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[specifications]

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/routinely abuses your inbox; IG 05/29, end of day

[congenitally]

[ Beyond an occasional quiet comment through the proceeding of the first day of what seems as if it's going to be a days long debate, Charles saves the bulk of his concern for Arthur's condition. He can see the obvious: the red eyes, the heavy bruising. But he worries, even silently, that the state of those injuries is worse than they look--he'd witnessed them, saw the worst of the blood mingling with the heavy, relentless rain. (And with a tight feeling in his chest, he knows the cold and the wet hadn't helped anyone).

He saves it for a particular moment: when the conversation starts to flag and the lack of sleep after heavy fighting and various injury starts to push past the wall of adrenaline collectively holding the exhaustion off. He doesn't notice at first, as incensed and concerned and wrapped up in this frustrating argument as he is, but eventually, he notices that Arthur has broken off from the dwindling group.

Charles spares a glance back at the fauns, concerned with the turn in conversation and how much of that becomes moot if one (or all) disappear in the night when there's no one around to notice or decline. But his own exhaustion begs, and he has to trust--for the first time--that the gods really are watching. One man can only do so much, and they're all battered and bruised in various states. The fauns included, who seem to be nodding off in kind.

He too breaks off from the remainder of the small group, but instead of heading for his own insula, he turns and crosses into the building that faces his own. Semi-familiar stairs creak under slow steps as he drags himself up to the third floor. He's never been so regretful for the loss of elevators in his recent memory. But he finally crosses that final stair, and without further hesitation, knocks on Arthur's door. ]

Anyone home?

doki doki

[specifications]

[ There's a grunt on the other side of the door. It's the only answer he will get -- to Arthur's half-awake mind, he thought he had said "go away".

His exhaustion finally caught up with him and, lacking any appetite or any determination to go to the clinic, he used what was left of his energy to head to his room. As far as he was concerned, the rain had mostly washed his cuts out and he had made sure not to land or press them against any surface since. Though he does regret not at least getting some of the remaining snow they still had in the Bacchus insula. ]

[congenitally]

[ It's acknowledgement enough, though to be fair if he'd heard "go away," he still would have pushed forward as he's doing now. He finds the door unlocked, and knowing that this does directly against decorum, he enters anyway. The door closes behind him with a quiet click. ]

How are you feeling?

[ The question too is quiet, tempered by a month of tense silence, but even more by what he sees before him: Arthur half-passed out, still looking as ragged as he had an hour prior. ]

[specifications]

[ There's that voice again. His brow creases some but his eyes remain closed (one of them has little choice in the matter). The word is slurred, ]

What?

[congenitally]

[ Part of him wonders if he shouldn't just leave now, but the reaction and the look of Arthur's face alone, is not something he can simply leave. That feels worse, paining him more than leaving the rest of his worries in the courtyard below. It's here or it's out there with the fauns until he's bodily dragged away.

He crosses the room, settling as gently as he can at the foot of Arthur's bed. (It looks worse up close). And then asks again: ]

I asked how you were feeling.

[ Which obviously isn't well, but he can't exactly do anything about a nebulous "bad." ]

[specifications]

[ He hears the voice again but not the words. Not really. For a brief moment, he sees a flash of his mother by his bed -- a memory from a long time ago. The same brown eyes he has staring down at him and his heart gives a sudden lurch. His eye open and he looks around.

He's genuinely surprised and puzzled to see Charles there. He looks over at the door and then the room again. ]

... I don't remember coming up here.

[congenitally]

I do hate to harp on a point, but-- [ look at you-- ] I suspect that's the work of a heavy concussion at the least.

[ His face screws up a little; this has done little to allay his concern. It answers his question, at least, but it's an answer he'd been hoping--perhaps futilely--against. ]

[specifications]

[ He frowns more at Charles, ]

I'm not a fan of taking opium and I'd rather not start now.

[ Which is the closest thing they have for a painkiller in the clinic. ]

[congenitally]

That's not what I came up to suggest.

[ And he worries how that would actually come into play with a concussion--he's not a doctor by any means, but it doesn't sound like the most positive mix. That's an awfully strong "solution" for something that ought to simply be monitored.

And, well-- ]

Honestly, after today, I have my doubts about the clinic as a whole.

[ Arthur will get little argument from him on that front. He shrugs, and finally shakes his head. ]

I just wanted to make sure you were...well, as alright as circumstances allow, I suppose. I didn't mean to wake you in doing so.

[specifications]

After what's happened down there?

[ Because that's the only thing that comes to mind. People's true colors are flashing pretty brightly right now and he doesn't know how to feel about it. It all feels messier than it should be but then that's people. ]

And I've had worse before.

[ Gunshot wounds and all that. ]

[congenitally]

Yes, after--

[ He sounds almost thirty years older than he ought to as he punctuates that unfinished thought with a heavy sigh. There's little else to be said about it today. Nothing productive, at least.

He pushes against the mattress then, scooting up just a little closer; if Arthur truly wanted him gone, he would be. ]

I...I also wanted to apologize.

[specifications]

[ He watches Charles but he doesn't move or give any indication he wants the other man to leave. He shouldn't encourage... whatever this is. ]

For what?

[congenitally]

For that last "conversation." [ Putting it mildly. ] I shouldn't have pushed so hard.

[ Even if he still doesn't think he was wrong. Just wrong in execution. ]

[specifications]

[ He gives a small shrug, eye moving away from Charles to looking up at the ceiling. ]

Doesn't matter.

[congenitally]

...Can I ask you to elucidate on that?

[ It sounds like a carefully measured thought, given appropriate pause...when he questions whether he should even ask at all. ]

[specifications]

[ He sighs heavily through his nose and closes his eye, wondering if he should bother answering. He decides to if only to make where he stands clear: ]

We are either going to die here or we'll win... whatever this is supposed to be and be sent back where we came from.

[ So getting attached - much like how he views it in his own world - isn't something he really wants to do. ]

[congenitally]

So this...doesn't matter? [ He gives a soft sigh. He wishes he could blame this on the concussion, but that can't be it. Not when everything they've said and done thus far makes more sense now that he's finally let something slip. Keeping his voice quiet and level: ]

Arthur, that's bullshit, if I'm allowed to be frank for a moment. Yes, presumably that's the point, sans perhaps the fatalism. But how do you even know when that's going to be? Tomorrow? A month from now? A year? [ And with a sharp inhale: ] Never?

[ Don't push. Don't-- ] If that's really what you want, fine. I'll leave and we'll consider it done.

But you could do with some friends, mate. Even the Titans have that.

[specifications]

[ He opens his eye again at the response, expecting as much. In many ways, Charles continues to feel like his opposite and it's surprisingly endearing. Even when he's trying to push the other man away. ]

And you're fine with us being just "friends"?

[ Because it doesn't sound like it to him. ]

[congenitally]

[ No. His expression is, even in subtle restraint, very illustrative of the conflict that question poses. ]

If you're asking me to tell you I don't--have feelings for you, then no, Arthur, in honesty, I can't say as much.

[ He closes his eyes for a moment, as if he could push said feelings away in the doing, but all it does is make it feel that much keener. Eyes blinking back open, he purses his lips and gives a shrug. Anything has to be better than pretending there's nothing. ]

But it's a far sight better than whatever the fuck we've been doing for the last month.

[specifications]

[ He's silent for a long moment, still watching the other man before he sighs through his nose again. ]

No, it isn't. It'll hurt you more.

[ Because that's the kind of person he is and Arthur knows it as surely as he knows he's been prone to close himself off intentionally for many years. But his voice is softer than it has been in the past when this issue has been brought up. ]

You think I don't know that but I do. You have a bigger heart than I do.

[ There's a heavy pause. ]

...and I do love that about you, you know. It's a rare thing in my world. I wish I could see things the way you do but I can't. Just like I can't say I'm okay with doing this because that day can come sooner than we know and...

[ His throat constricts, a burning pressure building behind his eyes. ]

You're asking me to be willing to lose something I never thought I would have and I can't do that.

[ He's not sure he could survive a loss like that. ]

[congenitally]

[ Charles raises a brow at that, and leans forward, placing his hand very deliberately next to Arthur's instead of taking it, as he might were he trying to placate. ]

And you don't have it at all if you push it away, do you? You can't blame that on the gods, or this--whatever the hell this situation is--that is on you.

And for the record: I don't have a bigger heart than you do. [ He's calling bullshit on that too, buddy. ] I'm just more comfortable with showing it. The fact that you consider any of this at all says quite a lot more than you give yourself credit for.

[specifications]

Only because you're a special case.

[ Don't even try that with him, Chuck. ]

And better not to have it than lose it.

[congenitally]

I must be, if you flatter in one breath and contradict in the other.

[ No wonder he's confused. The signals are all...off. Wanted, but not. Admitted, but not. Denied, but not quite. ]

And what happens if we are here years? Longer than? If--god forbid--we don't...go home? Are you as determined to see it only for the loss that hasn't even happened?

[ It's been six months by his estimation already. And occasional threats aside, Charles has his suspicions that this won't be over any time soon.

If the Trojan War alone could take ten years for what should have effectively been a two-week operation...

He doesn't think these gods are as concerned with the time it takes as the mortals they've recruited. ]

[specifications]

[ He breathes out something like a laugh even if the amusement is fleeting, ]

You could find someone a lot better for you in that time, you know.

[ He's trying to see the dark humor in it yet the pain in his chest feels sharp and crushing at the thought. ]

[congenitally]

Arthur, shut up. You have a concussion.

[ There's an eyeroll and a ghost of a laugh in it; it's astonishment more than actual amusement. What a ridiculous idea. ]

I don't even want to know what you think "better" looks like. I'm perfectly capable of understanding what I want [ well, that sure is a slip ], and "better" is not it.