Hums filled the air, the only life in what was otherwise a quiet room. Mordin had been quietly resting on the den’s settee, hands folded and eyes tightly shut. Left alone for the afternoon, he was free to allow his favourite music player to softly resonate through the room. After a hectic early morning at his clinic, he was grateful for the peace; his night had been less than restful.
After Kirrahe had left him for what was to be an exciting day of guard duty, no doubt, he had been content to brew some crisp tea and hide himself away from his worldly duties.
At least until the door buzzed. The professor sighed, waving his omnitool to shut off the music with an abrupt silence, before lifting himself off of his comfortable position to reach the door. With a quiet whoosh, the door slid open, revealing a familiar red salarian. “Ah, Dimmel," the professor greeted, stepping off to the side, “Greetings. Need something?"
"Doctor," said Dimmel neutrally. He had avoided spending time alone with Mordin since recovering. It wasn't difficult; their paths only crossed because of Kirrahe. Dimmel couldn't even recall seeing Mordin around the shops. He knew it was a childish impulse, but the reminder of his weakness was uncomfortable.
However, it was no excuse to be rude.
"I was wondering if you needed something, actually. I have extra from the salarian import shop in the Wards, I know Kirrahe likes some of these fruits and spices." He took the invitation to enter, placing the bag on the counter with a relieved sigh and shaking out his stiff fingers.
"There was a sale," he explained, slightly embarrassed by his excess. "Is the major out?" Dimmel had hoped to find Kirrahe, but Mordin seemed to know his tastes just as well. He had wondered about their status as roommates before; they spoke like they had worked together, but Mordin seemed to be a strictly civilian doctor. Retired, was Dimmel's guess. But it wasn't his place to speculate, and he buried those ponderings as he dug out the surplus fruit.
In blatant defiance of the chaos in the rest of the galaxy, the Wards were as lively as ever. Dimmel avoided the press of the crowd with the ease of long practice, holding his bag of groceries close. It was a long trek to the specialty salarian grocers, but the genuine ingredients were worth it.
In fact, he had bought a bit more than he could comfortably carry. A cab was an option, but Dimmel disliked wasting money because of his own oversight.
Something about the area jogged his memory, and he checked the elevator he was standing next to. If he took it up to the Presidium, it would leave him right outside Kirrahe's building. It was near enough that he wouldn't bother calling; there was a transit station right outside Kirrahe's apartment, anyway. If he wasn't in, there was little effort lost.
Minutes later he was buzzing Kirrahe's door alarm, shifting the bag from arm to arm. It felt like it was growing heavier.
When his omni-tool pinged with a new message Kirrahe had to double-take just to make sure he hadn’t misread. It had only been a few weeks since he had last seen Dimmel, and yet it came as a surprise. Now that he thought about it Dimmel had often been the one on the receiving end. Strange that he chose now to reciprocate, but he opened the message anyway, skimming its contents.
Mordin had filled him in on what happened. Mostly. The details were kept from him on the basis of “doctor-patient confidentiality." Kirrahe’s point that Dimmel wasn’t technically his patient fell on deaf ears. What caught the major’s attention was the invitation at the bottom. A chance to reconnect. With the back of his hand he rubbed his chin scales, reading the message once more before thinking of a proper response.
He found himself at Dimmel’s door not long after, a bag of sugar coated insects in hand. Kirrahe buzzed the keypad by his door once, holding the back close to him as he awaited the answer.
The response was quick; Dimmel didn't know whether to feel assured or pressured. At least the apartment was properly in order. His cleaning efforts had flagged as his exhaustion mounted, but with some help he had been able to get it back together during his time off.
He left a pair of glasses full of kono juice on the coffee table (although Dimmel kept alcohol, he didn't serve it unprompted) and was about to find something else to do to keep himself from pacing when the door rang.
"Kirrahe," he greeted. "Thank you for coming." Stepping back, he allowed Kirrahe to enter and gestured towards the couch. "I'm sorry I fell out of contact, it was difficult to keep track of things for a while."
Dimmel had no experience writing personal messages, and staying in contact with another person was a problem he'd never encountered; aside from his occasional correspondence with Mayn and Areyna, there was nobody to stay in contact with. But he had spent the better part of three weeks lying in bed, and there were actually people he had missed talking to in the mean time.
He hesitated over the level of formality, eventually deleting the title and typing Kirrahe instead.
It was a short note, briefly explaining his stress-induced collapse and inviting Kirrahe over to watch a movie and catch up.
Still, he felt oddly anxious after sending it. Hopefully Kirrahe wouldn't find it an unwelcome reminder. Having to explain fainting at Kirrahe's apartment was awkward enough.
((I figure this is a simple enough way to ease me back in.
Is anyone interested? I was thinking of showing Star Trek: The Motionless Picture, but I have a couple other things, too. Is there a time that would be good for people?
Comment, or message me on Skype, or...whatever :'D))
So...it's been a while. I've had a lot of real-life stresses the past few months, and RPing was something I didn't have the energy for at all.
But I don't want to quit. I love these characters and this little corner of the community. I'm way behind on developments; feel free to drop in my inbox and talk about how your character's been doing, I want to know but hundreds of pages of my dash have gone by and I'm not sure where to start.
I do want to finish the threads I have with people, but right now looking at old drafts makes me anxious. If anyone's up for banter, a new thread--please, come talk to me. I do a lot better when I can plan something out OOC with someone than flying by the seat of my pants.
I know this is a lot of asking you guys to do things for me, but I'm wary of overloading myself and burning out again. Sorry, but I'm going to be stumbling a bit before I get back up to proper speed.
My Skype is moon.boots; if anyone wants to talk character or plot, drop me a line.
Thank you for your patience all this time; I gotta say I'm surprised to see people still following this blog at all :'D
I may not be the fastest at getting back into things, but it's going to happen.
Is it still there...? He checks, and even though his fingers feel thick and clumsy, too, he puts a hand to his head and finds his face. It's too hot, though.
A broad hand grasps his, holding it tightly. "Dimmel? Can y'hear me?"
Gawmer sounds upset, and Dimmel realizes he hasn't actually opened his eyes. It feels like he's lifting a krogan with them, but he manages to crack his eyelids open, staring directly into two blurry faces.
The blue one is upside-down, and the very thought of the world tilting or leaning makes his stomach roil. He closes his eyes with a groan as cool, calloused fingers skate over his forehead.
"He wasn't this hot an hour ago."
"What the fuck? He said he was fine!" Srikit is angry, although at what he doesn't understand.
"Sorry," he mutters feebly, not exactly sure whether he's apologizing or expressing condolences. Either way there's a shuffle and a softer, clammier hand at his cheek. He dares to open an eye again.
Srikit is right-side-up this time, close enough that Dimmel can make out a pale cast to his face and nervous lines at the corner of his mouth. He holds Dimmel's gaze for several seconds before letting out a long, annoyed sigh, but the way his other hand is rubbing Dimmel's shoulder gives lie to the frustration.
"Fucking shit, are you trying to ruin sex for me? If you don't want to do it you can just say so, you don't have to pass the fuck out on me." There's an indignant, "Srikit!" from Gawmer, but Dimmel is only confused.
"Pass out?" That would explain why he's lying back on the--the bed? Judging by the angle he's looking at the ceiling it's the bed--staring up at both of them. Gawmer edges closer to him, worry clear in his voice.
"You don't remember? You looked a little peaky earlier, but when I suggested, euh--" Gawmer gestures awkwardly, and Dimmel realizes that aside from Gawmer's undershorts they're all naked, "--you said you felt alright. But you were kissing Srikit and just...fell down."
"You're sick, moron," clarifies Srikit, scooting close enough to sap some of Dimmel's heat. "You could have just sat this one out. You're not gonna get a prize for perfect attendance or anything...shit, you're really hot."
"I don't think I felt like this earlier," Dimmel murmurs. He's aware enough to be abashed now. He does remember having been very interested in Gawmer's hand running down his thigh in spite of the mounting pressure and foggy warmth in his head. Fainting right on top of Srikit, though? How embarrassing.
Sitting up makes his head whirl, and he tilts dangerously towards Gawmer's side. Srikit grabs at his shoulder, mostly steadying him. "If you just...set me up on the couch with a drink and a bucket I'll be fine."
"Hwhat?" squawks Gawmer. "We're not leaving you to puke your guts out in a corner. Srikit, you want to take a cool bath with him? See if we can't get that temperature down. Are you up to food at all, Dim? Y'didn't eat much at lunch, did you..." Gawmer keeps a close eye on his own meals; it was only natural that he'd notice the plate next to his was still mostly full.
Dimmel blinks in confusion, but Srikit is nodding. "Bath? Yeah, I can do that."
"Good! If you want to get the tub running I'll give him a hand getting there." Srikit stands, scratches his back, and departs for the bathroom with only one last glance back at Dimmel's glazed eyes. Soon, Dimmel hears water thundering out of the tap, and Gawmer has his arm around his shoulders.
"Still dizzy?" he asks. "Think you can stand?"
Dimmel lets himself lean on Gawmer, and in spite of the headache there's a smile he can't suppress. "I think I'm feeling better. But I'd like the help."
((emerges from the mist to drop off AU drabbles and vanishes into the night))
Maybe he could blame Gawmer for it.
Or maybe he could blame Dimmel himself. Before bed he had noticed that Dimmel was wearing the old pair of sleep pants (old by Dimmel's reckoning, at least, because he hasn't kept an article of clothing longer than four years. The idea of throwing something out for one small stain was mind-boggling to Srikit, whose favorite sweatshirt was a historical tapestry of scuffs and stains and that was the way he liked it. And then he found out that Dimmel didn't throw his 'old' clothes away, he donated them to some charity, and Srikit had to take a moment and remind himself that Dimmel was a real person, somehow). Dimmel likes the pants because they're one of the few things he owns that are worn to comfortable softness--Srikit hates them because there's a small green-black stain on the outside of the left thigh.
"I wore these while I was recovering from the geth siege," Dimmel had explained. "The wound was only a long cut, essentially; nothing below the surface damaged. But I suppose the medical seal must have ruptured at some point, just enough for some breakthrough bleeding. In spite of that, it healed fine."
"Oh," Srikit had said, thinking of the thin pink line on Dimmel's leg that was nearly two handspans long. Only a cut.
So maybe he can blame it on those stupid pants that always make him think of Dimmel's entire leg covered in blood. If only he'd thought of giving Dimmel some cheesy line about preferring him out of them before bed, or maybe he can volunteer to do laundry and 'lose' them some time and stop this from happening again.
But blame doesn't help him now.
He wakes with a start, arms tightening around the body in front of him. Still breathing hard, he hasn't even begun to calm down when the person against his chest stirs.
"Srikit...?"
When he looks down, all he sees are a pattern of shadows that instantly resolve into blood, splattered over Dimmel's face. And he's not holding Dimmel, he's holding Dimmel's corpse, because fucking C-Sec was too goddamn slow and how the fuck did Dimmel expect him to know how to use medi-gel, the blood all flowed out between his fingers no matter what he did--
He shoves him away and he's up from bed and out of the room, not hearing the confused grunt or the cheerful "Morning!" (especially not that, because in this state Gawmer's scar doesn't make him feel any better) from the kitchen as he enters the bathroom.
Srikit drops onto the closed toilet, letting out a long, shuddering sigh and rubbing his eyes. Right. Dream. It wasn't always the exact same nightmare--the details were different, sometimes, what direction the attack came from or whether it was men with guns or those slim, asari-like forms who darted in and sliced him apart, neat as you please--but it was almost always the same result: Dimmel dying in front of him.
It's not a new dream, but he never gets used to it. At least by now, in the luxurious bathroom with the fancy soaps and bath oils, it feels far away and unreal enough that Srikit can swallow his panic. He sighs again, this time evenly.
"Are you alright?"
He should jump, because Dimmel's quiet when he wants to be and Srikit doesn't even know how long he's been standing inside the bathroom door, but the soft, low voice is just the reassurance he was looking for and he doesn't even think before standing and wrapping his arms tightly around Dimmel, pressing his cheek against a red horn.
Whether Dimmel's guessed or he's just prepared to accept sudden, crushing hugs, Srikit doesn't know, but he holds Srikit in return and doesn't say anything when Srikit slides a hand under his shirt, feeling the heartbeat behind the curve of his chest.
"Yeah," Srikit croaks as his fingers measure steady, rapid beats.
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