vatheon | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: Sufferer and whoever wants to ~~mob~~ join him
When: September 24th, early afternoon
Where: in the Plaza to start
Style: whatever you like!
Status: totally open

In the beginning, there was pain.

The arrow that pierced his side was not the least of it, but only the last. By the time its barbed head sank into his flesh and hit something deep inside, sending a torrent of cherry blood spilling over his hip and down his leg, blood that looked almost black in the bright light of Derse, it was almost an annoyance and nothing more. Hardly a little pang, after the constant burning on his wrists, and the way the flesh crackled and turned black under the heavy irons. He had lost feeling in his hands long ago, the nerves dying under hot brands and his fingers curling inward towards his palms, and the hot blood that ran down his arms felt almost cool by comparison.

And then, after his blood--his cursed, mutant blood--gushed away from his body and left a sticky, clotted pool under his feet... then, there was nothing.

No neverending light, no peace, no absolution. Just darkness, and emptiness, and a million years crying soundlessly into the void.

And then there was a jolt, and a return of the pain, and he was lying face first on cobblestones, soaked through, and this was all very familiar.

Sufferer looks up, his hair soaked and falling in his eyes, his bare back exposed to the air and still slowly running with blood. His eyes blur, and refocus, and he's next to the fountain, in the Plaza. Vatheon. He's back in Vatheon.

Struggling, he tries to push himself to his knees, but he's hindered by the arrow protruding from his side, its shaft slick with blood and its blue (b100) feathers tacky and standing up like little brushes. His hands are useless; blackened, melted things on the ends of his wrists, and the chains he wore when he died, his shackles... they're still there, turned a cold, sullen black instead of pulsing red, and it's hard to tell where the chains end and his wrists begin.

His mind whirls, remembering Vatheon, images coming to him in fractured, fragmented half-memories--Karkat, growling crabbily after getting a hug... Dualscar's fins, moving under his fingertips... Sola, asking questions with that plaintive look on his face... Zelda... Johnny... Jacob... Dave... Disciple... Spider... Psii...

Psii.

He tries again to get to his feet, but his wounds and the chains on his wrists are too much, and he topples forward again, groaning as the arrow digs deeper into his side. He's worthless, useless, he led them all down the wrong path, everything he told them was wrong, he's a failure, he's failed them all...

Sufferer looks up at the bubble's dome, his eyes so bloodshot they're red almost all the way through, and his jaw works, his teeth grinding together and the tendons in his forearms standing out as he tries to clench his hands into fists. His voice is raspy, his throat raw and choked from the last time he spoke, centuries and seconds before.

He throws his head back and screams at the bubble's dome. "FUUUUUUUUCK!"

His voice ripples and echoes back to him, distorted, animalistic, the cry of a brute instead of a savior. Slowly, he bends back over his chained wrists, resting his forehead on the irons, and the red that stains the cold steel is not blood this time.

"...fuck."

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Sufferer wants to cooperate--he does!--but the pain is just too much. He feels like if he tries to lay flat again, he'll rip in half and leave the steps to the clinic soaked in vile, mutated blood. He grits his fangs together so hard it feels like they're going to snap off.

"Just get it over with," he manages, and lays his head back on Karkat's shoulder. That's the best he can do right now.

This is absolutely in no way utterly upsetting. Absolutely not. Nope.

Gamzee's arms tremble faintly. Not due to physical strain. Signless is heavy but he can hold him. It's more the mental aspects of it. To hold someone in his arms who is crying out with so much pain, to feel blood stickily congeal against his skin, to smell the burned skin. Nope. This is no picnic in the park. But it has to be done as Signless says.

Gritting his teeth, he hauls Signless up the steps with the help of Karkat, stepping through the doors of the clinic that slide open once they come close enough.

Remember this day well, Gamzee, because this is your birthright. The arrow in Sufferer's side might be tipped with blue, but the injuries across his body were done with weapons and claws tinted indigo. Remember this, and do all that you can so that you never become someone who would do such things, and spend the whole time honking in laughter.

Sufferer is a rigid ball of agony by now, past being able to speak or articulate himself very well, and all he does is moan quietly as they carry him into the clinic.

Thank inventors for sliding doors. Karkat wouldn't even know what to do if they reached them and he had to jostle his ancestor around anymore just to get one open. It's bad enough to see him like this, to have to carry the heavy, sticky weight of him. It's bad for Gamzee, surely, but Karkat's the one who has to see blood his own color, and know the hate they could bring against a mutant like him. Here is the living, breathing story of his sign, horrifying as it is.

Once they're inside, he's shouting at whatever employee can hear him. "Get us a fucking four wheel device! Or one of those flat things to lay on, whatever you call them, something, because if you shiftless anal contusions take so long we drop the Signless, there will be unimaginable hell to pay!"

With any luck, that should get them some nurses and a stretcher so they can finally put him down, and he can get the care he needs.

Luck has it that what nurses there are in the clinic are of the quick and efficient type. It isn't before too long before they are rushing up, a bed along with them, ready to lift Signless off the two young trolls and onto the bed. It is a flurry of medical attention that leaves Gamzee standing slightly awkwardly, certainly glad that Signless is finally getting some proper attention but in that odd, detached sort of way where he mostly just can't help but notice the blood and soot staining his arms and shirt.

Sufferer stays curled in a ball once he's on the wheeled bed, the broken off arrow pointing rakishly towards the ceiling and his cuffs staining the white sheet he's laying on. His throat is too dry to speak, and his vision is starting to fade out, but he lifts his head when they start to wheel him away, and makes a gesture with his hands while looking directly at Karkat. It's an odd, disjointed gesture, spoiled by the shackles on his wrists and his own weakness, but the implication is fairly clear.

Don't leave me.

It's easier once the Sufferer is out of his arms, in the manner of a physical weight lifted. His arms can relax now. He doesn't have to worry if he's hurting him anymore. Still, he's left feeling bereft that he can't help any further. He would be ready to just go to Gamzee and get to some much-needed mutual emotional comfort, but then he sees the Sufferer's gesture.

Hopefully Gamzee's ribs are resilient, as in the next moment, Karkat is wrapping him in a brief but crushing hug. "I'm sorry, I have to..." he babbles out, every word sincere, and then he's pulling back.

"Let me go with him!" This shout he directs to the nurses as he chases after the rolling bed. He prays, as much as a guy who only believes in the gods he's seen can, that they'll let him. "I won't interfere, I'll keep out of the way, just let me be there because by whatever cruel fates have wrought this, he does not need to be alone right now."

There is a little 'oof' when Karkat slams so suddenly into him, but Gamzee's ribs withstand the sudden blow. He drops his arms to squeeze Karkat around the shoulders, combing his claws through his hair for a moment. "Aight. Just... later, aight. You call and I come--" He's mostly babbling too, not even able to finish his sentence before Karkat is pulling back again and yelling at nurses. They don't really seem to object to his orders though, or perhaps simply cowed in the face of Karkat's superior yelling skills. Which means Gamzee's role here is over. He'll go home, take a bath --the scorching hot sort that is sure to get rid of any ruddy red blood stains-- and wait for Karkat's call.

It is not for some time that Karkat leaves the clinic. While there were certainly limits to what he could do - hovering over the operating table was very much not an option - he did what he could to be there, and to see how they took care of his ancestor. For as nerve-wracking as the whole thing was, however, it did provide a sense of security. To actually check that the nurses were doing their job helped assuage the worries he would have had otherwise. Does he trust them more? No, not really. But he's glad that they helped the Sufferer.

When the nurses have done all they can (and it's certainly no light bandaging that went on), and the Sufferer is left to rest, recover, and be monitored, Karkat reluctantly takes his leave. The other half of the arrow has joined the back end in his sylladex, and will be handed over at a later time. He's cleaner than he was. However, lacking the chance for a full, long shower, he wants to go back to his hive before he calls Gamzee.

Any explanation to Eridan would have been short, something along the lines of "I need an ablution, and I need my moirail, and I promise I'll explain later but I can't right now." But once clean and re-dressed, he fires off a quick message to Gamzee.

GET OVER HERE.

Gamzee has been waiting for that message, an unusually testy and impatient collection of skinny limbs in the rough shape of a troll. Since getting dismissed from the clinic, it had been straight home for him and straight into the trap, but even the hot water and then the very careful reapplication of his make-up had been any sort of calming.

The moment his SFC beeps, he sends back the shortest message he can possible think of sending ( k ) before he shoves up and stalks off. He doesn't even pause to let his hivemates know where he is going but they are a bright sort, they can figure it the fuck out.

The walk over to Karkat's is blissfully short and it is mere minutes after Karkat pressed the send button on that message that he ends up on his stoop, looking testy, impatient, worried, and tired, pounding on the door like he is rethinking his stance on black relationships and adding a whole additional clause on furniture.

(is a door furniture? We just don't know)

Edited 2012-10-12 01:09 (UTC)

Karkat's wait for Gamzee is spent in similar impatience. He's been concerned enough about him over the time spent in the clinic, but now that the two can actually meet, he can hardly stand to wait for it. The reply is quick, but there's minutes enough for him to pace before the front door before his moirail gets there.

At least when the knock comes, sounding like he wants to knock the door down, the answer is prompt. Karkat throws the door open - probably not furniture, but who cares - then slings his arms around Gamzee. Is it usual for him? Definitely not. But this, now, is not a usual situation.

"Get in here," he muffles somewhere against his clavicle, for all he's not stepping away. It's just difficult: He's had all this time to soak up what they did to his ancestor, and know what they had to do to even try to fix it, and what in turn could not be fixed. And for all that, he knows even more that how heavily it affects him can't come close to what it must be like for the troll himself.

When Karkat tosses himself at him, Gamzee immediately reaches up to cradle the back of his head with one hand, his head bend low to the point of his nose just barely touching those unruly strands of hair. If this was a rom-com --though very thin on the com, right now-- or one of those romantic tomes that Karkat likes to read , Gamzee thinks, the whole motherfuckin narrative would be on about how Karkat's hair smells like something or another, something flowery or fruity or shit, but really mostly it's just shampoo. "Shoosh."

It's a little hard manoeuvring with Karkat stuck to his chest like a particularly sticky burr, unintending to let go, but Gamzee manages an awkward little shuffle step that brings him into the house far enough that he can close the door.

It isn't until he's inside that he cups Karkat's face best as he can between his rough-fingered hands. And then as gentle as you can expect a clown to be, he tries to pry Karkat's face away from his collar bones, so he can look down into it, his thumbs sweeping slowly over his cheekbones. "Sshh, brother, I'm here now. I'm here."

Edited 2012-10-12 04:37 (UTC)

Cooperating enough to let Gamzee move him, Karkat shuffles his feet back until the door is shut. Any fuss about fine romance is lost in this moment. It's not about whose hair smells like what, or how delicate the tone of his shoosh, but about comfort they both need. When Gamzee gets him to pull back, there is concern on his face together with the exhaustion.

He puts his own hand to his shoulder, more rubbing than papping. "How have you been holding up? I mean, shit, it's been hours, and after that you had to wait for me to get home and get clean and everything. No info on what was happening, either."

"Aww, brother, I been mostly getting my motherfuckin' work on at being in worry over you." He peers into Karkat's face like he is trying to make sure it is still there. Mostly what he finds is a lot of exhaustion. An edge of exhaustion is kind of a permanent feature of Karkat, all like dark eyebags are just kind of getting their permanent hive on for what Karkat calls a face, so the presence of such is not in itself concerning. Mostly the level of it, really.

He pats Karkat's cheek softly, tenderly. "You were where you hadda fuckin be at and I can fuckin' respect that. I can be a good motherfucker for that. But now I'm thinkin' like we gotta fuckin' jam like we be meaning to slam that shit fulla sweet and boil it to keep for next dark season."

His face is still there, alright. He's just tired, mentally and physically, from all he's seen and been through. It's hard not to just lean into Gamzee's palm and stay there.

"Doesn't stop me from getting concerned about you. You found him there first, and he may not be your ancestor, but you can't tell me you don't think of him well," he says, eyes searching his face as he tries to read it in turn. "But come on. Up to my block. We'll pile the blankets off my bed or something."

Drawing back, reluctant though he is to do so, he goes to lead him on upstairs.

Yes, Karkat's block, that's a good place to go. Not that Gamzee minds Eridan any, but he doesn't need him interrupting this. Time in the pile should never be interrupted, really, but this isn't a run-of-the-mill casual catch-up of a piling session. This is going to far too private for any interruptions, however minor.

Just before Karkat can open his door though, Gamzee wraps his arms around him for a moment, pulling him back against his chest, and leaning his head down to look sideways at Karkat. "You want me to go and take my mmotherfuckin' face off?"

Karkat stops, head tilting that he can look back somewhat at his moirail. The grab is sudden, and the question unexpected, but his answer comes easily all the same. "Yeah, go ahead, if it saves getting paint on my hands or my stuff. I'll pile stuff together while you do that."

Gamzee gives a slow nod, before very purposely leaning in and smooshing his cheek against Karkat's rubbing very very purposely, before pulling back after leaving a proper good smear there. For some faint silly levity in this whole situation. And because he is a clown, and those are basically just the worst people.

(but not as bad as mimes)

But then he does pull back, before he goes wandering down the hall for the ablutionblock so he can wash his face as clean as it gets.

"Augh!" And all of ~~the~~ a sudden, Karkat is squirming and shoving like he can't get away fast enough. "Damnit Gamzee, stop--stop rubbing--I hope you choke on a bulge, shitwringer!"

For all it ends soon, he's still left to glare after his moirail. Lousy douche clown. Pile forgotten for the moment, he stomps after him. With any luck, he'll overtake him and lock him out of the ablutionblock while he cleans his own face.

Edited 2012-10-13 04:31 (UTC)

Hasn't Miss Pyrope taught you anything? Luck doesn't matter! Not when you have legs that are roughly half a mile long. Gamzee beats Karkat to the ablutionblock easy enough, but he leaves him enough room at the cleaning basin to scrub himself clean of paint. He's mostly doing a quick scrub of his own face, the kind that leaves minute traces of paint worked into his hair line and around the turns of his ears, but it is clean enough, right?

Edited 2012-10-13 04:37 (UTC)

Motherfucker. Karkat screws his face up into a scowl at his leg-gifted compatriot, and stomps the last steps up to the basin anyway.

"Asswipe. Give me that." He snatches for the washcloth, and if he can snag hold of it, he'll then set to scrubbing away the last bits of paint Gamzee has overlooked. His own face - one cheek is a smeary mix of greys beyond the base tone - can wait for now.

Gamzee has no objections when Karkat plucks the ash cloth from his hands and very helpfully slumps his upper body down so Karkat can actually reach his face to scrub it clean without fetching a step ladder. His smile, in fact, is perfectly content and a little dopey. Once Karkat is done, he quickly plucks the wash cloth from his fingers, cleaning it for a moment under the stream of water, before catching Karkat by the jaw, slowly, languidly, wiping the paint he left there himself off one cheek. "There, motherfucker. Now ain't we fuckin' bare as sin all here."

Of course Gamzee would do the same in return, after that. To his credit, it does get Karkat to relax a little, even if he does spend the whole time frowning up at him. Then again, how often is it that he isn't?

He grumbles, "As bare as your pan is of any shred of intelligence. Are we done now?"

Gamzee leans in again, pressing his cheek to Karkat's again, but no matter how much he wriggles there is no paint getting stuck anyway now! "Yeah, we done."

Karkat heaves a slow sigh, but does not actually shove Gamzee away from the nuzzling now. His cheek is safe from paint-related atrocities.

When he pulls back, though, he aims to pull Gamzee with him by the hand. "I hope you know it's your fault I lost my extra time to set up the pile, so you better help me with it. You are one of the morons who set them up for dumb reasons in the Veil. Come on."

And if he follows, it will be back to his block.