#this is... almost that

[kiaroscuro]

Title: as the world caves in

Warnings: descriptions of violence, major character death

Rating: Mature

Main Pairing: Ren Amamiya / Arsene

Main Tags: post-canon, zombie au, angst, hurt / comfort, road trips

Warning:

· · ─────── =^.^= ─────── · ·

Ren wakes to the cold, head fuzzy and mind slow. He feels disoriented, his whole side a single giant bruise, his shoulder in contrast an inferno. He blinks, tries to clear black spots from his vision, only for an overgrown, rounded dome out of some sort of metal to come into view. He stares at it, full of incomprehension, and then tries to move from his makeshift bed. Pain lances up his whole body, shoulder and neck growing taunt, and Ren hisses in pain.

Arsene is at his side in an instant, claws carefully aiding Ren until he's sitting up, noticing the number of seats scattered about. He blinks, blearily, all of the remaining adrenaline draining out of him at the sight of his persona, looking worse for wear but present, and Ren closes his eyes and leans his head forward until Arsene catches him softly.

"You're okay..." Ren murmurs, hoarse. The persona thrums, oh-so-softly, claws carding through hair.

I was never gone, my dear, foolish thief. Arsene think-speaks, before carefully leaning back, claws ghosting over his cheek and right eye, and Ren notices with a start that his vision's fucked in it. It's wonky, and he hopes that it'll clear up. Arsene keeps tracing over the skin there, and Ren feels the touch, both hyper-sensitive and not, and he shudders.

The lightning hit me, didn't it?

The persona nods, curls his fingers over Ren's cheek and then carefully cups Ren's face, his palm soothing against Ren's skin. From thy shoulder to thy eye, oui. It drew a pattern. Foolish human, risking your life like that. He chides, but his tone is so soft, his worry a leaden weight in Ren's stomach.

"Sorry," Ren rasps. "I just-- I couldn't--" I'm sorry, Arsene. I never should've-- he catches himself, unable to articulate any of his feelings, everything a jumbled mess.

I know, Arsene says, curls wings into Ren's view, almost mantling them together in possessiveness but not quite daring to touch Ren. Thou're burning up, dear. I hadn't dared to give thee medicine while unconscious, but thou should eat something now and then take some.

Ren nods, acquiescing without rebuttals. Arsene thrums before he turns towards their packs, and Ren takes his chance to glance around. They're in some sort of broken-down passenger plane, vines and other nature breaking in through the windows and broken doors, part of the roof caved in further to the end of the plane. Ren thinks that they're somewhere near the front where the stewardesses usually sit, because there's less seats and a door that may or may not lead to the pilot cabin. He shudders when he sees the rusty color of dried blood in corners and in some of the upholstery fabric, but there's surprisingly little in the way of corpses around. Ren had been lying on a makeshift bed out of a few seats and bedding from pilfered suitcases.

Arsene appears in his vision, sans his red leather jacket but with one of Ren's jerky sticks and a plastic cup full of water. A group of shadows had made their home in the plane; they've buried what they could and burned the rest. His persona says, privy as always to Ren's thoughts. The graves are marked outside, some with the names of the dead. It is not ideal, but-- he pauses, but Ren hears the echo: a snowstorm was building up, dangerous to traverse even without Ren being in absolutely no condition to really move around.

He eats the jerky, forces it down if only to have Arsene worry about one thing less, and then drinks the medication before the persona carefully tugs Ren's clothes away -- he doesn't recognize them, thinks they're from the lost passenger suitcases -- before both of them stare at the ugly wound on Ren's side. That's going to scar, he thinks, and Arsene is morose through their connection. He pads at the wound carefully -- the flesh's inflamed but otherwise seems to be healing just fine, no infection setting in for now. It's a yellowing bruise that hurts with every breath Ren takes, but he's alive, so he takes it as a win. What about my shoulder? He asks, and Arsene grimaces. He dresses Ren's wound carefully, winds some of their precious gauze around it, before turning around for Ren's dagger. The persona presents it hilt-first, and Ren grabs it, kind of confused, before he sees his reflection on the smooth metal.

Ren freezes, tracing over the lighting-shaped patterns that burned themselves into (under?) his skin with a sharp intake of his breath. No wonder it hurt to move his neck; from his shoulder up to his eye, Ren looked as if he survived an encounter with the god of thunder. His eye was also harmed, swollen and flecked with red spots that would explain his wonky vision. "...I look a sight," he murmurs, too tired to feel angry at himself for once.

Thou survived, Arsene corrects.

First << >> Next

[great-and-small]

My grandfather and my godfather (a beloved neighbor and dear family friend) had a long standing bet- for one dollar- about who would die first. Both of them being slightly pessimistic (in the funny way), they both insisted that they themselves would be the first to die. Any time my grandfather had a health scare, he’d gleefully call up my godfather to boast that he’d be passing “any day now” and he was sure to win the bet. It was a big family joke and they were always amiably sparring and comparing notes about who was in worse shape, medically speaking.

When my grandfather was in hospice care dying of liver cancer, my godfather was quite ill also. It took him great effort to make the journey to see his dying friend. As he came into the room, supported by a family member, he shuffled to my grandpa’s bedside and silently handed him a dollar bill. He was ceding his loss of the bet, as they both knew who was going first. My grandpa had been in quite bad shape for a while and was no longer able to speak but let me tell you he snatched that dollar with unexpected strength and literally laughed aloud. He knew exactly what the gesture meant and he couldn’t help but find the humor within the grief. It was the last time any of us heard my grandpa laugh, as he passed shortly after.

When I talk about my appreciation for “dark humor” I’m not so much thinking about edgy jokes, but rather the human instinct to somehow, impossibly, both find and appreciate the absurdity that is so often folded into the profound grief of life and death. When I tell this story I think it kind of perturbs people sometimes, but it’s honestly one of my favorite memories about two men I really deeply admired. I could never hope for anything more than for my loved ones to remember me laughing until the very end, and taking joy in a little joke as one of my final acts.

[teaboot]

BRUH a dude I know from work came in for the first time in months and I thought he looked different but couldn't figure out why?? So I asked if he'd changed his hair and he was like "BITCH I GOT TOP SURGERY"

[kiddokori]

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