where.

It's not a bad re-creation of the Gravity Falls art style from someone who doesn't draw for a living, nor has seen a single episode of the show.

When he's done, he turns the sketchbook face-down and hands it back to Ford to give him the freedom to reveal it to himself when he's ready.

He's still not smiling.]

[Okay. Alright. The length of time it takes is a little unsettling, particularly because in the state he's in Ford's perception of time is somewhat distorted. He passes the minutes by examining the fine details in the wall hangings over Larry's head and finishing off the entirety of what was left of his moon dust. This situation calls for it.

It's nice to be given the choice of exactly when he gets to see himself. The real him, or at least, the real him as Larry sees it. He doesn't know exactly what he expects. He's visited fictional worlds before where his own appearance was changed to match, but that was a byproduct of a curse and now he's realizing those were fictional worlds within his fictional world. Maybe that works differently. Maybe he's overthinking it. It could be both.

He flips over the sketchbook.]

Really?

[He looks up. Back down. Back up.]

I'm not even four heads tall!

[Back down again. A cartoon? He was expecting something closer to The Grimdark Chronicles, considering. The kind of stuff that happens to him isn't the kind of stuff that happens to cartoons. He covers his mouth with a hand and then drags it down his jaw thoughtfully.]

... I look like a fucking muppet.

[Okay. That's not the worst reaction he could've had. Larry can't help but huff out a laugh.]

That makes the two of us, buddy.

[Larry lays back down, crossing his legs and propping up his ankles on Ford's knee, throwing his arms behind his head as he reclines.]

At least you're more of a Fozzie than -- [He pulls an arm from behind him to poke the side of his own nose] -- Gonzo.

[That's very Ford, to react... not wrong, exactly, but different. To focus in on a different thing that someone else might. That would be true even if he was sober. His hand, still on his jaw, rubs thoughtfully along the angles of it. Is it really that big? Sweet Moses.]

Your nose looks fine.

[But then, he can't see what Larry really looks like. Any of the ways he's really looked like, from the original limited pixel graphics to the slick vectors of the reboot. He wonders how long that's going to actually bother him, particularly when the thing about it that bothers him is just that he can't see it. What he'd see doesn't matter so much as that he can't.]

How I see it. I mean.

[This is easier to talk about than the rest of the thoughts roiling around in his head. This revelation implies a lot of things, puts a lot of his past into a very different light. It's a monumental knot to untangle and Ford doesn't know quite where to pull first.]

It is fine. It's also huge. You won't be gaining any brownie points for telling me otherwise, hehe!

It always has been huge. One whole pixel made all the difference, way back when.

[He throws an arm back behind him. Who's got a healthy body image? This guy. Especially while he's high.]

I know how I look to you anyway. [He nods towards the sketchbook.] Assuming you don't take artistic liberties when drawing real people.

[What an interesting choice of words: "real people".]

I never said it wasn't huge. That's part of why I like it.

[He sure does have a type, but even high and discombobulated he knows better than to go into that. Ford may not know much about relationships but he's pretty sure it's bad form to tell the man you've been fucking for months that he looks very much like another man you once fell in love with.

That was all carefully predestined too, wasn't it? Fiddleford finding a nice girl, settling down, making a life for himself?

Going insane?

Did he only forgive Ford so quickly because the story needed a neat ending?

It's not a nice train of thought. And sure, in some ways it removes some blame from Ford's shoulders, but in others it makes it worse because it means there's nothing he could have done differently. A lot of things don't look so great with that light shining on them.

He's been quiet too long. Probably. It feels like he has.]

My brother used to draw comics back when we were kids in Jersey. This looks a little like that.

[He doesn't smile, exactly, but one of the corners of his mouth twitches upward a little.]

Our dad hated them. If he found out about this it'd kill him again.

Oh -- in that case, thanks! Hehe.

[We knew the compliment would be found in there somewhere.]

I'd bet. Comics weren't "cool" back then.

[Larry takes his arms down from behind his head and roots around for his green pixie stick. Ah, there it is. He pinches a section of it and kicks back the free dust. He rolls the noxiously sweet substance around in his mouth, delighting in how it makes the back of his teeth hurt with just how sugary it is. Once he's got a mouth full of saliva, he swallows it down, then smacks his mouth.]

Mahh! Plenty of reasons to avoid letting people know. It seems like a bigger deal than it actually is. [He's only saying it this way because Ford isn't freaking out on the outside.] It's not like nonfictional people have any more control over their lives than we do, when you think about it!

[Yeah. The whole issue is that he's thinking about it. And now that Larry's said it he's got a starting point, doesn't he, and it's as good a place as any to dive in.]

That's true. But now I can't blame things on probability. None of my mistakes were random chance.

It's not being fictional that's the problem. I've met fictional people before you. [One tried to eat his brain. It was a whole thing.] It's that now I know for certain I was meant to be the worst Ford.

[This has basically brought all the self-hate he was learning to get over crashing down around his ears again! Great! Good work!]

Meh. Entropy is overrat--

[Wait. What? Larry glares up at Ford.]

The hell does that mean, "worst Ford?"

[Ford doesn't want to say 'it's a long story'. That's cliche. On the other hand, it's the most honest and succinct way of explaining exactly why he doesn't generally bring it up. You know, besides the fact that it paints him in an awful light and he always worries that once someone knows their opinion of him will change drastically. It's already so hard to form friendships. He doesn't want to shoot himself in the foot on purpose.

But it's relevant now, isn't it. Maybe not all of it. Maybe he can get out of telling the version that starts all the way back on Glass Shard Beach in 1950-something, but he has to tell some version of it if only to explain why it's making him feel the way it is.]

There are infinite universes out there, and that means infinite Earths and infinite Fords. I've been to some of those Earths. There's usually a key difference.

[He flips to a new page in his sketchbook. It might be easier to illustrate the concepts he wants to get across, especially because he's not feeling very eloquent.]

Do you remember that ex I mentioned to you? The one who had a bounty out on my head?

[It had been a joke then. It's not now.]

[Larry lifts his leg up and kicks the sketchbook out of Ford's hands. Okay, it's not a very aggressive kick, it's only as hard as it needs to be to knock it out of his grip.]

I don't need a lecture on Alternative Universe Theory, Ford.

[He knows what a fanfic is.]

But go on.

[Wow, okay. These are canon alternate universes but you do you, you little shit. Ford looks at Larry for a long moment.]

Alright. Fine.

[He tosses his pencil over the back of the couch. He can be petty too. Assholes who kick his belongings don't get visual aids.]

You asked, you know.

[Anyway.]

His name was Bill Cipher. He was a chaos demon who lived in the space between universes. Because of its unstable nature that space was going to collapse eventually. He needed a new universe to escape to but more importantly he needed someone to open the door. My chosen area of study made me the perfect patsy. He told me that he was a muse, that he'd give me the answers I was looking for, but really all he wanted was a way in and a body to use in the meantime.

I wasn't the first Ford he tried this on. I was the first one who fell for it.

Edited 2020-04-28 04:42 (UTC)

[He doesn't need a visual aid. He's probably better off without one, because if he finds out that Ford's tastes include A Whole Goddamn Equilateral Triangle, he's probably going to take a slight hit to that positive body image vibe he's got going on.

Larry rests that foot that kicked his sketchbook on Ford's inner thigh. There's a bit of an affectionate gesture to it.]

Keep going...

[Because he doesn't see how this makes him the 'worst' Ford yet.]

[Why does nobody else ever see how big of a deal this is? He was stupid enough to trust a demon, first of all, and stupid enough to almost give it a doorway into his world and his head and... and...

And that's not the real issue here. But the real issue is more personal and more difficult and maybe he's just high enough and angry enough at the whole situation to talk about it a little more freely than he might have otherwise.]

Well there's a lot to cover! Do you want to hear about how I was so enamored with him that I destroyed my relationship with the only friend I had ever managed to make? How about how I was dumb enough to make a deal with him that included unlimited possession of my body, so any time I so much as dozed off he'd take over and make me throw myself down the stairs? How about the thirty years I spent alone as an interdimensional outlaw trying to find a way to fix what I'd done, which didn't matter, because I missed the only chance I had to fire the fucking gun I got myself banned from half the multiverse stealing the parts to build!

[The longer he talks the more animated his hand gestures get. Should have let him keep the sketchbook, because now that his hands are free he's doing this. His voice is also reaching unprecedented levels of cracking.]

Oh! And then! When I actually managed to get back to my own universe, all I wound up doing was ushering in the apocalypse I was trying to prevent, and then I spent half that apocalypse as a gold statue in Bill's stupid crystal pyramid doing approximately nothing of value because I was too useless not to get myself taken hostage. I nearly got my twelve year old niece and nephew murdered and my brother erased from existence because I couldn't even fix the mess I made, so they had to do it for me!

[He takes a deep breath and slams both his hands down on his knees.]

I wonder why it might make me a little upset to find out all of that was engineered for someone else's entertainment!

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bout to end this man's whole career

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local grandpa has never been to therapy so now he's Like This