mk.05 (text)

[paraclete]

Who: Kaworu Nagisa, anyone else!
Broadcast: fleetwide
Action: his bunk, the Vanquish
When: this afternoon

Need advice for when one's body is trying to kill oneself

[Shipmates may notice how he hasn't left his bunk but a couple of times in the entirety of this past week. This means he's been of no use as an engineer, which is bad news considering this mysterious bug business. Even without that, he should at least be tending to the ship's overhead lights, which have been flickering on occasion... (The particularly astute might note that this seems to coincide with the muffled sounds of what could be... sneezes?)

But, alas, he is dying. He's pretty sure of it.]


(augment glitch = baby's first flu!)

Comments

[paraclete]

[The room is notable only for how much it looks like a nest right now — clothes strewn about, and tissues, as if Kaworu simply hadn't the will to put anything away. (There's also something strange leaning against one wall, but anyway...) Kaworu is a bundle on the bed, wearing too many shirts and every bit of bedding he could find. He peeks out with a sluggish curiosity, wondering who could possibly, what could possibly...

He sniffles.]

Zhas? [comes his now-weathered voice, small and uncertain. He wiggles his hands out from beneath the blankets, then signing, wobbly,] Hello.

[And he does look terrible, himself, the furthest cry from his usually beautiful presentation. His face is flushed, he's sweaty, and it's obvious that he just generally hasn't been taking care of himself.]

[theboogieman]

[aw... hey, kid. he finally raises his hand in return, lazy shorthand for a proper wave.

he doesn't waste time asking questions. he remembers what it was like when he was younger, when he'd get sick from stress or things he tried eating or the constant wear and tear he put on his own body. he knows fully well how awful it is to be human and helpless, trapped and miserable in the shell you're supposed to call home.

so he crosses over to sit on the edge of the bed. his weight sinks the mattress as he sets his bag down on the floor, but he's moving with all the confidence of someone who's done this before--as if this was his own room and just another daily routine he's used to following.

(not daily, but. their master was not always well, and he was the only one she could trust to take care of her. vampire ailments are different from human sickness, but the principle of bedside manner is the same.)

he reaches over to feel the boy's forehead with his palm, then with the back of his hand. his hands are big, warm, not terribly soft--but he starts brushing hair away from Kaworu's forehead anyway.

poor guy. he can pretend to be aloof all he wants, but he feels bad.]

[paraclete]

[The fever will be evident by Zhas' first touch — it's not a dangerous fever, but it's unlike anything Kaworu has experienced before. So is this, though. This... being treated like a boy of fifteen, a boy deserving of something gentle, nurturing... Kaworu blinks once, twice, thrice, wondering why his eyesight has grown progressively blurrier. He realizes finally by the wetness of his eyelashes that his eyes have filled up with overemotional water. Right now, he's got the level of functionality of a kid who hasn't had his nap.

He clears his throat painfully, embarrassed by his display of emotion but unable to help himself. Zhas is so nice. Kaworu is the worst any universe has to offer, the most thorough sort of failure, but Zhas is so nice to him anyway. Kaworu tries to commit every gesture to memory so he'll know exactly what to do when Shinji doesn't feel well. Kaworu remembers that Shinji doesn't want to see him anymore. Kaworu wants to die. (Right now, he's got the level of functionality of a high schooler losing his first love.)]

I'm told it's not so bad.

[There's a tremor to his hands, just because he's tired. There's an element of disbelief in his hands, too.]

[theboogieman]

[oh, tears. he never really knows what to do with those.

to start, he ignores them--chalking it up to an overtired reaction from someone who can't handle being sick. he leans away again, digs through his bag, pulls out a bowl and a bottle of ice water and a washcloth. did he bring all of this stuff with him to prevent having to go outside and interact with the rest of the crew of the Vanquish? abso-freaking-lutely.

things get poured, the bowl set down on the ground again. soon there's a cold cloth being dabbed over the boy's face, sopping up his tears as if they were just part of the rest of his sickness. eventually it is set to rest on his forehead.]

It still hurts. Your pain is... [oh, what's the word?] ...Mm, valid.

[even trying to talk quietly, his voice is still as warm and friendly as a gravel driveway. he would sign--but he's busy digging into his bag for vials and a cup and a couple of packs of archaic-looking powders and herbs.]

All of this... is good. You're fighting off an attack. [between picking up one thing and setting it down, he stops to tap Kaworu lightly on the chest.] This body does not want you to die.

[paraclete]

[As rock-ragged as Zhas' voice is, Kaworu feels cushioned by it, lying in his bed and surrounded by exactly the sort of goodness he doesn't deserve. The cloth and the quality of Zhas' voice could be cloud cover, offering shade, respite. It's almost like respite. Kaworu still feels like he's sinking into tar, like it's covering his eyes, melting over even the memory of what light looks like, but if someone is gentle with him... He wonders if this is what it's like to be a child touched by ungloved hands.

But the problem is this: ] I'm not trying to fight. [It sounds almost petulant. It sounds wildly different from how he usually speaks, too. His voice right now isn't alarming in the way Zhas' is, but he doesn't sound beautiful and soft like he almost always does otherwise. Most of the time, Kaworu could be counting sheep, gentle and fleecy. Now he sounds beaten by storms.

It's a contradiction, too, "not trying to fight" although he'd been asking for help. He doesn't mean to sound wishy-washy. But his self-destructiveness is about equally matched with his fear of being unable to control how he goes. ...] This body is always doing something unruly.

[That's undoubtedly a coarse whine.]

[theboogieman]

[he can hear the difference in his voice; selfishly, it assures him that Kowaru is a creature with emotions and imperfections. maybe it's the hunter in him, feeling better knowing that there are weaknesses he could exploit--if he ever had to.

but now he remains steady and quiet. he's a good rock, in storms like these.

he signs for "why?" with his free hand, and says nothing out loud. that seems like a question that aught to stay quiet--and he's busy mixing some things together in a glass anyway, turning the water to a color more like tea. or diluted iodine.]

[paraclete]

[Like a young idiot, Kaworu pulls his blankets all the way up to just below his mouth. Crying always makes him feel that way — like a young idiot. They never told him whether he cried as an infant, or if he was supernaturally silent, but Kaworu knows that from as far back as his memories reach, he didn't cry until he was fifteen. He still had no grip on his heart, back then. Youthfulness makes Kaworu feel like he has no control. It's frightening.

On top of all that, his eyelashes are sticky now. Crying is just, in general, uncomfortable. But he can tell that Zhas is working with the intention of making him comfortable again... (Stretched thin as his heart is right now, it's almost enough to make him resume crying.)]

I thought I had learned, [he mumbles, sad and sorry for himself,] that death comes after a mistake.

[theboogieman]

[after a mistake, huh...? it sounds very dramatic, but he's known old bloodlines to destroy their own for stepping so much as an inch out of line. it's a heavy thought, but not an impossible one.

he makes a small sound of acknowledgement, saying nothing for the moment. he busies himself with peeling the wet cloth away from the boy's forehead instead, and re-soaking it in the icy water at his feet.

he doesn't have to stay here. he doesn't have to ask. he's done all he said he would do and more... but soon he's patting at Kaworu's warm skin with the cloth again, laying it back on his forehead, even pulling the covers up a little more to give the kid some room to hide in.

it's validating, being here, feeling useful. he's missed that a lot lately. and besides--despite the innumerable things that make him a shitty human, he's never liked watching anyone drown.]

May I ask? [it's funny how much better he is at implying tone with just his hands. slower pace, smaller movements--a polite and subdued question.]

[paraclete]

[Kaworu's awful; selfish. Awfully selfish. He can't be anything else, when he's lying here being tended to like this. It's really audacious to accept this careful treatment. He has no right to act as though he's not the worst life has to offer.

Yet here he is. Nestling in blankets. Reveling, even, in the relief of the cold cloth. How dare he revel! How dare he take solace in something that makes him feel better. He ought to languish in every bad feeling his body gives him. His body is a traitor for fighting off any attack.]

My friend... My— [He makes the German sign for "soul," a small, circular motion over the direct center of the chest.] ... I hurt him.

[He's actually grateful for the opportunity to sign right now. As he speaks with his hands this time, he does it for several reasons: courtesy for Zhas. A reprieve for his sore throat. And, definitely, because he's ashamed of himself and it's hard to admit out loud. His pain and regret are clear enough in his expression, anyway.]

[theboogieman]

[though he doesn't know the sign, he guesses the meaning--heart, spirit, center, someone very important. hurting that person must be like hurting a part of himself. Zhas doesn't have much to relate it to, but he imagines it would be as if he were to wound his poor Saoirse--and he'd never forgive himself, if he did that.

he looks up at the wall for a moment. there's nothing there to look at, but this is something that requires deep thought. his frown is a contemplative one.

he raises his hands to start spelling as he looks back down. he has signs for these, but this isn't the time to teach them.]

Continuing to live is a far greater punishment. If you want to atone for your sins, death is too easy.

[which is... kind of a harsh thing to say, but he follows it up by leaning forward and gently ruffling his hair.]