deercountry | i've looked at clouds from both sides now (𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥)

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i've looked at clouds from both sides now (𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥)

^{Who: Peter Graham + you! Prompts will be placed here.
What: Canon update business, potential event things, tba.
When: Through the month of November.
Where: Various places in Trench / tba.

Content Warnings: This character comes with demonic possession by default. There's a gif including nudity (non-sexual, just a couple of people shown naked from behind) in one of the posts.}^{Additional warnings will be placed in individual spaces.}

^{( On Peter's birthday and Blessed Month, he will go through a canon update that's given him updated memories. For weeks 1 - 3 he will mentally be MIA, and Paimon/Charlie may be interacted with. On week 4, Peter will return. Closed starters will be placed under the appropriate posts. Please hit me up @ plot post / plurk / large bat#2354 / pm if you're interested in a starter / if you'd like to plot for the month! )}

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[ They're sharp, jagged things; words that aren't words that tumble through the mental connection. It's hard to grasp them in her exhausted state, but there's an understanding in them as she blinks wearily, concerned, down at him. But 'afraid' certainly gets her attention, fear isn't something that's difficult to pick up. And she's seen the shape of fear in him so often now as the days turn to weeks: the times were it seems so impossibly big, too much. The times where it catches him and makes him so small.

There's a soft sound of her own, a short exhale as she ducks under the covers properly, slowly moving to sit up — no sudden movements to spook him. Afraid. He is frightened again, and she knows he needs her and she can't turn him away. Even Luna's not ignorant of her boundaries she sets: Paimon doesn't come here uninvited, and certainly not in her bed. She doesn't have the heart to tell him to leave, and she's too exhausted to take him back to Peter's room. And things... aren't normal, right not. Not... usual.

She'll sit with him here. It's warm under the covers, but it's alright. The glow of her skin, the blood underneath casting a soft, dim light so can still see him. She moves her legs to sit cross-legged, one hand patting the mattress in front of her — coaxing him to come closer. ]

Come here. Sit with me. [ Softly spoken permission, the sound muffled by bedsheets. Simple directions, firmly given. She'll give him time to join her, silent as she watches him climb up into the bed. Once he's moved and settled, she'll hold out her hands to him. ] Give me your hands. You don't need to be afraid now.

[ If he'll let her. Touch is... a strange thing now. There are days when he doesn't want her to touch him, as if he can't bear it. Days when he actively struggles against it, and it's so difficult when she knows how it's often the best way to help him — to keep him safe and contained, how she might hold his face and gently soothe him, bring him down from his anxiousness, his restlessness. To let him just be.

But she doesn't know what's happened to him, to Peter. There's still no answers of what happened to him; if he'd gone home, back to whatever might be left of Peter's life, back to those people. He still hasn't spoke of it, and there's still no sign of Peter coming forwards. It hurts, it aches.

She can be patient, though. As exhausted and mentally worn as she is. She's still patient with him. ]

Was it a bad dream?

( There's a part of him that almost flinches back, because he knows this isn't right, it isn't how things work. But it's immediately swallowed up by the need to be closer to someone familiar, his most safe person (and there are days he doesn't recognise Luna as That Person at all, days he calls out or searches the house for someone else instead, the old woman who wears his sigil in gold around her neck).

But tonight he knows her. His Witch, and she calls him to come closer, holds out her hands for him. Paimon shudders again and slowly moves closer, sitting on his knees, body tensely drawn into itself. But being beneath the blankets helps, forms a sort of fortress for him, somewhere with known boundaries and soft walls. Her skin glows quietly with power (or at least that's how he perceives it), and her short, firm instructions are easy to follow. Come. Sit. Give me. The demon slowly reaches his hands out, but his grasp against Luna's is loose and frail. He can't stop trembling.

'Was it a bad dream?'

His mouth stays firmly closed for a few long moments, head tilted downwards, eyes wide and strange. But then he manages to find words, utters them soft and hoarse. )

Yes. Bad. ( He doesn't want to think about it, but maybe if he tells her, she can make it go away. The thoughts, the fears. )

There are people inside. Inside the— closet. Their mouths are... too big. ( He whimpers again, thinking of it: those big smiles, grins, not kind, not pleasant, but waiting. Whose memory is this? It isn't his own. Is it Peter's—? Paimon doesn't want to keep talking, words are difficult and he's so tensely drawn that it hurts to speak, but he keeps going. )

And I am. I am... see, I can see— Grandma is there, with the People. But she is— she is—

( Ellen kneels at his feet, her nightgown stained with dirt and dust, her neck ending in a blunt, jagged line of blackened flesh and the tip of spinal chord peeks out. Her head is gone, she's— )

Sliced. ( He doesn't know how to explain it, but he suddenly snatches back from Luna's hands, his fingers finding his own throat. Wrapping around it, swollen eyes huge in the illuminated darkness. Sliced, cut, here. )

She is sliced, they have sliced— I do not like it— ( He suddenly whines loudly again and shuts his eyes, hands moving from his throat to clamp over the sides of his head, giving hoarse, strained sounds. )

[ A pinch of sympathy furrows her brows as he reaches for her hands. She doesn't expect him to explain, nor does press him to. If he's happy to sit in the silence with her, they can do that. She just holds his hands, assuring, her thumbs gently brushing back and forth over his knuckles — a simple gesture of comfort. But the words do come, and explaining snatches of things: the People... Grandma... Is it real, she wonders. Or something conjured up?

There's a fraught moment as his hands move to his throat, breath catching in her throat and eyes widening. She briefly worries he might try to hurt himself, like he's done plenty of times before lately. Grabbing at himself, clawing at his stomach, knocking his head against walls and floors. A soft sound escapes her lips, he's demonstrating, in a way — sliced, she is sliced.

Another long moment, and Luna reaches a mute understanding, silent horror in her expression. Mutilated. But there's something else, too. Ellen is dead. When she appeared in Deerington, she had died in Peter's world. Her stomach churns with the thought: they mutilated her body—?

But she can't dwell on it for long, Paimon moving again — like some wounded animal. She inhales, hands reaching for him, placing them over his own, leaning in close. She hushes him gently, voice soft: ]

It's gone away, now. You're safe, Paimon. [ Her head ducks to try find his gaze, only to find his eyes closed. One hand slips from over his, fingers gently brushing down his cheek, tucking under his chin. ] Look at me. I'm here. I'm here to keep you safe.

[ Part of her doesn't want to push too hard. Not when he's like this. But she knows so little of what's happened to him — what transpired in the time he and Peter were concealed in the Sleeper Cocoon. She has her suspicions, her fears — that they got to them again, that they went back to Paimon's followers, the people. She hopes to Merlin it isn't true, but she knows it's likely. ]

... Did this happen? Not just in your dream, did this really happen?

( "Ellen" is a strange subject in itself. There are different parts of him that know the woman differently, the concept of her something.... with various faces, various emotions. He still remembers that time out in the woods, Luna protecting Peter from the reanimated form of the woman, and then Paimon protecting Luna from it — but he also still remembers the way he'd been drawn to her, towards her call.

Something in him always yearned for her, and he couldn't understand why, exactly. Only that sometimes his memories and dreams involve a woman with soft hands and soft smells, with smiles and warmth (warm in a way that Mom never was). But from Ellen, there was.... adoration. And there were so many hours spent with her, for as long as he can remember, so much time. She was the most important person, he thinks. For him (for someone).

But he's haunted by her. By what she'd been responsible for, as much as the loss of her. And now.... he's haunted by the memory of seeing her corpse bowed down to him like that, mutilated and disrespected. He doesn't want this, this memory. Doesn't want to keep it. For so long now he's been searching for those lost things, those memories, but..... they ache, and sear, too much. They're too much. He's giving those strange sounds, body tensed up, when he feels Luna reach for him again. He whines softly as she speaks, knowing he's wrong, but he can see the soft glow of her even through his shut eyelids, a faint thing. Slowly the demon's eyes peel open again as the girl's fingers move gently under his chin, coaxing him to her again.

'I'm here. I'm here to keep you safe.'

His brows knit, features miserable by the questions. But he can't keep them inside, they're too much for him, and he's answering in hushed tones, straining against himself to speak. )

Yes— I was... there. I was.... in my. Treehouse. With them. With the People.

( It happened. Though it feels like some bizarre dreamscape, it happened. He remembers the smell of the candles, the heat of them in such a small space. The chant of his name. He remembers the whirlwind and the stun, the emptiness, the overflow of too much, simultaneous and paradoxical. He remembers being called two different names, and he remembers swimming in the remnants of Peter's horror and agony, the sensations lingering within the body, eyes wet and face hurting and limbs aching. Shards of glass clinging to his shirt front, and blood.

Paimon tips closer to Luna, head drooping forwards. )

M- ....Peter's family. There. Dead. Bowing. To me. ( His nostrils quiver with a strange blossom of upset that makes his throat feel too tight. His fingers move down from the sides of his head, curling against his knees. )

Everyone is dead. I am... alone. And it is real. It has really happened. I am— their king, they are there— the woman....

The woman who yelled, who frightened him, who— opened him. Peter. ( He shudders again; he'd been there, been present in some way. He'd... helped. It was that very day that he'd broken into Peter, smashed his body the way Luna had witnessed in memory. )

She placed it upon me. A crown. A crown of skin. I am their king.

[ 'Yes— I was... there.' Her heart sinks instantly at those words. Her suspicions, her worries made real. Everything she'd feared for both Peter and Paimon when she'd woken up to find Peter encased in grey, eye-covered mucus beside her. If they'd gone back to their own world, what they'd go back to — and how close things could be. She remembers the memory of the demon haunting Peter, how he'd slammed Peter's face against his desk, split his face open, left him screaming. Peter had told her it had happened the day he came to Deerington... and he'd come with Paimon already possessing him.

She inhales shakily, crushed. Paimon dips in closer towards her, and she can feel tears sting her eyes as she's frozen for a moment. They got them, both Paimon and Peter, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. It aches in such a strange way, a feeling of loss, of losing. Everything she's done, everything she's worked so hard for — does it mean Peter no longer exists within them? And then Paimon, so strange and restless and broken, so much seems so wrong in him, too. Because of those people, because of these... followers. And it's not fair, it's not fair for any of them.

She shifts slightly, her hands tremble a little. Paimon continues, and it continues to hurt her. She knows of Peter's suspicions that his entire family might be dead, she's know it for a long time now, but to hear it out loud, a fact — she moves to him, hands moving to hold him, gently cradling his head, her own tucking in close. Her fingers gently petting his hair, and she doesn't know if she's comforting him, or Peter, or herself.

For a long time she doesn't know what to say, or if there's any to be said. Sometimes there just... isn't. What can she say in the wake of all of this...? Peter's family are gone, and the hands behind it all with Paimon's possession of Peter have very likely completed what they set out to do. Luna knows which crown he speaks of, she's seen him with it. One that came to him; strange and leathery, shaped with faces. ]

You're not alone. [ She utters it gently. Her eyes close, trying to keep back the tears. ] I'm... sorry I wasn't there for you.

[ And she's so... angry for them. They did this to him, to both of them. These past couple of weeks have been the result of their mess, and she's so angry on the demon's behalf, on Peter's. The ones who manipulated him, and who facilitated everything. None of that anger comes out, though. Luna keeps it within her, her actions continue to be gentle as she pets at his hair. But it does leak out of her in her words. ]

You are not their king. No king should have been used like they did you. [ It's a quiet fierceness. They don't deserve him, how they twisted and bent him to fit their needs in a way that should never have happened, to place him in a host. As if he were some tool, something to master and order. He's not, he never was, was never supposed to be. They pulled an ancient, powerful being onto their plane and they did this to him.

She pulls away, coaxes him up gently to look at him once more — her gaze watery, tears still threatening to fall, but the fierceness remains. ]

You are a king, Paimon. But never theirs. [ She wishes they'd never gotten him again, as much as she knows she can't change what's been done. But she'll never let them near him again, if she can help it. ]

'I am of yours, you are of mine', that's what you tell me, isn't it? I will never allow them to have you, not after what they've done.

( It's hurting her. He can feel it, but it's there on the surface levels, too — how Luna breathes and how her eyes become wet, how her hands tremble when she reaches for him. Like a child he tilts right into the embrace, how she cradles him that way, not only letting himself be held but seeking it. His head presses against her; he nudges close with a soft sound, body curling in towards the girl's smaller frame. She apologises for not being there and he's shaking his head slowly against her, wincing. She shouldn't, shouldn't have to— everything is wrong.

There's anger, too, through her upset. He can feel that too, and it catches within the stun of him, lights some spark not-so-deep-down within the demon. He's strange and lost too often these days; the revelation of certain truths has been foggy and murky, but there has also been... clarity, too. It's a strange double-layer of things; he is lost, he is found, he understands certain things and does not understand others.

'used', she says. That word, the one he knows well by now. The one that's been haunting him since he began to learn over time what happened to him, since Luna began piecing it together. They used him. They used him, and they— killed Mom, and Dad, and Rex, and the child—

And they stole Peter.

All of it reels within Paimon, and he's unmoving against Luna, lets her coax his head back up to look at him, eyes wide and swimming as they lock onto her pair, taking in the wet heat of them. It hurts to see her hurt, to feel it. His body shudders around his spirit trapped deep within; he listens to her words, the iced anger within them, quiet but cutting. A fury deeply rooted in resolve, in intention; 'I will never allow them to have you.'

Something in him strengthens in her anger, and something also buckles. He feels both parts of it, and he can't work with it, can't function well. He tries to make a sound, and convulses against her, fingers reaching up to find the material of her clothing, curling tightly in. He holds onto her, and there's something desperate — almost pleading. But then... apologetic, miserable in it. )

I am— sorry. I am sorry. Peter—

( It isn't often he's actually said the name, usually referring to him as host or vessel, but it echoes within him now that he's faced with Luna, his witch, and what has been done, not only to him and to Peter but to her. )

—he was only a child. A human child. It should not have been done.

( He isn't meant to harm humans, children... He is not meant to steal their lives; it was never an equal exchange, never anything right. He needed a male host while on this plane, but... he was never meant to be trapped there at all. To exist within a host should only ever be temporary, a brief union with a summoner, something empowering and beneficial for both, as One. Energies combined, something intimate and precious. And if he must walk upon the Earth for some time, and take a male host, that must not last, either. He is not meant to steal them. Not meant to keep them, just as they are not meant to keep him. A host is never meant to be..... offered to him. Sacrificed to him.

But Peter has been.... taken, consumed. And he may never come back. What happens for them back in that world.... the People have trapped them both, damned them, and that fate may have followed them here. The fate in which he is left standing in Peter's body. Paimon can do many things, but he can't work spells, can't undo them. Especially something so... twisted, so wrong. )

I am sorry, I wish— to give him back to you, but I cannot—

( Knowledge leaks in, still strange, still skewed — he was behind someone else's eyes for so long — but there are things that the demon king knows, is able to know now. And he is sorry to reveal them to her, but he won't conceal the truths from her. Tears of his own leak down, the way they never have before. Not simply a byproduct of this body's emotions, but a result of his own. This body is his now. )

—It was always there. This.... plan, this ending. I have been with him since he became a part of the world. Close by to him. But it took time to get... inside. Much time. He had to be made... ready.

Edited 2022-11-20 05:29 (UTC)

[ The apology comes, and she's gently stunned by it. Hearing Peter's name. In part, she wonders if she can blame him. He only did what he was asked, bound by his summoner's will. The hands that directed and shaped and guided him. He did what he was commanded to do, a being within the rules and ancient laws of his existence.

It should not have been done. It is a powerful acknowledgement, and it stuns Luna once more. Long has Luna argued that people cannot be given, that it's not how they function, that Paimon is (in polite terms) a guest within Peter's body. Peter has never belonged to him, never should. But here, now, Paimon tells her it should never have happened. He should never have been sent after a teenage boy, with no real knowing of what was happening to him. And she's... grateful, for that admission, her head nodding softly. He grasps at her so desperately, so sorrowful. Her fingers still tremble, anger and ache swirling within her, but her hands still move to work at his hair, smoothening it down, tucking it out from his face. ]

Humans are greedy and cruel things.

[ And she speaks it knowing she's human, too. She might be a Witch, a little different. But she's still human. Other humans, people who might call themselves witches, did this. It should never have been done, but they did it anyway. They destroyed a family for it. For what he could give them: riches and secrets and ancient knowledge. And how long would they keep him for? For as long as Peter's body lives? Taking everything they could get from him?

It feels like such a great irony that they've crossed paths and she asks for so little from him. Always so careful to be respectful, offer him dignitaries when she asks. And them? They drove him after a teenage boy, pushed a demon who never ought to be violent because they wanted him for what he could offer. It's... unforgivable. They took... everything. ]

Charlie. [ She breathes it out. She can't keep the tears in her eyes any longer, they dribble silently down her cheeks. It was planned, right from the start. Paimon was right there, guided by Peter's grandmother. But Peter had never been close to his grandmother, someone else had. Someone who in turn, was close to Peter.

She never wanted to think it. Something that's been held within her for a long time, some terrible knowledge she didn't want to admit. As much as it was all right there, in front of her. If she'd never met the girl, formed by the fireflies, she would never have really known. But the mannerisms, the similarities — and then the times she's truly seen it for herself, when Peter would never be Peter at all, nor Paimon. Some quiet Other. When the little ghost peeked out in the Waste after Paimon faded, the one they had to bury. And even now, in the early days since they woke: the silent one who never acknowledged her, who asked for Grandma. As much as Peter's entwined with the demon, Charlie Graham is too. Did their mother let this happen? She doesn't know. But Ellen surely orchestrated the fates of her grandchildren.

It is a terrible knowledge. Luna doesn't want it. But she has to hold it all the same, with more tears streaming down her face. ]

It was true. Everything. What we thought. [ Her gaze drops from his, quietly devastated. They are pieces come together, everything in front of her, everything she and Peter ever talked about. ] I just— I never thought someone would be so terrible to plan it right from the start. I didn't want to think it.

[ All of this was years in the making. And there's tears of his own, glints on his cheeks in the gentle light of her body. She looks back up at him to see them, inhaling softly. He's... crying. She stares for a long moment in silence. As much as he wants to give her Peter back, he can't. It hurts in too many ways to say. Because he's sorry, because he understands something so very wrong has been done — but he can't undo what's been done either.

Gently, her hands shift. She carefully cups his face, like she's done so many times before now, like she's always done. To hold him. Everything is wrong, and he's sorry. He understands it now, as does she. Her thumbs brush away the tears on his cheeks, even if her own still fall.

... But maybe if he can't bring Peter back, if he can't give him to her, maybe she can find a way to do it herself. It's not the first time Peter's not been present, maybe it's not the end. Maybe he might still be here. As much as things have been done so wrongly, maybe Mariana and her power have kept them together. People have offered their thoughts to her on how it might have turned out. But she doesn't know for certain; too many ancient magics are in play. ]

Is he still here—? Is he— [ Her eyes lower briefly to his chest, to his heart. Maybe Peter could still be there, locked down within himself. Maybe this doesn't have to mean she's lost him yet. ] somewhere, here...? Can you... feel him? His spirit?

( There are layers to all of it, and so too, to his own hurt. There's so much to mourn — and in such strange ways. Emotion wrenching at him the way it does; he isn't truly meant to experience human emotion this particular way, and he can't quite process it. And it's through too many people, that he feels, that he aches. The losses of the humans in his life, how they were so many different roles to him. (They were pawns. They were family. "Cruel" is the word Luna uses, and it is the only word that can be used for what was done. He wants to cry out, and for a moment— to let his own anger come out in full-force, to find something to direct it to.)

But he sits there trembling instead, face wet and cold. And the word... the name... uttered from her lips as Luna begins to cry; 'Charlie' — hearing it aloud makes him shudder more violently, abrupt all of a sudden. The child, the child is still the strangest part amongst all of the strange parts, and he can't....... deal with it too much in the here and now. He can't sift through those Truths, not yet, not the way they need to be sifted through.

So he just sits there in silence as Luna cries, quietly voicing aloud more of her pains, more of the cruelty that was done. She reaches for his face to cup it, and he finally looks back up into her eyes, the wet grey pools. He is supposed to protect her, but he is the cause of why she cries now. Essentially, he is — it was wrong, to be given this body, but it happened, and now he is here, and Peter is not. His eyes continue to leak, and it is unpleasant and frightens him, how he cannot control them, cannot stop them.

The demon stares at her as she asks the question, and then it is his turn to slowly reach up to the witch's face in return. Fingertips shaking, unsteady, he finds her cheeks and holds, apologetic, upset. He does not want to answer. )

.......I do not know. If he is still.... inside, I do not know.

( He's tried, in the spaces when he's more like himself again and able to; he's reached for Peter's spirit, tried to find it within the deep oceans of himself, but..... )

....There are whispers. Echoes. Of... things. ( Things absorbed from so many hosts, from the pieces he'd absorbed and scraped deeply into; there are so many ghosts. But his host's spirit is different from those, it is an entire soul, a person. He would know it through the strangeness of everything else imprinted within this body. It's true that Peter's spirit has "disappeared" before, gone into such a deep state of sleep that it's as though it's vanished — so perhaps it may stir again, but as of now.... )

....I can not feel him.

( She looks to his heart, and there is a beat, and he can feel that. He can feel blood pumping through him — strange blood in this place, glittering — and he can feel everything to this body. But it feels as though it is only that. A body, a heart. Skin, organs; a shell, a container. )

But if he is still here.... ( Gently, the demon reaches for one of her hands, places it to the front of his chest, against the pulse of his heart. )

....then it may help him, to know you are close. To feel your...... love.

( It's still a strange word for him to voice aloud. His wet eyelids flutter softly, and his other hand gently strokes against Luna's cheek the same way she has for him. Quietly offering support of his own through this (whatever this truly is, whatever it may become.... if that may be permanent loss, and grief). At least for this moment, he's able to become something more like himself — as he eases from being comforted to comforting her. It may not last, he may become strange and broken and small again, too soon. But for this moment.... he will hold her, and his thumb imitates her gesture, slowly brushing back against the girl's cheek with an aching affection. )

Edited 2022-11-21 04:53 (UTC)

[ They aren't words she wants to hear, but they're words she maybe has to. Words he has to tell her, because she knows he won't give her false hopes or platitudes to make her feel better. It's not in him to do so. She has to know the truth of how things are, as hard and horrible as they are. What is done can't be undone. This is how it is, now.

But that doesn't make it any less hard to hear, as much as he tries to be gentle with it. When he holds her face as she cries, when his eyes keep spilling tears too. He doesn't know if Peter is still there, can't pin-point him within the mess of himself. Luna's silent for a long time, something sinking within her — a crushing kind of sadness, her eyes closing in her grief. It hurts, of course it does. But she never quite imagined the scope of it — how something could seem so vast.

Paimon takes her hand, places it against his chest. She lets him without fuss, or argument. Her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of Peter's sleep-shirt and she stares hard at her hand: 'if he is still here.... then it may help him, to know you are close. To feel your...... love.' ]

He has to be here. He can't just be gone. He has to— [ If she could will him back this instant, she would. And maybe he can sense that in her, that wish of her to have him back — that pull within her: come out, come back. As if she might be able to stir him from up within himself, that her fingers on his heart might draw him out. Peter can't be gone, this can't be it. Not now. It's too soon. ]

He just... he needs more time. If... if the things you've seen are difficult for you, then— he just needs a little longer.

[ That must be it. Surely that's it. Sometimes there's things that Peter just can't deal with mentally. He can't be present. She remembers back in their last October in Deerington when Peter was absent for most of the month, unable to deal with the mental strain the town put them under with the month of blood. If the demon's seen things back home that upset him, then who knows how bad it's hit Peter? He'll come back. And Luna isn't quick to let go of that. She hasn't given up on Peter, she won't give up on him. She refuses to think that this is the end, she just has to keep waiting for him to come back to her again.

But there's another thought that sits inside of her. Another quiet possibility she's had to accept. Paimon has long since told her that Peter would disappear one day; some terrible, awful truth. She didn't think it would be like this, but maybe it is. As much as she hopes it isn't true, it's possible that it is. That Peter's gone, that he's unable to come back. And... what happens then? What will that mean? ]

What— what will it mean if... he's gone, though? [ Much like their existence is complicated, of demon and host — there's another part she hasn't fully thought out but she's known about for some time. If she's lost Peter, what does that mean for their bond? She'd made it for Peter. What does it mean if Peter's gone? Does it mean she loses Paimon too? Does it mean she loses.. everything? ]

Am I still your witch?

( If anyone could call to Peter's spirit within him, bring him forth again, it's Luna. But nothing moves, nothing shifts — the demon feels nothing. But even then, what she says is logical, makes sense; that he needs more time, that he may be unable to handle what they've just gone through, those memories that will be flooding from Paimon into Peter. He isn't certain what level of awareness his host will have had during that time, whether Peter was... conscious for any of it; Paimon's still unraveling his own degrees of consciousness through the chanting and flickering candlelight. But it all would have been too much for Peter regardless, whether it temporarily silenced him or.... permanently did.

And that is the question. Did this place pull his spirit back into it? Keep them together? Or is Peter.... gone? Perhaps he is still here, but will never be able to speak again. Perhaps he is trapped, reduced to something too small to be considered "alive" anymore. Soft convulsive shudders continue to ripple through the demon's skin here and there as he stares at Luna, sharing each wave of her own upset, an endless feedback loop of it.

'What— what will it mean if... he's gone, though?' Paimon's eyes don't leave hers now, staring. What comes next shocks him, visibly startles the demon, eyes widening, swelling freshly with those alien tears, mouth tipping open.

'Am I still your witch?'

He hadn't fathomed an outcome beyond that. In the scope of everything and all his wild strangeness over the month, such a concept of what does this mean for him and Luna wasn't considered, not just yet, but here it is. The demon king stares, and his other hand moves from hers, lifts up to her face to join the other, holding, grasping. It's sudden, perhaps startlingly so. )

You are of mine. I am of yours.

( Emotion is still conveyed strangely for the thing that is not at all human, but it catches there, filtered through Peter's human throat and chords. The voice is tight, strained. Paimon does not let go, shudders quietly. )

I shall never leave you. Not even— if he is gone.

( That is one thing the demon knows. Though he does understand that the terms of their Bond are at play; if Peter's spirit is gone, the very thing their Bond was created around, then.... there will be an effect, certainly. But that was the forging of it; they have grown from there. Their energies have been aligned over time; they have grown a relationship, working and intimate in both parts. Such things cannot simply be undone. )

Once a tether has been made, it can not ever truly be broken. ( ...Congratulations, Luna, your soul has made contact with an ancient demon and that's not something that can ever really be revoked! Though acting on it, continuing to nurture it, is not something that can be forced; choice is still at play, here. If Peter's spirit is gone, she would no longer have to be Paimon's witch, his "summoner", but she could choose to continue to be. )

Though it would be your choice. If you would wish to keep me with you, in the way that I am here.

( Like this, as her demon, something she works with and grows with. He can not make that choice for her, though the thought of losing her is a deep ache within him, and he tenses, throat fluttering softly. It has him slowly flickering back to that odd state that's almost more childlike than anything, quiet and soft and desperate, and subconsciously parroting words and phrases that he's heard her and Peter use for one another. )

...I want to stay with you. I want to keep you.

[ She doesn't see anything, doesn't recognise any shift in him that might be Peter, or indicate him there. Paimon makes no mention of feeling anything, and she knows he would tell her immediate if he had. It hurts, but she tries to keep herself assured with her own words. Surely he just needs time. It's a sound argument, she speaks with reason. But it still hurts, not knowing how she might be able to reach him. Peter pulled her out of Beasthood. She should be able to pull him out of himself, too. Time, more time. That's all. Surely. She can be patient, she can wait for him.

He reaches for her, and a sharp breath escapes her lifts. She doesn't flinch away, even with how suddenly his hand moves to her face and grasps at her. She stares with wide eyes, brow furrowing for a long moment. The demon's always been intense; Paimon just has that manner to him — but the emotion in him, strange and strained as it is, has her left stunned: You are of mine. I am of yours. I shall never leave you. Not even— if he is gone.

There's a softer exhale then, quivery but uttered in something like relief. It's hard to know where she would stand in it all, considering this has all been so new for her. Tears swim in her eyes. Even if she'd done it all for Peter, that he was the one she made the bond for, she would be loathe to lose Paimon too. She can't deny that. There's not really a way to describe what their relationship is, but it's there. It's something that's hers, something that's theirs — and it would hurt her to lose that too.

Her eyelids flutter, head tilting downwards slightly — sinking into the hold her has on her face. For a long moment, she's just... held. Like all of the times she's held him, kept him contained and safe between her palms. Even with her despair with all of this, she'll let herself be held — comforted that she has at the very least not lost Paimon. ]

... I'm responsible for you, nothing changes that. [ She doesn't hold it lightly, either. Something done cannot be so easily undone. The feeling of responsibility of the demon is deeply rooted within her. ] I can't walk away from that.

[ She knows how it sounds. As if its duty, keeping her in place. It sounds like it isn't a choice. Maybe it is like that in some ways. But it isn't, in others. It probably should disturb her, hearing him say that. How he mimics Peter, spouting the very same words Peter once said to her. She can't find it in her to be upset by it. She's just... sorrowful in an exhausted kind of way. It's duty to him, too. Being bound to her. But it's not just that for him, either. ]

... I— I don't want to lose you. [ She utters it softly. She pauses slightly, her eyes lifting up to him. ] You're someone important to me. You're someone I care about. And I don't want to lose you.

[ She sniffles quietly, nodding a little before she gently removes herself from his grasp — her fingers peeling away his hands from her face. She holds onto them for a long, solemn moment; quiet before she takes a steadying breath. ]

We'll be alright. [ She's not sure if she's assuring him, or her, or both of them. She nods again. She's so tired, her eyes heavy and still glossy with tears. She looks at the demon again, there's pity this time in her gaze. It was bad dreams that sent him here to her room in the first place. She doesn't quite have it in her to send him away again. ]

Do you think you might be able to sleep again if I let you stay here? [ It wouldn't hurt, even with the unspoken understanding of Paimon not being allowed here without Peter. She would let him stay, considering the circumstances. An exception can be made. ]

Just for tonight, okay?

( In the moment where he's more of himself again, Paimon knows — the severity of it, what it would be for her to lose Peter. And though he's immediately tried to reassure her that he would still be with her... there's a part that wonders if she would truly want him to be. He knows it would hurt her. She would look at him and see... the absence of Peter. The loss. It would cut her to the core every time; it would..... devastate her.

So there's a quiet flicker of something that almost feels like relief, when the witch says she can't walk away from him, even if it's rooted in a certain responsibility. But that feeling flutters deeper and into different places as the girl continues, and the demon's staring widely into her watery gaze.

'I don't want to lose you'

There is a care there; she voices it, and Paimon knows that Luna cares for him, but hearing it spoken is... sobering. He doesn't move or breathe, just keeps his hands against her face, framing it the way Peter would — but different, too. It's there in the subtle things, the way his fingers stay stiff and firm, not softening with a human's touch. He's gentle with her, but it's something different from Peter's gentleness. Still, it's a care, his own care. As much as Luna says those words, Paimon also feels them. She is important to him, and he cares about her, and he does not want to lose her.

This is... new, meaningful. There was a time he knew that losing Peter would mean losing his witch. Now.... things have changed, shifted; they've grown together, and even she would choose to keep him. Something has transpired, some new depth to their bond. In the recesses of his spirit Paimon feels the thrum of something very important, but any thrill is weighted by the ache in Luna, and he frowns deeply, letting her remove his grasp from her, holding onto her hands instead.

Sleep... it's a strangely welcomed offer. He usually has little affection for the concept, little feeling towards it at all — when he "sleeps", it's usually something more like shutting down, a pair (or maybe multitudes) of golden eyes closing within Peter. It isn't necessarily associated with "comfort". But now that he's perpetually in control... the body does need to sleep, and he needs to guide it to, and the idea of being near Luna in sleep is...... comforting. He realises that he aches for it, and remembers it's why he tried to come here in the first place, creeping up into her bed to find solace in the warmth of it. )

I.... think so. ( Again, the voice that comes now sounds less sure of itself, tones softer, uncertain. He's getting clingy again, hands staying latched onto hers, huddled close, nodding softly in understanding. )

I want to. To stay here. ( Almost shyly, the next words come. ) Can I...sleep with you? Close. Not apart.

( Not on the floor on a pile of clothes like he's done once or twice in the past.... taking naps in a little nest when Luna was keeping an eye on him. But sleeping... in her bed? That's something quite new. )

[ It would hurt her, she thinks. To look at him knowing the absence of Peter. Of course that would hurt. It's the thing she dreads most, to lose Peter for good — and worse, knowing that she wasn't able to say goodbye. That he would just be gone. And to be left with the shell of him, filled with something else — the one hands placed within Peter's body, who put it all into motion. It would hurt her very much.

She cannot divine her actions beyond that, but she does know that Paimon has become someone important to her. That does mean something, as much as it would hurt. Even if what the two of them are is difficult to put into words (friends? companions? partners? something else?), it is still something that cannot be dismissed so easily. The years have shaped them into something. She knows that, can see that. It's important to tell him as much.

Still, regards of how this might all come to be in time, the demon remains in a body which is very much human and with basic human needs. Whether this body is permanently Paimon's, or he's simply minding alone it until Peter does come back, it needs to sleep, to rest. And Luna too, her nerves already frayed and raw — her heart heavy and quietly aching with it all. Sleep would be good, for some brief quiet peace from everything, if nothing more.

She nods encouragingly when Paimon when he confirms he might be able to sleep in the room with her. She can fetch some blankets and pillows for him, make sure he's comfortable. It would just be like a sleepover of sorts, wouldn't it?

But then he comes out with those next words, shyly asking for permission to sleep in the bed with her. Her mouth opens, then closes, and she swallows thickly. It is new, and she doesn't quite know what to make of it at first. There's a pause as she considers. It isn't usual. But none of this is usual, is it? With everything that's happened, is happening. Luna's shoulders sink slightly, her gaze lowering to their hands for a moment. She doesn't have the heart to say no. ]

... Alright. Just this once. [ She grips his hands gently before she lets them go, her hands reaching up for the covers above their heads to move them back, turning towards the head of the bed. ] Come on.

[ She busies herself with guiding him to lie down on the other side of the bed, not that he needs much more than gentle coaxing, sorting the covers to tuck him in. It feels so odd, the shape of him so familiar, even the scent of him; but everything else is so alien and strange. Powerful reminders of Peter, and yet the knowledge of knowing he is currently very much absent. It twists her chest in a sharp way, but she swallows it down — not tonight, she can't tonight.

With much fussing, she settles herself beside him, turning onto her side to look at him. She realises belatedly that the glow beneath her skin might be a little disruptive to sleep, but there's not much she can do about it and smiles wanly for a moment. ]

No more nightmares, tonight. You'll be alright. [ A gentle insistence. After a long moment, she reaches for one his hands and takes it in her own. ] Just try your best to get some sleep, okay?

[ Wishful thinking, but what else do they have left? ]

( He would very much like to be held, he thinks. With Peter gone, the nights have been lonesome, no more sleeping in Luna's bed alongside her. The demon's rarely chosen sleep at all these past few weeks, really, staying awake long into the latest hours. It's usually only when his host's body literally becomes exhausted that he crumbles, forced into slumber.

But he is tired and afraid, and the nightmares scrape their fingers against him from the inside out. Nightmares that only halfway belong to him, as though he's seeing through someone else's eyes. Luna makes things feel softer, though. Safer.

When she says he can, he gives a soft sound — and a little mournfully, that it can only be this once. Freed from the little cave of blankets, the demon lets the girl tuck him into bed, not moving at all, limp and quiet. And when Luna turns to face him, he's staring widely into her eyes, not at all disrupted by the soft glow to her skin. It, too, feels safe.

There's a wordless nod to the question, lids fluttering gently as he grasps onto her hand with both of his own. Gentle but firm, almost childlike. Within seconds, the demon is asleep, body clearly on that brink of exhaustion — and beside Luna, he'll sleep soundly. At some point in the night, his head lolls forwards, tilts against hers. There are no nightmares, not tonight. The energy of his Witch so close, fingers wrapped around hers, keeps his spirit soothed.

The month trickles on, and the days remain strange: discordant, empty, alternating between the two. He's wild, he's nothing, he's more himself, he's nothing like himself. The child Charlie is an imprinted concept on his soul and she speaks sometimes, or draws things. Peter does not appear.

It's at the end of that long, cold November, that one grey rainy afternoon, a pair of warm brown eyes finally open again. Blurrily, hazy, confused. The moment after emerging from a dream, or nightmare — but the moment stretches on and on. He doesn't know his name just yet, or where he is, or what he is, and he sits on the edge of a bed for a long while, just staring at the wall. Until something kicks in, and the boy stumbles forwards with a thud against the floorboards, moving to search. Search for... what? Something. Something he can't remember the name of, but he knows the shape. Something comforting, he really needs it, his spirit knows it.

Clumsily, body not quite moving as quickly or well enough as he needs it to, as though things have atrophied although nothing really has, he starts to search through dresser drawers, tugging clothing out. He's faintly aware that his own is weird, a little uncomfortable, something itching at his collar (it's his shirt tag, because his shirt is on backwards, because Paimon has been dressing The Body and struggles with it.) The boy frowns, fingers gently brushing against his shirt front, but soon returns to the task at hand.

When he hears movement, or sound, behind him (his bedroom door's open; who knows what the demon was up to in here) the boy turns to glance up over his shoulder for a moment, eyes glazed and confused, squinting a little bit, like he's having a hard time focusing. But he manages to form words, voice hoarse and a little raw around the edges. )

Wee....d. Need to.... find...... the weed.

[ It is a blessing that the rest of the night passes without incident. That the two of them can try to get some kind of sleep in the wake of everything. It is... short-lived, though.

It isn't to say there are no more moments of relative peace in the weeks that follow. November is a long and difficult month, and she can do nothing but try to grapple with the changes. There are days when she wakes not knowing how Paimon might fare. Days he clings, never wanting to stray too far from her. Days when he physically doesn't want to let go, some grasping hand at her wrist or shirt. Then there are days he won't even look at her, refuses to eat or sleep — silent as stone. Days he rages and breaks things, like he's spilling over from himself. Days when the ghost of Charlie Graham peeks out from behind the noise.

But at least Luna isn't alone in that. Sansa comes to visit with tea and cakes, Robby brings chocolate — both with gentle moral support. Usagi comes to shoo her away in the direction of a much-needed bath and silent solitude. K is round most days to help with the things she can't do, and to just let Luna have some time to sleep. A network of friends about her, about them — trying to get through the days, hoping things might settle and Peter might make his return.

But as the weeks pass, there's still no sign of him. The ache in her grows. She is often sombre, exhausted. She clings to the hope Peter may yet still surface, but the harsh reality is never far behind. Whatever this is, this may very well be it.

She doesn't remember falling asleep, lifting her head from her desk to the sounds of things being moved about. Soft crashes on the floor. Her shoulders ache, smudges of ink here and there — fragments of words imprinted on skin in reverse. She listens for a moment, groggy and still half-asleep. The sounds of searching. There's a exhale before she slowly gets to her feet to investigate.

Peter's room is in disarray, clothes and belongs strewn about as Paimon stands, rifling through drawers. Luna watches him in silent for a brief moment, her expression grim. Well, whatever it is, she'll have to help him find it. Although she's not quite sure what mood the demon is in now. He'd been relatively at ease before she'd retired to do some work in her own room. A brief moment of quiet.

'Need to.... find...... the weed.'

Luna stares. Eyes wide in stunned silence. The bleary-eyed squint. Merlin knows Paimon wouldn't be asking for The Weed. Her lips part, but no sound comes out at a first. Her heart feels too fast in her chest. She's just frozen in that moment. ]

... Peter—?

[ Maybe it's the shock of it. Or just the exhaustion, or the feeling like her heart might leap out of her chest at any moment. Or maybe it's all of those things mixed together in some strange maelstrom. But there's a beat, maybe two, and the world feels... far-away, her feet don't feel as firmly planted on the floor.

Her knees buckle, and she's faintly aware of her field of vision tipping to one side as she topples to the floor and then... black.

... yeah, she's out. ]

( There's... a person there, in his doorframe. Peter's still struggling to see, to understand what he's seeing — still squinting at the vague outline there. Someone......

'Peter?'

He freezes, eyes widening just slightly. Peter. What (who?) is Peter? There's something— catches hold, softly, a little tug like a fishhook snagged against the outermost layer of clothing.

Then the person is crumbling, like a figment from dream or memory, a person there and then not anymore. Only.... no, they're still there, just on the floor now — fallen down. (Dead? he thinks, with some odd little pinprick of upset, and he's standing there staring down at them for a few long moments, hardly breathing).

Then he's moving. Slowly, carefully, no longer thinking about "the weed" (whatever that actually is, he's still not sure). Movements stiff and strange but very much human the way Peter has not been human for nearly an entire month — a little awkward. He moves closer to the fallen figure, and sinks down to the ground beside them, very slowly. Not dead, he can see her body moving a little, breaths even and slow and calm in the mercy of unconsciousness.

He stares.

The person is small-framed and looks smaller still, on the floor like that. It's hard to see their face, waves of blonde concealing most of it. Peter hesitates, before he very slowly reaches an arm out, fingertips hovering over thick curls of hair, and then he gently brushes some of it aside. But it simply falls back into place when he moves his hand back again, and the boy pauses before he repeats the gesture, this time managing to tuck some of it back behind the person's ear. (Has he done this before, he wonders? Slow and soft and affectionate, and there are shy smiles shared between two.)

Now he can see her. Closed eyes with light eyelashes and a small, pert nose. There's a faint half-circle that's a little darker on the bridge of it, and Peter frowns softly in confusion and curiosity, leaning closer so he can see. Scar, something in him whispers, a memory of a word.

But there's something else — fainter even than the scar. Something... a shimmer, fairy-like. Peter's eyes widen up again as he slowly tilts his head to one side and watches how he can barely perceive a thin layer of iridescence glint across the girl's cheek. It's in the outline of a hand, if he could see all of it. He reaches slowly forwards to touch it, barely making contact with soft skin.

Something.... cracks in him, like a fissure opening up in his chest, and Peter actually fumbles forwards a little, gives a soft cry out. Oh— something aches, and he's blinking, lashes wet. He wants to cry and can't understand why. The moment passes, quietly, but it leaves him shaken.

After a long while of sitting there, he moves to stand again, wills his odd arms through his detachment of them, finds a pillow off of his bed. He tucks it carefully beneath the girl's head, lifting it upwards and sliding the cushion beneath. He's mindful of her long hair, tries to ease it out from under her as he lets her head rest against the pillow.

Then he's moving to sit down on the floor again just near her, back pressed against the side of his bed, knees drawn up to his chest. He rests his chin on them and watches her (watches over her) and the shape of the word she'd said is there, feels like cool stone against his skin. Peter.

Again, the odd urge to cry. He waits with her. He won't leave. )

Edited 2023-04-13 17:58 (UTC)

[ She's not sure how long the dark lasts. Some strange in between of unconsciousness and sheer exhaustion driving her to lapse into sleep. She's still for so long, nothing more but slow, shallow breathing until it finally does come to an end. It's slow-going to pull herself out from it, as if dragging oneself through mud. The faintest of hums uttered as she hovers on the border between sleep and waking, her face scrunching up briefly in reaction to it. She still feels so tired, a bone-deep weariness.

There's a softness beneath her head, beneath her cheek. It smells familiar, warm. For a long moment, she forgets herself — buries her face against it, grumbling a little louder: she doesn't want to get up just yet, it's too early. And she begrudgingly opens her eyes to a strange angle, the slow realisation coming to her: she's on the floor—?

And then she remembers: Peter.

She lifts her head, turns it to find him pressed against his bed, made small as he curls up into himself — watching her, his expression strange. Luna exhales sharply, pushing herself up to rest on her elbows. She stares at him for a long moment, stunned, hopeful. It is him, isn't it? He's... he came back? ]

Peter—? [ Her voice is hushed. Her lips purse. ] It is you, isn't it?

[ It has to be. Who else would go looking for The Weed? Certainly not Paimon, nor Charlie. Who else could it be? There's a flutter of panic in her chest: she's not gone and missed him, has she? That he was there for some brief moment and she'd gone and missed it?

Anything could be happening now, she needs to work out just exactly what. Slowly, she pushes herself to sit up. No sudden movements. She doesn't draw close, moves as if she might with a magical create, with a certain gentleness and cautious. She brings one hand up, fingers splayed and pressing against slightly against her chest. ]

It's Luna. [ She's Luna. ] You're Peter, and I'm Luna.

( Time passes. He doesn't know how much, either. He fades a little, sometimes, eyes going halfway between closed and open, glazy, staring downwards. He doesn't melt into himself, though, not fully, not like before. He stays Peter.

Although he feels strange, lost, confused. Time passes, and he sits there over watch of the sleeping girl, and things flicker just outside of his vision. Flashes of things, like scratching hands outside of a stained glass window, a kaleidoscope of movement and colour. Memory? Things he can't quite reach. It frightens him a little. He finds himself staring down at his own shoe, recognising it in one breath and not remembering it at all in the next. His body continues to feel strange, like a foreign place he doesn't occupy quite the right way. He lifts his hands and stares down at his palms, and realises he doesn't like looking. He looks at the girl instead, comforted by her presence. He hears the patter of rain against his window.

The girl is moving.

The boy startles, but quietly. Eyes going wide, body tensing up and alert. He stays where he is, though watches her intensely, a silence stretching between them until the girl speaks.

And she says.... the word again. Peter. He doesn't answer, not right away, can't. Just stares, mouth tipped open slightly. He isn't afraid, not of her, he thinks. His eyes move to stare at the girl's cheek again, where the outline is barely perceptible at all, practically invisible.

'It's Luna. You're Peter, and I'm Luna.'

His eyes lift again, slowly, to find hers. They feel wet and hot again, and filled with stars. It hurts to look at her, but he doesn't know why. Luna. )

Do we..... know each other?

( The words come soft and unsure and a little strange — thicker than his usual tone, like he struggles through them. The wet thing in his mouth feels odd. He finds it forming a question, finds the right word, one that blossoms into his knowledge and with it, associations. Warm. Safe. Trust. )

Are we........ friends....?

( He sounds uncertain, and there's something that still lacks, hasn't clicked into place, no true recognition of the girl sitting so close to him. It's there beneath, but there's still so much burying it, so much heavy confusion and loss of self, and he blinks widely at her in stun. )

[ Do we..... know each other?

It... is expected. Those times when Peter comes back again, slow to remember himself. There's been plenty of occasions when it's happened, the pieces of himself left scattered within him — difficult to pull up into the light. Luna is no stranger to those times. He has no idea who he is, or who she is, or where they are. It's difficult. But she knows all she can is be patient and calm with him — let everything come to him again in its own time.

And... yet it still hurts. To be looked at as if she's a something unknown, the uncertainty of her, who she is to him. It's been so long this time. Even if he's back, there's still plenty of worries nestled within her. What if it's been... too long—? Her eyes are glossy for a long moment as she looks at him and she squashes the thought — not now. ]

Yes, we're friends. [ She takes a steadying breath, manages to smile. ] You might be a little confused right now, but that's alright. If you can't... remember things, that's okay.

[ Very slowly, she starts to edge a little closer — shuffling forwards on the floor towards. She's very careful in her approach, doesn't get too close so she doesn't crowd him. ]

Even if you don't remember me, it's okay. You're safe. Where we are right now is a safe place.

( "Friends" is a word that floats in the darkness of himself, that Peter's hands reach towards but don't grasp yet — and then the girl confirms it, 'yes, we're friends', and there's some relieved release within himself. His fingers close gently over the word, over what it means way deep down inside. Friends. Safe place.

She says where they are right now is a safe place, and he thinks it's that way because she is here.

When the girl comes closer, slow and careful, Peter lets her. His knees stay close to his chest, arms wrapped around them a little, but he doesn't tense away from her. )

I'm sorry I don't remember. ( He says, even though she says it's okay. Forgetting is scary. Maybe being forgotten is, too. But he can think a little easier now, can find words better. )

Is this your house...? It's nice. I was... looking for something, I think.

( He slowly looks over towards the dresser, a few items still littered on the floor, a soft frown tugging at his mouth. )

I don't know why. I think... I think I've been asleep too long.

[ He lets her draw close, but she's still as careful and cautious as she can be with him. Merlin knows what he might be going through right now. She's dealt with him before, when he's mentally gone away and can't quite recall himself. But never like this, it's never been this long. Forgetting is scary.

She nods at his question, smiling a little. Her house? Their house. ]

It is. You live here, too. This is your room. [ There's a soft little laugh, one that makes her want to sob when it bubbles up in her throat. Of all the things to look for, he was looking for his stash of The Weed. How incredibly on par for him. If she had any doubt, it definitely pushes it away. ]

You were looking for The Weed. It's probably been a while since you've smoked.

[ Once she's close enough, one hand slowly reaches out for him — gently resting it on his knee. Her thumb brushes gently, an attempt of comfort. There's another bubble of something in her chest: relief and ache and love all rolled into one. He came back. ]

You'll remember. [ She's gentle in that. ] You just need to give yourself a little time. But I'm here, I'll help. Alright?

( His room....? That seems to surprise him a little, and the boy's looking slowly around again, as though to take in his surroundings once more.

His eyes linger on an item or two — a guitar propped against a wall, a telescope aimed to a window. A green blanket folded up and set on the dresser. His things...?

Something to it all doesn't feel exactly right. The shape of it, the feeling. For a moment, he thinks of the darkest part of the wood, and he doesn't know why, but he shudders quietly. (Is he in someone else's life?) But Peter's looking back up as the girl speaks, draws closer. He doesn't seem to have much recognition for "The Weed" either, just watches her face. There's a soft startle when she touches his knee — not afraid or pulling back, just a movement of his face, eyes dipping downwards to watch. )

Alright. ( It's said very softly, as his eyes move back upwards to the girl's face. He believes her, trusts her — agrees quietly, as his eyes hold onto her, not wanting her to go. (Why is he suddenly afraid to lose her?)

Peter swallows, eyes moving once again to her cheek, catching the iridescent film there, barely perceptible, the ghost of a thing. He stares for a long moment before his own hand lifts a little, hovers in the air. It feels okay to touch her — to reciprocate it, the girl's gentle touch. But he doesn't yet, just lets his fingers stay there between them for a moment.

It's important, that fairy-shimmer. He doesn't quite know why, but he knows it is. )

You have...... ( He doesn't know the word for it, a quiet yearning frustration calling from inside of himself, words he can't quite find. )

....I don't know. But it's there. I see it.

[ It's not the first time he's been confused, not knowing where he is or who she is — but it's certainly never felt this extreme before. Granted, the fact he's been away for so long is in itself quite extreme. But Luna knows to be patient with him, to gentle nudge things here and there to try to help him remember himself again. He'll need time, but that's alright.

He's distracted by something, though. Her eye raise in silent questioning, but she doesn't speak — letting whatever it is come to him in his own time. His hand raises, and she's still for a long moment: You have...... I don't know. But it's there. I see it.

There's a brief few seconds before realisation lights up behind her eyes. A small smile curls at the corners of her mouth: ah, her cheek — the faint shimmering mark of a handprint against her skin. That's what he sees, what he's reaching for. ]

Here. [ Slowly, carefully still — she brings up her own hand and gently guides it towards her cheek, tilting her head slightly to help his hand meet her face. If he moves his fingers just right, he'll notice how his hand fits perfectly in place. ]

... Do you see—? [ Her voice is hushed, before her own gaze shifts to his cheek: the twin mark to her own in the shape of her hand. Her hand raises towards it, hovering but not quite making contact yet. ] You have one, too.

[ Gently, her hand presses against his cheek. ]

Just here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i've looked at clouds from both sides now (𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥)

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(cw: mention of decapitated corpse because, Hereditary; gestures of self harm)

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gently hits this back with a whole load of pain and ANGY

that's the MOOD

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are you good to move the thread along to peter coming back?

I GOT U

:')

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