swampofsadness | listen puppet boy, before you disobey

Ranboo isn't giving any of the signals Dirk might have interpreted as resistance--they're not fighting, they're not rigid or tense, they're not trying to pull away. They aren't even screwing their eyes shut or saying no. None of which would have signalled a problem to Dirk in terms of his behaviour--to Dirk, those signs mean that Ranboo hasn't come around yet, not that he's doing something wrong. But none of those happen; instead, Ranboo just... weakens. Sags. Slumps down against the nasty bedding and breathes, wet and ragged and wheezing and empty.

Dirk lets go of them slowly. Very slowly. He's expecting another burst of life--or worse, a sudden swerve back into death. But neither one happens; they're just... catatonic. Broken, at least temporarily. He hasn't seen them this bad since--

Since ever, actually. He's never seen them this bad. He's never seen anyone this bad, except in... well, snuff videos.

Which makes him extremely nervous. He's hesitant to fully let go, he's hesitant to leave, he's hesitant to stay here doing nothing--

(Any parallels to his own dissociative fugue states are completely lost on him.)

"Okay. Okay, good. Good job." He says this like he's afraid Ranboo will explode, like a bomb. Not soothing, not warm, but tense and cautious in a breathless way.

"Breathe, now. Keep breathing. Okay? Can you handle that? Just keep breathing."

Those glassy eyes turn to look at Dirk as he speaks, the typical sharp edge of their gaze almost entirely missing; weakly, Ranboo nods their head, the slightest of motions. But it's a response. It's all that they can muster, but it's a response, and acknowledgement that they are fully conscious.

Despite how little they want to be.

"... hurts," he says again, this time much more softly. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts. But at least the hysterical initial shock of that has seemingly worn off.

That little movement of their eyes--the clarity in them, however brief--is like a fucking lungful of oxygen for a man who's been waterboarded for the past twenty minutes. There's life in there, still. Thoughts. Language. Good.

That's good.

And yet, at that single word, Dirk is... quiet, just for a moment.

"Yeah," he says softly. He knows.

He doesn't say that part, though. He shakes the thought off internally, throws it out with all the rest of the unproductive debris of his mind, and claps Ranboo on the shoulder--lighter than he usually would, but reassuringly. Or at least it's intended to be reassuring.

"You stay right there. I'm getting you something to drink. You'll drink it, and you'll thank me later. Got it?" He doesn't really wait for an answer.

They incline their head very, very slightly by way of recognition, let their eyes fall closed as they sag, exhausted, into the filthy bed. Even if he was aware of the state of the bed, he would be far too wrung out to really do anything about it or care.

At least their mind is now blissfully silent, numbed beyond conscious thought. There's still pain, of course, that isn't going away, but the inability to think in proper words or images is a temporary blessing, despite the constant, low hum of agony just beneath that numbing blanket.

At least they aren't actively having a meltdown anymore.

Dirk takes that small acknowledgment as his go-ahead, moving fast and light on his feet.

He grabs the cold, disgusting remainder of the Showfall woman's obliterated personhood on his way out, at least--if nothing else, Ranboo is left with one less horrible thing to look at it.

He doesn't really think too much about where he's taking it, though; disposing of the body has become secondary to sorting out the problem of the man whose safety he secured (however tenuously) by creating that problem. So it goes with him to the kitchen, and lands in the sink while he opens the fridge, considers gatorade and then considers the acid burn of the vomit. He grabs a ginger ale as a chaser instead, but more importantly, he grabs a glass and turns the sink on to run some fucking water and fill it.

And it is with a can of ginger ale and a glass of barely-coler-than-lukewarm water that he returns to the bedroom, his jaw set with the kind of determination that went far better with the act of murder than it does with the act of nursing. He sets the can on his bedside and puts a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing himself with his free hand in order to lean over it towards Ranboo's slack form.

"Up. Time to sit."

With both of his hands full, the only way to carry the severed head would be under his arm, and he's still basically nude except for his boxer briefs. So he leaves it behind, facedown in the metal basin along with an empty bowl and two plates.

They don't want to sit up. They aren't entirely sure they even can.

When Dirk speaks to them, the press of his weight bending the mattress in a familiar way at their side, they open their bleary eyes just a crack, head turning to look at him. Their breathing is calmer now-- slow, though still pained and wet. Their head and body ache as if they've been beaten while simultaneously catching the flu.

"I can't..."

His muscles feel wrung out and wound too tight, like they might pop if he puts any amount of exertion on them. Honestly their entire body feels like its on the edge of collapse.

"Yeah, you can." There's no doubt in Dirk's voice. No encouragement, either. Just simple fact delivery.

He's not disparaging of Ranboo's defeatism, despite his certainty that's what it is. The mind is a huge part of what moves the body. Dirk knows this. As a man whose body is his mind's worst enemy, he knows this. More than that, though: he's a man who was raised on being spurred to move despite his mind and body's joint conviction he couldn't. Pain, exhaustion, fear, damage. All of it capable of stopping him, of bringing him down and keeping him down. But it wasn't. The well from which that strength is drawn always looks and feels empty, until you learn to stop looking, and to stop feeling. You learn to jump down the well yourself, sight unseen. You learn to go without drawing from it at all.

You learn that you're not going to die, no matter how much you feel like it. You're not dead until you're actually dead, and sometimes not even then.

So when Ranboo says I can't, and Dirk replies Yes, you can, he's being cruel. He's also being kind. He's teaching. Ranboo is learning. They'll learn. They'll get up.

Dirk isn't listening. Doesn't care what they say. What a shock. Ranboo whines softly, closes their eyes again... but fine. Whatever.

They try. They plant their hands flat against the bed, very slowly push themselves up on trembling arms; the muscles wrapped around their chest still ache, and the pain worsens as they come as upright as they can, their breathing harsh with it and features screwing up tight.

He wavers as he sits there, trembling; he shoots a glance at Dirk, one that is weak and exhausted, but something sharp sits just beneath it. Anger-- faint and unclear in its exact source, whether it's forcing them to continue living like this or seemingly refusing to listen to their protests once again-- lights the otherwise dim distance of their gaze.

He waits out the whining. The weakness. The closed eyes before he gathers his grit and fights with his body and tries. And that look that Dirk gets for his trouble?

To Dirk, that little ember of anger and hate is everything. It's a sign that Ranboo is still in there--still feeling, thinking, and being inside of his own head. Whether or not he thinks he has the strength, he does, and he was able to do it and feel something at the same time.

"You hate me now, but you'll thank me later," he says. And as reward for Ranboo's effort, Dirk compromises. He doesn't make Ranboo crawl to him or anything so degrading as that. He pulls himself up onto the bed, extending the glass of water to them like a civilised human being. An offering--you worked for it, so you earned it, so it's yours. You fight, you gain, you get stronger so you can fight harder and longer.

Ranboo looks at the glass of water, turns that almost deadly stare of theirs back up to Dirk's face.

Do they really look like they could lift an arm to hold that glass of water right now? Really? Their long arms tremble and buckle, bearing the brunt of their weight since the muscles in their abdomen don't presently want to, their frame still swaying slightly as they struggle to hold themselves upright.

They just died twice. Sitting up was an accomplishment in and of itself. Anything else is a little much to expect just yet.

Pointedly, almost spitefully, Ranboo does lift an arm, the limb visibly shaking as he halfheartedly reaches out towards the glass of water in Dirk's hand-- but then they pause, that arm dropping back to the bed beside them. Their gaze drops, avoiding Dirk, and they take a breath, wincing slightly at the sting that spreads across their ribs.

"... why won't you... let me die...?" Their voice is ragged and quiet, strained as they force it out, but the question is painfully genuine. "Why...?"

Dirk watches that pathetic display and says nothing. He likes the look in Ranboo's eye; he meets their gaze levelly with his own flat, cold-eyed stare. He doesn't pull the glass away. Waiting to see if they'll make it.

In his mind, this is him remaining totally and completely neutral.

When they don't, but they do still have the strength to talk, he considers that worth something. Instead of blowing it off, he gives it an answer.

"Because you're not ready to give up yet." This is obvious to him; it needs no elaboration. However miserable and broken Ranboo's brain and body may be, howevver, painful every breath, every instant of consciousness, they're moving. They're speaking. They're being, even against their own will. Dirk knows what that feels like--the inexorable, endless, hateful pull of existence even when he craved nothing more than the oblivion-coated relief of it finally stopping. No matter how much he begged reality to crush him for good, to let pain end in the only conceivable way it could, it never actually let go. Even when he tried, or thought he was trying, even when he imagined it so vividly that for a time it replaced everything real or true, he was always still crawling excruciatingly towards the next second until those seconds became a minute, tortured and terrible but never final. He always woke back up from the nothing of his dream, always found himself inhabiting another second.

And he breathed. He moved. He hated or feared or blacked out into something else, something worse, but he lived, and he eventually got up again.

This was Ranboo's fight too, now.

It must be obvious to Ranboo as well. So he doesn't explain.

Instead, crawling across the bed (and very pointedly avoiding the sick at all costs) to bring the water to Ranboo, he elaborates on the other point.

"I killed someone like one hour ago, you know. I did that for you."

"I am, I am-- Dirk..." Dirk had better be glad they don't have the energy left to cry anymore, or the water left in their body, but their chest does heave with what would be a sob, their stinging, swelling eyes squeezing shut.

"Y-you don't... know wh-what I'm ready for. You don't..."

Dirk has made that much very clear through his actions, ignoring every signal no matter how direct of what they want or don't want. Even now he actively demonstrates that he has no idea what they want, what they're ready to do. They want to die. They're more than ready for it. It's only because of Dirk's intervention and the mask that they haven't died already.

I did that for you.

Ranboo makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a scoff, half-shaking their head weakly.

"You... that wasn't..." Was it, though? Dirk did try to turn her away and she refused, but he could've simply slammed the door in her face, couldn't he? He could've-- Ranboo isn't sure. Their feelings pile up and conflict, their brain still bogged down as if each thought is being dragged through a thick jelly.

He ignores Ranboo's protests about his motives or what they want, and scoots next to them on the mattress, wrapping a muscular arm around their bent shoulders supportively, propping their weak, pain-wracked body up against his own smaller but stronger frame. Shirtless as he is, nipple piercings catching the light, his bare skin hot to the touch.

It's warm, and intimate. Almost like cuddling.

It is cuddling, really. He touches Ranboo's jaw gently.

"It'd be so easy," he says quietly. "I know it would be. You wouldn't fight me. If I took some blade off my desk for you, put the edge right here--" His finger touches the soft skin below the jaw bone, behind the ear.

"I could open your throat just like I do the cows at work, and you'd lose consciousness in seconds. No more pain. No more fighting. You'd go out peacefully. Quiet and clean." He's talking almost to himself, but not really. The seductive tone of his voice comes partly from the uncanny gentleness of thoughtful speech, not pressured or bladed or droning agitatedly onward.

In a way, he's fantasising about it--both sides of it--but the fantasy can't last. He has a job to do. Several of them.

He strokes Ranboo's hair a bit, then takes another breath, bolstering them upright.

"I'm not going to, though. There's no easy way out of this for you. Got that? I know you think you know what you want--trust me, I know what you think--but you don't get that kinda choice now."

He brings the cup up to their lips, pressuring them to drink.

"Think what you want about what I did," Dirk adds with the kind of dismissive neutrality of a man who wants to be perceived as not caring. He does care, though. On some level he really, really does. He just also doesn't: because thhe mission is more important than Ranboo's feelings, or his own. Because even if Ranboo hates him now, he can convince them not to later. Because if he fails at that, he'll still have won, because Ranboo will be alive and if he's no longer alone then it doesn't matter if the other person hates him, really.

None of it matters right now, anyway.

It's both terrifying and painfully, desperately craved-- Dirk's words, that description of how he would put Ranboo down. To finally get to rest, to finally know some peace. Only seconds until unconsciousness-- and then nothing. Blissful nothing, which sounds wonderful compared to the fully-body ache they're experiencing now, the angry buzzing of their skull and the thoughts that sit inside of it.

But they don't get that choice. They never have gotten a choice before. Why start now? Why should this be any different? Live or die, kill or spare, it doesn't matter what Ranboo wants.

Anger and pain and fear and sadness and numbness for which they have no real outlet surges down their spine, draws their breathing harsh and noisy from their throat as Dirk holds them upright, presses the glass to their lips. He wants to lash out and knock it in Dirk's face, to cry and plead, but the hopelessness of it all short-circuits that anger, shutting him down instead.

Ranboo closes their eyes, and they drink. Their throat burns and aches, but the water, lukewarm as it is, still soothes the edges of it at least a little.

Maybe this will at least grant him enough water in his body to cry with again.

Dirk is measured about it, if nothing else. He tips the cup against Ranboo's lips, allowing them to drink before pausing to allow them to breathe between sips. He's being careful not to waterboard his 'patient' instead of nursing them.

Not that he thinks of this as nursing; it's more like husbandry, or a duty. And dutifully, he sits there with them, gradually working Ranboo through the entire glass of water whether they like it or not.

"That's it. See? You've got this."

It's uncomfortable-- their throat still stings and burns, the water sitting heavy in their otherwise empty stomach. Still, despite it all, their body can't help but feel a touch of relief, the lukewarm water cooling their aching throat as it goes down, their dehydrated body desperate to take all of that water as quickly as Dirk can offer it. Even the warm, solid weight of Dirk propping them up is somehow soothing, despite everything. Quietly, Ranboo resigns themselves to accepting it all; it's not like they have any strength to do anything else. Even his anger at Dirk begins to fizzle out-- not resolved, but worn too thin to continue consciously maintaining it any longer.

He closes his eyes, leans against Dirk heavily, exhaustion tugging at his brain and attempting to drag him into sleep. Unconsciousness would be nice for a while. And then when he wakes, maybe he'll have the strength to do something-- anything, even if it's just cursing at Dirk and letting him know exactly how they feel about all of this.

Dirk, for his part, is being remarkably restrained.

Not that he's unhappy to tend to Ranboo--if he really needs it. But this is the first time in weeks that they've been this close to each other. Ever since Ranboo's little "episode," they've touched hardly at at all. It's not just that they haven't had any sex. Dirk gets it, Ranboo isn’t in the mood after finding out what he isn’t--that he, like Dirk, does not exist in the world. Only unlike Dirk, he has no choice.

(Not that Dirk has one either. Not really. But someone out there knows he exists. Someone raised him, and remembers he lived once. Dirk can't begrudge Ranboo the crisis of discovering he's doomed to the same fate Dirk will one day face: never having existed at all.)

But Ranboo has been practically allergic to him since then. Even incidental proximity makes them neurotic. Dirk's been gritting his teeth and taking it in stride--as is the rule for any hardship he's forced to face down. But it has been hard.

Now, supporting Ranboo's nearly boneless frame with his own, lending his strength to Ranboo and feeling not only his weight but his warmth, his life, especially after the stark contrast of their collapse into death...

Letting go is hard. It's excruciating. He wants more. It would be so easy. He could reach down, wrap his hand around Ranboo and work their cock--it would feel so good, so fucking good to finally touch him for real again and remind him of how good they can be.

He wants to. He wants it so goddamn bad.

But he doesn't. He has too much else to do, too many other things to get his hands dirty with. And he's pushed Ranboo enough for now. He's going to have to fight them for more as it is. He doesn't love it. But that's what it always comes down to, and Dirk always does what he has to do.

So it is that once Ranboo has worked his way through the entire glass of water, Dirk is forced to part ways with the body he wants to be in contact with most right now--a body he's only barely satissfied himself on--without which this act of restraint would be nigh Herculean. But it's still not easy, so he does as he's learned to do, and rejects the seductively life-giving presence of Ranboo's touch roughly--almost shoving Ranboo up and off his own frame so he can shrug them off of him like an unwanted suitor. He catches them by the shoulder to keep them from simply dropping back onto the bed like a sack of cement, at least--though even this is brusque and hard-handled.

"Up and at 'em," he says, dropping the glass and pushing Ranboo towards the edge of the bed.

"You're not sleeping here yet."

Edited 2024-11-30 12:19 (UTC)

"Uhh."

Ranboo's voice comes out in a hoarse whine as Dirk shoves them towards the edge of the bed; god, what does he want now? Why can't he at least let them sleep? He sways as he opens his eyes, just slightly, looking at Dirk with clear annoyance tempered only with exhaustion and pain.

Exhaustion is rapidly overtaking any other feeling they might experience-- Ranboo has already long-since reached the limits of what their body can take, and is now being dragged well past that point, despite the way their body rebels against every single new strain, no matter how little. Sitting up makes them want to cry in frustration. They would if they could.

"What."

Dirk manages to look impatient and annoyed. This is mostly impressive because he rarely manages to emote clearly at all.

"You're not going to sleep in your own vomit. I am not going to clean that up--I'm not cleaning it up at all. I am going to take this shit directly to the trash compactor and never look at it again. And I'm not putting a body in the compactor with it. Which means yours needs to move."

In a way that would be almost comical were it not for the situation surrounding it, Ranboo just allows themselves to slide off the side of the bed and into the floor, slumping there to stare up at Dirk as if to say "there, are you happy?"

The bed is absolutely gross and filthy, but they're having a very hard time bringing themselves to care about that in light of everything else that's going on. It's literally the very least of their concerns. But apparently Dirk is going to make it their problem whether they care or not.

"Great. Thanks."

It's hard to tell if Dirk is being serious when he says it. But he does, in fact, get right to work, stripping the bed and bundling the entirety of what he removes into a tight ball--nastiness inside, driest part outside. He even removes the pillow cases, which haven't really beeen touched by anything obviously disgusting--and after a moment of consiideration, he pulls the mattress protector off, too, and wraps everything else up inside of it. He drops it by the door, and disappears into his closet to retrieve the makings of a whole new bed--everything but the mattress and pillows themselves.

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Dirk, for his part, is being remarkably restrained.

Not that he's unhappy to tend to Ranboo--if he really needs it. But this is the first time in weeks that they've been this close to each other. Ever since Ranboo's little "episode," they've touched hardly at at all. It's not just that they haven't had any sex. Dirk gets it, Ranboo isn’t in the mood after finding out what he isn’t--that he, like Dirk, does not exist in the world. Only unlike Dirk, he has no choice.

(Not that Dirk has one either. Not really. But someone out there knows he exists. Someone raised him, and remembers he lived once. Dirk can't begrudge Ranboo the crisis of discovering he's doomed to the same fate Dirk will one day face: never having existed at all.)

But Ranboo has been practically allergic to him since then. Even incidental proximity makes them neurotic. Dirk's been gritting his teeth and taking it in stride--as is the rule for any hardship he's forced to face down. But it has been hard.

Now, supporting Ranboo's nearly boneless frame with his own, lending his strength to Ranboo and feeling not only his weight but his warmth, his life, especially after the stark contrast of their collapse into death...

Letting go is hard. It's excruciating. He wants more. It would be so easy. He could reach down, wrap his hand around Ranboo and work their cock--it would feel so good, so fucking good to finally touch him for real again and remind him of how good they can be.

He wants to. He wants it so goddamn bad.

All it would take is--

Well. He doesn't really think about what it would take. He simply does it--he tips the glass away from Ranboo as they finish swallowing, letting his other hand move down their torso, palm and fingers gliding down Ranboo's abdomen to the waist of their skinny jeans, thumb on the button. He tips the glass back, allowing Ranboo another mouthful of water, keeping their limited faculties busy while his fingers find their fly.

Edited 2024-12-03 12:56 (UTC)

Dimly, Ranboo is aware of it-- sort of. They're aware of Dirk's hand, that he's doing... something, but they aren't sure exactly what, and before they can process it at all, there's water being poured into their mouth again, and they have to focus on swallowing it and not just drowning, as blissful as drowning sounds right about now. Their body rebels against the idea anyway, opening their throat, swallowing the water down obediently.

Whatever. Dirk can do what he wants. They don't care anymore. Getting their brain to process both swallowing and whatever it is that Dirk is doing takes more brainpower than what they have left in the first place, any attempt to follow both at once resulting in a wall of static that just leaves them disoriented.

While Ranboo is busy with that, Dirk's free hand--notably, his left hand--is opening up their jeans to give him free access to what's inside. It's such an easy, practised exercise--he's good with his hands, and Ranboo isn't exactly making it hard, except for the weight of him against Dirk's entire body. But in a way, that helps: he has him slumped so that his lower body is spread out nicely for this.

He takes the water glass away again, letting them recover from that mouthful while sliding his warm, calloused fingers into the waist of Ranboo's underwear, where he spreads them out to feel for the taller man's 'goods.'

Dirk is--

Slowly, yet suddenly, Ranboo realizes what it is that Dirk is doing. He wants to cry. His gut instinct is to cry, or to shove Dirk away, to plead with him to stop and just leave him alone. But he has no tears left, no energy left to physically fight him, and once that gut instinct passes, a numbness settles into its place-- why bother? They were just trying to abandon this body anyway. Who cares what happens to it now?

They make a sound that might have been a sob, quiet and choked, their pained breathing quickening just slightly where they lay against Dirk.

"Why...?"