[ It's a strange month. The sky's a poison green, like something's spilled and tainted the air.
There's less food. A fact that might drift to his ears a little later than to others' — way out in their isolated cabin on the outskirts of town, with no method of instant communication. And they have their own means of staying fed, with the small farm they've started up. The thing inside of Konstantin stays fed too, routinely given what it needs. It's never an easy process, but he's found ways to keep it... bearable. He drinks blood from bottles, cups, bowls — never from the birds themselves. It's important that he only drinks like a person would. And the alien seems to accept this, but...
...he's wondered, in the long-term, if it will be enough. He knows it isn't, not really — it's part of why he stays so sick. The alien needs to feed from humans to properly stabilise itself, which in turn would stabilise him. Without humans, they're surviving, but... not thriving. It's weak, he's weak. And then he hears of food becoming more and more scarce, of less and less wildlife being encountered. And the fear grows and grows, making him restless; he doesn't want to leave the cabin, to be around others. He spends his days tending to the animals who are made just as restless by the strange environment, growing more quiet and somber as the days progress.
(It'll come down to two options, eventually. He can run away, try to leave this place, and probably die. Or he can stay, and try to survive, and it'll mean killing other human beings.)
Konstantin's always oddly unsettled whenever Vasiliy's not home — a fact that only seems to worsen over time, over the days and weeks and months spent with the other man — like he can't truly relax, like something's missing. He can function on his own, but it's... limited; he feels less without him. Like Vasiliy's a limb, an organ. He aches, quietly, without him.
And then he's home again, but something's wrong. There's black staining him — soot, he realises, as the other man explains — and he's bleeding in places, but he's also coughing too much. Konstantin's so alarmed it hurts, stepping closer, reaching for his arm, eyes wide, heart pounding. He's never been affected by someone else like this in his life. ]
You went in?
[Saved some feed. Over his shoulder, he can see the bags on the sled, drug all the way back here by Vasiliy alone... Konstantin's eyes widen; how did he even manage it? ]
Come in, come in, you need to sit down— [ He's pulling him towards the little area Vasiliy established to treat patients, coaxing him to sit, looking him all over. ] What can I get for you?
no subject
There's less food. A fact that might drift to his ears a little later than to others' — way out in their isolated cabin on the outskirts of town, with no method of instant communication. And they have their own means of staying fed, with the small farm they've started up. The thing inside of Konstantin stays fed too, routinely given what it needs. It's never an easy process, but he's found ways to keep it... bearable. He drinks blood from bottles, cups, bowls — never from the birds themselves. It's important that he only drinks like a person would. And the alien seems to accept this, but...
...he's wondered, in the long-term, if it will be enough. He knows it isn't, not really — it's part of why he stays so sick. The alien needs to feed from humans to properly stabilise itself, which in turn would stabilise him. Without humans, they're surviving, but... not thriving. It's weak, he's weak. And then he hears of food becoming more and more scarce, of less and less wildlife being encountered. And the fear grows and grows, making him restless; he doesn't want to leave the cabin, to be around others. He spends his days tending to the animals who are made just as restless by the strange environment, growing more quiet and somber as the days progress.
(It'll come down to two options, eventually. He can run away, try to leave this place, and probably die. Or he can stay, and try to survive, and it'll mean killing other human beings.)
Konstantin's always oddly unsettled whenever Vasiliy's not home — a fact that only seems to worsen over time, over the days and weeks and months spent with the other man — like he can't truly relax, like something's missing. He can function on his own, but it's... limited; he feels less without him. Like Vasiliy's a limb, an organ. He aches, quietly, without him.
And then he's home again, but something's wrong. There's black staining him — soot, he realises, as the other man explains — and he's bleeding in places, but he's also coughing too much. Konstantin's so alarmed it hurts, stepping closer, reaching for his arm, eyes wide, heart pounding. He's never been affected by someone else like this in his life. ]
You went in?
[ Saved some feed. Over his shoulder, he can see the bags on the sled, drug all the way back here by Vasiliy alone... Konstantin's eyes widen; how did he even manage it? ]
Come in, come in, you need to sit down— [ He's pulling him towards the little area Vasiliy established to treat patients, coaxing him to sit, looking him all over. ] What can I get for you?