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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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.

"What--..."

Why isn't he angry? Where's the sword at his throat? That noisy creature is still shouting in his head but it's more of a distracting hum than the feral screeching it had been when he'd sunk his teeth into--

His mouth tastes like copper.

Red Wine presses the back of his hand to his lips as he shakes a pillow from its casing and tosses the thing to Steak in a clumsy gesture. He sits abruptly, then, and he can feel his hand shaking. Then he makes a noise, a quiet dry heave, and leans forwards slightly.

His stomach churns as he's introduced to another unfamiliar sensation - he's entirely sure that he's about to throw up.

He needs a minute, needs to process what just happened. Needs to make sure his blood doesn't spill down his throat with the barest movement. Fumbling, Steak catches the case and tears a couple of strips from it, quickly tying them together into a makeshift bandage which sits on his neck like a particularly twisted kind of jewellery.

He needs a minute to watch Red Wine, the way he shakes and curls into himself, to determine whether that instinct is still correct. Nothing is said as he reaches for his dropped sword, picking it up and sheathing it once more, red eyes still fixed on Red Wine's back.

Two hundred years... Just when one thinks they've seen all of a Soul that they can, this happens.

Steak exhales, arms folding as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

"You gonna throw up?" Is there a bucket around here?

The look he shoots Steak over his shoulder at that question does, just for a moment, border on entirely hateful. Of all the stupid questions to ask...

Red Wine works to steady himself, closing his eyes and barely moving. His chest hurts. Everything feels... just slightly left of correct. Food Souls aren't supposed to exist like this and his entire being rebels against it. But he realises quickly that what he did was done through physical and mental desperation, and painfully swallows down the next urge to heave with the thought that he could just throw himself right back into that state again.

He shakes his head, just a little.

"I'm not." Though he wants to, he won't. It's too much of a risk.

If there's anyone in this city, and on Tierra, who is used to Red Wine shooting them hateful glances, it's this chimera right here. He doesn't even flinch, standing still until he hears the denial, and only then do his arms unwind from around his chest, only then does he remove his swords and belt and sit down next to Red Wine, leaving his weapons to lean against the wall.

Red Wine might be lying, and they might have to clean it up, but Steak doubts it. And Steak also doubts, in what will be a moment of startling clarity for him, that there's anything he can really say to snap Red Wine out of this.

Instead, he gently bumps his side against Red Wine's, a wordless gesture of... something. Support, Steak would call it, if he had to.

He sways slightly at that gentle bump, and slowly lets his hands drop down to his lap. There's blood on his fingers, under his fingernails, already drying in the creases of his palms and he scrubs the heel of his hand roughly against the patches of stiffness he can feel on his chin.

What now? He can't keep running from what he's becoming. It's inevitable, and he doubts that this will be the end of it.

Red Wine's attention drifts sideways, and he doesn't have to go above the level of Steak's waist to make himself all too aware of the damage that being here has done to his companion, too. Has he just been selfish, he wonders wearily, and he leans his weight lightly against Steak's arm.

A minute or so later, he drops the side of his head to his companion's shoulder and searches out his hand, sliding his fingertips over the back of Steak's knuckles before lacing them through the spaces between his fingers.

"Ah..." It's a quiet gasp as Red Wine's fingers thread between his own, the flood of emotions which have been assaulting him — panic and anger and terror — all silence, replaced by nothing but a vague weariness.

This is exhausting, and not simply in the bone-deep ache of new limbs and appendages, but the constant ache in his chest and mind, constantly assaulted by all they should never have to experience.

His grip tightens, just slightly, against Red Wine's fingers, head bowing in towards him, an ear flopping lightly against dark hair.

Those exhausting, active emotions can only be kept up for so long, and Red Wine is exhausted. He closes his eyes for a few moments, comfortable with the weight of Steak's head against the top of his own, and he rubs his thumb lightly against the side of the other Soul's pinkie finger. They have to be together in this, no matter what happens.

"... I should have known you couldn't do it," he mutters without venom, nesting his cheek a little more comfortably against Steak's shoulder. There had been an effort, he hasn't forgotten the sight of that blade whizzing towards him, and yet... now, here they are.

"Could it be you've just become too fond of me?"

"What's the supposed to mean?!" Fond his fucking ass. He'd quite happily dispatch Red Wine if he needed to, thank you.

"Tch, you're clearly not a threat." He's just saying. How can you class someone a threat when they've been trembling and heaving and are now curling up against you like a tired child against their parent. "Just a bastard."

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