middaeg | [CLOSED]

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[CLOSED]

Who: Red Wine & Steak
When: Night before the full moon, & following night
Where: Outdoors, moving elsewhere
What: After several months of physical changes, it's time for the one he's really been dreading...
Warnings: Death, I guess?

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"No, I expect he would have just been in the way. You know he trips over his feet exactly at all the wrong times."

He answers the question in an offhand sort of tone, not really thinking about the answer. Hands pushed into his pockets he walks side by side with his companion, both of them having been unable to sleep and mutually deciding that a walk in the chilly pre-morning air might work off some of the excess energy that the adrenaline spikes of the full moon always push on them. He's been trying to avoid going out during the day, given the fatigue that doing so tends to produce, but...

It's itching under his skin like something alive this time, but he hasn't been able to pinpoint any particular additional change that might have happened. Uncomfortable, but not panicked and with that internal rage he's been carrying since the rescue of the kidnapped monsters and witches simmered down to a low bubble, he's almost pleasant company. Better to say nothing of the fact that the small vials Caren gifted to him are currently lying empty in a drawer.

He makes a small, dismissive gesture with one hand, one finger indicating a further point to be made, then falters in his next step and has to grab hold of Steak's arm to steady himself.

"Ah--..." Red Wine mutters, his free hand curling up at the centre of his chest. It aches suddenly-- no. It hurts. "Some--... something's wrong."

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It's more strange aches for Steak, more in his skull, and Steak can only hope that it doesn't involve more changes to his horns. The very idea is another irritation on top of the constant thread of anger that's been boiling inside of him all month. A slow, continual bubble, not quite ready to tip over but all too close to the edge.

The conversation is idle, nothing meaningful and nothing that really distracts from the continual urge to punch someone which curdles inside him. Red eyes roll as Red Wine looks to keep going, eyes wandering to the buildings around them, still bearing the signs of damage and fire from last month.

"What're—" you doing, but he doesn't get a chance to finish his words or pull his arm back before Red Wine's clutching at his own chest and all else is forgotten and Steak grabs onto Red Wine, leaning his weight against him.

"Dammit— Come on, we'll find..." He has no idea. How far are they from the coven right now? "Someone."

And Red Wine, blissfully unaware of what his simmering anger has been doing to his bondmate since the rescue of the kidnapped Mirrorbound, has been doing absolutely nothing to attempt to curtain his emotions or keep them to himself. Had he known that he was poisoning Steak with his own fury, even as carefully under control as it is, he...

He might even apologise.

"No, wait--" Dizzied, he grips Steak's arm in a vice-like hold. A spike of pain jabs through his chest and he gasps softly, his breath catching in his throat and locking there as he struggles to inhale the next one. How much of his weight he's putting onto Steak is unnoticed until his cheek touches his companion's shoulder and he opens his eyes to find his vision edged in hazy black.

"I just-- need to sit down."

What the hell is going on? Food Souls don't experience this kind of thing, they just don't. They can be beat to hell and back and their Soul Power can be exhausted but all of that doesn't result in any of this. Red Wine's grip has Steak gritting his teeth as the pain shoots through his bones and he glances, desperately, at the surroundings.

"Just need to sit down, my ass—" it's grumbled even as Steak guides Red Wine to a nearby wall, the only thing that could remotely pass for a seat right now, crouching down in front of him once he's sat down. What can he do? Can they even access their Soul Power here in this city, while being forced into these monstrous forms?

"We need to get you to The Coven." The only thing coming to mind — and perhaps the ache in his ears and skull contributes to this — is that. The same thing Marie did for him during his first transformation, when he was doubled over in agony on the river bank.

It doesn't get better once he's seated. He looks at Steak without entirely seeing him, leaned forwards with one hand braced against the other Food Soul's shoulder. Breathing is difficult, with every inhale feeling as if it does next to nothing and the exhales like trying to push the air out of a balloon through a pinprick in the surface.

"No. I'm not-- having anything t-- to do with them," he growls out, giving a vehement shake of his head that immediately prompts black spots and the sensation of the earth tilting under him. His skin - already ashen from the changes forced on him so far - pales further still as he grits his teeth and bites back a sound.

"I'll be fine."

'I'll be fine', he says firmly, right before another clenching jolt has him almost blacking out. He drops his hand from Steak's shoulder, curling forwards and pushing both hands up into his hair. The next noise to escape him is a soft, tremulous whimper.

"Don't be stupid," Steak snaps. "You're not fine." How stupid does Red Wine think he is? No one could possibly be fine after all that, especially not someone who has lived countless years without having to worry about any sort of health problem which normally plagues humans.

But no. Of course Red Wine has too be proud, even now, and what's left of Steak's patience is fraying by the second, tentacles flicking outwards wildly at his sides.

"You need help." And like it or not, the best place they can probably hope to get help is The Coven.

"If you... take me to them... I won't forgive you."

They're useful enough when answers are needed, but Red Wine has kept almost everything about this place - the Coven, the locals, even the Mirrorbound save for a select few - at more than arms length since they got here. He shakes his head slightly, trying to catch his breath and failing at each attempt.

It's just another change. Something else being forced on his body without his consent. Something else to make him hate everything about this entire place.

Teeth grind together painfully. Could he live with that if it meant Red Wine was alright?

... Probably. He thinks he could. If they were back on Tierra, it wouldn't be a question. But here, they only have each other to rely on and the Bond between them stretches in the depths of his chest, a solid, physical thing, impossible to ignore.

"Red Wine—" What? Red Wine what? What could he possibly argue here, or say? How is he meant to convince this idiot to do the right thing before it gets worse?

His chest aches, and it has nothing to do with the Bond, and nor is it the changes Red Wine is dealing with. It just... hurts. Not being able to do anything, to be stuck here watching Red Wine like this.

Hands reach out, fingers brushing the back of Red Wine's hands where they rest against his hair.

"... Let me help you. ... Please."

He can feel the worry, just barely there under the fast-paced current of his own rising panic and the deep throb settled in the centre of his chest. Just keep the Coven away from him. Keep them away, because he wants no more to do with them than he would have wanted anything to do with the Baroness all those years ago.

Red Wine stiffens under the light touch to his hand, pausing the unsteady rocking he'd taken up in an effort to dull the edge of the pain. It's barely been a minute, but it feels like it could have been hours, and the effort it takes to lift his head up is immense.

Like pushing through half-solid molasses.

He can't do this on his own, he realises quite suddenly. Ghostly pale, shaking, with the sclera of his eyes webbed by a network of partially ruptured capillaries his resolve crumbles and he gives a small, defeated nod.

He really doesn't have a clue how he's meant to help Red Wine without involving the Coven, but he'll have to figure something out and soon. His mind flicks through the list of people he's met since arriving, wondering which of them could possibly make the difference in this case, while hands find Red Wine's shoulders with a light squeeze before he stands up.

"Alright—" They can get back to the barracks, at least. He can figure out where to go from there, once Red Wine is lying down and safe indoors. The best option for now is for his arms to wrap underneath Red Wine's body and lift him off the wall, off the ground.

"C'mon."

He's got you.

Despite the situation he still manages to utter a soft grumble of complaint when he's picked up without warning. He wouldn't put it past Steak to simply take him to the Coven, without his knowledge, but he's in no state to argue any further. His head rests heavily against Steak's shoulder, arms loose against his lap, and he sinks into the rhythm of the other Soul's steps while he forces increasingly struggling breaths into his body.

It doesn't feel right, and he has a vague idea of what's happening to him now, but can't get enough air into his lungs to explain it. But he's... warm, and feels strangely safe despite his panic, and it's easier to maintain his calm like this. Maybe it's just the oxygen deprivation.

Less than a minute later, the quietly rasping breaths slow and then stop, and Red Wine becomes a lifeless weight in Steak's arms.

Stretch

Stretch

— Snap.

Or perhaps twang is more accurate, like a guitar string being plucked and reverberating around his chest, his ribs aching with the vibration.

Red Wine is limp and heavy in his arms and his head swims with the weight of what it means. Food Souls don't die, not like this. They fade and vanish back into the ether, waiting to return. And no matter what this place has done to them — the changes to their form, the fact that Steak's shield has vanished — that's what they are...

... Isn't it?

He sucks in a deep, painful breath, and marches on, back to the barracks.

The bond is still there. So Red Wine is still there.

That's true. It has to be.

A dead Food Soul isn't something that anyone should ever have to see. It isn't how it works for them, and that rising blind panic in Red Wine's chest as it had pressed down on him as an inevitability came in part from the instinctive knowledge that everything about it was wrong.

When he stirs again, it's the following night, and he shifts with a small noise of discomfort as the moon starts moving past its zenith. The breath that he pulls in is unnecessary, dry, and prompts a barrage of hoarse coughing that rouses him instantly up onto one elbow. His body feels heavy and wrong, but the most alarming thing of all is the sudden, angry hunger that begins clawing up from the pit of his stomach, fizzing through his synapses, demanding.

He shudders, rakes a hand through his hair and whips his head around to the first noise he hears. When his eyes fall on Steak, it's almost as if he doesn't recognise him.

"... You should go."

Edited 2020-02-13 09:27 (UTC)

The hours pass, the ticking of the clock underscored by the crack of wooden armrests when the pain in Steak's skull becomes unbearable, when his ears elongate and shift into soft, floppy things.

He forgets to contact anyone, growing restless as the hours pass and pacing back and forth through the room, the aches of transformation snapping at threads of patience and sanity.

They're not meant to die like this. Red Wine wasn't meant to die at all.

Somehow, he's failed here.

Failed his Attendant, Madam, and Red Wine himself.

The day turns to night and he gradually tires of pacing the room like a tiger in a cage and collapses into the armless chair, elbows digging into thighs as he leans forward and buries his hands in his hair, squeezing fingers into palms until it hurts. The wholeness of the Bond, still there, tugging at him incessantly, contradicts everything he sees before him and his brows furrow.

Why is it like this?

Thoughts run through the little he remembers about vampire stories back on Tierra — legends he so often rolled his eyes at, because they were simply ridiculous fiction — and are interrupted by the noise from the bed next to him.

"— Eh?" Newly developed ears twitch and Steak's hands uncurl and drop between his legs as his head rises.

"You're back." Finally. This bastard—

He could almost have been peacefully sleeping save for the fact he wasn't breathing, for all of that time. It left a stiff heaviness in his chest and the very act of breathing feels automatic but unnecessarily forced, and the monster growling its way up through his body is so loud. There's a pulse thudding in his ears, but it isn't his - no, there's no flutter behind his ribs now - it belongs to the person in front of him, and he can see the twitch of his heartbeat at his throat like a neon light flashing.

It's so much worse than it was when the baroness was lying on the carpet in front of him, the smell of her blood washing over his senses and pulling him in until the moment he heard Steak shouting for him. That moment doesn't even compare to this.

"You need to go," he says again, tense, insistent, digging his fingers hard enough into the bed to create small tears in the fabric. White-knuckled, he shivers in place and feels the urge in his chest pulling him forwards.

"Please."

How can he go when Red Wine looks like this, desperate and in pain, fighting whatever the transformation is trying to do?

How can he go when the promises he made hang over his head, thundering loudly at his now-flopping ears?

"I can't." His hands have already found his weapons, steady and prepared. It should have never come to this, but this city doesn't care about any of that. He made his oath almost two centuries ago, renewed it only a handful of months ago.

So how can he go, when doing so would mean failing to uphold his oath?

He stares at Steak, at where his hands brush the hilts of his weapons, and there's a strange noise rattling in his ears. It takes longer than it should for him to realise that he's laughing, and it's no kind of laugh that's ever left him before.

"Are you going to kill me?"

His teeth are sharp when he bares them in an unpleasant smile. Too sharp. There's a drawn look about his face, and his attention flicks to Steak's pulse for a moment before it goes back up to his face again.

"A little late, don't you think?"

It's the laugh, more than anything else, which unsettles him. It isn't normal for Red Wine, sounds too much like Bloody Mary chuckling with glee. A chill rolls down his spine and he doesn't bother to speak, not with Red Wine like this.

His breath hisses out from between teeth, jaw tight, as he pulls out one of his swords, readying the strike.

He doesn't want to do this, but he has to.

The sword seems to give him pause. He hasn't moved yet, despite the eerie quality of that laughter, and he's still holding on to the bed with a white-knuckled grip. Red Wine sways backwards slightly, visibly warring inside himself.

"And without a word, just like that," he breathes out softly, another strange smile just pulling at the corner of his mouth, just for a moment. It's almost poetic.

"Interesting."

What is there to say?

Red Wine has become the one thing he always dreaded he would be. And Steak has a promise to fulfil.

He swings his sword, aiming straight for Red Wine's throat.

After everything, even after the oaths they'd took, he doesn't expect that blade to come swinging at his throat. His eyes widen slightly and he jolts backwards, sliding off the opposite side of the mattress--

But he doesn't hit the ground.

His form shifts, disintegrates, and a wisp of dark red mist flurries up in the air before it darts beneath the bed, slinks through a shadow and--

Red Wine grips Steak's shoulders, leaning gently against his back. His fingertips dig into warm skin, and it's with a near-blind bloodlust that he sinks sharp fangs into the thick muscle of his neck.

Dammit, Red Wine. Steak's swing hits nothing but air and his balance wavers, just for a moment. But a moment is really all it takes for Red Wine to rematerialise and grab him.

"Shit—" fangs pierce his neck, a patchwork of hide and skin, and Steak freezes, sword dropping to the bed as hands reach back towards Red Wine, trying to grab him, move him, throw him the fuck off already.

He couldn't have thought that it would be so easy. Red Wine may be smaller, weaker physically in this new form, but he's fast and nimble and with his focus on this one, desperate need he's uncommonly strong. His retaliation to Steak's attempts to dislodge him is to dig his teeth in deeper, a flood of hot copper filling his mouth instantly.

He'd always thought it would be repulsive. That this kind of act would nauseate him beyond reason. Yet...

It's oddly comfortable. Calming, even. He feels Steak's hands grab at him but ignores them in favour of that feral, animal hunger that is being happily sated by the flow of blood down an eager throat.

It's an entirely foreign pain, one which has his muscles tensing, shoulder raising up against Red Wine's head in a futile attempt to deny him access to his neck. Tentacles unfurl, several finding their way into Red Wine's clothing, pulling at him, trying to pull him off balance with a certain amount of care, wary of how firmly the bastard is latched onto his neck right now.

"Red Wine..." he groans, using the couple of curled tentacles at his back to push against him more firmly, yanking at clothing until there's the sound of tearing.

Whatever has happened to him in the time they've spent here, Red Wine has not been divested of his vanity. Fabric rips under Steak's attempts to shake him off and he flinches minutely at the sound, stalling briefly as a single sharp thought cuts through the haze.

It's enough, in the moment, and he bats the half-dozen limbs away from him with some familiar irritation while he steps back... and the enormity of what just occurred suddenly crashes down onto him.

When it does, he stands very still, staring at Steak with wide eyes.

Of course that's what pulls Red Wine away from him. Steak's eyes almost roll at the fact that it was so easy at the end of it all. Vain bastard. He presses his hand to the bite mark, the sting drawing a hiss of pain, a grimace.

And Red Wine's as still as a statue, brighter than he's been in days, but frozen on the spot.

"Oi. Pass me a cloth." Something to cover the marks left.

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