theafflicted | 02.50 - week two, saturday

02.50 - week two, saturday

W2 SATURDAY

Like last Saturday, everyone will get an announcement on their tablets; this time, the announcement is preceded with a bell of some sort before Lorelei appears on the screen again.

"Good morning, everyone. This is an announcement to let you know that today's lesson will take place starting at 8:15 tonight. Again, today's lesson will be starting at 8:15. Please meet at the lower campus exit near the lecture by 8:00pm; Florence will be waiting for you there.

If you have a bag for some snacks and, perhaps, an item you can use for self-defense in the case of an emergency, please arrive with those things on you. We will provide you with an overview of what to expect when you arrive at 8pm.

Thank you."

The alert ends.

You have the day to prepare, ask each other what the hell is happening -- Florence and Lorelei do not seem to be available, strangely enough. There's a lot to take in with the information you have now. But before you know it... night falls.

FULL NAV

(CODE)

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[His heart-rate hadn't been normal since he really started getting amped up in the possession. Here, though, he really feels it pounding with intensity. Cater isn't saying anything. He's letting it happen. He was asking, coyly, to be seen at his most disgusting and Idia was meeting him there with some dark desire to be remembered at any expense.]

[he moves his fingers over to the exposed skin, dragging his fingertips along the surface. Since the skin had been covered until just now, there was a strong warmth to it. The body heat of someone who had been panic, frantic, and hiding until this happened. Those finger probe, dipping under the clothes that were still there, exploring the heat.]

[in his right hand, he tugs down ever so slightly, extending the red line down Cater's sternum]

[he gasps, feeling the pain in the exact same moment, and then clenches his other hand to dig nails into Cater's shoulder. He was prepared. He was prepared to do it to himself. So, why does doing it to Cater make him want to cry?]

[Likewise, his heart-rate hadn't been normal since the lights flicked off - perhaps even prior to that. But now? He's certain Idia can feel it under his hand, the way his heart flutters against his ribcage, despite how otherwise calm he feels - looks.

Cold fingers over heated skin... in any other situation...

Well.

He truly was the lowest of the low, wasn't he?

And yet, when the glass drags lower, extending the reddening line along with it, making Idia gasp instead of Cater, he shifts his sickly affection to cup his cheeks - just as Idia can feel his pain, he can feel the tears pricking at the back of Idia's eyes.

He'd been willing to do this to himself, sure, but that was keeping the control of sensation in his hands. Here... well, it was different, wasn't it? Alien. Like someone else was doing harm at the same time.]

Hm... You're being cute.

[Through all this, that's what he's decided. That the little wibbly sentiment is, somehow, endearing.]

You can cry. I won't tell anyone. This is our memory, right?

[This wasn't a cold, unthinking, unfeeling thing. The warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart proved it. It wasn't real but it wasn't not real. And somewhere deep inside himself he thinks that it's not like he really ever wanted to hurt someone.]

[He was a victim of circumstance. It was a chance he had to take. It wasn't his fault.]

[Cater calls him out, he blinks, and the tears start to coalesce and fall. The details of his vision start to blur a bit through the tears. His ears are just fine, though, and he knows what Cater said. He said Idia could cry. He didn't say Idia could stop.]

[he drags it down further. He drags and drags until he's past the sternum, where there was a firm force stopping him from potentially going too far. He's about half-way down the chest. The line of red has begun to leak and spill down, through the rivet and onto his offending hand. He can feel it on himself, too, despite the fact he was entirely covered.]

... does it hurt?

[Obviously, he knew. So, why ask? To hear the other person say it, of course.]

[It wasn't real, but it was closer to real than anything they'd had yet - either here or before. Sure, they probably could have come closer without causing - receiving - pain, but...

That was a hypothetical for a better time, a better place.

Idia starts to cry, and there's an odd, cathartic release of emotion that comes with the tears. He doesn't cry, in turn, but watching him, feeling the tears run over his hands like Idia is surely feeling his blood on his... It's something. It cements the reality of the experience.

The glass drags further, and he whimpers, high and pathetic, but that's not enough to answer the question. He knows it isn't.]

Mmhm. It hurts... but this isn't enough for you, right? Look at it, it definitely won't leave a mark once it heals.

[...It might, actually, but what was having boundaries in this self-hate spiral, anyway? He did promise he'd show the worst of himself, after all.]

[They didn't know how to barter in the actual feelings that the ghouls wanted so this was the closest alternative. Their way of lashing out became Cater and Idia's, as their wants and desires blend together.]

[Cater's whimper makes his breath hitch. He glosses over the part where Cater's clearly making it about him. After all, with emotions so high, who could really tell which one of them wanted it? If Cater didn't want it then he should be able to refuse him. His compliance was assumed to be consent, regardless of the truth.]

... you're right. It's not enough. It needs to leave a scar.

[So, he goes up to where he started the mark and digs the glass in again- slightly deeper. He pulls it down slightly quicker. The pain is fresh and he involuntarily lets out another pitiful yelp of pain as he does so. The blood, which was confined to the initial cut before, spills over slightly to tickle down Cater's abdomen.]

... f- fuehehe, [he mumbles a laugh again, eyes still wet with tears]

I'm painting Cay red, aren't I?

[Close enough would have to be good enough for the ghouls. Cater's seemed satisfied that he was taking the pain that Idia had intended for himself, at the very least, and that's all that mattered in this moment. As for Idia's... well, it wasn't leaving him. This was good enough.

He hated this. Hated the pain. Hated how his emotions didn't quite feel like his own, but... if he wanted to leave, then he should be able to. There was nothing but his own will holding him here, or so it seemed, so clearly he wanted this just as much as Idia did, just as much as his continuing indicated. Complicity, if not consent.

Close enough.

He's not entirely sure which of them yelps when the mark is run over again, deeper, this time. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was Idia. Maybe the bond of pain extended in that moment to be a bond of reaction, too. What he does know is that Idia laughs, and he smiles in response, and somehow the bright, sunshiny grins of their school days are more impenetrable than this one.

It's raw. Disgusting. Something akin to real.]

Does that mean I'm your rose, then~?

[Real enough he doesn't hide behind third-person.]

[There was a kind of beautiful to be found in things that were disgusting or discarded. An ugly toy at the bottom of a crane machine. A stray cat with matted fur. A smile full of bile and emotions he couldn't recognize.]

[Am I the only one to see you smile like this?]

[The grin spreads on his face, looking slightly more peaceful despite the pain coursing over his own chest. The hand that left nail imprints in Cater's shoulder comes down to trace a red line further under Cater's torn shirt with his fingers. Under the covered fabric his hand draws,]

[I... D... I... A... of course, drawing them all in such confined quarters means that it's hardly anything readable by the end. It's just a smear of blood against his abdomen.]

If you remember me. If you...

[the confidence starts to waver again]

... if you can- care... Right now, I feel like I'd give anything for that.

[he leans forward slightly, shifting his weight onto Cater's hand, the mess of tears up above and blood down below.]

[Someone, somewhere, had to have some affection for those ugly, discarded things. Right now, Cater had to hope Idia was that someone, as he showed that he was one of those things.

His fingers curl on Idia's cheeks as that hand drops down, twitching slightly as even the skin under his tracing tenses. An intimate gesture. A short reprieve from pain. An act of possession, rubbed away almost as soon as it was made, by smudging of blood and what would surely be rubbing of fabric, too.

But they knew it was there.

They knew it had made his breath hitch all the same.]

Anything~?

[There's a dark little hum in his voice as he clearly considers it.

And then he decides. Then he leans forward slightly, too, dropping his voice low to a conspiratorial almost-whisper. A temptation.]

Give me everything. All the awful, disgusting things you thought of to get my attention? Everything else you came up with since? Or will come up with in the meantime? If you give me that, I won't have any choice but to care, right?

[And after the demand, he leans back, his tone brightens, somewhat.]

Because then I'll be even more terrible than I already am, and you'll have no choice but to care about me, too, right?

["If you give me that, I won't have any choice but to care, right?"]

[Idia knew smooth talkers. He knew people who would rather twist themselves into knots than admit to a bad deal. He knew the way they twisted their words to about liability as much as they could. He did it, too, to escape responsibility for the things he said. Say he does that. Say he puts every bad thing into Cater. Say he tries to isolate him, manipulate him, the way they did in that photo he tore up earlier-]

["I won't have any choice but to care, right?"]

[his hands grip again. He leans forward heavily, less like leaning into the other and more openly relying on him. It's a bit much and while he's trying not to fall he doesn't seem to care if Cater stumbles a bit.]

[his hand drops, and the bloody shard of glass lands on the floor somewhere to the side of their shoes]

... I- ... I don't know if I like you. [he says, forehead now pressed against the other's shoulder]

Sometimes I think- I really hate you- ... after all, I can think of such disgusting things.

[There's no physical pain happening. Except for the pressure of Idia leaning his body weight on Cater he's pulled away all the things he could hurt him with.]

... but you feel it, right? That it hurts?

[A small ache, pounding, as he thought about Cater being forced to care. That the only way it could be given would be if it was taken by force and ripped out of whatever tightly enclosed cocoon it was in.]

... that hurt... m- means... I'm choosing... t- to care.

[Even now, when he's exposing himself to the possibility of being forced to care - to the possibility of caring - he has to do it behind a shield of smoothly spoken, twisted words. Even now, he has to shun responsibility, cast aside the idea that he could care on his own at Idia's feet and see if he picked it up himself.

Instead of taking the bait outright, Idia leans against him heavily. Drops the shard of glass. Makes him falter under his - admittedly - slight weight.]

Y-you should hate me, you know.

[For twisting them up into knots like this, if nothing else. For being a disgusting, pathetic creature, if nothing else.

But he can't feel hate resonating.

There's an ache, sure, deep in his chest, duller than the sting from the pressure of Idia leaning on his wounds, but that's nothing like the sharpness of hate.

He doesn't like it.

He'd prefer it if Idia took his makeshift knife back up and cut open whatever cocoon he was encapsulating his softer emotions in directly to take whatever he needed.

But he isn't, and just as Idia is leaning into him, he moves his hands from Idia's cheeks to cling tightly, haphazardly, in some futile effort to support him before giving in and letting them both collapse to the floor.

(Even the sting of his knees hitting the ground isn't enough to distract from that awful, terrible, ache in his chest.)]

So wh-why?

[His voice cracks, pitches, and distantly, he thinks it sounds as disgusting as he feels he is in this moment.]

Why... care...?

[It would be easy, if he just hated Cater. Sometimes he could indulge in those simple, clean emotions. Cater could go anywhere in the world. Cater was good at talking to people. Cater could make so many friends that he refused to call them back. Even if there was nothing more than idle curiosity behind it, people would ask "where did Cater Diamond go?" Those emotions would be a fountain of blot that, in another world, might sustain him.]

[but it's not that easy]

[the two crumple to the ground. Idia shifts their bodies ever so slightly so he doesn't put too much of his weight on Cater as they fall. The nook that he was hiding in can snugly hold each of their shoulders.]

[He pulls his face back and nearly loses his nerve. Looking in Cater's eyes, just like blood or tears, reminds him this is real. This isn't some dream he'll wake up from.]

... I- ... it's l-like I said, I don't know exactly...

[his eyes dip down to the mark he left on Cater's chest. Without thinking, he starts tugging some of the torn fabric over and dabbing it to pick up the stray blood.]

I could say it's because we're partners but, h- [a hiccup, a deep breath] honestly, it's a lot easier to care about some of the other people here!

[And if it was because they were partners, then, wasn't that also just being forced? He can distantly remember something Hien was asking him. If there were other people who cared about him, did it still matter if Cater did?]

[Did he need Cater to reciprocate, in order to care about him?]

... I- ... care. [he says it again. His next sentences are stammered, mixed with moments of choking on his words.]

And, it's- okay- if you don't care back. And it's okay- i- if this heals- a- a- a-and maybe if it heals you'll still look at it and think... "Ah, Idia was crying then"- b- but-

-even if you don't-

I will.

[I care about you. I'll remember you. I want so much in return but if I take it I can never truly enjoy it.]

[It would be easy, if he could hate anyone who had what he couldn't. He had to go everywhere in the world. He had to become good at talking to people. He had to make so many fleeting friendships that there was no way he could sustain them all when he, inevitably, had to leave them behind, again and again, like so many before them. Idia was static. Idia could put down his roots and grow however he pleased.

Or so it appeared, anyway.

All he knows, right now, is that this hurts, and that this bone-deep ache isn't all coming from Idia's side anymore. Not as he explains himself. Not as he cuts so efficiently to the root of things that he can't help but wish he never dropped the glass.]

Stupid... How... how can you not know?

[It would be easier if this was just because they were partners. It would remove their own thoughts from the equation, it would absolve them of any obligation to continue feeling this way after going home - if they remembered any of this at all.

But he had to go and insist it wasn't because of that, and it's Cater's turn to feel tears pricking at his eyes that he bitterly, bitterly tries to force not to fall.]

A-and how can you care after... [A hitch in his voice, and he lets go of Idia entirely to wrap his arms around himself instead, resolutely staring down at a smudge of dirt on his knees.]

Of course I'll remember you, I... let you... I made you... see... this...

[This awful, shivering little mandrake hidden behind a sparkly, cheerful facade.]

...You must feel so vindicated, right? The cool popular guy is a pathetic nobody...

Ah-

Sorry, I...

[No, lashing out right now didn't... feel right. Not with how raw everything is.]

[He feels the hurt. The feels his own ache. He feels the deep pain Cater was experiencing. He feels the stings and cuts on his right hand. He feels the line drawn sharply down Cater's chest.]

[he sees a mess in front of himself and he also sees himself]

[Cater withdraws into a little ball and it feels familiar. He knows but it doesn't cross over into knowing. They still weren't that close. He couldn't say that he understood exactly what Cater was feeling. He was just now at the point where he could try to.]

[He reaches out a hand, like he's done so many times in this encounter, and sets it on Cater's arm. It isn't forcing its way into his space. He's allowed to keep his fortress of knees and wrapped arms. Idia's cool fingertips have been warmed by everything they've gone through.]

... nah, I probably... would have said the same sort of thing.

[An admittance of his own lashing out, or the kind he was capable of. They were both raw from the pain they'd experienced. A single brush against their nerves would inflame it and start a new wave. Still, he feels like a ghoul-shaped weight was off his shoulders. It was exhausting and it was tiring but it was all his in this moment.]

You're not easy to care about a- and neither am I.

[Idia closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath.]

... won't... tell anyone...

[Aches and pains and stings and knowing but not knowing settles into an odd, disconnected numbness. Distantly, there's the realization that it's all too much. That he's feeling overwhelmed, along with everything else.

And then Idia's hand is on his arm.

It's not a trespass like it was before. It's warm, now, after everything. The touch is light enough that if he wanted to, he could shrug it off and have the confidence that Idia would actually let him.

He'd lashed out, and Idia reassured him in return, not with platitudes, but with an acknowledgement that he would have done something similar.

It's more of a comfort than it has any right to be, and finally, finally, the tears start to fall in big drops that make his vision blur and his eyes sting, even as he hurriedly rubs at his eyes with his sleeves to try and force it away.

There's being seen, and then there's being Known, and if this small bit of affection is enough to make him sob, then Idia is one step closer to Knowing him, much as that ship may have already sailed.]

W-we're really not, are we? [A sniff, a hitch of breathing, and finally, at the quiet assurance that Idia won't tell anyone about this? He breaks. He doubles over entirely, allows himself to just sob, because even now there's that worry, that fear of being known, that that's the final push to topple the remaining shreds of his composure.

It's not cute. It's raw and open and before long there's a hand clutching far too tightly at the hem of Idia's hoodie in some feeble reach to reciprocate some kind of connection.]

[There had been delight at the idea that Cater was hiding something. Somewhere down there was something as spiteful and pitiable as he was. Despite that, though, he had gone two whole weeks without telling anyone. And, in fact, for the one person he told, there were several people he had obfuscated to: no, Cater was exactly as he appeared. He could tell himself it was because of their deal. He could say it was because the two of them promised to be thorns in each other's side if the deal was broken.]

[but for everything he doesn't understand, he understands the need to hide away from everything in those moments]

[Cater's crying. Would he ever have imagined this before? Maybe he could vaguely imagine the Cater from two weeks ago crying because the line got cut-off for the Lounge's specialty plate. It would be over something trite. It would be contained and controlled and cute. It's not. It's about as ugly as anytime he does it. Like he just had.]

[he withdraws his hand briefly to unzip his hoodie and shrug it off his shoulders]

[That warm hand rests over Cater's to get him to at least release the hem so he can flap it out and place it over the exposed parts of them. It was the blanket protecting them from the rest of the museum in their nook.]

... i- if we hear anyone coming, y- you can duck your head.

[It would be clear someone was hiding under the hoodie with Idia but it couldn't be proved who it was or if that person happened to have red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.]

[There's not a clear invitation to uncurl and latch on but, well, the way they're nestled in the corner Idia's chest is right there and it's completely free of bloodstains.]

[If he knew that Idia had obfuscated for his sake, well... he'd tell himself it was simply easier for Idia, too, to pretend he was only as he seemed. He doesn't have to care about him if all that he is is what he shows on the surface - there's nothing of substance to care about. Head like a bag of marshmallows, cute, sure, but mostly devoid of real substance.

That Cater could cry, too, sure. Idia was right, it'd be about something inane, some limited thing he missed out on, cute and calculated and photographed at just the right angle, in just the right lighting to elicit sympathy from whoever saw the post. Hashtag tragic.

His breath hitches harder when a hand settles over his own, and Idia just might feel a jolt of actual, desperate, fear through their bond, if only for a second or two. He knows he can't handle being pushed away, right now, even from someone who by all rights shouldn't actually care about him...

But says he does, for some reason.

The hoodie draped over him isn't a direct invitation to latch on, no, but the feeling at the thought of being made to let go was enough to take it as one anyway. He doesn't quite uncurl. He certainly doesn't really stop crying in the least. He does, however, rather unceremoniously crash into Idia's chest, wrap his arms around his waist, and cling as tightly as he possibly can in the slightly awkward position, while being utterly, emotionally exhausted.

If anyone came by, they'd know there was someone under there. They'd even know that someone was sobbing their eyes out. If they had a really sharp ear, they might recognize the voice sounds maybe sort of a little bit like Cater. But they couldn't prove it, so he just nods against Idia's chest. Sure, he'll duck his head. Sure, he'll let him watch over him, right now. Sure, he'll let him see just how pathetic he can be.

And sure, he'll still feel guilty about the feedback he knows Idia must be feeling.]

S-sorry... for being like this...

[It was one thing to logical assume that, given the freedom and privacy to, a person might latch on and cry. When it happens, though, Idia has a little moment of internal panic before it settles. It's just a few rapid thumps of his heart that settle down ever so slightly as Cater nestled himself into a position that works.]

[It's probably not comfortable, he thinks. After all, the softest part of him was probably the hoodie they were using as a blanket. Everything else about him was just skin and bones.]

[But it's not really like he feels the pain of awkward positioning, when the clear waves of emotional pain and the aches of wounds he caused keep washing over him. He shifts a bit to wrap his arm around Cater and rest a hand on his head.]

[Cater apologizes. There's one little sting that fades into everything they're feeling right now. More in control of his own thoughts, Idia can't help but wonder, what the heck is the right thing to say to that? Isn't that a high-level kind of thing to answer correctly? Should he say it's no big deal? No, no, clearly what they're going through is a big deal.]

... s- sorry I ruined your shirt?

[And cut a line down your chest? He moves his hand slightly to brush the hair underneath it.]

[The little jolt of panic is barely felt among everything else. It's not even clear whose emotions are whose at this point, despite the fact that Idia is still in better control of himself. So it's fine. They're... fine. Kind of.

The position isn't terribly comfortable, no, and his legs would hate him for it later, but for now? For now, it's fine. Idia's more comfortable than he believes of himself - in no small part because he's so skin and bones, because that's so distinctly Idia that it couldn't be anyone else... and he doesn't want anyone else, in this moment.

Try explaining that one, though. He sure won't be.

Slowly, steadily, the weight of the ghoul comes off his shoulders as it's replaced with the annoying, pounding headache that inevitably comes when you sob your eyes out, and Idia's hand brushing through his hair does little to help that. The soothing gesture does keep him grounded, though - enough to hear his returned apology.

It was definitely low-level. Awkward. Idia.

...Cute.

Cater's breath hitches a little, and while he hasn't stopped crying, he does laugh feebly at that being what Idia focused on.]

S'not cute anyway...

[He's still gonna stay hidden in clingy little brother mode for a while, though.]

[Someone probably could have done a better job. Still, someone wasn't the person who was given the job. What they just experiences couldn't fit into some easy narrative in Idia's head but he's at least willing to accept that, some way or another, they cleared the event. They were achy, wounded, and tearstained but they did it.]

[Cater laughs a little. Idia mentally calculates it as a "+1"]

Oh. [He thought the outfit still looked pretty alright on Cater. When you have a good-looking face, though, any clothes look better.]

... then, sorry for everything else...

[the manic crying and marking part, even if they had both "wanted" it in the moment. Despite being an apology, it doesn't sound desperate. It's an awkward apology handed out by a person who means it but has never considered how to convey it before in his life. The way he gently brushes through Cater's hair with his fingers probably has more thought put into it than any apology.]

[Right now, someone doing a better job just might have been brushed off as fake. Insincere. The awkward, not-quite fitting exchange between them wasn't a neat and tidy little narrative ending, setting up for a couple filler chapters and the next arc, but it was genuine. That was more important, right now, probably.]

It's...

[Well. It's not okay, everything hurts, he'll surely whine about it later, and they sure were an awful mess, even if they'd wanted it all in the moment, but...

He accepts it, anyway?]

Yeah... I know. I'm not... upset at you, or anything...

[His turn to be awkward, muttering into Idia's shirt.]

[If it was someone who had every incentive to like Cater, he'd simply feel like his trick worked. Instead, it was someone who had gotten close to the nasty side of him, admitted he probably shouldn't, and admitted he didn't even know why. It was about the most nonsense ending to a route there could be.]

[Since he apologized so idly, he wasn't expecting actual forgiveness. Cater's half-hearted attempt to do so means he's peeking down to the huddled mess under his arm to check.]

... eh, well, I want to say "you totally can be!" but...

[he glances up, out into the museum that's gotten quite damaged by all of their outraged and rampaging ghouls]

... p- probably we should save that for when we're safely back on campus.

[It's the most nonsense ending to a route, because it's not the ending to a route, Idia. (It's only week 2. It's a chapter break! Checkpoint, get! Ganbatte!)

And Idia's peeking down at him. Suddenly, there's a pang of self-consciousness, like he doesn't want to be seen immediately after ugly-crying his little heart out, but. Well.

He'll peek back up at him, too. Not letting go, though.]

Eeh... only if you're upset at me.

[They'd both deserve it... but... It didn't feel right.]

[What that a pang? It's hard to tell. It's another form of emotional pang hiding amongst all the rest of the aches they felt. Again, he doesn't keep their eyes locked for long. He doesn't intend to, like, stare at him.]

... eh... [he tilts his head and the mess of flaming blue hair moves slightly,]

... Right now... way too tired to think about it...

[he tilts a bit further, resting his head against Cater's]

Consider it... one BOGO argument ticket when we get back...

[Staring... bad. Cuddling is much better. Good job going with that option, instead, Idia.]

Totes don't wanna cash that one in, though...

[So, whether it's deserved or not... He's not planning on holding a grudge over this one.

No promises it won't come up in a self-loathing spiral argument in the future, though. Such is life.]

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02.50 - week two, saturday

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