thecapitol | you're caught in my head like a thorn on a vine [closed]

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you're caught in my head like a thorn on a vine [closed]

Who| The Signless, Roland and (later) the Psiioniic
What| Signless has a small meltdown in the wake of Sigma's broadcast, one he can't weather alone
Where| D4/Roland's room
When| Right after Sigma's broadcast
Warnings/Notes| Mentions of violence/brainwashing/slavery, possibly other terrible things.

Three days. Three days of only knowing the Initiate's fate as a vague uncertainty, of assuming the worst and hoping for the best. Signless had known going in there was a high chance that if anyone would take the hardest fall for this it would be his moirail. He'd thought he was prepared for that, but what he'd been preparing for was an execution. This is worse. This is worse in a way that is deeply personal, and it's with mounting rage and disbelief that he watches it unfold on the communicator. He can't even finish watching the broadcast; once Sigma becomes the focus again he physically takes off his communicator, shoves it in a drawer, and walks across the room to put as much distance between him and it as he can. He can still hear it muffled from the drawer and presumably from the television in the District 12 commons but none of the words manage to register.

A long time ago the Signless described his anger as liquid filling a cup. With each new atrocity he witnessed both on Alternia and later in Panem a little more liquid would pour in, until he would either have to risk his anger spilling over the brim or find a bigger cup. For the very first time there is no cup big enough. He cannot look at this objectively and set it aside in a box in his mind with the knowledge that it will one day be repaid with due justice. It's too raw, too close too his heart, too much after how much Kurloz Makara has already suffered trying to atone for a future he'll never act out. He understands now, he thinks, why his Disciple held herself like she'd been burned through to the core by his own execution. He understands that grief and rage that fate could be so cruel to someone who just wanted to do good.

He feels as though he might vibrate out of his skin. There's a fire at the back of his throat and behind his eyes. He can feel that he's on the verge of something and the boiling energy inside of him hasn't decided what yet. He paces around his room once, twice, and then finally leaves it and directs his bare feet toward the elevator and District 4. He needs someone to tell him not to do something he'll regret because right now he doesn't trust himself to have anything resembling good judgement.

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The elevator doors slide open to reveal the very troll Roland was on his way to comfort. He doesn't much look like himself: his hands are balled into fists, his lips form a thin dark line around fangs bared more than usual, and his eyes have gone dark. The sclera, usually a muted yellow color, has shifted until its tone almost matches the bright red of his iris. It gives his eyes a wild, burning look that doesn't lessen when he sees Roland in front of him.

Instead he steps out of the elevator, closes the distances between them, and presses his face hard into Roland's chest. The whole of him shakes. His breathing is slow, measured, but very ragged.

Even now, after feeling that body warm against his most every night they can manage to sleep in the same place, there are rare moments when there is nothing familiar about this man at all. Moments when Roland's instincts remind him that, familiar as he may be, Signless is purely alien in a way no human would ever seem.

This, for an instant, is one of those. His instincts send his muscles tense, send his mind searching for the old knowledge he has on most any creature of the Prim - strengths, weaknesses. How to control it. Kill it. But then that creature is coming toward Roland, and his old instinct is not so strong as to overcome the habit this man has built in him. That habit has him keeping his arms slightly spread, muscles still, and then his lover is shaking against him and Roland lets out a breath, long and slow, and curls his arms around, presses his hands to the muscles of Signless' back.

"Signless." This isn't the time to ask, Roland knows that. Not about the eyes, or what a troll palemate should do in this situation, or anything else. But he is uniquely aware just now that whatever is happening inside Signless, body and mind, may well be very different from whatever a human would be experiencing, and Roland needs to know. "What do you need?" He looks down at the top of that familiar, messy head of hair as he asks it, voice not at all cold, but very brief and to the point.

He doesn't answer immediately, which is just one more check mark on the list of things that are off about this whole situation. It's like dragging himself up from beneath a great depth of water, a feeling he's had before but never to this extent. His eyes are tight shut but one of his ears flicks to show recognition, acknowledgement. He tries to speak but the tight heat in his throat burns up any words before they make it out. After a few dry false starts he finally manages to force out:

"Not here."

Even a hallway is too public. More than that, he can't answer the question yet. He wants to scream himself hoarse with the injustice of it all but he's frightened that he'll say something to incriminate himself. As it stands he can get away with pretending he didn't see this coming, that he's horrified because it was unexpected and brutal (and that isn't a lie).

As patiently as Roland waits for an answer, the core of him going more tight and tense with every failed effort Signless makes to speak, once the words have gotten out he moves quickly. Nowhere is private, not even those blind spots in the Capitol's eternal, unrelenting view, because even if Signless were in a state to make it to one of those they can't do more than walk slowly through one without looking far more suspicious than they can afford to right now.

Roland turns, careful not to move in a way that separates Signless from him until he realizes they'll have to. "Step back. Keep hold on me. Walk to my room."

Again, Roland's speech is short and to the point. No questions, nor suggestions, because at times like this people - human people, at least - need none of that. Things are worse than he'd expected, that is obvious, but before he tries to find out just how much worse they need to make it to what passes for a private space. He waits to see whether Signless can break from Roland and walk himself, ready to keep an arm around Signless' back, and ready to pick Signless up and carry him if he isn't. Best not to force Signless to pull away from him in a state like this, but they do need to get there somehow. "You can make it, just that far."

Just as Signless predicted, Roland knows exactly how to react. The simple orders give him something to do beyond let his rage build and the lack of fuss or demands for an explanation ensure that he isn't agitated further. The last thing he needs is to also be angry at one of his few lifelines in this situation.

"Mmh." It's as close to a noise of agreement as he feels like making.

Right then. Step back. He does and then starts walking, letting his body follow the now-familiar path to Roland's room almost by itself. His motions are heavy and jerky but not in the kind of way that indicates any physical ill. His wounds are most definitely all mental.

The familiar room at least is a small comfort. A space that is in some way his feels far less like a makeshift cell, even if that's still what it is. He takes a few steps inside and then pauses, too agitated to consider sitting down when he knows he'd just get up again but unsure of what to do otherwise.

If anyone sees them walk through the suites they know better than to ask, and luckily the two of them make it into relative privacy without incident. Roland closes the door behind Signless and, though he may have known how to react earlier, if he stopped to think about what to do now he'd be lost. Roland knows that. So he doesn't hesitate in front of the door, doesn't dawdle and wonder what to do next. He does what feels right, which is to move in close and closer, and reach out, and put a hand on each of Signless' shoulders. "We're alone," he says, leaning in. "Or as close as we'll get. Do what you need to."

Do what you need to. What you need -- what you --

He's looking forward but not at anything. There's so much pain and anger built up in inside him and vying to get out that he almost doesn't know where to start. It's as though everything he wants to say is trying to burst out all at once, getting stuck in his throat like a crowd of people all trying to get through the same door at the same time. He raises and lowers his hands a few times and then finally sets them on Roland's chest, flat for just a moment before they inevitably curl into fists again.

Do what you need--

His mouth opens and a wail wrenches itself from him. He raises one of those fists like he's going to bring it down against Roland's shoulder and then whirls instead, wrenching away from him to pace the room. He can't say what he really wants to, can't rail against the system that has made this a reality, so instead an increasingly vehement list of curses pours from his mouth. He keeps pacing until his eyes fall on the lamp on Roland's bedside table. He grabs it.

"FUCK THIS!" His voice breaks as he throws it as hard as he can against the ground. It makes a satisfying sound as it shatters. He looks at the pieces for a long moment and then sinks to his knees with a whump.

"They say," he says, and his voice is deathly quiet, "that when I was executed all of my love and patience turned to hatred. They say I died cursing the universe so loudly that my rage echoed for aeons after my death. I never believed -- I never thought something could make me that angry."

Roland holds himself still, even when it looks as if Signless is going to strike him - he's aware of his own instincts now, his own reactions, and can hold them back just enough if that's how it's going to be - but Signless doesn't. So Roland listens and watches, and when Signless finishes he waits a moment more, making sure nothing else is forthcoming. Then he walks forward, falls heavily onto his knees next to Signless.

"There are more breakables in the kitchen," he points out, in the mild, reasonable tones of someone making the observation that it looks like it's going to rain soon. He's beginning to understand now what form this particular grief is taking, and feels all the more respect for this man beside him as he comes to understand it - he understands, too, how dangerous this is. Signless had enough self control to come here rather than anywhere else, to even now continue to moderate his words, but if Roland handles this badly-

Well, he's ready to find out just how strong a troll is in comparison to a human, if it comes to that. In the mean time: "I'll bring them, if you like."

It won't help. Not deep down. But all he's aiming at is to take the edge off, enough for Signless to do what he can on his own. Not that Roland does plan on leaving Signless alone - not even if he happened to ask.

Roland sits beside Signless, sounding companionable, looking solemn. Waits.

He leans sideways, his shoulder bumping against Roland's with perhaps more force than he means it to. He wants to be held. He wants to punch a hole through the wall. He wants to scream obscenities until his throat hurts. He wants to cry. He doesn't know what he wants, really.

"No -- no. I shouldn't. It would make more work for the avoxes." He says the word like it burns his tongue; he always has to some degree but now it's unmistakeable.

Avoxes and everything about them have always horrified him in the way slavery and the casual abuse of lowbloods always horrified him on Alternia. They put him in mind of nothing so much as those psionics with the exceptionally bad luck to be talented enough to be hooked into ships, their mobility and free will and sense of self repressed until they are not people so much as objects. Avoxes are the same, empty vessels who exist only to fulfill a purpose.

For all intents and purposes the Initiate is dead. His body remains but his self is gone, and Signless knows that unlike last time it will be permanent. The last time was a warning meant to wear off after his death in the arena. Now the Capitol has made good on that warning. He'll never hear Kurloz speak again, never hear him recite his scripture like he promised he would, but he'll have to watch him float ghost-like around the Tower with his eyes looking at nothing and his face bare.

He turns his face sideways, presses it into the crook of Roland's neck, and lets out a small sob.

Roland reacts immediately, sliding one arm around Signless' back, one over his front, and turning toward him. He presses his face against that thick dark hair, ignoring the blunt, rounded horn digging into his cheek. Familiar as Roland is with grief, he doesn't know which way this particular grief will turn - Signless has kept it from becoming dangerous once, heading here instead of making a public protest or, worse, trying to confront a gamemaker directly. But that's not really a guarantee he'll be able to do it again. This safer sadness is more what Roland was expecting than the startling, red-eyed rage with which Signless had first greeted him, and if he were thinking of such things Roland would find it impossible to figure which reaction he prefers.

"You did well coming to me, dear," Roland says in a quiet, steady voice, because comforting lies like everything is going to be okay may always be beyond him. "You did very well."

If Roland had tried to tell him that everything was going to be okay Signless might have actually hit him. He doesn't have time for empty words and he's glad Roland doesn't either, glad that out of all of the humans he could have fallen into a quadrant with he's managed to find one with some practicality.

He turns into the hug and slips his arms around Roland's shoulders, holding him like he's afraid he might disappear -- and who could blame him? This keeps happening. Everyone he's loved has been taken from him eventually in one way or another here.

"Thank you," he says, voice harsh and strained in the way voices often are when the speaker is trying to talk through tears. More than 'thank you for the comfort' he means 'thank you for still being here, for being alive and relatively safe'. He lets himself cry because it's easier than talking, because he knows Roland won't mind, not even when the red of his tears makes unsightly splotches on the fabric of his shirt.

"I couldn't be alone with that kind of anger," he says once the sobs have died off into quiet sniffles and hiccups. "I would have burnt myself up. I have that inside of me all the time, Roland, and I hold it back because there are still things in this world worth caring about and hoping for. That's why I needed you. I needed to be reminded of that."

Roland considers it, that anger. It isn't a foreign topic, generally speaking. That rage is what he'd shaped so carefully in Susannah and Eddie, what moves him through all the battles he's ever fought - or what used to, when those battles weren't arranged and recorded for an audience of greedy fools.

In any case, he knows that anger. More than knows it. But he's said before that Signless isn't a gunslinger, and knowing about the rage in him makes that no less true. So this new fact does not truly surprise Roland - it's interesting, though, and he takes a moment to consider it and file it away. Then his hand starts moving slowly and firmly up and down the line of Signless' back.

As Signless predicted, his tears have stained the starched white of Roland's shirt, but that is so low on Roland's list of priorities that he almost doesn't notice it. What he does notice is the color of those stains. A little unsettling, first seeing that, in the same way that seeing the alien red of Signless' eyes when he first arrived had been. But this, at least, is easily shaken off; if that weren't supposed to happen, Signless might have at least acted surprised.

Or perhaps not, considering. They both have a few other things to focus on.

In a gunslinger, that anger could have been molded, used. It wouldn't need to be held back so much as controlled. Signless is not a gunslinger. Besides that, he is an adult in ways that Roland does not recall Eddie and Susannah ever quite being. He is old enough to know himself, to be set in some of his ways. Signless knows what he needs. If he needs to hold his anger back, if he needs to be reminded - "Then that's what I'll do. And if you need to spend some of that anger on me I'll do that, too."

What might have been a smile flashes at the corner of his lips for just a moment before it disappears. He doesn't have the heart in him to smile right now but the gratitude is there all the same. He also doesn't really have it in him to wipe away the smudges of tears on his face -- and that would require letting go of Roland, something he really does not want to do right now.

He knows what will happen if he doesn't hold back his rage. He's seen pictures, read transcripts, been told by trolls who watched it happen. There is a difference between holding his anger inside of him as a reminder and letting it consume him and turn him into a bitter and hateful person. It isn't a matter of strength of character, he doesn't think. It isn't that he's too weak. It's that the kind of strength he might gain from letting his anger out isn't the kind he wants to wield. That, probably, is why he'll never be a gunslinger -- why he'd never want to be.

"I couldn't. It isn't your fault." If he couldn't even raise a hand against Roland earlier then he certainly won't be able to now that he's a little more himself. Maybe if there was even a little bit of a black tinge to their relationship, but there isn't.

"Crying helped, anyway. We'll find ways to burn off the rest of it."

Roland nods, thinks briefly that when people mention burning off emotions what they usually mean is fucking.

He looks Signless over a moment. Decides against the suggestion.

"Come on," he murmurs instead, adjusting his hold around the tired, grieving man pressed against him and moving to stand. "If you're done with anger for a while, let's get you up off this floor. See if you can take a rest." Roland's hand moves over the curls on the back of Signless' head, and he pulls him a little closer. Rest won't truly help, because nothing is truly going to help. But Signless needs it, and Roland will be here when he wakes.

That's probably a good decision, because that's not at all the kind of burning Signless means. Not that he wouldn't appreciate the physical and emotional closeness sex can entail, just... not now.

Human beds aren't exactly like cocoons, but being curled up beneath the covers simulates that feeling of comfort well enough. Signless slips in and out of wakefulness. There's too much going on in his head for him to really sleep but at least he can fitfully doze. It's better than nothing.

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you're caught in my head like a thorn on a vine [closed]

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We can probably call this done!