come_sailaway | he gives his harness bells a shake [open]

WHO: Phil, friends, and you
WHEN: Nov 2nd and onwards
WHERE: Around
WHAT: moping about like a loser (November catchall)
WARNINGS: Aftermath of Halloween, contains some references to the carnage

i. the only other sound's the sweep (tauva, night of nov 1st/morning of nov 2nd)

Besides speaking with Erin and Darcy, Phil doesn't leave his room on November 1st. He doesn't answer the door, except for those he knows well enough. Most texts are similarly ignored. He just wants to... sleep is the wrong word. Turn off, maybe. Thankfully there's piles of breakfast outside for him to filch, but even if there wasn't, he doesn't think that the hunger pangs would overpower the exhausting prospect of having to talk to someone.

(And they may well want to, if they see any of him in Photos at Sea. Bloodied and beaten, Maeve standing over his corpse.)

But then it's 2 AM. Normally he's down by midnight, and he's not lacking in fatigue, but sleeping doesn't feel right. Not after what's happened. What, just rest, after all that? Just sleep?

So it's in the night when the owl finally flies his nest, down to Tauva, and pours himself a drink.

ii. of easy wind and downy flake (around, early november)

He's not done sulking, but he's done with doing it in his cabin. After a while it starts getting cramped and stuffy, so instead he'll do it in places like the library or the lounge or the shadows of the pool deck, and hope that he looks dour enough for people to leave him alone. Yes, he wants to be around people, and no, he doesn't want them to talk to him. (Not that he'll turn them away if they do.)

He fills his time with hobbies. Where before he'd just done things for the sake of it, now they're distractions, filling time before he starts doing something stupid, keeping himself from getting too mired in misery. He shreds napkins to pieces as small as he can get them and scatters the bits into the sea like shitty snow. He sits on the deck with an empty stare at the sunset. Sometimes he just lays about.

And sometimes he steals ice cubes from the bars to make tiny ice sculptures, with his minimal ice powers and his newfound talons.

iii. the woods are lovely, dark, and deep (john's, mid november)

Phil had previously been a regular at John's; most evenings, the ship could hear him practicing on its piano for at least an hour, often more. This was unfailing routine for the past four months.

After Halloween, it goes silent. He isn't even at the bar. He isn't there at all.

It's two weeks before he even shows up there again, and he hardly plays when he does; he just dances a single hand around the keys for about a half hour. It takes a bit of adjusting to account for the talons, but he manages.

The second day, Phil seems to be gaining his momentum back. He puts a book on the music stand. It's a slow start, one hand at a time, running the parts slowly, so it goes for about an hour and a half... then he puts both of his hands on the keys and plays.

iv. but i have promises to keep (wildcard)

[ Other things to note: Phil will not be seen flying at all for most of November, not that he did much of that before.

but otherwise? you got something, just hit me! available for plotting here at this journal or you can find me on the discord @ dongpuncher#7741 :] ]

Threaded | Flat

One afternoon, Phil is in the lounge, occupying his hands with whatever, when a certain SecUnit quietly takes the chair beside his.

Doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. Just.

...sits.

Rich is usually quick to scarf down whatever food he's gotten when he's at the buffet, but he's... a little slower nowadays. It's hard to find the appetite, sometimes, and he takes up his time people watching instead.

He's happy to see Phil at first, but then... a little concerned once he sees how miserable the guy looks. Plus, uh, what new additions he seems to have. He picks up his tray and slides in at Phil's table.

"Hey, nice sculpting. You're a regular Michaelangelo. Where'd you get the, uh... tools?"

Edited 2022-11-05 03:28 (UTC)

If it weren't for Phil's playing, she wouldn't have made as many visits to John's. Her regular visits had stopped. Even earlier than November, back in October's early weeks when her soul slipped out. Similarly, she hasn't been seen making visits early in the current month either. Still getting accustomed to being back in her own body and trying to function during her day-to-day life on the ship.

Today, it may be the start of her return, drawn in by the soothing melody coming from the piano. Fio tries not to disturb as she keeps her steps quiet as possible. In a nearby chair, she sits in the company of two stuffed dragons: Calcite and Penelope, both which she places on her lap.

...And in a few moments, Fio drifts off to the sound of the piano. Then she begins to dream-- Phil mentioned the town of Punxsutawney once. She remembers the drawing of the diner. Her face is peaceful, a soft look that unfortunately lasts for a few minutes. She stirs, a look of visible distress crossing her sleeping expression. All she can think of in her dreams is pleading for Phil not to hurt himself. Over and over again.

Maeve's mostly avoided John's except for the occasional moments when she can't stop herself and the sound of someone playing something very different from the usual Billy Joel gives her pause and she peeks in...only meaning to check.

She lingers at the door once she realizes it's Phil. She doesn't really intend to stay, but the song is pretty and she's sure that he'll never notice her standing in the doorway silently. She's making a very pointed effort not to move. She spots the wings and the...fingers are different. She frowns a little at that, the certainty of the knowledge in what she's done.

By the time she's aware the music's stopped, she realizes she's been staring for a very long time.

ii-ish?

ii

iii

iii. don't mind me. just crying