The next minutes are simple and straightforward and chaotic and nonsensical. There are things Dirk does that he doesn't realise he does. Dropping the head--brain side up--onto the near side of the bed, for example. There are other things he does purposefully. Consciously. Vaulting onto the bed to lean forward and feel Ranboo's pulse. Spreading his hand wide to feel more of the neck, after the two-finger method produces nothing. Turning them onto their back. Touching their mouth with those same fingers and closing his eyes to feel for breathing.
He won't remember later if he said anything during all of this or not. He won't remember if his eyes were wet, but he'll remember that seeing is a weird telephone game between his eyes and the rest of him. He'll remember the cavernous, ravenous, life-sucking blackness that opens up inside of his ribcage and the way his throat is suddenly raw and swollen and burns with something that might well be stomach acid or may just be the consequences of unchecked emotion. He'll remember the rage. He'll remember the violence in him--the impulses that don't go anywhere, because there's no point in them. And he'll remember checking--again and again--the bottle of diazepam, which is always empty no matter how many times he picks it up.
Eventually, he gives up. There's nothing to do, now. Ranboo is already dead, and he was too slow on the uptake--too stupid, and too unaware to notice. Hate, self-loathing so powerful it could open its ravenoous maw and devour him into oblivion if only there was anything left to consume himself with, erupts inside of him. He was so completely checked out of what was going on in this room, too absorbed in his now-pointless-feeling, self-indulgent investigative diversions in the bathroom, or his planning as he was on his way to and back from the kitchen, and now he dead woman, and her intensive, science-fiction style modifications, have been rendered meaningless.
All of it is meaningless.
Once again he's alone, and the world beyond his body and skin simply ceases to exist, because there's no one to know he's in it anyway.
There's nothing he needs to do now any more. Nothing to do at all, now.
His heart is beating so hard that he can feel each pump of that over-taxed muscle in his eyeballs. It hurts. His eyes hurt.
His entire face hurts.
There's nothing else he can do.
He breathes out, tasting blood still. Ranboo is still so warm.
It's silent in the apartment.
He breathes out again. He doesn't remember the inhale, but he breathes out again, and... lies down. Ranboo is on their back now, so he lies down next to them on the bed, curling in close to rest his head on their arm, close to the warmth of their body, his glasses pressing against their arm where it meets their torso. He wishes Ranboo had at least left him one or two diazepam. He doesn't know what to do now, except... nothing. So he lies there with the body of the last person he'd wanted to love him... and does nothing.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
CW grief, corpse cuddling
Date: 2024-08-10 03:35 am (UTC)He won't remember later if he said anything during all of this or not. He won't remember if his eyes were wet, but he'll remember that seeing is a weird telephone game between his eyes and the rest of him. He'll remember the cavernous, ravenous, life-sucking blackness that opens up inside of his ribcage and the way his throat is suddenly raw and swollen and burns with something that might well be stomach acid or may just be the consequences of unchecked emotion. He'll remember the rage. He'll remember the violence in him--the impulses that don't go anywhere, because there's no point in them. And he'll remember checking--again and again--the bottle of diazepam, which is always empty no matter how many times he picks it up.
Eventually, he gives up. There's nothing to do, now. Ranboo is already dead, and he was too slow on the uptake--too stupid, and too unaware to notice. Hate, self-loathing so powerful it could open its ravenoous maw and devour him into oblivion if only there was anything left to consume himself with, erupts inside of him. He was so completely checked out of what was going on in this room, too absorbed in his now-pointless-feeling, self-indulgent investigative diversions in the bathroom, or his planning as he was on his way to and back from the kitchen, and now he dead woman, and her intensive, science-fiction style modifications, have been rendered meaningless.
All of it is meaningless.
Once again he's alone, and the world beyond his body and skin simply ceases to exist, because there's no one to know he's in it anyway.
There's nothing he needs to do now any more. Nothing to do at all, now.
His heart is beating so hard that he can feel each pump of that over-taxed muscle in his eyeballs. It hurts. His eyes hurt.
His entire face hurts.
There's nothing else he can do.
He breathes out, tasting blood still. Ranboo is still so warm.
It's silent in the apartment.
He breathes out again. He doesn't remember the inhale, but he breathes out again, and... lies down. Ranboo is on their back now, so he lies down next to them on the bed, curling in close to rest his head on their arm, close to the warmth of their body, his glasses pressing against their arm where it meets their torso. He wishes Ranboo had at least left him one or two diazepam. He doesn't know what to do now, except... nothing. So he lies there with the body of the last person he'd wanted to love him... and does nothing.