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.
no subject
So.... like cheese?
[You can bake some soft rind cheeses, toast the edges of it as a topping for casseroles, melt it into any number of foods.
The taste is absolutely unlike any cheese ever but texturally it's not too far off a whipped creamy cheese... why the hell did he think of cheese first?]
no subject
I guess it's not not like cheese? [Kind of??]
[...you know what, she's just going to keep making the hot chocolate and not get too far down that rabbit hole.]
no subject
But he doesn't seem to realize the gravity of the moral quandary he has posed to her, instead he just draws a spark of fire to his fingers, curious what the sweet will do. He doesn't expect it to literally explode into flames... y'know as sugar is wont to do. Sugar is quite the commodity in Fodlan alright, he's never really baked or anything.
But the moment he goes from holding a small squishy blob of sugar to a flaming glob of it he curses loudly, jerking his hand back and dropping it to splat messily on the floor. At least it'll just char the rest of the sugar before it burns out.]
guess who missed a notiiiiiif~ ...for five days
[With brisk professionalism, she puts both mugs down on the counter, picks up a fruit bowl, dumps out the fruit in the sink, flips the bowl upside-down, and puts it over the flaming marshmallow.]
...now we just wait for it to run out of oxygen, I guess. [Working with biological materials might be less of a fire hazard than, say, rocket science but it still has the potential for certain flammable accidents. She might be reckless, but she understands basic lab safety.]
oh no!!
I... hope that doesn't mess up the floor...
[He looks a little sheepish for a moment, almost amused. But now he has so much more context for the pervasive feelings of ruining everything he touches and he's still so raw from all of those memories flooding back in that the humor drains from his face. She'd be forgiven for thinking he might even cry. What follows isn't that dramatic, though, just hollow and resigned]
Shit. Sorry... I'll find something to clean that up with...
[Of course he starts to turn, just like any normal person might, and quickly starts to topple over backwards. Ruin manages to grab the edge of the counter, collapsing half over it to stop his momentum, but... he's still upright!]
no subject
[She reaches out when he topples, but he catches himself before anything happens.]
I think you should probably just sit down now. [Her tone is frank but not unkind.]
[She gently nudges one of the kitchen stools over for Ruin to sit on, and deposits one of the mugs in front of him.]
The fire is contained and having fruit in the sink probably isn't going to do anything really bad. That can be a problem for later.
no subject
Yeah... I guess so?
[But he automatically reaches for the mug she offered for him, holding it daintily even though he wants to wrap his hands around it for warmth. Some part of him still expecting a delicate gilt-edged teacup even though this is no such thing. He leans over the mug a little though, smiling at the rich scent of the chocolate.]
It sure smells good.