[Closed]

[scramasax]

Who: John Mitchell and Anthony Janvier
Where: John's apartment.
When: Night of Sept. 21 - just when John gets home from assisting a certain shadow-melding chap.
What: John had a very strange Saturday night.



[John had already stepped out when Anthony had taken to the network, and seen recording and corroborative word hit of pink aurora-like lights in the sky exactly like April's, and had dragged himself in haste to the window - quick looks down and as far along the sides as he could see to avoid being seen, and scanned and spotted for them - there was the pink light in the sky.

The buzzing had risen into his head.

The known hollow pulse had struck - and for a split second of foreboding he'd anticipated what came - it was about time - before the yellow flashes started to visibly glow. They repeated, held, rose, rippled waved and burned with a stark acuteness that his fading receptors had forgotten to prepare themselves for, and his limbs seized and he sank as the light spread through.

He'd hauled himself to the bathroom mirror once it was over. Flung a hand on the sink's side, used the other to tug the door shut - leaned in close.

Blinked sunken and hollow dry grayed-over eyes to a widening in a green-casted face - now worn open, bloodily, in little nicks and holes - and emitted a wavering moan. It didn't last even as long as the breath did.

His thoughts splashed scattered and cold down to a blank spread, and he dropped down with them.

That is where he is now. The sheet of paper with his number jotted down onto it is still on the sofa. The bathroom door's still shut. And he has no sense of how long it's been - he is trying as he might not to think, for now. Not too hard. Not too deeply, not too coherently yet - a pressure mounted and chilling, keeping him in place, and his lungs measuredly hitching, and his head low and back from straightening - everything is freezing and frozen...]

Comments

[allinvein]

Good. [He licks his lips, trying to figure out what to say next. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped down to a whisper, like the words are meant to reassure him more than Anthony.] Good.

[John takes a seat on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, and gently grips at Anthony's elbow. He tugs at him, silently urging to take a seat next to him. It's not, admittedly, the most comfortable thing being this close to someone who is essentially a living corpse, but right now? Right now, John needs to step up his game and show Anthony that he's here for him.]

Did the light do this to you?

[He looks straight at Anthony when he says this, the look on his face pure and simple concern for a friend.]

[scramasax]

[His head does rove to follow John, with a heaviness - everything is borne down. He doesn't lift it at all; head turns slightly and that's all, he takes the signal to sit as well for its meaning without anything in place to acknowledge it, his own voice is pulled down, heavy, to rest, dry and dragging, on a whisper.]

Yes... -- It was... when I looked at the light -- ...

[Active comprehension starts to surface a little more - he returns John's look more fully and feels a sick squirm inside, looks letting his head shake and blinking quick yet also most heavily at the space on the ground next to John...] -- I don't have to -- ...if - ...

[allinvein]

[Oh, you poor child. How can John even worry about what he's becoming when these pulses are doing this to Anthony?]

It's... it's fine. [That's not entirely true, but John's making a valiant effort to make it so. This new change in affairs is going to mean that their living arrangements are going to have to change, and yet, it never even crosses his mind to kick the other out--he'll sort that out later though. He offers Anthony a fleeting smile and pats the ground beside him with his free hand.]

If it's more comfortable for you to stay this way, by all means, do so, but otherwise...

[His eyebrows lift, encouraging, and John gives Anthony's elbow another gentle, downward tug.]

[scramasax]

[The hesitant answer doesn't convince that it is. It does, with the quick smile, the lift of the brows, and the second pull to sit down, convince him it'll not be treated as if that matters, and that doesn't surprise him - the squirming tightens to a weighted wrenching...]

-- I'm sorry, John - ... [Hushed, and ironed flat before it could quake any more than it did.

It is the most sincere, all-meaning thing he can possibly say. He is sorry, and mortified and truly, unignorably on the inside in a turning beating and buffeting panic over this, over every bit of this - and it is also a stall, as well as an apology, on remaining locked at a loss as to whether to accept or remain in place - and in another moment he holds still but palpitating, at the base of his throat, the question of if this means he remains allowed to stay

It'd sound a desperate question, leading or asking or begging and in an instant that panic seizes and hurls upward into screaming glaring light the acknowledgement that it would be, in too large a portion for the size of its core - it will be addressed, and taken, as rightful...]

[allinvein]

It's not your fault. [His voice is quiet, and the fingers at Anthiny's elbow twist slightly, a hesitant stroking gesture meant for comfort.] None of this is your fault.

You've nothing to apologize for.

[He goes quiet for a moment, but he keeps his hand right where it is.]

This... This is your home now, yeah? You can feel safe here.

[John gives him a small smile, somehow being comforted by his own words as well. They're together in this--through thick and thin, and John has no intention of letting Anthony face this on his own. He nods his head slightly as he draws this resolution for himself--makes a promise for them both.]

[scramasax]

[He doesn't know that it's not his fault.

No one can tell why they've each found themselves receiving their pulses, and thus, he doesn't know that he has nothing to apologize for, or if it isn't right of him to try to bear it in responsibility - and he can't let himself not do it at risk of letting himself resent it, a thing that he has no right to do if this is something that's been chosen for each of them, all part of that sense of destiny and intertwined purpose and need that he cannot pretend to be, in part, glad for, enthralled by.

Something wavers internally on the stroke at his elbow. The initial contact helped, some, as some obliging reassurance, but this is more deliberate, like a move just somewhat closer - and somehow it comes as acute comfort.

He swallows. He gives.]

- I'm. [Also distinctly wavers.

And with that, he finally begins to bring himself to the floor - not to the spot indicated but in place. A steady and resigned sinking in place - he doesn't quite look at John, or anywhere - not intentionally. He isn't even quite sure where he's looking.]

-- Not -- gonna go home - now. Am -- am I... - ?

[The terribly quivering voice aside he's trying to keep himself short of crying - not sure that he can, entirely. Still, that burns somehow. It's a weak thing to say, and he cannot stand to feel weaker now, not now even more than he's already been this entire time, needing far more than he's able to offer, keeping and comfort and increasing amounts of tolerance for minimal to nothing - and misleading, as that is exactly what he most needed to hear - he can still be home, and John is willing to let him be - not even "you may still stay here" but a decisive, beyond-obligation "this is your home."

He is terrified that it sounds ungrateful; subconsciously it's meant as an expression of the opposite. He is grateful, and taking what he's been told at once. He can and will try to feel safe - first to say and do something that shamelessly weak.]

[allinvein]

[John's gaze tracks Anthony's movements as he takes a seat, just on this side of conscious that he's trying to keep an eye out for any sign of trouble. He doesn't know the extent of the damage done today--doesn't know what sort of stress Anthony's body can withstand without breaking. The hand at his elbow tightens slightly before slipping away when Anthony comes to a rest on the floor.

There's a bit of space between them, and John automatically scoots closer to close it, carefully looping an arm around the other's shoulders. If Anthony is going to be worried about his personal space after his change, then that's just too bad; John's having none of that right now, as he proceeds to press himself flush to his flatmate's side.]

You're stuck with me. [He turns to look at Anthony, the corners of his lips quirking upwards in a soft smile.] I'll take care of you, yeah?

[scramasax]

[Anthony still doesn't quite look at John. He grapples and strains away the indulgent urge to lean into the contact at his side, falters, and some of it slips back - he edges, ever-so-slightly, closer to John. Lets his head lower position away from the arm around his stiff-tight hunched shoulders - makes it all submission in the spirit of a fervent unvocalized thanks.

Even he hears his breathing now - thinks no further than that to be embarrassed with himself as he speaks again.]

You didn't know it would be like this, I'm -- [A hitching, whimpering swallow.] -- sorry -- I can -- I can move -- again if I have to -- I promise...

[He means it, every bit and apology and thought to which it's all attached, and John does not deserve the imposition. What he does deserve is it ensured that it won't be one - and even then he would've been too afraid to have let it come running out in voice if this wasn't assurance that it's not a demand he'll need to obey, not any time tangibly close in coming.

He wants to be wanted to stay, and this is active consolation - and he will believe the statements made as statements, just so and as it is, made fact, and seeing the smile with them in the sides of his eyes willingly made ones; it is better than tolerable for him to stay.]

-- I'm sorry...

[Sorry and thank you, John, thank you so, so much...]