— the dove, she promised land, as she laid the branch right into my hand | OPEN.

[extramuralise]

Who: John Irving (extramuralise) + OPEN!
What: Catch-all for various threads (event-adjacent or otherwise), and everything else in between!
When: Throughout March
Where: Milton & surrounding areas.
Content Warnings: Repression, religion, repentance etc... you know, the usual. Will update as needed!




( closed & open starters! feel free to PM / plurk me @ reggiemantle for plotting. )

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[extramuralise]

[ Irving draws back in faint alarm at Little's unexpectedly strong reaction to his presence, one hand flying up to his heart as if he were the stricken and startled one— a symptom, perhaps, of the obviously overtired feedback loop that has recently been at play within their cabin, mutual exhaustion fraying both their nerves raw and sensitive. He stumbles awkwardly on his feet, using his free hand to brace himself against the wall, but then knits his brows in disagreeable confusion. ]

Nonsense, [ he says immediately, barely missing a beat. ] If you're ill, then you'll need caring for until you're well again, otherwise you'll only succeed at making yourself worse.

[ And Edward Little is one of the very last people around whom Irving can ever imagine fearing for his own safety; if anything, Little's company brings Irving great contentment, which is rare feeling for him indeed.

Closing the distance between them, Irving reaches out to press his palm to Little's forehead like a mother checking if her child has a fever, though it's still difficult to tell for certain— the skin doesn't seem overly warm to him, but the clamminess of Irving's palms offsets any ability to be properly objective.

Sheepishly, he withdraws his hand quickly, as if burnt. ]

Let me help you.

[fidior]

[ Of course John is meeting Edward's warning with goodness, selflessness — unwilling to abandon him, to draw back from him, and in fact moving closer. Edward's taken aback by it and yet not at all surprised, somehow, because he knows his friend would seek to nurture him.

And he wants to let himself slip into that. He wants— closeness, warmth, help. He wants help with this; he's terrified. That fear runs deeper than fat, muscle, bone, down to the depths of himself where all of the things he's feared the most have scraped away at him, making him hollower and hollower over time. He doesn't want to be alone. The palm to his forehead is cool to the touch but a welcomed balm, and for a moment Edward's like a child, eyelids fluttering, heart wide open with trust.

But seconds into the touch, he feels it, a prickling awareness of something that he shouldn't be aware of, and he doesn't know how to identify it. He doesn't know that it's the "gift" his friend has recently been bestowed with, that what he hungers for is not flesh or blood but a sort of life force.

John's hand pulls quickly away and Edward's startling in the same moment with a sharp, alarmed hitch of breath. He's hungry. He's so hungry. He takes another step back, then another, until his back is against the nearest wall. His hands come up close to his mouth as though in attempt to block a taste, or smell. His mind is spinning with nausea and fear and something slick, like saliva pooling, like the lining of a belly aching to be filled. He's known hunger before, of course, but never like this. ]

John, I— [ His words are breathless, rushed. How can he possibly convey what's wrong with him? What is happening to him? ]

This is no... illness of this world. I had a dream— a nightmare. I have been... touched by something. [ He doesn't know how to explain. The darkness is like a living thing, affecting his senses, his thoughts, his— desires. ] ...Infiltrated by it. I—... There is something very wrong in me now, and I fear it might lead me to hurt you.