13 . autumn catch-all

[necrolord]

Who: John Gaius and company.
What: After a rough summer, the King Undying lays low.
When: September - October
Where: Mostly Gaze.

Content Warnings: Tagged in headers as needed. Note all the usual warnings of this character.

Comments

[necrolord]

[ There is a lot going on here. The dino's new, for one, and John could say something about how this house collects dinosaurs— present company all included, ha ha— but he can't get anything out around the way Augustine looks at him, around the cracked-open flush of misery on his face.

His Saint moves too fast, and it's hard to track if that's drunkenness or someone bending the rules around him. Hard to track anything except the push and prod of Augustine's fingers at the back of his head, catching through his hair. John makes a sound of complaint low in his throat, but Augustine doesn't yield— and so he goes, for once, obediently still.

His hands flex around the slim lines of the shrike in his arms. He closes his eyes.

He still feels it, when Augustine wipes his blood to nothing. God's breath catches in a stunned and ugly hitch. This ritual isn't one he knows; he has lost the both of them to it, and sits still as stone to mourn the distance. ]

[unsheathedfromreality]

[Where time had stretched into the eternities while John had held him and he died anew, it compresses now to the adrenalized tempo of Augustine's overflowing heart. Everything is happening all at once--Darkblood-fast--and a whole Bond's worth of emotions crushes him against the unyielding anvil of his own. Where the Saint's fury and pity and horror and sorrow end and the shrike's own begin is impossible to untangle, currents braiding into a sucking gyre that drags Illarion from sobbing to silence to terrible trembling awareness of misery patent in the air.

Misery from three people, not two.]

Wait.

[It's hardly more than a whisper but the echoes of a far larger space amplify it. The Omen crushed against his side finally stirs, tipping her head back and opening her killing jaws to take one of Augustine's bare wrists in them. Only the merest intimation of teeth touch his skin, as only the illusion of hot breath ruffles the tiny hairs on it; she is only an emphasis, not a threat.

There's something they still need to do.

It had been such a nice night. Everything had almost ended well.

Illarion closes all his eyes and reaches to push the hooding shirt back. Back, and partway out, to free his face. He reaches, blind, across the gap between himself and God; finding the angle of John's jaw, the curve of his neck, he rests his hands there with exhausted heaviness.]

Lord, [he begins, and stops again. He does not know where to go from there. Lord, I'm sorry, except he can feel the whole weight of Duty's rebuke on him now, searing as a brand: He cannot treat himself as nothing, in the walls of this house.] Lord-- [I forgive you, except he can't lie to himself any longer, and won't, to someone he needs so much to trust him.

This isn't working, vassal to liege. It isn't who they are.] John. Vanya.

Be patient. [With yourself. With me. With the awful unsolvable situation. He doesn't have it in him to lay those premises out. He leans in instead, pressing a cool dry kiss as benediction to John's forehead.

That, to the notion he's been lost or broken beyond repair.]

[butnotyet]

[ Wait, his sometime brother says, and Augustine —

— waits, wrist marked by the indentation of teeth that could just as easily rend and maim as hold.

He is angry; furious; heartbroken; he wants to cry, to sob, to rage and give vent to his temper in a way he hasn't in centuries, in millennia, and he waits anyway, because out of everything Illarion is suffering it's such a small thing to give, to wait, no matter how stupid it is, no matter how hard it is to smother the half-born noise of protest that rises in his throat when his shirt is escaped —

He still isn't expecting this.

At first he fears forgiveness; he fears apology — two things the shrike shouldn't, certainly not right now, if ever — he isn't expecting the taste of jealousy on his tongue, at Vanya.

He isn't expecting the sharp sting of rebuke, hidden around the edges of the vast space occupied by a creature that was never human, and only passingly humanoid; but how does it not make sense, in some way, given that humankind has always assumed the "fourth dimension" to be time, that he knows somehow the rebuke to him exists in the memory of words spoken by someone he never truly met, no matter how well he has learned Dusya's mind through his words?

He waits, ashamed, as Illarion offers John an olive branch that he himself did not, could not — and he raises no objection, as a shadow of his soul peels away in a long coil, drifting like smoke across the room to rest in a curve embracing John's shoulders. ]

[necrolord]

[ The bird smooths untrembling hands at the crook of his neck and shoulder, caressing him like self-comfort. John is blind except in all the ways that matter: he keeps his eyes shut beneath the binding and watches the cool stillness in every finger, the cellular silence. It's still beautiful.

Vanya. His lips part with a caught breath, and he leans into the press of the kiss like a man swaying drunk. In silence he reels with a sweet, confused anguish. Augustine hates this, and he can feel that bitterness just beyond reach, as counterpoint to the thing in his own chest. John is choked silent: for once in his life, he keeps his eyes shut and does not break the moment.

When they leave, he reaches up to gather Alfred close against him, and stays like that— blindly cradling yet another ghost— for a long moment. ]