[hider=Shatter] [center][h3][color=cyan]『𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣』[/color] [color=8493ca]『ℂ𝕙𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕤』[/color][/h3][/center] [center][img]http://i65.tinypic.com/28hztyw.png[/img][img]http://i63.tinypic.com/2h84geb.jpg[/img][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 ℙ𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕤 / / [@RedDusk][@January][/color][/center][hr][hr][center][color=silver]𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥. 𝟟, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / 𝕌𝕊𝔸ℝ𝕀𝕃ℕ 𝔼𝕒𝕤𝕥 / / ℂ𝕒𝕞𝕡𝕦𝕤 / / ~𝟚𝟚𝟚𝟘[/color][/center][hr] [hider=Static] Christmas sat on a bench outside the student center building, shivering in the frosty weather. The extra towels given to him earlier were now wrapped around his shoulders in imitation of a jacket. His second set of clothes were piled in a heap on his lap in a further attempt to keep warm. The pocket knife was still folded in his right hand. He couldn't go back to the suite. That one decision wrapped around itself and spun endlessly in the white noise of his mind, collecting and devouring the flecks of conscious thought around it like a black hole. He had been staring at the ground ever since Fredric had hastily sent everyone away. Some commotion and a screaming cuff alarm. The woman--Daisy--had been screaming as well, but he hadn't pulled himself together enough to piece any of the information into the proper logical connections. He had just walked away as the soldiers commanded, letting the blank sounds of meaningless thoughts consume him. [i][color 8493ca]Ground. Ground. Floor. Floor. Walk. Walk. Walk. Floor. Floor. Ground.[/color][/i] Easy to not think. So easy. Like running into his mind and never coming back. Time didn't seem to register properly to him, and for hours he had sat and watched the [color 8493ca][i]ground, ground, ground[/i][/color], waiting for a directive from his own mind. By the time curfew came around, he had still only found the one thought--the one aversion to returning that he now clung to in the crumbs of his stalled awareness. A guard came up to him, announcing something loudly, but he couldn't put the sounds together into any meaningful pattern. His head nearly ached every time he tried. Easy not to think. The man wasn't saying any of the words looping in his mind--[color 8493ca][i]ground, ground, ground[/i][/color]--and he looked at the gray sleeve of the guard's uniform, expressionless. Just sounds and more sounds and he [i]couldn't understand[/i], but the sounds kept coming and increasing in volume. [color f7976a]"--back to--suite!"[/color] But he was missing so many pieces because he had dropped them and he thought they were right there but they weren't and he had blinked and now he didn't know where they were and he was scared but he wasn't even [i]there[/i] to be scared and--just [color 8493ca][i]gray--can't, gray--go back, gray[/i][/color]. The sounds were quieter now. Not directed at him. Something in the man's hand and he was still watching the [color 8493ca][i]gray gray gray[/i][/color]. A heavy hand pulled him to his feet (but he couldn't find the thought that matched the feeling of [color 8493ca][i]not--...not--not...?[/i][/color])--and the guard dragged him along the [color 8493ca][i]ground, ground, ground--walk walk walk.[/i][/color] The building loomed before him, brightly lit in the night, and even then he still wanted to confirm the ground was the ground. Glass doors parted and a sheet of white fluttered in front of him. Not a sheet; not a sheet. [color f7976a][i]Coat. Coat. White. Coat.[/i][/color] His brows furrowed briefly in confusion as they pulled him along more ground and into a room with a simple, white bed, an empty, metal pole and unfamiliar machines. No, not unfamiliar. He was in a room. In a place. In a somewhere--but it was easy to not think. His head throbbed as he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, flittering thoughts firing off weakly in response. But the static that was all he could make of himself drew the smallest particles of reason back together, and it was hard and his head ached but he was [i]trying to be here[/i]. [color f7976a][i]Hospital.[/i][/color] [hr] Sander turned his head when the scent hit him. Only darkness in that direction, blurry outlines of trees and buildings loomed for as far as his eyes could see. But he knew. He didn’t really need eyes to tell that it was Christmas. The boy was moving. Somewhere. But not in the right direction. Not the direction Sander hoped he would. His steps faltered briefly, the memories of their last interactions suddenly at the front of his mind. He worked through them carefully in his mind, but he stayed on his course. There was little he could do. [i]It was not his place.[/i] Never was. After parting ways with his would-be sparring partner, Sander returned to his suite, the vivid images of shaky shoulders and pale hand reaching for a knife played on the repeat in his head. They reminded him of incompetence and helplessness, and his haggard mind was far too weak to keep them at bay. He tasted anger, raising from somewhere deep in his chest, but it was the rage of the defeated. Its teeth were turned inward. There was fear too, in there somewhere, but with his Stigma brought so low, anger prevailed. Its battering force crashed into his thoughts like waves, suggesting, no, demanding action. [i]Do something.[/i] He was so tired. He just wanted to drown them all. The first thing he did as soon as he got back was grabbing the red canister from the fridge. It was cold in his hands, the lazy sloshing promised relief, and his heart fluttered in anticipation as he searched through the duffle bag for the bundle of straws. He just needed a little bit. He needed to drown out the noises. Just as he was heading into the bathroom, canister and straw in hand, he caught sight of Christmas’ Vita again. It sat alone in the middle of the unmade bed, and somehow, the sight only spurred Sander deeper into his empty rage. [i]He was alone, a fresh patch of gauze on the inside of his arm.[/i] They were both blond. That was where the similarities ended. Yet his feelings were the same. They were both wasted on him. Sander released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He couldn’t let it happen again. But how? By the time Sander had gathered up a bag of his personal effects and made it through the front door of his suite, he still didn’t have an answer. That was nothing new. But at least, he was doing something. So he forced himself to walk. He remembered the way to the hospital, and once he arrived, he let the scent lead. It didn’t take long for him to find the room. He stopped himself just at the doorway, trying to calm his ragged breaths. A flurry of people in white coats were just leaving. He stepped aside, watching them just as they watched him. One of them eyed him and pulled out a phone, messaging someone on the other end. Several seconds of staring passed with eyes looking between the phone and him. After a momentary blink of surprise at some unknown response, they finally walked away, shooting him wary glances. But they didn’t give him any trouble, so he tried not to overthink too much. The scent told him there was no bleeding. Christmas was sitting on the white hospital bed, bandaged hand at his side. On his other hand was the knife. Sander spent the first moments just watching the blond boy, noting the movements of his chest and sorting out his thoughts. [i]Another ghost.[/i] No. Alive. [i]For now.[/i] Sander gritted his teeth, forced his heavy legs to move, taking him to the nearest table, where he could drop off the bundle in his arms: the red canister, a balled-up shirt and a small zip up bag. He then reached into his pocket for the black Vita. The device felt heavy in his hand as he placed it on Christmas' lap, where he hoped the blond boy’s gaze would catch. Christmas had been watching the knife in his hand, eyes running back and forth along the length of the black, palm-contoured grip. [color 8493ca][i]Choices.[/i][/color] The word jittered in his mind with every repeat, and he found it a little more effective in pulling the static back together into more elastic thoughts. Far and stretched thin, but palpable. As much as the knife in his hand. The white coats and sounds had been there for some time, but he hadn't been counting the seconds or the minutes. When several more lengths of rubbery thoughts had condensed enough for him to really feel the cold on his skin and remember that [i][color 8493ca]it was cold[/color][/i], the loud, white coats had left. He thought he heard more quiet noises, but not sounds. Not blurry words he couldn't put together. Still waiting for a directive from a him that was only barely [i]here[/i]. His Vita slid into view. And so did a bit more of him. A current in the static. A thought discharged. [i][color 8493ca]I'm here.[/color][/i] He blinked. Once. Twice. Squeezed his eyes shut again and held that darkness for as long as he dared. [i][color 8493ca]I'm here.[/color][/i] When he opened them, he felt the console's steady weight against his leg and his shivering hand trailed across it, touch as faint as his mental presence. [i][color 8493ca]I'm here.[/color][/i] His roommate barely responded, which only tightened the knot in Sander’s stomach. [i]Another ghost.[/i] But he was fine. He looked fine. He should be fine. But the blond boy really wasn’t. Cold dread crawled up his back as Sander stood there, stiff words stuck in his throat. His rage failed him then. For all its roaring fervor, it didn't offer an answer. Just a chance at the solution. A chance that wasn't sure he wanted to take. The silence dragged on, until Sander turned around and grabbed the chair. He moved it to the other end of the room, then returned to the desk for the canister and straw. He wanted to leave the room, but he didn’t want to leave the blond boy alone. He couldn't fall asleep on his feet either, which he likely would, if this kept up. He had to do this. It would only take a while. Christmas didn’t seem like he was watching, and he knew they were. They would stop him, should anything happened. It was easier this way too. When he narrowed his choice down to just one, it was easy to go through with it. Easy to pretend that he never had a choice to begin with. The canister opened with a quiet pop, and he stuck the straw in. There was no hesitation this time. [i]The water rose to meet him, its embrace soft and forgiving[/i]. He was warm again. Christmas squinted at the Vita, the slow, unsteady slide of his hand across the black screen stopping at the presence of more noises. His brow creased in thought. Trying to find the rest of him. Bring it all back to [i]here[/i]. Blinking forced his eyes to push [i]sight[/i] through the fuzz of noise and dust in his mind as he broke his own habitual attempts to stare and fade away again. Why was he here? Finally a question. Finally another conscious thought. And he sucked in a sudden breath when his body shook a fraction of that daze away. The clatter of aluminum on the hard floor shattered the bulwark of breathing and blinking that threatened to lull him back into his stupor. He stared dumbly at the rolling cylinder, watching as its travel stopped at the closed, wooden door. Of the hospital room. That he was in. A seated figure in the corner of his vision jumpstarted his heart when his mind finally drove the image home. Sparks and small currents before. Now an electric burst. Christmas jerked forward, breathing rapidly, his stare not quite focused on the floor for several seconds before he turned a fearful gaze towards the person in the corner, eyes tracking a scattered, automatic pattern across the pale, lanky figure hunched over on a chair, elbows braced against his knees while tapered fingers clasped together in front of a downturned head. He was slow to find his reactions, even slower to find thoughts to link together. So he just let his eyes roam, taking in details and turning them over and over in his head while he waited for more of himself to draw back together. Simple, white sneakers almost lost in the color of the flooring, toned calves taut with tension and nearly as white, darkened only by a thin smattering of faded brown hair. Black shorts contrasted with the figure's light complexion, paired with a white tank top underneath an open, blue hoodie that was the only significant color on the ensemble of monochrome. He blinked again, staring now at the head of carefully layered hair, brown tips thinning past the ears and angled fringe just long and uneven enough to look messy without seeming slovenly. He almost missed it at first in the fluorescent light glancing off the dark hazelnut strands, but there was another shade in there. Sandy blond, an uneven patch of it around the clockwise whorl of the figure's hair, spreading from the roots. Sandy blond. An intellection followed, crinkling on the elastic strands of his thoughts. Sandy. Sandy. No. Another syllable. [color 8493ca]"Sander."[/color] The humming of the heater pushing warm air through the ceiling vents nearly drowned out the name. Someone called his name. It was barely above a breath, but Sander heard it, loud and clear. He lifted his head, a slight movement, but it was the biggest he dared to make. He didn’t have too much. Just enough to keep him from wanting more, to melt away the edge of his thoughts, but far too little to replace said thoughts with the illusion of freedom. Once again, he fought the urge to move. Not yet. From the other side of the room, faint blue eyes stared back at him. Sander just watched, his gaze fell slowly, first at the white expanse of skin just above the collar then to the neatly bandaged hand. [i]Golden hair, matted. Red. So red.[/i] [i]She smelled like lavender.[/i] Not the twisted scent. That was his, and his alone. Sander kept his breaths slow and deliberate. He counted a few, before he forgot and found himself looking at the gauze again. Not good. He didn’t stop, though. Couldn't. But at least that was all he did. The fire climbed higher, its beats rattled his ribcage. He slipped off the hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. He wasn’t cold anymore. Staying still felt like holding his breath; his lungs was burning up and his fingers twitched. Resolve straining. “[color=cyan]You are not okay.[/color]” -He broke the silence before he could remember why doing so was a bad idea. But spoken words were not meant to be taken back. He let them hang. The words were slow to glue themselves together and Christmas felt like he was failing again at those elementary school art projects, doing his best to slap the pieces in the right places. But they linked together. It took a long silence and a lot of glue, but they linked as his eyes trailed over the heap of blue on the ground. [color 8493ca]"Ah--"[/color] the noise came out on reflex, but he had to remember what words were supposed to be there in the missing blanks. [color 8493ca][i]I'm here. I'm here.[/i][/color] [color 8493ca]"--I'm sorry."[/color] “[color=cyan]Tell me I am wrong.[/color]” -The words mimicked his breathing, slow, but forced and heavy. Sander hold onto the steady rhythm; his fingers bone white as they entwined. “[color=cyan]Please.[/color]” -He added, a few seconds too late. The politeness felt tackled on now, a half-hearted afterthought. A little faster now. Putting things together. Still too much glue and the shapes were off the lines, but no one was correcting him here. Christmas obeyed the command easily, though another mismatched feeling simmered with a word he couldn't place. [color 8493ca]"You're wrong,"[/color] he replied automatically, whispers from his mouth and confusion on his face as he looked down at the Vita and the knife. Choices that didn't matter and choices that did. [i][color 8493ca]I'm here.[/color][/i] “[color=cyan]But I am not.[/color]” -Sander’s hands came apart, one reached up to claw at the thin fabric around his torso. The heat was persistent, but he had to stay put. He fought it, his wavering will against the scorching flame –“[color=cyan]Tell me the truth.[/color]” He didn't know how. Christmas pressed "truth" against several shapes, trying to find one that would fit his mouth. His breath. His nerve. He settled for the truth still lingering in the room. [color 8493ca]"I'm..."[/color] The words "not" and "okay" had never come together before and he didn't have shapes to place the letters. But "not" and something else always did. [color 8493ca]"...not nice."[/color] The tips of his fingers dug into the flesh, but blood and cloth dulled the pain. Sander focused on the sensation instead, putting more strength behind his hand, like he was trying to pry open his own ribcage and snuff the rising flame –“[color=cyan]You are.[/color]” -He mumbled, suddenly too soft. So he repeated it, louder this time around –“[color=cyan]You are.[/color]” “[color=cyan]They say…I am the same thing…as [i]this[/i][/color].” -His speech began to come apart, distorting as his thoughts scattered and dove into that place of [i]red, red, and stained gold, slick and shiny[/i]. He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eye shut for a moment. [i]Focus.[/i] “[color=cyan]You never…like her. Like Callan.[/color]” -He forced his eyes open, because he must. He didn’t think he could stand the sight of matted golden hair again, so he had to keep watch. But it was hard. His fear was dull thing now –“[color cyan]That’s why…you are wrong.[/color]” Christmas didn't recognize the name, but the fragments of Sander's thoughts filled in the spaces between his own. He glued over the shapes with his mismatched words, trying to fit them inside the lines as much as he could. He had always been terrible at it. [i][color 8493ca]I'm here.[/color][/i] His injured hand covered his eyes, the movement bringing the neat bandages between them. [color 8493ca]"...I'm not nice,"[/color] he repeated softly, peering through the gaps in his fingers at the predatory red irises that gleamed back at him. [color 8493ca]"...I'm the same thing."[/color] He pried the words from Sander and fit them to himself. Sander shook his head, the action so controlled and rigid it seemed more like a twitch –“[color=cyan]You are. To me. That’s enough.[/color]”- He kept the words curt this time, so they wouldn’t break –“[color=cyan]I won’t…lose again.[/color]” [i]The ache of old wounds. Golden strands of lavender. Tainted. Like his dream. The dream he chose.[/i] [i]This was what he chose.[/i] “[color=cyan]No.[/color]”-He grunted, the words tumbling out. There was a note of desperation in them –“[color=cyan]I’m trying. I’m not…letting go. Don’t go.[/color]” The bandaged hand fell to his mouth as he watched Sander talk at something or someone else. And he already knew Sander would hear him over the attempt to stymie quiet words, the ones he didn't need to prepare. [color 8493ca]"I'm here."[/color] “[color=cyan]No.[/color]” -Sander mumbled, rising from his chair. Which he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, but his resolve was slipping –“[color=cyan]…you are not.[/color]” He crossed the room in barely two strides. Standing at his full height, he loomed over the blond boy, his breathing finally matched his pounding heart –“[color=cyan]Don’t leave.[/color]” “[color=cyan]I don’t know how…[/color]” –His burning gaze dropped to the black knife, to the bandaged hand, then back to knife again –“[color=cyan]…when you do this.[/color]” Christmas followed the gaze to the folded knife in his right hand. Choices. He had never made good ones. Not with his family, not with Alvin. But they were still [i]his[/i] choices. And he had heard the desperation. Sander was trying. It had taken him 18 years to even begin trying, and here he sat with his indecision despite all the bravado that had moved his footsteps beyond the threshold of his bedroom door that August evening. It would be easier not to think. And he was sure the rest of that static untouched by the elastic, uncatchable even with the glue, would have chosen for him one more round of misery if it had put itself together in time. But he [i]was[/i] here and it had taken him 18 years to realize he had choices beyond a rock and a hard place. He held the folded knife up to Sander in an open hand, without insistence. [color 8493ca]"I'm here,"[/color] he repeated, standing his ground, perhaps for once in his life. Sander looked at the offering hand, red eyes searching for something. A gleam of a blade, perhaps? Pain? Fire? Was he waiting for a piece of memory to come back to life? Did he want it to? No. The answer was no. He was here to make sure of that. He had to remember. Sander reached out, catching both the knife and the hand, but his grip was far laxer than what he was capable of. Christmas’ hand felt cold in his –“[color=cyan]You scare me.[/color]” -He said, forming the words clearly this time. But the flesh felt real enough. He wanted to be convinced –“[color=cyan]I don’t know how to fix that.[/color]” The predator towering over him was afraid of a coward who had chosen to run from every successive wrong in his life, until he had chosen to run from all of that as well. Christmas looked up at Sander's face, at the eyes brimming with the promise of death. Scared of him. The brute strength on the cameras flickered through a weak line into the forefront of his mind and the cowering boy in the sewers on the screen beside it. Scared of the boy who still cried over nightmares. If he had been all there, he wondered if he would feel proud of that. Pride at a slant. Like petty retaliation for stepping over his bad choices in the security room. So he was glad to be fragmented here, where his mind was half-missing and in just the right parts that he couldn't tie his own tongue all the way back to his thoughts. Messy words glued onto his mouth and they barely connected, but he decided that was [i]okay[/i]. Whatever he was right now, fragile and nascent, it was still more than the sum of his patchwork parts. [color 8493ca]"You don't have to,"[/color] he held Sander's stare. [color 8493ca]"I'm not nice,"[/color] he said for a third time, and something caught on the lines, [color 8493ca]"but I want to be. ...Not strong. ...And want to be."[/color] He looked at Sander's hand, feeling now the unnatural body heat. One more grain of static drawing back in, but he put it closer to the right place this time. [color 8493ca]"I'm trying, too."[/color] Blurry letters fell off the end, and he squinted like he could make them out. But the two unspoken words scattered back into static before he could even pull them into focus. Sander blinked, the flurry of words settled into his muddled mind. Everything was crisp and clear, whirling in slow motion, like looking through a magnifying glass. But that was all he could do: looking. He didn’t really see. He was missing the big picture. “[color=cyan]I…can’t.[/color]” -He mumbled, and it would have sounded almost apologetic, had the line of his jaws softer and the look in his eyes milder. His grip alternated between steel and silk, pulsing with the same rhythm of the silent war in his veins. Blue eyes drew him, and he was leaning in, tethering on the brink before he caught himself –“[color=cyan]Yours.[/color]” -He pushed the knife toward Christmas, the decision breathy on his lips. Then he plucked the knife from the blond boy’s hand –“[color=cyan]…But…later.[/color]” Christmas didn't know if he could find this part of himself later. Would the static sea coalesce and bury this again? Moments of clarity that had taken him his entire short lifetime to find, drowning in specks of thoughts he had and didn't want, actions he wished for but never performed, dreams he saw but closed his eyes to. But right now he was [i]here[/i] and he hadn't left everything behind to keep drowning. Sander's grip caught and released his hand and the knife to a laborious rhythm. Struggling. And Christmas didn't need to know the [i]what for[/i] when he understood the [i]trying.[/i] The scarlet eyes were closer now, shining in front of him and promising death like that day on the battlefield. He had thought this at first. And it was still true. But he was casting his hopes on the strength behind it. The Sander that was trying as much as he was. [color 8493ca]"Promise."[/color] A lifeline. "[color=cyan]Later. I promise.[/color]" -Sander nodded, almost too eager, ready to move on from the decision before he had a chance to regret. Before the liquid courage faded. But the uncertainty was still there -"[color=cyan]But...don't go.[/color]" -He repeated. A few more time, and it might as well be a prayer. Maybe later, when he was more lucid, the comparison would be a twisted sort of irony. Prayers were for the hopeful. He didn't know hope. Hadn't known that for a while. It made sense, sometimes, to question what he was really holding onto all this time. But the blood high didn’t let his thoughts branch out enough to really matter. Another small mercy that he didn’t always feel thankful for. Who the command was directed at didn't fully matter to Christmas. It would have under any other circumstances--under any other collection of himself that didn't really fit together. But he had always tried cramming every single piece into the same [i]here[/i], even when it strained everything else. He was missing just the right mistakes in this moment, and it nearly scared him how well everything else could align. Smoothed down. And everything that [i]worked[/i] was compelling and clear. [i]Here.[/i] Except for one thing. And he knew better--just for now, just for now, but it would be enough to part the sea when [i]later[/i] came--than to ignore insurance against himself. He had read in a visual novel at one point that the mind finalized decisions in electrical signals before even the conscious thoughts processed them. How accurate a video game could be about neurobiology, he wasn't sure, but he believed it now. Because he hadn't fully realized his right hand had already pulled the ribbon free from his hair. The cornflower blue strip of fabric--nicked and bloodstained from the first day's battle--was several shades lighter than the heap of blue jacket on the floor, and he looped a loose ring of it thrice around Sander's left wrist, eyes straying to the folded knife clutched in his roommate's left hand. [color 8493ca]"I'm here,"[/color] he hooked a finger into the loops and tugged once. Weak. But he was here. A [i]here[/i] in case he faltered at [i]later[/i] because Christmas knew his pieces. (Just for now, just for now. But maybe it was enough.) Knew himself. [color 8493ca]"Are you?"[/color] Sander took his time just staring at the blue ribbon around his left wrist, noting every nick and every stain on the fabric. It felt so light, the touch barely there, and he didn’t dare to move, even after Christmas had withdrawn his hand, afraid of tearing the flimsy ribbon apart. He briefly wondered what it meant, but the blood high had other agenda. His chest constricted, a firm reminder that his borrowed strength was running out, and it wanted its due. Soon. His breath hitched, filling his lungs with the coffee scent, and the thrumming in his head suddenly grew loud. He leaned further in, one knee bracing on mattress. But his hands remained stiff and unmoving. He gripped the knife hard, no flesh in the way this time. “[color=cyan]I want to be.[/color]” -He whispered his answer, but red eyes had begun to grow glassy and unfocused –“[color=cyan]I—I think I can. I am more than…this.[/color]” -More and more, it felt like he was trying to convince himself. He might as well be. Who else would? Sander wanted to be. Just like he wanted to be. Christmas stared back at the fading gaze, no longer as sharp as the eyes just several minutes ago. Fuzzy at the edges and he wondered if Sander broke apart into static sometimes, too. [color 8493ca]"I believe you."[/color] Sander blinked slowly, trying to clear the blur at the edge of his vision. The scent drew him in further still, and he felt himself obliging. A tiny part of his mind told him he shouldn’t. Was he more than just [i]this[/i]? “[color=cyan]Thanks.[/color]” -He was vaguely aware of his mouth moving, forming the words. Suddenly, the white of his roommate’s shirt was so close. It was rushing up to meet him. He turned his head at the last minute, letting the side of his head take the impact, jaws clenched shut. The coffee scent was overwhelming now, but he spent all his shattered resolve on forcing his limbs to stay still. It wasn’t too hard, fortunately, since they already felt leaden to begin with. Black spots danced in front of him, and he could focus on nothing but the fading light reflecting off the white walls across the room. He had to keep an eye on Christmas. But maybe…he could rest for a little bit. Just a few minutes. His eyes drifted shut, the warmth beneath lulled him further into unconsciousness. The weight on Christmas’s body was heavy, the pressure familiar, even if the faint, sweet-and-sour scent of green apple shampoo was all wrong (Alvin was tea tree mint). The distinct pressure of bony ribs on his chest was all wrong (Alvin was steady muscle). The rapid heartbeat slowing down gradually was all wrong (Alvin was measured and even—always). The heady body heat was all wrong (Alvin was colder). Because it was Sander. Who didn't know him and still brought his Vita to the hospital. Who didn't know him but still didn't leave him alone. For a cowardly boy named Christmas who could only hold on to every piece of himself because he had too little to lose and everything to want, what was he most afraid to let go of? Could he? He didn't know yet. Lily was right. He was bad at letting go. How does a coward survive, after all? Selfishly. And that wasn't "good" or "nice." But [i]here[/i] he was and [i]here[/i] Sander was and he didn't know what he could and couldn't let go of yet--but he would [i]try[/i]. Sander’s slow breaths wisped across his throat and collarbone with every exhale and Christmas watched the ceiling without moving a muscle, mind ticking slowly through the haze of static as he noted uselessly the Vita Sander had brought (again) fallen to the side, the knife beneath Sander’s loose grip, the ribbon still wrapped around Sander’s wrist, the bandaged left hand caught between Sander’s stomach and his, the two pairs of legs hanging past the bed at the knees, and the solid, unbearably [i]human[/i] presence of someone with him. In all of it, he just hadn’t wanted to be alone. But he had never once asked properly. Uneven breaths as he rested his right hand over Sander's bare arm fallen across the length of his torso. Minutes that he didn't count ticking by. Tears down the side of his face and the missing words from before finally falling into place with the parts of him that remembered exhaustion and every tattered remnant of the day’s weariness. [color 8493ca][i]Help me,[/i][/color] he mouthed to the fluorescent lights above as unrelenting fatigue pulled him away from the shallows of his consciousness. [/hider] [hr][center][color=silver]𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥. 𝟠, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / 𝕌𝕊𝔸ℝ𝕀𝕃ℕ 𝔼𝕒𝕤𝕥 / / ℍ𝕠𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 ℂ / / ~𝟙𝟙𝟘𝟘[/color][/center][hr] [hider=Safeguard] He was down at the riptide again. The dark water danced around in his peripheral vision, every twist and turn a beckoning. A promise of power and freedom. One he had believed. One he would, all over again. The tyrant wave coiled, but it didn’t close in. Something was holding it back, something as strong as the beyond. He cranked his head to look, but there were things that the eyes couldn’t comprehend. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw down the walls, to drown in the crazed currents. To pry the truth of its empty promises. There was nothing he could do but want, in this world of dreams where he was stripped down to just fear and hate and raw, aching desires. The sparks reached him. Just scraps of power; pale, pitiful shadow compared to what he could have had. But he lapped it all up. He took it all. It was all he had left. All that he could rightfully call his. “[color=8493ca]…I’d still take it.[/color]” [i]But it didn’t have to be all he was.[/i] [hr] Sander couldn’t remember the last time he woke up to the smell of coffee. The containment chambers had always been cold and sterile and hard. Never this soft. Never this…warm? Strange. It was warm beneath him, across the side of his face, along his bare arm and through thin fabric around his torso. Softness pressed against his chest. It shouldn’t. He remembered this warmth, and it shouldn’t be here. He opened his eyes, blinking into the white of a t-shirt. Not his. A heartbeat. Sander pushed himself up on his arms. Everything came into focus. Another. “[color=cyan]Shit.[/color]” -The curse word fell from his tongue, hushed, almost foreign in its disuse. He straightened himself up from his awkward position, stumbling a few steps back as his body adjusted. Last night came crashing back into his mind like icy waves. He remembered half-spoken words and steady gaze. Promises so soft he strained to catch through the haze of the blood high. His eyes fell to the blue ribbon looped loosely around his left wrist. [i]Oh.[/i] A promise. But what was he promising? Was it even him? There was a later, but not [i]his[/i]. Or was it? He frowned at the fragmented memories, shaking them from his mind. The pieces were too shattered for him to even consider sorting them out. He wouldn’t. All he needed to know was that he promised. And he always kept his word. His gaze turned to Christmas’ sleeping form; the blond boy still sprawled out uncomfortably on the hospital bed, legs still hanging off the mattress at the knees. Last night nagged at his thoughts again, prompting him to sniff the air gingerly. No blood. No more than usual. Which meant nothing happened. He let himself relax slightly, the tension slowly eased out of his shoulders as he drew closer, hooking an arm underneath the crooks of Christmas’ legs to move him into a more comfortable position. The crumpled sheet beneath the boy drew his attention, but he didn’t want to risk waking his roommate. His eyes flitted around the room, and he caught sight of the balled-up shirt from last night. He grabbed the T-shirt off the desk, a slight look of hesitation passed through his features before he decided to walk over and used the shirt as a make-shift blanket for Christmas. The shirt covered all of the smaller boy’s torso, so he figured it would do for now. With that done, Sander began to retrieve his things from the room in silence, including the empty canister on the floor. Only then did he notice the pocket knife still on the bed. Grabbing both the weapon and the black Vita, he placed them on the desk, before heading out back to the suite. It was already late morning when Sander finally made it back. His neck ached if he just so much turned a little to the side, courtesy of last night’s awkward position, but the spring in his steps was still quite apparent. It hadn’t changed that much, if he were being honest with himself. There was still a lot to think about. A lot to do, and a whole lot of fixing, but he felt like he had finally made some sustainable progress for the first time in years. Small mercy. He would take that. As the door closed softly behind him, Sander made a beeline for his bed, started digging through his duffle bag for fresh clothes. As the door to her dorm opened Kusari flinched. Her backside scooted on her bed towards the wall as she quickly hid her sketchbook behind her. She had no idea how it came back, all she knew was that it was stained with blood, and that someone had left a note for her inside. the note confused her, it was a message of gratitude, but for what? Did they enjoy her drawings that much? Perish the thought, she forced the topic out of her mind, and focused instead on the boy that had just walked in. She watched as Sander walked towards his bed, not word spoken. He looked more cheerful than usual, which wasn't saying much, but still. [color=662d91]"Sander."[/color] She stood from her bed, and glared at him. [color=662d91]"You didn't come back last night, Where were you?"[/color] She asked, her tone oddly neutral. She looked up for a moment, as if contemplating something. [color=662d91]"Nevermind, I doubt it matters. What I do want to know, is if you actually agreed to fight Callan.[/color] “[color=cyan]Kusari. Morning.[/color]” -Sander spoke, mildly surprised. It seemed as if he noticed just now. A weak smile stretched his lips and Sander straightened up, a guarded look in his eyes as he subtly glanced over her monster limbs. The answer for her previous question was already on his lips, but seeing as how she wasn’t interested in pursuing that particular topic, he let it go and moved onto the new line of questioning –“[color=cyan]Callan as—Yes. Yes I did.[/color]” -He cut his own words short, deciding to keep them curt. Kusari stared at Sander. Her crimson eyes hardly blinking. [color=662d91]"Oh?"[/color] She slowly walked towards him, not entirely sure what she was about to do herself. [color=662d91]"Knowing how dangerous it will be, you said yes..."[/color] She stopped just a foot away from him. She raised her right hand, and placed the tip of her pointer finger to his neck. With her claws as sharp as they were, she'd only need to gently swipe to cut open his throat. [color=662d91]"If she ends up seriously hurt, I am going to return every injury on her body tenfold to you."[/color] She lowered her hand. [color=662d91]"Understand?"[/color] “[color=cyan]Uh.[/color]” -Sander blinked, eyes flitting between the clawed arm and his roommate’s red irises. He took a step back –“[color=cyan]Yeah…I don’t want Callan getting hurt too.[/color]” [color=662d91]"You can say that now, but can you say that while you're high on blood? You are a totally different person when you drink it."[/color] “[color=cyan]I’m trying.[/color]” -Sander furrowed his brows, tone uncharacteristically defensive –“[color=cyan]And I’m getting better.[/color]” [color=662d91]"Are you now?"[/color] Kusari huffed, slightly amused. [color=662d91]"Well that would make one of us, if it's true.[/color] She waved her right hand, wiggling her clawed fingers. She turned around, and headed for the door. [color=662d91]"I'm going to get something to eat. Remember what I said, I'll be watching."[/color] She said, exiting the room. Sander let out a heavy sigh, the bathroom door behind him closing a touch too loud. He swallowed the black rage that threatened to overtake his mind. He was more than this. He was [i]trying[/i]. Was that enough? They couldn’t see past the things he couldn’t help and he—no, he couldn’t really blame them for that. He really couldn’t. He stared at the ribbon in his hand. At least he was getting better. He could be better. He made a promise. [i]Which he would break, like everything else.[/i] Sander threw his head back against the door, hitting the hard material with a dull thud. He got better. The ocean finally gave something he could work with, this time. He would not fail [i]her[/i]. He would not fail Callan. He looked back at the ribbon again. [i]Here.[/i] The morning routine’s steady rhythm calmed the sparks that threatened to combust in his head. By the time he finished with the shower and changed into an outfit that he wouldn’t miss, Sander slipped on the pair of white sneakers from the other night and headed out, pondering his schedule for the day as he fumbled with the clumsy knot around his left wrist. He had thought to tie it like shoelaces at first…but he didn’t think that was how ribbons were supposed to be tied. [i]She[/i] had never shown him how to tie a ribbon before. Frustrated, he tugged on a strand, tightening the knot into an unsightly clump. It was stuck now. He frowned deeply, tucking the knot under the sleeve of his sweater. His next stop was the cafeteria. He didn’t eat breakfast as a habit, but it was quite late now, so he supposed he should get some food anyhow. His thoughts went to Christmas, and he wondered if he should check back to see if his roommate had awakened yet. Food first, but then he remembered Kusari’s words. He thought he could do without his other roommate’s presence at this time. So he made up his mind and grabbed a sandwich for himself, along with a hefty stack of pancake. His gaze lingered on the beverage display, picking out the heady scent of coffee. But he didn’t need it. He didn’t really need it. [i]Drink up.[/i] He hastily gathered the two boxes into his arms and made a beeline for the hospital. Christmas was still sleeping by the time Sander returned. He decided to leave his roommate be, grabbing the sandwich so his stomach would stop bothering him. The blue ribbon dropped down on his sleeve when he did though, and Sander hesitated. He placed the food item down, before starting to fiddle with the stubborn strand of fabric some more. [hr] [color 8493ca][i]Help me.[/i][/color] The storm above had ebbed. Still present, but now laced with sky like thick swaths of thunderclouds woven with fine threads of golden orange twilight. It was a blanket over the field of parched yellow, and dampened the ferocity of the wind. The long stalks of grass were no longer pressing him into the earth below and Christmas took his breaths one at a time, pushing himself into an awkward seat and bracing his arms against the dry, crumbling dirt beneath. More breaths and he was standing, gripping the frame of the rusty swing set for balance. The dirt and grass shifted against the soles of his bare feet, sometimes caressing, sometimes prickling, but always there. Firm ground under him, but he had needed to step down first. The swing he had been sitting on was still broken, the rectangular seat dangling vertically at the end of a brittle chain a bit past his head. And...that was okay. Somehow, it was okay. The wind was still strong, though it no longer battered against him and threatened to shove him off his feet. In the swaying of the grass and the slow creak of the swinging chains, the second seat remained perfectly still. Like it was weighted down by something. If he tilted his head and squinted, Christmas thought he could make out the barest outline of a figure. So faint he could blink and think he had never seen it at all. He took a step towards it and it became only barely more visible. For a split second, he thought he saw a ribbon on its wrist, but another blink and the faint image was gone again. It had a ribbon, too. How strange. He reached for the ribbon on his head, only to find it wasn't there. [hr] Christmas awoke with a start and a gasp, hand against his head as his fingers raked through his hair, looking for his ribbon. It really wasn't there. And that feeling of something different in his power was swirling in the eddies of his mind. The field and the almost invisible figure on the swing shimmered into view against the confusion, but he wasn't interested in that at the moment. Where was his ribbon? He always put it on before sleepin-- Oh. God. [color 8493ca][i]What. What.[/i][/color] [color 8493ca][i]What.[/i][/color] [color 8493ca][i]...What.[/i][/color] His mind repeated the word rapid-fire as yesterday night's events rolled back into his head with perfect clarity. Except it was like watching someone almost entirely different processing everything and acting out thoughts he hadn't even realized were his (he couldn't even convince himself it was a dream) and what what what why had he-- [color 8493ca][i]I'm an idiot.[/i][/color] But that was nothing new. What was new was his missing ribbon and the large, gray shirt draped carefully across his torso, smelling faintly of cologne: crisp, fresh notes (like a burst of fruit, but just the barest touches--and he couldn't catch it fully but it was strong and bright) with a deeper undertone--subtle wafts of a refined, woody trail and natural, understated sweetness. Raw and noble. So different from the sharp, calculated spice of Alvin's scents (peppermint and eucalyptus, he thought--though he had never asked). The lingering abstractions of the morning comparison flicked at the more concrete memories of recent events, scattering them across his focus again. [color 8493ca][i]What was I even thinkin--[/i][/color] Sander was right there and his whirling mind screeched to a halt, not stopping fast enough because the [i]too vivid[/i] recollections of Sander's body heat and soft breaths were battering rams against orderly thoughts, and his hadn't even been organized to begin with. The words collided with his mouth and tumbled out in a mess of sounds as he processed all at once the ribbon around Sander's wrist and the taller boy picking at the knot (definitely not his knot--he didn't tie it yesterday, he remembered--oh, god, he remembered). [color 8493ca]"Huh--'m--gh...?"[/color] Sander turned his head at the curious noises, only to find a wide-eyed Christmas staring right back at him. His brows went upward and his fingers halted their futile task, courtesies rolled off his tongue like a startled reflex –“[color=cyan]Uh…Morning?[/color]” [color 8493ca]"H-huh?"[/color] the blond boy stammered back, blinking at the ribbon, blinking at Sander, and then that train wreck of his thoughts again as he tried to think beyond the weight of Sander's body and--wait, did Sander sleep on him? [color 8493ca]"S-sleep?"[/color] he squeaked out about a sixth of the question before he could stop himself. A short, quiet wail followed before he finally remembered that Sander had said something to him. [color 8493ca]"Huh--uh--m-morning? Morning? It's--it's morning?"[/color] The word he finally managed to grasp rotated in and out of the revolving door of his mouth as he sat up and looked around the hospital room, suddenly acutely aware of Sander and trying to think about "morning" and not "last night." The soft, gray shirt falling off his chest and onto his legs did not help that effort. “[color=cyan]Yeah. Morning.[/color]” -Sander jerked his head, gesturing at the midday light filtering through the half-opened curtain. He wasn’t sure if this was standard behaviours for the blond boy or not, because honestly, he hadn’t seen it before. He was unsure what to do about, so he decided to just move onto another topic. It worked for him before –“[color=cyan]…Sorry about last night. I wasn’t thinking…Did I—Your hand is okay?[/color]” Christmas shook his head rapidly to protest Sander's apology, then nodded to the concern about his hand, trying to figure out what order words were supposed to go in. [color 8493ca]"Huh--no, I, uh, no--it's okay. M-my hand,"[/color] he threw it up like a stiff greeting before dropping it just as rigidly, [color 8493ca]"s'okay. Uh--s-sorry. I'm sorry."[/color] Sander blinked as he worked through the fragmented speech of his roommate, his right hand absent-mindedly returned to work on the tangled knot on his wrist –“[color=cyan]Uh. Okay. You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything.[/color]” [color 8493ca]"N--"[/color] he zeroed in on the ribbon as Sander's hand plucked at it again. Right. He had thought something ridiculous like hopes and leaving them with someone more trustworthy than himself and even knowing that he hadn't quite understood why the Christmas of last night had decided to foist them on Sander. He had barely become acquianted with his roommate, even if they certainly had their fair share of intense conversations in just five days. His mental petrification lasted another few seconds while his brain once again pulled out last night and put it on display. Betting his hopes on a kind stranger, because a part of him gambled with despair and thought it could win. And no. Here he was, adrift without a guide again. Of course Sander wanted the ribbon off. Who puts ribbons on people randomly? He did. That's who. Christmas sucked in a deep breath, shunting away the sudden disappointment and melancholy of realizing Sander didn't want the silly thing and focusing on Sander's repeated attempts to pull it off. But he hadn't tied it. He remembered that ([color 8493ca][i]Augh[/i][/color]). Or maybe he had and didn't remember, but he wouldn't tie it [i]like that[/i]. And all of the extraneous thoughts were piling on each other to hide away the distress--he couldn't very well cry after behaving so inconsiderately the night before. The burden of someone else's wishes wasn't Sander's to bear. Obviously, he couldn't and shouldn't have forced them on his roommate who was struggling just as much as he was (he remembered that--he did--and the reminder of that parallel quickened his heartbeat). But for all his self-distraction, the sight of Sander trying to pull it off was crushing. Like being thrown away. [color 8493ca]"...I-I'm sorry,"[/color] he finished instead, looking at the ribbon nervously. [color 8493ca]"I can--I can help you take it off. I'm sorry."[/color] [color 8493ca][i]Please don't throw it away.[/i][/color] A blip of static. A small correction. [color 8493ca][i]No. This is okay. It's okay.[/i][/color] Sander turned to face Christmas, considering the blond boy’s offer for only a brief second – “[color=cyan]Sure.[/color]” -He straightened up and quickly made his way toward the bed. His roommate's unusual demeanour still gave him a slight pause, but he just charted it up to a morning thing. It wasn't like he knew Christmas very well. When he was standing right before Christmas, he offered up his left wrist, his fingers still hadn’t made any progress on the failed knot –“[color=cyan]I’m just…uh…not sure how to tie it. It’s kinda stuck now.[/color]” [color 8493ca]"Sor--sorry,"[/color] Christmas mumbled, hands snatching at the uneven lengths of the two loose strands. The knot was incredibly tight now and Christmas took his time slowly teasing out the twists and turns without further damaging the fabric. The ribbon was sturdy, at least, and the cloth was heavy enough that even the small nicks and cuts could be tugged on safely as long as he did it carefully. So he worked at untying it, focusing only on that and not on Sander's hand near his and that faint perfume of Sander's clothes. He didn't think about the shirt now crumpled across his legs, hoping it wasn't Sander's but already certain it was. Didn't think about what he had said and done the night before. And [i]definitely[/i] didn't think about Sander lying on top of him, reminding him too much of someone he wasn't sure he missed entirely. But he at least missed--so terribly--that warmth and presence, no matter how intermittent. [color 8493ca][i]No. It's okay. It's okay.[/i][/color] Just the ribbon. And untying it. And then...maybe he'd just hold onto it for a bit. Tying it back into his hair would be strange if he did it immediately, right? Like offering and being rejected and then putting it back in place, still fresh from a mistake. Never made good choices. Apparently never will. [color 8493ca][i]It's okay.[/i][/color] The length of fabric came free, falling off Sander's wrist and into a small pile of stained cornflower blue above the gray of Sander's shirt on his lap. Christmas hadn't realized he had almost been holding his breath. He let out the stifled air and stared at the strip of blue for a moment before setting it aside. [color 8493ca][i]It's okay.[/i][/color] His hands set to neatly folding up the shirt on his lap, instead, the motions quick and easy from habit--though he hadn't developed the habit for himself. [color 8493ca]"Um..."[/color] he held the square of shirt in his hands without looking up, [color 8493ca]"is it--this is yours...?"[/color] Sander watched Christmas untwine the ribbon around his wrist with keen interest. However, he grew confused when the blond boy set the strip of fabric aside instead of tying it back on. He held out his left hand for a few moments after that, before letting it drop uselessly to his side with a puzzled expression. Didn’t Christmas give him that ribbon last night? Was he misunderstanding something here? Had he offended the blond boy in some way? “[color=cyan]Yeah. It’s mine. Thanks.[/color]” -Sander frowned as he accepted the folded shirt back from his roommate. He held it in his hands, staring mindlessly at the grey fabric for a few moments before turning back to Christmas. The blond boy was still refusing him eye contact. Sander huffed out a clipped breath, once again feeling out of his depth. Maybe Christmas was just too tired of his ignorance…Or it could have been something far worse. [i]Stained gold. He closed his hands around a strand. Wrong. Wrong.[/i] Sander pushed the image out of his mind with another quick exhale, before kneeling down before Christmas. He glanced up at the blond boy’s face, seeking eye contact. “[color=cyan]Uh…Are you sure you are fine?[/color]” -His left hand reached out again, until he caught himself and braced it against the matress instead –“[color=cyan]Did I—Are you hurt anywhere?[/color]” Christmas had been expecting Sander to leave, or maybe even reprimand him for putting ribbons on wrists that didn't want them. He was under no illusions about his particular preference: it was weird. Even weirder when he considered the circumstances that had led up to the loops of blue around Sander's wrist. And suddenly pale blue eyes were there in his lowered field of vision, and he couldn't help but look back at them because for a split second he was afraid of cold, blue-gray eyes measuring his worth again. But it wasn't. It wasn't. Sander was still there. It wasn't terse conversations on a bad day and silence in the air while Alvin's cold stare reminded him how insignificant he was. Sander's gaze was gentle and he couldn't hold it for long, so he looked towards the shoulder instead. The questions caught him off guard. He was never sure if he was fine. He just told himself he was until he thought it was believable. But at least to the second question, he could give an answer. [color 8493ca]"N-no,"[/color] his surprise snuck into the slightly raised voice, unable to fully piece together exactly why Sander seemed concerned. [color 8493ca]"I'm--you didn't, um--I'm fine."[/color] His eyes strayed to Sander's left wrist again, before he fixed them back at Sander's shoulder. [color 8493ca]"I, uh, I'm sorry about...um..."[/color] he looked at the ribbon, curled into overlapping loops on the mattress, [color 8493ca]"not asking you."[/color] “[color=cyan]Asking me about what?[/color]” -Sander raised an eyebrow, reaching for the limp ribbon. He looped it around his left wrist again, but didn’t attempt the knot this time around. Instead, he held it up for Christmas –“[color=cyan]I would like to keep this, if you don’t—uh, if you haven’t changed your mind. I’m sorry, I just…didn’t know how to tie it.[/color]” The static buzzed in his head again, but this time there was something behind it. Like it was veiling a reason or some part of him that was crowing victory over the depths. Was it okay to be happy? He didn't move for several seconds, staring at the ribbon on Sander's wrist again like it could, at any moment, disappear. And maybe he was giving Sander a chance to retract that offer. Because he was so used to failure, it felt like success itself was [i]wrong.[/i] [color 8493ca]"...You--you want to keep it?"[/color] he looked back at Sander's face properly, eyes guarded in case he was misunderstanding or had somehow misheard. [color 8493ca]"But I--I didn't ask if you...if it was okay to--"[/color] he reached for the uneven loops tentatively, ready for Sander to move it away at any second. [color 8493ca]"...Is it okay to?"[/color] “[color=cyan]You gave it to me.[/color]” -Sander just offered Christmas a smile. It felt natural enough, yet there was a tingle of melancholy in its depth. Friends and family had been a distant memory for him. Ties he loved and lost. Pieces of him they stripped away. It didn’t bother him much; he couldn’t miss what he barely remembered. But even with these fragmented, half-forgotten parts of him, he knew enough to care. He knew enough to hold on to what he could still have, even when the feelings were so foreign he couldn’t even put a name to them. But that was good enough. "[color=cyan]I would like to keep it.[/color]" -He continued after a short pause. It was a tender smile. A touch of sorrow on the edges. But still comforting. Christmas couldn't remember the last time someone had directed a smile like that at him. He took too long to realize he was smiling back, the expression spreading to his face as well when Sander asked to keep the ribbon. He turned away, coughing quietly and grasping the ribbon's ends, ducking his face to hide happiness because it wasn't normal and he didn't want to show it to anyone--afraid they would judge him for it and take it away. Sander's wrist was warm where his fingers brushed against it to undo the ribbon and wrap it again properly. He just focused on that heat, letting it blanket all the tiny bursts of emotions that he didn't want to show. The scatters of a smile he was still trying to hide were clearing equally tiny fragments of static fog and he was afraid of the clarity behind it. Strong and bright. Like the sun, but not garishly so. Like the scent of the shirt. Like placing unwavering hopes on kind strangers. He blinked rapidly, mind trailing back to that open field in his dreams and the gentle twilight sun slipping in through gaps in the thunderclouds. But what if he was still wrong? A haphazard blur of regrets and anxiety obscured the landscape in his mind and he fixated again on the words he had learned to accept. [color 8493ca][i]I'm okay.[/i][/color] Tie a simple knot first. Loop the ends over the index fingers, then behind and around the next finger. Weave it multiple times over and under the fingers of one hand. Pull the end through. Small loop. Weave one more time. One more loop. Tighten. The motions were fluid, because he had performed it a thousand times and more. A ribbon knotted with two bows decorated Sander's wrist and Christmas's fingers lingered a bit on the fabric before he dropped his hands, fiddling with the rough texture of his shorts. [color 8493ca]"Thank you,"[/color] he mumbled to the sheets on the hospital bed. Sander watched Christmas’ fingers working through the loops, his mind struggled to memorize every twist and turn of the ribbon. When the blond boy was finally done, he offered another smile, but before his mouth could open to form the words ‘Thank you’, Christmas already beat him to it. “[color=cyan]What for? I should be thanking you.[/color]” -Sander let out a small huff of laughter, though his gaze remained fixed on the blue strand of fabric –“[color=cyan]Thanks.[/color]” Christmas coughed feebly in response, the sound of laughter pleasant in its unexpected appearance. He liked hearing it, even if he couldn't join in. After a few seconds of dissecting the knot with his eyes, Sander eventually reached for it and began to unravel the strand with his right hand. Then he set to work on recreating the knot as much as he could. It didn’t seem that hard, given the similarities between this and some of the shoelace knots he had worked with. However, tying a knot onehandedly had its own difficulties. After a short moment of struggle though, Sander managed, though his knot looked slightly lopsided. He frowned, tugging on it in an attempt at fixing, but it only seemed to make things worse. “[color=cyan]Urgh.[/color]” – Sander made a frustrated noise in his throat, once again unwounding the ribbon and trying again. [color 8493ca]"...Um,"[/color] Christmas watched Sander fight a losing battle with the ribbon, [color 8493ca]"I..."[/color] the words caught in his throat as he wondered if it was okay to interrupt Sander's attempts, [color 8493ca]"...if--if you want help...?"[/color] “[color=cyan]Yeah. I suppose I do.[/color]” -Sander let out a soft sigh, once again offering his arm to the blond boy –“[color=cyan]Would you mind doing it slower this time?[/color]” He nodded quickly, looking down at the wrist. [color 8493ca]"S-sorry."[/color] Christmas was careful not to tug too quickly on the ribbon this time, looping the ends slowly over and around his fingers and angling his hands so Sander could see where to pull the loops through and how far before tightening the knot again, leaving behind the bows once more. He rubbed the end of the ribbon's tail with his thumb and index finger, staring at it in front of him like he had never seen it before. In a way, wrapped around someone else's wrist like this, he really never had. [color 8493ca]"Thank you,"[/color] he whispered to Sander's hand, the words scarcely audible. He let go, hands falling back down to his lap. Like an eager child, Sander undid the ribbon and tried again. It turned out better this time around, and he spent a few moments just looking at his handiwork with a small smile on his lips. Then his gaze fell on the dark stains on the blue fabric. Oh. Stains. He couldn’t stain this. His fingers froze. He couldn’t wear this. At least not now. Not yet. Supressing a sigh, he slipped the ribbon off, clutching it tightly in his hand. Christmas watched the motions, looking at the pale, slender fingers slowly wrapping the blue cloth around themselves, bending gently to hook a fingertip into a loop and curling inward on a pull. Delicate movements, and at the same time he remembered the iron grip on the battlefield and the feverish grip in the forest. Hands that could do anything. He recalled thinking that of someone else, too, but nudged his thoughts elsewhere, concentrating instead on the ribbon coming loose once more, lost inside Sander's firm grip. He glanced up briefly, a question ready on his open mouth, but stopped in time and returned his gaze to the hospital bed. Sander wanted to keep it. That was the important thing. It didn't matter if he wore it or not. “[color=cyan]Uh. Christmas. May I?[/color]” -Sander suddenly broke the silence. He extended a hand toward the blond boy, palm upward –“[color=cyan]…Your hand, I mean.[/color]” -He added after a short pause, his mind seemingly just finished processing his own thoughts then. His mind blanked out at the request. No static, no dreams. Just a blank. Christmas extended his unbandaged hand on reflex, mirroring Sander's supine gesture, eyes wide as he finally blinked himself back into proper thoughts. It took a few seconds before he finally nodded, the bobbing of his head faster than he had intended. He had no idea what Sander wanted, but his hand was already held out. Hoping against hope. Sander moved then, taking Christmas’ hand in his and pulling it toward himself. Warm. That was the first thing he noticed about Sander's hand. Warm and steady and large enough to envelope his. Stronger. How long had it been since he last felt someone's hand this gently against his? He cherished soft touches and warm fingers, the reminder that he had no one like that here flickering across his face as regret--and something like grief for feelings left behind, however rocky. With the hand close enough, Sander then proceeded to loop the ribbon around the blond boy’s wrist and tied it the way he had just learnt minutes ago. The knot was still far from perfection, but it looked like it would hold. That was good enough. “[color=cyan]Maybe you should keep this safe for me.[/color]” -He said, voice sounded almost hesitant in its softness. Like he was afraid of something –“[color=cyan]I have…a thing. Later. Might not be good to wear a ribbon there.[/color]” [color 8493ca]"A thing?"[/color] Christmas repeated before he could stop himself. He shook his head rapidly afterwards, still feeling the lingering warmth of Sander's hand and trying not to lose himself in that comfort. The ribbon looked strange, tied by someone else onto his wrist, and he didn't dare equate that to anything more. [color 8493ca]"N-no, I'm sorry. I didn't--didn't mean to ask."[/color] “[color=cyan]No. It’s fine.[/color]” -Sander sighed, turning his head sideway. He stayed silent for a brief moment, the cogs in his mind turned sluggishly as he pondered on his options. Then again, there was no harm in telling Christmas. He didn’t think the blond boy would stop him, unlike his other roommate –“[color=cyan]I have a…duel with Callan later.[/color]” -Still, he couldn’t help staring at the blond boy’s expression, searching. Blinking was the order of the day, because Christmas repeated the action several times at the announcement of a duel. It didn't sound strange to test powers in a practice fight, but it was surprising to be told that someone he relatively knew was going to be participating. Frightening to think of actual powers in a sparring match when all he had seen were powers directed to kill on the news--the ones cornered and shot down after leaving a trail of death in their wake. It wasn't like watching Alan spar with others in the karate classes he had only enrolled for on an off-handed suggestion. This was deadly powers and a deadlier match, even if it was just for training. Whoever Sander was fighting had to be strong. Was it a USARILN thing? The information about the "schools" had never gone much into detail--it wasn't advertising to anyone, after all--and he had seen enough on the news to know there were far too many dangers on the horizon for them to not prepare. He had tried to avoid thinking about it, but East's reputation was no secret. Fighting would worm its way into their daily lives sooner or later. The first night's battle and his terror flashed to mind again and Christmas furrowed his brow, worry for the future etched into every line as his body tensed at the memory of glitter and sharp wires. He shuddered briefly, a little glad that he couldn't remember the rest of the battle. The room of cameras slid into his thoughts next, and he remembered what his role was here in this place where lives only mattered if the Director deemed them important enough. His eyes darted around the room, finding the folded knife on the nearby table, beside his Vita. Choices, and the stormy field had only given him more. [color 8493ca]"I--"[/color] he stopped, wondering if it sounded pretentious to say what he had originally intended, [color 8493ca]"Can I...uh...g-good luck with the match."[/color] He mumbled, eyes on the bed and hand clutching at the loose end of the ribbon Sander had tied to his wrist. [color 8493ca]"I...um...I hope you win."[/color] “[color=cyan]Strange. I sure don’t.[/color]” -Sander grinned this time, though it seemed more like a show of teeth than a display of humour. There was a bitter quality to that forced smile, a touch of anger even, but he didn’t elaborate, ducking his head to look down at the ribbon instead. [color 8493ca]"O-oh,"[/color] Christmas didn't look up, the too-light tone jarring with the comment and tapping at his instinctive fear. It sounded a bit like Alvin on a bad day. [color 8493ca]"S-sorry."[/color] Silence stretched out between them afterward, and it was getting to the point of being uncomfortable. Sander’s throat suddenly felt thick, the line of his jaws hardened as his mind went back to the toppled tree that night. She did that just to prove a point. Then why couldn’t he do that too? [i]Because he chose this.[/i] Sander exhaled. That was a pointless question. Feelings he better off without. He shook the thoughts off. “[color=cyan]Don’t be. You didn’t do anything.[/color]” -Sander just shrugged, the correction came out casually now that he was far too used to his roommate’s constant apologizes. He didn’t know what for; he never did, but if that was what the blond boy wanted to do, he wouldn’t object –“[color=cyan]She will be alright. I will make sure of that.[/color]” -He said, clear and certain, as if he was making a promise. As selfish as it was, as [i]not nice[/i] as it was, Christmas wasn't concerned about someone he didn't really know--knew less than Sander, at least. He worried, but with only a vague name and nothing more, he couldn't find the person behind it to think about. So he focused on what [i]did[/i] concern him at the moment. [color 8493ca]"W-will you be...?"[/color] Sander stood up, movements loose and relaxed, but he turned his head a touch too hasty, killing any chance for eye contact. Again, he knew the answer for that question. He had felt Callan’s strength first hand, and he knew which point to stop, so that she could overpower him. He did that, and he knew the risks. But it was fine. It was him. He could take this. “[color=cyan]Don’t worry. They won’t let me die.[/color]” -He said, shoulders stiff as he walked over to the desk, where two boxes of food were waiting –“[color=cyan]Anyway, I brought us some food. Are you hungry?[/color]” [color 8493ca]"I--um...I am..."[/color] Christmas followed Sander's footsteps towards the desk, relieved that his initial fears about Sander's mood were mostly (he hoped) wrong, but concerned all the same. Who were "they"? The people who--[i]bullets were really loud and his ears still remembered the pain of the first day's sounds and the blur of fear and blood afterwards[/i]. He stiffened, taking in a deep breath. Didn't trust whoever "they" were. Nowhere really felt safe in this place, and he was only glad that someone like Sander was keeping him company. Somehow always running into him when he didn't really want to be alone. The hospital, the forest, the classroom, and now the hospital again. [color 8493ca]"Th-thank you,"[/color] he whispered to Sander's back, gratitude for more than just the food, but he couldn't put the rest into words properly. Not yet. Sander took his sandwich and sat down on the chair, leaving the box open in his lap to catch all the crumbs. He worked through his meal slowly, biting into the roll and chewing thoughtfully, occasionally sneaking glances at his roommate. The blond boy seemed quite focused on his food, so Sander didn’t think to strike up a conversation. He just turned his gaze to the window instead, watching the light danced across the clear panes of glass. It reminded him of quiet afternoons and blistering heat, of brick-coloured tracks and aching legs, and suddenly, the taste of corned beef grew thick in his mouth. He hastily choked it down, forcing his gaze down to the vinyl flooring. He would run later. He felt fine today. Later. When Sander finally finished with his meal, he rose and put the empty box on the desk, before glancing Christmas’ way. The blond boy seemed fixated on his box for some reason, but he had been behaving normally after last night, so he didn’t see any reason to remain. Sander casted another glance at the window. Maybe he should go…clear his head. He needed to, before the fight. “[color=cyan]Well, I think I will go now. Rest up.[/color]” -He turned then, walking toward the door –“[color=cyan]I will see you later, okay?[/color]” He barely heard Christmas returning the gesture as the door clicked shut behind him. Jagged thoughts began to fill his head once more, and he could only let out a sigh. He really needed to run. [/hider] [/hider]