[ open. ]

[epiprocta]

WHO: Gen & OTA TO KENOMA.
WHAT: Aftermath of the events of Soviseri.
WHERE: Around the Citadel.
WHEN: Late Soviseri into early/mid-Firaseri.
WARNINGS: None at the moment, will add if applicable!

i. citadel halls

[ Shortly after the Kenoma's return to Achamoth from their respective assignments (and though very few of them probably know what's coming, before the public reveal of their 'prisoners,') the Aions of the Citadel might hear some slight commotion. The sounds of an argument muffled past a door, it seems like -- though 'argument' might be a poor definition of whatever's going on, since one voice is definitely speaking far more than the other, and in a much angrier tone of voice. At least it doesn't last terribly long before there's the sound of a door being flung open, followed by the stomp of footsteps, then -- ]

I'm leaving. Don't follow me.

[ That latter bit is snarled in clear irritation, answered by a young man's meek 'Yes, sir.' Gen slams the door shut behind him as he skulks out out of his room and into the halls, giving an irritable click of the tongue. And only then realizes that he has an audience. ]

... what.

[ Gen scowls as he looks to whoever's caught him in that embarrassing little tiff with his retainer, though -- that's not necessarily the most alarming thing about him at the moment. He's clearly been having a rough go of things, face pale save the exhausted shadows under his eyes and hair a disheveled mess in desperate need of a trim. Not to mention his left sleeve, which hangs empty at his side. Though Gen reflexively tries to angle himself to keep that wounded side slightly out of view, there's really only so much he can do for such a glaring injury. ]

ii. citadel grounds

[ He can't remember the last time he got a full night's sleep. Certainly not since they'd been sent to Venera. In any case, it's starting to become routine that the unholy hours of night find Gen wandering about the halls of the Citadel, the sounds of his boots scuffing off tile cutting through the chilly silence. It's usually quiet at this time of night even with the random assortment of servants and guards that often flit past him, though he's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. Maybe the quiet will help him rest, he thinks sometimes. But the quiet mostly ends up further muddying the turmoil of his thoughts. And given the general state of affairs around the Citadel these days, he struggles to even distract himself with familiar comforts. The lurid sights and attractions of the entertainment district just don't hold the same allure any more.

And so any other Kenoma awake in these small hours of the night might find Gen out around the Citadel grounds, the harsh black of his clothes almost melting him into the darkness. Sorry if he startles you during your peaceful nighttime rest.

a.

Bad days find him slowly trailing a meandering path down a hallway or a path outside, head ducked and hand clutching at his left shoulder. The injury itself might have been healed up, skin and flesh forcibly melded together where his limb ends short, but it still hurts sometimes. Hurts a lot. ... this is what they call phantom pain, right?

The tip of his boot catches on some uneven spot on the ground, sending him stumbling, and Gen groans as he comes to lean against something for support -- a nearby tree, a bit of fencing, whatever -- just so he can stay upright until this godawful sensation stops. Sorry not sorry if he's getting in your way.

b.

But (relatively) good days find Gen outside, staring into the middle distance -- maybe on one of the Citadel's many balconies, or out and about in the gardens. Though the heavy dark circles under his eyes indicate he's not awake at this ludicrous hour just because he's a night owl, at least he seems mostly calm, if tired.

There's the rustle of fabric as he withdraws a cigarette and his lighter, parking the former between his lips and flicking on the latter with a practice swipe of the thumb. Too bad the night air is cold, and the weather refuses to permit him even that small vice; turns out lighting a cigarette in anything but the calmest air is hard when you don't have an extra hand to shield that tiny fire. The lighter's flame sputters and dies once, twice in the face of a stiff breeze, and Gen huffs an irritated noise to himself. ]

Hey. [ Then, realizing he has company, he turns to whoever else might be up at this ridiculous hour. And, barely giving them the chance to respond to his brusque greeting, Gen tosses his lighter their way. Better move fast. ] Do me a favor.

[ He words it like a request, but says it like a demand. Like an order. Rude. ]

iii. wildcard

[ Gen can be found skulking around the Citadel and the streets of Achamoth looking generally exhausted and out of sorts, or in the training fields in the mornings still trying to stick to his usual routine, so please feel free to assume anything else if these prompts don't work for you! Otherwise, I'm available at databomb / inktrashing#5307 for plotting purposes if you'd like to plan something! ]

Comments

[epiprocta]

[ What the fuck does she mean by 'lots of practice.' ]

The hell d --

[ Aaaand she's gone. Much more speedily than he'd expected, to be honest. He's already been getting the sense that Gray isn't just a normal, shy girl, given her unexpected ability to throw a mean punch, but ... ugh, whatever.

He ends up staying in place mostly because Gray took his lighter; he'd been growing real used to that one, and he wants it back. By the time Gray returns she'll find Gen draped over a nearby bench with atrocious posture, drowsily watching one of those cat-sized spiders coating the tip of his boot in webbing. It must be one of the strays that sometimes wander onto the Citadel grounds, and it looks over at the sound of Gray approaching, its many eyes gleaming despite the dim lighting. ]

The hell d'you mean, you have lots of practice. [ Gen, too, looks over at her return, head tipped against the back of the bench. Notably, he lets the spider stay where it is. He's tired, after all, and it's not like he actually has anything against stray animals. ] You know brushing your own hair isn't the same as doing it for other people, right.

[ He says, like he knows anything about how to tend to other people's hair. ]

[gravings]

[ Gray looks at the spider and attempts to gently shoo it away before turning her eyes to the prize with a determined glint. ]

I know. I used to brush my mentor's hair... It was extremely long, and he never wanted to get out of bed until the last minute because he'd been up playing video games all night before.

[ If it sounds like she's venting, it's because she is. Thoughts of Lord El-Melloi II still make her ache, but his imprint on her is so strong that sometimes it still feels like he's near.

Gen's half-dead posture is very much like El-Melloi II's was when Gray would brush his hair, so actually this is perfect. She moves to the back of the bench with a hairbrush equipped. ]

You can pretend I'm not even here.

[ Just a ghost touching and sorting his hair...

Though first, she should uphold her end of the bargain. She takes out his lighter, and after a brief moment of puzzling, she manages to spark the flame and carefully extend a hand over the back of the bench so that Gen can take it. ]

[epiprocta]

[ Small town origins, grew up with barely any other kids present, gravekeeper job, face that isn't hers -- and now a mentor whose hair she has to brush because he's some sort of weirdo gamer nerd. What the hell is Gray's life. She says all this shit so calmly, too, like she thinks it's normal.

Gen has plenty of questions about this revelation, and Gray must feel it in the way he looks over his shoulder to give her a long, dubious stare, eyebrow raised. But lucky for her, he's too tired to immediately start an interrogation, so. When she manages to turn the lighter on and holds it out, he sighs and shifts position. ]

Hold it still like that.

[ The side of his hand brushes against hers when he leans in to cup the flame against the restless night air. And once he's given his cigarette a quick puff to get the ember going, he sits back, flips the lighter's lid on, then takes it from her hand to return to his pocket. ]

Do what you want, then.

[ The bench creaks as he sits back once more, head ducked forward a bit (to look at the spider that's still loitering near his feet) just so her hand won't be bumping against the back of the bench. But she might notice the way Gen's shoulders are tense and he twitches ever so slightly at the first touch of her fingers -- he's not used to this sort of contact unless it's transactional or from a sexual partner, and it feels ... weird. ]

[gravings]

[ Watching him put his cigarette to the flame is also nostalgic — and just as when they first met, she's struck with a sense of wrongness, this feeling that it should be someone else at the end of that cigarette. But the moment passes and the lighter is taken from her, leaving her only with the distasteful smell of secondhand smoke.

With her hands free, she turns her mind to her task. It feels like it's been a long time, a very long time indeed since she's been able to throw herself into a menial task for the sake of anyone but herself. A chore should just be a chore, but to her there's a huge difference; a task fone for herself is just a necessity, but done for someone else it's a service, proof that she has something to offer. She enjoyed completing all of her mentor's menial tasks for him for that reason, but here there's an entire legion of servants to take that pleasure from her.

For now, Gen's hair is all hers, and when she carefully lifts it from his neck, she does so with the proper amount of reverence, gathering every strand with a neatness to war with their sorry state. She partitions his hair into the beginnings of order, and after choosing her first site of battle, takes her brush to tangles. Her hands are light, careful to taste and lift the knots free rather than drag them out. That makes it a delicate and lengthy process, however expertly Gray works — but it should be more or less painless, a byproduct of her determination to do her mentor no harm despite the ludicrous length and disarray of his hair. In comparison, the length of Gen's hair is positively cute.

Probably a little too late, she says, ]

Why don't you have your hair cut?

[epiprocta]

[ It's a good question.

Gen had been silently staring into the darkness of the gardens -- the little spider once more tapping at his shoe, a breeze rustling through the topiary, the Citadel's lights flickering softly through a window -- while feeling the rhythmic slide of the brush through his hair. Gray's ministrations are gentle enough that the tension in his shoulders had slowly abated, leaving him surprisingly docile and quiet in Gray's hands. And while his silence might at first suggest that he's ignoring that question, after a long silence, he slowly exhales a streamer of smoke and watches it dissolve into the night atmosphere. ]

Didn't think I'd have to worry about mundane shit like that. [ It must sound like such a stupid answer. A simple, stupid answer that offers so little. But maybe Gray can glean something from it -- not from his words, but from the exhausted slump of his shoulders, and the listless tone of his voice. The distant quality of his gaze. ] We're here, caught up in a war. Worrying about a haircut just seemed ... pointless.

[ (War or not, he hadn't really expected or wanted to live long enough to have to worry about a haircut ever again.)

Gen pulls his cigarette away from his lips to tap the ash off to the side, sitting still when he feels Gray's fingers card gently through a tangled clump of his hair. The ember continues to smolder, but Gen pays it no mind, clearly caught deep in the quagmire of his thoughts. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower, barely enough to carry over a quiet breeze rustling past them. ]

How much longer d'you think you can keep going like this? Worrying about other people's hair.

[ Remaining intact enough to worry about things like other people's hair. ]

[gravings]

[ Put that way, she sees his point. She also supposes that boys generally put their appearances lower on their priority list. Not all of them, of course, but there's no denying that she's seen many a scruffy-looking boy in her short lifetime.

She continues on with her parting and brushing, sinking into the meditation of repetition until Gen speaks up again. Even then she doesn't pause in her work, letting her reply flow unhindered as an extension of her serene mind. ]

Rituals are important. Having structure... having things that you have to do no matter what can keep you from thinking it's okay to stop and give up.

[ However tenuous that motivation, however menial the tasks, those small things kept her alive for ten years. ]

If you don't want to worry about your hair, I can take care of it for you. I don't mind.

[ His ritual can just be showing up so that she can brush his hair. That's okay too. ]

[epiprocta]

Who said I'm giving up on anything.

[ Gray's words give him some food for thought. Though Gen does let that petulant mutter slip from his lips, it's honestly more habit than it is a proper retort.

A small column of ash drips off the end of his cigarette before he remembers to tend to it again, and Gen nurses it slowly. He's loathe to admit it, but the slow carding of fingers through his hair does help soothe some of the suffocating tension that had been building in his chest; his next exhale comes slow and deep. ]

... what happened to wanting to learn to be more selfish.

[ It's asked like a genuine question, lacking in his usual backdrop of hostility, like he's just looking for a fight. Right now, it's just something he actually wants to know. ]

I wasn't asking what you 'don't mind.' What do you actually want? -- is that really all it'll take for you to keep going, here?

[ A ritual, not even for herself, but for someone else. Is that really all that she wants? ]

[gravings]

I am being selfish. But... I can rephrase. I'd like to brush your hair whether you like it or not.

[ She forced her wish on him, and isn't that the definition of selfishness? As for his other questions, there's a lull as she chooses her words. Not because she doesn't know what she wants, but because there's only so much she feels she ought to say. ]

Rituals are important for survival, but they can't be everything. Growing up, all I had were rituals. Every day, from when I woke to when I slept, everything was decided for me. The way I ate and dressed, how I'd pray and work... nothing was left to chance.

[ Her hands continue their patient, steady pace, but there's a firmer timbre to her voice too. ]

It wasn't until I left that I saw that anything else was possible. Discovering what I wanted... came a long time after.

[epiprocta]

[ That's pathetic, he wants to say at first. It's pretty pathetic if Gray is really deciding to be 'more selfish,' and the best she can muster is the desire to waste her time tending to someone else's wellbeing.

Instead, what he ends up saying, his words a touch softer than Gray must be used to hearing from him, is: ]

... suffocating, isn't it. Living like that.

[ Of course, his hometown hadn't been anything quite so strict. Gen is well aware that he'd been afforded a relatively high degree of freedom within that prison called his hometown. But all the same, he gets it. He gets why Gray might place such importance in rituals -- in the small things necessary to retain one's sanity while living in a cage.

He's not sure if it's better or worse that Gray, unlike him, had at least had a taste of freedom outside that cage before ending up here.

Gray's fingers gently pull apart another tangle, allowing the brush to glide smoothly through his hair, and Gen keeps his voice low when he speaks again. ]

And is this all you want, now? Stuff like this. This is the most selfish you get?

[ Surely not. Surely there are other things she wants. Surely ... he can't be the only one discontent in this place, with life under the Regent's thumb increasingly reminding him of those old cages. ]

[gravings]

[ Is this really everything she could want or need? Softly, ]

No.

[ She doesn't need time to think on that one. Maybe before she could have contented herself with service to the Regent and the company of her fellow Kenoma. In light of recent events, she's come to feel the creep of unhappiness settling in, a feeling that something needs to change. She's starting to suffocate in a different way, even though very little is being asked of her now.

She keeps at her steady work, the smoothing of his hair bit by bit putting a temper on her dissatisfaction. ]

Is there something on your mind?

[ In the form of a question purely out of politeness; he's asking an awful amount of questions and he's clearly sunk in his thoughts. ]

[epiprocta]

[ 'What do you fucking think?' -- is what he wants to say at first. It would be the easiest answer, after all. A kneejerk response composed of his usual shitty bristling, the type of thing that would immediately put most people on the back foot and teach them not to pry.

Maybe it's the fact that Gray had answered him so plainly, so honestly, that makes it harder to resort to that usual defensive measure. Gen is instead silent for a moment, taking another slow drag of cigarette. He lets the smoke wisp from his lips as he answers quietly. ]

I told you before, I'm also from the sticks. ... I always knew I was gonna spend my whole life there. I was supposed to die there. It wasn't ever worth thinking about what life might've been like outside of it. Waste of time.

[ Gray's fingers gently untangle another lock of his hair, a few loose strands coming to slip past his brow. ]

Figured I could just do the same here. Do what I have to do, like I always have. ... s'just been more exhausting than I thought it would, even though it should be the same.

[ He's not like Gray, he can't just be honest. This roundabout confession is the only way he can admit that he's in agreement with her -- slowly but surely, this place is starting to suffocate him, too. ]

[gravings]

[ He sounds exactly as she did not so long ago. So exactly that it's eerie, and she trembles slightly with feeling until her hands are forced to come to a stop. ]

You can leave.

[ That slips out before she can think about how it sounds. He doesn't say that he was necessarily unhappy in his hometown, but she can hear it in his voice and words like she's seeing him in a mirror. ]

It isn't easy. But you can still leave. Being in another place can make all the difference, if you want it to.

[ It's unclear if she's really speaking to her younger self, Gen's younger self, or the Gen of now. ]

[epiprocta]

[ Gray's fingers tremble before pulling away from his hair. And for once, Gen lets a show of abject weakness go uncommented upon. ]

... I couldn't just leave. [ Couldn't. Can't. He watches the ember burn at the end of his cigarette, wisps of smoke curling from it. ] I had duties. Obligations. Wasn't like I could just leave'em all behind.

[ Duties, obligations, and sins. A makeshift grave that his father had declared him chained to the rest of his life. Vaguely, Gen wonders if the burden that had kept Gray locked in her hometown had been just as heavy as his. When they'd first met he would have scoffed at the mere thought, but with what he knows of her now -- it seems more than plausible.

His shoulders rise and fall with a small sigh. ]

Guess those're all gone now. [ For himself, but also for her. Whatever had shackled them to their hometowns is long gone. ] But it's still hard. Forgetting about all that. [ And leaving. ] You get it, don't you.

[gravings]

[ Of course, Gen had family to think of — parents and a sister at the very least, even if their relationships didn't seem especially harmonious when he spoke of them in Venera. Gray can't fault him for tying himself to those things when she did the same thing in a different flavor.

So she gets it, of course she does. If she didn't, she wouldn't still be here in Achamoth too, smothered by a culture that doesn't speak to her in the least. Her hands resume their work, nearly finished making order of Gen's unruly hair. ]

Yes. I get it. Those responsibilities are important too, but...

[ She trails off briefly, reformulating what she wants to say. ]

If it were someone's obligation to die for their hometown, but they had the opportunity to leave... Would you tell that person to stay or leave?