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Entry tags:
[ CLOSED ] we're nocturnal creatures
Who: Waver & Diarmuid
When: night of the full moons
Where: their shared apartment
What: full moon fallout and bonding
Warnings: body horror, blood
It's nearly dawn by the time Waver makes it home, the first rays of the sun blood-red on the horizon and finally beginning to drown out the brilliance of the moons fading from the sky. Presumably, he's got a key-- but he doesn't use it. Instead, there's a raking, scratching noise on the outside of the door, the doorknob rattling. If Diarmuid doesn't open it immediately, he'll gouge right through the wood.
And when he does get in, he's nearly unrecognizable. If Diarmuid had been alarmed by Waver's small changes in the caves some weeks ago, the differences now are even more unnerving, and uncharacteristic. He stumbles in, lips peeled back from a mouthful of sharp, too-long fangs, claws out and hands splashed with drying blood. His clothes, in tatters, bear the stains of more dark red and it's not immediately clear if all of it is Waver's or somebody else's, drying on his skin and what's left of his once prim and proper outfit.
His ears have morphed from the slightly pointed but still human-like shape he'd been sporting before into something entirely different, black fur covering the animal ears now peeking through the mess of his tangled hair, closer to the top of his head than they should have been. Down the back of his neck and through the tatters of his shirt, more fur is visible, all down the line of his spine, and also matted with blood. The tail is new, too, black and curly and poking out from the rips in his trousers. It would have been cute if he hadn't been covered in dirt and blood and shaking, whimpering pitifully as he stumbles into their shared living room.
If he can still speak, he makes no sign of it just yet. He only growls and whines and gnashes his teeth at Lancer if he reaches for him, crouching low.
When: night of the full moons
Where: their shared apartment
What: full moon fallout and bonding
Warnings: body horror, blood
It's nearly dawn by the time Waver makes it home, the first rays of the sun blood-red on the horizon and finally beginning to drown out the brilliance of the moons fading from the sky. Presumably, he's got a key-- but he doesn't use it. Instead, there's a raking, scratching noise on the outside of the door, the doorknob rattling. If Diarmuid doesn't open it immediately, he'll gouge right through the wood.
And when he does get in, he's nearly unrecognizable. If Diarmuid had been alarmed by Waver's small changes in the caves some weeks ago, the differences now are even more unnerving, and uncharacteristic. He stumbles in, lips peeled back from a mouthful of sharp, too-long fangs, claws out and hands splashed with drying blood. His clothes, in tatters, bear the stains of more dark red and it's not immediately clear if all of it is Waver's or somebody else's, drying on his skin and what's left of his once prim and proper outfit.
His ears have morphed from the slightly pointed but still human-like shape he'd been sporting before into something entirely different, black fur covering the animal ears now peeking through the mess of his tangled hair, closer to the top of his head than they should have been. Down the back of his neck and through the tatters of his shirt, more fur is visible, all down the line of his spine, and also matted with blood. The tail is new, too, black and curly and poking out from the rips in his trousers. It would have been cute if he hadn't been covered in dirt and blood and shaking, whimpering pitifully as he stumbles into their shared living room.
If he can still speak, he makes no sign of it just yet. He only growls and whines and gnashes his teeth at Lancer if he reaches for him, crouching low.
no subject
After a moments' thought, he instead leans back over and gives Waver's hair a gentle pat. It might only be temporary but there's no way he could just jump straight to a bond while he's in this state; it would feel like a breech of confidence.
"Just stay with me for now. I..." He pauses, but only briefly. "I had an idea- but I won't impose it upon you without your assent. I know that a bond can ease the side effects of your condition- even a temporary one might be enough to help you ride this out."
no subject
With the fading of the night outside, lucidity is still returning slowly, but he'd fought the change so hard and for so long, the result is a slow and halting understanding, his faculties returning in snippets. It feels like fighting through a thicket of thorny vines, constantly being ensnared and dragged back every time he manages to disentangle himself enough to see beyond it.
Waver takes several heavy, ragged breaths, struggling to work up the strength of mind to speak coherently. He catches bond and temporary, vaguely remembers that silvery liquid the Coven had them practice with. Latching onto that one thought, Waver nods, gasping out against Diarmuid's arm as he pushes closer.
"Do... it..."
fml i can spell i swear
Waver says it with such admirable resolve and clarity, reaching up from the murky depths of abject terror and dehumanization, that, even if Diarmuid had any misgivings, he wouldn't want to deny him. The more he considers it, though, the less surprised he is; this is the young mage that summoned Rider. If nothing else, he must have spirit in abundance.
With one last stroke, careful not to knock those new ears of his in case they're as sore as he assumes they must be, Diarmuid plucks Waver's claws free from his sleeve and gets to his feet. He nods firmlessly, wordlessly, then slips over to the bookcase, picking through the various trinkets and tomes they've gathered to reach the wooden box at the back. A lid opens. Glass clinks. There.
No time is spared in dropping back down beside the chair, where he pops the corks on the two phials.
"Here," he murmurs, "We need to drink them at the same time. Do you think you can do it or...?"
Is he going to have to feed him the potion himself? Half the water he just gave him ended up on his shirt.
you're good <3
Luckily, Lancer isn't going far. Waver is able to track him with his eyes as he moves to the bookcase to find the potions that Waver hadn't even realized they'd kept-- though even if he had, whether or not he would really remember in this state is probably questionable anyway. Regardless, the phials are in Diarmuid's hands now, and with them the promise of relief, however vague that idea even is in Waver's mind.
Waver pushes himself to sit up again to greet him, breathing labored and uneven. He tries to scoot closer to the end of his chair, closer to Lancer again, nodding distractedly. Whatever it takes. He reaches out one clawed hand impatiently, while the other clutches the chair arm with enough newfound strength to make the wood creak audibly.
no subject
"We have to drink them at the same time. Are you ready?"
In spite of how concerned he looks, his voice is firm. Reluctant as he usually is to take the lead in a situation, what his comrade needs most right now is stability. Something to hold onto in the middle of having every other sense ripped away and twisted out of his control.
"Three. Two. One-"
Sláinte. With that, he lifts his phial to his lips and guides Waver in doing the same.
no subject
The liquid is a little cool on his sore throat, but tasteless going down, just like before when he'd taken it to practice. He hadn't really noticed much of an effect back then, besides the muted feeling of knowing someone was on the other side, like a weirdly muffled contract.
This time, the feeling is more pronounced. It takes a few moments, while Waver grips his empty bottle and Diarmuid's hand in nervous silence, but slowly, he begins to feel the pull of Diarmuid's magic-- or rather, the pool of it, just beyond him. Is this what it's like to be a Servant, tethered by a mage's mana? To need it, to be sustained by it? He'll exist without this, sure, but in what state?
Then again, he's already found the answer to that. Waver exhales shakily, shoulders shaking. Even muted, Diarmuid can probably sense the echo of his pain and fear, though perhaps he hadn't needed the Bond to know that.
The injuries and soreness don't fade, but thankfully, at least that feeling of teetering on the edge of losing control again does. Now, he just needs a minute to catch his breath.
no subject
Not unpleasant, though. While the flow of emotion between them is mutual, revealing glimpses of the chaos going on in Waver's mind, the synchronicity is comforting.
Slowly, he eases himself up onto the edge of the chair and squeezes in beside Waver so that he can make the most of the new bond with more contact. That's how it supposedly works, isn't it? Whether or not it will do any good, he pries his hand free so that he can put an arm around him instead. Normally, he might be more hesitant to push the boundary- if nothing else, Waver likes to make it very clear when he's not happy about something- but it feels right this time. Through their Bond comes a fearful, desperate ache that he's suddenly filled with the compulsion to try and quell.
Some time passes, with Diarmuid keeping Waver held close as long as he will allow. It's only one he feels his heartbeat settle that he'll draw back again.
"Waver?"
no subject
Slowly, his breathing evens out and he begins to relax, tense muscles easing up, his smaller body settling against Diarmuid's more comfortably. He closes his eyes for a minute, exhausted, and rests like that until Diarmuid calls his name again.
Waver lifts his head, and suddenly realizes consciously how close they actually are. Though he doesn't pull away, mostly too tired and afraid it'll affect the strength of the temporary Bond somehow, he does color slightly to see Diarmuid's face inches away. Embarrassment at that leads quickly into a deeper, guiltier shame: this is his fault.
"...I'm sorry."
no subject
When Waver speaks, then, he'll probably feel his laugh, weak but more relieved than he had anticipated, through his chest before he hears it.
"For what? I'd sooner hear an apology from whoever it is that allows this to happen at all."
Sighing, he drops his head back against the chair. This isn't the first time that he's been grateful for being spared the same fate as many of the others here and it certainly won't be the last.
no subject
"I should have realized this would happen."
It seems lucidity has fully returned to him now, at least. Exhaustion remains, and Waver's limbs feel heavy, his injuries and his bones aching, but some of the extra fur is receding with the dawn and with the help of Diarmuid's magic, and his sentences are words without growling at last.
"I thought if I just... fought it hard enough..."
But it hadn't worked. At all.
no subject
Saying as much, though, probably won't mean as much to Waver as it does to him.
"You fought valiantly," he says eventually, "and for that, you should be proud. There's strength in you still, Waver."
Dawn creeps through the gap in the curtains piece by fractured piece. Even with the discoloured sky, it has the same, watery quality as any morning sunlight.
no subject
It's embarrassing, knowing he should have prepared for the inevitable instead of hoping it didn't happen.
...and it's going to keep happening. It's only going to get worse, he fears, and the awful reality is finally sinking in now that his mind is clearing. The moons will wax every month. And there's nothing he can do on his own to defend against that loss of control-- not by himself.
Waver swallows hard, blinking back the threat of tears and ducking his head against Diarmuid's shoulder to hide them. His breathing has gone shallow again, anxious and scared.
"No. I can't-- I don't think I can fight it. I shouldn't have... And now..."
He knows what happens now. He knows he should ask. But to do that, officially, to ask Diarmuid to take that step--
It's harder than he might have guessed. The words stick in his throat.