Sorry for the long hiatus! Life, huh?
I don't have much time for art sO i offer to you an ANALYSIS/HEADCANON POST.
Sharkanalysis is ONCE AGAIN back.
Today we are talking about ....Skybound Jay. I know this has been a topic that has been going around a lot the past few months for some reason but im in constant brainrot about it. (This also delves into the other seasons too) But I'm mainly talking about how Jay's response to trauma changes after Skybound.
In Skybound this is VERY evident with how he completely hides what happened to him on the ship. Usually Jay would infodump about what he went through but he just keeps it to himself. He just tells Cole, when he is found, that he was forced to "clean a lot." And avoided talking about his eyepatch. And when he had to explain why he couldnt summon his dragon, again he said it was because he was "too tired." When in reality, we know he was tortured a LOT.
And if you think about it, even though Nya remembers Skybound she still doesnt know what happened on the ship. Canonically, we never see Jay explaining it to her.
He literally keeps it all to himself. Which is such an interesting coping mechanism since he's so known for "panicking" and 'hiding behind his team."
You can really see Nadakhan's effects on him. He goes from stupid panicking where he's screaming and running behind his team in the earlier seasons to full on mental breakdowns like in Hunted and Crystallized where he pretty much becomes so unstable he cant function normally. Where he either isolates himself or loses hope in life.
It's such an interesting character arc for him. I'd love to see his trauma delved into more.
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would u be willing to post seven's internal monologue?? pretty please just for us??? 😳
So sorry I don't mean to write all my characters with such sad internal monologues that's just what I tend to gravitate to 😢 hope it's not a problem
I shouldn’t be here.
That thought follows them outside the car. It follows them down the street. To the Heavenly Isle lot. To the entrance. To the dancing crowd.
Their logic is practically yelling at them to turn around by the time they’re becoming one with the audience, shouldering dancing bodies as they maneuver through the human current, keeping one eye on the stage. The singer of the band on stage belts out lyrics to their song, baring their soul as they relay a love letter to an unrequited love, Annabelle. The subject of the track.
Seven clears their throat, oddly uncomfortable, before finding a relatively empty spot in the crowd.
Seven’s bandmates join them a moment later, crowding around the circular standing table by the edge of the crowd. Seven senses a few eyes on them. They brace themself for someone to ask for an autograph, even a picture, but loosen up when no one does. Good. Let them be a ghost. Let their image disappear. Let them cease to exist. Just for this one night.
They just need this one night.
“Why are we here?” Pope whines, going as far as stomping his feet. “We ditched a rager to watch BOTB auditions? We already won.”
Seven stares ahead, expression unchanging as the singer dives into a bridge full of confession and regret. It was just last week they were up on that very stage, auditioning for the chance of a lifetime, singing lyrics just as raw. Just as vulnerable.
Oddly enough, Seven wasn’t even half as nervous then as they are tonight.
“It’s good to get to know our competition,” Seven replies, surprising themself with how casual they sound. It’s funny, really. There’s nothing casual about their appearance tonight.
They feel eyes on them and they meet Avina’s gaze, who shoots a pointed look at the table. Seven looks down, finding that their hand is tapping relentlessly against it. They turn it into a fist, shoving it in the pocket of their plaid shirt, hating how observant their friend is.
“Our competition?” Keiran asks, doing a perusal himself. “When did you become so”—they make a vague gesture with their hands—“involved?”
Seven clenches their jaw. “Is it a crime to want to win? If you want to slack off this competition, be my guest, but you’re not doing it in this fucking band.”
Kieran’s brows lift.
Seven shuts their eyes. “Sorry, that—“ They huff. “I didn’t mean that.”
Pope shoots Seven an odd look. “Why are you—“ Even beneath the dimly lit mezzanine that shakes with the weight of the dancers, Seven can see the dawn of their realization clearly. “Oh. Oh. I get it now.”
“Get what?” Kieran prompts, whipping his head back and forth in search of an answer. “Get what? What?”
“Seven didn’t come here to scope out the competition.” A teasing smile grows on his face. “Well, they did. One competitor in particular.”
Seven shuts their eyes as Kieran lets out a child-like ‘ohhhhh.’
“Pope,” Avina sighs out, staring at Seven with a trace of worry on their face. Which makes it worse. “Stop it.”
Pope raises his hands in surrender. Kieran has enough decency to pat Seven supportively on the back.
“The pain we reap. The lives we seek. Would you bury me with the rest of your past misdeeds?”
Seven looks around, soaking in the dancing crowd. Are they listening? Truly listening? Do they resonate with the pain of the singer?
Do they care?
That’s one of Seven’s biggest problems as an artist; having to deal with the fact that sometimes a song is just a song. That for Seven, it could be their whole heart on a track. And for others it could just be another three minutes to escape.
Seven briefly wonders if they watched their performance. Would they have listened to the lyrics Seven wove in the quietest hours of the night, catered specifically for them? Would they have understood?
Seven clears their throat, shaking away the thoughts just as Donny, the host, comes up on stage. The next few minutes melt together in a blur of cheering and conversations Seven hardly hears.
Because they’re there. Right there. And Seven has lost all grip on reality. Any sense of self. For a moment, it almost feels like a dream.
If only they cared a little less.
They feel an arm on them and look up to see Avina smiling. “Howdy, partner.”
Seven faces ahead, watching as (MC) and the band takes their places on stage. Their eyes track MC’s every move, as though MC is in danger of disappearing. Isn’t that what they did the first time? “Hi,” they say finally.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Avina says. The lights dim, signaling the start of the song. “You can just leave.”
“I know,” Seven clears their throat, “but I can’t.”
Avina says nothing to that, instead choosing to face ahead. Pope and Kieran come closer, whispering to each other as the first notes of the song start.
MC’s voice is just as Seven remembered. Smooth. Hypnotizing. They hate that it still gives them chills. Hate that MC still has that kind of power over them and their body.
As the crowd becomes increasingly excited, Seven’s will to stay weakens. The lyrics are too close. Too real and watching MC up there cuts a bit too deep. Seven wants to care a little less? No—they don’t want to care at all. They wish they could wash MC off them like filth. Strip memories of their scent, forget the way they laugh, strike out every memory with a marker like some failed lyric in one of their notebooks. Just erase it all until there’s nothing left.
And it’s in that moment, while Seven is thinking up every twisted metaphor, that MC notices them.
A stifled sound they didn’t know they could make crosses their throat. MC eyes pierce through them as if Seven were made of glass. That’s surely how they feel right now—delicate and liable to break.
MC’s voice pitches upon the realization and they look around, as if to check if anyone noticed. No one does. But Seven did. Seven always does.
It’s then that Seven answers their own question. If you heard my song, would you understand? They know MC would, because this is not just music to them. Their songs used to be another language. It was the way they laughed, the way they knew what the other was thinking with one kiss. The way they touched and danced and did nothing at all under the pulsing lights of the stars on their mom’s roof.
And it’s all gone.
“This was a mistake,” Seven whispers to Kieran, hating how choked their voice sounds. Despite their earlier humor, Kieran remains grave when they nod.
Seven doesn’t have to say anything else. Their friends know instantly. Just like what Seven had with MC, they have their own language. This is how it is—you move on by finding something else. By burying the past with the Seven they killed the night they decided to leave.
Seven gives themself ten seconds. Ten seconds to allow themselves to feel. Then, once the ten seconds are up, they imagine themself scribbling this moment out like a song in a journal, doing so dark enough that even the most painful moments can’t been seen under the messy wall of black.
They turn around and walk through the crowd. They don’t look back.
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