snowblindrpg | [log]You know what they say about a friend in need[closed]

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[log]You know what they say about a friend in need[closed]

Characters: Enoch and Clayton
Location D11 (58) -> F9 (41)
Date: Evening 15 and all of day 16
Summary: Because Enoch didn't move and Clayton did, they finally encounter one another.
Warnings: Indirect mentions of torture, details may happen if Clayton happens to ask the right questions? Eye injury (surface only, no permanent damage).

The night had been brutal. When It had dragged out everything that hurt him most, it included the most horrific thing a human being could endure in his world. The memory alone, let alone the feelings attached to it, were enough to bring back all the suffering as if it was happening right then, and his world had dissolved into pain and impotent rage at all the others out there, who were reporting to It, helping It hurt him and giving It power to continue by watching.

At some point, he had passed out, whether it was because of the town or because of the stress it was impossible to tell. He was numb to the injection, too emotionally spent to care about anything but the lack of Darkness seizing his mind and body. He didn't remember screaming, but his throat was horrifically sore, swallowing was too painful to eat (though his lack of sleep was probably affecting his pain tolerance), and when he tried to reply to a video on the network, he found his voice had been reduced to a powerless rasp. And somewhere in there, in those precious few moments where he had some semblance of coordination, he had hit his face on something; his left eyelid was swollen so badly he couldn't open it.

He didn't dare move the next day. Instead it was spent seeking the increasingly-inadequate company of the network and taking fitful naps on the couch in the living room, woken by his own troubled mind and the creaking of the house's snow-laden roof. He only leaves to relieve himself outside, and this inaction is exactly why he's still there when the door in the kitchen opens. He'd thought the door would open to an avalanche of snow from the wall that surrounded the back half of this house, having missed Zelda's post.

He pushes himself up on the couch, good eye staring wildly from an exhausted face, watching the direction the sound of footsteps is coming from.

"Who's there?" he tries to say, but it doesn't come out right at all - his mouth and tongue work just fine, but his throat is another matter. It's doubtful he could even be heard, let alone heard clearly at that distance...

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The urge to be out of those tunnels is such a relief that Clayton forgets to knock. Granted, the tiny, dark house with the weight of a glacier groaning above it isn't too much of an improvement, but he wasn't planning on staying inside long, not after first stumbling in the door to the kitchen. He's made good time, even with how numb his feet are from the perpetual cold and lingering damage from each trip through the snow, and he fully expects that he'll have time to make a beeline for the front door and just prance around in the fresh air like a dog let loose in the meadows.

Instead, he hears a noise. It definitely isn't the roof.

Clayton freezes at the edge of the room. He has a tiny flashlight in his hand attached to a set of jingling keys, which isn't powerful enough to find Enoch at first, but the beam of bright white makes faster work of the house than a tablet's backlight ever could. Clayton visibly starts when the second figure appears to him on the couch, like some crazed specter waiting in the shadows.

Naturally, it's only Enoch. What relief this revelation brings to him is quickly replaced with renewed panic when Clayton focuses on his face. He takes in a sharp breath.

"Enoch?" Yes, that sounds correct--it's only his username, but it's also the name he saw printed on the obituaries. This isn't too important for Clayton to worry about right now. Instead, he remembers that Enoch probably doesn't recognize him, assuming he's still having issues with faces. "Ah--it's Clayton. Clayton Epps. We've talked before, couple a times. You know my voice?"

There's still the matter of this guy's clearly deteriorated physical state, but people have been rather jumpy in Norfinbury, in Clayton's experience. It's best to approach with caution, make sure they're all on the same page, before he gets too close and accidentally corners someone.

The sudden light has him on edge. It's bright, very bright, not quite like any source of light he knows. And when it shines on him, he flinches back from it, his eyes having adjusted to the dim light of his tablet's screen.

The figure, though, and the voice attached to it... Enoch leans forward a little, reaching up to pull both hoods covering his head back, as if confirming he isn't seeing a trick of the shadows they cast.

He's actually met someone. It's barely been more than two weeks, but it's felt abysmally long without any companionship outside the network. And yet...he finds himself worrying he's only hallucinating. That it isn't real. It's come right on the heels of whatever that thing was. If that was real at all. It was real enough to him, at least, especially in this nightmare Clayton's entrance had woken him from; he's still shivering with more than just the cold as he gets up and takes a few tentative steps towards him, his arms folded underneath the cloak, just under his chest. He isn't so panicked now that the footsteps were an actual person and not...something else.

"You're-" he starts automatically, but the sound of his voice brings a hand to his throat as he remembers he can't make himself understood right now. He's honestly still disoriented, from poor sleep, no food, some literally unholy duress, and the shock of seeing another person, when from the moment he'd arrived he'd been alone otherwise. It's why he's even seriously continuing to entertain the possibility he's just seeing things.

He seems to be alert enough to come to the decision to test it, at least, stepping back and collapsing backwards onto the couch again, picking up his tablet to type him a quick message in the notepad function:

You're truly here?

Others currently trapped in Norfinbury might not blame Clayton for instinctively raising his hands and taking a small step back when Enoch stands and starts to approach, but Clayton feels awful about it almost as soon as he does. What kind of person is he, to be wary of a man that's so clearly unwell that he can barely walk, barely talk? He's no threat--he needs help. Clayton's brow knits, he lowers the flashlight, and quickly walks over to the couch to support him.

"Easy, easy--" He's not quick enough to intercept Enoch before he collapses back on the couch, but at least he's where Clayton would have put him anyways. He squats down to Enoch's level and shuffles off his backpack, just before realizing that he's being shown a tablet screen. Clayton glances at it briefly. "--Yeah, 'course I'm here. Don't you worry 'bout a thing." He flashes a reassuring smile, then slips easily into doctoring as he continues rifling about in his backpack. "Can you lie back for me, Enoch? Don't need you movin' 'round too much."

A hallucination wouldn't have something subtle like body heat. He doesn't know that for sure, but it seems like such an insignificant detail, something he wouldn't even notice if he hadn't been without it for long enough to matter.

He doesn't think about the request much at all, too relieved to be with an actual person again, his mind a muddled, too-strong mix of emotion as he does as he's told, trying not to cry, trying not to be overwhelmed because Clayton is obviously already worried about him and he doesn't want to make that worse. But it's almost too much, he's still so emotionally raw, his mind still working over the previous night in sleep-defying nightmares, that it's hard to help it. He's audibly holding it back with every breath. Trying to distract himself from it, he writes something else on his tablet for him.

What are you looking for?

It's not until Clayton looks up again from his backpack that he even registers that Enoch is having this dilemma, but it's obvious to him after that. His smile turns slightly pained with sympathy. Poor guy. Clayton can't quite tell if Enoch is so distraught from fear, pain, or relief, or he's reached some critical mass from all three at once--but whatever it is, he's around to support him through it. That's the only right thing to do, isn't it?

With that in mind, Clayton aims for simple comforts first. "Few things," he explains, taking a quick moment to do one last bit of shuffling before procuring a folded silk sheet and reaching over to carefully fluff it under Enoch's head. "There ya go...I'll bet that feels better. Help with drainage a bit, too. Lemme get some aspirin, see if that'll get the swellin' down." And he's returned to his backpack. "You good with aspirin? Ain't allergic 'r nothin'?"

The way he smiles gratefully at the pillow suggests relief is definitely involved. That proves without a doubt he's really here. He doesn't even think to be paranoid of him or the fact that he's currently standing between him and his supplies, even though this will be his second night in this place and it wouldn't be unusual for paranoia to begin to set in. Instead, he reaches up to grasp his hand or wrist to squeeze it in silent thanks before letting him go again.

The medicine, though, receives a curious look, Enoch sniffling back his tears to try to look at what he has. While he's well aware of aspirin's willow bark predecessor, he has no way of linking the name to it.

Enoch's relief is Clayton's relief. It's immensely satisfying to see that he's able to help someone, especially in a place like this where, so far, all he's been able to do is offer some distant presence on the network and reassurances that even he has to admit are hollow. Feeling someone hold his wrist and watch them tear up with gratitude is a far more tangible result. Clayton pauses in his fussing to place his other hand on Enoch's and gently squeeze it back. This means a lot to him, too, it says.

And then he's back to work. "Here we are..." Clayton procures a small bottle of aspirin from his backpack, pops off the top and shakes out two pills, which he does all while completely missing Enoch's confused stare. Instead, he explains himself out of habit as he goes along. "Low-dose, should help ease the pain a bit. I'm guessin' you, ah..."

Oh, there's the look. Clayton stares at him for a moment before he realizes what's going on.

"...You don't know what I'm talkin' about." Well, this is someone who seems like he comes from an ambiguously alternate timeline. Clayton can believe that Enoch isn't familiar with some capsule forms of medicine. "Aspirin--non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug, mild pain reliever, should help ease up that eye a yours 'n open up yer throat some." He pauses to grab one of his water bottles. "That sound alright t' you?"

The only thing preventing him from leaning over to hug the other man at this point is that he's getting something for him. Enoch craves companionship by design, and without being used to socializing long-distance like this, has gone a long time without having that need filled.

Though he doesn't understand the description completely, it doesn't take much for him to get it. Honestly, pain reliever is all he needs to hear. He nods, a slight smile thanking him for both the medicine and the time to explain it, propping himself up a little to make it easier to swallow something and watching what he does with the pills curiously. He doesn't know how he's supposed to take this medicine - is he meant to chew it and the water meant to help it down his raw throat? Is he meant to swallow it whole with the water? Is it meant to be dissolved in water? Is he on the wrong track entirely?

Thankfully Clayton feels obligated to explain that much, too. His rather odd conversation with Bard early on has informed him that how to take medicine can be unclear, too, regardless of how obvious it seems to him.

"That's good...don't chew on 'em now." Clayton unscrews the cap of the water bottle and sets it aside for the moment. Thoughts of the past couple minutes overwhelm him in the process, bubbling over into a chuckle and a slight shake of his head. "...Sorry. Gotta keep tellin' myself that this stuff ain't the same fer some a y'all 'round here. Hope it don't seem too weird. Goodness knows I have trouble workin' with some a the stuff y'all talk about." Then, suddenly, as he pulls out his flashlight and keys: "Open up? Gonna check yer throat first."

Don't chew on them - so they're meant to be swallowed whole. He's about to reach out to accept them before Clayton abruptly asks about checking his throat.

He's taken aback for a few moments while his mind processes this, but really, it's not hard to figure out, and being in the presence of someone who obviously knows his way around these things puts him at ease. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, a faint pop from his muscles after their overuse the night before. He's honestly not in any shape to be too self-conscious of this.

His throat looks...well, exactly like one would expect of someone who screamed his lungs out for the majority of eight hours and hasn't had sufficient sleep the entire day after. His body may be pretty naturally resilient even at human thresholds, but it can't protect him from things like this, the way his blessings would have.

Well that didn't sound too good. Clayton is already wincing even before he takes a closer look, murmuring a mildly teasing, "don't hurt yerself, now," as he clicks on the flashlight and, after a moment's thought, improvises an examiner's stick out of the back end of a pen to keep Enoch's tongue out of the way. Hardly ideal, sure, and he's basically got his nose in the face of someone that hasn't brushed their teeth in more than two weeks (if not longer--who knows what kind of dental hygiene standards Enoch is accustomed to back home?), but Clayton isn't exactly in a position to be picky. His expression remains level.

It doesn't take him too long to determine the extent of the damages. No drainage, so the inflammation isn't due to illness and it probably isn't infected or otherwise seriously torn. After he's done looking on the inside and has a chance to carefully poke around the underside of Enoch's jaw, Clayton determines pretty definitively that it's just irritated, likely from overuse. Which is...a little odd. Who would Enoch be shouting at so much?

They'll get to that. "Alright, settle back," he says, dismissing Enoch with a calm smile and a click of his flashlight before it goes back in his sweatpants' pocket. The pen stays out--need to remember to disinfect it later--and finally, Clayton holds the aspirin and water bottle out for Enoch to take. A reward for his good behavior, in a sense, though Clayton would have given him some regardless. "Mild laryngitis. Jus' a bit a swellin' 'round yer vocal chords, ain't serious. It'll clear up in a week 'r so, long as you drink plenty an' don't go singin' any operas 'r nothin'."

He chuckles quietly at his own lame joke, and patiently waits for Enoch to accept the meds before broaching the more important question.

"...So, ah. Who were ya so excited t' see, that you did so much shoutin' for 'em?"

[Well he's right about not having done anything with his teeth for two weeks, but oral hygiene was far, far from a recent notion. Rather than wishing for a toothbrush and toothpaste, however, Enoch wished he could find just a single olive twig to chew into a brush. It was starting to feel...well, a little unpleasant.

Alas, there were no living plants in this place, either.

At least he was cooperative, for someone who'd never had his throat examined before. Even when Clayton pushes his tongue down, there's a moment of reflexive surprise, but it passes quickly. It doesn't take much thought to figure out why, and as someone coming to his aid in such a vulnerable state, the man has a surprising amount of trust from him, even with how trusting he normally is.

He raises an eyebrow at the verdict - even not really knowing what "laryngitis" is, it doesn't feel to him like something "mild", but he lets it go and takes the offered pills, swallowing them whole with water the way he'd implied and returning the bottle. They hurt a little going down, raw as his throat is, but if they could make him feel better...

But then Clayton asks why, and the tension is almost palpable.

"That thing," he tries to say, and while Clayton may or may not have been able to figure it out from the general sound and context, he goes for his tablet again anyway, typing it out. It takes much longer than it should, his fingers are shaking and large enough to misspell words several times.

That thing last night, that saw every part of us.

He can't type much more than that, hoping he wasn't asked to elaborate. It's clear enough even the thought of it disturbs him deeply.

There's no need--Enoch confirms what Clayton was already thinking, although he was actively trying to pretend that he wasn't. He flashes a tight, apologetic smile, even before Enoch finishes typing out his response. He's clearly very distressed about the whole thing. Clayton feels awful for making him remember it again.

"I getcha." It's the only answer he's willing to give for a few moments, while he takes the water back and sets it aside, next to the couch where Enoch can get to it later. It's a good distraction while he thinks of something more appropriate to say.

"...At least it ain't here no more," Clayton finally settles on. The smile returns, a little more hopeful this time--hopeful that Enoch isn't in such dire straights that he'll be happy to change the subject. He unravels one of the washrags from his hands and reaches slowly for Enoch's swollen eye, to dab away the corners and gently clean off the rest. "You ain't been in here all day like this, have ya? Awful cramped in here--I wouldn't wanna stick around fer too long."

He's shaking, which might be attributed to the dropping temperature, at least until it calms as Clayton cleans his eye - it had actually opened the tiny sliver it was able, if Clayton could see that tiny band of white in the dark, or if he could see it disappear as the human contact eases his mind and even his good eye closes completely as the tension seeps away. He's not totally relaxed; who could be, in this situation? But he's not in full on fight-or-flight mode anymore.

He nods at the question, with a quiet wordless noise of affirmation. Yes, he's been in here this whole time. He'd explain even the motivation just to get up for water was difficult to find after last night, but that would mean looking down at his tablet to explain. His muscle memory hasn't quite caught up with the virtual keyboard yet, either, so there's none of that.

Enoch's relief is Clayton's relief, and who's really surprised by that? "There ya go..." he murmurs, among other vague, meaningless reassurances mumbled for both Enoch's benefit and his own while he dotes. It's soothing noise and further assurance that he's there and attentive and has everyone's best interests in mind right now, more of a nervous habit than anything, but as far as nervous habits go, this has got to be one of the better ones.

It also puts him in a better mood for Enoch's answer, which is not the one Clayton wanted to get. "Naw," he frowns, though the gesture is gentle, almost teasing. "Really? That ain't no good! There's a house, jus' a quick walk north a here--got food in it, few houses east got some fresh water. Ain't near as dark 'n cramped, 'least." Clayton pulls a hopeful grin, which subtly hides the fact that he's grabbing his flashlight again. "We'll get you some rest up here, then make a quick walk t' there an' set you up in a real bed. Sound good?"

He'd just missed a food source, hadn't he?

Well, food didn't sound very appetizing to him, in his state in any case. A real bed does, though it wasn't a comfort he enjoyed often before coming here, and the beds here were made of that foam he sank into just right, even.

But even if they were to go somewhere without one, the very fact that he was no longer alone made any trip worth it. He gives Clayton a small but genuine smile, and nods.

"Thank you," he mouths.

Oh, if only. The overseers of Snowhell will not be so generous in the future. They will, however, see fit to provide several mattresses in the Victorian-style house, which is the most pressing thing right now. They can worry about the food later.

"Jus' doin' my job." Clayton grins brightly in a way that says he's clearly doing more than that and clicks on the tiny flashlight again. "Hold still now--gonna take a look at that eye a yours..."

Ever the cooperative patient, Enoch closed his other eye to avoid the light and remained as still as he could.

The swelling was preventing him from opening his eye much at all, though Clayton could find it could open just a tiny bit - not enough to be of any use to him, though. There didn't seem to be any bleeding. It just looked like a particularly bad bruise.

He wanted to explain he didn't know when this happened, either. (He'd fallen on a doorknob, actually - the things that can happen when one is simultaneously trying to claw one's way through a door and one's knees are in danger of giving out...)

Clayton hardly needs an excuse, particularly when the last one made Enoch so clearly unsettled. Both afflictions are recent enough to have reasonably happened at the same time, so they probably have roughly the same unpleasant cause. No need to needle Enoch more about that, Clayton decides. He's being cooperative and calm--that's what's most important.

With some quiet, gently affirming murmurs and a delicate hand, Clayton examines Enoch's eye. This only takes him a minute or so. "...That's good. Don't look like there's no permanent damage. 'Least it'll be easy t' find some ice fer it, eh?" he chuckles through a small sigh of relief, clicking off the flashlight. This could have been so much worse. Thank god. "I'll go wrap some up real quick. You jus' relax an' try 'n get some sleep, alright? Won't take me but a second."

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[log]You know what they say about a friend in need[closed]

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we should probably wrap this up!

Probably! What do you think would be a good point to end on? Somewhere around here?

I'd say so! the rest is probably just Clayton mindlessly fussing over him anyways