tornheart | APPLE ORCHARDS AND TORN DREAMS [OPEN]

Entry tags:

APPLE ORCHARDS AND TORN DREAMS [OPEN]

Who: Open Log (All)
Where: Around the city (one prompt at the Green Valley school
Summary: Welcome Ceremonies, Dreams, Stirring a shadow hornet's nest. No big deal.
Warnings: N/A

"Are you ready my black lambs? Let's get to work..."

Apple Picking (General Prompt)

As September begins, the apple orchards of Greenfield Valley school are bursting with thousands of apples of various flavors and colors. There's even an experimental breed that's blue!

Those who have been attending the school know that this means a few important things. The first (and most important of course) is that it means that fall vacation is coming in just a few weeks (despite school having started just a few weeks ago), the second is that the school's menu is going to have a high number of apple-themed dishes until winter, and finally, the opening ceremonies.

The opening ceremonies are - well - one would consider them mostly boring for typical schools. And truth be told, Green Valley is not an exception. A single camera posed at the school's main gymnasium, a large podium in the center. For those who can't be physically there, the school's televisions all synchronized to a live broadcast as does the audio feeds. You can't quite escape it. Yet most people don't - after all it's one of the rare times of the year where the principal appears to wish students good fortune.

The person who stands in the front, Ms Michelle Andersen, is the very definition of an ice queen. Her face is perhaps locked forever into an emotionless stare. Bright blonde hair with blue eyes, both contract to her orange and black outfit.

Behind her, three men, the vice principals, who tend to play the good cops to her bad cop routine and insist that most students call them by their first names unless something really bad has happened; Norman (the most average man on campus that no one would know who he was if it wasn't for his name tag), Jeremy (the tallest staff member standing at over 195cm, thin, a bit of a lisp but he always means well), and Felix (possibly the hairiest man on campus as far as the rumors go, muscular, and a black beard that matches his scowling face when he isn't laughing - which is usually all the time. In fact, he's holding back himself from doing so when Ms. Andersen speaks.)

The presentation is short, as the Principal wishes all the students a great year, gives a bit of data on the number of students (they are up 300 new students from last year), the number of important guests that have passed, then as quickly as she was there, she leaves, explaining that there are additional meetings and events she will explain in greatest detail in the upcoming months.

Afterwards the students are treated to the vice principals singing a welcome song (it goes as well as one would expect it to go), telling the students that they are free to pick as many apples as they want as long as they all get eaten, but everyone is limited to two of the new apples and report to the hospital wards if any of them feel anything unusual after eating them. Just in case.

When the ceremonies are done, students and staff can return to their day...although some of the staff can be heard commenting that the Principal seemed even more...cold this year. Of course asking them for details would just cause them to shoo anyone away and pretend they didn't say anything.

[OOC: Players are welcome to speak to themselves or go have some apples. It's a general school mingling prompt! Additionally, it will be possible to email the vice principals during that week should the characters want to talk with them or ask school questions. Typical school stuff.]

Sound the Rebellion

(Special Prompt for the Unawakened, Monday the 4th)
The school's opening ceremonies aside, the Unawakened’s Monday was rather...strange. The night was plagued with restlessness as they heard the voice of someone laughing. Waking up feeling 'odd', although that differed between all of then - some would feel sick, others have a headache, or some just deciding that wearing a piece of clothing they haven't wanted to worn would look great right now. Perhaps they got a few comments from their relatives about how strange they were acting that day, or a worried glance if they felt sick. It might get dismissed with a wave of a hand.

After all, how can you explain that when they sometimes look upwards, they hear the sound of a child laughing and briefly see a symbol above their heads? Or that this somehow feels...fine?

Maybe in their new state of mind, they might not even notice the people that keep following them around...

Better than a GPS

(Awakened prompt, Monday 4th, day and night.)
"Alright Lambs, time to get to work."

Luci's voice echoed in their phone, laughing. Was he doing a peace sign?

"There's only a few but they'll be useful. I want you to find them and see what you can do. Who knows! Maybe you might be better at this than me, although I doubt it heh heh heh…Now remember what I said! You have to get them to fall asleep...but there's no real rules for that!"

For the Awakened, the symbols above the Unawakeneds’ heads will be as clear as day - Luci will even go so far as play little musical tunes when the characters are close by or distract them using electronics. "Come on! Stop wasting time and do something!"

For the Unawakened who have a relative, it will be somewhat easy. It is the others that will be a pain. Maybe that's why Luci asked for help. Or maybe he just wanted to see his 'lambs' struggle. "Get them to bed! It's not that hard! If you have trouble, just show them the program I've put into your phone and toaster! Or knock them with your toaster first if you want, I don't care! Just go in teams when you go after them, got it?"

It's obvious that 'sleeping' as far as Luci is concerned, is when someone is unconscious - he seems to almost want someone to knock an Unawakened out and then drag him into a room and let themselves go to sleep.

Once the task is done, and the place is secure, the characters will have to do the same. While the hypnotic wheel from the program is the easiest way, there's no hard rule about knocking oneself out either.

MINDJACK
Once the characters get inside, they'll be in the person's mind and dreams. Eddan's memories are predominant, and the unawakened will be standing there wandering around. It will be up to the Awakened to peel back the fabric of reality, much like curtains and show them the true memories of their past...

But beware. Shadows lurk here, and transforming will be necessarily. And if a character dies in someone else's dream...they might never wake up. So be careful...

The main mission is to showcase the person a few memories. Give them an idea that something might be amiss...it can be a little or a lot. Just be careful that the more memories, the stronger the shadows become... When both are done and awaken, ten minutes will have passed. Perhaps it will be time for question afterwards.

[OOC:The Unawakened characters need to be isolated for the program to run, and so do the players, so half the 'fun' will be setting up the traps so that the characters will be alone.

Awakened might decide to have someone stand on guard while the others go to sleep with the Unawakened, or just all stupidly go together, or find an area where they won't be disturbed - everything is up to you.

The dreamscape can be anything the Unawakened desires! It could be good memories of their time in Eddan or bad memories, a mixture of both, or just silly dreams. Whatever it is, the Awakened will need to 'peel' those memories away - for example showing them that their mother was someone else in their other life, or even directing the person to a mirror so that they can see their true selves. But for each memory - both good or bad, shadows will start to attack both the Unawakened and Awakened. Be careful and let the mods know if a mission goes REALLY bad.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He hadn't forgotten, but he also knew how fights went, especially those without restrictions. In the heat of battle it was all too easy to be overcome with bloodlust and toss someone into items that weren't meant to be involved in the clash. This way he'd covered his own ass in the event that he really did have to attempt to break Kit's neck.

Not that he really expects he'll have to, if he's being honest with himself. They were both too thrilled to be facing each other to do anything that might compromise the purity of this fight. It was unspoken but still tangible, like the electricity crackling in the air between them.

With one last toss of the piercings onto his jacket, Vincent strides away from the tree to put a more acceptable length between them. His expression is nonchalant, but there's no disguising the flames burning behind his eyes. He's been waiting for this since they made their little agreement.

"You damn well better be," he laughs, cocky as always. "Just remember that you asked for this."

Kit's cheer was uninterrupted as he followed the other boy away from the tree, but the moment they'd settled upon a safe distance away from their belongings, his disposition changed at once.

It was as if a curtain had been pulled back, and the face revealed to have been behind was cold and hard. His green eyes burned with a similar fervor, his anticipation for this fight having been mounting since they'd made their promise, but it seemed Kit wasn't eager to waste even a single ounce of energy on anything unnecessary between them.

Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, his left arm first and then his right, he addressed his opponent.

"Anything else goes, then. Except killing." Simple rules. With only one final amendment. "There are two ways to win: knockout or forfeiture. If you accept...then we can commence."

When was the last time he'd really fought someone? Their clash at the aquarium didn't count, not for true. And it had been several months since he'd been released from juvie. Even then, during his year in that place, he hadn't gone toe-to-toe with anyone who looked at him with the same fire behind their eyes that Vincent possessed. As though, if he was reckless, he could be reduced to nothing more than a smoldering shadow scorched into the earth's crust.

It made the blood within him boil like it was alive.

Knockout or forfeiture? Vincent doesn't say it aloud, but his thoughts may as well be splashed across his face: if his opponent wanted even a hope at winning, he was going to have to put him out. Nothing but unconsciousness would keep him from rising to his feet every time.

He can see an identical sentiment echoed in Kit's transformed expression, even if the other boy didn't mean to. That icy stare must terrify others unlucky enough to have fallen under its gaze, but it seems to have the opposite effect here. Rather than chill, he feels his entire body go hot at the mere idea of what such a look promises; he returns it with a grin that's half-feral already.

There's no point in words now. All that was left was to act.

Without warning Vincent charges forward, rushing in at full strength. He doesn't expect to be able to tackle him so early in the bout, but there's no chance of winning if he goes into things without confidence. He knew he was fast enough to dance out of the way should things go poorly.

By no means weak, Kit's physical capabilities were still very human. His greatest strength by far had nothing to do with the speed at which he could run or the power behind the blows his arms and legs could deliver. Above the ornate butterfly knife he'd left in his jacket pocket or even his own bare hands, Kit's preferred weapon and by far his greatest advantage...was his intelligence.

When last Vincent and he had fought, his movements had been clumsy and his strategy lacking. He'd been lucky to think as clearly as he had, to keep from cracking both their skulls wide open on the concrete steps in the stairwell, but he was a very different person now.

Unwavering in his calm, Kit awaited Vincent's close proximity before he finally showed any indication of moving, and then it was quick. A flash, even. Permitting the other boy to get in close enough, to reach out, and then he struck three blows in rapid succession. A sharp jab to the pressure point on the back of Vincent's hand, another driven into the radial nerve of his forearm, and the final hook across his jaw to send him reeling in the opposite direction, allowing him to spring off towards the left. From there he was able to assess his opponent and plan his next attack.

Kit may have finally been able to fight as his natural self, but in many ways his opponent was much the same as when they'd last faced each other. Physical clashes are heavily reactive - in Vincent's mind there is nothing that can't be overcome by giving in to one's instincts. Strategy can only carry one so far when the human mind can be so unpredictable after being backed into a corner.

Even so, there's a ragged edge to him that was absent from the aquarium. He intends to keep his promise of not holding back, and that means discarding any thoughts of restraint. It's like he's released a wild animal in the middle of this park, and he relishes every minute.

The pain the other boy visits upon him does nothing to dampen his growing frenzy - the grunt he emits as he stumbles backwards is practically satisfied despite the failure of his attack. Now he knows that Kit is one of those irritating cerebral fighters with the anatomical knowledge to back up his style; it just meant that when he finally managed to latch on, he absolutely could not let go.

That was fine. He hadn't been intending to anyway.

His arm will take a few moments to recover from the injuries visited upon them, but Vincent doesn't give them any time to do so safely. He moves forward again almost instantaneously, looking to use his other arm to sock Kit in the gut hard enough to induce vomiting. Now that he's aware the other boy can keep up with his movements, he's prepared to counter whatever offensive defense his opponent decides to visit upon him this time.

Kit would never dispute the advantage that acute instincts could provide. Lending a certain unpredictability to a fighter, it was the perfect trump card against anyone who relied as heavily on strategy as himself.

However, that did not mean that he was without his own intuition, and his was as sharp as Vincent's own, forged in the fires of Eddan's seedy underbelly, and sharpened to a lethal edge by adversity.

If there was one thing he had learned how to do, it was endure. Pain was a window, after all. Opened, it allowed a man to assess the state of his being and told him when enough was enough; closed, it afforded him the ability to surpass his limits, including his threshold for pain. Ignoring the body's way of communicating with the brain was of course ill-advised, but as Vincent's arm swung for his gut, Kit was grateful for being able to stall his thoughts and simply react.

There wasn't time to dodge or deflect, he knew that in an instant. But if he curled around the other boy's arm he could trap it...and he did.

Spittle flew from parted lips as air was forced from his lungs, throat clenching as it fought to keep down the contents of his stomach. His body folded neatly around that sacrificed limb, his arms ensnaring it like the jaws of a steel trap, unwilling to relinquish their hold. But he was not on the defensive, his back not yet pressed to the wall. With his opponent's arm captured, he attacked...driving his heel down towards the pressure point atop Vincent's nearest foot.

"Might as well let it out now."

He could practically hear Kit's muscles convulsing in its struggle to keep from acting on the natural instinct to hurl, a sound which delighted him enough to prompt a remark even in the heat of battle. Shouldn't he be more concerned about the armlock currently being visited upon him? Probably. But he's never been one for typical priorities.

This time he sees his opponent's train of thought early enough to muster up a reaction. His trapped fist digs into Kit's shirt and latches on to the skin underneath it, as if he isn't confident in the other boy's ability to hold him there on his own. The moment that his foot rises to try and smash into his own he acts, using the leftover momentum from his previous charge and the adrenaline pumping through him to ram into him with his entire body.

In the best case scenario, it'll topple them both. At worst, he'll have agitated an already troubled stomach. Either way, he's willing to take the chance that Kit's own attack will connect before he's done with his follow-up. The reward was worth it.

He wouldn't. He absolutely wouldn't give Vincent the pleasure of seeing him in such an undignified state, just as he refused to acknowledge the other boy's taunt with anything but an unwavering stare.

The pinching of his opponent's nails through the front of his shirt stung like a handful of angry wasps, but Kit did not falter. He could feel blood rising already to the surface of those gouges, but they wouldn't be the first wounds his body had received, nor the last. The important part, even as Vincent threw all of his weight into him, was that he still had the other boy's arm trapped.

It was a familiar sensation, reeling backwards together in midair for what felt like an eternity, but the ground rushed up more quickly to meet them here than it had in the stairwell, and this time Kit was prepared for it. Once his shoulders met the grass, Kit finally relinquished his hold on Vincent's arm in favor of seizing him by the shirt instead. A knee drove up between his opponent's legs and, using that leverage, he forced his opponent's weight over his head and rolled with him until he had reversed their positions.

He was smiling as he gazed down at Vincent, tugging him up by the grip he had on his shirt. And that smile remained even as he slammed the other boy back down, visiting upon him the same pain he'd endured the last time they had come to blows.

Loathe though he was to admit it at any time, especially in a moment like this, Vincent's size was a distinct disadvantage to him. Resist as he might, there was simply no way for him to prevent being upended - although his wild struggles do leave the sound of tearing fabric all throughout his descent.

The growl that escapes him now is significantly less amused, eyes burning fire as he glares up at his newfound captor. Now more than ever he wanted to rip his intestines straight from the other boy's stomach, a sentiment that is almost impossible to miss. So much for dampening his fighting spirit.

His body screams in pain as Kit smashes him into the ground, but somehow it only grants his mind the ability to think more clearly. Perhaps it's the anger. He wraps his hands around those of his opponents, seemingly attempting to grapple with them and force him into releasing his grip; the truth of the matter, however, is a bit sneakier than that.

When Kit pulls his hands up a second time, he'll find that the only thing rising with them is the segment of shirt that he's ripped off. By the time he processes that he'll have an even bigger problem to deal with - Vincent rushing up of his own accord with a vicious headbutt.

This close, Kit only had the upper hand so long as he could keep the other boy from countering any of his attacks. Vincent might have been small, but his strength was great, and the moment Kit felt that strip of fabric tear free he knew he'd made a mistake.

But there wasn't any time to correct it, not as his momentum had carried him back and Vincent shot upwards, forehead driving into his own with enough force he thought for sure he'd lost feeling in his arms. He saw double, triple even, in between the waves of black that clouded his vision, but instinct guided him through the dancing phantoms before his eyes and allowed him to fight the hold on his wrists. Allowed him to tighten his hands around Vincent's neck.

He could feel that if nothing else, the wild pulse drumming against his fingers like a siren in the dark, beating harder as he squeezed...or was it his own pulse he felt, racing inside his chest and pounding behind the walls of his skull...?

Their skulls collide so forcefully that Vincent can feel his teeth chattering, jaw attempting to physically relocate itself from the scene of such violence. He can't see a goddamn thing, but he certainly feels when his opponent fights past his spirited resistance and begins strangling him.

A choked gasp escapes him, forced out along with the rest of the air in his throat. He retaliates immediately, pushing past his throbbing head and blinded vision with the sort of power that only adrenaline can provide. He'd been unable to prevent this from happening, but his hands were still clutching onto Kit's; they turn from a vice to claws, ripping and tearing deep into every inch of his wrists and hands he can reach. If he hits anything sensitive then his foe will bleed out long before he loses consciousness.

His legs move as well, fighting underneath Kit's bulk to slam into him repeatedly with as much force as he can possibly muster given the current circumstances. It would be far wiser to simply admit defeat after being backed into such a corner, but the thought never crosses his mind. He refused to go down until the other boy had expended every last ounce of energy on him.

There was a surprising amount of strength in Kit's grip, even as Vincent's sharp nails raked across their surface, scraping and clawing in attempt to free his throat. But the trouble with tearing at his flesh was that, after so long, he failed to feel any pain. One sensation bled into the next, the burning so intense it faded altogether from his awareness, and as a result his hold only tightened...

...at least until he simply couldn't hold on any longer, his fingers giving an involuntary spasm before letting go.

Though whether that was due to the amount of blood he'd lost through them or the way Vincent's knees hammered up from below, it was difficult to say.

He curled as his body slumped towards the other boy, a low hiss of breath leaving him from in between clenched teeth. There was so much red mingled with the black spots in his vision. Was it over? Was this all the fight that he had left?

No. He hadn't yet said the words, still had his consciousness, and with it the determination to fight back whatever the odds. But first he needed to get away.

It was risky, but with his hands relinquishing that throat and the other boy no doubt greedily sucking in much needed oxygen, he might get away with it. Smearing his blood across Vincent's field of vision and, if he was lucky enough not to miss, striking him with his elbow before rolling off and to the side. It would be at least a minute before he could get to his feet again, his knees shaking as bad as they were, but if that act of desperation could buy him enough time perhaps he'd be okay...

It's with unmitigated gratitude that Vincent allows air to rush back into his lungs, completely heedless of the ugly noises he makes as he does so. He has only the vaguest sense of where anything is currently, the darkness of intense strangulation mingling with his already damaged vision to leave nothing but faint shapes and flickers.

Even this is robbed from him when Kit thrusts an ungodly amount of his own blood right into his eyes, drawing a labored hiss of pain from him as they begin to burn anew. He couldn't have stopped him even if he'd seen the attack coming, not in this weakened state. As he coughs from the additional blow visited upon him before his opponent makes his escape, he hears his own voice echo through his mind with unfamiliar words.

Kurama, have you lost your mind!?

Now was not the time for this. His addled brain pushes the recollection of more blood, more pain to the side in favor of focusing on the here and now. It would be wise for him to take some time to recover - at least wipe the blood out of his eyes - but Vincent never even considers it. Instead he rolls over with a grunt, forsaking even delivering more oxygen to his body in favor of continuing the chase.

He can't see, and he can't use his legs to any useful degree, but he can still hear and crawl. With Kit as battered as he was he didn't have the wherewithal to mask his retreat; all he had to do was follow the sounds and hold it together until he could at least grasp onto a foot...

Unaware of the memory his actions had triggered, Kit continued to crawl away and put distance between his adversary and him, but Vincent's recovery came much more quickly than he ever could have imagined. Indeed, it was as though the other boy had abandoned all sense the same as Kit had when his hands had been around his throat. Nothing was stopping Vincent now, not blindness and not pain, not even the inability to properly draw a solid breath of air through his damaged trachea. He was unrelenting and...

...frankly, it was as impressive as it was unbelievable.

Newfound respect or no, however, when Kit felt his foot seized he emitted a startled noise and kicked with the other. He struck out at Vincent's shoulder and head, not once, but several times, each blow intended to stall him in his advance or, better yet, knock him out cold and end this.

To Vincent's credit, not he doesn't let something as trivial as more trauma to his head stop him on his quest. He's detached so thoroughly from reality that he doesn't even feel the blows enough to groan in pain, moving almost robotically as he continues to attempt to fulfill the one goal remaining in his mind. All he had to do was get the other boy to forfeit, after all.

His grip remains tight around Kit's foot, using the other as a pulley to drag himself through the barrage of blows and slowly up his leg. To say his gaze was unfocused would be a kind understatement - it's highly unlikely that he even has enough awareness to be thinking at all, let alone strategizing. It's quite the terrifying sight, especially when one finds themselves the direct victim of it.

Unfortunately for him, even an iron will can't completely win out over biology. Between the devastating kicks and his own lack of sufficient oxygen, Vincent's mechanical ascent begins to slow even further until it comes to a complete standstill. He shifts several times in one last desperate attempt to muster up some hitherto untapped reserve of energy, but fails to locate any. With a strangled breath, his head finally drops down as unconsciousness claims him.

Even so, Kit's hardship hasn't quite ended. His grasp on the other boy's leg remains vicelike, even with his senses gone.

[Several minutes had passed before Kit allowed his back to hit the grass and his lungs to fill and empty again with a deep sigh of relief. It was longer still until he found the strength to move, his victory over such possessed determination almost too unreal to wrap his mind around, but not nearly as unreal as his opponent's unrelenting grip on his leg. It took some effort on his part, the mangled condition his hands were in limiting their reliability, but eventually Kit worked each finger loose with only minimal scratches to the skin beneath.

He was tempted briefly to leave the other boy lying there, but their fight had been one he'd not only consented to, but promised. More importantly, there was no telling what might happen to Vincent if he was left stranded in a place like Hagu, and beyond a shadow of a doubt all his belongings would be stolen away. Whatever had transpired between them, he didn't deserve that. Especially not after they had worked together to escape Kit's pursuers...

It was decided, then.

Leaving the other boy to lie face down in the grass for the time being, Kit got unsteadily back to his feet and collected their belongings from over by the tree. A favor from an old acquaintance was called in and, in a matter of minutes Vincent and he were picked up from the park and escorted from Hagu back to the school in Green Valley.

In his state, the most difficult part for Kit was carrying Vincent, his guitar, and his own personal effects to the dorms from the street. His legs screamed silently in protest every step of the way, not unlike the stares he'd gotten from onlookers until, at last, he'd shut them both away behind the security and privacy of his dorm room door.

The couch was bypassed in favor of Kit's own room. Even in his exhausted and weakened state, he knew better than to dump someone as injured and covered in blood as the other boy onto a surface that would stain so easily and be difficult to clean. His bedding, however, could be laundered later or simply disposed of. And so it was there, atop a plush dark grey comforter, that Vincent would eventually awaken. He would find his guitar leaning neatly next to the side of the bed nearest the pillows, but no Kit in sight.

Of course, the sound of running water from the bathroom was the perfect indication of where he'd disappeared to...]

[it's a small comfort to know that had Vincent been aware of the events transpiring, he'd have been thoroughly pleased at the inconvenience his limp body was causing.

unfortunately for his sense of bratty contentment, he doesn't return to the waking world until long after his journey has ended. the last memories have his instincts screaming at him to bolt upright immediately, but his battered body simply refuses to comply. the most he can do is attempt to beat back the godawful headache boring through his skull and roll over onto his side with a muffled groan in order to better inspect his current environment.

the room was wholly unfamiliar to him, but the sight of his guitar propped up against the bed told him everything he needed to know: he'd lost. the thought vexes him a bit, but after such a powerful struggle Vincent can't find it within him to be sour. it had been...a completely satisfying experience, much to his surprise.

but that didn't mean he was even remotely inclined to hang around and make small talk with the victor. the sounds of activity from the bathroom informs him that there's still a little time to slink away, if his agonized muscles will allow him. as soon as he's given himself a few moments to simply lay and breathe out of courtesy Vincent is dedicating himself to the attempt, starting first with sliding out of the bed slowly.

this was going to have to be done in shifts, but there was really no way to get around that with his body in the condition it was. so long as he made sure to pause between actions it should still be manageable, albeit unpleasant.]

[The groan hadn't gone unnoticed, and when sounds of his guest's movements did not desist entirely, quiet as Vincent may have been trying to be, Kit turned off the tap in the bathroom and wandered into plain view.

His clothes were changed, his hair tied back once more, and his hands bandaged already; were it not for the faint way they trembled in their attempt to hold onto a clean, damp cloth, he might have appeared as though he hadn't suffered any recent damage at all. Even the way he regarded Vincent, calm and understanding, seemed to suggest it was someone else he'd nearly asphyxiated in the park.

Nothing was said as he tossed the cloth to the other teen, its purpose obvious and not needing to be explained. The same could be said for the midnight blue sweater he pulled from his closet a moment later. The shirt Vincent was still wearing was stained and torn. Had he won their contest, he might have treated it like a trophy, but as it was, Kit thought he might appreciate being able to change into something a little less crusted with dirt and blood.

He came closer and held it out to him, still perfectly silent.]

[while it was unpleasant to have been found out at all, Vincent can at least be thankful that it happened by the time he'd managed to lower himself onto the ground. being caught in the middle of that careful navigation may have been too much for his ego to bear; as it was, he could accept staring up at his apparent host with his back gingerly leaning against the side of the bed.

he manages to catch the washcloth tossed at him, although not without cost. the reaction is slow and immediately regretted - without thinking he'd used the arm which had been so harshly bent and abused only hours before. there's no way he'll give the other boy the satisfaction of hearing him hiss, but the twinge on his face as his fingers close around the cloth is unmistakable.

when Kit approaches him with the sweater, however, he can't keep silent any longer. he looks up at him, expression caught somewhere between petulant and proud.]

I don't need a nursemaid.

[Such petulance could be endearing at times, a window into the soul to glimpse the raging fire that burned within, but there was a time and a place, and Kit would have none of it, not now.

With his free hand he reached out and caught the arm that he'd brutalized earlier. His own gesture was not without a price to pay, his grip significantly weaker than it had been during their confrontation, but it seemed he still knew precisely where to stab the tips of his fingers in order to trigger pain or render a limb weak or even numb.]

Are you too proud to let me repay my debt?

[He released the arm again, but did not back down. Instead, he pushed the sweater in Vincent's direction again.]

You could have left me in the hallway in the Leviathan Habitat, but when I awoke, I was back in my bed. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?

[his arm is screaming, but he refuses to break eye contact with Kit for even something as trivial as a flinch. their gazes remain locked even as his jaw tightens, physically pushing down the pain threatening to overload his senses once more.

it's with untold relief that his companion finally relinquishes his grip, although Vincent is certain to take his sweet time in moving the arm to a more comfortable position. as evinced by his following words, it was clear that nothing escaped his 'partner's' gaze.

it would almost be admirable if it weren't so goddamn irritating.]

...hn.

[for a moment it seems as if he was still going to refuse the gift, but at least the silence breaks with an irate noise as he practically yanks the sweater out of Kit's hands. it settles peacefully in his lap while he goes to work pulling off his own mangled shirt with neither warning nor fanfare; given the intensity of their fight it would be wise to do this first so he could wipe everything down at once with the cloth.]

People don't remember their actions while they're unconscious. That's nothing new.

[it seems that he still hadn't given up entirely on the embers of his pride. despite having been directly called out on it, he refused to acknowledge that one weak moment of kindness.]

[He was sorry for being so forceful when the sweater was yanked so roughly from his hand, but at least his point had been acknowledged. However, there was still one more debt to Vincent that Kit had left to pay and, giving his guest some privacy to clean up and dress, he wandered out of his bedroom to see to its fulfillment.

The dorm's kitchenette was small but well organized and very clean. Everything he needed was easily found, from an ice pack into which he dispensed fresh ice, to two cans of beer he'd pulled from a small pack in the mini fridge that had been gratefully supplied by someone he'd done business with last week. He didn't drink often, but every now and again as a reward to himself or simply to blunt a particularly sharp edge he would indulge.

Never enough to dull his senses or lose himself, and he would not supply his guest with that sort of luxury, either. But one drink...for the one he'd promised to buy him before.

When he returned to the bedroom, he offered the ice pack first with the instruction that it should be applied to his throat.]

You may not be the front man for your band, but that doesn't mean I want to see any lasting damage done.

[It was only after he had taken a seat on the edge of the bed and relieved his sore muscles from the burden of having to carry his weight that he held out the drink. It was as much a peace offering as it was evening the score.]

[it takes him longer than usual to complete such a simple task, thanks to the sorry state of his entire body. even removing his shirt had required a moment's pause before wiping away the crusted blood that seemed to have congealed on every available surface. he's more glad for the opportunity to clean up than he'd ever say - it's a strangely familiar relief to get Kit's blood out of his eyes completely.

by the time his host returns he's moved back onto the bed, more from how exhausting the mere idea of sitting back down on the ground had been than anything else. the sweater was too large for Vincent by more than a bit; he'd been forced to roll the sleeves up an unconscionable number of times to locate his wrists, and even then they still had a habit of sliding right back into place.

it's not something he acknowledges, even as he reaches out to take the ice pack with a skeptical look.]

I've told you before, it'd only be an improvement.

[Kit was the one who'd suffered real damage to his hands, after all. all of his own injuries would only increase the performative impact his band had.

but even with the flat correction, he obediently presses the ice pack against his throat. Vincent watches him with vague sharpness as the other boy settles onto the bed near him, expression barely shifting as he regards the beer.

there was a choice to make here, and they both knew it. the silence stretches out an intolerable length of time to the point where it seems that the decision has been made - only to be broken by a soft chuckle as he reaches out to take it.]

[Theirs was a tentative and delicate truce, the sort that was born in an instant and tended to die just as quickly, dependent entirely upon the purpose it served and whether the struggle to maintain it was even worth the inconvenience.

But...it was still a truce.

Forged when they'd pooled together their knowledge to make an ofuda, and again when their fight had concluded before the Leviathan Habitat's sleeping quarters. Given life when they'd worked together to outrun whoever had been following Kit from Green Valley, and once more now when they were both too tired to continue fighting.

It truly was a satisfying sort of fatigue, though. As Vincent accepted his drink, Kit contemplated it as he struggled just to open his own can. If he'd refused to indulge his companion's temper and had better managed his own the way he'd done in the past, it was possible he'd have walked away from their few encounters mostly unscathed. And yet he found that he relished the way his body quivered from exhaustion and strain because it meant that he'd used it to its fullest. Knowing that, how could he possibly have any regrets?]

I'll have to verify for myself whether or not that's true one day.

[this was what he wanted out of life. a challenge so all-consuming that it left him feeling utterly depleted, unable to complete a task as simple as balancing an ice pack and drink at the same time. he'd lost, but the failure had left him feeling invigorated rather than irate.

it was a strange feeling, as was the excitement over knowing that he could attempt to remedy his past defeat whenever he liked. was this what people referred to as companionship? it seemed silly to even contemplate.]

Go ahead. Just don't expect any help from me.

[finally, finally he manages to fumble his way into getting the beer open. the faint satisfaction makes its way into the amusement in his voice as he takes a swig, more shallow than he'd like thanks to the severe trembling from his hands.]

yeah, in poisoning myself and everyone i can take down with me

what a delicious way to go

i've always wanted to be pickled

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i see you

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