Cozy little cabins are okay. Weird houses where everything keeps breaking? Less okay, but doable. This? Not okay. Not in any way okay. At all.
It's not the houses that bother him. It's not the fact that they are so very, very high off the ground and one look out the window is a bit vertigo-inducing, but that's fine because Tim has a stomach for that sort of thing and it's never bothered him before, that's perfectly fine and all right and normal.
No, that's fine. He's okay with that. He is. That's not what's got him worried. Not the houses or the heights or any of it.
It's the goddamn trees.
Tim doesn't dare smoke in any of these obviously wooden houses, not even outside on the viewing decks - however subtly and darkly and unthinkably he's tempted to drop his lighter down off one of the bridges and watch the whole thing go up in flames, and that's an instinct that rings a little too unnervingly Kralie-esque for him to be set on examining and being altogether comfortable with, like, at all - so instead he settles for ducking into an orblike little house that makes him feel intensely, claustrophobically, uncomfortably like some sort of Christmas ornament or a piece of particularly overripe low-hanging fruit.
It's not a pleasant sensation.
The interior creaks and rattles with every step. The boards are ashen. But no one else seems to be around, and that's usually a good sign. Usually. In Tim's case, anyway. He sits down carefully in the center of the floor, crosses his legs, hopes the floorboards won't give way, and, with a trembling, dread-saturated instinct - pulls out his lighter and fixes it with a wondering look.
The thoughts urging him to flick it on don't feel entirely his own.
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Cozy little cabins are okay. Weird houses where everything keeps breaking? Less okay, but doable. This? Not okay. Not in any way okay. At all.
It's not the houses that bother him. It's not the fact that they are so very, very high off the ground and one look out the window is a bit vertigo-inducing, but that's fine because Tim has a stomach for that sort of thing and it's never bothered him before, that's perfectly fine and all right and normal.
No, that's fine. He's okay with that. He is. That's not what's got him worried. Not the houses or the heights or any of it.
It's the goddamn trees.
Tim doesn't dare smoke in any of these obviously wooden houses, not even outside on the viewing decks - however subtly and darkly and unthinkably he's tempted to drop his lighter down off one of the bridges and watch the whole thing go up in flames, and that's an instinct that rings a little too unnervingly Kralie-esque for him to be set on examining and being altogether comfortable with, like, at all - so instead he settles for ducking into an orblike little house that makes him feel intensely, claustrophobically, uncomfortably like some sort of Christmas ornament or a piece of particularly overripe low-hanging fruit.
It's not a pleasant sensation.
The interior creaks and rattles with every step. The boards are ashen. But no one else seems to be around, and that's usually a good sign. Usually. In Tim's case, anyway. He sits down carefully in the center of the floor, crosses his legs, hopes the floorboards won't give way, and, with a trembling, dread-saturated instinct - pulls out his lighter and fixes it with a wondering look.
The thoughts urging him to flick it on don't feel entirely his own.