Red Wine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
judgementor) wrote2019-10-16 08:54 pm
judgementor) wrote2019-10-16 08:54 pm[Aefenglom IC Inbox]
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judgementor) wrote2019-10-16 08:54 pm
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[He huffs out a sigh and passes the book over for Steak's perusal.]
Here, have a look. You can do it under my eye so I don't have to worry about you taking something I didn't want you to see.
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And what did you plan on doing when I found it at Aziraphale's shop?
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I didn't expect you'd find it in Aziraphale's shop. [Red Wine replies tartly. He shifts position on the bed and fidgets absent-mindedly with a lock of hair.]
Are you telling me you actually know how to read?
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Steak, you walked RIGHT INTO that one.]Why, you bastard... [ Steak why do you suck at retorts so much. ] Do I look like a fool?!
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... This feels like a trick question.
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I can read, asshole!
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[Lying back, he stretches out and tucks a hand under his head. A faint wince flickers over his face, and the slender points of his ears twitch minutely.]
See if you remember any stories I haven't written down yet.
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Hm.
[ He skims the contents of the book for now, deep in thought (yes, really) of anything else he remembers from Palata.
Or anywhere else, for that matter. ]
Oi, what about the story of the Sacred Wine?
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He picks up his pen and offers it out.]
Do you remember it properly?
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I think so. They recite it too much at Creation Day celebrations.
[ And with that, he gets writing, brow furrowed in concentration, head bowed, his horns casting a shadow across the page Steak doesn't think he'll ever fully be used to. ]
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[He can see that Steak is, in fact, doing that and there is some small appreciation for the fact that he is doing his best to not ruin something that Red Wine has worked hard on. Their rivalry has never functioned like that.
Carefully, he slides off the bed and goes to the window, looking down into the street with a small frown.]
I'm going to need to do something about these cravings. One way or another. You do know that, don't you.
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Red Wine pipes up as he finishes a third paragraph, and Steak's head raises to look in the direction of his voice. ]
How, exactly?
[ The promise he made only a short while ago hangs in the air between them, unspoken, and Steak mulls over the location of his swords. ]
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Blood.
[He says it bluntly, like a curse-word, despising the necessity of it. If his reaction to things on the last full moon were anything to go by, things are only going to get worse until he snaps and harms himself... or someone else.]
If I'm going to have to think about it, I'd rather it be on my own terms.
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[ Give him some credit, Red Wine. ]
How are you going to get any?
[ There have to be... less objectionable ways for Red Wine to get what he needs, versus the methods always used in the kind of literature which talks about Vampires on Tierra. ]
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[He doesn't like it. At all. His aversion to the idea is evident enough in his voice, but he likes the idea of losing control and going feral even less.]
I have directions to one, though I may look into what else is available.
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Still. It doesn't mean it doesn't turn his stomach a little to consider the implications it creates. ]
Tch, they make it convenient here.
[ And while that means Red Wine should be okay, Steak doesn't know what to think about this entire thing. Monsters are things they were supposed to kill, not become. ]
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But he says nothing. No reproach, no snide comment about the content of the other Food Soul's statatement. His fingers tighten around his elbows and whiten at the knuckles, and the line of his jaw tenses.]
Yes. [He says eventually, his darkened eyes troubled but turned away in the mute hope that Steak's usual inability to read the atmosphere will keep him from noticing.]
Yes, they do, don't they.
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He dots the full stop of a sentence and lays the book down before he falls back on the bed with a groan, not giving the slightest of fucks that it's Red Wine's bed and not his own. ]
... Red Wine. [ There's a hesitation to his voice, a stumble as though he intended to say something else and changed his mind at the last second. ] You're still the same bastard here.
[ Charming. ] That won't change if you go.
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He grips his upper arms, first lightly then with enough force to whiten his knuckles and crumple the fabric of his shirt. Steak doesn't understand, he's never understood, and he understands even less here where the fear is a real and living thing. Something he can't just dismiss.]
You don't know that.
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How does he deal with this? He can't just... wave a sword at it and make it go away.
Exhaling roughly through his nose, Steak pushes himself back up off the bed, striding over to where Red Wine is, well, avoiding him. Hands rough with centuries of sword wielding, ones which are so very well-acquainted with grabbing Red Wine in anger, brush paler ones as they press firmly just above them.
No, he doesn't understand, that's true, and their God of Beginnings only knows that he's actually attempted to since their changes began manifesting, but he knows Red Wine has been the only damn Soul by his side from the near beginning until now. ]
You—
[ For once — this close, with his fingers digging into the fabric of Red Wine's sleeves, and that glare on his face — he doesn't want to punch Red Wine for being a bastard. He wants him to understand, to believe in himself.
He's been a bastard for the two centuries Steak has known him, and presumably for far longer before that— ] This won't be the thing that changes you. You're stronger than that.
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For a moment it looks as if he might curse, or say something harsh, and neither of those things would have been entirely unexpected given his usual manner around his companion.
Instead, though, Red Wine lets both of his hands drop to his sides. He lets his straight posture crumble slightly.
He drops his head and bumps his forehead into Steak's shoulder, and doesn't move.]
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[ A whispered exclamation and Steak blinks down at the head of dark hair against his shoulder (bare, the patches of hide long since expanded into something which entirely engulfs what used to be skin), but says nothing further.
Does nothing further.
Nothing but the slow loosening of his grip on Red Wine's arms, until his palms smooth slowly against the fabric, repetitive and — given the Soul doing the action — strangely unassuming.
Is this... enough? Is this what he's meant to do here? ]
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And that uncertain chafing against his arms.
Red Wine has always kept his problems to himself. Even when someone was clearly trying to kill him, when Gingerbread was needing to step in between him and the cold arrows flying from the shadows, he had kept his problems to himself. No one else need be involved in his business until he deigns to tell them about it. This is a sharp turnabout from his usual behaviour, but all of this is more than any Food Soul usually needs to pit themselves against.
Give him a Fallen Angel, a monster to fight any day. Just don't ask him to look at one in the mirror without putting a fist to his reflection.]
... I'm scared.
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All he's really good at it serving his masters, as Red Wine might put it. He can fight, can take care of the physical tasks, and that's... really all there is.
This requires a more delicate touch. One he's never had. ]
...
[ His mouth opens and then closes, whatever he wanted to say swallowed back for once in his existence, replaced with arms wrapping slowly around Red Wine, in a way he's never done before. He's pulled Red Wine close in anger, and in drunken celebration, but never like this.
And he sighs, breath forced out against the back of Red Wine's neck, those unspoken words bitter on his tongue.
Me too.
Not because of Red Wine, but because of what's happening to both of them. This thing they can't control, can't fight against. This bubbling, tearing sensation of two forces at war within him. Anger. A craving for the sea. For the land.
For a million things he cannot name. ]
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Red Wine and Steak are not strangers to one anothers personal space. When you've been with someone for so long such things become a minimal concern, but they have never... hugged. He presses his palms flat against Steak's back and huffs out a sharp breath through his nose, tolerating the strangeness of this for a few long moments before he moves himself away from it.
And he feels better. A little. More centred somehow.]
Come on, let's finish this book.
[A sharp subject change, but neither of them are too accustomed to opening up about their feelings. The entire exchange has left Red Wine feeling off-balance in unanticipated ways, and he keeps his back to Steak as he picks the book up from the bed and leafs through it until he finds the other Soul's writing.]
I assume you've managed to spell everything correctly.
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