Sylvain Jose Gautier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heir_to_ruin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cancry2021-01-19 08:56 pm
heir_to_ruin) wrote in cancry2021-01-19 08:56 pm
Now and again, we try to just stay alive
It's cold. It's wet. He's miserable and he doesn't like it but he knows he can help a lot more by gathering info and trying to pull in as much cash as he can. It's an acceptable trade. Never mind the time he gets to spend flirting with all these pretty ladies. It's inevitable that the drama will start, though. Strolling along with one girl on his arm and another he'd gone home with not two days prior happens by.
It's quite a ruckus if anyone happens to be near the fountain. One sharp slap, then another, each of them getting their turn before one of the girls shoves him hard enough to go toppling into the fountain itself. The water isn't terribly deep but it's enough for the chill water to swallow him up, falling backwards, gasping despite himself when his back hits the water.
For a moment, one that seems to stretch into eternity, he feels like he's frozen. Unable to move, to struggle against the weight of the water. When he finally resurfaces in the fountain the women are both gone and he's panting, desperate and distressed in a way a short dip into the water should not cause.
He scrambles back out onto the road, tries to keep his feet, crashes down to his hands and knees, scraping his palms and tearing his slacks.
When he staggers back to his feet he's unsteady, off balance and struggling to walk. His steps are all measured poorly and he has to stare down at his feet for a long, long time before he's able to really comprehend the disconnect between what he's seeing and feeling. Even once he tucks himself out of the way and tugs off the well polished dress shoes he's been wearing it's hard to understand. As though the chill of the mountain had followed him even here into the underworld. Is that how he had died? On the mountain? Alone and in the snow, lead to his fate by his own brother?
"Why... can't I feel-"
It takes a good long while for him to stumble his way back to the stairs, shoes still in hand so he can carefully watch his feet as he tries to take a few steps. In the end he gives up pretty quickly, redirecting to the train so he can head back to Limbo, back to the closest thing to a home any of them have now. He's drenched and shaking and anyone at home might hear the bathroom door slam before... well it's just too bad if anyone else wanted in there because he's going to curl up under the spray, water as hot as he can bear it, too hot if the vibrant angry flush to his skin when he finally comes out hours later is anything to go by.
Even after that he might be found huddled under every blanket he can find or, still wet from the shower, in one of the bedrooms, towel around his waist, staring listlessly into the large mirror on the closet door, gradually reaching out to touch one scar after another after another... after another. So many scars and so very many of them dull and white, old scars stretched and distorted by his growth. If you know what to look for it's clear they're from when he was a child.
It's quite a ruckus if anyone happens to be near the fountain. One sharp slap, then another, each of them getting their turn before one of the girls shoves him hard enough to go toppling into the fountain itself. The water isn't terribly deep but it's enough for the chill water to swallow him up, falling backwards, gasping despite himself when his back hits the water.
Let's see your crest get you out of this one.
[It's snow falling around him, not rain in the memory. He's small, so small, too small really. Shouldn't he be bigger than this? Not a slap but a punch, hard, heavy. He can feel his lip split under the impact as he falls back. But he keeps falling. Keeps falling down and down and the frigid sky grows smaller and more distant and then suddenly there's dark water closing over his head and the shock of the cold has it filling his mouth, his nose. But he scrambles his way back up to the surface, so small, small enough that he can touch the wall on one side and reach out to stand against the other side.]
Miklan!!
[His voice echoes strangely off the walls, distorted and warped, just like the laughter that echoes back to him as the wooden lid of the well slams shut above him, plunging him into darkness.]
For a moment, one that seems to stretch into eternity, he feels like he's frozen. Unable to move, to struggle against the weight of the water. When he finally resurfaces in the fountain the women are both gone and he's panting, desperate and distressed in a way a short dip into the water should not cause.
He scrambles back out onto the road, tries to keep his feet, crashes down to his hands and knees, scraping his palms and tearing his slacks.
[His hands are pale when he staggers into the snow and somehow he knows that's not good. His clothes are still soaked, the fire that had been burning when he'd fallen asleep long since smothered. The wind howls and he can hardly see three feet in front of him. The snow is too heavy, the wind too strong.]
Mi... klan?
[A strangled whimper between chattering teeth, even though he knows it's useless. Of course he couldn't have just left. Of course he had to take one last shot. He can't help thinking this might be the one time it works out. For a moment he stays there, watching the white of his fingertips beginning to tint closer and closer to violet. He could... He could just lay down right here. Go to sleep and never wake up and it would solve so so many things. What was the point of struggling so hard for so little? What were the odds of making it down the mountain even if he did fight?]
When he staggers back to his feet he's unsteady, off balance and struggling to walk. His steps are all measured poorly and he has to stare down at his feet for a long, long time before he's able to really comprehend the disconnect between what he's seeing and feeling. Even once he tucks himself out of the way and tugs off the well polished dress shoes he's been wearing it's hard to understand. As though the chill of the mountain had followed him even here into the underworld. Is that how he had died? On the mountain? Alone and in the snow, lead to his fate by his own brother?
"Why... can't I feel-"
It takes a good long while for him to stumble his way back to the stairs, shoes still in hand so he can carefully watch his feet as he tries to take a few steps. In the end he gives up pretty quickly, redirecting to the train so he can head back to Limbo, back to the closest thing to a home any of them have now. He's drenched and shaking and anyone at home might hear the bathroom door slam before... well it's just too bad if anyone else wanted in there because he's going to curl up under the spray, water as hot as he can bear it, too hot if the vibrant angry flush to his skin when he finally comes out hours later is anything to go by.
Even after that he might be found huddled under every blanket he can find or, still wet from the shower, in one of the bedrooms, towel around his waist, staring listlessly into the large mirror on the closet door, gradually reaching out to touch one scar after another after another... after another. So many scars and so very many of them dull and white, old scars stretched and distorted by his growth. If you know what to look for it's clear they're from when he was a child.
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There's fear and a bone deep kind of resignation in his eyes when he looks up, squinting against the rain. Chiron could kick his teeth in and shove him back down the stairs he's managed to master and Ruin would simply.... let it happen. Perfectly passive and accepting.
It takes a moment for him to even register that the other man is speaking, not a rough voice growling accusations but something smoother, lighter, something that doesn't sit like a weight of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Not Miklan. Not his brother. No, his brother had left him once and for all.
Pull it together. Don't acknowledge it, don't let anyone see. Be a good boy, a good noble.
It's a mangled mess of a smile, eyes hollow as the fear gets neatly folded away. What does he even have to fear anymore? Death would be a welcome reprieve- No, no he's already dead and still he hurts and fears and hates. He doesn't take the offered hand, blinks at it as though he's confused, unsure. Has anyone offered him a hand up when he'd fallen before? Had anyone ever done anything but kick him while he was already down?]
I- [Rough and hoarse from coughing up water, coughing that starts all over when he speaks.] I... guess I did...
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Perhaps because of it. Who is he to know? No one, apparently. Not now.
He feels the tickle of energy in his other hand, but it's sense-memory only. Here, he has no power to conjure up flickering darkness as though flame in his palm.
The offered hand lingers in midair.]
And? What will you do now?
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He's close enough to Chiron that it could be seen as an offering, his head bowed just ahead of the man's outstretched hand. Whether an offer for the comfort of fingers in his hair or the satisfaction of his spine giving way beneath the other man's grip... even he doesn't know. He... he doesn't know anything.]
What will I do? [Another bitter snort of desperation and amusement.] I don't.... know...
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Kick the whelp into motion, that might kickstart him into making a decision.
No...no, perhaps refrain from something so rash.]
You look liable to slide down the few stairs you've managed to make up. [Said idly enough, like checking fingernails.] Would you like some advice, free of charge? [He leans closer.] I would suggest, get moving. One way or another, before you're washed away.
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Maybe that's for the best.
[Swept away on the insistent flood of the rainfall. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just crawled back to the fountain and let the water finish what his brother had started so many times. Maybe-
What was the point of wanting to die if you just had to suffer through all this all over again? If they had to suffer through his... through him. In exact contrast to Chiron's advice, Ruin shifts around and... drops down to sit on the stairs with his back to the older man, unable to bear looking up at him any longer.]
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You must be so disappointed. I know I am.
He huffs, still teetering somewhere Between, because this is just silly, and if he wants to sit here and get washed away, then let him. But maybe he's just doing this to prove the point he's so sure of, that he's useless and ruins everything.
And we can't let him be right, now, can we?]
You're already dead, little one. [sylvain's like a scant few inches shorter than him but shut] You think letting the cold and the water take you away will just end it all? Instead of bringing you right back to us? Honestly, you've a head on those shoulders; the least you could do is use it from time to time.
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R-right! Stupid me. Hah- there is no end to any of it.
[And he's still trying to wrap his head around that. It was one thing to hate yourself and know there's no real end, just a repeating cycle. But knowing that when he has so much evidence of exactly the kind of person he was now, knowing how much he deserved to embrace that end... it's a lot harder to accept.]
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[He inhales like he's breathing in fresh mountain air and sighs out in just the same manner.]
Ah, oblivion, coming to you in the form of reincarnation. Surely if nothing else, you've got to stick around for that.
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[He just shakes his head, dismissive at first. What right does he have to do something like that? When he should be dead, really dead, not this weird afterlife but gone. It's... what he deserves, isn't it?
It takes him a moment to try to pull himself together a little more, considering Chiron's words. He's trapped here, he exists, he has to do something to make the crushing guilt and self-loathing bearable. It's not fair for him to put all of this on anyone else. It's his burden to shoulder, not theirs.]
Y-yeah. Probably, you're right. [The next laugh is no more convincing than the last but he's trying at least, trying to pull it all back beneath the flirty exterior. He even manages a wink, fragile, perhaps but more than he's managed since he got out of the fountain.] At least there's plenty to enjoy down here.
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[It's droll, sarcastic, but Chiron is pulling ahead in this battle of Between. Mostly. Sort of. Still, he nudges a foot to Ruin's back. Not a kick, really, but still a push, and if Ruin happens to slide down a few hard-won stairs, well.]
Do yourself a favor and at least take the train instead of continuing this self-punishing train of climbing your way back up to something you don't even think you deserve.
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While it's only a nudge the way Ruin reacts, an instinctive flinching away, curling in as though expecting more, worse, as though expecting to need to protect his soft vulnerable bits... well it makes him outright topple over instead of just sliding down. Between that and the fact that he'd only actually made it up a few stairs to begin with he ends up on his ass in a puddle at the bottom of the stairs. For a moment he can't breathe, panic clawing up his throat and blocking him from speaking, from breathing, from breaking down into tears. He just stares up at Chiron but it's a very different redhead that he sees, broader, bulkier, crueler than even this Between being could ever be.
Eventually his mind catches back up with his surroundings, cold and wet and scared in a way he'd forgotten he could be. Ruin drags himself back to his feet, a struggle when his balance is so messed up. As much as he's mentally insisting that he needs to say something, mouth off and make light of it, joke around to make sure no one really pays attention, no one sees.
All he manages is a weak grimacing attempt at a smile... before he just turns to head toward the train as suggested. He even leaves his shoes where they fell.]
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Sorry, Chiron. He's going to be actively avoiding you for awhile.]