Sorry for such a long break between updates. To make a long shitty story short: my cat died very suddenly and very violently; the anniversary of the death of a dear friend happened; my ex had an unnecessary go at me; and my other cat nearly got run over as well but didn't and now might lose her eye.
It's been an awful month and funnily enough all these sad and crappy feelings didn't make me feel like writing about feeling sad and crappy lmao. Updates will continue be sporadic as I finish this trimester.
The first stage of grief is denial.
Vato Falman wakes up bang on four-thirty in the morning in Fuery's apartment – even without the alarm he has in his room at Fort Briggs, some habits are hard (and dangerous) to break.
He's surprised he managed any sleep, considering the circumstances. There's a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the fact that he forgot to pack a toothbrush in his rush to catch the last train for East City. He sits up in the bed slowly; rubbing at his eyes and trying his best not over-think the events that lie before him today.
The second stage of grief is anger.
Louise is a foul name, a foul word, Vato decides. It escapes the mouth like an asp and he could almost hear Fuery's teeth clenching as he relayed the message over a connection made terrible by a growing snowstorm. Lou-ise. Feminine form of Louis. Famous warrior, renowned fighter.
The apartment is quiet as he sits up in the bed, watching the clouds drift across the night sky from the window opposite, hazy in ugly shades of orange from the streetlights below. The north is so much cleaner, more black and white in environment as well as mentality.
East City bleeds itself into the dry ground it is built upon on, and gives nothing back in return. He will be happy to leave this place as soon as he can manage – and he'll accept whatever consequences wait for him back at Fort Briggs. His departure had been hasty, and not entirely by-the-book; the graveyard shift will be the least of his worries if his superiors are feeling particularly vindictive.
They will be. It is Briggs, after all.
The third stage of grief is bargaining.
In the distance he can hear the faint strains of bird-song – a sound long-forgotten amidst the grinding of machinery at Fort Briggs. It takes him a few moments to recognise which species of bird he is hearing – and it embarrasses him that his reaction is not as quick as it once was.
He is trained now to recognise patterns in data and extrapolate patterns where none appear to exist. He knows the footfalls of all his superior officers and can describe them in detail – he also knows the notsound of Drachman spies, and how they try not to be heard as they creep around the fort. It is not the life that Vato had planned for himself – he had always been a summer child and never considered to be a true threat by anybody – but he cannot deny that he not unhappy with how it has all turned out.
Part of him just wishes he could return to a simpler time where his mistakes didn't cost the lives of his fellow soldiers.
The fourth stage of grief is depression.
Carefully, he pushes himself out of the lumpy bed and stretches his back and arms accordingly. They ache in a way that has nothing to do with the chill he can feel in the room – the condensation on the windows has already pooled down onto the windowsill in large puddles threatening to spill over onto the floor proper. Vato grabs the towel he used from last night and begins to soak up what he can, making sure that none of the water runs down into the carpet.
He hasn't felt this exhausted in a long time – even in his first month at Fort Briggs, which was near-constant icicle duty and a dull ache that settled in his joints and never quite went away – he never remembers feeling this awful and fatigued.
Even the Promised Day did not leave him in such a state – but Vato supposed there was no adrenaline to temper this blow, only a sinking feeling in his gut that grew with every passing moment.
He can feel it now, curling and coiling with every breath. His eyes prick uncomfortably, and a choked sound escapes his throat before he can compose himself. The wet towel scrunches in his hands as he tries to calm himself down and he feels the cold water dripping off his fingers.
This was not right. It was not fair.
It was not –
The fifth and final stage of grief is acceptance.
He can hear faint sounds from the kitchen – the familiar wail as water comes to the boil, the clinking of crockery as Fuery begins preparing for the day. Vato isn't sure if he feels well enough to eat food and keep it down, but he knows he hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday and though her funeral will be efficient and short, he is all too aware of the limits of the human body and psyche.
He folds the now sodden towel as neatly as he can manage, and makes his way out of the spare bedroom. The smell of freshly-brewed tea invites him into the little kitchen, where Fuery is hunched over a steaming mug with bleary eyes.
There's a pause as they size each other up, before Fuery sighs and nods his head to the cupboard next to the doorframe.
"The gin's in there," he says tiredly. "Unless you prefer Drachman wódka and have managed to nick some for this momentous occasion."
Vato snorts and opens the cupboard, quickly locating the ornate bottle. "I barely had time to pack a bag," he says, sitting down opposite the younger man. "Gin will do fine."
Fuery nods and sips his earl grey.