[ The sudden tug and weight over him has that mind spinning— both in thought and literally. Ethan, as much of a hard working body he has ( a h a ), is fairly easily subdued, but not without him whisking shaking, quickened breaths between dry lips. His chest fluctuates from the scare, his ribs rattling with each pound of his heart (that drums straight in his ears, augh—) ]
Ghk—!
[ The darkness makes it difficult to make out something other than a very tall, bulky black figure that still looked too identical to the ghost of his dreams. During those quick moments, he still squirms, still attempts to tear his arm away from what chains them and bucks under him to get the thing back. From what little his eyes could show in the dim lit room was antagonizing fear. For one, being immortal never meant he'd get used to kicking the bucket every time. Not just that— there was more than that involved in his senses bring him to fight.
The thing speaks. The thing breathes— hot against his face and no homo. When Ethan's eyes squint hard through their shocked widening, he attempts to lift his head, pausing in movements with soft gasps, then realizing the danger was another a little too late. He drops his head back against the floor with a heavy thwack, and regrets every second of that sleep. ]
Fuck—
[ What do you get when you drink, don't brush you teeth and don't shower after bleeding a great degree? What's hushed onto Mallory's face as he groans and catches up with his rattled breathing. ]
I didn't mean it, I—! Owowowow—
[ ow his head, ow his wrist, ow his body pleas get off— ]
[Uuuuugh, there it is, that putrid, bitter stench rising up to overpower even the alarming smell of blood. Mal wrinkles his nose and loosens his grip on Ethan's wrists, sitting up, but still straddling his hips and still no homo. For a drunk, his reflexes are pretty impressive to have taken Mal by surprise like that (at least that's how Mal sees it). He makes a note to be more careful in the future, lest he end up being the one pinned.
His lip curls as he rubs the side of his neck, prodding at the tender flesh with his fingertips. He can already tell that's probably going to leave at least a light hickie bruise. This may be his fault, but he's going to hold it against Ethan for quite some time.]
You want to tell me what happened to your shirt?
[In case he's forgotten, let Mal be a pal and help him out. He grabs a fistful of the front of the shirt and tugs the crusty fabric up to Ethan's nose, all but smothering him with it.]
[ A lot less drunk and more riding the waves out of drunkness, but a scare that was ready to maul his face off could do so much to an Ajin boy . . .
This is really not homo.
Ethan would like to go back to sleep and sleep in if he could, but he's getting a fistful of his own clothes shoved in his face and a whole ton of mad handling over him. Shutting his eyes tightly and turning his face, his nostrils flare, the familiar scent of blood invading his awareness. Sudden awareness turns into a gnawing feeling of dread; the memory is a fuzz, but he hadn't been completely tanked with booze enough to forget the whole night. His gaze flinches at the older man's, and he holds his breath.
He got dumber, and maybe had to regenerate a finger (s???). And some of his arm. Fell a few times. Did he die and didn't notice? Christ— When was the knife game a good idea?
(Apparently, when you're hanging with a bunch of other buzzed immortals and drunk you just wants to fit in). ]
Uh— That's— [ God damn it— ] It's nothing, ah— [ Submissively, his hands raise up for Mal. ] It was just a little— It was meat.
[ He tries not to hit his own face with that one, but it really was the only thing he could think of in the midst of covering his tracks. ]
Okay. Maybe, just maybe, he's still waking up and a little bit buzzed, so it could be less that he thinks Mal's an idiot and more than Ethan just is one. Doesn't mean Mal's going to go any easier on him, unfortunately. He pulls him up just a little before letting him drop back to the ground.]
Really.
[He stares down at Ethan to get a better look at him. If it were someone else's blood, it would have splattered all over his skin too. And the unused futon looks neat-ish enough that it doesn't look like there were signs of a struggle in the room, and the floor's clean, so it doesn't look likely that Luna had to kill him after all. He glances up to the corners of the room, holding his breath, but of course there's no monitor jutting out from the wall, no red glow of death...
This really is just some drunken fool who got into a stupid accident, isn't he? Ugh. Mal finally pushes off of him and stands to peel his significantly less bloody shirt off.]
Tch. If you want to pretend you didn't go and get yourself killed like an idiot, at least hide the evidence.
[ But what if he did, what if he put in so much effort and— well, that's what he gets for improvising poorly. Truth be told, Ethan looks ready to stumble the hell right out there as soon as Mal drops him, eying the man and his suspicion. He keeps staring, and watching, and drinking up detail that made the boy's head pound even more than it wanted to. It makes him wince, as does it make him look like he's been cornered. His legs feel disgusting, but maybe he could still struggle out of here without walking on noodles, or losing his balance.
The reply isn't exactly what he was waiting for, and he visibly falters for seconds before he follows through, palms sticky with forming sweat. Wait, did he know? How the hell did he know? No, he couldn't know— or could he? Was that why he was being watched with the stink eye since day one? He thought it was because he walked in on him spooning a dude—
Unfortunately, Ethan isn't good at lying. He's the picture of worry, shifting to his feet in a wobble and taking a step back. ]
Er, c'mon, That's— People don't just come back like that, Mr. Mallory . . .
[If Ethan cares to ogle his SHREDDED BOD, among all the fresh cuts and bruises and older scars, there are four wounds that really stand out. Two? One angry red gash on either side of his left shoulder and a similarly bold but slightly neater mark of something that impaled him just beneath the ribcage and went right out his back. They're not new, necessarily, but they sure as hell haven't been there long enough to heal properly. Between those and the hack job of an amputation beneath his false hand, should this guy really be alive either?
He barely even spares Ethan another glance as he tugs the prosthetic off and sticks it in with his meager belongings. Facecloth... He had one somewhere in this pile, ah, there we go-]
Youkai aren't usually real, either.
[Off he pops into the bathroom to give his face a quick wash. For a second it sounds like he's going to leave it at that, but then he suddenly speaks up over the running water.]
I already told you I don't give a shit what you're doing with your time. But if something out there has it out for you, you'd better come clean right now.
[The last thing he needs is something following Ethan back here.]
Lips press tightly together when that's said, shutting him up like an easy, easy zipper that just needed a light little pull. His eyes still stay though, wandering to what his foggy vision could pick up in the dimly lit room. One thing that Ethan has crossing his mind, with the cuts, the scars— is he trying to say something? Wait. But why would he have scars if he'd just reset sooner or later if he were a . . .
Nah. He disregards the thought as silly of him, especially when the prosthetic comes off.
Down comes the nervous fumbling of fingers in hands, though, because something's really not adding up. He didn't know something that the other man did, and when Mallory turns to go to the bathroom, it leaves Ethan in quiet thought— maybe too much of it at this hour, with his entire being still feeling bleh. You can imagine how much he really did drink before enough to do something stupid enough to reset, then drink a little extra after that with a clean slate.
Both hands come up to rub his face, run through his mess of hair while water runs— that was dangerous clurichaun booze that he'll think twice about revisiting, as much as it really felt like a blessing at the time. Post boozing has not been a blessing. Nevertheless, Ethan forces himself to stand with a wince, eyes shutting tô hold the headache together; with fingers to his temple, he follows after, a question beginning to form right at the tip of his tongue.
Mallory speaks up right when he turn the corner to the doorway, nearly jumping out of his skin and holding the wall to prevent a stumble back. A blink, and for the duration of that silence afterwards, he's almost forgotten to answer. Don't get him wrong, it's not that there's something after him, it's just— well, nothings after him. But why is he dropping?? These hints?? ]
—Oh, uh— N-no, nothing's. Nothing's following me. [ . . . At least he thinks. He looks down at his shirt, the sleeves, stained and still gross. He tugs at the fabric to get a better look, features giving a slight grimace. He needs to wash this off, at sloppily pulls at his clothes to pop it over his head.
With them in his hands, he asks, quietly and with surprised caution, ] So . . . You don't care?
[While Ethan's mind is a throbbing, overthinking mess, Mal's reached a point where he can settle down and turn to much simpler thoughts: God I'm tired. Wow, that's a nasty cut. I wish Luna were here instead of what's-his-face. I want to be held. All the pleasantly inconsequential worries that feel light as a feather after his earlier paranoia and suspicions. A nice bit of respite before his fears crept up on him once again as he slept and began the cycle anew.
He reappears in the doorway and drops the damp, pinkened washcloth on Ethan's head as he passes him.]
Hate to disappoint you, but I've got bigger problems than crying over some stranger's death. Especially when it doesn't even last.
[As he speaks those words it does strike him that it's just a little messed up that he means them. Wasn't there a time when even hearing about unnecessary deaths of innocent people ate away at him for days, weeks? How many did he have to witness before he started growing numb to it? So much for letting his mind drift to the simple things.
He frowns a little to himself as he starts unrolling his futon. Forget this whole "being awake" thing. He is so ready to leave the waking world for a while.]
[ Wow, okay. Very little time is needed before the teen drags the cloth off his head. Like he wasn't dirty enough already, he has to have another dude's blood crust on him (how'd he get hurt, anyway? Maybe he got into a fight, it wasn't improbable). Making a face to the comment, Ethan is reminded of someone else, a conversation that only seems to further upset his flipping stomach and still too fresh in his mind to stick in a mental drawer. He has reasons not to argue with that anymore, he had his opinions and everyone else had theirs. With a huff, he balls the dirtied fabric with his own shirt, and calls out as he leans his body to the wall. He'll clean these . . . Soon. Himself, too.. ]
But that's actually a pretty valid question so fine. After all, he was pretty horrified when he found it out himself. He leans over to his little personal pile of stuff and pokes around in it while he offers his casual answer.]
Some magic the Witch has over the workers. You die, you come right back. I think most people know about it.
[That doesn't mean he particularly wants to experience the pain of death anytime soon. Or anything that could be worse than death. He fishes a switchblade out of the pile and tucks it under his pillow. Good. Now he can settle down.]
Don't get carried away with that. Who knows when it wears off.
[He grunts and rolls over to put his back to Ethan. Congratulations! He trusts considers you enough of a non-threat to do that.]
So they definitely weren't talking about the same thing. Don't mind him trying to cover his gawking (poorly), eyes almost owlish as he tries to pick that up. His analysis could only go so far on its own. The Witch can bring people back— Just how much power does she have? Is she a Goddess? Can she bring other people back, too? ]
She can really do that?
[ Even if he's talking to himself at this point, he holds the bundle to his legs. Catching a glimpse of a blade makes his glance linger, soundlessly slipping down to the ground (the landing isn't too graceful, alas), and keeping the clothes on his lap. More sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea if, you know, he hadn't been TENDERIZED to consciousness. And with that bit of information? It makes his head corkscrew so bad he's too gross to sleep yet. Maybe a shower was in order, he doesn't— feel good.
—And then you get his name wrong, enough that he shrivels like a plant. That sure is a trip down memory lane that he'd rather conk out of his life, forever. ]
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no subject
Ghk—!
[ The darkness makes it difficult to make out something other than a very tall, bulky black figure that still looked too identical to the ghost of his dreams. During those quick moments, he still squirms, still attempts to tear his arm away from what chains them and bucks under him to get the thing back. From what little his eyes could show in the dim lit room was antagonizing fear. For one, being immortal never meant he'd get used to kicking the bucket every time. Not just that— there was more than that involved in his senses bring him to fight.
The thing speaks. The thing breathes— hot against his face and no homo. When Ethan's eyes squint hard through their shocked widening, he attempts to lift his head, pausing in movements with soft gasps, then realizing the danger was another a little too late. He drops his head back against the floor with a heavy thwack, and regrets every second of that sleep. ]
Fuck—
[ What do you get when you drink, don't brush you teeth and don't shower after bleeding a great degree? What's hushed onto Mallory's face as he groans and catches up with his rattled breathing. ]
I didn't mean it, I—! Owowowow—
[ ow his head, ow his wrist, ow his body pleas get off— ]
no subject
His lip curls as he rubs the side of his neck, prodding at the tender flesh with his fingertips. He can already tell that's probably going to leave at least a light
hickiebruise. This may be his fault, but he's going to hold it against Ethan for quite some time.]You want to tell me what happened to your shirt?
[In case he's forgotten, let Mal be a pal and help him out. He grabs a fistful of the front of the shirt and tugs the crusty fabric up to Ethan's nose, all but smothering him with it.]
no subject
This is really not homo.
Ethan would like to go back to sleep and sleep in if he could, but he's getting a fistful of his own clothes shoved in his face and a whole ton of mad handling over him. Shutting his eyes tightly and turning his face, his nostrils flare, the familiar scent of blood invading his awareness. Sudden awareness turns into a gnawing feeling of dread; the memory is a fuzz, but he hadn't been completely tanked with booze enough to forget the whole night. His gaze flinches at the older man's, and he holds his breath.
He got dumber, and maybe had to regenerate a finger (s???). And some of his arm. Fell a few times. Did he die and didn't notice? Christ— When was the knife game a good idea?
(Apparently, when you're hanging with a bunch of other buzzed immortals and drunk you just wants to fit in). ]
Uh— That's— [ God damn it— ] It's nothing, ah— [ Submissively, his hands raise up for Mal. ] It was just a little— It was meat.
[ He tries not to hit his own face with that one, but it really was the only thing he could think of in the midst of covering his tracks. ]
no subject
Okay. Maybe, just maybe, he's still waking up and a little bit buzzed, so it could be less that he thinks Mal's an idiot and more than Ethan just is one. Doesn't mean Mal's going to go any easier on him, unfortunately. He pulls him up just a little before letting him drop back to the ground.]
Really.
[He stares down at Ethan to get a better look at him. If it were someone else's blood, it would have splattered all over his skin too. And the unused futon looks neat-ish enough that it doesn't look like there were signs of a struggle in the room, and the floor's clean, so it doesn't look likely that Luna had to kill him after all. He glances up to the corners of the room, holding his breath, but of course there's no monitor jutting out from the wall, no red glow of death...
This really is just some drunken fool who got into a stupid accident, isn't he? Ugh. Mal finally pushes off of him and stands to peel his significantly less bloody shirt off.]
Tch. If you want to pretend you didn't go and get yourself killed like an idiot, at least hide the evidence.
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The reply isn't exactly what he was waiting for, and he visibly falters for seconds before he follows through, palms sticky with forming sweat. Wait, did he know? How the hell did he know? No, he couldn't know— or could he? Was that why he was being watched with the stink eye since day one? He thought it was because he walked in on him spooning a dude—
Unfortunately, Ethan isn't good at lying. He's the picture of worry, shifting to his feet in a wobble and taking a step back. ]
Er, c'mon, That's— People don't just come back like that, Mr. Mallory . . .
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[If Ethan cares to ogle his SHREDDED BOD, among all the fresh cuts and bruises and older scars, there are four wounds that really stand out. Two? One angry red gash on either side of his left shoulder and a similarly bold but slightly neater mark of something that impaled him just beneath the ribcage and went right out his back. They're not new, necessarily, but they sure as hell haven't been there long enough to heal properly. Between those and the hack job of an amputation beneath his false hand, should this guy really be alive either?
He barely even spares Ethan another glance as he tugs the prosthetic off and sticks it in with his meager belongings. Facecloth... He had one somewhere in this pile, ah, there we go-]
Youkai aren't usually real, either.
[Off he pops into the bathroom to give his face a quick wash. For a second it sounds like he's going to leave it at that, but then he suddenly speaks up over the running water.]
I already told you I don't give a shit what you're doing with your time. But if something out there has it out for you, you'd better come clean right now.
[The last thing he needs is something following Ethan back here.]
no subject
Lips press tightly together when that's said, shutting him up like an easy, easy zipper that just needed a light little pull. His eyes still stay though, wandering to what his foggy vision could pick up in the dimly lit room. One thing that Ethan has crossing his mind, with the cuts, the scars— is he trying to say something? Wait. But why would he have scars if he'd just reset sooner or later if he were a . . .
Nah. He disregards the thought as silly of him, especially when the prosthetic comes off.
Down comes the nervous fumbling of fingers in hands, though, because something's really not adding up. He didn't know something that the other man did, and when Mallory turns to go to the bathroom, it leaves Ethan in quiet thought— maybe too much of it at this hour, with his entire being still feeling bleh. You can imagine how much he really did drink before enough to do something stupid enough to reset, then drink a little extra after that with a clean slate.
Both hands come up to rub his face, run through his mess of hair while water runs— that was dangerous clurichaun booze that he'll think twice about revisiting, as much as it really felt like a blessing at the time. Post boozing has not been a blessing. Nevertheless, Ethan forces himself to stand with a wince, eyes shutting tô hold the headache together; with fingers to his temple, he follows after, a question beginning to form right at the tip of his tongue.
Mallory speaks up right when he turn the corner to the doorway, nearly jumping out of his skin and holding the wall to prevent a stumble back. A blink, and for the duration of that silence afterwards, he's almost forgotten to answer. Don't get him wrong, it's not that there's something after him, it's just— well, nothings after him. But why is he dropping?? These hints?? ]
—Oh, uh— N-no, nothing's. Nothing's following me. [ . . . At least he thinks. He looks down at his shirt, the sleeves, stained and still gross. He tugs at the fabric to get a better look, features giving a slight grimace. He needs to wash this off, at sloppily pulls at his clothes to pop it over his head.
With them in his hands, he asks, quietly and with surprised caution, ] So . . . You don't care?
[ ???? ]
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He reappears in the doorway and drops the damp, pinkened washcloth on Ethan's head as he passes him.]
Hate to disappoint you, but I've got bigger problems than crying over some stranger's death. Especially when it doesn't even last.
[As he speaks those words it does strike him that it's just a little messed up that he means them. Wasn't there a time when even hearing about unnecessary deaths of innocent people ate away at him for days, weeks? How many did he have to witness before he started growing numb to it? So much for letting his mind drift to the simple things.
He frowns a little to himself as he starts unrolling his futon. Forget this whole "being awake" thing. He is so ready to leave the waking world for a while.]
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How'd you even know?
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But that's actually a pretty valid question so fine. After all, he was pretty horrified when he found it out himself. He leans over to his little personal pile of stuff and pokes around in it while he offers his casual answer.]
Some magic the Witch has over the workers. You die, you come right back. I think most people know about it.
[That doesn't mean he particularly wants to experience the pain of death anytime soon. Or anything that could be worse than death. He fishes a switchblade out of the pile and tucks it under his pillow. Good. Now he can settle down.]
Don't get carried away with that. Who knows when it wears off.
[He grunts and rolls over to put his back to Ethan. Congratulations! He
trustsconsiders you enough of a non-threat to do that.]Now go back to sleep, Erik.
no subject
Okay.
So they definitely weren't talking about the same thing. Don't mind him trying to cover his gawking (poorly), eyes almost owlish as he tries to pick that up. His analysis could only go so far on its own. The Witch can bring people back— Just how much power does she have? Is she a Goddess? Can she bring other people back, too? ]
She can really do that?
[ Even if he's talking to himself at this point, he holds the bundle to his legs. Catching a glimpse of a blade makes his glance linger, soundlessly slipping down to the ground (the landing isn't too graceful, alas), and keeping the clothes on his lap. More sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea if, you know, he hadn't been TENDERIZED to consciousness. And with that bit of information? It makes his head corkscrew so bad he's too gross to sleep yet. Maybe a shower was in order, he doesn't— feel good.
—And then you get his name wrong, enough that he shrivels like a plant. That sure is a trip down memory lane that he'd rather conk out of his life, forever. ]
. . . It's Ethan.
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no subject
ok
let him just