konstant | . .. IC Contact

He exhales slowly. His fingers curl against K's palm, flex again so their fingertips press gently together.

"I dream this place and my home city are the same place. Certain cafes from here, some buildings from there. And everyone is dead. You're all walkers, except you just live your lives. I ride the bus, I buy a bagel, everything is normal except everyone is rotting. Sometimes I know I have to put you all down, so I'll talk for a while--we talk about the weather, or weekend plans. And then I put everyone down, one by one. No one ever reacts to me killing everyone I talk to, so I keep going. Then I just wake up."

It is, of course, horrifying. But that's not the word that Jesus used when he asked about them, he just said strange. K remembers their earliest conversations, the once or twice Jesus mentioned the walkers before, mentioned having to put them down and that everyone is infected.

It would be a stretch to say it makes sense when considered together, but he can at least see how a sleeping mind would make the jump. He watches, hand trusting between Jesus's, attentive for the most easily missed cue.

"And the dreams are new? Do they already mean anything to you?"

"I had some like it when I first joined a community. Those were more violent." These, by comparison, are almost peaceful. Unsettling instead of something that makes his heart beat so loudly it wakes him up.

"But I wake up sometimes and I can't remember who's already dead. So when you didn't answer, I thought...." Well. He broke into the apartment. It's clear what he'd thought.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't know for sure what happened to him, he doesn't know how long he laid in the bathroom before Orla found him or here in the dark before Jesus came in, but he might have tried harder to figure it out. Either way, he didn't want anyone - Jesus - to worry.

"How often are you having them?"

He shakes his head; it's fine, he didn't want to make K feel bad, he just wanted him to know that Jesus isn't usually so willing to break into his friends' homes.

"Whenever I sleep. It used to be more sporadic, but the second night in the Zoo set them off."

It hadn't occurred to K to be upset about it; he's never had a home, especially not one that was ever barred to someone else to come into on a whim.

But his focus is entirely on Jesus now.

"When was the last time you were able to sleep?"

"Last night." At Rosita's he'd been able to doze off fast. "But I didn't in the Zoo."

It was a very long week, but he knows how to handle that. He knows how to steal ten or twenty minute naps, he knows how to wake up clearly alert. It still took a toll.

"I've had nightmares for years," he says, meaning this to be comforting, because he doesn't want to worry K, either. "They can be useful. Sometimes you can figure out a blindspot by what your subconscious mind fixes on."

It's debatable, anyway. Most people disagree with him about it. "They've just been the same nightmares for so long that having them change is throwing me off. That's all."

In his downtime, with how quickly he reads and how much he likes to learn about people, K has picked up a lot of random bits and pieces of knowledge. Dreams are not one of them other than being aware of them, other than knowing it's widely accepted that they are both the mind processing and possibly messages of one kind or another. K doesn't even know if the dreams he has feel like the dreams humans have.

He knows that Jesus is trying to convince him of something that is normal for him, and K lets him try, as vigilant as he can be right now.

"Lack of sleep combined with stress can cause significant cognitive changes," K answers, slowly. "You don't need to downplay the importance of it with me. It's human."

It is. It's just that it's such a universal problem where he's from that he doesn't know how to talk about it anymore, even though he wants to explain.

But something in that statement makes him blanche a little and he's looking at their hands again instead of at K. "I'm not sure I am human anymore."

K hasn't been restless or loud, but he sees Jesus's reaction and goes a bit more still, a bit more focused. It's a statement that perhaps means a bit more to K, from Jesus, than it might otherwise.

"Jesus?" he asks, quietly.

"I'm not alive," he says, and there's a tremor in his hand. He looks up at K, choosing to let himself feel this, too. "What am I now?"

K has made this same assertion multiple times since coming to Duplicity, with mixed results; he doesn't think a single person has understood what it means to him, not really, but he's not surprised. It means that he's watching carefully and he considers, very seriously, his friend's face when he hears that sentence now.

He wipes his other palm down his thigh, drying sweat and some residual thought to rid it of lingering smoke, and holds it out for Jesus's, silently asking permission.

There is no answer to that question. Even if K had one, he doesn't have the relationship with the dead that Jesus does; his answer won't have the context Jesus needs. He can't bring himself to ask it to Rosita, not after she already had to bury him. His death is a topic they've mutually agreed to box up and move past.

It's what he'll do now that he's said it to K, too.

He grasps K's hand. If he can't pack up the emotions and the steady, invasive fears he has now, he can at least accept some comfort.

"You still haven't eaten," he points out, but he doesn't let go.

But K shakes his head, dismissing any thought of the sandwich, forgotten while he gives his attention to Jesus.

Jesus, whom he lets hang onto him as tightly as he wants to in this moment, using their clasped hands to slowly, carefully, turn Jesus's until the inside of his wrist is facing upward.

"Here," he offers, the fingertips of his other hand tracing along the physical markers until he finds Jesus's pulse nestled against the fine bone of his wrist. He reaches, then, to bring Jesus's hand up to the same place.

He complies, and he immediately counts the tiny bump of his pulse against his fingertips. He gets to a count of twelve--his breathing just a tiny bit steadier for it--before he looks up at K.

When he sees that Jesus is focused on his pulse, he lifts their other joined hands and, so, so gently, works his own hand free so he can spread Jesus's palm on his own chest. So he can feel his own chest rise and fall with each breath.

He lifts his eyes back to Jesus's, and lets them sit like that for a few cycles of breath.

"Your heart is beating," he offers, quietly. "Your lungs are working. Your skin is warm, your muscles work, and you know yourself. I don't have a philosophical answer, but you were born human. You're alive now. These are facts."

He is alive. He is, because he's not a walker.

You know yourself.

There is no other phrase that could have landed for him.

He leans against K, just enough his shoulder is against K's chest. His weight is barely there at all; it would hurt to lean too far but he's also not in a place where he can be both mentally sore and physically needy. So this: this is all he can do.

K feels the most unsteady he ever has, even with multiple holes in his gut; but when Jesus leans there, he might as well be leaned against a wall for how little K moves. For this, he can hold.

He lets his temporarily cool hands cover Jesus's over his chest, over his wrist; he closes his eyes so he can focus on staying upright, staying steady, on hoping anything he said can help.

"I'm glad you came here."

"So am I." It's becoming the norm for him to come to K and to end up feeling better about something, even if he hadn't started out feeling badly in the first place. Which makes him wonder if K gets anything close to it in return.

He squeezes K's shoulder and stands, to get the blankets and the pillows, and to take a moment to give K another assessing look. There's nothing wrong with him physically that he could find, but no one would look at K and say he looked like he's feeling all right.

Sitting up, talking, paying attention are all taking their toll on K, who is beginning to shiver again by the time Jesus is arranging bedding on the floor; he feels mentally better for it, more centered in himself, but he doesn't argue again about Jesus getting up. He pulls one of the sandwiches into his lap but stops before unwrapping it to rub his eyes again while Jesus is across the room.

He focuses again when he comes near once more, setting the sandwich aside in preparation to move down to the pallet.

"Thank you."

"I'm the reason you're going to be sleeping on the floor looking like you caught the plague," he frowns. He resists the urge to check him for fever again and instead adds the pillow Jesus was probably meant to be using. Let K have it, let him be extra comfortable. "Don't thank me. I feel bad enough already."

"We're both the reason. You're not comfortable near me right now," K points out, calmly. There's no accusation, no guilt or hurt because, "I don't trust myself. Neither of us wants to be alone. Do you have a better compromise?"

He's already easing down into the new blanket nest though.

"You sleep on the floor. But I get to take care of everything else." He lays down gingerly, with his head propped up on one hand so he can watch over K as he settles in.

"You can use the bathroom if you need to," K offers by way of reply. It's been two days, Jesus is probably already settled, but it's there. "And borrow some of my clothes. I don't know how much good I'll be for... a while."

He still wants to try with the sandwich, but he also wants to sleep.

K can't have any idea what those little gestures mean in the context of Jesus's world. He tries to take them in this context, so they have the meanings K intends. But he also hopes that he himself never takes for granted what it can mean when someone offers their roof, their bed, their clothing. He doesn't want to become so used to this world that those things don't still stir things up in him.

"You just have to rest." And eat. "I'll just be here."

Keeping watch, dozing, listening. He doesn't want to leave until K has recovered from whatever this is.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject