[ota] take your shoes off and throw them in the lake

[3ofswords]

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Sunset, January 17th
OPEN TO: All, come help him with his hand and drag his drunk ass back inside.
WARNINGS: Drinking, general disregard for not freezing to death.
STATUS: Open

---

They say people find themselves in adversity: Flor's tia would intone that God never gave a person more than they could handle, and he had aunts of his own who believed in karma. Hell was just a place to build it toward the next life, and you tried to earn a lesser sentence in the go around.

Kira has never been religious. There are times he wonders if his gifts are just inherited hysteria, if lithium would serve him as well as the wards his mother drew on the backs of his cards. There was a time when he'd hoped it was the case, that his dreams were just dreams, that there was a chemical to turn up or shut off and he could just--go to school, date a boy, see what kind of person he was without the gifts, the shop, the ugly destiny. At the low points, when the jaws of the world start to close in, and the fires of whatever lies behind or beneath the world start to lick his heels: he hopes he is just crazy.

A month in, he's back at the fountain, wondering what he can toss in to make that wish.

Stood at the edge, his left hand is stuffed in a glove, snow packed around the flesh. He'd been cooking when he quake hit--hadn't known to question why the cat had been growling under his bed in the morning, hadn't understood the ghosts of tremors his failing power had tried to grasp--and in his panic, he'd burned his hand. It was worse than most injuries he'd suffered in New York, and it had hurt for every moment that he'd held it useless to his chest, caught in the wave of fear and action from those around him; being shoved into the safety of a heavy table; waiting for the tremors to cease and the doorway to clear before he could wander out on shaking legs to shove his hand deep in the snow.

There were other things to deal with, and the fountain springs eternal. In his other hand swings the bottle of Grey Goose from Thor, found at the back of a cabinet and hidden away in his room, waiting for the right time. He'd started drinking it to numb the pain while waiting out the aftershocks, and he hasn't found a reason to stop.

A month in, no Ty crawled out of the fountain, healed and whole. He lifts the bottle on an arc and tilts his head on the hit.

A month in, no way out. Lift, tilt, sip.

A month in: a wendigo escaped to the trees, lights buzzing louder and brighter every day, and chatter calling this a second quake.

He tilts the bottle back, knowing the warmth in his chest is artificial, that he can't do this much longer in the freezing cold. He should chuck it into the depths and let that be his protest, and go warm his sorry ass by the fire, grateful that it's intact. Hand blistered and numb at his side, he watches the aurora-torn sunset reflect on the water, as picturesque a hell as anyone could create. "How bad did I fuck up to deserve this," he murmurs, bottle paused at his lips.


Inn option: characters may also find him warming up in the kitchen with the rest of his bottle, having found out that the water in the fountain doesn't do jack shit for wounds.  It's a second degree burn from a hot food or water spill, over the side and back of his left hand, and he'll be alright if he keeps it cold and keeps it clean after it blisters off.

Comments

@ Inn

[chosenbytheocean]

Three weeks in and Moana has gotten tired of the snow. She tried to stay to the inn as much as humanly possible, usually hoovering close to the fire and barefoot. She wasn’t very good at wearing shoes. Sometimes she’d practice in her room but after a few passes she’d always end up tripping over her feet and falling face first onto the floor. It was after one of these face plants that Moana decided to walk around the inn barefoot. It felt more natural and at this point Moana found herself clinging to the small things she knew.

The quake had also been new for her. Her heart leapt in her chest and she’d thought that it might have been some comment from the gods of this place. She was lucky that someone had pulled her out of harm’s way but it didn’t really explain what had happened or why.

She found herself more restless than before, wandering around the inn, pacing down any path way that didn’t seem like it was reserved for private use. This led her to the kitchen. She was accustomed to seeing people around but Kira was new and hurt? She paused when she saw him, her fist lightly hitting against her thigh as she searched for something to say. "Ah, what happened?" She’d ask if he was okay but he didn’t look okay.

She knew nothing about alcohol so the bottle in his hand went unnoticed, thinking it was simply something the inn had in it's stock.

Re: @ Inn

[3ofswords]

Kira has a flush on his face and snow gone damp in his hair and clothes, and he's a sleepy sort of buzzed between the vodka and the fire: his hand isn't to be magically healed after all, and he can't keep it in the snow overlong without doing damage to his fingers.

Fire and ice, or whatever people like to say. He's been nursing the bottle since he slipped out with it to manage the pain between cold presses on the blistered skin: his inset and knuckles are a patch of screaming nerves he'll take any distraction from, in lieu of real painkillers.

When he swivels his head up for the voice, he finds the young barefoot woman he's seen and heard tripping about the inn. She's been to meals, been in the pub when he's gone to sit, but Kira isn't one to seek introductions, especially in a place where people disappear without a word. Through the alcohol, she feels a bit like a bird--a young falcon is the mental image, curious and brightly but practically feathered, growing into greater purpose than a simple songbird.

"I was cooking," he says, forming the words carefully. She seems a bit young to be openly drunk in front of, though he's trying to pace himself nowbthat the bottle might be his only respite from the pain. "When the earthquake hit I spilled a bit on my hand, that's all."

@ Inn

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana took a step closer, her gaze fixing on his hands. She's seen some pretty bad burns before now though it was mostly thanks to Heihei. Her dark eyes glance up at him before shaking her head.

"Are you using warm water? Cold water might shock your skin and complicate healing." She paused and looked around the kitchen. "Do they have potatoes here?" It might sound random but it was something they used besides aloe to help heal burns. Moana knew a lot of home and herbal remedies for things.

She wasn't as practiced with the darkness in the world but she refused to let it stop her. If she can help then Moana was going to try. "It'll help."

[3ofswords]

Is a shrug more or less eloquent when under the influence? His head tilts to one side for the movement, lifted back up by the opposite shoulder. Held just above the table's hard surface, the fingers of his left hand are shaking, twitching for the pain. "No potatoes, and I didn't think about that when I shoved my hand in the snow."

The earthquake had shaken a lot of the sense out of him, and the liquor had drowned the rest. The shred someone put back into his hands keeps him in the seat, near the fire, waiting for the rest of the village to be assessed before someone can come tell him, in their personal medical opinion, that there's not a lot to be done right now. Moana is too new to have anything her pack didn't provide, but maybe someone had a kit from the mysterious boxes last month, and would pass by eventually.

Brows drawing together, he considers her a second time: "Are you alright? You were here earlier too. Don't--worry about me, if you need anything. I'm fine." He raised the bottle in indication.

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana blinked, her eyes rising from his hand to his face. She watched him for a moment before giving him a decisive nod of her head. "I'm fine." She was shaken, adjusting and a little frightened but she'd face her fears and when the time was right; she'll over come them. She wasn't going to lose now.

"Potato's will make it feel better as will coconut oil, aloe or avocados. I don't know if you can grow any of that here." She really wanted to be able to grow coconut trees when it warmed but they'd never last through winters like this. Most of the plants she knew about wouldn't though some of the robust ones have a chance; a small chance.

She fidgeted a bit as she continued. "What are you drinking?" She noticed the red in his cheeks and she wondered what it was in that bottle.

[3ofswords]

"If we can, I don't think it does much good while there's snow on the ground and my skin's peeling off," he says, not unkindly: there's a laugh in it, and the bottle tilting back to his lips, and a shine on them when he tips it back up.

He sets the bottle down to give himself a hand to lean on; the other he pulls to his lap, hoping it will warm enough to leave in some temperate water. Maybe he'll try the warm, like she suggested. "It's vodka; I don't know if you're old enough for me to feel bad for not sharing it."

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana nodded her head understanding the situation despite the fact that she stubbornly didn't want to believe that there was nothing that could be done for him. If the skin was already peeling away then the burn happened an hour or so ago and the shock to his system has already left it's damage. Moana wasn't sure, while she had a lot of knowledge in a lot of little things it all had limits. She hadn't mastered everything the healers on the island know and everything she knew was in a world with significantly lower technology than this one.

Her thoughts suddenly didn't feel relevant.

She shook her head. "I don't know about ages. It's different for everyone I think but don't feel bad. I won't take anything away from you." She could imagine that he was in a lot of pain and soon it'd start to itch and become more irritated. "Will you really be okay? It won't get infected or anything?"

Inn

[zomboligist]

He'd heard about some idiot just sitting around doing nothing with his wounds, but Ravi hadn't expected to find this particular idiot. Honestly, he's not sure why it warms the cockles of his heart to know that people will still be awful about their health care no matter where you are. "Do you know, you're going to frighten someone with that?" he insists, taking off his coat and wandering over to shout some more at Kira while he has the chance.

"How did that happen?" he asks, fairly glad of the overheard comment of rough skin that he'd heard (but also that this is finally something to alleviate the boredom).

[3ofswords]

It isn't the volume he winces for, just the penetration of Ravi's narrowed attention and bright, bright irritation through the numbing alcohol. He feels a little bad for having hidden the bottle, but the wound seems to have neatly distracted the man from its existence.

Kira had at least been saving it for a moment like this. "I wasn't sure what to do," he admits, chin tucking like a mulish child. "Spilled hot water over it during the quake, thought the fountain would help. You said--I didn't think we had supplies, so I poured some of this on it and tried to keep it cold." By this time the skin across his knuckles is peeled away, the blister frozen off by the snow, and the red layer beneath hurts enough in the open air to set his fingers twitching.

[zomboligist]

Ravi feels a little accusatory and judgmental with the way he tips his head to one side with a glare at Kira, eyes filled with guess who's the village idiot today and it just makes Ravi utterly disappointed that he doesn't have a ribbon to award. "You're an idiot," is all he says, sighing as he gestures for Kira to get up and follow him. "We might not have materials, but there are herbs and very clever people who've showed me how to use some of them," he says.

He stares at it with the sort of morbid fascination that comes of looking for the next coolest, grossest thing that he can find.

[3ofswords]

Through the pain--how could it still burn, after hours of fucking snow--and buoyed a bit by the booze, Kira rolls his eyes from the exposed skin to the face of his accuser and apparent witch doctor. Sarcasm didn't really serve him in thinking it: he's met witch doctors. "It's only a flesh wound," he intones, lifting the bottle for another sip. He isn't quite drunk yet, just flushed and obstinate.

[zomboligist]

Well, that's just not fair, playing to Ravi's inner geek while trying to throw him off the more important issue at hand. "Monty Python will not save you," he warns, as dire as he gets. "On your feet, we're going to Helen's to raid through her herbs and when she finds that she's missing some, I can regale her with the tale of the man with the hand burn," he says. "And stop drinking," he says sharply. "It's only going to make things worse when your senses are dulled and you do something to aggravate that burn."

[3ofswords]

"Yes, I'm definitely aggravating it while sitting here, not using it," he says, arching a brow. "That's the point," and he tips back one more sip just because he can: "It dulls the very aggravated pain of burning the fuck out of your hand."

When he gets up, he uses the chair to steady himself, and slides his hand carefully into his now wet glove. His only concession is to cap the bottle before taking it with him. "Don't act like I did it on purpose, I was trying to cook for you all when the whole place started shaking."

Fountain

[theroadremains]

Casey had felt the quakes shake the village. He had been on the roof when it happened, and had only narrowly escaped slipping off and falling to the snowbanks below. The reaction for him had been an immediate and deep set panic. The earthquake was often a precursor to skyfall, and the prospect of ash flooding the sky again chilled him to his very core. He had grown accustomed to the presence of others in the village, and had spent far too many days out in the cold air, breathing in the clarity of it and watching the lights dance across the sky. But for all he was slowly gripping that the village was not a dream, he had not yet let himself grow close to any of its inhabitants.

There was a flash of concern, no matter how he tried to quell it, for the one that had taken him in and given him a place to rest and food to eat, and on occasion even clothing to wear, though. That flash, however quick, and however hard he fought to shrug it off, left an afterglow behind his eyes and the ever fading whisper of dog mentioning that he would probably not know a skyfall if it fell on him.

He dropped to the snow carefully after a moment, lowering himself off the edge of the roof and landing in a pile of white that broke some of his fall. It was faster than trying to get into the odd gymnastics of opening and crawling back into the window. He had searched the inn for Kira, high and low. He started with the kitchen, found the stove almost warm and evidence it might have been used not too long ago, but no sign of Kira there, in his room, or in the bathroom. It was only chance he found Kira at all, and then only because he found tracks in the snow and followed them on a chance back to the fountain.

The water was still clear and cool, not tinged yellow or boiling with the heat of the fractured earth, but Kira was there, standing before it with a bottle and a thickened glove. He slowed his approach when he found Kira, but his eyes jumped back and forth between man and sky, waiting for the towering cloud of deathly gray to come rolling over the canyon wall.

"Not near as bad as you will if you stay out here."

[3ofswords]

He turned with some interest for the answering voice: alcohol had a way of numbing him further to other people, not shutting off his ability but making it easier to ignore. Similar to how it treated the pain, he supposed, and he tapped the lip of the bottle once to his own lips in a parody of a cheeky kiss of greeting, looking Casey over once to see him upright and unharmed before turning away. Casey wasn't who or what he was looking for.

What he was, he might not know until he felt it. Maybe he should just jump back in, clear his head as much as clear the pain from his head. He'd survive it, the inn wasn't far and Casey would probably drag him back.

"I'm fine," he said, kicking his foot once against the fountain's edge. "You're out here all the time, you're not the only person who can handle some cold air."

[theroadremains]

"You aren't out here all the time." The response came cool and short. He was used to the cold and lived in it. Kira seemed to rarely leave the warmth of the inn, and while Casey did not judge him for it, he did doubt Kira's lungs were used to the frozen air the way his were, or that his thin body under barely acceptably warm clothing could stand up to it for long. Still, that wasn't why he had come.

"It's not the cold you have to worry about." The 'cold' of the village was hardly a threat in his mind. It was warmer than anything he had dealt with, and though he was grateful for the leather, fingerless gloves on his hands, he was also glad to know he didn't need the endless multitude of layers he didn't have access to in the camp.

He stopped just behind and to the side of Kira, and watched him quietly for a moment, checking him over for injuries with a cursory glance. The ground had shaken, anything could have happened. He wasn't observant enough to immediately take in Kira's hand, only that he seemed fine, if a bit surly. That was nothing concerning.

The quakes will have set off the volcanoes. For now the place wasn't bathed in ash, but he didn't trust the valley was safe from skyfall. Molten rocks and fire could hit anything and anywhere. The earth could open beneath their feet or crush itself between colliding shattered plates. It wasn't safe to be out in the open after the ground shook.

"We should get back inside. The worst of the aftershocks should be done, it'll be safer with something over our heads if skyfall comes."

[3ofswords]

"That's 'cause I have more sense than you." He didn't quite snap, but he spoke it out of one side of his mouth, short, staring at their silhouettes reflected on the water instead of looking at him. "If you wear yourself ragged, it's the exact same as my skinny ass out here in scrubs, we'll both be sick and miserable and Credence will hover like a gargoyle."

Any ire blustered out in a sigh. He was harping, more like his mother than the maudlin sack of shit he'd walked out here as. Maybe that was why she'd done it, to distract herself from the weight of knowing too much.

When Casey mentioned the skyfall again, Kira did turn to look at him, though he used the momentum to also the raise the bottle and consider him down its length. He hadn't let Casey tell him too much of it, the storm of ash and acid rain that made him worry about water and rations and cannibals, but he hadn't forgotten it either. Earthquakes must have been part of it: for all that the aftershocks were over, Kira could feel a small tremor between them, when Casey looked at the horizon of trees and canyon walls.

He drops the bottle back to his side. He swallows, and thinks again: "Here," he said, lifting it to offer over. "I don't think this place is going to cave in on itself that easy. None of the buildings even fell."

[theroadremains]

Casey's eyes moved to the offered bottle only long enough to take it before he was back to staring at the sky. He could smell the bite of alcohol before he brought the bottle to his mouth, and he only barely flinched at the burn of it when he drank a few swallows down and offered it back. Alcohol was dangerous, but it had been a presence around the camps. A man could freeze to death in a false feeling of warmth or die of dehydration while drinking with alcohol, but it was still worth it to some.

He wasn't one to turn it down if it was offered, and he needed to calm his nerves a touch. Being too high strung while in a camp never ended well for anyone.

"The inn shook." It was minor, compared to a fai number he had felt, but enough for him to feel it on the roof. I thought you might have gotten hurt hovered dangerously close to his tongue and he bit it back hard and fast. He was breaking too many of his rules in this camp, but couldn't bring himself to leave it.

"I'm not going inside until you do."

[3ofswords]

The pain was eating him from the knuckles up, not unlike the poison of rot, and it met the threads of Casey's anxiety so the alcohol could tie them into something foul. "Wow," he said with a snort: "You could teach a class on persuasion; I'll be back when I feel like it, if you want to stand here and pass a bottle back and forth, it'll be the least trying thing I've done today."

Sober, he knew that when one of them was calm, they both could be, and it was better that way--but his hand was burning two different ways, worse when he curled his fingers in the glove to keep the feeling in them. His grimace was entirely for it, when he tipped the bottle again.

"I know it did, I was there." His eyes cut sideways--he was glad to see Casey unharmed, for all his irritable mood. "Did you get hurt too?"

Inn! lmk if this works <3

[ottimismo]

Sonny spends a disproportional amount of time at the Inn. It's a coping mechanism, really. He can't stand to be alone, so he puts himself in a place where he's never alone. The Inn almost always has at least somebody in it, and if it does, that's where he'll be. Unless he's working on setting up the church, or helping somebody with something else.

He's used to the city. He's used to being surrounded by people, even if they're strangers. He's not used to this little village of so few people. So few people, he recognizes everybody by face, if not by name.

But as per usual, he always tries to find the silver lining. Today, it's that he got a package of cookie making ingredients. So for a little while, he got to be in his element, baking two batches of cookies with his kitchen window cracked. Maybe through a means he wasn't quite used to, but it was still therapeutic, nonetheless.

He's back at the inn after an afternoon of working on the church, and the cookies he baked and left there that morning aren't entirely gone. He's passing through the kitchen with them, ready to pass them out to whoever might be around. And Kira's who he sees first.

"Hey there," he greets brightly, holding the plate out in offering. "You look like you could use some sweets."

[3ofswords]

Though he's only vaguely placed a name to the face, and the face to the feeling--Sonny has lived up to it, a candle in the dark of the inn that never seems to go out. Kira has thought to ask how he does it, but it would be a bitter question, it would taste like stale coffee stained on his teeth to sit down with him and say: do you dream of rainbows and kittens every night.

Not that he often gets to sit down with him, late as he rises.

The man must, bitter as the thought is, because he's so smoothly recovered from the quake that he's offering a plate of cookies he must have baked and shit out his own ass--when the fuck did they get sugar--and smiling at Kira bright as the aurora's outside.

"Sure," he says, eyebrow raising. They can't possibly still be warm, though his reaching fingers expect it, so close to the warmth of the man himself. A break from Kate's bread would be welcome, and he needs the calories to keep his head up with the drink. Ravi managed to wrap the wound on his hand, and he's holding it close to his lap like an animal guarding its paw, but it still hurts. "Makes me look less like I'm here for the worst happy hour ever."

He points to the bottle with the cookie: "I guess it would be only fair to offer you a shot, if you can find something to pour it in."

[ottimismo]

Sonny bounces back, and he bounces back quickly. It's just what he does, how he's always been. He grew up with three wild, incorrigible sisters, and almost by default, he became the least problematic kid he could. He did his school work, he went to church, he made good grades, he didn't get into trouble. He made sure he was always in a good mood, especially when his sisters were pitching fits.

The problems he did have were never brought to his parents, but to his priest, or direction to God Himself. He didn't bother his mother or his father with his issues. He was the golden child.

And, of course, that's followed him into adulthood. It's not a bad thing, not by a long shot. It's left him happy and optimistic, and unable to slow down or give up on things that prove difficult. He's a good, decorated detective in the roughest unit there is to be in, and he's recently graduated law school and passed the bar. He's doing great. He's always doing great. Until he's not.

So when he can, he spreads that around. The smiles and the laughs and the hope. He feels as if it's one of his purposes in life. And right now, it's his purpose to spread them to Kira.

"Take as many as you'd like," he says, setting the plate down inbetween them, waving a semi-dismissive hand at the same time. "It's fine. I'm not that big on drinking anyway."

[3ofswords]

His brow stayed arched, eyes looking up beneath them to Sonny, the warmth of him not unwelcome so much as confusing. "Really, how do you stay so cheerful without it," he asks, snapping a small bite off the cookie and considering him as he chews.

"You're not a belated welcome wagon from our mysterious overlords, are you?" He isn't entirely joking when he asks it, brow arching a little sharper.

[ottimismo]

"Oh, no, not at all" Sonny says, and he laughs a little, still friendly and comfortable. "But, I guess if I were, I'd probably still say no, huh?"

It's a joke, clear by his smile and the bright tone of his voice. It's not the first time he's been asked how he keeps up such a friendly demeanor. And it's not the first time he doesn't really have an answer to it. Not an easy one, anyway.

"I just try really hard to see the good things in the world instead of the bad," he answers, picking up a cooking for himself and taking a bite of it.

[3ofswords]

"I mean, they're there whether you see them or not," he says, uninjured hand forming a loose fist over the lip of the bottle, his head--a bit heavier for each drink--coming to rest its cheek against his hand. "But I guess that applies to the good as well, and perspective is perspective."

He fumbles a bit on the second utterance of the word, perspetive, slippery and clicking his teeth at the end. Pursing his lips once, he uses his hand to move the bottle a bit further from himself. "Might be time for less of that."