agoge | >> @SPIRITFINGERS

Charging admission to your deathbed? I'll be there in a few hours.

if you make it hasty i'll provide the popcorn

Hey. [ To his own ears William's voice sounds small, insufficient. His gaze is fixed. The medical outpost is neither well staffed nor well organized, and John's wasn't the first room he walked into.

He crosses quickly to the bedside, remembers the bottle in his hand. Lifts it ever so slightly. ] It's just water. I— [ A pointed look at one of many wine bottles scattered throughout the room. ] don't trust your priorities.

They're taking care of you?

[ No "what happened," not yet. Besides, the location is an answer in itself. ]

[John sits up, back propped against pillows standing along the wall. His legs are tucked under a blanket that rises to his waist. The lack of a shirt reveals the large bandage on his lower abdomen, clean and recently changed.]

Not nearly enough to give me trousers. So I wouldn't jostle me too much, propriety and all. [John tosses William a wink from where he sits.] Unless there's something you'd like to tell me, and that something is far better than a bottle of water.

[ His eye's drawn to the wound, the bandages wrapping the better part of the other man's torso. He swallows: the last time they'd seen each other—last time they'd spoken—they'd both been fine.

He looks up in time to catch the wink, suppresses a sigh. ]

Don't overexert yourself. [ Dry, his heart not in it. He sets down the water. ] Did you win or lose? Hard to tell from here.

[The jovial look on John's face falters. Not completely, but when the mask drops it stops short of a full reveal, a hint of a smile remaining on a face groggy from falling in and out of sleep.]

I won, Louis. You're looking at a COST victory.

[The truth is easier wry.]

Nicely done. [ A wide streak of irony in his tone. He rests a hand on John's shoulder, leaves it there a long moment—exerting only the slightest pressure, as though to verify the solidity.

Then he crosses to one of the many bottle-lined surfaces, picks up the nearest bottle. Gives it a shake: empty. Onto the next, the process unthinking. ] Now what?

Don't have much of a plan other than rest and hope this heals relatively quickly. You would not believe how boring it gets sitting around.

[He watches William collect the bottles knowing the he's likely being judged at this very moment. What else is new?]

Don't think they have recycling here, mate. [John then begins to peel away his bandage from the inner top corner, agitating the wound and revealing the wet bright red of fresh blood.]

What kind of scar do you think this will leave anyway?

Yeah, I guess you'd know. [ Is his commentary on the recycling practices of cannibalistic spiders, issued to the neat row of bottles he's assembled. He's been idly speculating as to where they all came from—misguided well-wishers or a sponsorship of some kind.

He doesn't turn to look at John until the question, his body tensing at the sight of—not the wound but the blood staining the bandage, John's pale fingers. ] Come on. [ He steps to the bedside, grabs for John's wrist. Decisive, for once. ] Quit showing off.

Edited (failed to emphasize how numerous the bottles are) 2018-05-31 23:29 (UTC)

[As John's hand lifts upward in William's grasp, his fingers drop limply down, blood coating them from fingertip to knuckle. He looks up slowly at the admonishment, eyes sunken from exhaustion yet still capable of reflecting a glint of mirth.]

I like this side of you, Louis. What's next? Are you going to tell me not to steal?

[He gives a nonchalant glance toward the neat row of bottles. And then another to those still on the floor.]

[ He gives his head a weary shake. A clear note of exasperation in his voice: ] Was anything in this room obtained legally?

[ As long as John's cooperating—or fucking around, which amounts to the same thing—William shifts his arm away from the open wound. He looks down at his own hands, none too clean and smelling of wine, and decides against putting the bandage back in place. ]

I'm gonna go. [ He heaves the sigh he's been holding back. ] I've seen enough blood lately, and I don't think you need any more encouragement.

[The exasperation makes John laugh, a laugh that quickly fades when William declares his exit. John clumsily pushes the bandage back into place, not nearly as careful or even as it had been before. He wipes his fingertips against the front of the bandage, doing his best to clean them with the nearest surface.

Now it's his turn to grab William's wrist, and he makes the effort to use the hand which stayed away from the bandage. It's not a firm grasp by any means, and William could easily walk away if he wanted. But that's not the point.]

Everything else is legal. [Even the spider limbs under Aranean society.] I'd greatly appreciate it if you could stay.

Edited 2018-06-01 02:07 (UTC)

[ The grip on his wrist is so feeble, so tenuous, William can't bring himself to break it. ] Fine. [ No harshness in his voice. He takes a seat at the very edge of the bed, eyeing the bandage critically.

How many people watched him fight in the arena? How many people have given a thought to him since? ] You should get a chair. [ Half a second later, he amends: ] You should purchase a chair.

You think the Araneans don't provide the injured with chairs for their visitors? Shame on you. [An attempted chuckle emerges in a cough, and John quickly releases William's wrist and turns away his head.]

There should be a chair just outside the door if you could bring it in. But it's sweet of you to have such faith in my abilities even in this condition.

[ He waits for the coughing to subside before getting off the bed. As promised, there's a chair outside the door, looking like it's also seen an arena battle or two. William drags it in, nudging the odd wine bottle aside with his foot.

He doesn't take a seat. Instead he hesitates, an almost visible show of reluctance. ] I do have something for you.

Mm? [John shifts in his seated position with a grunt of pain to better sit up. If there is a gift involved he's damn well going to look at it as best as he can manage. Interesting that William doesn't sit, it must be quite the present.]

I have to admit that you've piqued my curiosity. But if it's just another bottle of water you needn't both with preamble, you can just set it with the rest.

Shut up. [ Abrupt, a kind of stifled fondness in it. He takes a breath. ]

I want you to know, anything you could possibly think to say right now has occurred to me already. [ His fingers are quick with the buttons of his uniform, moving from his throat down his chest. William maintains eye contact—well, it's more that he refuses to betray any hint of self-consciousness—as he methodically removes his shirt. ]

Then maybe it's best for the both of us if I let actions do the talking, yeah? [John returns William's gaze without a flinch, looking at him with nothing short of a wicked grin. William isn't his type, they've both made that very clear, but turning down a striptease is the true definition of insanity.

What was most interesting about the situation was that anything this bold was such an unexpected move from someone like William. William with his judgements and put upon sighs and water bottles.]

Never knew you had it in you, Louis. [The idea of John completely shutting up was never truly in the cards. But he does follow up with the promised action, slipping the now empty and useless credit card between the skin of William's waist and next layer of clothing. He then hooks an index finger loosely around a belt loop and gives it a casual tug.]

So when do these come off?

Edited 2018-06-15 12:46 (UTC)

[ He tenses—in his shoulders, stomach muscles going taut as John slides the piece of plastic into his waistband.

It's fucking cold.

William's fingers still. He gives John a look, a flat stare about the length of a prison sentence, and resists the urge to take a step back. ] You need to rest. [ With gentle deliberation, he unhitches the other man's finger from his pants and guides his arm back to the bed, giving his hand a pat.

The mockery in his voice just as gentle: ] Must take a lot out of you, being this charming.

[ William shrugs the rest of the way out of the shirt, as if to shuck John's attention along with it. He folds the shirt lengthwise, drapes it over the back of the chair.

He turns so John can see it better: the tattoo branching like lightning, like a network of roots or nerves, across the left side of his back. Reaching, it almost seems, for his neck. William admires it himself, glancing over his shoulder, absently tracing a tendril with his finger.

He smiles. Somewhere along the way, he's settled into his skin. ] It's something, huh.

Dearest William, my charm is effortless.

[He returns the patronizing gesture with a smile, one that knows William's intent behind the pat. John is taking none of it and reaches back into the waistband to retrieve his credit card. Sure, it's useless now, but it's still his and he wants it back, especially if William had no proper appreciation for a gift.

When John grips the credit card he lowers his hand further below the waistband, careful not to make any skin-to-skin contact. Instead he presses the cold credit card fully onto the skin of William's lower abdomen, allowing enough time for the chill to seep through before retreating. He holds the card aloft between index and middle finger, dropping them both down and back up again to create an illusion of the card vanishing through sleight of hand.

With that out of the way John can begin to more fully examine the tattoo, touching his fingers to the lines on William's shoulder. He marvels at the otherworldly "ink", drifting his fingers where it catches the light.]

Not a bad consolation prize for dying.

[ William’s mouth clamps shut before he can take a gasping breath, before he can give John that satisfaction. Arms stiff at his sides, fingers curled. ] Stop touching my pants. [ He chides, feeling himself slipping into a familiar cringe of a smile. He's being fucked with, he knows it as certainly as he knows John, but there's still a second's doubt—a little bloom of dread as he realizes there's nothing stopping that hand from dipping lower.

He takes half a step back, rolling his eyes extravagantly at the parlor trick. Crossing and then uncrossing his arms, embarrassed by his acute sense of relief.

Nevertheless he lets John trail his fingers over the tattoo, looking on in silence, absorbed more and more in the play of the light. ] It was just there, I don't remember— [ William shakes his head. He sounds captivated, rather than confused. ] Does it mean anything to you?

[ He turns his gaze on the other man, a kind of insistent curiosity—a kind of fearlessness—in his eyes. ]

Only that it seems to solidify what I said before.

[When John looks up he meets William's gaze. The lack of hesitancy is welcome, different, a far cry from someone content to wait and observe before action. The touch of fingertip flattens to the length of John's hand and he tilts his head, examining the tattoo as if committing it to memory — from every curve to every trick of the light.]

You're a traveler, meant to see worlds beyond existence. And now you have bathed in the sea where life and death meet, leaving you with the mark of a story you won't soon forget.

[John inhales deeply and presses his hand into William's skin. In direct contrast to the cool metal his hard is warm. Comfortably so, but at too high a temperature for what the human body produces naturally. Tendrils of invisible heat trace every line of the tattoo, methodically snaking down along the design without John having to lift his hand. Through this extension of himself he can more fully see the roots, a full depiction from end to end.]

Remarkable really.

Edited 2018-07-15 17:07 (UTC)

You have no idea, do you. [ There's a lightness to his voice, in his eyes. The words wash over him, pleasant and insubstantial. It's John's touch that holds him rapt, the warmth radiating from his hand transforming William's attention the way stained glass transfigures mere light into streams of color.

It feels like—well, it feels like feeling, heat and nerves blurring into some nameless emotion. Streaking through him.

He releases a tremulous breath. ] You didn't have to say anything. [ Not this time: no incantation, no Latin hurled across the room. A laugh catches in his throat, and he fights then succumbs to the urge to smile. ] Spiritfingers.

Edited (NOTICE ME!!!) 2018-08-12 21:24 (UTC)

[John gives no indication that he's been caught in anything, giving a languid shrug of a single shoulder.] You asked what it meant to me. That's a good way to open yourself up to a bit of artistic license.

[But that's not the important thing. John happily lives up to his codename of Spiritfingers by drumming lightly on William's back, no more than one finger on each hand touching his skin at a time. Each one radiates a warmth, only to be pulled away and replaced again. Sometimes he deliberately taps against one of the lines of the tattoo, causing the heat to flare for a singular moment at a time.]

Not all spells require an incantation. Or maybe you just light the fire in me.

[They both know that second part is bullshit which is why John follows his comment with one of his customary winks that William loves so much. With the now warmed fingers John continues tracing the lines, contemplating the direction of the branches.]

Tell me what you're thinking, Louis.

>> @SPIRITFINGERS | @ALL

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thank god we no longer have to worry about nsfw threads not counting for ac

nsfw intensifies!!!!

YOU LEAVE THE WATER BOTTLES OUT OF THIS

THE WATER BOTTLES ARE COMPLICIT

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