Ah, summer break, I missed you.
I honestly do not know why I wrote this. You are all free to drop a guess or two. But if I do know something, it's that I am personally very torn between either loving or blaming the mod for the Fake!Garry RP Tumblr.
*(And after some serious debating right after posting this originally, I think the askaloneib Tumblr also needs some gratitude/praise/heck-simply-attention-just-because, since I first came upon Fake!Garry through that blog, which in itself was a total coincidence. Heck, all the Ib blogs I'm following, I had found out or basically stumbled upon by complete accident.)
Enjoy(?).
You and the rose are unified-
He wanders the world. Blood and paint, smiles and malice. He describes it as such, because he can only think of eloquent poetry that he himself twists and cracks.
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Too fragile, he thinks as he crushes the vivid moth in his hand, and blankly watches it die and wither into pencil shavings before it can even hit the ground.
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He finds himself in a room much too big for anyone, and looks over a pathetic pile of soot and charred paper - for an undefined moment in time, he discovers his sympathy for the dead, and a thought of a surreal funeral.
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Sometimes, he thinks he's seeing things - the reality of this world says otherwise.
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He's not immune to sleep - he climbs up the childish scrawl that he's supposed to identify as a tree among a small grove of fruit trees, and rests on a branch where he searches his endless dreams.
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Certain things make him remember things that aren't his - an abandoned candy wrapper, a rose-shade of red, a milk puzzle, and he imagines a helpless child trapped in his grasp.
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One time, he finds a fake rose, painted strongly the color of impossibility. He does nothing but let it become a dart on the wall, like a reminder and a ward all the same.
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If there's one thing that he dislikes of his own will, it's the color blue.
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Just like her, the ladies will mutter softly as if towards him in secret, just like her - another queen of the imaginary land.
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The nightmare world has quieted itself with the death of its innocent resident - doesn't stop them from chasing him around sometimes, and it doesn't stop him from wondering how much he's acting like the girl of ashes.
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There are times when he violently plunges a palette knife into a painting's arm, and there are times he throws himself into the crayon lake to no avail.
-when your rose begins to rot, so too will you rot away-
He knows by now that time must have passed on without him - in a room, the painting of two parents has vanished entirely.
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From a rare moment where he is friendly with the residents of the Fabricated World, he learns of a wistful routine of looking out the painting windows - he's not surprised that he's been adopting that habit for a while already.
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When he rests, he may dream of nothing, may dream of innocent things, or will dream of not so innocent things...
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A blue doll visits him - it talks to him about a loveless little princess who unconsciously ruled this twisted world with her own thoughts and beliefs, and how he's a bit like her.
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He loves her - loves her so, so deeply - and he can only do so much wishing before his dreams bleed far too deep, until crimson is more than just his favorite color.
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The concept of life and death is as strange as true happiness and miracles for him, and he does not have the choice to enjoy any of them either.
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He doesn't hate the girl - green with envy, indeed she was painted almost ironically to be, but he understands and he's innocently satisfied that he knows something that he never managed to achieve at the very end.
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From the depths of his memories, roses and exchanges lead to utter despair.
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It is here, in this empty world where time stands still, that he is reborn and dead and born.
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There is one memory of his own that he will never re-visit - of a mirrored corpse and a furious question that will never be answered till the end of eternity.
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And thus, Garry continues to travel the illusionary realm - lonely and bittersweet, as how the sleeping man appears to an evening rose-keeper.
Know the weight of your own life...
Hope you're happy, Miss Moddies, you got a new shipper for Fake!Garry x Ib.
Some of my personal headcanon points of this fic I should probably note -
1) This fic follows the Forgotten Portrait ending.
2) I imagine that Mary can actually alter the reality of the painting world to an extent, since she is somehow more sentient or some reason that even I don't know about. But she never realises that 'power' of hers.
3) Following the above headcanon of mine, Garry eventually takes her place. This causes a few changes in the Fabricated World, but I left that open for the readers to come to their own conclusions.
4) 'Painting windows' mostly just refers to any painting in a Guertena art exhibition that can be used to see the real world. In some other drabble of mine, Mary had a habit of looking out through them.
Reviews are loved and flames are not.
~Shiroi