i keep my visions to myself.

[nightmarist]

Who: Ronan Lynch & Noah Czerny
When: November 2
Where: The Hub
What: Ronan has a bad dream.
Warnings: Blood and gore and spoilery talk.

[Nothing should be simpler than creating a flower. If Ronan could create an entire forest, then a flower should be the easiest thing in the world. A small bud to replace one of the plants Kavinsky destroyed. Is that so much to ask? It's the most rudimentary practice.

What Ronan brings back with him is not a flower. His hands are covered with a substance that looks like mud soaked in oil, sprinkled with the brittle skeletons of small woodland creatures. His shirt soaks through with blood, a shallow gash appearing across his torso, as if something just barely missed gutting him.

He's not in his bed. He never sleeps in his own bed, never in the room he shares with some unsuspecting person he's yet to even meet. He always finds some empty place that's safe and far from others, and tonight, that room is the recording studio. Sprawled out on the floor, he remains trapped in his body as always, paralyzed for a good several minutes.

Finally, when he can move again, his eyes flutter open and he chokes out a gasp. His filthy fingers grope blindly for the wound over his stomach, pressing the cloth of his shirt into it. He has no idea how bad it is or it isn't, but it hurts, and he thinks he's alone so he whimpers with mingled pain and fear. He's losing it. He really is. He's right back where he started with all of this.]

Comments

[nightmarist]

I'm sorry.

[That was a careless thing to say, and not in the usual careless Ronan Lynch way. He shouldn't talk about wasting his life when Noah would probably give anything to be alive again.]

I just don't know what I'm supposed to do.

[deadthing]

[Noah can't imagine being alive again, can barely remember what it was like when he was, and somehow that's even worse.]

I know.

[He sighs, letting his hands drop to his lap and scooting back a little.]

You should probably wash your hands.

[nightmarist]

[Ronan's lips tug into a rueful smile.]

Probably.

[The wound could use some cleaning, too. And a bandage. He doesn't want to go to the medbay and deal with the fussy staff and their questions, but he might just have to.

First: a shower. Ronan climbs to his feet, wincing all the while.]

[deadthing]

[Noah seems to skip a few frames of movement in between crouching and standing; he's doing one, then the other. Traces of concern still cling to his face like cobwebs as he watches Ronan go. As much as he wants to, there's nothing more he can help with tonight.]