singillatim | seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

JUNE 2024 EVENT

PART ONE — A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME: The Darkwalker claims another victim, and that is only the beginning of troubles for the Interlopers as they face a month of endless night and green gloom.

PART TWO — POLAR SUN: As June continues, Interlopers are faced with food insecurity as wildlife flees; tensions grow as they face hunger and the Darkwalker's continued influence. On the day of the Summer Solstice, the tension finally breaks and violent chaos descends upon Interlopers.

PART THREE — REPRIEVE: The end is in sight, and an ally comes to the Interloper’s aid.

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

WHEN: June 1st, then onwards.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area (Carter Hydrodam).
CONTENT WARNINGS: death of playable character; supernatural death; mention of dead body; themes of death; supernatural beings; themes of terror; themes of peril.

The evening is quiet and still. May draws to a close and while the sun does not completely set, it dips low enough for the sky to grow a little darkdim with twilight. The midnight sun is almost upon the Northern Territories, the air is warmer than it has ever felt — even if it remains chilly. If this is summer, it is but a gentle brush of reprieve against the unyielding winter. The Interlopers wind down for the night, many turn to their beds to sleep, others sit awake and ponder their existence in this world. They think of home, of loved ones, of their predicament here in this place. The Forest Talkers, the strange beasts and monsters they’ve encountered.

The moon wanes in the skies, nestled amongst the stars. For those still awake to notice, they can see it: slowly, one by one, the stars begin to go out. Then the moon's light is swallowed whole, and a blanket of green gloom descends upon the Northern Territories.

The sky is dark and green and terrible. Many of those will recognise it, what this means and what will come. Others will not understand it, not know what it is that awaits them all.

They will soon find out: the Darkwalker comes.

Under a green sky, a cold fear washes over you — squeezing the breath from your lungs. Interlopers will find themselves overcome with that fear, and everything in their bodies and minds tells them to run. To flee. And so you run, heading for cover. Curtains will be drawn, some may hide under beds, within closets or wardrobes. Some desperately attempt to conceal themselves, make themselves small, unseen. Some Interlopers, in that fear, may rush to friends or loved ones to hide with them, others may simply cower alone — crawling and whimpering away from the night. The fear is irrational, unable to be overcome — even by the bravest or most stoic of Interlopers.

For those within Milton, it is further away but is by no means less potent: Interlopers will find themselves frozen with the constant loom of the Darkwalker’s arrival — even if it does not come to Milton. Those within Lakeside, however, will feel the true force of this presence: more like a knife edge — painfully gripping your heart as it draws close.

The Darkwalker howls: indescribable, unnatural, demonic. Low moans and groans. It comes from the east, the faint booms of footsteps in the distance growing ever nearer. It is coming, once more. It's coming for one of you. And still, you are powerless, unable to do anything. And it is an agony, awaiting its arrival. You cry, you whimper, you cower. Curling up for some shred of comfort, and finding none.

For those in Lakeside, through the fear, they may be able to note the path: a straight line from the east towards Carter Hydrodam. It seems to go on forever, building into a crescendo. Your heart beats so hard you fear it may burst from your chest, as if you might die of fright.

There is an almighty sound; the Darkwalker devours and even with the distance you can hear it. The sound of gnashing teeth, and… laughter. There is no scream, no bright light in the sky — Enola is silent this time. There is only that laughter, echoing off into the night.

The skies do not return to normal. The green gloom hangs in the air. It is done, but it is not yet over. While the overwhelming fear dissolves away, but a kind of… dread remains on the air — almost palpable.

The Darkwalker has devoured another. Braver souls who go out to investigate into Lakeside will find just who has been devoured once they reach the Hydrodam — although it may be a day or two before they will find the body in the medical bay.

At least it is cold enough that the rot does not fully set in — but death will certainly be here.

And this is but the beginning of the Interloper’s troubles.

POLAR SUN

WHEN: The month of June, up to Midsummer’s Eve + Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; food scarcity/food insecurity; supernatural weather; altered mental states; mental manipulation; themes of violence; potential character injury; potential character death; potential NPC death.

In the coming weeks and days, and weeks, the green gloom lingers. From the Darkwalker’s attack, there is no sun. No day, no night. No stars or moon or sun. No Auroras. Just the gloom and biting cold. Life becomes increasingly hard on Interlopers: higher expenditure on fuel — fires and lanterns are imperative to keep the darkness and the cold at bay.

With the green gloom in the air, the wildlife becomes more scarce — as if it has been frightened away into the deeper parts of the wilds. It will be harder to bring in fresh meat in both Milton and Lakeside, and Interlopers will find that they will have to rely on whatever stores they have — and perhaps even rationing for a while.

And it’s not the only thing frightened. Even with the debilitating fear that comes with the Darkwalker’s attack gone, there is still a kind of fear that lingers on the air that slowly eats away at the Interloper’s resolve over time.

Interlopers will find themselves anxious, on edge. Some will be prone to anger in their fear, others prone to fits of melancholy: tearfulness and sorrow. Between the cold, the lack of fresh game and the fear on the air — it’s no wonder spirits are low. Bickering and minor upsets between Interlopers are likely.

They call it the midnight sun, the polar day. It's opposite is the polar night. This is neither and both. On the day of midsummer's eve, that fear on the air is even more palpable. The air feels a little stifling at times, as if the pressure is all off — often quite oppressive, a strange kind of tension. There is something brewing, a low burning thing that begins from the moment Interlopers wake — heavy and sharp in their chest.

’So, Interloper. What will you do now?’ A voice sneers in your ear. The very same voice that has haunted Interlopers since the very beginning. The Darkwalker finally speaks after all these weeks of gloom since its most recent attack. ’When all is gone, when even the sun does not rise? What will you do then?’

A nervousness sits within you as you remember the Darkwalker’s words. What will you do if the sun does not rise? If the darkness is all that is left? If the food runs out? Your wonderings will continue to gnaw away within you. The darkness is hollowing.

’Will you lean on others, like you have always tried to do?’ the voice continues. ’What bonds you hold with them, the ones with those around you. But how strong are they, truly? Can you trust them? Will it matter when your belly is empty and your heart is low? Perhaps it is time to see.

’Never forget, Interloper. I am the Rot. And I will rot within you.’

As the day progresses into the Solstice, that tension lingers in the air, and the wonderings within you continue to wear at you. You find yourself becoming more and more agitated as time goes on. Those feelings that have been brewing for some time now have started to grow close to boiling. You may snap at others, grow restless, become enraged at the tiniest of things — the upsets wildly out of proportion for the smallest slights or issues.

You find your thoughts wandering, too. Perhaps it is to someone you know in this place, or perhaps it is to someone previously unknown to you. Maybe you have an issue with this person, or perhaps the voice’s influence extends further — not only adding to your agitations but creating them, too. A slight, a grudge, a bias.

You feel a bitter gnawing within you. The nightmarish green gloom above you persists and everything bubbles up from within. From the dark, the anger within you become too much. The tension finally snaps.

For some, it might come out as a vicious argument where you air your grievances, or finally let slip the things you’ve been holding close to your chest. A verbal beat down, incredibly hurtful in nature. For others, things may be drawn to getting physical. A literal beat down where your fists grow bruised and bloody, or perhaps even worse. Whatever it is, you want to do damage to someone else — there is darkness here, and so many things come out in the dark, don’t they?

Like a ripple, all around you: all hell breaks loose. Chaos erupts, and the air is filled with violence.

Let’s hope you might stop, or someone else stops you, before someone gets killed.

REPRIEVE

WHEN: Circa three days after the Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: blood.

All things must come to an end, even the most violent of deadly storms. In the midst of the seemingly endless violence of the night, you find yourself outside. Maybe you're fleeing from another Interloper, maybe you're desperately trying to reach someone you care for, maybe you're simply trying to find somewhere new to hide. Interlopers are hunting one another, blood lies on the snow, bodies too — some breathing, some not.

Perhaps it is a trick of the light. Perhaps it's the Darkwalker’s influence still warping your already frayed mind. Or it's the blood in your eyes, your battered and bruised body struggling to get through it all.

In the gloom, you see it. See her.

A woman, dressed in furs, stones and shells glimmering on her chest like armour, stands in the snow before you. Thin and pale, eyes sunken. Her chest heaves with each breath as she looks around with wide eyes. Her hands are bare and bloody. It drips slowly from her fingers. Is it her blood? Or someone else's? You cannot tell, but you cannot mistake how thick it coats her skin.

Her head turns to look at you. You are stunned, but not frightened. Even through the gloom, after a moment or two, her eyes widen in recognition: she knows you.

Slowly and silent, other than her noisy breathing, she draws close to you. Maybe in turn you draw close to her, closing the distance between you. Up close, her eyes are blue, and sad. You cannot mistake the sorrow in them. She is tired, weary. Her hair is dark, worn loose and long. For some, you feel as if you've seen her before, but you can't quite place her face.

Softly, she says your name.

For some, there may be no recognition. This woman is a stranger, who knows your name somehow. She has been silent the past couple of months, after all.

For others, hearing her speak brings a sudden, jarring realisation: this is Enola.

She’s here. Enola. All this time, she’s whispered to you in dreams, in static, in the very air itself.

She raises one hand, dark and dripping in the green light. Lightly, her fingers brush against your chest. You don’t feel the pressure of them, don’t feel the odd heat of blood — only the weight of her stare as she holds your gaze. It’s a long moment of peace in amongst the chaos.

You feel her exhaustion, a tiredness that sinks into your very bones. Apologies, too. You have never known anything like it. But there’s something else too, something that takes a moment or two to put your finger on. Defiance. A renewal. Something shifts in the air, a growing tension, different from the kind that’s been held on the air throughout the month. It’s the coming of a storm, the rolling clouds, the growing rumble of thunder before the first lightning strike.

Enola nods, her expression grave. She pulls away and turns from you — her head lifting towards the skies as she walks. Her arms raise, bloodied hands twisting and tensing before her. They curl, almost into fists, and she makes a gesture: the slow tearing of something huge and invisible before her — a shriek spilling from her lips. A battle-cry, a last stand, a wail of agony. It echoes.

The sky cracks and splits open before you, dazzling light and colours blinding your vision into pure white. The world tilts too hard below your feet, and you don’t remember passing out.

When you awaken, Enola is gone. The skies are clear and blue, the sun is high in the sky. As you pick yourself up from the snow, in the harsh light of the polar day, blood has never looked so red. The horrors of the night laid bare. Interlopers are dead, but the Darkwalker’s influence is gone. For now.

In the wake of Midsummer, all Interlopers can do is try reconcile. Bury the dead, rebuild, lick wounds. But that feeling in the air still remains — that different, new kind of tension that has come with Enola’s appearance. The first of the lightning bolts has struck, but more are coming.

FAQs

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

1. Alexander Hilbert has been devoured by the Darkwalker. His remains can be found in the Hydrodam. The following note has been left by Kates concerning his death: ‘Sveta gets possession of his research notes + blood samples + creepy lab journal because it's all in Russian, lmao.’

2. Information on the Darkwalker’s attack can be found here.

3. Usually, after the Darkwalker attacks, the sky would return to normal. This won’t happen. Instead, the usual atmospheric changes that occur during Darkwalker attacks will remain in place as June continues..

POLAR SUN

1. For an idea how the setting appears for June, it's like what you see in the game during the Escape The Darkwalker Challenge. Inside, there'll be a degree of green shades to rooms etc via what comes through windows but with it being lit up via fires and light sources, the gloom will be chased back.

2. Characters are free to use this event to kill NPC Interlopers. Methuselah and Young Bill are off the table, as are two marked NPC Interlopers. Please let Mods know if you intend on doing this for record keeping!

3. These acts of violence can be physical or verbal altercations, players are encouraged to work with the prompt however they'd like! However, anything potentially world-altering (ie. building destruction) must be first discussed with mods.

4. Interlopers under the Darkwalker's influence can be stopped in a number of ways. Showing genuine care and compassion in the face of violence is one way. Knocking an Interloper out is another way. Sometimes killing an Interloper may be needed, or simply restraining them and keeping them locked up somewhere so they can't hurt anyone else until the night is over would also work.

5. Talismans made by Heartman back in March with a Ward Sigil against the Darkwalker will come into effect during this prompt. It's been an ongoing process, with new Interlopers being offered them from their arrival. Players are free to choose what kind of talisman they received, or if they chose to get one at all. Their effectiveness is dependent on the type of blood used on the talisman.

— Animal Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from animals found in the world, such as deer, rabbits or wolves will find themselves more susceptible to the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They will be much harder to break out of the hold over them, and become almost frenzied state.
— Monster Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from any creatures or monsters that Interlopers have encountered in their time in the Northern Territories, such as the Serpent from December’s TDM will find there are no negative nor positive effects. The talisman is essentially useless. and Interlopers will fall under the Darkwalker's influence.
— Interloper Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood for Interlopers will be offered protection/resistance from the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They may be slightly affected but will have their wits about them more compared to others. If the blood came from an Interloper with an Aurora Feat — this protection/resistance will be largely increased, an the Interloper may even feel braver, less affected by the fear in the atmosphere.
— No Talisman: Similar to the Monster Blood Talisman, Interlopers will be affected typically by the Darkwalker's influence in due course.

There are no additional affects with an Interloper using their own blood, just if they have an Aurora Feat or not.

6. Animals owned by Interlopers will be more frightened and will want to hide away in the build up — they will be disturbed by the world. Mostly lying down and whining/restlessness. They may display some signs of aggression on occasion, but not to the same degree of humans.

7. Forest Talkers are hidden away and will not be able to be reached during the Solstice.

REPRIEVE

1. Enola can only be met alone, but she will appear to all Interlopers in Milton.

2. Enola will be nowhere to be found afterwards, there are no tracks to be followed. She has simply vanished.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“Is that what these are?” He runs his palm over his thigh in appreciation. They’re very soft. “Everything’s thinner than I’m used to. Lovely though. Different.”

He tips his head back to thoroughly enjoy the feeling of Raju’s fingers in his hair. He sighs quietly; just because he hasn’t done this before doesn’t mean he isn’t any good at it. Crozier can already feel himself trying to hold in a groan as his scalp’s gently massaged.

“You’re doing fine,” he says encouragingly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Mm. Good." He scoops up another very small bit of water and moves more toward the top of Francis' head, spilling the water down over his hair and then moving his fingertips over Francis' scalp. When he meets a tangle he slows down, rubbing it between his fingers and untangling the strands from one another as carefully as he can. With his own hair he'd probably get impatient and trim some of these, wherever he could get away with it without the unequal length being obvious. With his own hair he can't imagine being this patient or this... satisfied, with all these days worth of tangles and having to unknot them one by one. Some of There'll probably be more toward the back of his head, where Francis has been laying.

"I'll find something for you to wear over those later." He gives up on a knot — half untangled, he'll have to come back to it with soap — and rubs at the scalp underneath fondly. "If I pull at all, tell me."

“Mhm,” he responds simply. He will be doing no such thing. The act in itself is a blessing; he won’t be complaining if matted hair gets tugged here or there.

Mesmerized by the touch to his head, Crozier’s eyes begin to flicker shut. What he wants to do to look back up at Raju as he works, stare without worry that his friend might find it somehow meaningful, but closing his eyes with a quiet sigh feels equally as natural.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he tells him after a moment. “It’s difficult to admit when caring for yourself stops mattering.”

Raju's hands slow, surprised, and he tries to gauge Francis' expression. His eyes are shut; he only seems relaxed. That's personal, emotional, in a way Raju wasn't expecting; there aren't many people who might say something like that to him, and even fewer who actually have.

But Francis has, and even beyond wanting to know everything about the man himself, Raju finds himself curious about this. About Francis' failure, and loss. There's no touching the topic usually, Raju tries to put himself in Francis' place and can't bear to, and has to go and keep himself busy for a while. But the idea of asking about it almost feels different now, with Francis safe and clean and cared for under Raju's hands. Since Francis brought it up, maybe he feels the same.

"It stopped mattering after your men?" He asks it softly, running his hand slowly down the side of Francis' head. In a moment he's going to cup Francis' jaw, trying to turn his face to give Raju access to the hair at the back, but for now his hand just sits there.

To this day he isn't sure why he held on for as long as he did. When the last man died in his arms - god help him, he's sure Little doesn't know it was him - it seemed important to keep living as some living record of the trials they'd faced. Disrespectful to do otherwise, an easy way out from the pain of his failure and loss. He nods almost imperceptibly, but it's an answer.

"James Fitzjames, on his deathbed," he says slowly, quietly, working through the underlying agony in the memory. "Fitzjames told me that God wanted me to live. It felt like a promise I had to keep. James wanted me to live, and who was I to go against God?

"But I didn't have to live well, or happily."

None of it seemed to matter. Do enough to survive and not be a burden on the community, live quietly as this cursed thing that never really belonged anywhere. He hadn't wanted to die, nobody really does, but life after the loss was barely anything at all.

"Nothing mattered after they died, Raju, least of all whether I plucked my beard or ate my fill."

Raju nods, even though Francis probably won't see it. The people back home, waiting for him. If they all died, if he failed and they suffered for it and Raju lived, and one of them asked him to keep living, too—

He smooths his hand down over the side of Francis' head again. He would do exactly the same. Of course he would.

"I'd feel the same." His murmur is a rasp this time. "And I wouldn't change my mind just because someone else wanted... Well. Wanted differently. But you thanked me."

His other hand works slow circles onto Francis' scalp. It's a question without a question. If Francis was inclined to speak on it this far, maybe he'll be inclined to answer it.

"Do you recall how I lived when you first met me?"

Those stubborn holdovers - living in an ice hut, keeping away from others, trying not to involve himself directly lest he become attached. Existing alongside them inside of with them.

"You care about me." Therein lies the difference. He isn't alone in this world anymore. There's Thomas, Edward, Harry, John to consider, and then the others he's met here and come to adore, despite those overwhelming feelings of terror about loving and losing once more.

"And as stubborn as I am, I can see when my life isn't just my own any longer."

I am still. Francis certainly hadn’t meant those words to carve themselves into Raju’s mind the way they have. Considering what he’d asked earlier, he probably doesn’t even remember that he said them. But Francis meant them. He’d wanted to stay. He still wants it now.

Raju bends down, not sure what he’s going to do even as he’s doing it. He kisses the crown of Francis’ head, lips pressing slowly against the hair and scalp there. He tries to speak but only ends up abandoning a brief, breathy noise and then just staying that way for a moment, hands cupping Francis’ head, breathing into his damp hair.

He straightens up all at once, swallowing and hurriedly smoothing down Francis’ now-disarrayed hair. “Then I should be thanking you,” he says, trying for a brisk tone as he reaches for more water with one hand, the other pressing gently against Francis’ jaw. “Turn your head for me, please.”

There are many things he doesn’t quite understand about Raju, and this is surely one of them. How he can go from such a sweet show of tenderness and gratitude to jumping right back into whatever happened moments before, typically some chore or not-quite-so emotional conversation, without any residual feeling seems like an impossible feat. He answers him with a stern, “no.”

He won’t be turning his head just yet, at least not in any way that would benefit Raju’s task. He’s still deep within the flood waters of Raju’s wave of affection, shaken to his core and unable to think about anything but the breath in his hair. It lingers in the air around him, heavy as his heart pounds rapidly in his very broken chest.

When he does turn his head it’s with one hand cupping Raju’s, pushing him up as he twists until his lips can meet his palm. He kisses the delicate skin gently, holding to make sure the sentiment stays instead of trying to chase it away. Why do such a silly thing? He cares.

Again, Francis doesn’t do what Raju expects: as easily as he’d started them on this topic he’s unwilling to leave it. Raju can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t be eager — or at least willing — to leave that kind of emotion behind, on the edge of too strong, too much to come back from. But Francis either doesn’t understand that or doesn’t care for it, and Raju waits to find out what else he’ll do.

Francis kisses Raju’s hand. His fingers twitch hard when he feels Francis’ lips on his palm.

You have no idea how you’ve made life worth livinghad been love, and of course And I loved you had been love, Raju has never doubted that.

Even after Francis pulls his lips away Raju can feel their echo humming in his palm. It isn’t the kind of affection that any man would give another, at home.

Raju’s face is hot again. He thinks of Seetha, of course he thinks of Seetha now, painfully, he hasn’t been a good fiancé to her for a long time but he’s never fallen in love with anyone else this way. But he’d marry them both, if he could.

The thought settles something inside of Raju. Not everything, but something. He isn’t sure why. But Francis had just said his life wasn’t his own, hadn’t he? It’s the same.

Saying no to the distance Raju had started to put between himself and the grief and gratitude of Francis being here, alive, is sending the stinging pressure into Raju’s eyes again. Or maybe that’s the rest of it. He doesn’t know. The distance had been simpler, thinking only of what his hands needed to be doing had been simpler, but Francis doesn’t want to go back to that and Raju doesn’t know what to do.

“Francis.” His voice is thick, and the dear face swims a little in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know what needs to be said afterward. He’s always spoken the truth with Francis, and doesn’t know the right words for it now. Instead he moves the hand Francis is holding, trying to push Francis’ grip until Raju’s palm is at Francis’ face again, its skin a hair’s breadth away from Francis’ lips.

If he asked for more, if he pressed for just once inch more, he wouldn’t be denied. It’s clear now, as it had been when Raju touched and bathed and cared for him, when Raju was so angry at him for being so careless with his life, when Raju tucked in against him as they slept - it’s clear that Crozier isn’t alone in his feelings.

But it’s too much for Raju, who sometimes can’t tell which way is up with his feelings. He looks up at him and his bright eyes clouded with tears and smiles gently. Too much. He couldn’t ask or press, he won’t.

He turns his head ever-so-slightly and kisses a very simple response to his name into Raju’s palm.

They needn’t say anything more; Crozier expects nothing more. He’s understood, and what a wonderful feeling it is on its own. Understood, and not hideous rejected, and not made to feel ashamed. It just is, and if there’s nothing more than the touch of hands and amicable companionship then Crozier thinks he can be very happy indeed.

His hand reaches up, those numb fingertips swiping gently under Raju’s eyes to catch any fallen tears. “Raju, none of that, dear man. I’ll stop being petulant.”

Francis kisses Raju's palm. Asked and answered. There's an almost painful tightness at the base of his throat and, as he feels Francis' fingers brushing over the skin underneath his eyes, it moves into his chest and changes into something bright and unnamable as it spreads.

He's done this gesture before. To Seetha. Not the day he'd left, when she'd been crying, but in the years before that, when it'd been easier. But he's never felt it himself.

Dear man, too. It would have felt warm and soft being called that by this man before, but there's a different tenor to it now.

I'll stop being petulant, Francis says too as he does it, and surprises Raju into something that might have sounded more like a laugh if his throat didn't feel so tight and strange. The idea of that, of all things, being why Raju is— whatever he is right now. He opens his mouth, but—

—but he can't just say things, can he? Not things like this, when they come from inside him. Not the way that Francis can. It isn't the first weakness he's discovered in himself since Francis was hurt, and at least he knows the one thing for sure, when he knows he doesn't like it. And he knows, probably, that it might come out a little easier if it seems like no one is looking at him. He sighs a little, then curls his fingers around Francis', not moving them away from his face, just wanting to touch, to...

Well. He'll see if he can manage it after he asks.

"Settle down and let me at your hair again, and I'll tell you the last three words you said to me, before you... you didn't die."

He can manage, it turns out. Actions are easier. He turns Francis' hand to press a slow kiss onto the backs of the fingers that'd been wiping his tears away. For all the power in the sensation, the intent behind it feels very like what he'd felt all the times that he'd touched Francis before. He breathes the rest out against the fingers in front of his lips, and feeling them there as he's talking helps.

"You don't remember it very well, do you?

It’s been established that he remembers Raju’s presence that evening but very little else, and it’s vexed him some to be left with that large, important gap in his memory. Lord knows he’s tried to remember, lord knows he wants to know those fateful words that were exchanged, the specifics that Raju kept from him without any intended malice.

He’d like to focus on those things too, and follow the directives given, but Raju touches his lips to his fingers and his mind goes oddly quiet. It’s as though they’re precious and delicate, not frostbitten and trending towards useless. As though he’s something precious - as though Raju thinks him as worthy and wonderful as Crozier feels for Raju himself.

His life is not his own anymore. It’s true, in so many ways.

He lays his head back down and doesn’t try for cheek again. He’d wanted to remain in the moment; he doesn’t get the only say in when that moment ends.

He tries to bring his focus back to the question. The last three words said. He frowns softly, but all he has is Raju’s arm about his and his quiet, steady voice. He doesn’t yet know the connection between that night and this moment, but there must be one. There has to be.

“No. I don’t remember it well at all.”

"Hm." It's a brisk sound. It is easier to be brisk, a little more distant from it, with Francis' face turned away from him. He wonders if he should be ashamed of that. He dips his fingers into the water, rubs soap between them, nudges at Francis' jaw with his knuckles. "Turn your head for me now.

"I was just thinking of it," he says as he starts in on whatever part of Francis' hair Francis will let him reach. Knots first, then he'll go over all of it with the soap. The knots will give him something else to focus on. "You thanked me for this, and said... your life isn't your own."

Because part of it is Raju's. Even with the tension in him, the way the memories press at the inside of his throat, he takes a moment to cup Francis' head and run his hand slowly down it. He takes a short, bracing breath.

For a few seconds he focuses only on his fingers, rubbing Francis' hair between them to lather the soap, focuses on the feeling of Francis' scalp under his fingertips. It's a sensation Francis wouldn't feel, or that he'd have to feel some other way, with his fingertips numb as they are. It's still a strange thought.

"You said, then..." But he'll need to explain more than those last words, won't he? He isn't sure where to start. "I was sitting with you. You were feverish and cold, but you didn't want anything else. Only that. We both knew— well. You, ah..."

He really isn't sure where to start. The only way through it is to try and recite the facts as if they don't matter. "You said how you met me, and you loved me. One more chance to feel alive. I said, you'd told me that I... didn’t know how much I made life worth living, I said that you'd felt alive, with me. And, um..."

After the and that tries to take him further, his voice wavers. That would have been unforgivable at home, an obvious sign that he couldn't afford for anyone else to see. He supposes he's worse at it than he used to be. "You said..."

He's more stroking the back of Francis' head now than washing anything. He wants to see Francis' face, but thinks he wouldn't be able to finish explaining if he could see it. He heaves out a frustrated breath. "I just want to explain why I was... crying. Just now."

Not exactly crying. More something that wouldn't come out happening to overflow. But it's as close as he's come for a while, and that's the only word for it he has. "I don't know why it's so damned hard," he says, voice sounding frustrated, too, fingers curling into Francis' hairline at the back of his neck and then releasing their grip, smoothing over Francis' scalp. "It's only words."

Oh. So he had admitted it outright. Of course he had, if he thought it was his last chance -

If there was one skill he’d mastered, one competency learned during that overland walk, is how to say goodbye. Which words will matter most when time is waning - more important than how to navigate or rig the sails. Whatever he’d said to Raju he’d meant with his whole heart.

“Words are some of the hardest things to get right, Raju,” he tells him, moving his head as asked.

Words were his weakness for a very long time. No charisma, no charm, no words to convince Sophia once and for all, no words for his men. He didn’t feel heard anyway.

“I assumed I’d overwhelmed you. And…keep overwhelming you, if I’m honest, judging by everything you just told me.” He pauses, grimacing slightly as Raju works through a particularly stubborn tangle in his hair. It still feels so lovely, having himself tended to in this way, Raju attentive fingers against his scalp, his chest feeling so full it’s overflowing.

He still wants to kiss him properly, take that dear face into his hand and bring them together in the way they both crave. But if he’s correct then Raju is overwhelmed, and anything more could push him over the edge. Hand holds and sweet conversations, he reminds himself.

“What were the three words?”

Edited 2024-06-26 12:46 (UTC)

The question helps, a little. Some direction. "You— I said, you felt alive, with me. And you said... ah..."

His fingers move over Francis' scalp, running a few times over the same spot to make sure one particular tangle is out. That's all he thinks of for a moment while the words already lined up in his throat come out. "You said—" His voice is steadier, emptier. "'I am, still.' And then you died. Well— then you slept. For a long time. Your body is more resilient than I gave it credit for, I think. You certainly didn't live through it because of anything I could do."

His fingers find a different spot closer to the base of Francis' head, and spend a few seconds running through it. There's another knot there, but it's smaller. He rubs soap into it. "So I, um—"

He'd been saying all this for a reason. He'd wanted to explain. He finishes explaining, still sounding a little distant but in a casual way, now. "And now, you said your life wasn't your own. You wanted to live, then. With me. And you want it now." Raju tugs at some of the hair in the knot and then pinches it near the base, so tugging at it doesn't tug so much at Francis' scalp. "That's all. That's what I was thinking about. It's... good. Good to know that. I knew it before, but—"

He doesn't have the words again. He gives a frustrated huff. "I don't know. It's different now. Isn't it?"

And then he died. How bleak. How miserable for Raju. How utterly devastating and terrible, and yet another reason for him to hunt Hickey down and string that bastard up himself.

But he’s cursed to live a long life. If Raju hadn’t realized that before he will now. It’s a horrible lesson for them both, but it drives home even further that earlier declaration. His life is not his own. It belongs to the ghosts in the tundra and the man currently washing his hair.

He exhales very softly, setting his hand over his chest for support. “Is it?” he wonders, hope selfishly swelling.

Selfish, selfish. Listen to Raju, how he can barely get through all that he’s needed to say. Listen to the pain in his voice and how much of that he himself had caused. His brow furrows, healing orbital socket and all, and he pushes down selfish hope to replace it with selfless realism.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he tells him, voice supportive and free from judgement. “Not if it’s too much. I would never ask you…”

As new as this is for him, it’s uncharted territory for Raju. He’s the strongest person he knows, but also the most frail.

“Nothing has to change.”

Raju's brow twitches. "It hasn't," he says, the confusion in his voice too. It's the opposite of what Raju asked, what he's just said. But the difference is that Raju knows now. Nothing's changed underneath that. There's a way to explain it. "I mean... With Seetha, nothing changed when we announced... well. What we were. It's what we always were. It's the same with you, I think. I was thinking, when you were... ill."

He pauses, lathers his fingers, moves to gently lather at Francis' hairline, at his forehead where he'd only rinsed before. Some of the pressure in his chest drains away as he feels it, as he keeps his hands gentle. "About the way I feel when I look at you." This part comes out confidently, or at least evenly, and it's a relief. It feels odd to say it, but it sounded so natural coming out. "And when I..."

He curls his fingers, brushing their backs down slowly over the skin behind Francis' ear, moving down onto his neck. "...when I touch you. I think I've always felt that way, I just... I don't know."

At that last he sounds a little annoyed, again. He's been saying it too often. But Francis seems to know, doesn't he? 'I would never ask you', and Francis had been thinking of something after that. Maybe something that all this means, something they could do with it.

"What wouldn't you ever ask me?" One hand feels the skin and muscle of Francis' neck under its fingers, while the other rubs slow circles behind Francis' hairline. He wants to know. "If you could ask."

Edited 2024-06-26 14:56 (UTC)

Sometimes it feels like they’re speaking around each other, the other’s point lost in the muck and mire of their own poor attempts at communicating. Neither is to blame; so it goes when two humans are insecure in themselves and what they want.

He licks his lips thoughtfully, too familiar feelings of insecurity bubbling back up. He stomps them back down with the help of Raju’s touch to his neck, the echoes of those words twisting pleasantly in his stomach. It’s what we always were, what I feel when I look at you.

He wouldn’t ask for physical intimacy, for a kiss, to take him to bed, but how in the hell is he supposed to say that?!

Just saying it, he supposes. God.

“I wouldn’t ask for anything more than just this, between you and I, if that’s what you wish,” he starts, finding it hard to wrap his tongue around the words. “But I’d quite like a proper kiss.”

Raju starts to consider it, hand at Francis’ hairline running down along it, fingertips leaving trails of water over his skin. Then he realises that he’s smiling, that the smile feels soft, and that he doesn’t have to consider anything. His hand moves to Francis’ forehead, palm settling across it and not pushing, but moving it in a very cautious way that suggests that, if the side of Francis’ face wasn’t so injured now, he would be. It’s time to rinse the soap away, and he wants to see Francis’ face better anyway, and wants Francis to see his.

“Then it’s too bad you wouldn’t ask,” he murmurs, voice very warm. Almost impossible to remember what he’d been feeling just a moment ago, explaining what he’d thought would be Francis’ last words, not unless he tries to. Not after hearing those words in that voice. He’s been wanting for so long, even when he didn’t know what the feeling was. Now Francis is here, healing, and he wants to kiss him. “Because I think I’d quite like that, too.”

His eyes dart between his hands, one pouring small handfuls of water over the soap in Francis’ hair while the other makes itself into a wall to keep any from going into Francis’ eyes, and Francis’ face, trying to catch his gaze before letting his smile sharpen, amused at his own teasing and happy, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

The handful of water’s been poured and gone to the places that it should so Raju moves his hand back down, curling its fingers to trace the shape of Francis’ upper lip as he holds his smile on Francis’ gaze, for as long as Francis will let him.

Of course he has to have this conversation with soap still in his hair. But it’s out in the open now, and Raju’s voice is gentle, his face smiling, and the relief, that lack of tension, feels almost palpable in the air around them.

But that relief is disrupted by a little jolt of desire. Ah - the hypothetical doesn’t seem so hypothetical anymore. Raju wants to -

He wouldn’t mind being kissed by him, and that crippling fear of rejection and never being quite enough for anyone is such a far away concept now.

“Then I guess we’ll never know, will we?” he replies, as casually as any person can be with their heart on full display. He holds his gaze and smiles, letting Raju touch the upturn of his lips as long as his fingers continue to hover.

He places another kiss to his hand, this time the tips of his fingers, which are a little damp and smell of that mild soap. He refrains from outright taking them into his mouth - a kiss, not a whole damn seduction, he reminds himself.

“Am I acceptable now?”

“Certainly not.” Raju should pour another handful of water over the back of his head, be thorough, but he doesn’t want to look away from Francis’ face, his lips, Raju’s fingers that he’s just kissed. “But your beard needs a lot of work if you’re going to let me trim it, and I’ve tired you out enough.”

His smile sharpens again. Why not say it? “For now,” he adds, pointed and pleased about it. “I think…”

This hesitation isn’t because what’s coming is difficult to say. It’s only that he isn’t sure about it, and he’s imagining it so he can be more certain. He exhales roughly through parted lips, eyes lidding a little. “If you did ask, and we did kiss, I would want more than your body can give me right now.”

His fingers start slowly tracing over Francis’ lips again. The tension is gone from his body, only a faint memory lingering — but those memories are of all possibilities with this man closing themselves off forever. In the reality in front of him, they’re all opening up.

“What else wouldn’t you ask for, Francis?” he goes on, voice inching toward a low murmur. “Only a kiss?”

He’s not expecting-

He hasn’t ever-

He doesn’t know how to respond to Raju and his obvious sincerity. Not even Sophia had been that upfront about wanting him physically; it was all coy smiles and little jokes until he’d finally had her, and even then it’d been a quiet, hidden affair. Sophia had never been ashamed of him, but she’d never fought for him quite like this.

Being wanted without some sort of fight or game to play is absolutely mind boggling. Raju just…he wants, and Crozier has no reason to doubt him, not a single one. He looks back up at him and those heavily-lidded eyes and thick eyelashes and has to exhale slowly against the lips still against his fingers.

“I’d…well.” Christ, now he’s the one stunned into silence. “No. Of course not. If you gave me that kiss I’d never be satisfied.”

He’d hate to lose the view and the touch, but he’s aching to sit up now and take that man into his arms, fulfilling all those frustrating daydreams and flights of fancy. He’ll ask him properly for a kiss, and Raju will just have to be patient and not ask for more in turn, lest his lung collapse.

Although…

No. Probably shouldn’t push it. He’s not superhuman.

“I thought I died the first time when you stripped down for the hot springs.”

Raju's heavy-lidded look turns into delight. "Really? I never thought—" He huffs, amused. "Maybe I should have. But I was only thinking about how you looked."

With a fond brush of a thumb alongside Francis' jaw Raju's hand moves away, so he can set it against the back of the chair and lean over it. Because he can, he dips a hand in the water and starts dripping it over the soap he knows is still in Francis' hair, the gesture mostly an excuse to run his hand repeatedly through Francis' hair and over his head.

"What did you like?" Raju grins, watching Francis from this new, closer position. "Tell me."

He laughs quietly, if only to hold back a moan that would be ill-advised in this moment (but so appropriate thanks to the feeling of Raju’s hands back in his hair). “By god, I’ve created a monster.”

And what hadn’t he liked?

“The little dip of your waist,” he answers, raising his own hand up to casually run over his arm. “The color of your skin, dark and golden and warm, the breadth of your shoulders, the way the muscles rippled every time you leaned towards me. Christ, you have no idea. Your neck, the way it slopes down in that graceful arc, your luscious chest that I just wanted to sink my teeth into, leave dusky little marks all over you…”

He might be getting a little too heated, but it’s difficult not to get carried away. “You’ve been so covered up, even in our cabin, but seeing the full picture of you…you took my breath away.”

But Raju had liked how he’d looked? He doesn’t understand it, he’s scarred and pitted and his chest hair is going grey and he has the body of a man who went through starvation, but he’d be a fool to question it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject