Dream Inside a Legume (I hope you don’t have peanut allergies)
Made on: 1 Aug, 2023
For: A treat for Squimpwave as a part of Mills WRITING (Wow! Really Interesting Tales Involving NYC Guys)
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 1,281
Characters of Focus: Clayton Legume, Loner Shelley
Setting: Coronation Era
Metadata: Possesion,
Warnings: Light swearing, sort-of kind-of accidental misgendering? (Whatever you call "calling your body by your pronouns, but that doesn't quite line up with the pronouns of the person piloting it at the time")
Summary: A couple of days before the Big Re-Return something odd happened to Clayton Legume.
Beginning Authors Note: If you have the chance, go to the Mills WRITTING collection on AO3 and check the other fics made for this exchange out!! - 9/25/23
A couple of days before the Big Re-Return something odd happened to Clayton Legume.
That's all it could be described as: Odd. A short flash in the sky, almost an afterimage of looking into the sun– as if there was a sun to look into— still lingering upon opening up his eyes, and a sudden slight ache in the back of his head. A mundane headache that stuck, for some reason. Unknown and ignored until he stepped into the stadium before his first game.
Well, really, ignored until he stepped out of the stadium only remembering someone saying "What in the fresh hell is happening in the sky?" quite loudly into his ear before— something. Now he's standing in the parking lot for some reason.
Is this really what the major leagues are like for everyone? That can't be right. He would have heard about that if so.
"Yeah, no. This is more of a you thing." His body says aloud to itself, a flourish of his hand that he did not move accompanying the words.
He pinches himself, or he would if his body would listen to him. His hand is there. That's his hand! The one he's always had! it's there in the air, which it should not be because he didn't move it there, and it is not moving to his other arm. It is not coming in contact with the blazer on his skin he can barely feel before his pointer and thumb should squeeze and pinch at the skin below it. Which would cause his skin to hurt, and then he could move on with his life. Content in knowing that the whole thing was some sort of fluke. Letting the ordeal drift off into painless memory. None of that happens.
"Can we do the existential stuff later? I just need to know where you parked your car," His body says, to the sky. He squints, uncontrollably, into the blue horizon. Eyes darting around as If his body is searching for something. "And I'd rather not be under this terrible weather."
He thinks he won't, in fact, do the existential stuff later. What on earth is going on here?
There’s a slow, drawn out sigh, as if his body were experiencing the height of being inconvenienced instead of the person who’s being piloted by some weird outside force, before his body starts palming his pockets, “I guess we’re doing this the hard way.”
At some point during the time his body was pacing the parking lot, going uselessly through his pockets, while Clayton was desperately trying to do anything –he’ll even take hyperventilating at this point!– he got lost. Swept away and dragged under some invisible sea, more like, but he was too busy furiously yelling at whatever has taken control of his mortal flesh to really categorize the sensation at the time.
It didn’t feel like any time had passed, just a haze of frightening confusion before being greeted by the equally hazy vision of blueberry pancakes.
They actually looked cooked all the way through this time, unlike the last two times pancakes were made for the team in celebration. If he had control of his mouth, it would be salivating. His mouth that he had no control of was, already, salivating, but it’s really, really, only the thought that counts in this situation.
His body groans under his breath, before scraping the chair back and speaking to the team at large. His team! They were all gathered in someone's unfamiliar apartment room or maybe a new room that The Apartment just made for this situation since it was wholly unfamiliar. Most of them were here, crowded around paper plates and plastic forks, a vaguely celebratory atmosphere hovering above them, and none took any mind as his body walked out with the simple excuse of having something in his teeth.
“I thought it would take you longer to come back.” his body admits under his breath as it navigates easily through the hallways, slightly maze-like as they are. “Also, why didn’t you tell me you took a bus to get to the stadium? I spent an hour in that parking lot before I gave up and called a cab. Those are expensive, you know? It's still your money I'm spending here."
His body stops in its tirade as he gets to the bathroom door, struggling with the knob. Hopefully it's a sign that someone (something? He’s not quite sure yet.) noticed that Clayton isn't quite himself instead of just a door that needs a bit of realignment. As sad as the probably-sentient Apartment he lives in being the only one to notice that he was acting oddly is, he'll take it.
Also, since when did the ILB not have the buses for teams set up? Way before his time, if that. And, to address the question properly, why on earth would he tell whatever's controlling his body this!
"Look! We were kind of thrown into it! We had to carpool and junk—" with a grunt his body yanks the door open and steps into the room, yanking it shut behind him, "and, I dunno, I thought it would be the same situation here."
What?
His body glances around for a moment, familiarizing with the space, he guesses, before facing the mirror, "But I'm getting off track—"
No, wait. He's got it now. He's just haunted, isn't he! Oh man, he thought this was going to last forever. While he's never really heard of a player staying Inhabited outside of a game, it's a relief that this whole thing will be over eventually.
"That's really not what’s going on here."
He does not bang his hand on the sink angrily. What, pray tell, is going on here then!?
“I mean, you're close. I’m not from the hall, though, and I’m not able to go back from where I came. So I’m stuck here and, no, I can’t just let you ‘gain back control.’”
His body tightens its grip on the sink at that, as if the admittance of actual information as to what’s going on was more akin to a tooth pulling than a normal facet of conversation. The main question remains: Why not?
“It’s– look, it’s complicated. I didn’t really want to end up here–”
Why can’t you just take the backseat for a bit, he has a life too, you know!
“It just sort of happened– and wow, what were the chances. I mean, Legume? Really?”
Stop dodging the question! Why can’t you!
“I just– I won't be here afterwards if I do.”
How do you know that?
His body stares into the mirror, still clutching the sink as if it would run away if his body loosened its grip a bit. There’s a haggard look to his body’s expression, not something that Clayton has ever really seen in his reflection before. Lost. Weirdly bringing to mind those terribly sad dog commercials that always play around the end of the year. Someone at the end of their rope.
…Could he at least tell you to do things?
"Yeah. Sure. You can."
His body looks down at his white knuckles. Almost as if realizing their actions for the first time. Almost as if whoever’s in charge had something else moving their body the whole time instead of the other way around. His fingers are prided away from the edge.
Who are you anyways?
The person in charge of his body seems to take the fishing for information disguised as an olive branch disguised as fishing for information in stride, “It’s a bit of a funny coincidence, or I hope it’s one, but my name is…”
Ending Authors Note: A somewhat good(?) note to start on what I imagine being a very rocky coexistence haha
I hope you've enjoyed reading this!
Reading about your thoughts on (and enthusiasm about) Loner Shelly really got my brain churning! And possession is a neat sort of dynamic to work out so I had a lot of fun with this! ^__^
As a final note I will add that I had "TITLE IDEAS (SILLY): I just found out I'm allergic to legumes (Doctor says it's a lentil illness) (This is bad) (do not use this as the title)" written at the top of the word document for this, which I think I wrote down while half asleep. Take it as you will?