come_sailaway | just follow my yellow light (Ossie & Giles, + unread inbox)

just follow my yellow light (Ossie & Giles, + unread inbox)

Who: Dimitri, Ossie & Giles ... you?
When: Post-event, early September
Where: Dimitri's inbox, the library, the cottage
What: After his berserker episode at the diner, Dimitri does a disappearing act: he skips out on the infirmary inadvisably early and goes full cryptid, dodging all contact human or otherwise. Until a sentimental delivery from Friday sends him into a panic.
Warnings: Dimitri's PTSD and self-loathing are very much at the forefront here.

In the days following the diner's close, Dimitri's scarce about the ship — so scarce you might start to wonder if he's vanished the way passengers sometimes do. He's not in his cabin at all, nor any of his usual haunts. More worryingly, to anyone keeping track, he misses every attempt to follow up on his injuries. He's never been reliable with his ship-provided phone, but all attempts to contact him meet silence and dead air.

But his name is still on the door of cabin 116. The messages, unread and unreturned, are still received. Friday, if asked, is politely unhelpful, but she knows the passenger you're referring to. He's still onboard.

So where the hell is he?

1. grab a hold of my hand / i will lead you through this wonderland (giles, ossie)

Since Dimitri's conversation with SecUnit, he's been spending more and more time in the library, tearing through novels with a determined fervor — not really absorbing the stories, but cataloguing settings, plot features, anything the Captain might use against them. Honestly, there's far too much in the library to make this preparation meaningful — but it's something to do that feels productive, and really, that's more important.

On this particular evening, though, Dimitri's neither asleep nor reading. He's huddled behind his usual armchair, wedged into a corner, curled up around a jewelry box still bearing the remains of tacky boat-patterned wrapping paper. Despite his best efforts — face buried in his elbow, teeth sunk into his other wrist — stifled sobs creep into the library space. Grief and terror roll off the boy in waves, so thick they're almost tangible.

2. somewhere deep in the dark, a howling beast hears us talk (inbox, OTA, not here)
Dimitri’s phone languishes in the dark, stuffed into a T-shirt at the back of a drawer in his cabin. Texts go unanswered, and calls ring through to a default uncustomized voicemail.

At the tone, please record your message.

[beep]

3. the light is blinding my eyes / as the soft walls eat us alive (wildcard)
Find me on discord at bird#9111, or on Plurk at shrikesthorn!

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Even if Giles weren't often in the library anyway, he certainly would be on his way now. That amount of palpable terror is dangerous, it begs for something to find it, and most of things it might attract are not kind.

He approaches slowly, considers shifting himself into cat shape to be less intimidating, but he recognises the huddled figure and decides against it.

"Dimitri?" His voice is quiet, but firm as he sits gently beside the boy. He doesn't reach out, any contact will have to be initiated by Dimitri himself, but he does ask one question that, although it may be hard to answer, will allow for the quickest recovery – even if it's not a permanent one "Will you tell me what scares you?"

Even now, Dimitri's first instinct is to assert that he's fine -- even with his eyes bloodshot and puffy, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, visibly worlds away from 'fine'. He startles at first, huddling tighter into his corner, before he recognizes Giles's silhouette, and hears the question.

Hands shaking, Dimitri pries his fingers from around the jewelry box. The hinge has already snapped, and the faux wood bears pale stress-fractures. It opens to reveal a single gold earring, maybe an inch and a half across.

"It's his," Dimitri croaks. "My friend's. D-dedue's. I saw him -- at the diner, amongst the dead -- I killed him -- and now this -- " He looks up at Giles, wild-eyed and frantic. "What if he's dead? I left him alone -- i-if he died, if he's been killed -- "

"Thank you for telling me, that sounds unimaginably difficult" as he speaks, Giles winds the threads of Dimitri's words together. The air grows colder as he works, leaves rustling louder, until he's formed a solid ball of fear that he can swallow down and remove, protecting Dimitri from the cold hands of terror for at least an hour or two.

"How are you feeling now?"

Dimitri gasps like a drowning swimmer surfacing. The cold clears his head, autumn's chill familiar and comforting. Even a forced calm helps; he closes the jewelry box and clutches it back to his chest, pressed to his heart. "B-better," he manages, sniffling and scrubbing his face on his sleeve. "How ... ?"

"One of the gifts from tying myself to the court of fear, when someone tells me what they are afraid of I can draw out the emotion and take it upon myself. It's not a permanent solution, and you certainly wouldn't want it to be, but it's enough to prevent short term suffering"

Giles still keeps his voice slow and calm, because even if Dimitri isn't in the throes of panic now that doesn't mean he isn't still delicate.

"Take a moment to breathe first, but I think it would for the best if we got you somewhere slightly less public to process. You're welcome to come back to the cottage, if you'd like"

"I -- I would. Like that." Dimitri sniffles again. "If it's no imposition. I don't ... I can't ... "

He hasn't wanted to see anyone for some time now, but with this at the forefront of his mind, he just -- can't. Avoidance traded for absolute terror, even if he's not feeling it at the moment. The cottage is the only place that can guarantee he won't be found by someone he doesn't want to find him.

"No imposition at all, I am always glad to be of assistance when I can."

His own life feels like it's about to rupture at the seams any day now, but this at least is something he can help with. Something he can, if not fix, then at least help along the path towards mending.

"Whenever you're ready I can open the door, don't feel like you need to rush though, we can sit here as long as you need first"

The longer they sit here, the more likely it is someone else walks in, and Dimitri's not coward enough to hide behind Giles. Even if he's not sure what he'd do instead.

Deep breaths. Claw his composure back together tooth and nail. Hammer on a brave face for the court, and pretend he can't hear them whisper how eerie and dead-eyed he looks. Dimitri starts to lever himself off the floor, then winces and slips -- hisses, as falling jars his injuries. He's healing, but ribs, shoulder, and twisted knee haven't yet forgiven him.

"I-I'm sorry. Could you -- that is, would you ... " His face twitches, fighting his larynx for control. He needs a hand up, but he can't bring himself to lift his own, let alone ask out loud.

Giles nods, and helps Dimitri up without a word. He won't comment on it, won't ask about the injuries, because he's pretty certain he knows the answer, and almost as certain that Dimitri won't want to talk about it here.

He supports Dimitri as best he can through the journey to the nearest door, whatever was supposed to lie behind it Giles doesn't know but after a knock it contains the cottage, spring flowers in bloom and autumn leaves drifting from the trees.

Dimitri's free hand clutches the little box to his heart. Once he's on his feet, he can limp, but ... the extra support helps.

Until he crosses the threshold into the cottage. His first gasp of fresh air is a steadying relief -- cool autumn air, that doesn't smell of salt. Then a breeze ruffles his hair, and it smells of those flowers, and --

He staggers far enough to sit down. By the time he does, he's gasping, forcing himself to breathe at all. Giles can't help with this. Fear is still in the background, for now muted and distant; this is pure longing, deep and desperate, the ache of an absence torn open, and the harder Dimitri fights to control himself the fiercer it hurts.

Giles has never been very good at this, at providing comfort when someone needs it. There's no set of concrete steps to follow, not like there is with panic and injury. All he can do is try to provide what he might want in Dimitri's position and hope that it's enough.

So he sits beside Dimitri without a word, and reaches out with one hand to pat him gently on the back; easy to shy away from if he'd rather not be touched.

Any other time -- with any other person -- Dimitri would try to shrug Giles off. Rally himself, or make an attempt, and apologize for the indiscretion.

But here, and now, all he can do is lean into the offered hand at let the tears roll down his face.

Without a whole lot of warning, there's another hand on his shoulder, and that scent of nostalgic flowers grows just a tad stronger.

"What ho, dear boy? What an unexpected delight."

If there's a handkerchief being offered along with the hand on his shoulder, well, that's surely just coincidence and nothing to do with Dimitri crying. Ossie doesn't do tears, he's British.

oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck --

Dimitri's chest constricts with a stab of pain through his ribs; he gasps, flooding his lungs with those flowers, heady and dizzying -- wait, no, the dizziness is probably from hyperventilating.

But they're soothing, once he's ridden out the initial shock. They recall calmer memories, happier ones, comforting and safer to think about. It's comforting to just -- let go and feel it, for once. He misses Dedue like a boat misses its anchor, like a moon misses its planet, like a blade misses its sheath, and it hurts so fucking much even absent any fear of what might have happened to him, and at least for a moment he doesn't have to pretend or forget it.

He accepts the handkerchief, wipes his face and blows his nose. It takes a few tries before he's together enough to speak. "Sorry," he croaks, thick with tears. "S-sorry. I'm -- I'm usually better than this."

He swallows. Haltingly, he explains to Ossie what he'd told Giles, and a little more: seeing Dedue among the dead at the diner, his explosion of rage, the gift of the earring; all his terror and guilt at having left his companion alone, unable to really believe that time has stopped in his absence.

"It's his birthday," he finishes, sniffling. "I worked out how our calendars line up. I never miss his birthday. But -- I'm here, and he's not, and ... I saw him among the dead, and then she," meaning Friday, "gave me this, on his birthday. It's -- it's one of the only things he has left from home. What am I supposed to make of that?"

Edited (headcanons ahoy) 2022-09-04 11:59 (UTC)

"What you make of it is up to you, I don't believe there is an answer that is wholely comforting, but what I think most likely is that what you saw was not really Dedue, but a replica conjured to cause pain"

Giles rubs soothing circles into Dimitri's back as he speaks, it's an awful situation, one that cannot easily be fixed. The wounds will take time to heal, but the mental scars might never fade.

"The earring could be a duplicate, or it could be genuine, but either way, from what you've told me, I think he'd want you to have it."

Ossie listens patiently, unwavering in the supportive hand on his shoulder. Zombies, and people that they knew...? How dreadful. Not entirely unheard of, but awful all the same. And if this earring belongs to who Ossie thinks it does, then... seeing him in the flesh, so to speak, must have been positively dreadful. All the more reason to get the young man inside and fed, he's clearly had a rough time of it.

"I say- we don't still have any of that cake, do we? A birthday deserves cake, even if the birthday boy himself isn't here to celebrate with us. It would do you some good too, I think, you look... I say, I don't mean to overbear, but have you been eating properly? Getting enough sleep?"

Birthday cake. Dimitri giggles, hysterical. For a moment the absurdity overwhelms his distress. Birthday cake! This might as well happen! Why not! He feels like an idiot child, being plied out of a tantrum with a reassuring pat and the promise of cake, and more embarrassing is the fact that it's working.

… it … might … help, actually. To make the effort. To keep the ritual. To hammer that nail into the wheel of the ship’s unchanging year. So if, Goddess forbid, Dedue winds up here with him, he can at least say he made the attempt.

"I've been ... well enough." Which in Dimitri terms is 'absolutely miserable', if even he can't claim that he's fine. He's been sleeping even worse than usual, eating only what he can snatch from the buffet at odd hours before scurrying back to a hiding-place. It wouldn't be great at the best of times, and he's still recovering from his mauling at the diner; he's exhausted, staggering, and this has kicked his last legs from under him.

"I know -- I know they were only replicas. It was a sick," Dimitri spits, momentarily furious, "trick of the Captain's. But -- that, and then this -- it's hard not to read something into it." He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. "It is -- nice, to have something to remind me of him."

How does one explain to someone who's never experienced it before that the twisted games played by beings in charge of a place like this must simply be endured, that it's not a personal attack any more than a child playing soldiers is inflicting a personal attack on their toys.
You can't really, unfortunately it must be learnt the hard way.

"I believe we have a few slices left, but it wouldn't take long to bake another if we don't"

He's still rubbing Dimitri's back, still keeping his eyes locked on the boy out of concern.

"How about we we go inside? Get you settled somewhere a bit more comfortable than the dirt"

This is dire. Not only does the little chap look like death half warmed up, but he can't even muster up the stomach to convincingly lie about it.

"Couldn't agree more," he gently claps Dimitri on the shoulder, offering a hand to help him up with, "it really is a lovely bauble. You ought to see if anyone aboard knows how to pierce ears- would be easier to wear it than to cart it around."

Ossie leads the charge back up to the cottage door, trying his best to retain the bright and sunny disposition for Dimitri's sake. He ought to have been helping, really ought to have been at least offering some support when the rest came through. But it's all academic now, and he's offering what help he can to the lad now.

"I say- it's nearing our lunchtime isn't it? We could make a whole meal of it, pull out the lemon squash. If you'd like of course, Dimitri."

Dimitri accepts the assistance up, wincing as his weight lands again on his sprained leg.

"N-no, that's alright." Another flash of uncharacteristic honesty; Dimitri doesn't equivocate about causing trouble or effort, and opts for a faltering, "I don't think I have that in me."

He pauses at the thought of a piercing. "I ... could do that, yes." Dimitri's never been much for ornamentation -- Faerghan culture isn't big on it, and Dimitri's preferred pastimes don't leave much room for it. But it puts him in mind of the dress from the diner, which he ... hadn't hated ... and it's not like anyone here will judge him for doing something that's not in some way suitable for war. And it would be nice, to keep it with him. "Perhaps I will."

It's a relief to sit down again, and properly stretch his leg out. Maybe it will heal better now that he's not trying to take up as little space as possible. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know what I'd have done, if Giles hadn't found me."

"It's a good thing I did, that level of fear isn't healthy to maintain" he almost adds that it can summon any number of things, but even if Dimitri is protected from further fear for the moment, adding another thing to be anxious about won't help in the long run.

"I'll prepare some lunch, even if you can't stomach much you should still eat something." He steps away to head to the kitchen, before there's time for anyone to argue, "It'll only take a minute or two"

That's not an exaggeration either, time gets fuzzy when Giles is left to his own devices.

The table of the dining room is fairly small for the house- one of the features he'd ensured was included was that the table would match the number of guests they had. For the moment, it was a humble four-seater with some of the flowers from the garden in a little vase in the middle. Ossie retrieves plates and some cutlery from the dresser in the corner, setting them out with a practiced ease.

"He's a wonder like that. I'm certainly glad he stumbled upon you- now, if you wouldn't mind, I've a little party trick I'd like to show you with lunch. Do I have your permission? It's a trifle, really."

Giles is gone before Dimitri can even thank him. Dimitri hiccups, pressing his wrist to his eyes. "He really is. Goddess, it's uncanny how much they're alike."

But with company, it's easier not to slide into another crisis of loneliness. Dimitri wipes his eyes on his sleeve (the puffy redness combined with the sleep-deprived shadows looks truly hideous) and nods to Ossie. "Yes, go ahead."

As if on cue Giles returns with a tray, the lunch it bares is nothing terribly fancy – not by Giles and Ossie's standards, anyway – just a pot of tea and accompanying accoutrements; a small pitcher of lemon squash; an assortment of sandwiches, both jams and cold meats; and a quarter of a cinnamon tea-cake, cut into neat slices.

All of this is laid out neatly on the table without comment, and the tray returned to the kitchen.

can you sleep either
wherever you are
because i cant 
i could probably ask rich or someone to keep watch but
i keep imagining you curled up somewhere bleeding out where i cant find you and i cant
i cant stop thinking about that
ive looked fucking everywhere 
please dimitri dont do this 
i cant do this by myself now and i thought you couldnt either

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2, at an ungodly hour of the morning