middaeg | [ CLOSED ] we're nocturnal creatures

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[ 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.

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At the very first sound of someone at the door, Diarmuid's on his feet, his watch rolling across the floorboards where he's halfway through his sixth message of the evening so far. Coming home to an empty apartment had been worrying but, as the minutes and hours crept by, every explanation took on a darker and darker tone. Instinct demanded he go out and search for his roommate himself but logic had won out in the end; chasing a shadow around a city with which he's only just starting to familiarise himself with no idea where to start would be absurd. Instead, he's been sitting at home as the clock ticks and peering out of the window for any sign of Waver like a wife waiting for her husband's homecoming from war. Better that he's here when he gets back. And, if he doesn't, he can-

Damn it. After what happened in those caverns, he really hasn't learned anything, has he? If they were Bonded maybe-

He pulls the door open- and nearly slams it shut again in alarm at the figure hunched behind it. Pitch coloured fur matted with blood; sharp teeth; a glassy, almost feral look in its eye; the tail and claws of a hound. Diarmuid stares as it staggers forward, mouth slightly open. No- No, it's not an it.

It's him.

This strange, wild, frightened creature at his door is Waver.

"What happened to-?"

Quickly, he bites back whatever he was going to say and edges forward with both hands up, moving slowly so as not to startle the young mage. Does he even recognise him? The way he recoils and growls suggests not but something brought him home and he needs to try and appeal to that before anything else.

"Easy. You're safe now." He takes the same soothing tone as he once had with his hunting dogs. "Are you hurt?"

Despite the persistent growling, he doesn't attack. Waver watches Diarmuid approach, eyes pitch black and glinting eerily in the low light of the magitech lamps and the red dawn beyond the uncurtained living room window. He bares his teeth as Diarmuid gets close, but only huddles down onto all fours, staring up through the tangled fall of his dark hair. His ears are down, nearly pressed flat into it.

It seems to take a moment before he can understand the question. Then, even longer to formulate a response. The words are more growl than anything else, leaving Waver's throat in a halting, guttural tone that sounds utterly foreign coming from him.

"Yes. Hurts. I- I'm..."

He trails off, breathing hard. His nails gouge into the floor beneath.

"Help... me."

Help him? How? It doesn't suit him to be so poorly equipped to handle a situation, particularly one that he knew was coming and should have been prepared for. One more thing to chalk up as a failure in his quest to keep Waver safe- but now isn't the time for self-flagellation. After a few seconds of anxious hestiation, Diarmuid snaps into action.

With a reassuring murmur- I'm just moving you to the couch, stay with me, Waver- he moves closer and picks him up, one arm supporting his back with the other under his legs. He's as worryingly light as ever, any menace that those teeth and eyes might have given off immediately evaporating as it becomes clear just how powerless he is right now. No wonder he was so hostile; like any cornered animal, all that's left is to bear your teeth and snarl.

Diarmuid won't be so easily frightened away.

Carefully- should Waver allow him to even get that far- he carries him over to the chair and sets him down, propping his head against a cushion.

Though he tenses and lets out another strange, bitten-off growling noise, Waver allows himself to be picked up, with what appears to be some effort on his part not to lash out. He half-curls into Diarmuid's arms, shivering with the wracking gasps he takes, filling the room with the sound. His fingers grip Diarmuid's shoulder on one side. His claws are sharp.

By the time he's set in the chair, he's panting, dizzily lifting his head to search for Diarmuid again the moment he sets him down. Upon closer examination, it becomes apparent that some of the blood is indeed his, some vicious scratches down his back and across his shoulders-- but it's his bones that hurt with the pull of the moons, even as the sky inches towards dawn. The fur along his back begins to recede. The shape of his legs seems... wrong.

Waver squirms in the chair uncomfortably, struggling to find a position to sit. His movements elicit quiet, unpleasant noises of bones or joints cracking. And when he yelps, it's a frantic, animal noise aimed at Diarmuid, wordlessly begging for something, anything that might help.

Waver's claws leave marks in his skin but it's the tug in his chest, a reluctance to leave him for even a minute in case his condition worsens further still, that makes it hard to pull away. But he does. First, to hurry into the kitchen and pour a glass- no, not a glass, something more difficult to break- a mug of water. What he wants to do is try and clean him up to get a better look at those wounds but that's not happening until he's calmed down.

When he returns, kneeling by his side and holding the cup to Waver's mouth, it's with more gently encouraging words.

"Here. Drink it slowly, my lord." The title slips out without his even noticing. He's too busy eyeing those claws again; they seem all the more brutish for being attached to such slender hands. "Do you need me to hold it for you?"

What is he supposed to do now? It's only when he catches sight of the water, caught in crimson in the early morning light, that he remembers something very important: they still have those temporary bonding potions.

Waver doesn't notice the slip either, but he's registering mostly the tone of Diarmuid's words more than the content, the gentle coaxing trying to ease him back from the edge of that feral panic that threatens to drown him again. One of Waver's hands clings to the arm of the chair bracingly, white-knuckled with the force of his grip. The other attempts to support the cup on muscle memory, but his fingers are unsteady, and Diarmuid's help is appreciated even if that appreciation isn't voiced just yet.

Managing a faltering nod, Waver leans closer to tip the cup up enough that he can take a few messy gulps. Some of it definitely ends up on his bloodstained shirt. So much for 'slowly.'

No one's expecting perfect manners when he can't even stand up straight. Satisfied, Diarmuid draws back again, resting the cup within Waver's reach in case he wants any more and leans back on his heels. If he's remembering right, the phials are in a box on the bookcase but...

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."

At first, the touch makes Waver freeze, his lips peeling back in a snarl-- but it lasts only a moment, a mindless startled reaction. But then, he seems to realize Diarmuid isn't trying to hurt him, and the familiar scent of him and 'home' eases the burst of renewed aggression. He leans in, pressing his face into Diarmuid's hands.

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..."

Do it.

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.

Waver isn't prepared for how much he hates it when Diarmuid pulls away. His back teeth press together, muffling a new whine that sticks in his throat. The discomfort and anxiety spikes almost instantly the moment Diarmuid stops petting him, but Waver manages not to complain, and he's in too much pain to spring up to follow, though instinct pushes him to try.

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.

As he shifts closer, the cork rolls off of his lap and onto the floor but he's too focused on pressing the glass tube into Waver's grip to notice. Even once he's closed the mage's bloodied fingers around it he keeps his hand clasped over his, partly in an attempt at comfort but also to make certain that he won't drop the only obvious means of relief they have. He squeezes carefully, wary of putting too much pressure on his sore skin.

"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.

With Diarmuid's assistance, Waver lifts the narrow opening of the glass container to his lips, tipping its contents down his throat as quickly as he can manage, desperate for relief now that he has his faculties about him just enough to understand.

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.

Considering its quicksilver colour, Diarmuid had expected it to have a cold, metallic taste but somehow the lack of any flavour whatsoever makes it more difficult to swallow. But he does- and when it hits, it's the most peculiar feeling in the world. There's no denying how familiar it all is; the steady, faint exchange of magic between them is very much like that between a Master and Servant, and yet it's just far removed enough to feel strange. Off kilter, somehow.

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?"

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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[ CLOSED ] we're nocturnal creatures

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fml i can spell i swear

you're good <3

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