[closed] it has enacted laws

[argents]

WHO: Casval Mass (secondcomingof) & Banagher Links (argents)
WHAT: Post-being-werewolved feelings jam.
WHEN: Backdated to the night of the 20th.
WHERE: Banagher's apartment how did you even get this address?!
WHY: Because seeking out your once-upon-a-time mortal enemy while injured is smart.

[ He knows what night it is. By more than just name, or date. Or remembering what plans were coming to what seemed like an impossible fruition. No, somehow, he feels it. A kind of quiet tension that sits on the surface of the air and sparks every so often, causing Banagher to glance out the window. Restlessly, apprehensively. It's the kind of quiet that precedes something terrible, like a wake, but he's trying not to think about that kind of noise, or lack thereof.

Instead he's sinking into the worn trails of routine. Several days worth of coursework thrown about the coffee table, crushed between books and binders, in various states of completion. Just to have something to do other than be aware of the dark and what was sure to erupt out of it after the hunt in the Dead District.

Eventually, his brain tires of the strictly logical and linear, leaving him to stop trying to dig his heels in against the inevitable. Which was thinking about the illogical, allowing those thoughts of memories with shoddy stitching to resurface, embellished with worry for those who were heeding the first calls of an uncertain war. It's painful to be inert like this when there were people he cared for out there choosing to fight, but Banagher couldn't agree to it. Not knowing so little about the current situation, the important bits hastily dog-eared by conversation alone, and feeling so hesitant about the future paths that this would blast open. Picking up a weapon in a state like that...

Just thinking about it makes him sick. The weight of a gun in his hands. Shooting.

Killing.

He'd almost be angry about it if he had the heart, but he doesn't, not as the night drags on and the stars rise high. Maybe he hears the boom of gunfire in the distance, maybe he doesn't. Dozing in a knitted throw older than he was in the living room of his apartment takes precedence for the day ahead—Sunday, lazy Sunday where he doesn't have anything else to do but go meet Colette at her grandmother's tea shop.

Those were the important things, so long as he could remember them. Not the soft buzzing stirring to life in his head, anticipating. ]

Comments

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval wishes he didn't know night it is, what day, what month, or even what year.

The sting in his hastily wrapped arm, bleeding out through the bandage and down the rips and tears in his coat, is dull in his mind as he wanders; unnotable and unnoticed as he carries himself on uneven steps down the streets, headed nowhere in particular.

But in that same mind, there are whispers, throbs, that lead to him one place, could only ever lead him one place—drawn by a invisible net to the soul he shares this curse with.

He's not sure when he arrives at Banagher's doorstep, just that he knows it's him inside, somewhere. Asleep, maybe, or getting there. Casval shudders and huddles himself on one of the steps, shoulders hunched and hands gripping at his elbows and shaking terribly. More so than he can ever remember them doing. He's scared, scared of what happened and what's happening now, scared of the foreign thoughts flooding him, the heightened awareness that's just too much for a brain that's already filled to bursting. His eyes are narrow, pupils unfocused, but he isn't drunk. He wishes he was. Maybe then he'd feel less overwhelmingly alive and crushingly dead at the same time.

It's raining gently, now, but Casval doesn't pay it any attention. Just digs his claw-scarred chin into his chest and waits. For what, he isn't sure. Banagher doesn't deserve to see him like this (see him ever again), but he's scared and alone, and for once, for once...

He doesn't want to be. ]

[argents]

[ It's like being tugged. More than a waking noise, or a firm shake to his shoulder, it's like something reaches out and grips him by the soul and pulls with clear intent and clear direction. Like forward motion and gravity, clear and innocuous as rain. Absolutely unmistakable.

Inside, Banagher winces out of sleep like he's been zapped. Struck, no matter how gently or peripherally. Impossible, is what he thinks first, but it's the possibility that's making him climb from his spot on the couch and pad towards the door to work at its locks. The night outside is different now than the one he fell asleep to—closer, livelier. And as he pushes the door to his apartment open, Banagher is somehow aware of what's awaiting him. No, who's awaiting him. The pull, the zap, the strike. What he doesn't expect is the state of the man taking up residence on the concrete steps leading down to the ground floor, shivering and bloody...

Banagher stops cold in the doorway, stunned by both the sight and the revelation. ]

Casval, how did you... [ A thousand questions rise even as he's moving forward to get a better look. He intends to reach out instinctively, but he hesitates, not knowing the extent of the damage. ] What happened? Is this because you went and fought those things? Did anyone else come with you?

[ He asks even when he knows, kneeling with hands outstretched tentatively. Casval had come alone. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Oh, and it is. Unmistakable, that pull, that draw, and once Banagher has emerged from his residence, Casval feels it, too. Opening up to him, snaking out with hesitation like his hands are now, as small and as fragile as he remembers them from the piano room.

And like a deer in headlights, Casval whips his neck back after being addressed, nearly topples over from fearful surprise, as if expecting to be struck. Bitten. Shivering again, he somehow regains the nerve to look Banagher in the eyes, his own a far cry from their usual sharpness. Frightened, instead, and very alone.

Casval shakes his head, curls further into himself. Don't hurt me, please. ]

No, I— [ deep breaths, deep breaths, but they don't help ] —just me. I... I promise I wasn't drinking, really, I wasn't, I just didn't know where else to... I don't know why I'm here.

[ But don't leave me here, please.

Don't go. ]

[argents]

[ For as many reasons as there may have been to shy from one another—mismatched memories, misplaced belief, misunderstanding who, or what they were—Banagher finds that he can't this time. At least, not like he wanted to before, when he was adamantly refusing Casval's feverish rambling, when he earned the harsh crack of a hand against his cheek. Because what he feels now is the outline of each thought in succession, just as sharp, like an immense weight stacking up on his shoulders.

Don't, don't, don't. ]

...You have it, too. [ That sense. Like his, the very same one. Banagher says nothing else of it, knowing he doesn't really need to, not when it's reflected so clearly in him, without any defenses. Casting a brief glance over his shoulder at the open door, it doesn't take him long to reach a decision.

I believe you. ]

Can you stand? [ Banagher moves, swallowing his nervousness, extending his hand again. ] You can't stay out here like this.

[secondcomingof]

[ You have it, too.

Casval's eyes go wide, pupils small, when he says it, when he senses it, even, before it ever leaves his mouth. But how could that be? How could he know, instinctively, the words that hadn't even existed, unfurling from Banagher's thoughts, not yet formed? Precognition, psychic ability... what did it all mean, really?

He can't muster up the coherence needed to process it properly, so he doesn't. Rather, focuses on the hand offered him, listening, and then he hears it

I believe you

and nearly chokes, because it's all he's ever wanted from anybody.

Casval throws himself into the strange pool of emotions they're sharing, into Banagher's figurative hands, then takes the literal one with a tight, needy grip. ]

Please.

[ Please help. He's begging you. ]

[argents]

[ Banagher casts the complicated, intricate things to the side in the interest of just getting him somewhere safe for now. It's darker than before, the rain a little denser, and Banagher still doesn't know where water ends and blood begins on the red of Casval's uniform. At this point the shivering also worries him, whether it was from shock or the cold or simple fright.

Bracing himself, he tugs backwards, firmly but carefully, wanting to avoid having to bear the entirety of his weight if possible. ]

Sorry, but you're going to have to keep it down once we get inside. [ Once he's sure Casval isn't going to topple where he stands, Banagher lifts his arm to loop about his shoulders as support. ] My mom's asleep in the other room.

[ And it goes without saying that a soaked, torn-up military officer in his living room was going to be awful hard to explain away if they weren't careful. Not that she would have turned him away either, in all honesty, but it's something he'd still rather avoid, all the same. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Unlike before, back on the street when he'd been swearing up and down about stars and Gundams and utter impossibilities, Casval isn't fighting him. He remains unnerved, certainly, from his scuffles with the not quite wolves, not quite humans, but he's sober enough to manage standing on his own. Even mentally battered, bruised and bloodied, Casval is physically built like a tank with the strength to match; Banagher hardly has to exert any effort at all to send him moving. It's just that shakiness, that unrelenting anxiety that works against them both.

One step, two steps, then three, and they're reached the door. Casval sags against him, slightly, but only because he's so very cold and Banagher is so very warm in comparison and he doesn't want to be alone, don't abandon him. ]

Okay.

[ Fluent he is not at the moment. A strange dissonance from his typical suaveness of tone, replaced by awkward mumbling and paranoid glancing about. Like he's still expecting something to jump out and slaughter him from behind.

At this point, it'd be a blessing. ]

[argents]

[ Of course, nothing of the sort happens, which is his idea of a blessing. No creatures bursting from unnoticed corners, no horrible eyes measuring how much of a disadvantage either of them are at in their current arrangement. Without consciously making an effort, Banagher's slaking away the paranoia, at least for his part, refusing to let it take root in him, make him glance twice into the retreating darkness.

Once Banagher walks Casval inside, past the mess of schoolwork and blankets dimly illuminated by the muted History Channel, he directs him into the kitchen, breaking away to fumble for a light switch.

Unfortunately, the light is no kinder to Casval's state, even less so than he imagined. Banagher goes still, brows pinching in sympathy. His voice remains low, but no less disconcerted for his effort. ]

That looks... that looks terrible! [ "That" being the claw marks adorning his chin. ] Hang on, we need to stop it from bleeding. Wasn't there a doctor with you guys? Is that who helped you with your arm?

[ Instantly he's going for a linen closet off to the side, shuffling out the darker washcloths and towels. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Indeed, the instant the light floods the room is the instant Casval shrinks back, hand instinctively flying to his dirt-caked forehead to shield it from the unwelcome stimuli. Only when Banagher remarks upon his worrisome state does he acknowledge it, glancing down at his arm, thinking that's what Banagher means...

But no. His face is bleeding, too, deep red trails marked into the skin of his cheek and chin. Vaguely, he feels a sting to his pride. Casval was not a vain man, but he was still a man who took pride in his appearance—and for his face, of all places, to suffer an injury was incredibly humiliating. ]

It's not that bad.

[ Worst lie of the night he's told, bar none, but it could've been worse. He conveniently forgets the question about the doctor, bristling at the thought of Aaron and his mannerisms. ]

I, uh... [ Sheepishly: ] I probably need to lie down. And I'll be fine.

[ Yeah. Right. Totally fine. ]

[argents]

Of course it's that bad! I'm looking at you right now, aren't I? [ Zero people, Casval. That is how many you are fooling right now, and the sharp look he shoots from around the door to the linen closet proves it. But he's not exactly up for an argument about it either, piling up pretty much everything he can carry and nudging the cabinet shut with his shoulder. His voice drops again. ]

You made it here, somehow, so bear with it. [ He dumps his armful of towels on the kitchen table, offering up a larger one for Casval to dry himself off with. The rainwater that's pooling on the tile is tinged with red, and Banagher has a hard time breaking his gaze from it. ]

Even if you're used to things like this, I'm not.

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval takes the towel without complaint, and... well, of course he dries his hair off first. Were you really expecting anything else from him, Banagher? Though in all fairness, there was blood there, too. It needed to get cleaned off, anyway.

But past that, Casval drifts from the conversation and back towards that awkward pinging in his mind, glancing at the boy head on—a notable rarity for someone who struggled with eye contact in their more vulnerable moments. ]

What did you mean, before? When you said I had it, like you?

[argents]

[ Banagher, on the other had, has never had a problem with looking anyone in the eye. Though when he meets Casval's gaze, his own holds a flicker of uncertainty. Instead of answering right away (though the impulse exists), he picks up a washcloth, folding it into a triangle. Using the motion as leverage over something that's threatening to get away from him should he think about it too hard.

He frowns pointedly, reaching up and pressing the cloth to the angry red marks angled across his jaw. A bold move, maybe, but he just wanted all the bleeding to stop. ]

I sensed you. Outside.

[secondcomingof]

[ Maybe a little too bold. Casval jerks, though surprisingly he calms immediately after, blinking at Banagher through curious eyes. Placing his hand atop Banagher's, he gives it a gentle nudge... but it's ultimately left ambivalent whether or not he was trying to remove it altogether, as his larger fingers linger on its knuckles. ]

Think of something. Anything.

[ The physical contact helps. Maybe he could use it as a... funnel, somehow. A means to channel that bristling energy through. His thoughts sharpen again, more purposely this time. Struggling to tap into that bizarre power that's revealed its presence. ]

...well, a pleasant thought couldn't hurt. [ A mild smile, which soon fades. ] I could see them, almost. Earlier.

[ He sounds insistent. And why not? It's a distraction from the pain in his arm, in his body, slowly returning, and he's fascinated beyond that at the hidden potential here, having settled himself somehow.

(But he knows it's because of Banagher, actually.) ]

Let me try again.

[argents]

[ Persistence is what he's rewarded with, pressure via his palm against the wound instead of a willingness to back down. If it wasn't blatant hostility for his effort, he was going to stubbornly carry on. (Even then, maybe if it was, because he's the one who's going to be scrubbing the floor later.) Curiosity draws a lighter touch though as he contemplates the request. ]

Think of something...

[ Something positive. In truth, he hadn't had much by way of positivity to draw from lately, but the expectation is already needling at him. Seeking him out with a clarity that was striking. ]

It's you doing that, isn't it?

[secondcomingof]

[ Ordinarily, the stubbornness would've irritated him; but instead it intrigues him all the more. Everything does. What was it about this boy that he couldn't bear to pull himself away from? Even before the manifestation of this ability, he'd felt... inseparable. When Banagher walked out of the room, part of him walked out, too. How could someone so young, so unassuming leave such a damning impression?

And why did he suddenly feel as though this was meant to be all along? ]

You're having difficulty. [ The ability is certainly far from refined. Banagher's mind is fuzzy at best, but even so, he can tell he can't assemble his thoughts properly. ] Is life really that sad? That tragic? What a terrible world we live in.

[ But he knows the answer to that as well before he even asked. Belatedly, he nods in reply to Banagher. ]

Yes. [ Quickly, concernedly: ] I'm not hurting you, am I? It isn't jarring?

[argents]

[ Putting such a sophisticated spin on something that had, up until then, been rather loose cannon, wasn't an easy feat to accomplish on command. Banagher's concentrating on all the wrong aspects, concentrating too hard in general, nearly glossing over all of Casval's questions in the process. ]

Huh? Oh... no, it doesn't hurt. [ That actually surprises him more than anything, given the last time they met face-to-face. Almost makes him feel bad for not trying as much as he could have. ] It feels kind of strange, your presence. Like it's different from other people. That's how I knew it was you in the first place. But... I haven't tried using it. So far, it's just happened.

[ Steeling, his expression sets. ]

Give me another chance.

[ Unspoken, but not checked in light of his new attempt: The world isn't so terrible. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval sucks in a breath of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding, just glad that the boy wasn't shying away from him again. He couldn't take another jab to the heart, another I'm sorry. Not when he'd felt so intensely, so passionately in that moment, and still felt even now that stars and Gundams and impossible things were, in fact, possible after all. ]

You're... different, too. [ Hastily corrected, once more: ] I mean, not like—well, you know what I mean, I hope.

[ He's about to go on, but then Banagher catches him off guard—such a frequent occurrence it's habitual at this point—with the sudden schooling of his features, that stalwart request and the thought running through his mind that sings to him above everything else:

The world isn't so terrible.

And his heart lifts and is crushed down, both at the same time, because he wants to believe it but knows it isn't true. Yet he'd asked for a chance, hadn't he? Even so...

Casval focuses his thoughts similarly, hones the edge of that unstable power, steps forward and leans down until they're nearly forehead to forehead and with some exertion, some effort, with misty eyes, answers him in turn, in that hazy realm between reality and surreal.

Prove it to me.

Show me why the world is beautiful... why the world is worth living in. ]

[argents]

I think so. If this is really the same thing.

[ No words are spoken aloud beyond those and yet somehow he knows what Casval's withholding, beyond the shadow of a doubt, and beyond even vague concepts like intuition. Banagher senses skepticism, but also something else—even so, the brink that keeps such a lack of faith at bay, and he latches onto that, seizes it desperately and doesn't let it go because without that, this would be impossible.

So for a moment, he forgets that impossibility exists.

Brows pinching, he shuts his eyes. He concentrates on that canvas, the imprints of light leaving it not quite blank. Not to parse one emotion from another, relief from doubt, or to gather the things he knows are there to present them as logic might dictate. Instead, Banagher simply lets go.

The edge of his awareness drifts, and he pushes past the natural instinct of the mind to isolate itself as a measure of protection. To prove it, to prove that good things still existed, like sunlight bouncing off yellow flowers on the windowsill, piano chords glinting in the air like silver. Like a lullaby, or a serenade, and the lack of pretense that accompanies it, that promises:

It's safe here.

To rest, or believe in such a harbor where nothing would leap from the darkness with fangs bared if you dared to turn your back, in the way he'd been reached out to and responded in kind. Like Bakura, or Colette, Lizzie, Audrey...

What an explosion a simple tap on the heart could feel like, maybe a lifetime ago. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Doubt is just the nature of the beast, with Casval. He doubted everything, because his life had always doubted him, and now more than ever he doubts himself. Doubts who he is, who he was, who he should be. Doubts his place in the world, if he has such a place at all.

But he doesn't doubt this, the earnestness that radiates from Banagher once he fully immerses his focus in the task. The light that flows from him, that illuminates all the dark spots in Casval's mind and dashes that to pieces, if only here, if only in this moment.

If only for a while.

He hears it, first, Chopin dancing in his ears, and instinctively he relaxes, soothed by the familiar music. Racing thoughts calmed to a standstill, but then...

Flowers.

Yellow, brilliant, beautiful. The flowers that she grew. The flowers that he loved. The sunlight that she welcomed, into his window, and Chopin, they played it together, he remembers, he remembers—

The floodgates burst open and the memories rush out, all at once, all in a crushing wave. A beautiful woman with a beautiful smile, beautiful blonde hair with distinctive curls that framed a beautiful face, and beautiful blue eyes. She's laughing with him by the piano, teasing him. The notes are so simple, Cas! C'mon, you've got this. Just a little more, okay? I know you can do it!

I know you can...

Because you can do anything, kid.

Casval's eyes, blue eyes, beautiful eyes, go wide, pupils little points of black in the center. ]

Mother.

[ The tears flow, free and unchecked, down his face. The memories, too, continue to pour out, because he doesn't know this and can't control this and

Cas... me and your dad, well...

I'm really sorry, but I can't come over anymore.

No, it's not your fault!

Cas, don't cry. You're a big boy now, remember? You have to be strong.

Even if I can't see you, even if I go to a place far away...

Even so, I'll always love you.

Don't forget, alright?

he never did. ]

Then why...?

[ Casval sounds lost. Far away. Not there any longer, only existing in that world he's surrounded by. The world of flowers and sunlight and piano, interspersed with the woman, rarely coming but always, always going, until one day, she never came back. His mind ultimately finishes what his mouth cannot, between the breaks in the storm, a soft whisper, a desperate plea:

Then why did you have to die? ]

[argents]

[ Immediately, it's not the same. Not what he was expecting, even if he wouldn't have known what to expect from a man like Casval in the first place. What was once an indistinct hum fluttering in the back his mind, a faint stirring of dusty shapes revived by an ability once dormant, forgotten, reflected now in Casval... is so close to tangible reality that Banagher can no longer separate the two now that it has him by the same heart he'd offered up as an olive branch.

Was it a mistake? No, no it couldn't be, it didn't have to be—

Banagher has never heard this woman's voice. He has no way of knowing what she really looked like, beyond the fact that Casval has her eyes. Much of her, in actuality.

But somehow her presences rushes through him, like sunlight, like the color yellow, and deep, glimmering blue, like sweet flowers a day too old. But he won't throw them away, because they're pieces of her, soft and bright and wilting but still alive. And where her fingertips start and the music ends is indistinguishable, the beautiful notes flowing from warm keys that Banagher can't memorize because he's never played the piano. Casval can, and does, plays it right up until the realization that

She wasn't ever coming home.

His fingers twitch against Casval's face, the first outward motion he's capable of making in the thick of the memories crashing through him. A breath finally snakes its way out through his teeth, low, suffering.

She wasn't ever coming home, because she was dead. Ripped from his heart and left in barely-functional tatters, and it's sad, so, so sad...

When the tears find Banagher's fingertips, he's so acutely aware of them that everything turns too sharp in an instant, and he rips his hand away like he's been burned, hurt by it, having to steady himself with the ledge of the kitchen table to keep from stumbling over backwards. The sensation doesn't disappear, but it fades, and he's left with nothing but uneven breathing and a hammering heart and so many memories that aren't his to hold. ]

I'm sorry! [ It seems woefully inadequate but the word guns from him anyway, distraught. ] ...I'm so sorry.

[secondcomingof]

[ Sorry.

The word seems hollow, now. Everything does. When Banagher staggers back, caught in that emotional whirlwind of Casval's design, the scene abruptly shatters, whipping the man towards reality again by force. No more flowers, no more sunlight, no more piano, and he'd be grateful for that, except for the fact he can hardly breathe himself. Heart torn in every direction, ready to beat right out of his chest.

If only it could, some deeply disturbed part of him thinks. If only he could toss it aside, just like that.

Then maybe she wouldn't be keeping it prisoner for the rest of his sorry life.

Casval stares at Banagher, cross-eyed, like he's just grown three heads. And he might as well have, for how floored he is by all of this. ]

For what? [ He asks, dazedly. For all the feelings surging through him, anger isn't one of them. Even he's amazed. Shaking his head, as if it might clear out the remnants of dusty old relics he'd rather forget, he brings the back of his hand to a wet cheek. ] No, it was... my fault. I pushed too far, without knowing.

[ A tentative pause, and then: ]

You saw everything, didn't you?

[ Saw all the parts he never wanted the world to see. All the parts that would never leave Banagher, and all because of him. ]

[argents]

I... [ Hesitation bites his answer back harshly, chastising him. Had he really seen it? ] I don't know. I don't know if I saw it, or... or what happened. But I felt it, so clearly, and—

[ And there aren't words for it. His face feels hot, like he wants to cry, but he can't, he won't, it'd be too unfair, and selfish. So he settles on the other single truth of the matter, eyes bright and a little scared when they flicker upwards, expecting insult to meet him there. ]

I didn't know what this was capable of. Not at all.

[secondcomingof]

[ And yet no trace of it is to be found. Only a particularly somber sort of sadness that taints his tone as he approaches the table, fixes the bum leg knocked out of whack by Banagher's balancing act and takes one of the towels, of his own volition this time. Uses his wounds as an excuse to dab his eyes dry. ]

My father was not a kind man. I respected him, but... it simply wasn't a virtue he held in high esteem. He took a mistress, early on—my mother. [ He's not sure why he's smiling. There's nothing to smile about, here. ] She wasn't over very often, yet when she visited, she lit up the room. She lit up everything. And in spite of his sternness, my father loved her, and I did, too.

[ Soaked with blood and tears alike, Casval sets the drenched towel down again. Continues on in that same, almost disturbed calmness. How could someone recite their life story so coldly, near callously? Yet Casval does, and does it without a lick of hesitation. ]

My mother was an idol. From Germany. I know a word, or three. [ His lips turn up, wryly, in a blink and you might miss it moment. ] One summer, she went away to Madrid. Huge tour; everyone in Europe was talking about it. She always traveled with security, given her status, but for whatever reason, she went alone that time.

[ And now his eyes darken, not so beautiful now. Dreadful, now. Frightening, in their focus. Their bitterness. ]

They found her dead, an hour before the first concert. Shot in some alley, tossed in a dumpster. Like rubbish. The authorities did the best they could, so I'm told. Even interpol got involved. But all of the trails dried up, and soon, everyone forgot about her.

My father didn't. He shot himself, supposedly... twice, in the head. [ His face sours. ] Everybody knew it wasn't a suicide, but my stepmother? Insufferably clever woman. Insufferably greedy, as well. She covered it up fast.

[ Just like she covered up her murder, he leaves out, but Banagher probably hears it anyway, if he's paying attention. Casval doesn't care. ]

The piano is the only thing I have to remember her by. That, and the flowers she would grow, back at the estate. [ He eyes him levelly. Evenly, seemingly settled back to normal, though you never knew with Casval. ] So now you know. Now you know more than anyone ever has, Banagher, and likely ever will. With this power, we share... this strange ability, this link I can't explain...

It's impossible for you not to. [ Strong words, words he can't retract, but it would feel wrong to. Just as he did on the street, he believes firmly, resolutely, in this and this alone. ] For me not to trust you.

[argents]

[ Banagher can only listen. Putting words to the things that he felt so painfully, so sharply, down to what he supposes might constitute a soul, only makes the situation marginally better. In truth, it just gave the darkness boundaries, gave it terrifying definition. One that would sound like something out of a work of fiction, not someone's everyday reality. Casval's reality. The sensation of being consumed to the brink with emotions has tunneled out for the most part, leaving him pale, and a little shaken, but mostly calm, despite a muddled up mind. He still grips the edge of the table even when he's in no danger of falling, like he can still benefit from the support.

One expression settles over him: grieved.

Their link may have been severed, but each recollection shared is its own spark, burning bright, marking him with things he can never forget. Secrecy lavished in violence. The loss, and the cruelty, and the injustice. Battered steps up to the foundation of who the man before him currently is.

Sad.

But what sears away the sadness, makes his breath catch, is the final statement: It's impossible for me not to trust you. ]

Is it going to do you any good to trust me? [ Banagher had mostly been trying to avoid such direct contact since he'd broken away, but finds himself looking up squarely once more. Before, it was easy to take him at surface-level. Now he can feel himself seeping in through all the cracks. Unlike before, Banagher isn't very much afraid of him, isn't trying to spurn him, or add insult to injury. ] It's not that I don't want you to, not now, but... I didn't mean to tap in to any of that! I didn't even know I could. And now that all of this has started, I don't even feel like I know who I am, or where I am, or...

[ Finally he dares to move, to kneel own and pick up the first washcloth he'd pressed to Casval's face, now sodden a deep red. So red. ]

Or what I'm supposed to remember about you. If it's... what I felt just now, or something else.

[ On the contrary, nothing about him is certain right now. How can he expect someone to place such faith in him like that? ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval simply stares, less at Banagher than through him, with vacant pits for eyes. The anger, the bitterness, that buried vendetta and that grief, it's all gone now, vanished into the space he spoke so fervently of; now he studies Banagher like he's some kind of experiment being watched from outside a glass window. With interest, yes, but the detached sort. The emotionless sort.

The empty sort. ]

Whatever this is, there's no stopping it now. [ Drip, drip, drip. The rainwater falls from his arm, mixed with red. ] But... in my memory, in that hangar, when we were together... I was wearing a mask. White, with crimson eyes, and I said something to you—about us, really.

[ The bandage wrapped haphazardly about his wound loosens, though Casval doesn't appear to notice. Glancing into the ceiling, the bright, flickering light. ]

That we can't be part of everyone, that we're not like everyone. And I think that's true, or at least for me. I've always felt that way. Different. Alienated.

[ Alone. ]

Hearing Char's Aznable's words, laced with despair, and feeling that heartache firsthand... seeing myself beside you, hiding my face from the world, and speaking in such a fashion... [ Casval shakes his head, turns it away. The bandage loosens a little bit more. ] no, I know now what happened.

Whatever I was, whatever I became, it wasn't human. And tonight, the burden of inhumanity falls upon my shoulders for my mistakes. My misgivings. My failures. In the future, I don't doubt I'll bear the same weight, over and over again, perhaps endlessly, to accomplish those "answers". [ Dry laughter. ] To be honest, I don't suppose I'll much like what I find.

[ Step, step, step. The bandage is gone now, joining the bloody mess on the floor, and he's in front of Banagher again. Gaze biting into him, sharpening. The eyes of a Newtype. ]

But it's still my responsibility. [ Sternly, imploringly, please listen: ] Banagher. I want to fight for you. Protect you from this, if I can. But it may not be possible. And maybe, someday, we'll even wind up on opposite sides. Yet if we think of it that way, it's also too sad, right? So until then, if you've need of anything, please tell me. This is the sort of bond that can't be ignored, or broken.

For better or worse, young man, [ he smiles, a flash of honesty in a deceptive sea ] you're stuck with me until my time on Earth runs out. Sorry, for that.

[argents]

[ Banagher senses his shift immediately, and it rattles him unkindly, coldly, through skin and bone and right down to the marrow. Though his experience with his ability was newborn and stumbling on week-old legs, Banagher can feel the wrongness inherent within Casval. His emotions, once deep and strong and darker than anything he's ever known, aren't simply being suppressed, or overlooked. They're fading. Like a distant star, winking bright, dying in a thousand indefinable colors a moment later. And there's nothing he can do for it, even when it's ghosting through him on a very frightening pair of eyes.

Intimidation isn't Casval's aim, and Banagher knows that, but he feels himself tensing regardless, the closer he draws. Through rainwater and through blood and through the lingering fan of consciousness. His voice pulses through the back of his mind, constant—reminding him of the things that he can't recall, no matter how desperately he tries. Of some other life, far from solid ground, far from everything he knows.

And Banagher wants to interrupt this insanity. Throw it in his face, scream at him that he can't just up and renounce his very humanity, not when he'd felt love in that memory, fury, heartbreak, distrust, a thousand other living things, and he starts to... ]

Wait a second! How can you just decide something like that so quickly? Is that any way to fight for something you want to believe in? Can you really protect anything, or take on that responsibility, if you're just going to abandon yourself to—...!

[ Despair.

Of course it was sad to think of things that way. Which "side" either of them would end up on. But what actually bites off his brewing tirade is some disjointed series of words, acting like ill-tempered keys, fitted into locks buried within him. His eyes grow wide, unfocused, flashes of bright gold, and he doubles over as if he'd been struck by the nothingness that beats through him, emptying him, supplying him with that alien heartbeat...

For better or for worse. Whether it be good or bad.

A background of metal, steel. Tempers, and time. There's a hand on his shoulder, but he's sure Casval isn't touching him. It's someone else. Dark eyes, a kind voice. Laying waste to the origins of the doubt in his soul, a doubt he can't even begin to fathom. Not his, and yet his all the same.

Just like every other Gundam pilot, it chose you. Be brave enough to fight off despair. If you're a Gundam pilot, a Newtype, you can do it.

Banagher doesn't know where he is, only that these are the words he clutches to his heart with all of his might, that these are the words he may have forgotten once, and will now likely never forget again. There's another presence, one behind him, a resonance, a bond, chosen, he was chosen, the Gundam, that machine that Casval remembers, chose him...

But it all goes coiling back into the recesses, the memory complete, and Banagher snaps to, crash landing back into an already upset reality. Almost literally, when he stumbles forward, clutching his forehead, remembering the need to breathe. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ For all his thirty-three years of life, and for all of Banagher's, perhaps not even half as much, Casval Mass is quite certain he has never met someone of such incredible intensity that can shatter him so entirely with such simple words.

But it's not words, now, that draw Casval in. It's feelings. Feelings he's shut out. Feelings he's tried to empty himself of, snapping through his mind moments ago, now whipping through Banagher's. Sucking him up and sucking him in and though he only catches bits and pieces of the memory that both is and isn't flitting between the gaps of his consciousness, it is enough.

They say eyes are the window to one's soul and Casval's never really believed it, up until this point. Yet looking into Banagher's while he undergoes this ordeal, this ordeal Casval has experienced too many times already because yes, despair, he thought he'd known it before but the entire game has changed thanks to stars and Gundams and impossibilities that somehow are, he understands. Pools of amber blown wide as if they're torn apart from his body, drifting, and he grimaces as if in pain, and Casval doesn't doubt it because it hurts, it's true. It always hurts, that crushing disparity from the reality you thought you knew.

It always hurts, realizing that the world you once embraced—if reluctantly, if out of desperation for belonging, for meaning, for anything—was a complete lie.

Casval moves, on instinct, to catch him. He hears the word Newtype again and is positive that this is what they've become. But he misses the rest. All he hears is despair. And it makes sense. It comes together, just like that.

Newtypes were machines of despair. That is what he was.

For better or for worse, whether it be good or bad, Casval moves to support the floundering boy, disregarding his injuries and the cruel realities he's accepted in favor of focusing on the tangible, the absolute. He's sure it's not rain he hears outside any longer, but the frantic beating of Banagher's heart and he can't bear it for too many reasons to count. Whereas Banagher struggles Casval is there to stabilize him, as he did out in the rain, out on the street, and as, Casval was sure, he did for every other poor soul who crawled to his doorstep.

Newtypes were machines of despair, but Casval is sure, he won't let Banagher fall into the same pit he's forever imprisoned in. ]

Banagher. [ He shakes him. Lightly, just in case this was a seizure, something similar, and not what he suspects. ] It's alright. I've got you.

[ It's practically an embrace and there's blood everywhere but Casval doesn't care. He's got him and he's staying and he won't go off to that dreadful place he's in and that's all that matters. ]

[argents]

[ As much as he vacantly feels Casval take hold of him, keep gravity from taking its due course, he feels him take hold of something else, too—despair, the single word and emotion that he shouldn't, can't. Not now. Banagher wants to rip it back out of his grasp, tell him that it's not for him, not for anyone, that Casval can't just decide to carry that burden for him out of some misguided responsibility. Out of some impossible mold shaped from the tatters of another life. A sadder one, that could have been capable of anything. Could have been capable of more than just tragedy, even when he doesn't know how, and even when it doesn't feel that way.

There's shaking, but keeps his eyes squeezed shut, trying to find and catch the gossamer threads that make sense in all this. Hold them close, as close as he's being held. Through the damp cloth, the coppery smell of blood, what he can only assume is the darkness of gunpowder. ]

No, that's not what it was meant for. [ Instead of having the better grace to break away, Banagher buries his brow into Casval's chest, like he can force his heartbeat up to the surface just by thinking about it. Prove to him that it was still there. Loud. Definite. ] Even if we're Newtypes... because we're Newtypes, we can feel the sadness of others. Not in a way that you can rationalize, or quantify. That just ignores the whole meaning. It always has!

[ He listens, and he listens hard, the warmth of blood that isn't his soaking through as he does his best to get past it. Don't take this away from him, because he can prove something with it. ]

Feeling despair doesn't mean you have to carry it for everyone. No one can do that alone. No matter how much you want to, or think you need to. [ His brows knit over that thump, thump, thump. ] So, please... don't say you'll do that for me. Like there's no other possibility. It's just too sad.

[secondcomingof]

[ Gravity is a fickle thing. On the planet's surface, it keeps you from drifting away to certain doom, but outside of it, it serves as a powerful deterrent, a dangerous force threatening to pull you to the very same fate.

Dealing with Banagher is similar. He can't live without him and he can't live with him when he's spewing rhetoric of this nature, impassioned and fierce and no, not, you can't, no one can, no matter what, please don't. It stirs the heart so desperately straining to pull back into the abyss, takes the blackness and colors it shades of deep red instead and no, he cannot help but listen. Be moved by it, guide a soothing hand atop the shuddering boy's head as he draws near, throwing himself willingly into the jaws of the beast, however deadly this may come to prove in time. ]

What a foolish boy. [ Muttered half-heartedly, half-teasingly. Could he ever rightly raise his voice to Banagher again, without the accompanying sting of guilt? He doubts it. ] You must be a handful for your poor mother.

[ The cuts and tears and rends don't hurt anymore, but this does. Without despair to mask it, the hurt is exposed for Banagher to witness, experience. And because it hurts, because it hurts so much and always...

Much like the man with the dark eyes and the kind voice and the kinder smile Casval could never hope to have anymore, Casval gives him a gentle push back. A gentle letting go.

He has gone to a place you can no longer reach, Banagher. You came too late. This is goodbye. ]

I am too old to suffer anything but this, Banagher Links, and you much too young to condemn yourself to its hold. [ He grins. It's... nostalgic, almost. Like he's talking to an old friend, back in the Forces. ] But I'll tell you what. A little piece of myself, the piece you saw back in the piano room, I'll save for you. Even if the rest of me is gone, you can have it. I'll entrust it to your care so you can remember.

[ A step back. Then another. And another. And another, until he's halfway across the room. Halfway to the door. This is goodbye, to Casval Mass. The person who entered will not be the person who leaves, not ever again.

He is crying, if only a little. ]

I'll always play piano for you, even if the rest of me is drenched in nothing but blood and despair.

[argents]

[ It's like it happens to someone else, at first. Slow, so terribly slow, and far too deliberate. Too shot through with the breakneck effect of adrenaline to really feel out what's going on around him, all the darkness just on his peripherals, cast aside in favor of the light. Casval hurts and Banagher has no choice but to hurt with him, to endure that tired rush of pain that resonates so loudly his head aches with the force of it. Banagher doesn't know where his words have come from, doesn't know to what end they'll travel, doesn't know how or when or even if they'll change something, anything. An atom, a cell, a speck of dust, some infinitesimal piece of swirling cosmos enough to trigger a butterfly effect that had the ability to lay waste to the idea of fate. Their fate. The very idea of what burns so terribly in the corners of his eyes, in his fingertips, in Casval's blood.

Banagher thinks he knows what he believes. For all of a minute, one minute of his short life, he believes that something right has clicked into place.

But it misses him by that same atom, speck, piece of ancient stardust condemned to dissolve into nothing. It misses him by the fraction of a second it takes for his front door to click, and for him to be sealed in a loneliness so profound that it strangles the Wait! he felt rise so fiercely in his throat. Casval leaves, and Banagher, shellshocked by the chastising bite of darkness, lets him.

Gone, all of it. The strength of his words, and his thoughts, once held high by the only other one like him, now left to crash and burn in the dirt. In the bitter Earth, in a throe of greedy, defiant gravity. In the pronounced fragments of his life too, jagged and sharp, the bursting chrysalis of that butterfly born too late to give its wings a beat.

Too late to keep from losing Casval to something terrible, of his own design, a design he wasn't strong enough to change in that moment.

It's selfish, and it's hypocritical, it's wrong, and unfair... and it pangs through him like he's more hollow than any disjointed memory has ever made him, like everything that's ever made sense to him has escaped through the soles of his feet.

When Banagher finally looks up at the door that shut however long ago, his vision wavers. He has to swallow his own heartbeat back from where its lodged itself in his throat, has to convince himself it was crazy to miss something that's only been in his life for such a short while. That it was absolutely crazy to be standing in his kitchen a little past four in the morning, watching blood dry down on the table, on the tiles, on his sleeves and skin. Crazy, and yet inevitable, when it was ripped so forcefully from him that all that remains is rawness, shoved back into his own hands, and made to seep slowly out through his fingers while he watched, helplessly.

He's terrified of what that feels like. Of what it means, or could mean.

Banagher breathes in, shaken, blinking the wetness out of his eyes. Instinctively, his hand covers his heart, gripping, clutching, begging to not give out in that moment. By the virtue of some enigmatic strength he's supposed to remember. If he allowed those tears to fall, it would really have to be goodbye.

A piece is what remains, and a piece is what he'll keep. There, right there, a wordless inflection upon his heart. A piece wasn't gone. No—

A piece, no matter how small...

...meant possibility. ]