chrisisofaith | IC Contact

[ It's late morning when Hawke manages to roll over and fumble for his phone. The trudge back home after being released was a miserable blur. He has no recollection of how he managed to get there or if he'd said anything to Festival. Or if Festival was even home. He should check, but he can quite manage to make himself get moving just yet.

At least he'd apparently been cognizant enough to shower when he got home. His bed isn't covered in blood, so he must have done.

He scans the network, finding it unsurprisingly quiet. Like after the Pit, they're all going to need to recover. To that end, he needs to check on his people. ]

❤️𓄿

[ He can't find words just yet, but he hopes that makes Chris smile just a little, at least. ]

[For all the words exchanged the night before, it’s a quiet and frankly lazy morning the next day. He’s got up to get them more water and that’s about it before returning to the bed they had shared. The text isn’t a surprise but a relief all the same.]

My Wolfe
Have you slept?
Are you safe?

Edited 2023-04-03 06:07 (UTC)

[ "My Wolfe" earns a smile and he gazes at the pretty words for a moment, letting himself cherish that feeling before answering. ]

I have.
I am.
Got home alright though I confess I don't really remember how.
Are you?

[ Safe, he means. That's the most important thing. He wants to know what happened but that also entails sharing his own experience and that's... A lot for having just woken up. ]

I am.
Jon too, we’ve holed up for the day.
Wouldn’t surprise me if most people are.
Will you find someone to be with today, love?
I know you were in the same group I was, being alone seems unwise right now.

I'm going to check in on Amelia. She had to

I want to make sure she's alright and she sees I am as well.
I lost track of the rest of everyone after awhile.

[ He resists the urge to ask if Chris is alright, or ask after Jon. He's not alright. Nor is Jon, nor himself. None of them are and it's a very stupid question. ]

I'd like to come and see you tomorrow, though.
If you're feeling up to it.
I think I'm going to take some time off to breathe but I want to spend it with those I love.

You're right, being alone right now is very unwise.

[She had to hurt him. He doesn’t doubt it. Not after Jon, after Grayson. He won’t press yet, not fully.]

You can tell me when you need to and when you’re ready. I can shoulder things with you.

I’m glad you’re going to her, she probably needs you too.
You’re welcome to come tomorrow, we’ll be poor company, but we’ll be here.
And I’d like to kiss you.

I could use another shoulder, mine are getting crowded.

[ Jokes, because what else can he say? That he'd actually rather just lay here in bed for the rest of the day as a useless miserable lump? That he had to wait too long for his magic to return in order to heal his wounds from the day before and now he imagines he can see all the cut lines as barely-there scars on his skin and he doesn't want the questions or the pity when someone eventually notices? That every time he thinks about opening his eyes after Grayson finished he loses every bit of appetite? It will all get better, he knows it will get better, but only with time. With people.

He's not going to cut himself off. He can't, it's not who he is at his core and he knows he doesn't really want to, but this morning that feels more like a weight than a boon. ]

I'd like that.
I love you.

[ I hate this. ]

I love you too. Take care of you as I would take care of you.

He leaves it at that for Hawke to have his day with Amelia, to soak in the sun and find what peace he can. His day is meant to be laying around on or with Jon...and that is what they do, even after Chris realizes the usual little shift in the tattoo on his inner thigh is no longer present. The lines are cold and stark, still beautiful in the shape of stylized wings, but they no longer seem to flow like waves on the shore.

He needs to go to the Theatre. He needs to collect their notes or, at least, copies of their notes, and maybe buy another stock of truffles since it would be one of the last batches. Who would even be there to take the transaction? He's not sure. He doesn't let himself think about it until evening. Jon's back to reading when he steps out for an hour to take care of everything he needs to. He didn't think the Theatre could be more quiet. Chris takes some of Nick's plants to try and propagate in Martin's garden, and then collapses back with his Archivist.

In the morning, he doesn't bother praying, he simply puts on a pair of black jeans, his sleeveless workout shirt, and takes flight from the roof. He soars higher and higher, as high as he dares and out over the ocean. For a moment, he looks out over that endless gray horizon, barely lit with the impending sun and fights back every emotion, every thought, every memory. He lets himself fall, wings curling in close as he plummets half his height down again...and then his wings vanish into black light and he lets himself really drop. No safety net.

He's near enough to shore he's sure he'll be fine even if he lands wrong, but he's banking on that sensation and the cut of sudden cold and the press against his lungs like he'll never breathe again. Maybe it'll help. He hits the water as smoothly as he can from a hundred and twenty feet up, it hurts and aches and he doesn't feel like he remembers how to breathe, even if he could, but he feels like he's finally waking up. He doesn't rise to the surface immediately, instead lingers in the blind depths and tells himself, when he swims up, Caleb will be back and will shake his head at him in that fond little way of his.

Edited 2023-04-04 04:25 (UTC)

A tall order, but it gets Hawke out of bed. He showers (just to make certain all the blood is gone), dresses (long sleeves and well worn boots for comfort), and goes to see Amelia. They text Chris a photo as proof, lazing in the yard with his head in her lap and one hand on his lute as he holds the phone up, her face a bit blurry for moving and his smile genuine if diminished, still crinkling the corners of his eyes. He texts Chris a few more times over the course of the hours, mostly just to check in. Hearts or a wish goodnight that don't need responses. He's pleased if he gets one, but the contact is for himself. Just knowing Chris is there, reading the messages, is enough.

He sends a message in the morning, too. Early, especially compared to the day before. Going for a run. Let me know when you're free.

Physical activity feels good, the weight of his feet on the sand as he runs the length of the beach. It could never be mistaken for the Wounded Coast, overcast and misty as it always is, especially in the wee hours, and he's glad of it. Home is the last thing he wants to think about right now. If he never sees it again then... maybe that would be fine. A guilty and grim thought, but an honest one. He misses people, very specific people, but everything and everyone else? He'd been dreading going back to that. Waking up on the road to Weisshaupt with a sense of loss he'd have no name for. But he has no doubt he'd feel it. The heart remembers, even if the mind forgets. Though even that he fights, as the vial on a leather thong around his neck attests.

Attention turned inward, it takes Hawke a moment to notice the figure flying overhead, out past the beach and a little past the lone buoy that bobs aimlessly on the choppy pre-dawn surf. He stops running, panting and watching as Chris comes to a stop midair, drifts back almost as if floating in zero-g, and folds his wings in to fall.

Hawke expects him to unfurl them and swing back towards shore but a moment passes. Two. Three, and instead of an outstretch of pinions there's a cloud of feathers, leaving behind a falling silhouette. And then a splash.

Charging into the sea, Hawke doesn't even stop to take off his trainers. He just begins swimming frantically for where he'd seen Chris hit the water. His heart is in his throat as he kicks as hard and fast as he can, arms moving in alternating arcs until he gets far enough and dives. Thankfully, he doesn't have to dive far.

Eyes stinging, Hawke reaches out and grabs Chris' arm in a white-knuckled grip, pulling him up back towards the surface, back towards air, with a single mindedness only brought on by desperate fear. When they break back up into the pre-dawn light, Hawke clutches at Chris, half trying to keep him afloat and half trying to look at his face in a panic. "What happened?! Are you alright? Flames, are you hurt?"

Edited 2023-04-04 05:02 (UTC)

It's pleasant down here and a promise of one more moment before he drifts up is followed by another promise. Despite the burn in his lungs, he has...two minutes left? Plenty of time to drift.

Except there's a very real hand that grabs him and for a moment his mind tells him it is Caleb, using that smile where he's trying to pretend he's not worried and failing. But it's not Caleb, it's Wolfe's voice that shocks through him, his pretty face twisted into fear and concern that's plain as day to the cleric even as he blinks back salt, both cold and warm. "Wolfe? Love, what-?"

He wraps an arm around Hawke, under his arms, and treads water with practiced ease. They'll need to head into shallower water, but in a moment. Not until he understands where his 'savior' even came from. "I...where were you? I didn't see you." He hadn't looked, just made sure it wasn't the stretch of beach visible to Kyle's house.

He shakes his head and follows up quickly enough. "I dropped. I'm fine. Landed hard, but I was high up." It was expected.

"I was going for a run." That sentence is palpable with relief over an undercurrent of still-present worry, mind racing even as the rest of him tries to calm for Chris apparently having been in no real danger.

I dropped, like it was planned. Intentional. From that high up, he wanted it to hurt, which is... unsurprising, if he thinks for even a moment. If he remembers this is the man who used to start fights in bars with clever words for the express purpose of getting punched. Who needs pain to center himself. He can't imagine wanting that after the hell they'd both been through, but he doesn't have to understand. He just has to accept that sometimes this is just something Chris does.

He should, but he's not sure he can. He wants more than anything to be able to support whatever Chris wants to get through the aftermath of the last... fuck, what, month? Month and a half? Loss and pain and helplessness all relentless. It's a wonder he hasn't thrown himself into the sea before this.

"Let's get back to land, alright?" He kisses Chris' forehead, trying to let go of the worry that has a stranglehold on him but it rides his voice out with a slight tremor. "I don't think I can keep this up for too long with boots on."

Hawke’s concern is palpable, but they have a goal: get to shore. He focuses on that and keeping contact with his boyfriend as they go. He’d worn what he had knowing he’d be heavy with water, but it doesn’t make him less winded by the time they drag themselves up onto shore.

Chris stands there a moment to catch his breath and sweep the water from his face. “I’m sorry for the scare. I’d been aiming for no one to be about to avoid that exactly. I just…” he shakes his head. It hadn’t even really been about the pain, that had just been a side effect. One hd didn’t actually want now that he’d gotten it. Maybe he’d had his fill for a while.

"I know," Hawke hauls himself up the beach too, though he crawls just barely beyond the surf and simply lays down on his back under the slowly brightening clouds. "Maker only knows I understand the urge, after everything we've been through recently."

He holds one hand up, arm extended so the light catches the new scars then drops it back into the sand with a pomf sound. "Can I ask that you please not drown yourself, though? The Arena, maybe, or even just something else structured, but I can't-"

He cuts himself off in his own frustration, making a distressed noise under his hands covering his face for a moment before moving them away again. "Can we just lay here for a minute?"

It's uncharacteristically vulnerable and he's so bloody tired of being uncharacteristically vulnerable. Of having his heart in his throat or in his stomach, of not having control over anything. "If you want to. Its fine if you're not in the mood."

It's not but he makes a good effort towards sounding at least like he doesn't mind. He's not forcing anything knowing Chris has been squirrelier than normal about touch.

It doesn't sound fine to Chris' ears and he looks down at Hawke there in the sand. The new scars on his arm, the dark circles under his eyes Chris isn't sure have been gone more than a day or two in the last few weeks. He can't fall apart here, on him. He can't just- cry and scream and lash out at nothing or any of the things he can feel clawing under his skin. Because Hawke is here. And he needs him.

There's always someone who needs him, and he doesn't want to feel angry at his boyfriend for showing up, that isn't fair, but none of this is fair...and he's angry anyway. He's angry because he's going to do exactly what he's supposed to and fill the role he's meant to fill...which was all he'd had nightmares about for days.
The thought lances through him harshly and his eyes sting even more as tears fill them. It wasn't the same, he wants to be there for his people...but he's not an endless resource any more than they are and this place just grinds and tears and flays them open as they scramble to put all the pieces together before the next hit comes. He's not going to survive another and no realization has ever made him feel more weak.

Better men would (and did) weather this. A better king would have found a better spot to fall apart to keep it from prying eyes. A better boyfriend wouldn't have been thinking about breaking up with someone who's now left and taken a chunk of himself with him. They all deserved better a better man. Or a man at all. The thought drifts through, lingering from yesterday and his imperfect attempts to rebuild...that.

Chris takes a step towards Wolfe and his knees feel weak as more and more tears track through the water on his face. He half lowers himself and half falls to the sand at Wolfe's side, voice thicker than he'd like when he responds. "Of course, whatever you need."

"No, not whatever I need." Some other time, if he'd had energy, there'd be more bite to that. More defiance against Chris shoring up his defenses and focusing on him instead. Or he'd be able to coax a different direction, maintain his previously expert command of words and social ability to get them talking, to excise this feeling of... He's not sure what, but it's wrong. Heavy. More than misery and anger but less than desolation and rage, somewhere in a hateful middle that makes progress seem so out of reach. Instead he sounds a little stoic, a little exhausted but accepting despite the rejection of the words. He knows the other side of that and well; be of service, be there for him and only him, you don't matter in this moment.

Only they both matter in any moment, especially now.

He looks over at Chris, his entire focus on his boyfriend's sagging demeanor, half collapsed with tears obvious even among the remains of their dive. He shifts, grunting softly as he rolls up on one side and brings his hand very near to Chris' knee without touching, a little island in the sand within easy reach. He leaves it there only a moment before deciding that's not enough and moving it closer, gently curling fingertips against Chris' boneless grip. A compromise of touch that he needs to give but isn't sure Chris wants. "Whatever we need. Together."

He searches his love's face and finds loss there, regrets and guilt and so much else it puts a lump in his throat. He finds his voice around it, husky for emotion and low, barely audible above the surf. "Talk to me, dear heart. I'll wait until you find the words."

Edited (Stupid autocorrect) 2023-04-04 13:32 (UTC)

Hawke takes his hand and turns his words around and it would be so much easier to just let him be right, to just accept that they can feel badly together as he had with Jon just the other night. He grits his teeth through a wash of anger he knows isn't actually meant for Wolfe, but makes him want to turn and sock the man for pushing anyway.

It runs through him and then fades and he's just left more tired. His cracks are on full display and he can't find how to cover them again. Maybe he shouldn't. Not for his boys. All three of them left.

His mind jumps to the empty, silent, theatre. A place of ghosts and memories of people he should have done better by, for all they'd given him. His spine bows under the weight of it and the thought of Hawke being gone when he next opens his eyes makes Chris' hand curl tight around the fingers under his. He doesn't want to vanish too, he doesn't want his nightmares to come true. He doesn't want to lose anyone else who's his. He doesn't want to feel so...sad anymore.

His forehead falls to Hawke's chest, his other hand digging into the sodden fabric of his own shirt like it might make his chest stop aching so deeply. The keening sound that comes out of him is unfamiliar for having only heard it from himself once. After that night in Ilinivur, when he'd gone off by himself, punched some drunk in an alley, and tucked himself away in some dirty corner to brake down. It's the same sound now as everything crumbles in him and his shoulders shake and sobs wrack his frame. He opens his mouth to say something, to explain, and he can't form words around the chunk of pain that comes out in wretched shout and shuddering breaths.

Hawke hasn't heard this from Chris before. He's cried on him a little, after Martin vanished, but the thin pained sounds and gasping sobs are gut wrenching. He doesn't let go of Chris' hand but does lay back, freeing his other arm from underneath himself to gently lay in Chris' curls, holding steady as he can while everything bleeds through.

It's not as steady as he'd like.

Eyes squeezed shut, Hawke tries to swallow back the lump still jammed in his throat, eyes prickling in a way that has nothing to do with ocean salt. They're still here, he tries to tell himself, but that is cold comfort when here is both the blessing he wants it to be and a curse that's doggedly eating at them but won't let them die. Little pieces go missing every time the Creator gets his claws in or Veracity's radicals act up or they try to do literally anything that isn't bend over and take it. He feels smaller than he was before. Diminished.

It's the people that help. It's Chris' that helps, even like this. Even wracked with pain and mourning. Hawke curls his fingers in Chris' hair as tightly as the other hand in his and squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of sorrow that rolls over him. It doesn't stop the tears, nor the stuttering in the rise and fall of his chest, but that's alright.

It's alright.

"I've got you," he tells Chris, a little brokenly but no less sincere. "I've got you."

He can hear Wolfe's words, feel the shuddering in the chest beneath his face that betrays his own grief, but he just can't stop. Each attempt to find calm and fold it all back down again is met with another tearing sob and shudder that wracks through him and fresh tears fall.

It takes a lot longer to get out than he'd like.

Eventually, the spasms of his breathing slow and his fingers uncurl from his shirt to bury in the sand under Hawke's shoulder instead. The sounds fade, the tears run out, and his uneven breathing has him shifting to better lay on top of his boyfriend to recover. He feels...hollowed. Scraped out. Whether it's a good thing or not was still uncertain, but the anger he'd felt since the Zoo had faded at long last, at least.

"Caleb's gone." He croaks out and clings to Wolfe. "I'm so tired, Wolfe...I want to be there for my people, for you, but I...I'm not very good at it, I guess." Not if he's going to break down on one of them like this. "Fairly certain a king's meant to do better."

"You don't have to be good at it, Love." Hawke's breathing still stutters in his chest and his voice is uneven and liquid, but his dam had shorn up more quickly than Chris', for good or ill. Maybe it was just not quite as full, he's not sure and he's too worn to pursue that analogy further. "You don't have to be a king. You just have to be. That's all anyone should ask."

He means it, too. He means it with every nerve. Chris is just Chris to him, and that's all he's ever wanted.

"I'm so sorry. I know how much he means to you." The fingers in Chris' hair move a little, gentle strokes, while his other hand remains securely coiled in the cleric's grasp. He can't help but wonder, though, if Caleb was actually transported home through the door. He's not sure he should ask or if it would make things worse somehow.

The quiet of the surf and the few errant sea birds reigns for a moment and Hawke's fingers continue to bury themselves in Chris' hair, finding the back of his love's neck and pressing gentle circles there.

"... You're not bad at it."

He shakes his head a little. "He's either back home where his magic is steadily killing him...or he's not. There's little I can do now." Unless...unless whatever magic he'd been working on alongside Chris had worked. What if it had sent him through the gate properly? What if it had sent him to Nate and Nick like he'd been hoping? His own hair wouldn't serve Caleb, Chris wasn't inherently magical, but if he'd just gotten to the others...it's foolish, but he chooses to believe it.

"But that's not...I'm not just me. I'm..." He sighs and shakes his head again and moves to sit up and roll off Hawke. "Are you alright? You must have swam hard. Your lungs make it?"

"My lungs are fine, stop trying to redirect," he tugs at Chris, trying to coax him back down by taking hold of his sleeve. He'll not force him, that feels wrong and especially cruel right now but, pathetically, he just wants that weight of Chris on him or against him, the solid assurance that he's not lost. "You're always yourself. That's what I like best and fell in love with, you're always you."

He's not making sense really, but the words feel right on his tongue even if they scratch coming out. He shouldn't have cried, shouldn't have yelled when he'd reached for Chris there in the water. All it did was exacerbate his still healing throat and gut. It's not much, the feeling nearly gone just for time, but he hadn't bothered to heal it in the moment - or hadn't the expertise for it - and once he'd returned to conscious thought it wasn't a priority. The still-open wounds, yes, but a rough throat and sore midriff muscles? They would heal on their own, eventually.

He leans up again, rolling so his forehead is against Chris' arm when he doesn't choose to simply pull the cleric back down atop him. It's not ideal, but it's contact and that's what he wants if nothing else. Just contact. Just the kind hand of someone who hasn't hurt him. It's unfair to ask, especially with Chris dealing with Just One More Thing regarding Caleb and his departure. One more support of Chris' foundation cruelly kicked away.

"I'm glad-" he starts but his voice breaks and he coughs and shakes his head, forehead rubbing against Chris' arm. "I'm glad we're still here. Selfish as that is. I-I don't want to lose you."

He pants a little, the effort of so much emotion driving him to speak making the soreness more acute, but he ignores it. He doesnt want nor have time for it so it may well not be there. "Please, just. Just lay with me awhile, if you can. I want to help but I need it too and simply being near you right now is more than enough, if you don't want to talk."

They can just be miserable together.

Chris looks over his shoulder at his mage when he catches his sleeve, but he doesn’t turn toward him until Hawke’s struggling voice becomes apparent. He knew that sound. That ache.

He hates that he has to return the favor from over a month ago, but he places a hand over Wolfe’s throat and just within the divot of his rib cage. The healing comes with its customary chill and the feeling less of putting something back than taking something away, but it saps the damage and strain from Wolfe’s body.

There was nothing to be done for the scars on his arms, but so be it. He shifts then and lays out on his side to pull his boyfriend in closer to his chest, tone softening a bit. “I can lay with you…but I’d like to know what happened. As detailed or not as is your want, but I want to know…so I can help tend to it or carry it as you need.”

Cool magic runs through him, humming softly and easing the ache. He swallows without difficulty and there's a moment of relief there as he swallows again to make sure. His breathing evens too, his diaphragm finally understanding that he's not moments from shock or suffocation.

"Thank you," he bids to Chris, no longer at all croaking, but he does still bury his face against his love's chest. He shouldn't. He should be the one wrapped around Chris, and it makes him raise his head again after that momentary indulgence, shifting so they're eye to eye instead of his body tucked into the hollow of Chris' chest; no matter how comforting that is, he's not just going to take.

"I will, but only if you agree to the same, for the same reason. We are neither of us delicate, even if we feel fragile at times" He won't let Chris focus on him entirely just because he'd cried too. Chris doesn't get to shy away anymore from the hard talks.

But neither does Hawke.

"They had Grayson take my throat. And Amelia cut on me. Extensively, but not at the same time. They both did the best they could, I don't blame either of them. I'm not angry at them, but I am angry at any of it happening. At the Creator for making it happen. On a whim.

He feels that prickling of his eyes again but fights it back this time.

He looks away at the stipulation but nods. He gets where Hawke is coming from, any other time, he’d agree. Holding each other up is the wiser thing to do, it’s just hard to do when faced with the hurt on his loved ones. He’s only just starting to get there with Jon, it’s…a process.

But he only nods and Hawke has fire in him when the clinical is past. The part with Grayson is uncomfortable and unfortunate, but better to know it was someone who likely did do his best to get through something unpleasant for both. The Amelia part…he wishes he was surprised. They’d clearly made certain arrangements intending to hurt.

He sighs and reaches up to brush back some of Wolfe’s hair. “The horrors of tyranny. We weather their familiar return just as it seems he’s lost interest in us. You know what to do with that anger, my love…but your allowed to let yourself be tired and take a breath afore you do.”

"I know. I spent all yesterday with Amelia. I thought after that we'd be..." He trails off, uncommon for him when he's usually so sure of what he's saying. He holds just that much tighter to Chris for trying to find words. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, as if sharing some shameful secret. "She didn't want to do it, I know that. We both know that. But I can't help seeing it behind my eyelids. She was just... Blank. Focused. That look on her face was the same one she gets when hunting a mark. I couldn't even- They'd taken my magic again, too, so I was helpless, and it made it so much worse. I trust her, this isn't anything she'd wanted to do, but now I... I flinch. If she's anywhere near a knife, I flinch."

He sighs raggedly, like some of the weight has shifted and it's not a comfort, just a source of shame to have what's underneath be revealed. "I don't want to be afraid of someone I love. It's not her fault, and I don't know how to fix this."

IC Contact

April 2nd

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cw: poor coping mechanisms

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cw: PTSD

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