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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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"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."

"Hmmn."

It's been a rollercoaster, and he could still snap at the slightest provocation. Steak's hand under his is like an anchor keeping him grounded, and maybe he shouldn't have been trying to handle all of this on his own.

"... I'm sorry that I bit you," he mutters, frowning at the words. Not ones he ever thought he'd have to say. Bloody Mary would have a field day with this.

That's an understatement, and now the rollercoaster has reached a flat stretch, somewhere it coasts slowly for a little while, enough to allow Steak's limbs to flood with exhaustion and relief after being tossed around on loops and dragged through peaks and valleys.

Not that he hates heights. Of course not. Why would he ever be scared of those.

~~Not the point~~.

Steak sighs and leans back, falling onto the bed and tucking his free hand behind his head. Honestly, Red Wine... "Hah. Why can't you apologise for every time you climb on me when you're drunk?"

That's much more painful, obviously.

"Because you bring it on yourself by passing out while everyone else is still drinking," Red Wine tells him, shifting slightly to look at him. He has some nerve, Red Wine thinks mildly, to be stretching out so comfortably like that after everything that just happened.

Red Wine drops onto his back beside him, resting the back of his head on Steak's bent elbow.

"Did it stop bleeding already?"

And, like the mature, immortal Food Soul he is, Steak pulls a face at Red Wine before he lies down. Like it's his fault Red Wine has a liver made of steel.

The question is asked and Steak twitches, shifting his head slightly to check. "Not yet," he mutters, blood warm as it soaks the makeshift bandage, the ache refreshed.

If you're going to pit yourself against a Food Soul when it comes to drinking, best it isn't one that embodies an alcoholic beverage. Red Wine sighs and pushes himself back up again, turning around.

"Let me see it," he says, giving Steak's elbow a light tap. "I'll at least wrap it properly."

The suggestion gets a raised brow and Steak's shoulder twitches in response, pushing Red Wine away from the blood.

"It's fine." At least, it'll probably be fine. Better to let it heal like this than risk Red Wine going all terrible novel ~~love interest~~ antagonist on him again.

His eyebrows raise slightly, and he presses his lips together for a moment. He clasps his hands together then shakes his head.

"If I was going to bite you again, I'd be doing it," he said bluntly, hating the words as they come out of his mouth. "I can already smell it. The whole room stinks of it. Seeing it isn't going to make a difference."

... Okay, so Red Wine might have a point. Steak's expression is bitter at the very idea, but maybe he does.

"I—" Words get caught on his tongue, too difficult to say after two hundred years of dismissing them as unnecessary. Two hundred years of saying they hate each other.

"... Alright."

Does he really need to tell Red Wine that he gives a fuck about him? Really? Is that not obvious enough?

"Hmn."

Once he has Steak sitting up again, he peels the bloody fabric away from his shoulder and cleans the wounds up, trying not to pay too much attention to the perfectly spaced puncture-marks at either end of a crescent of indentations. He doesn't speak much, save to give short directions, but sometimes he hums or makes a soft noise in the back of his throat.

What results is something far tidier, cleaner, and less likely to leak blood out onto the bed while Steak is lying down.

"... I'm tired." he mutters then, and for a moment he catches Steak's eye and hesitates, almost as if seeing something there... and then letting it go. "I'm going to try to sleep."

Well, that was helpful at the end of the day, Steak supposes, his fingers trailing over the bandage idly. He hums in response to Red Wine's idea, nodding once before he stands.

"Good night, Red Wine." He'll just head to his own bed.

"Wait--"

His hand darts out and slim, cool fingers wrap loosely around Steak's wrist. Red Wine looks startled at his own actions, briefly staring at his hand before he looks up.

"Would you..." And he feels like a child. Like he's small and lost and afraid and it's only the very recent infusion of blood that allows the tips of his ears to flush pink.

"... Stay close by. Until I fall asleep."

... Huh?

Steak looks at the fingers at his wrist, and then at Red Wine.

"Uh—" That's a first, though it would hardly be the first time they've had to sleep in close quarters. "S-sure?" He's not quite sure how else to respond, not when Red Wine is looking so utterly unlike himself, and Steak sits down on the edge of the bed to pull his top off before he pulls the pillow away from the head of the bed, the only way he can sleep with these damn horns.

"... Don't look too deeply into it," Red Wine mutters. In truth, he didn't mean for Steak to actually share the bed... but that's fine. It isn't as if they haven't shared sleeping spaces before now.

So he settles with his back to Steak, albeit uncomfortably, and tries to calm the racing, frazzled nerves keeping his mind and body on high alert.

And he tries to sleep. He tries, and each time his breathing falters when he begins to slip off, it jerks him abruptly back into wakefulness. It happens a few times before he makes a frustrated sound, pulling a sharp breath in through his teeth.

Well, where else is he meant to sleep? On the floor? This isn't Angelea's hospital room. With Red Wine it's...

A different kind of uncomfortable. One he's somewhat used to. One which involves no duplicity. Just whatever they are, whatever they have been. Whatever they're becoming, here in this strange city where Red Wine's worst nightmares come true and Steak finds himself in a predicament he never imagined possible.

He stretches out, arms tight at his side, and doesn't drift off as easily as he usually would, staring at the ceiling as Red Wine's breathing evens out, stops— and starts again. He frowns at each cycle, head tipping mildly, as far as it can with his horns, towards the other Soul.

This must be part of it, and Steak frowns at each one until Red Wine grumbles, his own exhaustion impossible to satisfy like this.

"Red Wine...?" His voice is barely more than a whisper, something easily ignored if desired.

"... Yes."

He's tired, but it's going to take more time than this for his head to wrap around the idea that breathing has become abruptly unnecessary. His body seems to know it already, and the natural reflex to do so is gone.

Red Wine huffs out a sigh, turns over, and frowns at Steak's shoulder. He hates this, and his own voice is a quiet mutter as he replies.

"Dead people don't need to breathe," he says dryly, following up the statement with a humourless little chuckle. Not something he'd even considered when he'd realised it would only be a natural stop on this journey. "It's going to take some getting used to."

That makes sense, as ridiculous as the concept of the living dead is. Steak makes a noise, a soft tch of admonishment, at the city, at these transformations, and the ridiculous shit they're subject to.

"These things—" and he waves out a tentacle as he speaks, "wriggle while I sleep."

And are sometimes still twitching when he wakes up. It's strange, and wrong, and frustrating. He has ever more things making it impossible to sleep in a comfortable position.

"Hmm."

It comes out like short laugh, a chuff of barely-there humour. It's not funny, but it is, and he can't help it. He rests his forearm to the crook of Steak's elbow, his fingers splaying feather-light over one bicep, and he lets out another sigh.

Maybe he should have tried harder to tell Steak how bad it was getting, but Steak has never listened to him before.

"Wake me up in the morning," he mutters, trying to settle down again.

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battlebound - 2020-03-02 22:51 (UTC) - Expand

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