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[antielevator]

Tʜᴇ Eᴠɪʟ Wɪᴛʜɪɴ 2 | ▶

[antielevator]

A wolf watches the unknown person to him from across the street a hesitant to approach. He tilts his head cautiously, walking towards the other. (Politely yeets Luci at you)

Sebastian pauses in the middle of skinning his squirrel.

He's not afraid of animals, per se, but a wild animal is still a wild animal. Even if the wolf approaches with strangely intelligent intent, he keeps his guard up regardless.

He looks to the side where he'd wrapped the squirrel's guts in newspaper ("Joseph Seed delivers incredible sermon on salvation!" it reads). Then, placing the squirrel down, he unwraps the package and sets it on the ground a few feet from where he'd been sitting. Every movement is slow, easy to telegraph.

Guts have to be tastier than humans, right?

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In the long seconds of his death, Sebastian doesn't compute anything. He doesn't feel the black tendrils that weave through his blood, nor the sharp sensation of needles as thousands of microscopic threads pull the layers of his wound shut. His body is gone, so something else has to put it back together again: something that pulses in him, something that sends flares of information to nerve endings that no longer respond. Over and over this thing makes up for what he's lost-- litres of blood are replaced with black liquid, electric synapses are turned to tiny explosions of spores, and then Sebastian's heart beats, and beats, and beats again.

Wake the fuck up for me, Ethan begs, and that single command makes spores explode at the stem of Sebastian's brain and jolt all his systems back into motion.

His eyes open first, and his lashes flutter delicately. Then his lungs catch up, and he ends up coughing hard. There is nothing delicate there, nothing soft or gentle as he hacks up invisible intruders. The change may have woken him, but the instincts in his subconscious mind panic; he coughs, and coughs, and coughs until his eyes are wet, and should Ethan help him in any way he'll turn to his side and wheeze miserably.

All over his body there's that pinpricking sensation of blood (corruption) flowing back where it shouldn't. Sebastian shuts his eyes tight against the discomfort, and then outright sobs when he suddenly becomes aware of the tightness of his chest. His heart is beating too fast, too hard, and he clenches his fist and slams it into the floor with a wordless wheeze.

It hurts... The black in his veins is going to burn him from the inside out, it feels like, and with this level of contamination every weapon in his immune system's arsenal is fired one after the other. He's feverish and sweating, there's blood coming from his nose, and he's just barely keeping himself from gagging. In a panicked craze, Sebastian curls into himself and starts clawing at his own shirt. It hurts-- it hurts-- get it out of me, get it out of me, get it out--!

He fails to realise that none of this is spoken out loud. He barely hears his own desperate, mindless snarling as he rips the buttons to his shirt apart and digs his blunt nails into flesh (he doesn't notice the knife scar by his heart has healed completely and left his flesh smooth).

At this rate, the overstimulation might drive him mad.

ethan doesn’t know what he’s doing. he doesn’t know what to do, whether or not what he’s hoping for will even work — but he has to try. it’s his own mistakes, his own bout of insanity, that brought this on, and if there’s even a chance to fix it, he’s going to take it.

it isn’t necessarily a conscious act, but instead more of a feeling. a thought that ethan hopes he’s somehow willing into existence. fix him, fix him, fix him : words thought over and over again, a mantra, silently commanding the decay that lingers beneath the skin to make itself useful. to put sebastian back together, to keep him alive. to worm its way inside his ribcage and make itself at home inside him.

as his hands remain on sebastian, face streaked with his own tears, ethan knows there is risk involved in this. there’s a small part of him that knows that it may go wrong as it did with so many of those taken by the bakers ; there is a small part of him that wonders if he’s being selfish by even trying. but when sebastian whispers his name, when his eyes flicker closed and his body goes slack against him, ethan knows it doesn’t matter. none of those risks are important in comparison to fixing this shit.

he still does not move away from sebastian’s body, even once he’s ceased breathing. he does not quit touching him, thumb stroking along his jaw. it feels somehow important that he stays close, and that’s an instinct that ethan won’t argue with.

he’s dead, silly, that little voice in the back of his head laughs, girlish and airy. he’s dead and you killed him!

she’s right, and yet she isn’t.

seb is dead. ethan did kill him.

but somewhere deep down, as ethan stares at his best friend’s seemingly lifeless form, there’s a feeling of connection.

a flutter. a tug on a string connecting him to the man beneath him. it is sensed by some crucial part of him, almost as if it is in the fibre of his very being, and ethan knows that it’s worked in some way or another.

how well though, he isn’t sure.

sitting here watching and waiting for sebastian’s eyes to open, to see the rise and fall of his chest, feels like an eternity of torment. “ wake up, you bastard, ” ethan murmurs, tone bordering on something close to pleading. “ i know you, seb : you’re stubborn. you’re a fighter. you can do this — just wake the fuck up for me … ”

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reminds me of you

reminds me of you.

the burn of good booze going down your throat. chipped teeth. old diner booths with ripped seams. smiling to make them worry less, even when it physically hurts you to do so. nails digging into skin. a child's artwork proudly displayed on the fridge. threadbare sheets against your tired body. handcuffs around wrists. hearing a game of pool being played in a bar. a heart skipping a beat, whether out of shock or love. the weight of a pistol in your hand. cool night air. the smell of fresh - brewed coffee. tasting blood in the other person's mouth when you kiss them. police sirens. keeping pictures of your daughter in your wallet. the hollow sound of running on pavement. gentle touches made with calloused hands. whispers of "I love you" at midnight.

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Normal people might say "ow" at getting hit. Sebastian, who's as accustomed to Brian's tantrums as he was back when he was a young man, only bursts out laughing (which isn't to say his arm doesn't hurt because of it, but honestly, he missed the guy).

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

"Man," he says, grinning, "'step up' is one way to put it, sure.

"How long you been governing, then?" He pokes Brian's side. "You can't just drop that and not tell me the story."

"TCH!"

There's the punch to Sebastian's arm.

"I never said anythin' like that! I said trust, not like. There's a difference."

He sounded angry, but it was all in jest.

"... An' yeah. I'm the Governor 'round the town. Helluva step up from bein' a mechanic ain't it?"

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"Ooh," Sebastian coos, unable to help it, "so you're a bigshot in town, are you?"

So much for "not being sixteen anymore".

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I appreciate it, Bri." And so the paracetamol's kept away nice and safe in his backpack. Myra'll be pleased when he meets up with her again, and with luck Lily'll be able to sleep better until her fever breaks.

For now, he teases, "Nice to know you really did like me deep down after all."

"It has been picked clean... By us. We were jus' rollin' through 'ere jus' t'see what else we missed before goin' further towards the city, clearin' what we could."

A sigh.

"Whole thing's a mess. We've set up a walk 'round the town but we still got break-ins from those Biters from time t'time. Bastards."

Then he's holding up a hand, to deny the others offer.

"Won' need it that badly yet... Keep it. In fact..." He's reaching into the bag that had been slung over his shoulder, pulling out another box of it before handing it to Seb. "It'll give me a li'l more room if y'take it, if I found more ammunition. Take it as a... Extension of good faith from us at Woodbury. Ye'll be able t'follow the signs t'town if y'want a safe place... No customs. I trust ya."

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"Ah." Sebastian nods once at this "Martinez". "There was a gun store down west from here, right side of the road. Might've been picked clean, though." He hadn't bothered looking himself, but the shortbow on his back probably gives enough reason why.

"And... no, the meds aren't for me. But I only need two sheets of paracetamol, anyway.

"If you want the rest" -- after pulling out sheets from the box, Sebastian holds it out in Brian's direction -- "you're welcome to it.

"'Woodbury' sounds like you're with more people than I am."

"Y'sure y'ain't sixteen anymore? Dunno, y'ain't changed a fuckin' bit since the world's gone t'shit."

Where had he gotten the glass of alcohol? Who cares.

"Medication, supplies... Anythin'. Martinez 'ere-" he sticks his thumb behind himself to a man with a gun by the door. Who gave a half-wave at Seb before going back to focusing on the area outside. "Needs ammunition."

A shrug.

"Been hittin' whatever we could on the way back t'Woodbury. Can come along if y'want. We got plenty'a people."

Then he's looking Seb up and down, a tilt of the head.

"Medicine ain't fer you is it?"

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If nothing else, at least the ribbing makes this all remarkably nostalgic. All that's missing is Sebastian getting punched in the arm.

"I'm not sixteen any more, Brian," Sebastian says, half-indignant. The real miracle is still being able to feel embarrassed in a world like this one.

"I haven't been sixteen in a long fucking time."

He shakes his head. "...did you come here for medicine, too?"

"How obvious do you want me to fuckin' make that?"

He definitely hasn't changed since this whole thing started.

A huff. Roll of the visible eye under the mess of hair that clearly hasn't been taken care of for months.

"Yeah, I thought ye'd die. Mostly because Philip ain't 'round..."

Another huff. "... Good t'see yer alive. Means y'ain't as weak as I thought ye'd been."

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@general-kalani:

A wild Brian appears! The apocalypse has been harsh on him.

"I'll be honest, I didn't figure out the type to live in this shit." His attitude hasn't changed with the apocalypse at least.

"What?"

Eloquent as always, Castellanos. On the bright side, at least Brian's absolute candour kills any potentially exaggerated emotion Sebastian might have felt at seeing him again after all this time.

"...is that you saying you thought I'd die?"

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In any other scenario, in any other world, the sound of Daigo's laughter would inspire a lightness in Sebastian's chest. As it is, hearing it in this context almost pisses him off, but Daigo's so dogged down by his own self-inflicted pain it kills any urge to smack him that rises.

Besides, he promised not to beat him up so long as he listened, and agreeing to sleep is as good a sign of obedience as any.

"When have I ever lied to you?" Sebastian asks, scoffing. The question is genuine-- the only way Daigo could come up with any answer that made sense would be if he counted lying by omission under that umbrella.

He doesn't argue the comment about his back, though (he doubts telling Daigo he's fallen down multiple stories since this nightmare began would be as comforting as it sounds in Sebastian's head). Sebastian taps the back of Daigo's hand, then makes a jerking motion with his head towards the pillows at the head of the bed. "Lie down, Dojima. I'll be there in a second."

Whether Daigo goes down willingly or with a bit of a fight, Sebastian makes sure he's settled before he moves from his spot by the window. He uses a hand to pull the dirty curtains closed, and then backtracks for a moment towards the bedroom door to make sure the chair against the knob is still holding.

Then, once he's satisfied nothing will come in without him waking, Sebastian crawls into bed after Daigo's miserable form.

For all that they'd been close only moments earlier, the thought of lying close to Daigo like this makes Sebastian's throat feel thick. It's less the possibility of something inappropriate as much as it is the fact he hasn't been close to another person in years. Hell, even when he saw his brother at Lily's death anniversary a few months earlier, Sebastian didn't have the heart to hug him "hello" like he used to before the accident.

He needs it, though, offers a voice in his head. He'd like to say the voice was his own, but lately anything good he comes up with sounds more like a pathetic shadow of everything glorious that Myra was. Even the way he reaches out to wipe blood beneath Daigo's lips with his thumb is a gesture brought about by whatever goodness his girls left behind with him.

Sebastian hasn't been "good" in a long time.

"We aren't gonna fit," he muses, once the red-black substance is mostly removed from Daigo's skin. It might have been a futile effort-- he's sure there's still blood inside the man's mouth, and he wonders idly if Daigo's been hurting himself in there, too-- but making him clean wasn't the point, anyway.

He touches Daigo's hip, pushing lightly. "Scoot."

This time, it's Sebastian who fits himself against Daigo's back-- it'll be easier for him to throw up on the floor if the need arose. Wrapping his arms around his waist feels like too much, though, so he settles for resting one hand on Daigo's forearm and guiding it to fold over his stomach.

Their fingers don't link, but the weight of Sebastian's hand atop Daigo's is firm. Don't do anything stupid, it suggests.

His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "This okay?"

★. ―

Sebastian's words were answered with low, non - committal grunts — the sort of noise that suggested Daigo had heard but was not agreeing. Another knuckle popped, and he sucked in a breath. If not for the gentle pressure applied by the detective, he may have broken his own fingers. In protest, he pulled back his forehead and bumped it into the back of Sebastian's shoulder with a dull thump.

The only point that seemed to finally reach Daigo was Sebastian's promise to cut the thing out of him tomorrow. Behind the detective, he froze. His hands abruptly fell open, showing the minute cuts that he had dug into his palms with his nails. In the shadows behind Sebastian, the strange glaze over Daigo's black eyes, so much like that of an abandoned corpse, thickened.

That would do it — Sebastian would pull out the thing and bring Daigo's intestines with it or Daigo would bleed out from the botched attempt. Either way, the detective would be set free, free from the metaphorical noose that Daigo had around his neck.

"It's there," he said, voice distorted with that soft growl lingering beneath it.

For the first time since their latest reunion, Daigo's arms went slack. He inhaled deeply, mouth open against the detective's shirt. Sebastian wouldn't find it, but he would release them from it. Without Daigo, the rot in his belly would have nothing to feed on. No one to resent. No one to wish for.

Were Daigo in a clearer state of mind, he may have realized that the terrible darkness inside of him had not come from this place. It had been inside of his thick skull for years, buried under half - awake nights, excuses of timing, and the dull roar of a news anchor announcing the death of a city detective's daughter in a fire. Daigo broke a glass in his hands that night, he might have remembered. Seeing the name. The little scars from those cuts were still etched into the skin that Sebastian's thumb rested on.

I hate you, Daigo wanted to yell. I hate you for what I did to me.

The thing that was driving him mad wasn't inside of his torso — it was here, in his grip. Steadying him. It smelled like cigarette smoke, leather, and good coffee.

Suddenly, Daigo laughed. He had never done so quietly ; every peal that left his lips was always more like a loud bark. The ex - renegade slumped into Sebastian once the sound died, eyes closed. His insides twisted sharply, and Daigo swallowed back a mouthful of blood.

"I'll sleep, if it means you keep your word — though I am going to break your damn back if I try it like this," he quipped. There was just enough of a bite there to make him almost sound normal, as if he didn't have frothing scarlet running from the gaps in between his teeth and dripping onto his ruined clothes.

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Acts, Spencer Reece

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And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world, I will learn to survive.

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"Clearly it does."

Sebastian fears Stefano might feel the rise of his own heartbeat in the pulse in his neck. Then what? He could explain it as a natural reaction to being this close to someone else, but Stefano isn't exactly anyone he ought to be having natural reactions to. He hasn't been this close to a person in a long time, though... even if he's only doing this to make sure Stefano doesn't kill himself somehow.

"It upsets you," he mutters, "when I say your art scares Lily." And it does, of course, but Sebastian also understands now that Stefano genuinely has no idea. He'd raised his daughter to be so polite that she'd pretend, however poorly, to like something that terrifies her, and Stefano is so unconditioned to social interaction that he can't even tell.

"And every time we fight about you wanting to take her out to see your" -- corpses, he almost says -- "creations, it pisses you off when I say to make art with other materials.

"It's important." His brows furrow. "I still think it's too dangerous for Lily to go out in this world with you, but it's important to you all the same."

Sebastian's gaze shifts, looking down at the top of Stefano's head. What kind of miserable menagerie of thoughts are even in there?

"Educate me. What made you see 'beauty' in death?"

"It's not death," Stefano sighs, clearly exhausted, but primarily about how often people miss the purpose of his work at this point. "It's the moment of death. There's something so moving about a person's last moment alive, yet most see it as nothing more than macabre. People choose to focus on the sorrow that comes with that moment, rather than the beauty of what it means.

"People see the beauty in a life being born, and yet, when a life is lost, it is deemed nothing but a tragedy, regardless of how or who or why."

As Stefano presses his forehead against the side of Sebastian's neck and his fingers mindlessly begin to toy with the fabric of the shirt. Even if the warmth offered is limited, it's welcomed and helps him steady a good deal.

"The harbingers are nothing but shock fodder and your clothes are uninspired. But capturing the moment of someone's death... well, there's so much feeling in it, it..."

Stefano trails off with a sigh and his hand lowers from Sebastian's shirt to his own lap.

He's unsure of why Sebastian has taken a sudden interest in his art, but Stefano's all but certain he'll be met with the same judgement and baseless criticism for it, regardless.

"It doesn't matter."

He wishes he was strong enough to be able to pull away from the other, but he knows he's desperate for the warmth that the other is offering.

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LIVE (nothing wrong with me)

LAUGH (nothing wrong with me)

LOVE (nothing wrong with me)

[antielevator]

If perseverance were an art form, you would be a master. 

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At this point, Sebastian can't even muster any surprise when Stefano speaks of Theodore's Harbingers like they're a fashion trend. Stefano's priorities are... different, and at this point he thinks he's better off simply accepting them for what they are. I want to die beautiful because I'm not beautiful in life-- it's utterly illogical to him, but to Stefano, it's simply reality.

Sebastian considers his choices. He could be quiet and have Stefano become so frigid he simply stops moving. Or he could try and understand the fucked up version of reality in Stefano's fucked up little head-- he could keep him talking so he doesn't just pass out and fade away.

Pressing his lips together, Sebastian decides he's tired of people dying because he failed them. If nothing else, he at least owes Stefano for taking that hit for him.

"...what's 'beautiful' to you, anyway?"

Is this concept of ugliness why Stefano is so cold? Sebastian swallows, glances down at where the man's fingers have curled into his shirt, and then draws his arm up slightly so he can rub his bicep. The friction offers some warmth, but he's not sure how much; truthfully, Sebastian just needs something to do with his hands before the posiiton leaves him restless.

"I know it's not the Harbingers," he mumbles, his rubbing gradually slowing into something more akin to stroking, "and I know it's not the clothes I wear." He's gotten enough backhanded comments about his plain shirts and blue jeans to last a lifetime.

"I also know you showed me some of your work, but I was way too pissed off to get it." Obviously. Stefano probably already gathered as much, though-- that nothing else had mattered to Sebastian at the time of his battle than his daughter. "If it's technique, you got that in spades. But your subjects...

"Why death? What's in it that you can't get alive?"

Had Stefano been even remotely better, he'd have shoved Sebastian's hands off of him as they semi-roughly moved him onto the floor. At the least, he would have had a quip sent his way.

But he couldn't muster anything up other than a sigh of contentment as he begins to pull him in closely.

"I don't think I'm going to die, Sebastian. Not yet, at least," he admits in a soft voice, his tone wavering as his breath stutters minutely. "I am, however, very aware that I likely won't make it out of Union. I'm certain Theodore would have changed me into one of those tragically ugly harbingers."

He pauses once more to recollect himself, taking in several deep, long breaths as he huddles into the warmth Sebastian's body offers him. When he comes to a bit more, he knows he'll wonder why the man who so easily could have killed him fought so hard to keep him comfortable.

He'll also wonder why he enjoyed being so close to a man who would have killed him without a second thought if he remained the only obstacle between himself and Lily.

"I haven't been beautiful in quite some time."

He closes his eyes and lays his head upon Sebastian's shoulder, a hand raising to gently clutch at the front of the elder's shirt to keep him close.

"If I cannot be beautiful in life, I wish to be beautiful in death, at least."