Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antivanleather) wrote2013-04-09 09:44 pm
antivanleather) wrote2013-04-09 09:44 pm
Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]
plans.
His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart. No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head. No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back. No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh. Katniss. She'd seen. He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood. Alive. He is alive. It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent. He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes. But he lives.
And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve. If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad. All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet. Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death
When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home. There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back. Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes. Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival. From there, it's home. Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.
At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee. If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.
His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart. No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head. No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back. No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh. Katniss. She'd seen. He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood. Alive. He is alive. It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent. He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes. But he lives.
And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve. If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad. All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet. Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death
When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home. There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back. Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes. Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival. From there, it's home. Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.
At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee. If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.
no subject
But to hear of how Zevran could displace himself so easily from the love of his life for the sake of the job-- after the fact he was certain that he wouldn't repeat that, but it was something considerably tragic. Words wouldn't do justice to any type of consolation, all he had were his arms and ears.]
Hey, look we all... make some pretty massive mistakes but the important bit is that you moved on. And I'll say you're doing a remarkable job even with the... booziness.
[Tone light-- not to make light of Zevran's plight, but to keep it from overwhelming him unnecessarily, he shifted to try and catch his eyes, or at least, took hold of his face with both hands]
I was angry, I'm sorry for yelling. It's-- a bad habit I have doing to people I really care about.
no subject
[He's being extra thick, he knows, and extra afraid but he just...needs to hear it and hates that he's so desperate for it to be said. That he cannot beyond his own admissions and displays of affection is unsettling to him and feels unfair but he just. Needs to hear it, once and for all, from Eugene's lips.
He wouldn't ask were he sober.
He wouldn't have said much of what he's let slip tonight.]
no subject
Well, yeah. Guess me and Jack are kind of numpties about expressing it verbally, but if we tease you, it means we like you. A lot. A-and we haven't really shared someone together.
[Except for Zevran, which while complicated, felt right. He simply was at a loss as to express it in words without sounding like he was fumbling blindly forward. He didn't like being too reckless after... what got him relying on a crutch for mobility.]
I do more than care, but if I say it, I'm willing to bet some credits that you'll use it as blackmail. But I'll take that chance. Yeah, I care about you a lot more than some people would deem appropriate.
no subject
[It didn't make much sense but it didn't need to and he's tired and warm and Eugene is comfortable and there and he cares. And it's more than he's had from anyone, what he has with Jack and Eugene. It frightens him. It's too big, too real and he doesn't like that he couldn't express it.]
I care as well. I'm not...I don't do this. I don't care- I'm not supposed to. But you and Jack and...
[He shakes his head and buries his face in Eugene's shoulder to silence himself.]