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 Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:09 pm
Time crawled, bones exposed in the sand while it wore on indefinitely, slowing ever further. Alois caught himself looking toward the sun, toward any clock analog or digital, during his evening ventures, though he scoffed toward the frozen hands staring back toward him. The sun hung on the horizon, mounted above the trees with no intent to sink beneath their clawing grasp. He hated it - hated how all actions slowed to a halt when his mind churned for time to pass. However, no task designed to burn away the minutes could hold his attention while he focused on the state of his lover, broken and damaged by Natron’s petulant will.
While evening drew across the horizon, he settled into the stark alcoves of a parapet looking out over the dull city lights. There he curled with knees to chest, chin crowning the pair while he surveyed the milling aimlessness of humanity beneath, ever present in their cacophony. He stirred slowly, a thin groan issuing from his weathered throat while he rose to standing. It ached to move, to stretch the limbs already so marred from the chance tussle with Natron, with the surfeit of lacerations dotting wings and arms. Quenton fared little better, if at all - while Alois suffered no longstanding injury save for a deep gash between shoulder and clavicle, the general focused more of his fury on the blonde that so captured Alois’ interest.
Once the fingers of eve cooled into purple, blue, and finally black, he left across the myriad rooftops comprised of shingle and concrete to reach the perimeter of school grounds, where movement grew trickier due to the auras that frequented the area. However, experience with skirting the auras lent him some measure of luck, and only a first stage aura intended to tail him for any given distance before he managed to outpace them. Either they elected not to pursue, or they simply could not discern his direction - he didn’t know, he didn’t care.
Quenton’s door looked familiar as always - constantly scarred with the biting teeth of keys spent against its unyielding exterior. He knocked, knuckles sounding almost hollow against the surface. For a moment he closed his eyes; the blisteringly bright blue-white of fluorescents already caused his head to ache.
“Quenton…” He spoke in a mumble toward the door. “Don’t leaf’ me out here.” The echoing jumble of student multitasking echoed down the hall; likely some poor sot intended to drag an assortment of art supplies along with their backpack and portfolio, judging by the constant bustle and banging that drew ever closer to his position. Gold eyes fixed down the hall where he expected the individual to bumble up the stairs. Another knock rapped across the surface, hoping that it communicated his urgency.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:15 pm
The ‘devotees’ of order didn’t have the luxuries of energy and starseed healing to quickfix injuries. There were some senshi with magic and blessings of healing, but he’d only ever met one. He hadn’t seen or heard from Hannah or Delilah in months, and bringing either into the mess that was his current life was too many social warning flags. Acrucis especially. She was too naïve, too manipulable. Drawing her anywhere in proximity to the apartment again, to be detected at all by random agents, corrupted, or worst of all Alois in some destructive mood was recipe for disaster.
Lack of magical healing meant doctors orders. Limitations on what he could lift, how far he could go in general exertions, and suggestions of how much he should be sleeping or eating. There were extra pills besides when the medical professionals had him in their grasp to notice how little he’d been sleeping. Quenton had doubts if their potions and cures would drive the nightmares away. Nothing did. It meant bringing work home to grade for Dr. Schach of the freshmen Two-Dimensional Design course was comedic exercise. Plain, 3-ply cardstock portfolio with its cheap nylon handles glued on dragging along his left and intermittent shouldering and dropping of a backpack with his own damnably daily necessaries.
He paused at the top of the stairs. There was a strong, faint smell coming from the hall- macadam and dust. There was no road work going on, and not enough ventilation in that hall for it to filter in anyway.
Quenton pushed the well-door to with his free hand, backpack fallen again to elbow with strap held in the other. “Alois.”
The silhouette is unmistakable whatever the distance. He looks like a reaper looming in the hall. “How long have you been knocking?”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:16 pm
With approaching noise came the distinct and pressing decision to either murder the poor sot approaching his position or waste a profusion of energy by teleporting to the other side of the door. Lastly he could linger, could watch for signs of familiarity, or retreat toward the shadows opposite the noise. Standing there was a gamble - existing at any location with a populace that might venture out at night risked exposure. He wasn’t blind to his condition.
With a seething draw of breath, Alois settled on murder - likely the story would come up in media and emphasize the need for students to stay indoors after dark, thus reinforcing his relative safety in visiting Quenton at these late hours. Ergo he watched, gaze focused to intensity down the hall, in the bleaching fluorescents where he caught the initial glint of movement. Afterward the door slid open, revealing the very figure he sought from the other side and all the raucous baggage he carried in tow. The sole fact that he never accounted for this potential jarred the creature, freezing him in place a moment while he struggled to comprehend whether Quenton was real or a figment of his ever-tired imagination. His jaw worked slightly, lips parting though no voice pursued that rare freedom.
Finally he shut his mouth and started down the hallways toward the sculptor. “Long enough to sink to kill you, had you been anyone else.” Afterward he usurped the backpack, the burden rather light given the strength provided to him at Metallia’s cost. I feel like I should be incurring debt.
“I’m worried about you, Quenton.”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:16 pm
There was a palpable tension to each cord of muscle and breath at first. Quenton didn’t heed it- pushed the portfolio through the portal with a derisive foot as the General came to moving life again and crossed the space. I am glad for your quick reflexes then, in spying that it was me. And the decision still not to kill me, whether recognizing or no. Recognition does not guarantee immunity with the Negaverse.
The loss of the backpack to other hands was met with a heartfelt, “Thankyou.”
The sculptor took hold of the portfolio handle again then to continue dragging its sorry weight along the hall towards the door. “I need to drop these in the apartment. There’s no way I’ll manage grading them tonight. Will you come to the studio? It has enough amenities. “ He looked over at the admission, not addressing yet. That is close, given wings on words. And no fooling matter, as we’ve both bled in red and exhaustion.
Key in the door and second portal pushed. “Supply and situation changes in chess or Igo. Or other robust games of strategy. I wish this were a game. “
“I’m worried, too. But we can use that.” Another foot-push and he passed in, going to the wash closet and grabbing a seemingly planned assortment. While visits weren’t on a time schedule to be taken into account, just deciding what to have available for the next occasion was. “There’s a bag on the table if you would grab it? I packed it a few days ago. I have to try to plan ahead or I tire.“
“It’s practice in habits.” At least. Annoying, but necessary. Something you’re forced to as it is; thank goodness for whatever that place was you were leading to. Some rest able.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:17 pm
“I suppose it’s close enough around Halloween zat my silhouette would gif’ few pause - or drif’e zem away in reminder of youma. Sure, Quenton, I’ll come to ze studio.” I expect turning you down would only amount to a discrepancy in our choice of venue until I pressed my decision. You always were a pushover when it came to persistence.
The darkness of the apartment came welcome to eyes unused to the nagging bulbs and rays of sun that filtered so ubiquitously through windows. It felt easy to navigate around the familiar space, finding the table in little time before he dropped the relatively light load atop the epoxied table well-memorized in tactile sensation. Even brushing warped fingers against the surface yielded a breath of the life they used to lead - the memory itself still fresh in his thoughts. A life missed, a life betrayed by damnable motivations passed down by Metallia.
He seethed, though he offered no response to it.
He allowed only a slight pause before seizing the bag next to his recent deposit. It felt remarkably lighter, and he shook the contents gently enough to ascertain an idea of what lay inside. “It’s a difficult sing to balance, our lives. We’f already learned zat traveling anywhere togezzer poses great risks, and I’m all out of favors among my peers and subordinates. A captain I might ward away wis’ enough assertion, but anozzer general? Likely we’d face a repeat of earlier.” The most immediate choice would be to retreat from your life in entirety, to leave you to more normal dealings of work and school to suit your major. You could forget about me. You could live without daily threat to your person due to an entangling involvement with me.
No - I’ll let go when I’m dead. “You should go somewhere else, Quenton.” Stroud’s allegiance lies with the Negaverse as well, and I doubt kin is safe from her will. “Sings will only decline from here. My reputation will not improf’e among my peers, as I haf’ no intention of serving as I once did. Additionally, wis’ any successful attempt at impeding Negaverse progress, zey will find all ze more reason to pursue you. I wish I could’f offered better news.” Like perhaps Natron’s untimely death.
Finally he slung the bag over his shoulder and headed toward the door, waiting only fleetingly for Quenton to follow. “What about teleporting zere? It circumvents any chance of getting spotted.”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:18 pm
The table-bag had a strange array of folded clothes or cloth of fleece, fabric scissors, sewing things from the jewelry kit, and a papertowel roll all readily visible. Quenton emerged with a travel case, some towels and hair brush to stuff into the still waiting backpack. “Should is a matter of prudence geared towards survival alone.”
“There are things in life … no. Some things we do to keep living. Some things make it worth it. “ He looked over, taking off the fashion glasses to stow into a side pouch on the bag. “I won’t leave with you in fetters. I won’t leave you.”
He shouldered the bag and crossed to take pace with Alois’ own strides. “Strategically, if they’re chasing me, that is all the more energy they aren’t spending on you. It works in our favor. “
“Do you have the energy to teleport? You can recoup some tonight. Resting at the studio, rather than here is enough of a change of venue. “
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:19 pm
For a long moment, Alois stood silent against the jamb. He watched Quenton as the blonde gathered additional items into his backpack, listening to the cadence of his voice like a long awaited balm. Finally a crooked grin claimed his features, and he started toward his lover. “I can teleport us zere, at least in one direction.” He stole away the second bag from Quenton’s grasp, quickly finding great humor in making a habit of it. Peering into the contents offered something of a mild scene out of context - the same toiletries one might find when spending the night at someone’s house, save for the toothbrush and other nightly amenities like change of underwear.
You’re so dutiful toward medical recommendations. It’s more fun to defy them. You should try it sometime, Quenton - steal something, trespass, or even just litter for ******** sake.
“Hold still. I want to try somesing.” Once he was certain that the bags were properly shouldered between wing and more natural portions of the body, with the cusp of feathers carefully folded against the burdens to pin them in place, he turned toward Quenton while grasping the sculptor’s forearm. Leaning in, he brushed lips to lips shortly before a spatial shift omitted the pair from the apartment to a more distantly remembered venue of the studios. Only moonlight now filtered in through the windows, mostly shuttered into pinstripes by the myriad sets of cheap blinds. Some bore bends so irreparable that light filtered in with thick clumps rather than the seemingly militaristic regularity of the rest. However, the last window stood untouched by such regulation, with its blinds fully retracted to its height.
When Alois drew away, his feathers brushed against an easel, drawing a scraping sound across the floor. His reaction was visible - straightening up, he turned sharply toward the disturbance, but found nothing more than a vaguely recognizable outline. He sighed afterward, relaxing into the same weary countenance he wore at all times.
Adrenaline ebbed away in a breath, left him far more drained than his typical night. Afterward he retreated toward a nearby flat file, perching atop the surface with wings carefully drawn behind the far edge. Drawing one knee to chest, he left the remaining leg to dangle over the edge, brushing gently against the floor. “Tell me you’re not moonlighting in ze studio to cram more impossible projects into your twenty-fif’e-hour-a-day schedule, Quenton. You’ll kill yourself someday.”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:21 pm
You might be mistaken for a rake, grinning so. It’s been too long absent. The loss of the second bag was curious in its mix of mischief and chivalry. I’m not a damsel- I can carry a bag. But that’s part of your game isn’t it, other than just getting into everything like Faust after lunchmeat.
Vicodin did not agree with teleportation. The general sensation of the feat was nauseating on its own, but the dizziness of the drug meant graceless stutter steps while Alois fluffed at the studio furniture. Quenton almost face-planted into the wings in the flurry of turning, bringing hands up to pat-pat them like reassurance of distance and solidity. Don’t dig too deep in all feathers, or fall too far in- as like find my face in some other whispering face. Creepy.
He didn't bother with the overheads, but did cross and light some of the modelling directionals- aimed away to bounce more gentle illumination off the far wall for them to see by. The moonlight had is so called charm, but the incandescence was warmer. Is it the drugs that loose fool notions of ‘warmth’ from just a smile and a kiss? I want to still be warm. We’re both staggering in ways. He didn’t offer an answer until he’d found some of the larger plaster mixing tubs and pulled them towards the taps to start filling with hot water. It was from an industrial heater, so it would need to sit anyway. “Moonlighting some nights is inevitable with taking on the Assistantship. I traded the regular stipend of teaching from the irregular footwork of jewelry commission and online sales. Just as well, the last group of pieces were all bones and casts from metal. There’s only so much a market for mouse skulls.”
Navigating back to the flat file took a hand trailing tertiary points of balance. Quenton settled leaned on the flat side once there, petting across a tattered swath of ebon skirts beside the drawn up combat boot. “Does this come off?”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:21 pm
You still haven’t told me what we’re doing here. “Just tell me zat Faust wiped out your population of mice, even if it is a lie.” He laced fingers over knee and rest his chin atop the lattice, cocking his head slightly to watch Quenton in his peripherals. A peculiar dance came about navigating an area in low lighting, where hands gesticulated in bizarre ways that provided their own form of entertainment. He took in the spectacle in an almost trance-like state after expending so much energy. Finally Quenton drew near enough to the table that Alois raised chin from fingers to view him more fully.
The brush to fabric caused the swaths to tug at his shin and knee in a rare gentleness. Since his transformation into a monstrous state, touch from another happened with such infrequency beyond the bite of fist or weapon. “It is no different from your shirt, Quenton. It’s only a uniform now - I can take it off when I please.” Wordlessly he absconded with one of Quenton’s hands, tracing the myriad callouses dotting pads and joints from the labor-intensive process of sculpture. His fingers intwined in the blonde’s, bringing the pair of hands close to his nose for a long breath of faint sandalwood oils. He closed his eyes.
“Tell me why we’re here.” Finally he opened his eyes, relinquishing his grasp on Quenton’s hand.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:23 pm
“There hasn’t been a squeak in weeks on weeks. He’s bored and has to hunt afield for his entertainment. “ That Faust was provided food, like most kept cats, but still hunted was a special irony and amusement to a mind already trying parse the definitions and differences of executions and murder. The Oatmeal’s infographic on the subject was long since printed out and tacked next to his personal workspace of the main studio with cutout photos of Faust’s bandaged head taped overtop every cat representation in it.
Returned both hands, he started working on unlacing the boots to remove them. “Amelioration.”
“You are here. It is not as nice as the bathroom at home for washing, but it will do. There’s solvents for the tar. Oil for massage. Bandage and medication. Enough towels to make a passable nest of any surface. I picked up a shirt and pants in fleece, socks, to modify as needed. You’re always wearing this, which meant it was some necessity of just nothing else available, symbol, or connection to the magic you bear like a selkies fur. “
Like setting epoxy into cracks to make a thing whole again. When was the last time I ran hand and soap along your spine? Or sat together in parliament while making dull black tresses shine. Human as it is to tend each other in hygienic care- two who tried so much to be anything but.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:24 pm
A portion of Alois balked at the notion of removing his shoes - of discovering that his toenails bore the same warped and curved talon that cursed his hands, that long grooves marring his skin stretched into deep valleys over his ankles and great dearths of flesh between his metatarsals. However, as Quenton set to work, he watched, ostensibly impassive. When did I become so harrowed at the sight of my own body? So much of this life is contrary to my expectations prior. Perhaps I really am the definition of Chaos… No, simply existing is. We’re all made of chaos, in the very electrons that flit about so sporadically in our smallest fibers. I never needed Metallia for this.
Just Quenton.
His sense of humor urged him to laugh at the audacity of anyone offering him favors of no cost incurred - of someone offering wholly selfless assistance to Bischofite. It still felt terribly strange to him for anyone to pay out kindnesses without expectation, as Quenton was want to do, and it pained him in some way he couldn’t quite articulate. It caught his throat, tightened grip about the windpipe yet breathing still came easy. Words, however, choked. “It is necessity,” he admitted, keeping to barebones vocalizations until he reacquired control over his own projections.
Swallowing thickly, he set to work on the other boot, which came off with relative ease. To his great relief, his feet looked largely normal in comparison to warped hands. I never did see Malicious’ feet beneath the carapace. Perhaps it’s some stroke of mercy that my feet remain whole, or simply that there’s no reason to… ‘Accessorize’ this portion of me so.
I’d ask how I could thank you, but I suspect you’ll only ask that I keep to this course.
He smiled, saturnine, and cast gaze to the floor in some echo of a mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry, Quenton.” I am a jackass.
Drawing an even breath, he sighed to dispel the creeping miseries. “I’ll need your help wis’ ze back… I don’t really take zis sing off much, so I don’t know how it fits around ze wings.” I wonder if you could excise them from my body, or cauterize them clean off… But I don’t think even you could stomach it.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:26 pm
“Selkies are too easy of legends. It would be as simple as stealing all of your clothes to keep the lot. “ A tale fit for Stroud’s tastes. The revealed feet were too thin, but otherwise lacking in most of the cthonic theming. The apology didn’t sound connected to the following favor. It coloured of brooding.
We strut of war and wisdom, but how young we are when put to it. It is all in a tale. Perhaps -no, I wouldn’t trade it. Storms are their own happiness, and the calms after- like your anger just before the first you came to my door. Or mine at spying your first apology. On paper. And here is one spoken. It is raw again, and all over we tear apart new walls around each other. This feels.
How human, how young can we be. How do I show you I am not sorry. Can I... play? Can you feel? Fingers already near, fire eyes shining in the dim with an idea that didn’t make mirth betrayals on lips, Quenton lightly splayed his fingers between the revealed toes and drew nails lightly down from there along the meated bottoms.
Are you ticklish this way?
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:27 pm
Of all responses expected, of all possible words of wisdom to be cast out from scarred lips, Alois never expected no response. Instead, nailed fingers traced pads so seldom exposed to new stimuli that the sensation came so sharply that it was almost painful in manifestation. Immediately Alois jerked his foot from the man’s grasp, recoiling slightly in the process. “Don’t be an a*****e,” he warned, albeit half in jest. Afterward he reached toward his foot with his own hands to massage away the ghost of the other’s touch. It never fully alleviated the sensation that burrowed its way to the bone.
In retaliation, Alois unfurled a wing to bat against the blonde’s form, catching strands in feathers while his wing sough to conform to his silhouette. Alois felt the feathers catch on a few of the larger holes in Quenton’s shirt, which dragged a jarring sensation through the vanes and deep into the meat of the appendage. A couple beats thoroughly tousled blonde hair normally kept meticulous in appearance. You have your own curse of vanity, Quincy. Here, I’ll help you with it since you’re so intent on playing my games.
His laugh still felt slightly strained, though honest in mirth. Afterward he edged closer to Quenton to evict him from the flat file with a playful bump of shoulder against shoulder. “You’re a tease.”
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:29 pm
Lacking Thraen’s infusion to his senses, the reaction speed of the withdrawal was blur and reminder that even misplaced reaction from what was a General could break unpowered bones by physics against the concrete walls. The thought didn’t have time to sobre, followed hard by feathered onslaught. Only one hand lifted as ineffectual ward to bat back at the wing, his left gripped the General’s downcast knee for support against the inevitable vertigo. Words were forced out between boofs, “So-are-we-both-”
Then he held still for a moment as his hair and inner ear settled on up and down, hair mostly now up but feet firmly recognizing down. It was interrupted by the shoulder check, stutter steps backwards and upturn to the scar-origin side of his mouth. You would be ticklish, more used to touch again.
But the retreat was a necessity. He crossed away to turn off the water before coming back to examine the shirt-shoulder-sleeves contraption that belonged on a couture runway more than as expectation of armor. He looked it over first, front paced to back before tracing fingers along it for surety of the securing mechanism. “Once this is off, lets work on the tar. You may as well keep the veshti on for warmth until its actually time to wash all the solvents and grime.”
He didn’t bother with running his own hands through his hair to straighten it. Spoils of war.
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Posted: Tue Oct 14, 2014 7:29 pm
“You know,” he started, triumphant grin still frozen on his features, “you look better wis’ your hair all ******** up. More like ze Einstein sort.” He suspected such a declaration might penetrate the thick skin Quenton now sported, though he had little hope for it. Attempting barbs alone with someone provided its own rewards - he needed little else. Afterward he drew a sigh.
Quenton started with his face in removing the many flecks of tar that dotted his features - whether from too much fussing when tar still clung to his hands or residual remainders of the masks he chose. The process itself felt frustrating, likely to both parties, as the work itself proved dull and mindless. Alois found himself fidgeting in impatience, whether ruffling feathers or shifting positions for a better posture. Ultimately, though, he settled on preening after Quenton managed all the tar from his face. It felt strange, almost uncomfortable, to know no splotches of tar across cheek, or nose, or chin. It felt too clean.
I missed this. I missed you. I missed all that we were before I became this bastardization of human and youma.
“You could’f found someone else, you know. Zere are ozzers of similar intellect to you zat lack all ze… Extra baggage.” A feather here, a feather there loosed from his skin and collected in his palm to be pinned by little and ring fingers. “I am fortunate zat you stuck around. No, no… Zat you let me in again after I disappeared for so long. I would not haf’ made it zis far wis’out you.” You don’t need me to qualify that with how I stopped taking food after I turned youma, how I tried to sleep my way out of this life and into the next. You’re not stupid, nor are you blind.
Hands came next, followed by the few stray gouts that dotted forearms and the single splash of tar on his chest. Surprisingly, Quenton never shied away from the carapace protrusions dotting his chest, despite the difficulty in navigating the deep splits in the material where tar sunk in. After that, some tar still lingered in his hair, but it was relatively easy to take care of in comparison to the rest of him.
“Let’s pretend we’re normal for a moment.” Let’s pretend there’s no Negaverse, no magic, no wings on my back. Let’s pretend we didn’t just break into the studio to manage a bath out of plaster buckets and piping hot water. “Tell me about your day.” It seemed a benign request in comparison to the tasks that lay ahead - bathing around the wings always proved difficult for how easily they molded when exposed to water.
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