yourattention | [noctium] ic inbox

[The question who died is almost out of his mouth before he puts it all together. Oh. It's a little reminiscent of the way he felt when he saw Evan Hansen again, maybe. The way they both thought they were seeing a ghost. The way that they didn't know what the fuck to do with each other. He could say any of that, but words aren't really... Sometimes words fail, and that's okay.

Instead, Connor shrugs off the denim jacket he's taken to wearing here, even though it's maybe unseasonably warm for it, and drops it on the floor before settling on the bed behind Dave, above the covers. He touches his forehead to the back of Dave's neck and breathes out.]

Larry told me I was attention seeking when I slit my wrists in the bathtub. [It's easy to change if you give it your attention—] Family's what you make it.

[Dave feels that he can parse from context that Larry might be Connor's dad. That he calls him by his name says a lot about how he acknowledges him but it seems reasonable given that very brief glimpse into who he is as a person.]

Man, your life is like a clown car full of irredeemable douchebags, huh? [He doesn't say it to make light of it, he means it. It bothers him to hear it but it's vulnerable and it makes him feel safer in sharing more of himself.]

Yeah. Kind of had to move on but we never really talked about the fact that he categorically failed at almost every aspect of caretaking except for being over-protective. [There's some bitterness to his tone but it softens as he relaxes into Connor behind him. He's just radiating warmth as a result of the ruby in him trying to help along the regenerating process.]

But he's different now. I think.

No. [The word is soft, but full of emotion.] I just like to lead with the worst of me.

[Gently, Connor wraps an arm around Dave's midsection. He still keeps the barest sliver of space physically between them, like that makes any of this less intimate. Deep down, part of him recognizes this is weird but he's just shoving it in a box to think about later. That's a problem for later.

He doesn't want to talk about their respective, fucked up families really. Like, he could say something about how people change and circumstances sometimes suck and this or that but Connor doesn't know how to make himself say platitudes. If they end up actually having that conversation, it'll be very real and very raw. That's... not right now.]

Do you want me to tell you a story? An actual one, not one of my fucked up life stories.

If this is the worst you've got then we're gonna be fine.

[Tiredly, but he still sounds very sure of himself because he's very sure he has a good read on Connor by now.

He appreciates the opt out for this conversation because the more he says, the less he feels like he really understands his own thoughts. He's liable to confuse Connor and confuse himself even more.

Dave scoots back gently to close the gap between them, evidently less scared of the intimacy. He's a cuddler by nature and doesn't think there's anything inherently weird about two guys spooning platonically. Maybe only because it's in his brother's bed, but he's trying not to think about it.

He pauses to consider the question.]

Sure. [Seems like a good way to settle his mind and stop thinking about what Bro is doing right now.]

You can tell me an actual one or a fucked up one, dealer's choice.

[It isn't the worst of him, but Connor doesn't say that. Let Dave think that the worst he has is a shitty family.]

Once, the moon had two princes. "Ah," said each prince when they woke in the morning, "I wish I had someone to be with." Each prince thought he was absolutely alone in the whole universe, in the vast and incomprehensible loneliness of space.

[This is one of the times that Connor is choosing to put emotion in his voice. Dave's probably heard him take this tone before when he reads, soft and lilting like a lullaby. This story might also sound vaguely familiar to Dave: it loosely correlates to a picture book Connor made Ricky only there weren't any words in the book. Just illustrations.]

Each day the princes would wish on a star for someone to be with. They wished and wished and wished until one day, their wishes came true. For one brief moment, it seemed like everything they ever wanted but they encountered a problem.

The prince of the dark side of the moon was blinded by the prince of the bright side of the moon's mere presence. "Oh," the dark prince said, "I cannot be with you. You're too flashy for me." The bright prince was saddened by this but let the dark prince go.

One day, something miraculous happened: an eclipse. "Do you still," the bright prince said, "find me too flashy?" "No," the dark prince said. The two talked until the eclipse was over and even afterward found that they could ease the loneliness of thinking that you're alone in the world. Sometimes, even though it may not seem it at first, people can be be brought together.

[Is. Is this an allegory? Is this an actual-ass fucking thing that happened to Connor, wrapped up in fairytale language? That's a good question, but the answer is extremely unclear.]

[Dave doubts its all Connor has going on but in his vague, bullshit way he wants Connor to know that he's probably willing to accept whatever parts of him he wants to offer. Whether that's because he's awkwardly compassionate by nature or just a lonely person remains to be seen. It's probably both.

It should probably feel weirder being held while being told a bedtime story, but it's not a memory he can attach any sentiment to so it is what it is. Connor's voice engages him in the story, even if his eyelids are getting frustratingly heavy and hard to hold open.

Dave listens and, with god-like discipline, doesn't interrupt. Probably because he's tired, but also because he's interested. There are some aspects of the story that remind him of the moons back home and the people assigned to each one. Maybe he shouldn't read that deep into it, although he wonders what it means to Connor since he certainly isn't talking about Derse and Prospit.

When Connor finishes, he's silent for a little as if he's asleep. He's not. Eventually:]

Woah. That's so sad. [Hot takes by big brains.]

Is that it? What happens when there isn't an eclipse?

[I know talking is hard, but please...
I wanted to go to Paris and see the Louvre. I wanted to be Amélie. I wanted to leave and be happy.

Connor exhales, and it's clearly amused. Yeah, no. That's enough being weirdly vulnerable for one day.]

I'll tell you another time. [He doesn't drop the soft, lilting tone of the story.] Go to sleep, Dave.

[Then, quietly, he starts to sing. He doesn't put the thread of suggestion behind it that he did for Ricky when they first met, though. It's just a regular lullaby, intended to lure Dave into sleep.]

[Dave asks questions and never fully expects answers, so even the vague promise of a follow up is enough to satisfy him for now.

He grumbles in protest at the order, gentle as it may be. He doesn't know how he's supposed to sleep with about ten thousand things running through his mind.

Luckily (?) his body is so physically tired that the soothing feeling he gets from being sung to is enough to make him shut his eyes and at least try to enjoy it. Only now he doesn't want to sleep because he doesn't want a moment where he feels like this to end.

It's not up to him, though. It's not long before he's actually asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, relaxed rhythm. His face is mostly peaceful but occasionally he'll frown in his sleep. It's fine. He almost immediately curls himself into a Dave-sized ball and he tucks his head under his own arm. That's when you know he's really out of here.]

[ it's a couple hours later that dirk gets back. he's a little worse for wear, frankly: he's taken off the gas mask and replaced it with his shades, but they're all cracked on one side. he's quiet when he enters, practiced in staying silent, and he heads right to the kitchen to start up. there's a first aid kit in one of the drawers and sewing supplies in a bag on the counter so he pulls out both, starting up the water in the sink.

he has to work on his side first: there's a knife still sticking out of him and he's too stoic about it to be a real person. he gets everything ready before he removes the knife, but his hand is wet from the blood dripping from the slash on his arm so when he tries to set it down, it slips out of his hand and falls into the sink with a clatter. ]

Shit.

[ he yanks a chair up to the counter and takes the jacket off first and then his shirt, wincing when the fabric pulls away from the skin. it starts the blood up again too, and he sighs and grabs a dishtowel to put pressure on the wound with one hand.

the other starts grabbing for thread and needles and the alcohol wipes from the first aid kit.

he'll just finish this up and get to sleep. ]

[Connor slept approximately an hour and then didn't move because sometimes you're a person who only likes being touched on your own terms and you wake up curled around another person. If Dave's not awake he can't ruin it by trying to touch Connor, who still sometimes flinches when people touch him unexpectedly, so he breathes out and stays until he hears the clatter of something. He slips out of the room, forgetting he took off his jacket. It's not exactly that he cares about people seeing his arms anymore, more that sometimes it feels nice to feel like there's a barrier between him and the world. That the layers between him and other people are physical too.

He doesn't enter the kitchen, exactly, standing exactly on the threshold like he's a vampire who needs to be invited in. His hair is also loose, much longer than it looks when he has it up, and falling around his shoulders.]

I can help you with that. It's a bitch to hold the needle when you're bleeding on it.

[It's quiet, matter-of-fact like that's something he's done. Like he didn't learn how to do field surgery as a terrified teenager in the woods. That was basically a lifetime ago, as far as he's concerned, and he's stitched himself up a few times since then.]

[ dirk hears connor coming before he sees him, and he can tell from the cadence of the step it isn't dave, so he's glad for that much. he doesn't want dave to see him like this, only in part because he seemed so upset earlier when dirk said he was going.

he thinks he got off easy in the fight: caustic fights with the skill of someone very used to fighting, and that sticks with him. not just an evil scientist after all.

he'll have to keep that in mind next time.

when connor speaks he doesn't answer for a moment, cleaning the needle with one of the swabs and not looking up. ]

Didn't need the gas mask, at least. Ruined a perfectly good jacket, though.

[ a beat. ]

I got this.

[ but his dominant arm is the one that's wounded and it started bleeding again as soon as he started using both hands: the blood from that makes the needle slip from his fingers and onto the counter.

he stares at it a long moment before amending: ]

Alright. You got me.

[Connor stays on the threshold, waiting, until Dirk relents. Then he crosses the space between them and kneels to get a better look at what he's dealing with. His hand hovers over the knife wound, not quite touching.]

Let's make the most of the night, like we're gonna die young. [The quiet song stops the flow of the blood, but doesn't do much else. He pulls his hand away.] I can fix the jacket later, if you want.

[Standing, Connor locates the discarded needle and another alcohol wipe. Normally he'd run the needle through fire, but he doubts Dirk has the patience to do this right. Instead he kneels back down and looks up at Dirk.]

Can I touch you, or would you prefer I try not to?

[Like, touching Dirk at least some is unavoidable but he can absolutely try and avoid it as much as possible.]

[ he relaxes when the bleeding stops, but only a little. he's still wound tight like a spring that's about to snap, but his shoulders return to a neutral position. he shrugs with his good arm just after though, a small movement like always. ]

I'm pretty good at sewing, but I've never been able to make leather repair sit properly. I wouldn't mind the help, thanks.

[ he watches connor, but it's dark enough in here that he takes off his broken shades and sets them on the counter. his eyes are bright orange to contrast dave's red, and the light color at least partially explains the shades inside the house deal he has going on.

the question surprises him, but he appreciates it. normally he'd tell connor to try not to touch him, but he's tired enough that he just wants this over with as soon as possible. ]

No, go ahead.

[ he shifts, silent a moment, before continuing. ]

I didn't get a chance to kill him, we got interrupted. [ he runs his tongue over his teeth. ]

But I managed to do enough damage he might reconsider trying again. He's a real piece of fuckin' work.

I used to make leather. Had an awful teal leather jacket I loved until my dragon set it on fire.

[He says it while he's working, one hand holding the wound together while he slowly stitches it back together. He doesn't seem to see anything weird or off with what he said, despite looking and sounding like a relatively normal person.

His hands are steady, but it's clear he's not... entirely comfortable with what he's doing. It's in the tightness of his shoulders, the way careful way he's breathing. The last time he did this for someone else was... worse, Shion trying to talk him through a panic while he tried not to notice the blood getting everywhere, over everything. He didn't realize until he settled into the motion that it would trigger him.]

Don't have the equipment for that here, but I can probably patch the jacket.

[ it's a good thing that connor isn't looking at dirk's face, because he mouths 'my dragon set it on fire' vaguely incredulously, which is hypocritical because he was literally murdered by a giant dog man, but whatever.

he watches connor though, and notes his discomfort. a part of him does feel bad about it, which is a strange feeling because he really never felt guilt about anything before he came here. there just wasn't room for guilt or regret in his brain before he died.

he doesn't hiss in pain or jerk away or do anything really; the only way it's possible to tell that connor is sewing up a person instead of a doll is that the muscles twitch slightly under his hand.

eventually, he sighs. ]

I'll let you have a go at it.

[Honestly? Shion didn't move much either while Connor was patching him up so Connor doesn't notice. He made marginally more noise but he also got shot in the leg with an arrow so there was, maybe, more extensive damage involved.]

Good. I like working with my hands.

[His coping method for his discomfort is to flirt, unfortunately. Knotting the end of the thread, Connor holds out a hand.]

Scissors.

[Usually, he'd pull out a razor blade to cut it but uh. First of all, he hasn't carried a razor blade since he arrived here, and second of all, it'd be in the jacket he was wearing.]

Mm.

[ he doesn't respond BADLY to the flirt, but there's an air of disinterest about him in response to it, which is probably actually still bad if i think about it for more than one second.

but anyway, connor asks for scissors and dirk takes the small pair he uses for detail work out of the sewing shit on the counter and hands them over carefully, leaning back a little now that connor isn't actively stitching. ]

Thanks. I need to get this cleaned up by the time Dave wakes up.

[Connor looks off into the distance for a moment, eyes slightly unfocused.]

He won't wake up yet. [Then, realizing that sounds ominous as shit:] Sorry, I mean. He's still sleeping. Do you need help with anything else? I'm already gory as shit.

[He's actually not. His hands are nearly clean except for the smearing of blood on his fingertips from the actual process of sewing. Sometimes, your weird musical theatre powers mean you don't actually get blood on you because there's no blood budget. Don't worry about it.]

[ you know what, sure. sure, that ominous comment is fine even though he grips the edge of the counter until connor amends it.

he's openly surprised by the lack of blood on connor's hands, but he shakes his head and stands. he stretches, winces one (one) time, then shakes his head again. ]

I already owe you for stitching me up. I'll take care of this then go shower and get rid of these clothes.

[Sometimes, when he uses the weirder aspects of his powers, he forgets that they're... unpleasant. To other people. He can get a glimpse at the trajectory of what's happening at any given moment, but it always comes out of his mouth ominously. Connor stands, taking a deliberate step back.]

Do you want me to stay? I can go.

You don't have to go. I'm not about to tell you to leave.

[ he starts to rummage under the sink for some cleaners and a cloth, but pauses as he looks over toward the blood all over the floor. ]

Fuck, I don't have a mop.

[Connor's mildly afraid Dirk's just gonna bleed all over the floor and nothing will get cleaned up. He's not going to just, like, say that though. It would be rude, first of all, but second of all he feels like there's definitely a line that's been drawn between the two of them and he doesn't really... it feels weird to cross it, right now.]

It'll go faster if you let me clean this up and you go clean yourself up.

[ there's a pregnant pause. finally dirk sighs and puts the cloths he'd taken out on the counter and nods. ]

Fine.

[ he hesitates before adding: ]

Thank you.

Don't mention it.

[Connor closes the gap between them again, wordlessly taking one of the cloths Dirk set on the counter, wetting it in the sink, and then kneeling again to get his Cinderella on. This is easy. This he knows how to do. It feels like the first normal thing he's done since Dave texted him, and he sinks into the repetitive nature of it without paying attention to anything else.

He should go. He should have gone, actually, but instead he focuses on making the floor as spotless as possible. If he just focuses on that, he doesn't have to think about the anxiety threatening to unspool in his chest.]

I won't.

[ dirk disappears a moment after that: he just sort of slinks off into the shadows, though his mental state is in more of a 'flash step away from whatever's going on' mode.

he heads to the bathroom to take a shower and toss his clothes in a garbage bag. he'll take that out later. he's gone a while, mostly because there's blood everywhere, and when he comes back out he's in lounge pants and a white long-sleeve shirt. there's no blood on it, so he must've taken care of his arm too.

he drops on the couch with a grunt, head tipping back toward the ceiling. ]

I'm getting slower.

[ he might just be projecting, but it feels that way. normally he would have been able to slice a guy into pieces before he could even react, but here he is, worse for wear because he was too slow. ]

[noctium] ic inbox

cw: previous suicide attempts

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)