༝ 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞
𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬.
[ … ] Digesting anything at this point is near impossible given the high emotions still thrumming like a heartbeat through the scattered crowds, all left on edge, balancing along like a finger on a fine dagger blade threatening to cut or slash. Any sudden movement feels like it’d cause more chaos, more pain, cause everything to bleed further or harm. No action felt self without some kind of resulting repercussion or risk following suit close behind.
But even amidst that prey-imbedded panic, the fear that coils itself like a serpent so tight around his heart in a hold of pure ice he hadn’t felt since he was young – as soon as he sees Viktor moving, something firmly reassured begins to thaw at it all. Safe, enough to exhale shakily as quivering shoulders try to calm their impulsive twitching as he grits his teeth at the aching from fresh wounds.
Pain still blooms along the exposed, bloodied junction of his throat &&. collarbone, the flame-licked still burning skin at his back along his shoulder to hip – tendons he knows are definitely severed, thankfully just enough to not leave any serious damage, or so he’d hoped. His back is alight in a deep burning sensation, one that flares with each quick, rabbit stolen breath.
When Viktor – changed, glowing, strong – moves to stand, a metallic, storm-tinged fury blotching through the air like the slow spread of spilled ink begins to emanate, lash out in brightened flickers of electricity. Even despite the chaos, it’s controlled, something familiar that he feels floating about, easy to trust. Viktor – no matter what happened, Viktor was alive, alive &&. well enough to fight in a way he hadn’t been able to for a long while now.
He hears shrieking, something angry, vengeful, soon soured out in full with acrid terror, but still the maelstrom persists, carefully lashing back in near protective sparks to keep the hostiles at bay. In his delirious state, he can’t help but feel washed away in a familiar memory, something burned into mind, nostalgic heavy – the passing familiarity of being left useless, a damsel in distress while needing to be protected by the Zaunite Inventor. Only this time instead of keeping the enemies at bay with a cane-hidden blade, he’s using magic – the arcane.
Emotionally charged, left to flicker &&. spit stray embers of fury through the air, Jayce tries his best to stay awake, cognizant, aware so he didn’t die from being useless yet again. That frustrating pull of feeling little more than a burden flares, but it dies out as fast as a smothered ember as his limbs grow heavier where he lay.
All he knows is there’s a crawling sense of dread, fear, panic that spikes before darkness begins to swallow up his vision in the head of battle. Fingers digging themselves into the floor, the ones harshly used to staunch the flow of warmed blood from his shoulder earlier feel far too wet to be comfortable. He’s lost a lot of blood by now, fatigue eats away at him.
The last thing he remembers is passing out in a pool of his own blood, an odd sort of hazy relief blooming through him as he glances up enough to watch Viktor glow a vivid violet, something shield like, transparent enveloping the space around.
Coming to from that point on… it’d been brief flashes, figments he isn’t sure are dreams, nightmares or reality weaving between one another to paint a confusing image behind his eyes. He tries to make sense of it when he feels himself stir just long enough, but the lingering pain always leaves him quickly drifting back out of it. He knows they’re not in any immediate danger anymore, a firm, reassuring calm draping over him like a soothing blanket as wiry arms keep him held close in the sway like motions of their movement.
They’re far from the Memorial Site, bits of shadow, bits of light making themselves known behind closed lids. A blurred haze of voices are heard, like he was listening through water or from a different room through thinned walls. It’s distracting but not alarming. More jostling is felt which prompts some groaned sounds of warning, of curiosity, before he’s delicately laid down somewhere soft. The scents that waft from where he’s rested… familiar.
His eyes open, briefly, catching the sight of the ceiling, rolling to the side to study the room he’d been moved to. Instead of usual hospital walls, anything clinical, cold, pale &&. depressingly detached – it’s homely, warm even from the disuse over the past few weeks.
Going to wet at his lips, feeling he dried, cracked way they sting, all he tastes is blood. Iron, something unpleasant, along with feeling the burning way smoke clings to his throat with each breath he sucks in haggardly. He doesn’t dare cough though, already expecting the pain that’d strike from exerting himself when his wounds are still left feeling so raw in the aftermath.
Footsteps are heard, the feeling of something at his brow, soft – chaste – before his dampened shirt is gently guided off his shoulders once unbuttoned. Tie is next, being undone by deft hands, gently slide loose from around his throat to be tossed off to the side. Silence is what he gathers, little sound of the other’s breathing outside of the occasional small sounds of worry at his undressed, evaluated condition. Jayce swallows, brows knitting together carefully as he’s finally left shirtless in the chill of the bedroom air. But when he moves to draw his arms around his frame in an effort to regain that lost bit of warmth, he feels a dulled but expected pain.
It’s surprising, but a huge relief as he sighs in contentment, thankful it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, feeling the other continue to daub the dried blood from his skin before he dresses the wounds in bandaging. Clean, as much as he can be given his out of it state, he muses they’d have time to properly wash later. Between the whirlwind of the days before the Council-room attack, after the events following when he had been heavily neglectful of his own rest &&. health in favour of monitoring Viktor, between the aftermath of what was just endured… his need to rest was finally kicking into gear.
He felt safe. Knowing it was his Partner – alive &&. well, not crumpled on the ground covered in debris, limp taking care of him… he was relieved. As he’s redressed, he finally blinks tired eyes open, hazy golden hues dulled, dimmed down to a low candles dying flicker in tone as he watches the other button up his shirt where he lay, all he can do is observe in quiet silence as the other moves to undress, tracing the way his shimmer-metal form catching stray bits of glinting light on the more metal hewn parts. He’s gorgeous.
Gaze drifting shut, he moves to shuffle onto his side, feeling the bed dip, the sheets rustle as the other moves around to curl them underneath, twining limbs protectively around the Blacksmith’s own with a content sigh breathed along the shell of his ear, just by the starting bend of his jaw. Reaching over weakly, a broad hand shifts to cover at the Zaunite’s draped arm, stroking a thumb along changed skin before he lets himself fall back into a dreamless slumber.
