Youji Kudou (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
slantedcross) wrote2010-08-19 01:14 am
slantedcross) wrote2010-08-19 01:14 am
dream † 003 † 08-19-10
[ooc: still technically on hiatus. But. Also. Uh. Youji's not a huge fan of pajamas, so... 8D
Dream effects: Tension. Uncertainty. Anxiety. At the end, exactly what Youji feels.]
Even with the sweet, spiced wine warming his tongue, the humid evening chill cut straight to the bone. The ticking of the clock was audible, palpable, echoing in his head in perfect time with the hammering of his heart. The bottle on the table before him, clearly marked ‘Auschlehen,’ had been steadily drained all evening, and the looseness of mind, of thought and potential action, that it provided him with danced all across the realm of possibilities.
Do I dare? Do I not?
This is the point where you’re supposed to tell me, Youji thought, looking all around at the four quiet walls, each tick of the clock piercing another wasted second. This is the point where I need you to smile and tell me what an idiot I am and what I need to be doing.
Silence.
Another sip. Another bid for oblivion; or drunkenness if he couldn’t manage that. Another two seconds vanished, bringing him closer to the point where it becomes do or die, no second chances, forever hold your peace.
Three. Four. Five. Sixseveneightnineten
The clock crashed, banged, rang out the hour, and seven more times after that. Eight o’clock. The breeze fluttered the curtain of a window he hadn’t opened, a motorcycle sounded, roaring off into the inky, starry distance, and Youji looked back to the glass of wine in his hand.
Two sips or one deep drink; to linger, to prolong it, or to take it and run? He wasn’t sure. Each second to savor, each second to waste, was dear, precious, golden, crucial, added up it became more than it was. Sixty seconds to a minute, each creeping closer, ever closer to the edge of the precipice.
His hand tightened around the base of the wine glass. Each tick of the clock, each beat of his heart, each laborious, catching breath, brought the decision closer. Closer, but not clearer, not better into focus. It remained distant, murky, unreal, do I? Or do I not?
The glass smashed delicately against the far wall, each shard stealing a moonbeam and glittering aimlessly. Youji inhaled sharply, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle.
I can do this. I can definitely, definitely do this. No matter what, I can do this.
Whatever it was. Tick. Tick. Tick. He took another drink.
Where was that oblivion she’d promised him?
Tick.
Right. He had to complete his end of the deal. Which was. Something he was perfectly capable of. I can do it. I can.
Tick. Closer. Tick. Closer. Tick.
Tick. Tick. TicktickticktickticktickticktickTICK
Closer.
Tighter.
Youji attempted to yell, but it died, was trapped, stuck at his throat, pressing, tightening, sharply tightening around his neck, at least if the hyoid breaks they’ll be able to tell, three to five minutes before brain death--
[Youji doesn't waste time with screaming or sitting up straight; he just starts breathing deeply, audibly, steadily, noticeably, like he can't get enough oxygen in his lungs. Only after his heart rate slows does he sit up. Without looking, he automatically reaches for the silver cross on his bedside table. He starts to fasten the necklace, but--he thinks twice, breathes again and lays it aside, only now noticing the Dreamberry next to it, still recording.]
Goddammit.
[He shuts it off.]
Dream effects: Tension. Uncertainty. Anxiety. At the end, exactly what Youji feels.]
Even with the sweet, spiced wine warming his tongue, the humid evening chill cut straight to the bone. The ticking of the clock was audible, palpable, echoing in his head in perfect time with the hammering of his heart. The bottle on the table before him, clearly marked ‘Auschlehen,’ had been steadily drained all evening, and the looseness of mind, of thought and potential action, that it provided him with danced all across the realm of possibilities.
Do I dare? Do I not?
This is the point where you’re supposed to tell me, Youji thought, looking all around at the four quiet walls, each tick of the clock piercing another wasted second. This is the point where I need you to smile and tell me what an idiot I am and what I need to be doing.
Silence.
Another sip. Another bid for oblivion; or drunkenness if he couldn’t manage that. Another two seconds vanished, bringing him closer to the point where it becomes do or die, no second chances, forever hold your peace.
Three. Four. Five. Sixseveneightnineten
The clock crashed, banged, rang out the hour, and seven more times after that. Eight o’clock. The breeze fluttered the curtain of a window he hadn’t opened, a motorcycle sounded, roaring off into the inky, starry distance, and Youji looked back to the glass of wine in his hand.
Two sips or one deep drink; to linger, to prolong it, or to take it and run? He wasn’t sure. Each second to savor, each second to waste, was dear, precious, golden, crucial, added up it became more than it was. Sixty seconds to a minute, each creeping closer, ever closer to the edge of the precipice.
His hand tightened around the base of the wine glass. Each tick of the clock, each beat of his heart, each laborious, catching breath, brought the decision closer. Closer, but not clearer, not better into focus. It remained distant, murky, unreal, do I? Or do I not?
The glass smashed delicately against the far wall, each shard stealing a moonbeam and glittering aimlessly. Youji inhaled sharply, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle.
I can do this. I can definitely, definitely do this. No matter what, I can do this.
Whatever it was. Tick. Tick. Tick. He took another drink.
Where was that oblivion she’d promised him?
Tick.
Right. He had to complete his end of the deal. Which was. Something he was perfectly capable of. I can do it. I can.
Tick. Closer. Tick. Closer. Tick.
Tick. Tick. TicktickticktickticktickticktickTICK
Closer.
Tighter.
Youji attempted to yell, but it died, was trapped, stuck at his throat, pressing, tightening, sharply tightening around his neck, at least if the hyoid breaks they’ll be able to tell, three to five minutes before brain death--
[Youji doesn't waste time with screaming or sitting up straight; he just starts breathing deeply, audibly, steadily, noticeably, like he can't get enough oxygen in his lungs. Only after his heart rate slows does he sit up. Without looking, he automatically reaches for the silver cross on his bedside table. He starts to fasten the necklace, but--he thinks twice, breathes again and lays it aside, only now noticing the Dreamberry next to it, still recording.]
Goddammit.
[He shuts it off.]
[Action]
The biscuits are in the cabinet above the refrigerator, and Youji amuses himself wondering if Ken found them.]
Laying aside the mass murderers who will probably get theirs when it's most poetically just nonsense, you mean? It certainly feels that way.
[Action]
[Ken puts the tray down on the central table and, for a moment, takes advantage of the need to deal with the coffee to avoid meeting Youji's eyes. Carefully, he pours coffee into one of the cups and hands it to Youji before attending to his own. He's trying, in his own small, confused kind of way, to help - maybe he doesn't know what with or what good he can possibly do, but he wants to help all the same.]
Milk and sugar and stuff's on the tray.
[... he said needlessly.
[Of course, Youji'll have to wait his turn for them. That small job done, he grabs a couple of biscuits and retreats to the other couch, sitting cross-legged on it. He holds the mug in both hands; he's waiting for the coffee to cool. Until then, he guesses he can at least warm his fingers on it.]
What'd you think we should do?
[The idea that there might not be anything they can do is, of course, anathema.]
[Action]
[He can't help the sigh.]
Wait.
[...what else is there for them to do?]
[Action]
Wait? That's all?
[Of course it's all. But if he admits there's nothing they can do--
[Ken sighs, and - well, he's tired, and the damn stuff does smell good - gives into impulse, taking a sip of the coffee. It's too hot, of course, it burns his tongue and he doesn't care. He feels better for it all the same, and at least he could vaguely pass for actually awake now.]
Youji, what the Hell's going on? This has gotta be happening for a reason.
[Action]
[Not that he's entirely surprised. Amusement seeps into the weariness.]
Ken. It's August. We've been here since February. If I had any idea what the hell was going on--don't you think I'd have used it by now? Don't you think someone would have?
I'm willing to say no one knows. Not even that doctor.
[Action]
Dammit, Kudou, I was only asking--
[His heart's not in it, either. Ken's an optimistic soul, but the past few days have been wearing him down. Truth be told, he's not been sleeping well either. He's just grateful that the Dreamberry at least seems to have decided to cut him that much slack, but then perhaps there's just no point when everyone's seen it all before.]
Doctor? What doctor?
[Action]
The one on the Dreamberries when you were walking through walls. Think even you'd remember that. Suddenly chose that random to talk. Why then? Why not now?