[ closed ] why hold onto all that?

[hitokiller]

WHO: Okada Izou and "friends".
WHAT: Messy shenanigans.
WHERE: Out over the ocean, mid battle with the kaijuu, Revelation's communal bath.
WHEN: 2/3~2/4 & sometime... after.
WARNINGS: Drowning, blood, asphyxiation. More ??? potentially.

Comments

[hitokiller]

( painfully human.

it's been so long since he's been that, been breathing and life and guts and body. a servant is all that but nothing tangible, just a corporeal being with the ghost of a blood-beat snaking beneath their skin, just a remnant of the deeds that carved their name into the war torn map of history. it's only recently that he's felt the weight of having hands capable of forging new memories, of having a voice so real that those who aren't his master listen and remember, and you'd think he'd tread cautiously when it came to this chance at a new life.

but, as much as he protests being anything other than a blood-soaked demon, he is, just that:

painfully human.

as his leftover strength as a servant wanes, his lungs panging for air after being thrown into that maelstrom that is the sea, izou dreams. he sees a place on earth that belongs to him and his friends when they were as children, the lot of them cheering along the bank of a river, beyond the civilized landscape of row houses and down a hill as they egg each other on and play a game of keep-away in the water. he sees his small, calloused fingers as they dig through pebbles to compete with the other boys in a competition for rock-skipping, feels the defensive anger as he stands in the way of a group of them chastising his crybaby neighbor, a boy from a better household, for refusing to get his clothes wet and disappoint his older sister. simpler times.

before he can relax fully into that dream and those days of poverty followed by joyous times, though, unaware that he's drifting further and further away, there's a something pulling his weight against the caress of the current. the shifting of his limbs. palms thrusting into his chest, if that is his chest, once... twice. many times, followed by the brush of lips on his, though in the haze of almost drowning, it's difficult to focus on the activities taking place.

a coughing episode later, with water running from his lips and down his body: )

Don't... wanna die—

[skirm]

( how annoying, this feeling is. if wanderer searches the shelves of his long-lived memory, maybe he would be able to find a particular point in time where he felt... this, whatever this is. a suffocating feeling that eats him inside out, heavy and painful. for a being without a heart, it much feels like it's being squeezed by an invisible hand, a force that will make it burst and bleed. human emotions are overly complicated, and he has felt a great deal of them - anger, at the end of the day, had been his favorite, the one he had gotten to know the best, intimately. anger is a motivator, an enabler, the stepping stone for ambition. he keeps anger close to his chest, but not this.

something similar, perhaps, to fear. a sharp pain, a needle slowly piercing through flesh and muscle and nothing at all, because his body isn't so real, not nearly as human. wanderer has seen death so many times, has delivered it to those who deserved it and those who did not, and yet -

in his arms, fragile and weak, it's too close for comfort, too personal. he had been powerless once, unable to change the inevitable fate of those made of flesh and bones, painfully human.

at least one person. just one person. if he could at least save one person - )

You won't. I won't let you. ( he's talking, at least, breathing again. wanderer helps sit him up, head down, so the water comes out. ) Cough it out, then breathe. ( like he really knows what those mean tbh ) How are you feeling?

[hitokiller]

( the requests made of him are almost unreasonably difficult for something so simple: to cough it all out. to breathe. he tries to gasp through all the water he's been spitting, but his lungs won't obey him and do their job at first, and the ability to actually choke on air that he's gone without for so long is an experience he'll soon wish had never been granted to him again. he makes another attempt to suck in air before starting to spit again, his wet, grimy hands grasping at the folds of wanderer's clothing to steady himself.

even in this close proximity, the words said to him sound distant, but he's trying desperately to focus, to cling to life, because it's true—he doesn't want to die, not again, and especially not like this, with frigid fingertips pressing firmly on his windpipe. he tries to tilt his neck upwards to see his savior better, but even that feels like a monumental task.

fine. he can at least tilt it to the side... and as his blurred vision begins to adjust, the first thing that comes to mind while he's stiff with the cold and distressed is that... their small form reminds him of someone whose dear hand frequently stretched out to him as a child, the very notion of it drying his throat up even more than the continual coughing did. but that's...

—just not possible, and what's more, izou can identify who it is by their voice. )

C-Cold. What, even...

( izou croaks, the back of his throat burning. he's just gonna... attempt to stand himself despite everything, and despite it being a stupid idea after nearly drowning. )