[ CLOSED ] we're nocturnal creatures

[tryhard]

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.

Comments

[tryhard]

Despite Waver's generally prickly nature, he seems to welcome the affection immediately, almost desperately. When Diarmuid draws him close, Waver presses himself right against his side; he's small enough they both fit comfortably, especially when Waver is nearly crawling right into Diarmuid's lap, anxious to be held. Instinct tells him the contact will help-- and it does.

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."

[ua_duibhne]

However close he decides to get, he'll find no resistance from Diarmuid. Even if Waver had sprouted a tail three times the size of the one he has and wings to match, he probably wouldn't be too heavy or awkward to hold onto. Clawed and pointy-chinned, yes, but he's light and after a little shifting, he finds a comfortable enough position for the both of them.

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.

[tryhard]

Waver shakes his head faintly, cheek brushing Diarmuid's shoulder.

"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.

[ua_duibhne]

They're full sentences. That in itself is an achievement. While Waver might only see the folly in his battle, Diarmuid is simply amazed that he managed to hold out for so long. He's seen others stronger in both body and mind than the young man draped over him right now submit far quicker. Death and failure, he's come to realise, are inescapable but the struggle against them is where true honour can be found. There's so much more value in a valorous defeat than an unremarkable or unsightly victory.

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.

[tryhard]

Even though it hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't worked. If it were that easy, Monsters wouldn't be struggling the way they are, the whole society here that seems to still be learning how to accept them wouldn't be like this, and things would have been so much simpler. But that isn't the case, and why should he be an exception?

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.