xistentia | 02 🍆 SO PARDON ME WHILE I BURST INTO FLAMES

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02 🍆 SO PARDON ME WHILE I BURST INTO FLAMES

Characters: Joseph Kavinsky & CR
Summary: First, Kavinsky is hassling Loki Odinson into taking a care ride with him. Some time later, Kavinsky is running away from his problems and straight into a vampire-consuming ball of fire called the first light of dawn, when a handsome blue-skinned bandito appears out of nowhere (because he can teleport).
Date(s): One fine mORNING in late January 2018
Warnings/Notes: Burning, graphic description of pain; mentions of past drug use, etc.

closed to Loki;

[it's not by prearrangement that the dream thief finds the god of mischief. mere coincidence with a dash of luck, and the fact that there's only so much to do in a population of a few thousand, especially when your magical biology programs you for a distinct inclination into staying up deep into the nights when other people are asleep. it's not like the place is big enough for timezones. there's a slight overlap between nocturnal creatures and people who, as a matter of course, happen to live on the edge. and who's edgier than loki odinson!

not that kavinsky thinks of it that way, of course. mostly, he's driving around in a fast car with his dog-shaped daemon scuffing around in the back seat, when his headlights flash over the demigod's tall, narrow frame. in a blink of an eye, or the twist of a steering wheel, the dream thief is pulling over to the slick stretch of sidewalk that loki is measuring out with his stride. buzzing the window down as he decelerates.]

Hey, sweetheart, [he calls out, grinning, the shit-eating kind, but all white fangs and gaunt cheeks. he peers out at loki, his heavy eyelids half-mast. he looks like some turd lord frat boy with an excess of designer tattoos-- fire bird blossoming on the side of his neck, skulls peeking out of his arm, under the short sleeves. vampires don't worry about winter weather.] You wanna come for that ride?

closed to Kurt;

[it starts with kavinsky running. he isn't running to any particular place— there's sixty miles of woods out here, and all of it seems repetitive. it wouldn't take long to run in a straight line, but you know woods. trees. trolls. now and then, he's also running from things like that— monsters, creatures of the wood.

at some point, he also runs from his daemon. she's annoying as fuck— warning him two hours before sunrise, then an hour. then forty minutes. she won't shut up, so he leaves her, earphones in, secondary media device blaring what passes for rap in xistentia into his skull. he can get home in ten minutes. he knows. he's done it before, hopping mossy trunks and cutting through rows of corn fields. once he hits the outer roads, he knows the way. it's easy. he doesn't need the fucking dog; she always catches up to him at home.

but there's something about shame and longing and grief and loneliness, which are also things that he is running from, invisible but powerful nonetheless, that have a way of dilating time, more than any drug that he used to take to medicate away those feelings. and he doesn't know, he doesn't notice, until the heat starts to seep through the blue air of pre-dawn, like summer warmth, except pain flares in his next step and

then

he's swearing, bolting, slamming up against a tree, fleeing into the tall shadow of the next one, his eyes roving the woods in a panic, disoriented by his own terror. pain starts at the edge of his shoulder. and like a child, he begins brokenly to cry.]

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[Nightcrawler's taken to exploring the forest when his thoughts get the better of him. The area is quiet, except for nature's occasional bird-call or rustling from an animal darting by. He sighs, watches the steam rise and dissipate within a few seconds, his tail dreamily flicking side to side. Thankfully, being high enough up, he doesn't seem all that bothered by the wildlife.

Shebad is at his side, draped lazily over the tree branch they're both perched on, her synthesized voice doing a great impression of a deep purr. He spares the daemon a glance, lips quirking in amusement as he reaches over with one hand to give her back a full-length, languid stroke.

He adjusts his position, stretches both legs out and nudges her with a boot. She cracks an eye open, unamused by his antics, although when he opens his arms, the ocelot promptly crawls forward and plops against him. A slight oomph escapes, but after they're both settled, he thumps the back of his head against the trunk, lets his eyes flutter shut. Then, just as he's beginning to enter a more meditative state, an exclamation of pain makes his eyes open right back up. If he'd ever heard the noise before from Kavinsky, perhaps it might have been familiar, but he's never been in any situation like that with him.

With a gentle push, Kurt urges the feline away, rolls off the edge of the limb to land on the ground below. A vague gesture of his hand beckons her and once she's down, they're both rushing toward the noise.] Kavinsky? [he asks, worry clear in his voice when he breaks through the spanse of trees. The smell of burning flesh makes him cringe, an arm raising and pressing over his face. What in the world is that? and then Oh, my God— Kavinsky's a vampire!

His instincts take over and without a second thought, he whips the coat he's wearing off and sprints closer, throwing the jacket over Kavinsky's head and yanking it around his upper-half.] What are you doing? [or in other words: "the sun's coming up, fool!"]

[i'm burning alive, kavinsky could probably say. i lost track of time. i was sad and running away from my feelings. i need love and i can't keep it because i'm an asshole, and i don't know how to get better, and i'm afraid i never will, and it took right up until this incinerating agonizing moment for me to realize that going forward unloved is not, in fact, a fate worse than every imaginable death.

and that's a lot, from a boy who more or less killed himself once.

instead, all that emits from the lump of his head under the shielding of clothing is a strangled hiss and gurgle. kavinsky's face is burned pretty bad. much like people who stand in freezing wind-- except the opposite of that— he can't really feel his lips. they feel like they're the wrong shape, the wrong size, and it's all the better, probably. he'd probably just say something stupid and mean, angry from terror or disoriented into forgetting himself.

instead, he clutches kurt's arm. agonized, spasming grasps, trying to keep his fingers hidden from the eating rays of sunshine as he does. clinging to him, like he's never clung to anyone he could remember, outside of bed and the throes of lust.]

Kurt, [he wheezes. the air is getting brighter. hotter. he reeks horribly, going straight up the mutant's nose to the back of his throat.]

[and despite the fact kavinsky says none of this, kurt is smart enough to take the hint.

that, and the smell of burning vampire flesh isn't all that pleasant, lingering in a way that makes him choke. he briefly turns away, hand cupped over his face until he can catch his breath long enough to speak.] Okay, okay, [insists the blue boy, arms clutching tighter around the dream thief, offering his taller frame for protection from the sunlight.]

Hold on. [kavinsky's only warning before there's darkness, the sudden flash of small, circular lights in his vision and a resonating bamf.

the entire trip only takes about three and a half minutes, considering the teleporter's ability to go miles per displacement and he's going as fast as he can-- exhaustion be damned at this point. he makes his appearance at the front door, shoulders it open and rushes into the only place that has no sunlight: his bedroom.

he gingerly sets kavinsky on the bed, leaves the jacket over him while he rushes about, making sure the blackout curtains are drawn; he even throws a blanket over the nearest one to make sure there will be almost total darkness. then, his mind is going a million miles a minute, urging him to push through his disorientation to find something that will help his guest.

does aloe vera work on vampires? he spares a glance over his shoulder in the direction of his plants, second guesses leaving kavinsky by himself, but god, he'd been burning for chrissake! instead, little blue clambers up onto the opposite side of the bed, carefully takes hold of kavinsky's shoulders, though says nothing for now.]

[does aloe vera work on vampires? that's a good question. a question for science, magic, and everything in between. kavinsky probably would have laughed if kurt had asked out loud, and if he hadn't been so battered and injured by the chemical reaction of sunrise's glare and his own undead flesh that he can barely think to himself the name for this experience, the single word, the concept

—pain-—

never mind parse a joke.

dimly, he understands they are somewhere safe now. he knows because the pain doesn't get worse, or at least, it doesn't get worse at a rate that means he's getting worse. the funny thing about pain is that it gets worse when you think about it, and when you're sad, and when you're scared, and when you're hungry, and he's all of those things mashed into one. his ruined skin is already seeping out onto the jacket that kurt had flung over him, and bits of him are leaking onto the bedspread, probably. but he isn't dying anymore, and he won't die now, barring a tree falling in.

he cries anyway, of course. whinging and gaspy and pathetic and painfully young. his shoulders seem uncharacteristically small in kurt's hands-- he always holds himself up so big and arrogant, you know. pretending.

he makes a sound that might be thank you, his eyes blinking, burnt-blind in the dark. somewhere far away, his daemon is running back to the city, howling in fear.]

[he can almost see it: kavinsky heckling like a hyena at how stupid of a question that probably is. faintly, his lips twitch and a huff slips free, which is some pathetic excuse of a laugh, but he's too panicked; it sounds all wrong. why can't he wake up from his nightmare already?

little does he know that the dream boy's suffering from much more than physical pain, at the moment.

it's the only thing he can focus on, though, when he's watching someone's skin melt off beneath the drape of his coat, falling in pieces across his bedspread. the smell is still burning his throat, but there's little he can do about that. he does not have enough anxiety to spread between sizzling vampire flesh and making sure kavinsky doesn't die in his bedroom, so he focuses on the latter, squeezing his eyes shut when tears spring forth.

there has never been a time where kurt's felt helpless in any situation, yet sitting here, holding kavinsky-- someone he thought to be one of the strongest people he knows, he is at a complete loss.

but, through the muddled state he's allowed himself to succumb to, he steels what bit of courage he has left and forces past a quivering breath.] You're welcome. Look, I know it's hard to speak right now, but please— [there is no 'on the verge of' in this moment. he's begging,] tell me what I can do to help you.

[kavinsky doesn't need to breathe anymore these days, but he's panting out of habit. and because people speak to express themselves, more often than not, and even if you're stripped of articulate vocabulary and proper grammatical rules, you're still left with the impression that emotions have to get out into the air out of your throat. so it's these limp little cries, pathetic, not always rubbing across his vocal chords. just these piping mouthfuls of air.

but he understands. he can hear what kurt is saying-- sort of. mostly. he understands that kurt means to help him. he's better at grasping that concept these days. two years in eudio and a long few months in xistentia, that sum experience has opened his heart and his mind a little. life is more than what other people dream to you, and people are more than predator and prey. sometimes nightmares even end. it's part of growing the fuck up, that he knows that now.]

B--blood.

[it's a parched and broken whisper. kavinsky's tattooed fingers twitch, but do not quite crawl against the surface of the covers-- perhaps an abortive attempt to reach for the mutant. but he can't take what wouldn't be fully given. and maybe, he wouldn't have either.]

[blood, he says. nightcrawler blinks with bewilderment, eyebrows arching. well, he sure as hell doesn't have anything like what rafa had, which leaves them with--

kurt's immediate reaction is to stiffen, brief flashes of the last vampire bite flickering across his thoughts. his brow furrows, eyes darting between himself and kavinsky before firmly settling where his hands are gripping his shoulders. it's not just some random encounter with a vampire; many people know and care about the dream thief, some he's familar with and some he isn't, but most of all-- he is one of those people who concerns himself with joseph's well-being.] Okay, [he decides, gently adjusting his arms so they're secured around the shorter male.

moving him isn't something the teleporter's happy about, but he can think of no easier way to shift them besides lifting and situating him in a position where kavinsky can reach the blue of his neck. perhaps, when his mind is less disoriented, the fact he could have raised an arm instead would click. the words leave him before he can second-guess himself,] Take whatever you need, Kavinsky.

[kavinsky finds himself moved, but it doesn't hurt that much. or perhaps, it might be more accurate to say that it doesn't move much more than it had before anyway. he feels his center of gravity drag and tilt, the blanket shift against his shoulder. then the familiar touch of a body leaned up against his.

most of the men that kavinsky has ever loved were taller than him, and had dark hair, and kinder spirits than his. he's too blinded right now by fire and pain to register the dreadful likeness between kurt and the specter of his stupid passions past. but he'll remember later, maybe. after.

after his fangs emerge from his burnt and peeling mouth, after his lips scrape brittle and blackened on the smooth blue of kurt's neck. after the points of enamel pierce into kurt's artery, finding them with little trouble despite everything, and the velvet curl of his tongue finds slick purchase against him. there's a tiny flinch of pain first, but kavinsky remembers in a split-second, fumbly but sure, to shift his jaws and press the sweet surge of easy pleasure into kurt's nerves instead.

he drinks.]

[the rapid up and down of his chest is something he wishes he had better control over right now. he has no idea if it's bothering kavinsky or not, resting somewhere that's moving consistently, though he can't flip them now-- not while the fledgling is readying to bite him.

he braces for pain because that's an obvious feeling; no matter the shape of the teeth, being bit isn't going to be entirely pleasant. kurt cringes at the sting, careful to keep the muscles beneath kavinsky's mouth from tensing and rejecting the fangs. his frame shudders at the slick of a tongue, the sensation foreign against his skin, then there's the slightest pressure, some simple movement of those teeth and the warmth seeps in.

lowering one hand from the other boy's waist, he splays it flat across the blankets beneath them, the lingering arm gingerly squeezing, silent encouragement. his head relaxes back and kurt lets his eyes slip shut, relinquishing himself to hedonism for however long the vampire must drink.

there's. something different about this bite, and it's not that kavinsky is half-burnt, desperately feeding because he needs it. (well, it's partially that, but--) he can't explain it right now. so, he lies perfectly still, focuses on settling his breath while kneading over his fellow brunet's hip.]

[kavinsky drinks for awhile.

to be honest, he probably drinks too much. enough that kurt feels, dimly, that the room is drifting further away, that sounds start to hit a thick cloud of half-deaf nothing before it connects with kurt's fingers. a dim impression of cold. but the pleasure's there to roll all of these strange and discomfitting sensations underneath, a wave of velvet, a chocolate sea, a quagmire of rose petals. a seductive approximation of death tricking the endings of kurt's nerves with a tingling rush.

and for kavinsky, it's good. the rush of blood, its taste and heat. the primal connection between blood and vampire is so powerful that it drives away the too-acute reality of pain. builds a wall between him and it, through which he can still hear the terrible noise of his own suffering, but it no longer seems quite so near.

and after awhile-- after not too long, he wills himself to stop. the fangs part from kurt. a prick of his own blood, a laving of his tongue, and the wounds close.

and then the face that kavinsky hides in the mutant's neck after is not quite so horribly burned and maimed as it had been before.]

[and yet, nightcrawler doesn't make any move to stop him.

he lets himself float, sinking into the dark depths beneath the lull of kavinsky's mouth. at first, kurt doesn't realize that he could literally be drank to death, but any sudden thought of that is eased, his senses alleviated by the rush that follows the slight prickling. his fingers curl up around the bed-sheets, trembling somewhat with the effort it takes in his relaxed state. god, he has the possibility of dying right here and couldn't care less.

except, kavinsky stops, releases his teeth and licks over the bite marks-- another motion that makes him shiver, though he loosens right away knowing he's finished. there's no trickle of blood, meaning either the wounds have shut or vampire saliva has the ability to clot blood.

feeling begins bleeding back into his fingertips, albeit slowly, and once he can move them, he clenches the young vampire's side, releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. iridescent eyes flutter back open, blinking then averting to the male he's holding with as much promptness his addled body can manage.]

Are— are you okay? [kurt asks with urgency. he isn't sure how long he'll be conscious after this, noting the wooziness he's currently suffering, so he must know now while comprehension is still a thing.]

['okay' is probably the wrong word. but he's a lot better than he was, and for once he can actually appreciate that. near-death has a way of making you appreciate that things don't have to be fucking perfect, you don't have to have everything you want. ironic maybe, that the one time he'd truly tried to kill himself in earnest, it'd been with fire.

he blinks. at first, he thinks he's imagining it, but after a moment, he realizes that it's true. he can see kurt. at least, the shadow of kurt, dim against the bed; the curve of his neck, the swoop of his shoulder. he realizes they're prone now, kurt having sloughed bonelessly down onto the bed like a melting ice cream cake and taken kavinsky with him. the bed is dense and firm beneath his head and his shoulder. the room feels very quiet.

his vampire senses aren't what they were still, but he can start to pick things out past the dull throb of healing. he can feel the distant vibration of kurt's slow breathing, his voice dissolving syllables in concentric circles in the air, which kavinsky feels break against him like ripples against the bank of a river.

he can feel the shape of kurt's hands through the fabric of his shirt, the weight of his wrist.]

'M gonna be, [he answers. his voice is slow, almost sleepy. then he moves his hand when he realizes it doesn't hurt anymore, the skin of his fingers lined and strange to look at, but not gorey. he settles his hand on kurt's chest, searching out his heartbeat.] 'Cause of you. Are you okay?

[he'll start to worry in a minute. he'll think of something to do about it in five.]

[sorry, k, but it's hard to stay coherent after something like blood-drinking. on top of that, he has to let himself recover from the sheer panic he'd been in, seeing this crazy, self-destructive vampire scorching right in front of his eyes. part of kurt wants to scold him, demand answers about why he thought it was a good idea to be out so close to sunrise; it's probably fortunate that he can't bring himself to move much past a slight shift here and there, the subtle way his chest expands.

he finds it harder than he'd like, blinking through the haze on his brain, an attempt at focusing on the fact kavinsky's talking to him now.] Mmn, [is all he manages for the moment. then, the pressure of a hand that's not his own comes down on his sternum and he stares through the daze, noting the new pink skin it's begun growing back.

yes, good. excellent to see after what he'd witnessed only a few minutes ago. another wonderful thing is joseph's voice, the way it sounds laden with sleep, like the two of them have just woken from an unexpected nap rather than him fighting for his life. beneath the other boy's palm, kurt's heart thrums, slow and steady as he recovers.

and finally, he recalls being asked if he's all right.] Couldn't let you melt away, [teases the mutant, good-naturedly, despite his croaking voice.] Yes, just— somewhat tired, a little lightheaded? If I lie here ...

[maybe he'll be okay? maybe.]

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MY SWEET PRINCCEEEE

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tw past suicide attempt

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i'm here i'm here!!

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