homoneurotic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homoneurotic) wrote2022-07-10 07:40 pm
homoneurotic) wrote2022-07-10 07:40 pm
Entry tags:
[Stardew Valley] The Chicken Expert's Delayed Suicide
Title: The Chicken Expert's Delayed Suicide
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Characters/pairing: Shane/Elliot/Leah, or Platonic
Type/word-count: Angst and Humor; 1,395 words
Rating/warnings: Rated Teen for suicidal intent.
Description: All Shane wants to do is to roll over a few inches off the cliff side and get it over with. Unfortunately, some voices from his recent history just won't give him the satisfaction.
I've been replaying Stardew Valley recently, and Shane's suicide attempt scene hit me harder than I remember. It's much longer than the other heart events, and even has multiple "parts" to it. I guess I never expected to read the words "stomach pumping" in a farming game. This is a short one-shot dedicated to this scene, set in a world where either a) the farmer does not exist or b) has not arrived to the Valley yet. I doubt our heart event with him is the first time he's attempted suicide - I wanted to answer the question of what's stopped him previously.
"The Chicken Expert's Delayed Suicide" on AO3.
Shane's habit of straying from his usual secluded corner of the Stardrop Saloon to join Elliot and Leah at their shared table were catching up to him.
They always told him that he was a quick wit whenever he visited, always ready with a quip or scathing remark. Too nice, the both of them. How many times had he, stomach loaded to his throat with beer, told Elliot he would be make more money burning his shack down and collecting the insurance money than actually bothering to write a novel? How dismissive was he of Leah when her drunkenness gave way to her excitedly talking about her docket of new projects? And yet, beyond the occasional light punch to the shoulder, neither of them ever cursed him out, nor kicked him from the table. What use they saw in keeping him around was beyond Shane.
"So, what are you working on, Shane?" Leah would inevitably ask. Elliot, hands a touch jittery from what would usually be his third glass of wine, would nod empathically, as if just as curious. Shane knew that they were just being polite. Perhaps they never shooed him away because they felt sorry for him. Who wouldn't? He was a classic town drunk, almost always under the influence of something if he could swing it. And the only two outfits he owned were often accompanied by the scent of cleaning supplies - aisle clean up in Jojo Mart was a miserable job he was convinced Morris exclusively saved for him - and vomit.
He would shrug. "Nothing."
The two were never content to take his answer at face value. He would find their persistence impressive, if it didn't cause him so much irritation. It would be around this point that Elliot tended to pick up the conversation, Leah concentrated on draining her tankard. They worked in a perfect sync like that, Shane noticed. If both weren't gay, he was sure they'd be some kind of smarmy power couple - and then he'd truly have no reason to come over here.
"Come now. I'm sure that isn't true."
Shane would counter with something ranging between a "mhmm" and a "of course it's fucking true", influenced by the internal metric of alcohol consumption to stress his mouth was often a better judge of than himself. With a little bugging, though, the topic inevitably turned to Charlie - and no matter how drunk Shane found himself, badmouthing his beloved show chicken simply wasn't in his ability. The two would pepper in the usual stupid questions people had about Shane's unusual hobby - 'Wait, they have chicken shows? Like, dog shows? But with chickens?' 'What's the difference between a regular and a fancy chicken, anyway?' 'What do they eat?'.
What Shane found to be the most ridiculous thing of all was that he would actually entertain them. His pathetic desperation for someone, anyone, to take interest in him was enough to temper the rage of the alcohol and soften his tongue for just long enough to answer genuinely. And by the time he had finished, the three of them had engaged in something resembling a pleasant conversation.
Now face down in front of a gaping cliff, beer bottles numbering the tens and twenties scattered around him, Shane couldn't entertain his usual suicidal dialogue. Every time he tried to tell himself he might as well just roll over and get it over with, those two faces kept bothering him - illuminated by the Saloon's shoddy lighting, the clink of tankards occasionally louder than the jukebox, Leah chittering away about how her grandmother actually used to breed chickens, Elliot chiming in, "did you know that Barbu d’Uccle chickens will actually adopt stray chicks as their own"...
Shane was now realizing that idiot had actually read up on chickens just to keep up their stupid tavern talk. He thought about laughing, but when he tried, more vomit rose in his throat, forcing out a spluttered cough instead. Who thought anything he had to say was that interesting, anyway? Someone naive enough to think a pretty cottage on the beach was the only thing needed to pen the Ferngill Republic's next big novel, that's who.
He flipped on his back and screamed into the air, hoping to dispel his mind's intruders. Birds scattered at the sound of his voice, but nothing came to delivery Shane from his misery. As with most things in his life, Shane would have to do that on his own.
Part of him wanted his tavernmates to see him like this, tangled over himself in knots of flesh, beer cans, and throw up. Maybe that would shatter the illusion they had of him being anything other than a miserable piece of garbage, destined to float among the abandoned cans of Joja Cola and start-up CDs his Aunt Marnie was constantly complaining about finding in the nearby ocean. Was wanting that bad? Obviously. Any thought that Shane had was bad, regardless of what anyone else had to say about it. Any contributions he made to the society around him were tainted by his proclivity for alcoholism and inherent misery, the both of which had grown exponentially in the past few months of living in the valley. Even his most innocent of comments carried his burdens just below their surface. Surely, this was common knowledge to his brain. So why did every circuit of the stupid thing keep conjuring images of Elliot and Leah?
"You know, Shane, I think I'm going to sculpt a chicken for the Festival of Ice," he heard Leah muse. "You've inspired me."
"Shut the fuck up," Shane muttered, returning to his side. "I don't wanna hear it."
"Indeed! Why, I may have to dedicate all of this knew-found knowledge about chickens to my latest novel. How does the name 'Secrets of Scarlet' sound? It would be a suspenseful romance-mystery about the passionate relationship shared between a novice chicken breeder and her mysterious benefactor..."
"Moronic," Shane responded to his hallucination. "Go back to the drawing board. In fact, go away completely."
"Shane, would you care to split this plate of pepper poppers with us? Elliot ordered us a little too much food. I think you told us once that they're your favorite, right?"
"Shane, I just read the most fascinating article on chicken breeding between drafts today. I'm sure you know all of this stuff already, but I couldn't help but clip it for you. Please, take it."
"Shane! Elliot thinks that the sketch for my chicken sculpture looks funny because its wings are out. I know they don't fly, but I figured it would look better this way. Can I get the opinion of an expert?"
"Ah, Shane! You're just in time. Could I trouble you to fact-check some parts of my novel? See, I have this scene where Scarlet - yes, I know, I think it's a wonderful name too, a great callback to the title - thinks that one of her chickens has been deliberately poisoned, and I'm not sure if I quite got the behavior of a sick chicken correct..."
"Shane!"
"Shane..."
"Hey there, Shane..."
"Take a seat with us, Shane."
"You look tired, Shane."
"Do you want us to walk you home tonight, Shane?"
"Aw, Shane, we haven't seen you for a bit. We missed you."
"Shane. We miss you."
He jolted upwards, shocking every muscle in his body that had previously held him flat to the ground into compliance. Damned if he would kill himself to the thought of Elliot explaining for the billionth time that, yes, while chickens were flightless, how dramatic would it be if one of them happened to take flight in the middle of Scarlet's first show debut, wouldn't that be something, Shane, you will come to the book signing, yes, I'll even dedicate the book to you...
Pulling his coat over his shoulders, Shane decided to leave his mess - both physically and mentally - for later. Right now, all he wanted to do was leave the litany of voices behind. His feet began to wear a path to the saloon, the cliff slowly disappearing behind the treeline. Total silence would come another time.
Right now, he needed to head to the saloon and force himself to read the fifth chapter of Elliot's novel. And Yoba help the floundering novelist if he didn't order Shane a plate of pepper poppers as thanks.
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Characters/pairing: Shane/Elliot/Leah, or Platonic
Type/word-count: Angst and Humor; 1,395 words
Rating/warnings: Rated Teen for suicidal intent.
Description: All Shane wants to do is to roll over a few inches off the cliff side and get it over with. Unfortunately, some voices from his recent history just won't give him the satisfaction.
I've been replaying Stardew Valley recently, and Shane's suicide attempt scene hit me harder than I remember. It's much longer than the other heart events, and even has multiple "parts" to it. I guess I never expected to read the words "stomach pumping" in a farming game. This is a short one-shot dedicated to this scene, set in a world where either a) the farmer does not exist or b) has not arrived to the Valley yet. I doubt our heart event with him is the first time he's attempted suicide - I wanted to answer the question of what's stopped him previously.
"The Chicken Expert's Delayed Suicide" on AO3.
Shane's habit of straying from his usual secluded corner of the Stardrop Saloon to join Elliot and Leah at their shared table were catching up to him.
They always told him that he was a quick wit whenever he visited, always ready with a quip or scathing remark. Too nice, the both of them. How many times had he, stomach loaded to his throat with beer, told Elliot he would be make more money burning his shack down and collecting the insurance money than actually bothering to write a novel? How dismissive was he of Leah when her drunkenness gave way to her excitedly talking about her docket of new projects? And yet, beyond the occasional light punch to the shoulder, neither of them ever cursed him out, nor kicked him from the table. What use they saw in keeping him around was beyond Shane.
"So, what are you working on, Shane?" Leah would inevitably ask. Elliot, hands a touch jittery from what would usually be his third glass of wine, would nod empathically, as if just as curious. Shane knew that they were just being polite. Perhaps they never shooed him away because they felt sorry for him. Who wouldn't? He was a classic town drunk, almost always under the influence of something if he could swing it. And the only two outfits he owned were often accompanied by the scent of cleaning supplies - aisle clean up in Jojo Mart was a miserable job he was convinced Morris exclusively saved for him - and vomit.
He would shrug. "Nothing."
The two were never content to take his answer at face value. He would find their persistence impressive, if it didn't cause him so much irritation. It would be around this point that Elliot tended to pick up the conversation, Leah concentrated on draining her tankard. They worked in a perfect sync like that, Shane noticed. If both weren't gay, he was sure they'd be some kind of smarmy power couple - and then he'd truly have no reason to come over here.
"Come now. I'm sure that isn't true."
Shane would counter with something ranging between a "mhmm" and a "of course it's fucking true", influenced by the internal metric of alcohol consumption to stress his mouth was often a better judge of than himself. With a little bugging, though, the topic inevitably turned to Charlie - and no matter how drunk Shane found himself, badmouthing his beloved show chicken simply wasn't in his ability. The two would pepper in the usual stupid questions people had about Shane's unusual hobby - 'Wait, they have chicken shows? Like, dog shows? But with chickens?' 'What's the difference between a regular and a fancy chicken, anyway?' 'What do they eat?'.
What Shane found to be the most ridiculous thing of all was that he would actually entertain them. His pathetic desperation for someone, anyone, to take interest in him was enough to temper the rage of the alcohol and soften his tongue for just long enough to answer genuinely. And by the time he had finished, the three of them had engaged in something resembling a pleasant conversation.
Now face down in front of a gaping cliff, beer bottles numbering the tens and twenties scattered around him, Shane couldn't entertain his usual suicidal dialogue. Every time he tried to tell himself he might as well just roll over and get it over with, those two faces kept bothering him - illuminated by the Saloon's shoddy lighting, the clink of tankards occasionally louder than the jukebox, Leah chittering away about how her grandmother actually used to breed chickens, Elliot chiming in, "did you know that Barbu d’Uccle chickens will actually adopt stray chicks as their own"...
Shane was now realizing that idiot had actually read up on chickens just to keep up their stupid tavern talk. He thought about laughing, but when he tried, more vomit rose in his throat, forcing out a spluttered cough instead. Who thought anything he had to say was that interesting, anyway? Someone naive enough to think a pretty cottage on the beach was the only thing needed to pen the Ferngill Republic's next big novel, that's who.
He flipped on his back and screamed into the air, hoping to dispel his mind's intruders. Birds scattered at the sound of his voice, but nothing came to delivery Shane from his misery. As with most things in his life, Shane would have to do that on his own.
Part of him wanted his tavernmates to see him like this, tangled over himself in knots of flesh, beer cans, and throw up. Maybe that would shatter the illusion they had of him being anything other than a miserable piece of garbage, destined to float among the abandoned cans of Joja Cola and start-up CDs his Aunt Marnie was constantly complaining about finding in the nearby ocean. Was wanting that bad? Obviously. Any thought that Shane had was bad, regardless of what anyone else had to say about it. Any contributions he made to the society around him were tainted by his proclivity for alcoholism and inherent misery, the both of which had grown exponentially in the past few months of living in the valley. Even his most innocent of comments carried his burdens just below their surface. Surely, this was common knowledge to his brain. So why did every circuit of the stupid thing keep conjuring images of Elliot and Leah?
"You know, Shane, I think I'm going to sculpt a chicken for the Festival of Ice," he heard Leah muse. "You've inspired me."
"Shut the fuck up," Shane muttered, returning to his side. "I don't wanna hear it."
"Indeed! Why, I may have to dedicate all of this knew-found knowledge about chickens to my latest novel. How does the name 'Secrets of Scarlet' sound? It would be a suspenseful romance-mystery about the passionate relationship shared between a novice chicken breeder and her mysterious benefactor..."
"Moronic," Shane responded to his hallucination. "Go back to the drawing board. In fact, go away completely."
"Shane, would you care to split this plate of pepper poppers with us? Elliot ordered us a little too much food. I think you told us once that they're your favorite, right?"
"Shane, I just read the most fascinating article on chicken breeding between drafts today. I'm sure you know all of this stuff already, but I couldn't help but clip it for you. Please, take it."
"Shane! Elliot thinks that the sketch for my chicken sculpture looks funny because its wings are out. I know they don't fly, but I figured it would look better this way. Can I get the opinion of an expert?"
"Ah, Shane! You're just in time. Could I trouble you to fact-check some parts of my novel? See, I have this scene where Scarlet - yes, I know, I think it's a wonderful name too, a great callback to the title - thinks that one of her chickens has been deliberately poisoned, and I'm not sure if I quite got the behavior of a sick chicken correct..."
"Shane!"
"Shane..."
"Hey there, Shane..."
"Take a seat with us, Shane."
"You look tired, Shane."
"Do you want us to walk you home tonight, Shane?"
"Aw, Shane, we haven't seen you for a bit. We missed you."
"Shane. We miss you."
He jolted upwards, shocking every muscle in his body that had previously held him flat to the ground into compliance. Damned if he would kill himself to the thought of Elliot explaining for the billionth time that, yes, while chickens were flightless, how dramatic would it be if one of them happened to take flight in the middle of Scarlet's first show debut, wouldn't that be something, Shane, you will come to the book signing, yes, I'll even dedicate the book to you...
Pulling his coat over his shoulders, Shane decided to leave his mess - both physically and mentally - for later. Right now, all he wanted to do was leave the litany of voices behind. His feet began to wear a path to the saloon, the cliff slowly disappearing behind the treeline. Total silence would come another time.
Right now, he needed to head to the saloon and force himself to read the fifth chapter of Elliot's novel. And Yoba help the floundering novelist if he didn't order Shane a plate of pepper poppers as thanks.