ph_logs | [OPEN] The world is spinning endlessly

[OPEN] The world is spinning endlessly

Who: Siebren and friends
What: October Shenanigans
When:...October? Possibly also November
Where: Siebren's home, the
Warning(s): Potential cannibalism mentions, unreality, mental unwellness, memory manipulation (self-inflicted), more in comment titles

1. This is the sound of energy [Gala Aftermath]
You can't believe how easy it is. You just have to go... a little crazy. And then, suddenly, it all makes sense, and everything you do turns to gold.
He calls into work the morning after the gala. And a couple more days beyond that. In that time, he is
~~metamorphosing~~
~~assimilating~~
~~unpacking~~
~~digesting~~ everything that occurred that night. He stays at home, alone, trying to avoid everyone and everything.

much. It's too
The fragments of past that he's avoided for their sharpness rotate in him mind, turning their points toward him, crystal shards of time that threaten him. And yet, some part of him reaches out with Pandoran curiosity, like Sleeping Beauty toward the spindle. What he pricks isn't a finger, but he feels the pain just as instantly. And yet, and yet...

too much. It's
There it is, the multiple choice past solidifying in fractals, like frost spidering across a windowpane. Siebren has no way of knowing whether this is a correct past, but it is now his, memories feeling more stable than they have in years. Some things are lost, others are fake, but the end result is more real than anything he's been able to grasp before.

For three days, anyone approaching Siebren's home for any reason may hear, even from outside the building, the sounds of someone having a Bad Time™, with pained screams or furniture being thrown against walls as his gravitational powers pulse and fluctuate. For three days, he struggles.

And then, there is silence.

Traveling through the galaxy [The Library; CW vertigo]
Siebren returns to work. Nothing is wrong. He is fine. Can't you see how fine he is?

Somewhere, a book falls off a table and he flinches. And then, to anyone within a certain distance of him, the floor seems to fall away, in a dizzying cloud of galactic light, just for a moment, before he regains control, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.

Into eternity [Stargazing Night]
A notice goes up on the bulletin board, and letters are issued to penpals with explicit invitations: Crane's Ridge, 9pm on a given night. Bring snacks, drinks, something to sit on. Siebren will have his telescope and star charts.

He's brought some cheese and crackers and apple butter himself, as well, and is floating beside his big brass telescope, dressed in a comfortable sweater. For the moment, he is completely at ease. For the moment, nothing could possibly bother him.

Right?

A One Note Symphony [Wildcard]
Find me on Discord to plot, PM me, or just throw a thing!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It’s an understatement from the look of the place. And it brings him back to the sheriff’s station all over again: tearing the weapons and bullets off his body, howling his agony out into the dark with Trautman standing over him, unable to fully process just how badly John was broken…

John is shaking his head to himself, an answer to an unspoken judgment as Siebren lets him hold him. He gathers him up tighter, more securely, trying to give him what John had needed so badly that day. Nothing can fix the broken pieces, they both know that, but they can put the pieces back together with glue. It won’t be the same, but it’ll stand with a little extra care.

“I got you.” He whispers, pressing his face to Siebren’s shoulder in turn. “I gotcha, Sieb.”

There is no 'getting better' or 'returning to normal' for the subject. He's, in a word, fucked.

He can hear Moira in his head, and can just about hear the same kind of things rattling around in Siebren’s, and at both John just shakes his head, curling a hand around his nape to keep him close and soothe that shame—a gesture as protective as it is affectionate.

“Maybe you haven’t felt well, but you’re gonna be okay. Maybe I’ve never stared down a black hole, but I’ve been broken, too. I’ve…”

He trails off, wrestling with himself before drawing back just enough to look into Siebren’s face.

“Can I show you something, Sieb?”

Edited 2024-10-09 00:11 (UTC)

"It wasn't the black hole, this time." His voice is tight and tiny. He doesn't meet John's gaze. But he nods, he's willing to be shown something--anything--to avoid what's happened to him.

No. What he's done.

“It’s okay. I promise, Sieb, just…don’t panic. It’s real, and I’m still me: and I haven’t hurt anyone. I wouldn’t hurt anyone innocent, and I won’t ever willingly hurt you. That, I swear on Serranai and every oath I ever took as a soldier.”

The reassurances flow out of him like water, a nervous rupture from a dam of fear that’s been building up for far too long.

Reluctantly, John lets him go. He rolls up his sleeve, showing him the bandage he’s been wearing for a while now. Carefully, he unfastens it, and starts to unwrap…

…exposing an animal bite on his forearm, where until now he’s sworn up and down he had been burned.

And, very gradually, Siebren will see John’s fingers start to change: nails darkening, lengthening, sharpening. Digits growing longer and slender, skin paling and tightening as thin, silver-white fur starts to sprout where hair should be.

Siebren watches that fur grow, the expression on his face one of confusion more than fear.

"John? What happened to you?"

“Those, uh, wolves in the forest. The ones the paper warned about? Some of ‘em are more like wolf men.”

The confession is a huff combined with a wry smile.

“I found a couple of those critters out there—like your kitty girl there, but one of ‘em is like a long haired mastiff and the other is a Saint Bernard with a candle on his head. One of those wolves was gonna have them for dinner. I got bit, blacked out, and it was dead when I came to. Only time I lost my head, but pretty justified. I’ve had pretty much total control over it ever since, and…and the other ones like this are afraid of me. I’m the only white one I’ve seen, and the only one that seems to be…aware. I can even talk pretty normally.”

"Well, it is even more imperative that I curl up with you when it's cold, then." Simple as that. He accepts it so easily, trusting John completely.

~~It becomes, perhaps, even more obvious how easy it was for Moira and Talon to manipulate him. He trusts without any worry at all...~~

John can’t breathe for a second until Siebren answers—and it does, indeed, become clearer to him.

He should have spent that whole two weeks killing Moira. Slow. Then doing it again, just for daring to have any part of abusing the kind of trust this man has. This ready, warm acceptance that makes his eyes burn…

John decides right then and there that he will kill anyone who dares to mistreat this gift of a human being where he can know about it.

“Only if you let me help you clean up later.” He replies with a painfully tender smile. “And maybe let me see that light show again sometime? I’ll just sit down first. Honestly, it’s pretty cool—and now you really know you didn’t hurt me. Wouldn’t have broken that chair if I was…well…still human.”

"I...have not done it intentionally, yet. It's all been me losing control of myself. I'm not sure if directing it at a person, giving you my full focus, would intensify it to the point of being unbearable."

And there it is, he wilts again.

No.

It’s a quiet certainty more than a thought as he gathers Siebren’s face between his hands, gently urging him to look John in the eye. All that’s there is the same kind of unhesitating trust that Siebren has shown to him.

“I trust you. Enough for both of us, if you need. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have danced on air, had one of the best nights of my life, man. You promised me you wouldn’t let me fall, remember? I won’t let you fall, either. I’ve got you, like you had me…you’re not gonna hurt me, or anyone else unless you mean to—and if someone gets you that mad? I’m probably already beating you to the punch there.”

He pauses, wants to pull Siebren down again to kiss that spot on his forehead…only maybe…

“…can I kiss you?” He asks softly, cheeks turning pink again as he says it.

What is it with pretty men asking to kiss him? Siebren can't contain his smile when he hears that.

"Please."

John can’t help but smile back, leaning up a little as he draws Siebren down…

It’s just a kiss. John just…wants more than that little peck in the moment, and knowing Siebren does, too—it’s nice.

Siebren is also a really good kisser holy shit. A little dazed by it when he has to draw back for air, his smile may be a little bit goofy as he wonders if it’s a genius thing. Smart guy, scientist, knowing…stuff…

John’s gotten his bell rung by a kiss, and it’s amazing.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really damn good at that?” He laughs softly, leaning his forehead into Siebren’s.

"No, absolutely never. Most of the time, I'm merely surprised to be kissed at all!" How he came to be a pumpkin studmuffin, he'll never truly understand. "We may need to experiment further."

"Well, I'd call bullshit, but I'd rather just do the kissing." John replies with a grin, just enjoying the closeness as he tips his head just to feel the brush of his nose against Siebren's--and then tugs him a little lower to brush a kiss against the bridge of that nose, feeling a sudden swell of fondness for that part of the striking profile that's become one of the things that brings John comfort.

"Sorry, experimenting." He grins, grateful that this...this is something he can still have. The last kiss he had was Co, and there's a lot of tragedy attached to that, to the first kiss, to connecting. Yet, for reasons he can't explain, there's something else that comes every time he lets himself have that stolen piece of affection: it feels stolen. There's a nagging sense of wrongness before everything else sweeps it away--and he's grateful as hell that kissing Siebren is doing it as readily as kissing Laios had.

And, because John can't quite suppress the urge to be a troll, that grin turns teasing as he tips his head, pretending to consider something.

"Does this make me a scientist for...well, necking with one?" he quips.

"Clearly. The Latin word at the root of scientist means 'to know', or really, to seek knowledge. Etymologically, it's the opposite of 'nice', as in simple, as in not caring to know."

Nerdy tangent aside, Siebren nuzzles his nose against John's cheek.

John shuts his eyes, leaning heavily into that little bit of contact--it's just nice, it's good for him, warmhotburning that he again chases rather than running from when it gets to be too intense. It leaves him tipping his head into Siebren's, then every so often twisting his head to try and nuzzle him back without thinking--and it very closely mimics an eager pup trying to push into his master's hand, seeking more pets and affection.

"That really what 'nice' means?" John asks with a laugh. Nerdy tangent aside? No way, John definitely has a thing for Siebren going off on something or another.

Definitely, more of a thing for Siebren going off on something or another, while wrapped around John in the middle of his messy house.

"Well, it's how the word originated, at least. Via Latin, nescire. Ne meaning 'not', scire being the root shared with science. That likely came to Latin through Proto Indo-European skei-, meaning 'to cut' or 'to split'. You'll recognize that root in words like scissors, schism, and quite possibly also shit."

This has been nerdy etymology 101 with Siebren. However, as he wraps that dump up (heh), there's a hint of uncertainty.

"Did you know that Latin is the language of demons, in this world?"

John sobers a little at that, looking into Siebren’s eyes with a frown. He feels stupid in that moment, remembering his admission that the eldritch jackass the cultists were cozying up to had been…communing with him or something…

“I hope you’re not thinking that says anything remotely bad about you.” John warns gently, taking his turn to muzzle Siebren’s cheek. “Demons, I imagine, love to fuck with good things to try and mess them up, but we know different. I know different. If I can be what I am, and still serve a goddess…you can be what you are, no matter who or what thinks it can sink claws in you, and still be…”

John trails off, because a dozen words try to claw to the surface, and it’s too soon for any of them.

Hearth. Home. Safety. Mine.

So instead he just buries his face in Siebren’s shoulder, breathes him in—and isn’t even aware of how much he physically relaxes in his arms, only of how the too-much burn of touching is starting to bleed away into just intense, blissful warmth suffusing every part of him.

Siebren, on the other hand, goes tense and quiet. It's probably something John feels, how he's suddenly not so soft and warm.

John does feel it…after a minute, because the closeness is a little overwhelming in a good way, making him feel the kind of loose he only ever used to get after a stiff drink.

When he notices how tense Siebren is, he draws back and looks into his face with open concern.

“Sieb?…”

His hand drifts up to cradle his cheek, thumb smoothing along the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

While he wants to just melt into that gentle hand, he can't. Oh, the warmth and joy and tenderness ~~and love?~~ has been a balm to his soul, but John offering that reassurance without knowing what Siebren did at that gala feels incredibly wrong.

"You are a very kind man, John."

…but.

John can hear the word in the beat after that statement, and it pokes at something primal inside him that…he can’t tell if it’s part of him or part of the new thing he’s become, but it’s intense. It wants to cling to Siebren and snarl, snap, claw at something just beyond his perception until he melts into John’s arms again with another cheerful ramble about pulsars or something. It wants to press his face to Siebren’s neck and stay there until he understands…what, he’s not sure. He can’t quite reach past that point.

He just…he almost feels like he’s about to lose this new precious thing he just got his hands on and it makes every instinct he has howl with the same answer to that silent but.

The answer is, emphatically, no.

“A kind man wouldn’t be price gouging eggs and game for every person who talks shit about Leeds—or plotting the murder of whoever put that look on your face.” He replies softly, his other hand rising to curl over Siebren’s shoulder. “C’mon…talk to me.”

"Already dead, unless you wish to kill me for what I have done to myself." It's not a serious suggestion. He knows how quickly John will dismiss it out of hand. But the clown, the candy clown, the work of sugar-spun bung fritz that he devoured, that he took into himself like a Catholic receives the body of Christ demands acknowledgment.

That thing rises up then, and John…

It’s not a loss of control. It pushes against his self restraint, and it doesn’t feel wrong to let it out. What startles him is the sound he makes: low, animal, angry, a lupine growl rolling out of him as he drags him in by that hand on his shoulder and—and it’s the first impulse, drawing Siebren’s head to his shoulder, just holding him close, gentle but firm.

Holding him gently, and frozen with a toxic combination of fear and fury racing through him at the very idea of it.

“No.” The whisper is shaky and furious as he leans his head heavily against Siebren’s. “No…no. No.”

"You don't even know what you're saying 'no' to. Are you in denial? You hardly know what's wrong." A certain anger is sparking in Siebren, too. A different anger. He feels smothered by the embrace this time.

“Any world you’re not in.”

He loosens his hold to look into his face again. He’s afraid to, terrified of it, but he has to look into his eyes and make him understand.

Rambo!…you not expendable!

His eyes start to shine as the truth presses down on him again, cold and heavy. How the good things never stay, how the roots never take, how people who get too close always end up dead…

She’s so much heavier in his arms after she draws that final breath…

“I don’t care what’s wrong.” He breathes. “I don’t care what’s the issue—I’ve already killed enough people who got too close, so…I’m begging you, Sieb: don’t ever say something like that to me again. Please.”

CW: allusions to PTSD flashbacks

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CW: death, PTSD, self loathing