Redintegration [Arthur]

Posts : 29 Join date : 2017-08-19

Week 1 || Year 1

The beach was one of Brooke's safe havens. It was the crashing of the waves and the soothing breeze that helped her the most, with the horizon stretching so far out that she didn't feel trapped like she sometimes did in classrooms. There were typically no trees nearby, and when she was feeling in a particularly off mood, it was the beach she would go, sitting herself down by the edge where the water grazed the sand. Balto would stay nearby, and if Brooke was feeling alright, she'd let the dog off to play in the waves. If she wasn't, Balto would stay right by her side, obedient as always, and let her run her fingers through his fur.

To say she was absolutely relieved when she heard that there was a beach near the school -- and, indeed, it was on an island, so there was more than just a beach -- would be an understatement. It helped a lot to know that her favourite safe haven would be within reach. The idea of woods being nearby was an unfortunate set back, of course, but since there wouldn't be too many reasons to enter it (she would avoid it at all costs, if possible) she wasn't too hesitant about that.

Besides, as Cassie said, she would have to learn to face it one day. She couldn't associate woods with what happened forever; it wasn't healthy, or fair for the woods (as Cassie put it).

The first few days of school had flown by, although in more of uncertainty and fear than enjoyment, and Brooke had had enough of people staring at her wrists whenever she walked past, or the whispers she heard sometimes. She was still healing, and it was still a topic she wasn't comfortable talking about, and so one afternoon after classes had ended, she made a break for the beach, Balto by her side.

As she stepped onto the white sand, taking in the feel of the grit beneath her bare feet, slippers held in one hand, Balto's lead in the other, she let out a soft sigh of relief. Her head was in a good place, today, and she bent over to undo the clasp. "Go on," she murmured to Balto, his signal that he wasn't needed to work just then, and he gave her a bark as he took off towards the ocean.

She followed behind, taking in the smell and sounds, when movement not from Balto caught her eyes. A second dog, small and brown and adorable was walking by a patch of rocks. An oddly-familiar looking male was following behind, and Brooke felt her insides do a weird lurch. She knew that hair and that face, would recognise it in a crowd. It wasn't so much that he was Thai (it helped, of course; he was the only Thai she knew). It was that her childhood best friend wasn't someone she could easily forget.

"Arthur?" she called out, glancing at the dog and back at the figure. There was only one reason Arthur would have a dog; pets weren't allowed at the school, with the obvious exception of service animals -- much like Brooke herself had. What had happened that he needed one? She was curious, but wasn't going to ask; she knew that not everybody was open about it. "I didn't know you were here!" she added, stepping closer. "It's been so long! How are you?"

Posts : 22 Join date : 2017-11-22

After a stressful first week of his second consecutive year, Arthur needed a break. Summer had been full of family and staying inside and bonding with his new service dog, a soft brown poodle named Mocha, and there was little time or energy left to socialize. And being thrown back into school, with classes and dorms and cafeterias, left Arthur feeling exceptionally drained. So, as he had done so often during the previous year, he went to the beach. It was where Mocha could run around or stick to his side, and it was very rare to run into anyone there.

For the end of summer, it was a fairly cool day, especially with the slight breeze from across the water. If he weren't wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt, Arthur might have been cold; though he had always tended toward the cooler side in general, which made sense considering his Thai heritage. Fortunately, it was just warm enough for him to go barefoot on the sand, and the beach looked to be empty. On top of that, it was an area away from cliffs—if he had had to pass by them he would certainly need Mocha to lead and distract him, but since it was a flat area he reached down to let her off duty. "Pị lèn," Arthur said to the poodle as he undid her lead. Mocha's ears perked up and she freely bounded off across the beach, loving the freedom as always but never straying too far. Arthur always liked to give her off time when he was feeling fine, and he could always walk close behind, focusing on breathing and letting go stress.

For a first week, classes were somehow still easy; there wasn't much homework or work in general and the teachers were kind enough, but even after a full, uninterrupted year in school, Arthur wasn't making close friends. Maybe it was because of his quietness, or because he was a year behind, or perhaps even everyone thought he was fine on his own. He wasn't fine, of course, although he wasn't quite alone either—Mocha was a constant comfort, and a great listener, but there was only so much a dog could give, even one as sweet as her.

He looked back ahead to Mocha, but his attention changed at the sound of an unfamiliar bark, his gaze drawn toward the ocean where another dog—a husky?—was running toward the waves. There hadn't been any other service dogs at school last year, so what new student needed one? Would Mocha behave—

"Arthur?

Arthur jerked his thoughts elsewhere and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his name. Through the increasing speed of his heartbeat, Art turned toward the voice; then started wondering in the back of his mind if he was looking at one of his own illusions—it had happened before, though usually only when he was sick. It's been years though, and she looks... older, he reasoned, expression clearly giving away his shock and confused panic; but there was no real cause for him to think of her, so it had to actually be her. "Brooke," he murmured softly, half unsure if he was right or not. What were the chances of her being there, especially after two years of nothing aside from the occasional word between parents? His heart made no move to slow down, so he looked to Mocha.

"Mocha, teụ̄xn p̣hạy," Arthur called, and the poodle immediately bounded back to him from across the beach, nudging a hand in comfort and letting him put her lead back on. She didn't need it, per say, but it made Arthur feel marginally better and was a more solid indication that she was on duty again. After taking a hopefully short moment to collect himself, he turned back to Brooke, this time certain it was her, especially as she spoke more.

"Brooke—it's been," he prayed he wouldn't stumble in his words, "forever, yeah?" He strokes Mocha again and she pushes against his hand further, and he finds it in himself to continue. "I've been—" He hadn't been completely fine; "I'm alright, yeah; school isn't fun, but, I guess it's only been a week?" It's a bit easier to give a small laugh, not feeling as forced as it often was with friends of his parents. Oh gods, I'm being so awkward. Am I being rude? Did I answer her question the right way? Does she know anything about—

The fur under his fingers reminded him to calm down, to not get lost in panic or memories. Arthur silently thanked his parents for thinking to get him a service dog, then again focused on his childhood friend for a response.

[Commands:
"Pị lèn." (ไปเล่น - "Go play") off duty
"Teụ̄xn p̣hạy." (เตือนภัย - "Warning/guard") on duty]

Posts : 29 Join date : 2017-08-19

[Trigger Warnings: Depression, abuse, suicide, rape, PTSD, etc. Basically a whole bunch, tbh. Read with caution.]]

Life had not been kind to Brooke. From birth to the time she was 9, all she'd known was hurt and suffering. Nothing she ever did was right in the eyes of those who meant to be caregivers, and she had the scars to prove it. Criss-cross lines of skin that somehow managed to stitch themselves back together, reminders that not everyone in the world was good or kind, covered her back. She didn't let anyone see them, kept them hidden, but she always knew they were there. Sometimes they still hurt, as though the whip was cutting into her again, and she had to remind herself that they were phantom pains and did not exist except in her mind.

And then she had found home, two people who acted like parents should, providing her with a place to be herself -- and, more than that, gave her the love that all people need to survive. Beyond that, she also had a brother, a foreign concept at the point of time, but now someone she couldn't live without. Colby was someone who made her feel safe, made her feel as though nothing could ever hurt her again, and while he teased and bullied her at times, she knew at the end of the day he loved her and would never hurt her.

Life, however, had different plans than a happily-forever-ever-after, and the cabun incident happened. She still couldn't bring herself to say the word at times, when her mind was acting against her and the memories were so tangible it was as though she was back in that awful place. Sometimes Brooke wondered why life had chosen her. What was it about her that attracted such awful things? There was never a satisfactory answer, and time had taught her to extinguish the question the moment it entered her mind. These thoughts did nothing useful and only succeeded in making things worse.

Balto helped, of course. That was why Cassie had suggested him in the first place. A service animal, Brooke had been told, was not just a pet -- it was a companion, someone who's main duty was to make sure you were okay and helped you ground yourself when your mind took you back to dark times and dark places. Cassie had been right, as Cassie usually was, and Brooke soon grew to depend on Balto as she knew her daughter relied on her.

That was another thing: Carissa was unexpected, unplanned, and perhaps even unwanted (who wants a child at thirteen?) -- but never unloved. Brooke never considered aborting then, and she would never consider abandoning her. She herself knew what it was like, growing up not knowing why she'd been given up, although perhaps now she could understand, even if just a little, why someone might.

School had been unimaginable at that point. After all she'd been through, she was to go back to society, try and fit back into the social norm where those her age were more concerned about hairstyles and nail painting than if they were going to have a panic attack. None of them had scars on their wrists, reminders that she had come so very close to not existing. Loud noises still startled her; certain voices or sounds made her feel his hands pressing her down and his hot breath on her face.

And yet school had been what she went back to. Perhaps it was her stubborness, or perhaps it had been a desire to at the very least try for some semblance of normality. Whatever the case, Brooke had lifted her chin defiantly, as she usually did, and fought back the tears of panic. One hand on Balto's lead, the other clutching the strap of her backpack, she'd walked into school.

That had been five days ago, and Brooke was already second guessing her decision.

Seeing Arthur, however, eyes darting to his service dog, Brooke felt a slight relief. She wasn't alone. At the very least, she had someone else there who understood. She watched as he called ... Mocha? ... back to him, and a small stab of guilt filled her. She should've thought twice before calling out like that; she of all people knew the fear noises could bring.

Still, she pushed back the thoughts. Blaming was a game she could play forever, and she'd been told numerous times to not entertain those emotions. "Yeah," she said, nodding, moving a little closer so they didn't have to raise their voice, but keeping enough distance that it was obvious she wasn't going to try and approach. Personal space was vital. "Two years, I think. Time really flies, doesn't it?"

She smiled at him. "School is..." She let out a laugh, slightly humourless, and shook her head. "Too full of normal people who don't understand."

Openness was something Brooke didn't truly struggle with. She may have hidden the more private details, but she'd never been one to shy from difficult topics, especially not when it involved her. Too many people thought of these things as taboo, and she wanted to change that. There's no shame in having a horrible past, Cassie had told her, and Brooke believed that fully.

Bringing her fingers up to her lips as Colby had taught, she gave two sharp whistles, calling Balto back to her. At once he came to her side, and she put her hand on his back, telling him she didn't quite need him to work but wanted him close. "They question him," she added, giving Arthur a wry smile. "They ask me why I was allowed a pet and they weren't, or what I needed a service dog for, but don't want to listen about panic attacks or PTSD..." Again, she let out a dry laugh, lifted her hand from Balto, and said, "Good boy. Go play." He sniffed once, as though making sure, licked her hand, and then bounded back off. She turned back to Arthur with a slight grin. "Aren't normals funny like that?"

Posts : 22 Join date : 2017-11-22

[Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide]

So much had changed since Arthur was last around Brooke, even aside from the obvious trauma. He didn't have so many piercings back then, for one, though he had gotten at least one pair before they fell out of contact. Maybe he hadn't been so awkward, but that was harder to remember clearly—with his luck, the nerves were new and would work to his disadvantage and dissuade Brooke from befriending him again. He was certainly taller than he had been two years prior, now standing a good few inches higher than her—despite the height, however, he somehow felt she still stood above him, in a way. From her words she seemed so open, almost freely speaking about what she dealt with—almost the same as him, no less—and not skirting around it like Arthur did constantly.

Even before the past two years, Arthur had been horrible at taking care of himself; it was something his mom scolded him about often, though more gently as of late. She always said he was so kind and good at caring for others, especially when both parents got unusually busy one year and Art was left mostly alone to fix meals for himself and his little brother, but they got through that rough patch with surprising ease. After that, Lisa trusted him a lot more to take care of Mark if she was overwhelmed or busy. But there were also times when Arthur took care of the younger and missed fixing himself dinner, or focused too much on helping Mark with his homework while putting off his own. Of course, Mark never quite noticed that imbalance of priorities, but their parents did, especially when they had to intervene after a long business trip that left Arthur exhausted after taking care of a sick Mark for half the time.

As a result of that tendency, after Daniel's death, Arthur couldn't find it in himself to talk about what he was going through, or even come close to working through it in a vague sense. A lot of the time, it still felt like a fresh wound. It still felt like he was on that rooftop, sitting next to Daniel, trying to help, and the next second causing something horrible—Mocha pushed her head against his hand yet again, trained to notice when he was distracted, which was more often than not when he was thinking of Daniel jumping off that roof. It was hard to believe it was not two weeks that had passed, but two entire years.

"Time really flies, doesn't it?"

Arthur watched her move closer and tried to show he didn't mind the proximity, but there was no telling how his nerves interfered. "Uh, yeah, it does," He agreed quietly, certain she would hear it over the sound of the ocean. "Feels like yesterday I was ten and you were just find-finding your place." He had never known how to respectfully talk about adoption, thus why he stuttered, but he followed up with a small, unsure smile.

He listened to her go on again about school, nodding in understanding and watching her call the husky to her—he knew the whistles were coming, so they didn't frighten him as much as Brooke first calling out his name. He started to wonder about why she needed a service dog, if something equally as horrible or worse had happened to her, if she was alright. If her dog's off duty, she must at least be okay, he reasoned before returning his attention to Brooke, almost feeling like he should sit down so they could talk properly and catch up.

At her next words, though, his expression relaxed to one of slight awe and some of the tension from nerves slipped out. How was she open and confident enough to admit outright what she had to deal with? Was it really as easy as just saying the words?

He focused back on Brooke's last question, "I know what you mean," Arthur admitted, as if it wasn't obvious he did, "with Mocha I—I didn't really..." he takes in a breath, "I got her near the end of last school year, and no one else had a service dog, and—and they... didn't really get it? Th-that she wasn't a pet, that I—" he paused, dancing with the idea of admitting his problems for a second before fear took over again and he backed out, "that I need her," he said quietly, slightly ashamed at how he couldn't get the words out, the ones she probably deserved. They might not have spoken for two years, but they were close enough before for Arthur to trust Brooke; and now, she was trusting him with something that he was afraid to return. Would she expect him to—no, she'd never want me to force it out, Art reminded himself, with slight self-berating that he would come near thinking that low of her.

He found his attention drawn again to the husky, wondering if Mocha would get along with Brooke's dog if he let her off duty again. He felt good enough again—his heart had calmed as much as it would manage—so he gave her one last pat and undid her lead again, murmuring, "Pị lèn." Mocha paused for a second to look at him and he nodded, waving a hand to shoo her off, and again she was off across the beach, trotting easily toward Brooke's dog.

A quiet pause. "What's his name?" Arthur asked—and it was almost the most natural sentence out of him thus far, he even blushed at how outright it was. Brooke would no doubt remember his love of animals, he was sure, and it was a relief to know at least that one thing, however small, had not changed after two years. But it was a bit embarrassing to ask someone he hadn't seen for two years about a dog's name, especially as it just came out like that.

Posts : 29 Join date : 2017-08-19

Time would heal, people had told her. They were well-meaning, she was certain -- most didn't mean harm, after all -- but they were wrong. Time did nothing but put physical distance between the events and her; it didn't, however, mean that they were tangible distances. More often that not, with each passing day, she wondered when the next life-changing event was going to happen. She never allowed herself to think, even for a moment, that it was over and she would be safe for the rest of her life. She'd made that mistake once, and what had happened?

With a light shake of her head, she pulled herself from the pits of her thoughts. They never helped, never did anything than cause confusion and fear, two emotions Brooke hated despite them being old companions. It was ironic, really; she'd longed for some sort of consistency, and it came in the form of doubt and insecurity and panic attacks. But there was always good, and she had her parents and Colby and Balto and Carissa. She had love, and a safe place she could call home. She had a child, a proper family, and nothing could change that.

Returning his smile, Brooke lifted a shoulder in a light shrug. "Sometimes I wish I were ten again. I thought..." She trailed off. What could she say that didn't sound like whining? One thing Brooke never did was complain. People had told her that she, of all people, had a right to do so, but Brooke saw no good in it. It was a story to tell, sure, and it made her who she was and she would never shy away from it, but complaining would never help. "I thought that after my adoption, nothing bad would ever happen again and I was safe for life." Almost off-handedly, softly, as though an afterthought, she added, "Oh well."

She took in his words, nodding as he spoke. She knew the feeling. Perhaps they might have had different reasons for needing a service dog, and perhaps no two people felt things the same way, but there would still be understanding. There was always a connection between those who had monsters living both in and around them, in shadows and in memories.

"Yeah," she said, her lips lifting into a semi, mostly dry, smile. "I uh, don't think I deal very well with idiots," she admitted, her smile turning into a sly grin as she recounted the few times she'd been faced with accusations from peers. "Once, in class, someone kept demanding that I didn't need a dog, and asking me why why why why. I got so fed up I stood up, looked him dead in the eyes, and said 'I was raped, you insensitive shit-faced ape.' Then I punched him. I didn't get in trouble for the swearing or, uhm," she felt her cheeks heat up in a light blush; it wasn't her proudest moment, but it had happened nevertheless, "well, breaking his nose, but he got like, three months worth of detention for antagonising me."

It was almost as soon as she finished talking that she realised what she'd said, and the blush deepened. She didn't often talk about it, not because she was afraid or was uncomfortable (she was used to the discomfort) but rather because the reactions she got weren't ones she liked. People often reacted negatively, as though it was them that experienced it and not her. They'd feed her platitudes or apologise, and it was just unpleasant all around. But, perhaps, of all people, Arthur would be alright with it. He might understand more than anyone else, and Brooke realised her mind must've decided that without consulting her.

Following his gaze, she looked over to where his dog -- Mocha, she was now certain -- was heading over to hers. "Balto," she answered easily. "After the movie. It was always one of my favourites, you remember."

Pausing momentarily, she debated what she was going to say next for a few seconds. On one hand, it was honest and true; on the other, it might come across awkwardly. In the end, honesty won, and she flashed him another grin. "It's really, really good to see you again, Art," she said, using the nickname from their childhood, hoping that he still used it.