[ 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]

[ A small part of him had been hoping the answer would be 'no.' That he'd have a firm, external reason for why this was an excessive and stupid idea. If Silco had answered with a 'no,' even if it were untrue, he would have had some incentive for simply getting up and leaving, trying to find some other solution.

Instead, Silco holds out his hand.

And Gen bites his lip as he stares at it for a moment, pulse thrumming in his ears. Then a fresh sear of pain rips through his nerves, and he promptly grabs at that offered hand.

That supposed half-dose is still potent. Even without the rush of strength or agility, the burst of euphoria is enough to earn a violent shudder. Gen stifles a gasp as his entire body ratchets hard with tension, his grip inadvertently tightening against Silco's hand until his nails dig in painfully. It takes him far too long to gather his senses enough to loosen his grip, and even then, his movements are halting. Finally free of that throbbing pain that had been squeezing at his lungs, he breathes in deep rasps as the tension finally starts to melt from the line of his shoulders.

... fuck. How the hell is he supposed to resist something like this? ]

[zauneyete]

[ Silco didn't cry out, or gasp. He winced, of course, when Gen's grip tightened, his bare hand exposed to Gen's nails and the strength of someone who spent at least some of their time working at martial efforts. He couldn't see his own eyes, but with the burst of shimmer, they were that neon purple of shimmer -- both of them -- shifting, like liquid warping into the iris, before it faded once more. He breathed in, breathed out, and one of his eyes closed, until he finally started to relax his fingers, and Silco could pull his hand away, and he tugged a glove back on, to cover his hands, and keep them away from brushing up against others.

Silco didn't fear his control these days, but any excuse to keep himself from having to touch other people felt like an exercise in appropriate caution.

He watched, carefully, as Gen started to relax, his breathing harsh as he gulped it in. As someone who used Shimmer for his own medicinal purposes, he understood the feeling, the relief it brought. He waited, for Gen to say something.

After all, Silco didn't need to fill the silence, and he certainly didn't need to rub it in. Gen knew what he had, and he knew what shimmer could do for him. That was enough. ]

[epiprocta]

[ There's a long silence before Gen manages to find any words. But then again, there's much that can be gleaned even before he speaks -- the way his ragged breaths slowly level out, the rustle of fabric as his posture slumps, the scrape of tree bark as he slowly sags down where he'd been leaning against the tree until he's crouched on the ground. There's a quiet thump when he leans his head back against its trunk and heaves a long sigh; the tremendous relief granted to him by the shimmer is obvious in his expression and almost palpable in the way his whole body loosens, no longer ratcheted tight with pain.

And only then, he manages to look at Silco once more. ]

Tha -- ...

[ 'Thanks,' he almost says. He only catches himself at the absolute last second, biting back that word because he knows he shouldn't say it. Even if he can't help the swell of gratitude in the depths of his heart, his body overjoyed to be finally granted this reprieve. It's with great effort that he swallows back that sentiment that he knows he shouldn't be feeling, and instead changes tack. ]

-- how long. [ Ungrateful and brusque. But it's probably what's expected of him anyway, so. ] How long does this last?

[ How long before it starts hurting again? ]

cw: eye trauma sorry miru

[zauneyete]

[ Silco watched him with an impassive eye, watched him move to slump against the tree, watching him settle in, enjoying a life without pain. He remembered those days, when his eye ached so badly -- as his body slowly corrupted around the injury, the pollution and poison in the water, seeped into his eye, stinging. He remembered it well, and he likely wouldn't have been much older than Gen was now, when it happened.

He wished he'd had the reprieve that shimmer offered sooner, rather than only once he'd found Singed, and the formula had been developed. They'd taken that formula, of course, and built off of it, but... ]

Ten minutes, give or take. [ He paused, and offered. ] I can offer two, total.