with the length of my blade, let history be written

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

It's almost impossible to connect the hiss, the smell of cooking meat, with his own face, and yet at the same time, it's the only thing he can think about, the only thing he really knows at the moment. Nate is all but boneless, save for clinging hands, fingers weakly scrabbling at whatever they come across, whatever they can grab.

Nate had thought the pain stopping would be a relief, a release, but all it does open a vast, yawning cavern for horror to flood into, that makes the shaking start all over again. He's glad to have Sunjata there, to have the support, where alone, he would still be in the street, cut down fully by his attacker, or shaking and cooking slowly, from the inside out.


He hates that Sunjata is there, that he has to see this, be a part of this. It's one thing to come home in the aftermath, to patch up wounds, another entirely to watch it happen, to have to douse the fire.

A pressure on him, a furry head on his knee, pulls him out of the distant numbness that threatened to settle, the thought that he could simply close his eyes and stop. Reawakens the parts of him that knows what to do, even if he can't share it, can't make his throat work enough to explain the intricacies. Somehow, he heaves himself up again, a hand on the attuneds chest that clearly isn't sure if it wants to push or pull closer, while the other reaches out. The effort of getting the water into the cup feels like too much, so he forgoes it to grab the bucket, no grace in the way he tips it back over himself, some, but not nearly enough, making it into his mouth.

He spits it out, more fluid than water, and tries again, managing a few swallows this time. Enough, maybe, to talk. "Y'godme." It's still raspy, still sounds like each word is strangled out, but at least it's something. "I need... dead out. F'it looks cooked... out." It's clear enough, to him, but he knows it will need the other man to move, to grab something, and he shoves himself back, supported by pillows he hadn't noticed before.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

He can’t help but to watch, pulling away with the rag as the singing begins to stop – as the smoke begins to sway away, as there’s nothing else other than just the open gaping wound across Nate’s face. But he pulls away, reluctantly enough, far enough that Nate can grab the bucket and proceeds to drink and spit it out – and he gets it, gods does he fucking get it. But he’s here for the Ascended, for his lover, for his moonlight until the end. It’s that thought that has him watching as the water drips from Nate’s face – the clear water tinged with a bit of an iridescent sheen that has him internally screaming once again.

But he lets Nate have whatever time he needs, whatever else he needs, to instruct him and tell him what to do. Because he’s never been the one to do this, never been the one to rush in and help people, always the one born and bred to cause and reap destruction… But no, there’s no time to dwell on that, not with the adrenaline running high in his system. Nate speaks, and Sunjata listens as if it’s the last thing he can do.

A confirmation. A ‘you have me’ that has Sunjata exhaling a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. But the next statement has him confused a small amount, piecing it together as it suddenly dawns on him. “Okay.” He says softly, quietly, hoarse and sore and aching for his lover, even as the space between them grows when Nate pushes himself away. And all he can do is swallow hard again, knee popping as he goes to stand, to call Haai over toward the little kitchenesque area once more, grabbing a small knife – half thinking of using the daggers, but one is still stained red and they’re large and clunky for the work Sunjata needs to do.

So he grabs something small, something easy to move and do exactly as Nate’s requested, even if it rebels against everything inside him to do it. They remain in the kitchen for the moment, however, Haai producing a small flame to heat the knife (– can Ascendeds get diseases and sickness? He’s never asked, but it seems an important step regardless –) then he waits for it to cool, pouring a small glass of strong alcohol and dipping it in, pulling it out as the residual heat dries it out.

And then they’re heading back to where Nate’s leaned back against the pillows, Haai hopping up in the space to Nate’s right, Sunjata on the other side to the left – holding the knife carefully in his left hand as his right turns to reach out for Nate’s arm, to tell him that he’s there, before it’s traveling up to the Ascended’s jaw. “Come here – look at me.” He says softly, trying to angle Nate’s face toward him.

Up this close has his heart thundering and roaring in his ears, the slight tremble to his hand that he steadies by pressing his ring finger and pinky to Nate’s cheek, starting at the end of the gash to carve out the singed portions. “Talk to me, skatjie.” A soft murmur, a distraction or anything. He doesn’t care if it’s understandable or not. All he wants is some sort of conversation, a distraction from the sound of the scraping and carving. At the start of the wound, it doesn’t seem quite so bad, even if it sends his stomach into spiral after spiral to be carving out his lover’s face, but he does it anyway – drifting a bit further toward the center of Nate’s face, hissing as the blade carves deeper and deeper to get more of it out.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Every time the attuned moves away, it's by his own request, and yet it still sends Nate spiralling, into a deep lonely void. Still feels like eons, spent along, suffering. Thinking about the face he'd seen in the mirror, the darkness on his right side, every little piece feeling distant, unconnected, the real, terrifying whole still too much to swallow. What had even happened? What had he even done? Was it random, or...

The other man is back before his paranoia truly begins, though it's only simmering now, waiting to creep in.

With everything Sunjata is doing for him, the care, the blade in his face, the least Nate can do is turn towards him, is mumble, force out raspy words. The subject is maybe not the best choice, but it's all that there is in his mind, no filter there to keep them from spewing right out. "Feels... I feel it... s'deep, y'know. T'much." It's a fight, but he keep his left hand still, squeezing the cushions of the couch, but his right buries itself in Haai's fur, fingers stroking just so something can move, so he doesn't have to just think about the sound, the buzz of sensation inside his face. "M'sorry, Sunny, I'm... fucked it up... an' I can't... I can't..." There's a breakdown, just nonsensical murmurs, low whines, before Nate picks up again. "After... damp wrap, um... eyes done... then..."

Then it was just waiting, seeing if it healed, if it even could heal, seared closed as it was, a gash forever changing the topography of his face. And just because the care had been done didn't mean things were better. Though maybe he'd finally get the chance to curl up, to try and hideaway, to break down and desperately fit the pieces back together into something that seemed like him. Would he, could he be that person ever again? His mind shifts, desperately, weakly, to the Voice, but would even divine intervention be able to change what has happened, could it heal the scars left inside, even if his face is made whole again?

Despite what he knows needs to happen, the instructions he'd given, as soon as Sunjata pulls away, an arm reaches out to grab him, to hold him close, just for a moment, to make up the time he'd abstained. It's by no means a strong hold though, broken in only a few moments, if the other man doesn't shift first.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

Sunjata would find out the reason. It was his job after all – to find and stamp out the danger within Torchline. And if it were something seemingly random, Sunjata already has it in his mind to punish the girl for it. He doesn’t know how just yet, doesn’t know any of the other implications of what he’s thinking – but if he doesn’t focus on the sorrow he feels, it’s replaced with the rage of the audacity of an attack like this.

An attack on someone who only wanted to help, who had done nothing but help and save lives. And it burns like a simmering flame within him, ready to appear when Sunjata was ready to face it. In the meantime, however, all he can do is swallow down the ash coating his throat, to focus on carving out the singed pieces of Nate’s face – breathing slightly heavy as his heart continues to thunder over and over again.

Talking both helps and doesn’t, not as he’s slicing out the pieces that are bad, not as he’s hearing that it’s something Nate can feel and is internally destroyed at the fact that it took this to get him to feel something. He doesn’t blame Nate, not in the slightest as Nate trails off, indiscernible sounds leaving him, before he picks back with an instruction Sunjata can follow. But that’s not the part he latches onto, not as his free hand continues to angle Nate’s face wherever he needs to until he’s nearly done with the job. “Don’t be sorry.” He hums, trying to force out any of those thoughts. “It’s not your fault.” He adds onto the end – because it wasn’t, nowhere near being his fault. “We can fix this. Fix you.” He begins, voice trembling slightly, trying to talk his way through it too in order to keep himself just as sane. He can break apart later. “We can go to the Voice. And… And if she doesn’t – I’ll… I’ll take you to Safrin. We’ll fix you.” Another shuddering exhale. “I promise.”

It kills him inside to hear the apology.

So he tries to finish up as quickly as he can, grabbing the wrap, ensuring it’s damp – but as he pulls away a miniscule amount, the blade dropping to the table beside them, Sunjata feels the arm around him and his dark gaze travels back toward Nate with a shaking exhale, leaning into it and pulling Nate equally as close. But he can’t stay that way forever, reluctantly pulling away to grab the wrap and do everything else Nate requests.

And when it’s done, all he can do is kneel there before the Ascended, moving to wrap his arms around Nate and pull him close into himself, as if he might be able to take the fear and spiral and absorb it, to take the burden of it so Nate doesn’t have to deal with it.

Nothing is going to be the same, is it?

“We’ll stay here tonight, okay? Just us. I’ve got you. Do you…” He pauses, taking a deep inhale of breath, trying to latch onto Nate’s scent to steady himself. “Do you want me to carry you? Or would you rather walk?” He’ll do anything. Anything. Already, he slips an arm back to his pocket, pulling out a keyring for the locked upstairs door – prepared to make the upstairs a fucking fortress to keep Nate safe.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Somewhere between the last few scrapes of the blade, and the reassurances that tremble out of the other man, something in Nate breaks, properly. Guilt, and fear, and panic, and all it does is make him babble more, make him even more incomprehensible. "Can' see," and mumbles of "Don'... don't," the clearest, in the mess of words and cries. And he knows it's not helping, knows it's only making things worse, making them harder, but he doesn't know what else to do, except make noise, and cling, until the promise silences him, cuts him off.

Maybe before, when he was numb and distant, it would have been better, but now a single blue eye finds the attuned's face, the stormy gaze that crosses him, and Nate is no longer distant, no longer far away. How much better would this be, if he was still in a place of hazy misunderstanding? Instead, the singular gaze is blown wide by everything he has suffered in the span of a handful of moments, everything he's put Sunjata through now, too much to have words for, even as it pours into his stare clearly, obviously. The eye contact only lasts a moment, before he's pulled in, briefly, tightly.

When his face, what's left of it, what's ruined on it, is covered again, when he's pulled in again there's a hiccup of noise, almost like a sob, almost like a laugh. Nate's arms wrap around the attuned, almost slow, almost hesitant to start, but he leans into it quickly, seeking every scrap of comfort he can.

There's a soft noise pressed into Sunjata's neck, an acknowledgement that they're not moving, not really, the thought comforting, just a little. He doesn't want to move, not even the few flights upstairs, where he knows they're going. Words stick in his throat, the request to be carried dying as the unbidden memory of carrying Sunjata up those same stairs surfaces. "Walk. Ll'walk." He doesn't want any memories associated with this, doesn't want them tainted.

A long moment passes between the words and the action though, a moment where he needs to be held, needs to sap some of the safety that comes from being held close, and protected. How long had it been since he felt unsafe? Not since he was a child, really, and like this? Never. Never. He's helpless, and ruined, and he has no idea what to do beyond this, where to go, or--

Nate rises to his feet, the motion so quick that he sways with it, that he feels his stomach lurching, though there's no nausea, and he feels like there should be. Maybe all of this would be easier if it felt the way he thought it should, if it wasn't numbed and highlighted by the ascension. But he steadies in a moment, and leans against Sunjata, not needing to be carried, but still needing the support to make it anywhere.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

“I know. I know.” He murmurs to Nate as he works. A mess of indiscernible words and cries, and it breaks his heart to hear them come from Nate — breaks his heart that he hadn’t been faster, hadn’t gotten ahold of the person that had done this. But his priorities, for better or for worse, were with Nate. As they had been with Lusea in the active war zone of Korofi. He is with Nate, ensuring his safety, and that’s all Sunjata needs to keep his own spiral from showering down, shoving it into the deepest blackest pits of himself for later. “ek is jammer, my maanlig.” He says again, over and over however many times he needs to in order to try and get through this.

But then there’s silence, one blue eye meeting Sunjata’s darkened steel, a quick scan before he’s pulling Nate to him. Then wrapped. Then in again, trying to absorb the fear and terror that bubbles up inside Nate and trying to alleviate it. He doesn’t think it’ll work, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try.

So he keeps Nate close, feeling tentative arms slowly give into him, a face buried into his neck that Sunjata leans against lightly — trying not to do more damage than he already has with having to carve out Nate’s face. It’s a moment of calm — as calm as this instance could be — where the fear and anger and worry begin to pull from the depths, his jaw and throat tight as he quietly tries to swallow them down again. And it works, almost, not fully until Nate’s sudden and abrupt stance has Sunjata pushed back ever so slightly as he too goes to stand — arms immediately reaching for Nate as the Ascended sways.

But walking it is, and Sunjata helps him to the stairs, fishing out the metal keys for the front section. He goes as slow as Nate needs, before they reach the door and he swiftly unlocks it, walking through it with Haai quick on their heels before he turns to lock the deadbolt. And then there’s only one more flight — for that bed where he and Nate had shared their first vocal ‘i love yous’. He takes a deep shaking breath, letting Nate hold onto him as much or as little as he needs to, until they reach the door to the bedroom — using every last bit of the adrenaline coursing through his veins to get Nate to the bed. And he’s moving again, grabbing a few more blankets to put onto the bed, to give that extra bit of whatever he can to have Nate hide away.

Because he remembers that day in the kitchen, the way when Nate chose to talk how he didn’t want to be seen. And so he gives him that option. Haai hops up on the bed, prepared to give him a sort of wall to lay against, whatever comfort she can muster on her own, while Sunjata goes to stand before Nate again. “Let’s get you out of your clothes, okay?” Because they’re wet, laced with the tinge of burning flesh and Ascended fluid. What he probably needs is a shower or a bath, but that can wait. All he needs right now is to get Nate situated; where he doesn’t have to move, where the Attuned can hold him for however long Nate might need him to.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Really, this would have been easier if he could bite down whatever stubborn pride he had and just let himself be carried. He's slow, and leaning on Sunjata more than not, each step somehow a struggle, somehow needing as much of his focus as he can muster for it. Maybe though, that's a blessing, a handful of moments where he can't think about what's happened. It's not normal, not by a long shot, but it's something else.

The sanctuary of effort doesn't last nearly as long as he needs it to, as he's deposited on the bed, sitting on the edge of it without complaint. Nate isn't sure what the other man is doing, except moving away. He isn't really sure what he's doing either, to be completely fair, isn't sure what he should be doing, if anything. There's no pain anymore, and the wound has been taken care of as best as it can be, for the moment. He tries to shift, to get his back against the headboard, against something, and presses up against Haai instead, the griffin somehow more comforting than what he'd been attempting anyway.

Sunjata returns, though he doesn't draw Nate's gaze, barely gets an acknowledgement at all, except for hands that reach out to grab at his hips. Because the attuned's instinct is absolutely correct, though there's enough shame in the ascended that he can't quite bring himself to the hiding under the blankets level of withdrawal, not yet.

There's no gentleness in Nate's motions when he grabs at the hem of his shirt and tears it off over his head, no concern for the bandaging or injury. It's not like he can feel it, but that is an entirely different breakdown, just another spiral that it feels like he'll never get out of. How could he? And as that thought comes to him, he doubles over, forehead pressed almost to his knees, hands balling into shaking fists where they're wrapped in Sunjata's clothes. Everything tenses, like he's trying to keep together, keep it within, and the effort only makes the sob that comes sound more painful, ripping out of Nate despite every attempt to hold it in, to stop it.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

Sunjata doesn’t mind the fact Nate’s slower than he otherwise would be. He doesn’t mind how long it takes them to get up both flights of stairs. He doesn’t mind that by the end of it, he’s clinging to Nate just as much as the Ascended clings to the Attuned. And before he knows it, he’s got Nate sitting there on the bed while he slips away to grab blankets and a variety of whatever else they might need – a change of clothes for later, perhaps, somewhere thrown into the mix. But the main point was blankets, for the covering and the hiding, the darkness.

Haai moves wherever Nate needs her to, pressing her dark body against him, letting him press against her equally as much. And when Sunjata returns, there’s those hands that reach for his hips and that’s when Sunjata begins to falter. He asks Nate to remove his shirt, to get it out from where it could cling as yet another reminder to the Ascended’s tattooed skin. And there’s no grace, no carefulness that occurs when Nate tears his shirt off. Internally, Sunjata winces, but he does nothing other than be there for him.

So he takes the shirt and discards it into a heap with whatever else. He takes the daggers from his belt and drops them onto the table beside the bed – staring momentarily at the ruby tinged blade, before he takes a deep inhale and moves to climb onto the bed with Nate, heart breaking as Nate’s forehead meets his knees, feels the shaking fists where they connect with Sunjata’s clothes. And so he shifts then, trying to pull Nate into his lap, into his chest, anywhere where he can get his arms wrapped around him and pulling the blankets around as Haai presses against Nate’s other side. A cocoon for him to fall apart in.

He presses a kiss to Nate’s temple, swallowing down the anguish in his gut at the sob, before he’s lightly resting his head along Nate’s crown. “I’ve got you.” He says again, quietly, holding him tighter. “I love you.” Another small squeeze to stop the involuntary flexing of his arms. “You have me.” He will not go anywhere.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

There's no fight, no anything from Nate as he's moved, except for a insistence to keep his eyes - eye - down, pressed against Sunjata's chest. This all feels so surreal, feels so far away, like there's a thick wall between the him wrapped up in blankets, in comfort and closeness, and the him that's sobbing, that's breaking down. Like they're somehow disconnected. Like they're not the same person. The only real connection is the feeling of warmth against his front, the arms around him, and the hot, fuzzy body of Haai at his back.

The quiet words pouring from the attuned anchor him, dragging him back into himself, sending his arms moving, wrapping tightly around the attuned, as if to make sure for himself there's nowhere he could go. Though, there's too much, the delicate ship of his mind dragged down into the depths by one anchor in particular, that twists in his gut like an acid guilt. Good God, now Sunjata has to love him like this. Now he's a burden. And if he can't be fixed, even doing everything right, even with divine intervention, what then?

It's the selfish part of him that keeps clinging, despite the thoughts, despite the hiccuping attempts at words, growing more and more frantic, more broken up, the patter of it constant though, easy to put together with the repeated scraps of words. 'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

There’s nothing that would stop Sunjata from loving Nate. Certainly not a scar, not even a missing eye if he couldn’t be fixed – nothing would stop the feeling that courses through Sunjata’s veins with the mere mention of Nate, that fierce protectiveness only growing stronger with this. And he gets it now, gets what it feels like to be on the other end and if anything… If anything, Sunjata feels like he should be the one apologizing – that he hasn’t made Torchline safer yet, if someone could attack someone else and get away with it, what was stopping anyone else?

But he nearly exhales a shaking breath of relief when Nate’s arms wrap around him, however tight, clinging to him just as much as Sunjata holds Nate. And he’s shifting ever so slightly now, pulling himself so his back can reach the headboard, keeping Nate in his lap and Haai as the added barrier, resting his face and cheek along Nate’s head, eyes shutting tight against the way Nate tries to speak, the words blurring together and repeated so much that Sunjata only squeezes him tighter. “It’s not your fault.” He says softly, gently, meaning every single word of it.

And then he’s removing one hand from around Nate, to search for that balled up fist, the left hand to his own. His fingers tap against Nate’s balled fist, as if he’s trying to make some quiet statement. “You are mine and I am yours.” A promise and a prayer. “Until the end.” No amount of scars or attacks, no amount of breakdowns and spirals would push Sunjata away from the Ascended.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Even if he doesn't full believe the words from Sunjata, even though he can't at the moment -- how can anyone else be at fault for this? If he just hadn't gone over, hadn't stuck his nose in -- they still put a stop to his own rambling apologies. They get him to listen, to notice the gentle tapping on his hand, shaking fingers opening slowly, his nails slick with fluid where they'd dug in. There should be a bite of guilt with that too, a part of him that was slowly getting louder whispering about how much worry, how much pain he must be causing, and yet he's still here, digging deeper.

He doesn't know how long he cries for. He just knows one moment, everything in him is pouring from his lips, from his one good eye, and the next, there's nothing left, nothing at all but a cold, burnt out numbness. And it stops so abruptly, the sobbing giving way to silence, without the normal shaky breaths, the normal hiccups that would accompany the end of this particular part of the breakdown.

Now that it's past, he wants to sob more, wants to apologize, wants to wring anything out of the awful blank buzzing in his head, in his chest. More than anything now, Sunjata is a support, and he can't even summon up the thankfulness the other man deserves, for holding him so close, so steady. Nate's just tired, now. Exhausted, but he can't sleep, can't seek the blackout relief of a bottle. All he can do is cling to the other man, and wish there was something, anything that would help with the bone deep, mind deep fatigue.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

He sits there, running fingers along the scar that sits in Nate’s palm, reiterating his reassurances, the thoughts that run to mind that he can’t stop from saying – the only thing he can continue to say. He’s here. He loves him. They’re in this together. Over and over again until it registers, until he can feel the way Nate suddenly stops – exhaling a quiet sigh of not quite relief… But tension. There’s nothing that Nate has to thank him for, because he’d been there for Sunjata when he’d also dealt with his shit. He is here for Nate all the same.

His head lowers by Nate’s temple, pressing kisses to his head, to his ear, burying his head into Nate’s. His eyes close, his breathing evens out a small amount despite the trembling of his lungs. But he clings to Nate just as much as the Ascended clings to him. “What do you need?” He murmurs, willing to do anything and everything to try and make it easier, shifting a small amount to focus on their surroundings and how hoarse and parched his throat is. He takes another quiet, hoarse and shuddering breath. “What can I do?”

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Just as slowly as it had opened, his hand curls around the fingers stroking at his palm, at the scar there. Not enough to stop them, but enough to feel closer, somehow. "I'unno." It's mumbled, too much effort to enunciate the words, to speak them as more than a breath, a whisper. And he wishes there was something more to offer, some actual suggestion he had, because he recognizes the need behind the question, to be doing something, to be helping, to keep the spiral from settling in. Nate shifts, pressing in against the attuned, leaning into the lips, squeezing just a little tighter while he did.

There has to be something he can offer out though, something he can say, and it sends him back to that mumbling, rambling place, clearer now that his voice isn't competing with sobs, though it somehow manages to be utterly emotionless. "I wanna sleep. Wanna... not be here, awake, for... for a while." That's not something the other man can give him though, is it? Not something helpful. But there's nothing he needs, not now that the pain is gone, that his throat is recovered enough to let him speak with some kind of clarity. "Don't want you t'go."

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

An answer, even such a not-answer as Nate’s ‘I don’t know’ give him something to work with. He keeps the Ascended close, Haai to the man’s other side as a guard dog. And as Nate shifts closer, presses into Sunjata, he presses back with that all encompassing attention granted to Nate. All he can do is keep pressing those kisses to Nate’s temple, cheek, before exhaling a quiet sigh. He buried his face into Nate’s hair as the next words leave the Ascended, something curling in his gut, something burning and painful that he can’t even get that escape.

And it burns a bit more against the Voice as well — because surely in the goddess’ attempts to make a perfect body, she has to know how hard that would be mentally. Everyone needed their vices, after all.

But he can dwell on that later, that burning out of anger and frustration of everything that’s occurred. He squeezes Nate a bit closer to him, inhaling his scent, grounding himself as much as he physically and mentally can. “I’m not going anywhere.” He offers, voice rough and hoarse. “Neither is Haai.” As she hears her name, the griffin presses back against Nate a bit more — applying pressure from all sides.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?