sixthiterationlogs | 005 ★ if i could look hard enough into the setting sun

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005 ★ if i could look hard enough into the setting sun

WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: House 52, then the village
WHEN: July 1st
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Minor ax injury, Tim's Existence probably, possibly nsfw content?

House 52

When it comes to staying occupied, Tim's gotten pretty damn good at it. There's no fugitives to chase here, no shoot-outs or stake-outs or tailing bad guys, and no bars to unwind and relax in afterwards. He's had to reach back to his childhood to remember ways to stay busy, back when his mother shooed him outside and told him not to come back until the sun was setting, just so he'd stay out from under her feet.

Fishing has been put on hold recently due to the decreased water levels, but there's other things he can do. Forging among the trees, collecting berries and edible plant life to drop off at the kitchen. Sometimes, he helps tend to the crops, remembering his mother's instructions from when he helped her with their small vegetable garden as a kid. Occasionally, he goes down to the police station to where they house the animals, checking to make sure they've been fed and watered, trying to introduce Kid to the other goats so that, one day, she might actually stay there.

Today, he's taken to chopping firewood. They use less of it with the heat of the summer, only needing it to feed the furnace for the few times they need hot water. But it's better to cut it and stock up now than wait until it's cold and frigid and everyone wants to stay wrapped up inside. Kid has taken to sprawling out under the shade of a tree, and Tim's thinking about how a break might be in order once he finishes this log.

That's when the ground begins to shake.

He fumbles the downswing, missing the log entirely, clumsily stepping out of the way of its path. Not quite far enough though, because the blade grazes his leg anyway, and Tim lets out a sharp fuck as the pain blooms through him. The violent shaking continues, Kid hopping up with a sharp bleat, running and stumbling to reach him. It's an earthquake, he realizes, maybe a little belatedly, and so he hunkers down on the ground, finding the open area around him a safer option than near any trees or inside. Kid tumbles into his side, and he immediately gathers her up beneath his body to wait out the worst of it.

Around the Village

The injury isn't too bad. At the very least, it's not in need of stitches. So instead of tending to it immediately, he finds a dish cloth and ties it around the gash. It'll do, for now. He has other things to attend to.

The rest of the day is spent around the village, and what he's really doing is looking. Looking for Kira, but also checking up on other people in the meantime, popping his head into buildings and gatherings to ask if everyone's alright. This isn't the first earthquake the village has had, he learns, and he supposes it's nice to know that the place is fucking prone to them. At least it's not sand storms. Fuck sandstorms.

Eventually, he ends up checking Kira's house, but doesn't find him there. Past that, he has no clue. He checks the Inn and the Town Hall, near the river, on the outskirts of the woods. Only once he's exhausting his options does he go into the woods, taking the risk of the trees shifting around him and losing him inside. At this rate, not even the sudden rain is slowing him down.

It's an odd feeling, caring enough about someone to hunt them down after a natural disaster, but not feeling attached enough to really know where to look or who to ask. He's definitely not very fond of it.

[ Feel free to hang out with Tim before the quake or find him afterwards, searching the village and chatting people up in his efforts to hunt down Kira! ]

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He should sleep.

It isn't the first time he's thought it--distantly, something to put on his to-do list and get back to later--and more than one person has said it. He's been relieved of all duties at the Town Hall, such as he made them up himself and someone else has taken over, shooed him away because he's reaching for that point again. Trying so hard he comes out the other side to fucking useless, but he doesn't feel it yet.

Something happened, when Aurora whined and crawled on her belly to the cellar. When Bodhi curled up against the furnace and whimpered through what felt like the end of the world.

It wasn't. The house still stands, the sun finally set, the rain is returned. Kira escaped the cellar with nothing more than scratches from a frightened bird, and he keeps--touching them. Pressing on the cuts until they sting, blink him alert again. One more trip out, he tells himself, over and over. Back to the house, gathering supplies. Over to the storeroom for wood and what's left of a desperate, early harvest. If he can't settle himself, he'll settle the others, and he'll sleep when someone tells him what happened to Tim, or Ravi, or Credence--whatever the news might be.

It's late, well after the welcome dark when he comes up with the latest excuse. One more trip into the rain, this time back to the house, and beyond that, the spring. There are plenty of people injured, and no telling what the tremors have done to the water supply. Grabbing the garish first-aid backpack from the pile, he moves slowly into the trees behind the Hall, letting his eyes adjust as he moves further from its faintly glowing lights.

It's almost impossible to see, and there's no telling where the forest might put him, but feeling his way through the dark and rain is better than waiting for news that just keeps failing to come. Time both stretches and snaps, a blur of rain on leaves, soaked and dried and soaked again clothes sticking to his frame, a chill setting in his bones and the rest of him cooling until he stops shaking anymore. By the time his leaden steps squelch back onto a path, he's walking like the living dead, and after long moments of searching the shapes of buildings in the dark, he realizes he's north of the Hall, past even the Inn.

Just as he's about to drag himself to one of the vacant beds, he tangles his heavy boot in a fallen branch, and cracks it falling to his knees in the mud. "Fuck," he spits, arms coated as high as his legs in the muck. There's a lack of sound under the rustle of the rain in the trees, and he realizes--there weren't only his footsteps before.

"It's just me," he calls, no idea who it is or if they know him. He has to seem harmless enough, picking himself up out of the mud.

The sun's finally setting again, and Tim laughs bitterly into the rain. Naturally, the moment he would prefer to have some light to search by is the moment it all goes away. The sun melts gratefully behind the horizon and the temperature drops with it. The stars and moon stay hidden behind gray, spitting clouds. The ground slicks with mud and rain, and it's shaping up to be the sort of night one spends recovering indoors.

But Tim keeps searching. He's forced Kid into one of the empty stables at the police station, not wanting to worry about her being out and about and inevitably getting lost, or wrecking up the house in his absence. He's long since ran out of buildings to search in, and has since been trekking through the woods, taking his time as he looks for Kira without calling out.

It's habit, more than anything. Logically, there's no reason for him not to call out, and it would likely heighten his efforts a bit. But training tells him not to reveal his position, and that training is ingrained in him so deeply he couldn't fight it if he tried.

That's why he stills when he hears another set of footprints. He's back home now, soaked to the bone from the rain, ready to sit down and just take a minute, drink some water, eat something. Maybe grab a few hours of sleep or waiting for the rain to pass before heading out again. He barely breathes until he hears the sharp fuck, recognizable from hearing it said into his ear countless times in the last weeks. Moving towards the sound, he almost smiles when Kira speaks again. Almost.

"About damn time," he answers, squinting through the dark and the rain to locate him.

He didn't know how much he was holding out for it until he hears Tim's voice, feels his entire body and something more besides sag in relief. Credence has long apologized for his prediction, but Kira can't shake the truth of it. Enough people have died and disappeared on him to make Tim a logical link in an ugly chain.

Not tonight, though, and Kira almost lays down in the mud for it.

"Fuck you," he says instead, levering himself up with a series of wet coughs. Checking a name off his list has cut some kind of string holding him up, let the nervous energy simmer back from the surface, and he's feeling the cold again. "That's my line."

Closing his eyes against the dark and rain, he follows the sound of Tim's squelching footsteps, his griping, playing Marco Polo until his cautioning hands close around Tim's elbows. He doesn't let it be more than that, doesn't carry the motion in to his chest, but he digs his fingers in and squeezes. "Why didn't you sign in at the fucking Hall?"

They navigate towards each other on sound and touch alone, and Tim breathes slowly when fingers close around his elbows. His hands wrap around Kira's arm's, feeling them slicked with mud, not caring that the dirt and muck will get on him, too. He blinks into the rain, glad that they can't really see each other while he feels like he's being lectured.

It's an uncomfortable feeling, and he'd hate how serious it made everything between them feel if he hadn't just spent all fucking day looking for Kira and nobody else. That isn't to say there aren't other people in the village he wondered about, just that Kira was the only one that fueled him to stomp through the rain all day searching. It occurs to him that Kira was just as concerned as he was, and he's not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He feels like he should be extracting himself from the situation, from whatever they are and whatever they're doing together. Instead, his fingers tighten around Kira's arms, and he carefully guides the both of them away from the tangle of trees and branches.

"I was barely there," he answers, rolling his eyes up to the sky, searching for moonlight. "Why're you gettin' your ass lost in the woods?"

Letting himself be led out of the treeline and back into the open mud and rain, Kira keeps his hold on Tim's arms, eyes blinking open and slowly re-adjusting to the dark. "I'm not lost," he argues, and it's only the strain of his eyes, it's only rain dripping down his face. "The inn is right down there," he points out, releasing one hand to literally point. There are faint lights through the trees--candles in windows, a lit stove, or maybe only a return of the luring lights from the weeks of fog.

"And I'm only out here because people like you won't sign the fuck in," he says, returning to his point, admitting without admitting that he was out here searching for Tim. Not just Tim, and he doesn't have a second burst of energy in him for the fact of Credence still unaccounted for.

He doesn't have a second burst of energy for anything, he's finding. Shivering in Tim's grip, he coughs again, thick and wet. It isn't cold enough for him to feel this chilled, he thinks. "We need to get inside," he says, because he needs to get inside, and he's not letting Tim run off into the dark again.

"And clearly launchin' a one man search party in the dark is the answer to that," Tim says, voice flat, matching the gaze that Kira can't see through the rain and the lack of light.

This is stupid. They shouldn't be arguing. They don't argue. They flirt and tease and snark harmlessly back and forth until they're stripping each other of their clothes and kissing against walls, pushing one another back against the bed. Anything else is just-- too much. Too much for everything that they are and aren't. And the fact that they've been out here looking for each other all night says that as much as their semi-serious bickering.

Still, his fingers tighten marginally against Kira's arm when he coughs, and Tim's already pulling him towards his house, a dark mass in the dark distance. It'll be dry, and he can start a fire, and they can hole up there until the rain stops like they did at Kira's place during the hail storm. "This way," he murmurs.

It's a testament to how much he's matured in the village, or a testament to how tired he is, that he doesn't point out Tim is doing the same fucking thing. It's a testament to knowing better that he doesn't say how glad he is to have found him, and saves any teasing over the fact of Tim's looking for later.

And it'll have to be teasing, if he's going to mention it at all.

"It's usually a lot more fun when you manhandle me," he says, when they're up a porch and he's been put against what he assumes is Tim's door. Whatever it is, he sags against it until Tim turns the handle and it opens under his weight, and he stays there while Tim squeezes past him. For all he knows, Tim's house is a dark obstacle course of overturned furniture, and if he broke his leg on top of catching a cold--well, Ravi would probably hobble him Misery style just to keep having hysterics at him.

Instead, he leans into the swell of his pack, adjusting to a dark without rain, starting to make out the shapes of Tim's home. Kira had pointed out the inn--Tim could have just as easily dragged them there, but he chose this. "I can't believe I finally get to see your bachelor pad."

"I'll make it up to you later," Tim says flatly, but in the dark, his lips twitch in an amused smile. It's nice to find that even after a violent earthquake and a cold rainstorm, that Kira's humor stays with him, and he's willing to taunt and tease like he always is. It's nice to find that even after they semi-seriously argue, that it's okay.

Ultimately, they're both here, and they're both safe. And that's what counts.

"It's not a bachelor pad." Technically, it is, but bachelor pads have cool things like flat screen TVs and ping pong tables, and all this house has is grooves on the floor from Kid's hooves and a pile of firewood in the corner. He lets them both inside, shutting the door against the rain before navigating into the kitchen for a candle. Once he has it lit, the house is illuminated in a soft glow, and they can see each other more clearly. "Bath?"

"This is the most bachelor of pads," Kira insists, sucking in a fortifying breath as he makes himself move again. The light is minimal, but that's almost better for his eyes, adjusting as he shlops one foot after the other from his muddy boots. His socks are soaked, but he keeps them on, examining one of the goat's pale skid marks on the floor. "You let a goat roam around it and you don't tell people where you live."

It straddles the line, teasing and arguing, but Kira doesn't push it over.

Instead, he looks down at his mud and rain drenched clothing, feels the weight of the pack on his back. "Bath," he agrees, crossing the rest of the way in and resuming his proper place up in Tim's personal bubble. "Two questions: are you joining me, and how much of my clothing is already here?"

Tim wants to point out that sounds more like some hermit's shack than a bachelor pad, but he's not sure if that betters or worsens his case here. The uncomfortably true answer is that Tim enjoys his goat's company and feels safer when nobody knows where he lives. There will be a mess to clean up in the morning, trails of rain and mud across the wooden floors, but at least now he can rest comfortably knowing Kira has been located.

"You can't fit two people in that bath," Tim says, because it's easier than saying, 'that's really gay.' He ditches most of his clothes in a pile at the door, stripping down to a shirt and briefs. "Reckon there's at least a pair of your pants here, maybe a shirt. You take a bath, I'll feed the furnace for you."

"Oh Timberly," Kira sighs, head tilting in exaggerated disappointment to watch Tim strip at the door, "I think you greatly overestimate your own size."

His eyes adjust in the dim light until it seems to fill the room, gilding the edges of polished wood, couch and chair cushions, the wet lines and folds of their silhouettes. Kira finds none of his body happy to move, so he stands, sways gently in the limning glow, just looking at Tim like his shape in a dry space is permission to rest.

Not this one, he thinks. Not today.

But his survey halts at Tim's leg, a dark stain and something tied around it. "What's that," he asks, finding the will to walk over and pause Tim with a hand on his hip. "What happened to your leg?"

Edited 2017-07-28 15:56 (UTC)

Tim gives Kira a pained look, only avoiding a glare and an argument because of what they are. Not that they're anything in particular, but Kira gets a pass on a great number of things just because he's cute and good at leaving Tim short of breath. Besides that, Tim's found himself comfortably distracted by Kira's hand on his hip.

His gaze drops, skirting along Kira's frame before finding his own leg, calf still bandaged with a now-raggedy, blood-stained rag. Cougar had attempted to force first aid upon him earlier in the day, before the rain and the dark hit, but Tim had slipped through his fingers, too determined in his searching to slow down. It had been easy to ignore the stinging of the wound during the day, fueled by stubbornness and adrenaline. But now that his attention has been drawn back to it, he finds himself settling his weight on the opposite leg to lessen up on the pain.

"Just a cut." Not something he thinks he has the capacity to worry about right now. His fingers find Kira's elbow, tracing up to his shoulder and lawline. "Happened durin' the quake. It's fine, though."

It isn't a big reaction, but Kira stops swaying and leaning into Tim, stops being loose and woozily-calm. He wakes up as much as he shuts down, the lines of him stiffer than usual under Tim's exploring hand. The tilt of his jaw in Tim's grip is automatic, but almost mechanical, his gaze aimed down and a crease forming between his brows.

This isn't what he pocketed the antibiotics for, but his gaze lifts along a line similar to Tim's hand, finds his face in the dim and shifting light. Just a shine of eyes and features mapped more out of familiarity than sight.

Ty is dead, he makes himself think. Put it into words: it's been six months. If no one else found that medication, he's been dead for more than five. He can't ignore it without acknowledging it, without letting it go. There's a jerking movement of his other arm, tugging the bottle of pills from his wet pocket. They rattle inside, partially used, and he tugs his head free of Tim's grip to push the bottle in its place. "Fine until it gets infected," he says, the hard quality setting his spine sitting behind his voice. Stepping back entirely, he slings the pack down off his shoulders, leaves it at Tim's feet.

"There's a first aid kit in here, patch it up right, take two of those for now; I'm taking that bath."

There's something not quite right beneath the pads of his fingertips. It's not the dampness of Kira's skin, cool from the sudden rainstorm. It's something deeper, some sort of still tension in the muscle and bone. Something he feels like he shouldn't touch, physically or emotionally. It's too much, too soon — everything about this is too much, too soon. They're only supposed to be fuck buddies. Friends with benefits, at best.

He doesn't like the crease between Kira's brows. He doesn't like the rough line of his jaw, the hard quality to his voice. He doesn't like this.

"Take your bath," Tim says, and he waits until Kira's gone before he goes down to the root cellar to feed the furnace some wood, assuring that the water will be nice and hot. He builds one in the fire place, too, but this one is more for draping their clothes along the backs of chairs and positioning them to dry. He leaves a pile of dry clothes outside the bathroom door for Kira, changes into dry clothes of his own, and begins to clean up the drops of water.

He'll get to his own injury later. After he finishes everything else.

It's dark in the bathroom, just enough ambient light in the world to help him feel his way around. The rain isn't like before, no hail to rip at the shingles--it's just rain, hissing over the rooftops, slipping through leaves. Sound is a strange thing, used to it as he's gotten. It's quieter in the village than Manhattan, but all the walls are thinner.

He'd felt like that all the way through, when he arrived. The volume turned down on the world, but all of him thinned out, unprepared to deal with it. Now the world is on mute, and he doesn't know if his skin is any thicker. Happy as he is to have found Tim, in the moment he's glad to be alone in the dark, listening to water hit porcelain.

It isn't Tim's fault, and angry isn't the word Kira would use. The most he can put a name to is tired. His hands slip and fumble on his wet clothes; shivers start at his breastbone and shake him at the core, waiting for the water to heat and fill the tub. He didn't panic when the shaking started, kept finding things to do, people to take care of, and maybe it's just been waiting there. Tim's leg is just--the last thing he can deal with.

Do it later: climbing out of his piled clothes, he slips into the water, hissing at the drastic change in temperature.

There's something to taking a bath in the dark. Everything's warm, leeching away the chill of the rain, and it continues to hiss and trickle overhead. The world isn't rattling for now, and he isn't so sore. Eventually the shivering dies out, and Kira crowds himself at the end, head leaning against the side, holding onto himself as he sinks helplessly to sleep.

The rain continues outside, and Tim cracks a window to listen to it. The air that blows through is cooler, ruffling the flames in the fireplace, but not enough for them to go out. The fire warms his back and the breeze blows over his face, and he thinks if he closed his eyes he could envision himself back in Kentucky, sitting in his mother's living room as a storm blew over the late summer's day.

That's why he doesn't close his eyes. He focuses on the stinging of the wound on his leg, keeps himself here and present. Now is not the time to let himself drift, to leave himself unguarded. There's still things to do. Like make sure Kira isn't drowning or something.

Tim wraps his knuckles against the bathroom door, waiting for half a second before deciding that's stupid and letting himself in. It's nearly impossible to see, leaving Tim to navigate on touch and the ambient lighting alone. But he can make out Kira's shape in the tub, and he squints at it. "You better not have drowned," he says flatly.

Kira's just starting to lift his head as Tim comes in, the knock filtering in and pulling him up out of sleep. "Still breathing," he answers blearily, the tinkle and flicker of water catching light as he lifts a hand from it to wipe at his face.

Tim is a silhouette, a harder dark in the soft with the barest light on his edges. He got himself dressed at some point, and Kira can't predict--did he fix up his leg? How much stubbornness or self destruction overrides his impeccable sense? Why take up a knife against danger in the forest, if he won't pop a pill against it in his own blood?

Because Kira told him to, he suspects. He'll figure it out before the night is through, skimming himself through the still-warm water to extend his arms over the edge, finding the pitted texture of the long underwear on Tim's hips, the elastic hem he's no stranger to pulling down in the dark. "It's still warm," he says, folding the fabric over and pressing the tips of his fingers to Tim's skin, "come on, get in with me for a little bit."

Everything in the room is just various shades of black, overlapping each other and creating dark silhouettes. A candle might be nice, if only because Tim's far more comfortable when he can see, navigating on touch and sound alone a foreign feeling for him. But maybe it's better this way. Things are easier in the dark, where the idea of casual, soft intimacy doesn't feel too much to him.

He's already invited Kira into his home, showing him where he lives, revealing a secret. A silly one, as far as secrets go, but Tim's always preferred to be alone and keep himself protected, and not letting people know where he sleeps is key to that. This feels like another step in an unknown direction, but Kira's fingers are wet and warm against his skin, and the offer is tempting.

Silently, he strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile for them to trip over later. The water is still warm, and Tim slides his hand up Kira's arm as he steps carefully into the tub, sinking down into it. This, too, is a foreign feeling, filling a bathtub with another person.

Two people don't fit in the tub in any immediate, comfortable way--but with their hands slid up to shoulders to guide, they delineate the tub with their legs, getting Tim down into the opposite end. It puts his legs in immediate reach, puts his wound in the warm water, but Kira doesn't go for it immediately.

Instead, he shifts in Tim's grip, maintaining the silence between them. Water signals instead, tinkling against the sides of the tub as he moves to kneel at Tim's feet and lean over the barrier of his knees. Their guiding arms shift to hold, become the cage for a damp kiss. It's the kind of thing he hasn't been allowed to have: waking up, tempting Tim closer, kissing him sleep-soft and calm. Usually they're wide awake, play-fighting, testing each other, winding up for something more.

This time, fingers slipping into Tim's hair, Kira kisses him to wind down. They're both here, both more or less alright. The motions are the same, but slower, spreading out from Tim's lips to brush his lips upward, just below his eye, over his brow, into his hair.

Sighing into it, Kira lays his head against the top of Tim's, one hand holding the back, arm secure against his side, and his other hand eventually skimming down. When he tests the length of Tim's leg, he's gentle with that as well, seeking the textured edge of dried blood to start thumbing away in the water, rather than pressing for the actual cut. "Why didn't you just take care of it," he asks quietly, keeping any accusation from his voice.

It's odd, sitting semi-crammed in a bathtub with somebody else. There's too many limbs for such a small space, making navigation slow and careful. Tim's awkward with it, but Kira, unsurprisingly, seems to know what he's doing. The way he moves is almost graceful, and even though Tim can't see it, he can feel it. He can feel the way Kira moves forward, hands guiding in the dark. When they lean in, mouths seeking each other out, there's nothing clumsy about it, somehow. It's easy, it's soft. It's not how they usually kiss, but Tim doesn't mind.

The water's warm, and so is Kira's mouth on his skin, eventually landing in his damp hair. He's surprised by the tenderness between them, but instead of pushing it away, he relaxes into it, tipping his head to breathe slowly against Kira's neck.

It's nice, until Kira speaks. It's nice, until the topic of his injury comes up again, and Tim wants to bat him awake and stop him from worrying. He's not really somebody worth worrying about, anyway. "Why're you so concerned about it?" he asks in return, before deciding rather quickly that, no, he doesn't actually want to hear the answer to that. Because it could be something like, I don't want you to die, and Tim doesn't want to hear that said out loud. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Later," he says, pulling back to seek Kira's mouth again, to try and distract him with another kiss.

Initially, Kira answers the question with a snort, thinking it should be obvious. Thinking it shouldn't need more answer than the fact that he's a halfway decent person, so he'd rather the people he fuck not have septic ax wounds bothering them. But it's a little more than that, when his other hand is cradling Tim's face to his throat.

The other keeps working, careful and slow. His thumb tests the sticky blood until it rubs away from skin and hair, until he finds softer tissue and feels the moment of Tim almost shifting away.

Too close, and he tightens the hold of his arm as he moves his thumb back up from the edge, working away the blood that matted to skin under the bandage. "I've been running around helping people all day," he sighs, similarly avoiding the slicing crux of the thing. "I just hoped you of all people would take care of yourself."

The end of the comment dips, mumbles, gets lost against Tim's mouth. As far as distractions go, it doesn't have the heat, and Kira doesn't have the energy, to see it all the way through. But the tenderness is its own invitation, a way to rest, even if they're going to pretend it's something to pretend at, instead of do proper.

Tim gets an answer anyway, but it's not as bad as he's expecting. It's not I don't want you to die. It's more I'm tired and you're an idiot. Which is relieving, because Tim's always been an idiot, and he's well aware of that fact. Anything else would've been too heavy, too much for the events of the night. They'd spent all day looking for each other — vocalizing it would've made it too real.

They care. This is not how two people treat each other when they don't care, so that means Kira has to care, and Tim cares right back. Deep down, he thinks they both know it, too. Even if they won't acknowledge it out loud. And that's fine. It's better this way.

"Of course I wouldn't," he says, his voice a mumble against Kira's mouth. "I'm an idiot."

He kisses slowly, one hand coming up to frame the side of Kira's face, palm curving against his jaw. When Tim pulls away, it's to kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, not unlike the way Kira spread kisses over his face before. He brushes the hand away from his leg, working away the dried blood himself. "Sorry," he finally says.

"You're not," he mumbles back, holding Tim's mouth with his own as long as he can, until it lifts and moves and--it's different. It's different to get that kind of treatment back, like Tim isn't just indulging him in the dark. Like he really does feel bad for pushing back at the wrong time.

In the dark, Kira doesn't have to worry about hiding it, just a breath of sound to give him away as he's cradled in close.

There's a kind of mistake he's made, inviting Tim into the water, saying a single word after. He can count the number of people he's let this close on one hand, and he never intended to let it happen here. Either he's dead (and he is dead), and Kira doesn't deserve it, or--

But it's his own fault, starting it, and no reason to punish Tim if it wasn't the right thing to do. The apology only helps to soften him, make him tired and fond instead of tired and exasperated. Or at least all three. Shifting when Tim shifts, he cradles the cheek opposite his own, aiming Tim back down to his mouth. The other slips around to Tim's hip, where he'd squeezed false promises before. He has it in him to make them real, if only briefly. "Leave it for now," he murmurs, thinking he'll get to see to it proper after this. The water isn't going to stay warm enough, so he pushes a little, kissing Tim's head back toward the other edge of the tub as he reaches between his legs to find his cock.

In the dark, Tim can smile against Kira's mouth. He can sigh between kisses, let himself be pressed back against the edge of the tub, find Kira's hip with his hand and squeeze gently. In the dark, they can do a lot of things comfortably. Tim can breathe through the gentle intimacy instead of feel awkward and uncertain for it. Everything is easier in the dark.

Leave it, Kira says, essentially echoing Tim's earlier words. Tim could be annoyed that Kira's changed his mind after making him relent enough to apologize, but it's hard to be annoyed with anything when Kira's pushing forward, kissing him and slipping a hand between his legs.

He relaxes, legs parting to let Kira in a little closer. It's still an odd mess of limbs, the tub not big enough to accommodate both of them comfortably, but that hardly matters when they're this close together, sharing the same intimate space in the cooling water. He urges Kira closer with the hand on his hip, but it's just as slow as the way he kisses.

If they weren't in the tub, if there was any light to see by, Kira might have slipped all the way down and lost himself in the easy muscle-memory and tease of sucking Tim off, but it's fine to keep kissing, so long as he's hovering above, pressing Tim down, only giving him the closeness he wants when he decides to.

He can keep control of this. He can keep Tim on his side, taking more than Kira lets him dish out.

The odd bow of his mouth is as sweet as it's ever been, under Kira's, as yielding. Maybe they're both wrung out, and he shouldn't discredit the work Tim might have done as well. Squelching all over the village with a burning wound in his leg, all for the sake of--this. Kira himself. He wasn't organizing meetings or directing supplies, taking down names. Kira bites his lip once, some of the old heat in the idea that he preoccupies anyone to that degree. It's a heady feeling, instead of a terrifying one, as long as he frames it like something selfish. Something to make demands of instead of cherish.

"Just let me," he says, up close and between breaths, as Tim's hands roam and try to signal their wants. He kisses and presses Tim down until as much of him is under the water as he can live with, enveloped in the last of its warmth as Kira gets a grip and sets right into stroking at a steady pace.

They kiss slow, Tim leaning up to chase Kira's mouth each time they have to breathe, each time they break apart for even a second. If there were any light in the room, Tim would feel particularly exposed like this, crowded into a bathtub with someone. But it's dark, and they feel more than they see, seeking with their hands and their mouths. He's oddly comfortable with it, everything from their gentle kisses to Kira's weight over him, trapping him between a warm body and the cool edge of the tub.

Tim relaxes, relents, lets Kira's weight press against him in the water. Kira likes being in control, he's noticed. But he's never felt comfortable enough to fold under it completely, to let Kira do what he wants. Tim's always felt like he's had to push back, give as good as he gets, a reminder that he's not soft or docile.

It's a little different now. He doesn't feel so uneasy as he lets Kira lead. But he also doesn't think about what that means.

They both sink further down into the warmth of the water, and Tim brings his hands up to hold Kira's face as they kiss. Kira's hand is firm on his cock, stroking steadily, and Tim can't help the way he sighs into the kiss, or the way his hips arch upwards in time with Kira's hand. It's pleasure that heats him from the inside out, warming his bones and curling his toes in a way that the water doesn't.

At least in this context, it's a little easier to sink himself into Tim's hold, to let them both be soft. Everything can simplify to one thing: he wants to make Tim feel good. He wants to swallow every noise, drive another out of him, lose himself in a dark that is a hot mouth and the hiss of rain and Tim's breath catching when he swipes a thumb over the head.

He isn't teasing either, repositioning his hand to hit that spot with every stroke, driving his thumb up and over. The only drawback of the bath is that he can't feel Tim start to sweat, leak on his hand. This isn't about that either, though. He doesn't want to tease, and he doesn't want to get dirty, and he doesn't--

Kira just wants to make something happen, exactly the way he's set out to. Just one thing, today, and he wants it to be this. For the duration of a long, wet kiss, he just lets Tim fuck the grip of his hand, loving how easy it all is, how simple. Squeezing once, he takes over the pace, only a little faster than before. It takes a hand on the edge of the tub to hold himself up and give Tim the space, and he hovers, lips not quite touching Tim's. "Come for me," he murmurs, water dripping down his body where it's risen from the water, there to be whatever Tim needs in this moment; "make yourself come for me."

Oddly enough, Tim is frequently noisier in bed than Kira is. Maybe it's not manly, but Tim never bothers to hold back the sounds that rise in his throat. Sometimes he muffles them, mouth pressed against whatever bit of Kira's exposed skin he can reach at the time. This isn't sex — it's a handjob in a warm bath. Tim doesn't moan, but he sighs, and his breath hitches in his throat.

Kira finds a rhythm, a certain spot that makes Tim's hips jerk, and he exploits it over and over again. Tim's breathing grows thready, the softest groans catching and breaking in his throat. Kira's mouth covers his and Tim kisses back hard and slow, continuing to rock his hips against Kira's hand even after he's stopped stroking. When they break apart, Tim tips his head to put his face in the side of Kira's neck, panting openly against warm, damp skin.

It doesn't take much. Kira strokes his cock with expert precision, and Tim's hips never still, either. The water splashes and sloshes as the heat builds, probably getting onto the floor, but neither of them care about that. He reaches out, fingers curling tightly around Kira's upper arm just as he hits that point and falls over the edge.

"Fuck," he hisses between his teeth, voice breaking into a moan shortly after. He comes in spurts, hips bucking against Kira's hand as he muffles his voice against Kira's throat.

"Right there," he tells him, "right there." His free hand cradles Tim's head between his throat and shoulder, every breath and whine delivered up close, and he does feel it as he pumps past his fingers, before it floats and fades through the water. They did it, in some small way: they put the ugly part of the day behind them, and now they're going to rest.

As before, he lays his head against Tim's, keeping his hold in the lukewarm water until Tim is going soft and twitching away from further contact. Freed, his hand skims over to Tim's hip, up his side, looping around his back to bring him in close again. Kira just breathes with him, holding him as he comes down.

If he thinks about it, he's been fucking Tim about as long as he was fucking Ty, and more times than he's fucked--anyone. Without a single feeling leaping between them, out of Tim's head or heart and into his own. Everything he knows, he's had to learn, just his hands and mouth mapping in the dark. Shifting his hold, he presses a kiss over the short hair at Tim's temple, not sure what any of it means, especially in a place like this, but not stupid enough not to know that he's very fond.

Very glad he found him, and that isn't just a feeling for tonight.

"Water's cold," he murmurs, tightening the arm around Tim's back to stir him. "Let's get up and deal with that leg."

Tim's moans subside into groans before fading into heavy breathing, short puffs of breath against Kira's skin. Wet limbs wrap around him, holding him close, and Tim willingly and gratefully leans against him as he focuses on breathing right and willing his heartbeat back to normal. The bathwater is filthy now, he imagines, even if it's too dark to see it, but he's not ready to move and face the rest of the night.

It takes a moment, but his arms wind around Kira in return, wrapping around the small of his back. Lips press a kiss against his temple, and Tim sighs softly, allowing himself to relax. It's been a long time-- shit, it's been forever since he's allowed himself to be this vulnerable with someone. It's different from their usual fucking in bed.

It's not bad. At the very least, he's now too spent to care. He closes his eyes, and he doesn't even move until Kira's nudging him, murmuring low in the dark.

"Mm." Tim lifts his head, releasing his hold on Kira to find his face in the dark, leaning in to kiss him. Tonight has been complicated, a confusing stir of emotions. But it's over, and now they can rest. Though he's not looking forward to facing all this in the morning light.

He sighs, then he stands, the water falling away from him. He's grateful that it's dark, the pain in his leg finally coming back and causing him to wince.

Tim stands, and the bathroom is colder for it, Kira wishing immediately that he hadn't nudged him away. It's the right thing, though, and he stays where he is, letting Tim feel his way up and feeling the loss. A moment of distance, water settling back around him. A moment for them both to understand: the night is cold, and dark. There's no need to spend it separate, in the confines of bodies the world has tossed around, and finally back together.

Using Tim's good leg as a guide, Kira smooths a hand up, grips his hip, balances himself to follow. He slips over the edge of the tub first, finds his footing, and doesn't let Tim follow without hands to brace him.

It settles something in his chest, to hold Tim at the elbows and say I've got you into the dark. Breaking away with only one hand, he feels along the wall for a towel, and he pitches Tim into even deeper dark to rub his hair dry, eventually sneaking under to deal with his own and steal another kiss. "Where did you leave my clothes," he asks, dropping the towel around Tim's shoulders, toying with the ends to keep him close.

They climb out of the tub together, hands reaching to support and help along the way. It's not out of weakness or vulnerability, but because the alternative is slipping and falling in the dark, and that would just be stupid. He only pauses to pull the plug out of the drain, doing that on touch alone as well. It'll be nice when they can see again, but truthfully, he doesn't know if he'd be as comfortable in the light.

He's laid a lot of himself bare tonight, feeling more raw and vulnerable than before, and somehow, he feels it's easier because Kira can't see his face.

For a moment, they're both hidden away under the towel, leaving the world shut out around them. Everything seems to dim a little — the already non-existent light, the rain outside, everything but the two of them. Kira pulls away, but Tim leans back in for another kiss, carefully backing Kira up against the wall in the dark.

"Let me return the favor first," he offers, stepping even closer so there's no space between them at all, damp skin against damp skin.

It's tempting, the way Tim breathing the same air as him is tempting: he can't think of a time one of them reached for the other and got a no. There's never been a reason to say it.

Even as Kira considers the reasons now, he slips his arms around Tim, letting him be close, holding on as Tim keeps asking with lips soft on his throat. The thing in him, the weight of rainwater and exhaustion--it doesn't want to budge, even for this. If he lets Tim have his way, he isn't sure he'll stay awake long enough after to make Tim deal with his leg.

"Tired," he sighs, less a no than a not now. "Like really tired." Pressed up against Tim, he isn't even hard, and he isn't sure how much it would take to get him there right now. "Let me take care of your leg; I'll be here in the morning."

It's still warm in the bathroom, the small space damp with soft heat and humidity. While it's probably not particularly cold beyond the closed door, Tim wants to stay in here forever, pressed up against Kira, mouth gentle along his collarbone.

He's not expecting a no. He doesn't really get one, either. It's a later, another time. It's been a long day, and even as Tim's mouth glides over the pulse in Kira's throat, he can feel the injury on his leg throbbing, begging to be taken care of properly. They're both tired. They'll both be here in the morning.

That'll be new.

"Yeah," he sighs, leaning back to kiss Kira on the mouth one last time before pulling away entirely. He feels along the edge of the counter to the door, pulling it open just enough to retrieve the clothing he'd set there earlier. He hands them over to Kira, pressing the fabric into his palms.

The good news is that he's slept. The rain had helped to send Cougar into what felt a little like a comatose sleep, but now that he's awake again, he needs to hit the ground running. He's not surprised when he comes across Tim and he's wearing something that looks very much like a makeshift bandage. Staring at him under the brim of his hat, Cougar doesn't use words to say how disappointed he is that Tim is an idiot.

He doesn't need words when his face does all the work for him. "Maybe next time, a rock hits your head," Cougar suggests, reaching out to do exactly that with the back of his hand. "Then it will save me the trouble." Sighing, he gestures at the cloth. "Show me."

It's strange, being on the receiving end of that look. Normally, he's the one giving it to other people, or he's watching any number of coworkers give it to Raylan. Tim doesn't do stupid things, except for apparently swing an ax into his leg when an earthquake hits. He would like to point out that it's not as if he did it on purpose, but he doubts it'll even matter.

"No." He pushes Cougar's arm away, giving him a mighty glare for the hit itself. "It's fine, all taken care of." He gestures to the pink-stained cloth wrapped around his leg, as if that proves he's taken care of it.

Cougar doesn't move as he stares at the cloth, tipping his head to the side as if he's considering what he wants to say first. Lucky for him, it's a string of Spanish curses as he calmly walks over and bends over to inspect it, pretending like he believes it's just fine. Then, he presses his thumb pad against it and presses before he rights himself up.

"Did you bleach the cloth? Clean it? Disinfect?" he demands, the questions sharp and heavy. He might not be a doctor, but he's a decent enough field medic.

Tim knows enough first aid to know that he hasn't taken care of the injury as well as she should. He'd wiped it down with a wet cloth before slapping a makeshift bandage on it and heading out, figuring that there were people much more for wear than he was at that moment. And there still are, he's sure, which is why he's still not worrying about it.

He also knows enough Spanish to recognize what Cougar's saying, and he rolls his eyes. Cougar presses a thumb against the injury, making it sting and ache in protest, and Tim swats him away again with a glare. "We got bleach lyin' around that I didn't know about? I'm tellin' you, it's fine."

Cougar gestures to himself, over his shoulder. "I have bleach," is what he says, even if it's the actual fancy medical kind and he'd been saving it for medical emergencies. Heavens be praised, but Jake has managed not to need it, which means Cougar can afford to spare some for an idiot friend.

"Come with me," he says. "Before I let you rot it off." He's thinking about it, it could work, but he doesn't know that being pissy and letting that be his punishment is the best idea in the long run.

Fenris has always preferred having his own supplies to foraging for more, but spending three years on the run had left him more than capable of finding food, especially with the memory of his first time surviving away from Danarius, when the Fog Warriors had taken him into their care and he'd started to learn some of the basics of how they lived their existence outside control of either the Qun or the Imperium.

It feels foolish, hunting for berries when he could kill so effectively if he only had his sword, or the abilities Danarius' lyrium forced on him, but he has neither here, so this is ... practical. Unfortunately, he stands out in his bright purple clothing, the weather now far too hot for him to wear a cloak, so by the time Fenris sees the man emerging from the trees, he considers that he has already likely been seen, too.

He's never been much in favor of small talk with strangers for his own sake, but he is aware that there is a communal nature to their situation in his place, so he gives a grudging nod.

"Are you finding food?" he asks.

[hopefully this works okay for you let me know if not!]

Tim's been in and out of the woods all day, mostly to gather up wood to chop in his yard, but also emerging with anything else he might find along the way. There's no reason to pass up an edible bushel of berries, even if they're not part of the task he's assigned himself for the day. He's had to take frequent breaks for water and resting due to the never-ending heat, but he's already gathered a sizable amount of wood to chop, and when he steps out of the trees this time, it's with a large branch over one shoulder and a handful of blackberries.

He's already spotted the man, mostly due to the vibrant hue of his clothing, but also because his training doesn't allow a whole lot to go unnoticed anyway. He'd taken a moment to pause, size the man up, try to locate any weapons on his person, and decide whether or not he was a threat. Most people here aren't, but Tim was still happy to keep his distance and let the man be.

But their community is a small one, and with everyone pitching in to help with survival, he's become a little more apt to stop and chat with people when the opportunity presents itself.

"Just a snack," he says, holding out his hand to show the blackberries in his palm, tipping his head towards them to make it an offering.

[ it works great, thank you! ]

Fenris is used to being sized up, and he's used to his appearance being intimidating. That had been part of Danarius' point in taking him places: his mere presence had been intimidating, strong and tall (for an elf) and tattooed with lyrium as he is. He's less so now, without a weapon, out of the shadow of a powerful magister. He's so used to it that he hadn't noticed Tim had been keeping an eye on him, but he assumes that he makes an impression when the man sees him.

Unfortunately, he has more to do here than just be intimidating, or support Hawke in battle. They have to survive in this place as well.

"I am not familiar with these plants," Fenris admits. As much as he hates to admit any weakness, he could learn something here that could help him. "Thank you," he adds, taking one of the berries he's offered.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

005 ★ if i could look hard enough into the setting sun

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around the village

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Hanging out before the quake

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