scapegoat tale belongs to the-sleepless-ghostly-being (ffn) or thesleepyghosty (da)
Twenty-four.
Good things always came in twenty-fours.
Twenty-four, like the number of each square of chocolate in every bar they loved eating.
Twenty-four, like the number of laces that barely held their shoes together.
Twenty-four, like the number of tassels that used to hang from their scarf.
Twenty-four, the number of the bandages that covered both their arms when they first fell.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-four.
That is the number of his footsteps as he walks towards them.
That is the number of frenzied blinking away of tears he makes.
The number of "Please, come back"s and "You're not... You're not dead."
Oh, it wasn't supposed to be this way.
They were only twenty-four when it happened.
Such a small, young number.
They only started blossoming in their youth.
He remembers the blossoms in their garden.
They tended to it.
Tended to it every day.
Tended to it till they couldn't.
He remembers the smile on their face.
That beautiful, gorgeous face of theirs.
How that beautiful, gorgeous face started to deteriorate and sink before them as the days drew near.
He looks down at them.
They look at peace.
A furry, white paw-like hand is outstretched towards them. He's scared to touch them, scared to feel them, comfort them in the way they wished they were there to comfort them. It's in the same motion that they used to do, he realizes. That same, almost-beckoning outstretched hand.
They always looked so calm when they did that.
Asriel looks alone when he does.
He gazes at their face, gingerly stroking their hair. He counts as he does so, making sure to make it exactly twenty-four.
He bends over, soft, gentle kiss planted on their forehead.
"Twenty-four..." he mumbles, the fur matting where the tears stain it.
He just makes sure to check if twenty-four of his tears land on their forehead too.