capeandcowllogs | i reach out to touch you:

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i reach out to touch you:

WHO: ImPorts in Venezuela
WHERE: Mérida, Venezuela
WHEN: October 19th 10AM to October 20th 10AM.
WARNINGS: Strong language is likely. Potential violence.
SUMMARY: Welcome to the twenty-four hour masquerade! Refreshments will be flowing throughout the hours, and while entertainment is provided (both musical and theatrical), don't let that deter you from inventing your own mischief. Remember, there's only one rule: while at the masquerade, you cannot remove your mask!

As the levity hits its high notes, however, beware the dark figures scheming in the shadows, those poisoners with swift hands. By 12AM October 20th, the imPort-only virus will be exposed and infecting the masqueraders first, before spreading outwards.
FORMAT: Whatever you'd like.

Masks of all counterfeits paid tribute to the color spectrum that soon poured out into the confetti-strewn streets that morning. The flood of spectacle drowned away any groans of the mundane, and once ten o'clock stuck then did intrigue ascend to the hazy plateau of status quo. Bodies moved like whispers against each other, some seeking friends, while others hoped to fool foes. The air sung with sticky excitement: mischief was welcomed here, as long as you did it honestly. As long as you wore your face over your mask.

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[ he hesitates. he really can't afford the risk -- if ruka dies, it wouldn't simply be a matter of it being his fault, it would be his doing. he will have killed her. the thought makes him go cold inside. ]

Fine. [ he sighs. ] We're still not using your stupid dress, though. We might as well try bandaging with tissue paper if you think that's absorbing shit at this point. Just -- cut my sleeves off.

[ he doesn't have to tell her twice; she doesn't even protest. she doesn't have much reason to, after all, not when her self-destructive heart is blocked away from the rest of her. she turns the knife in her hand, careful for the slickness of the handle, and cuts at the sleeve. the material is thicker than that of her dress, and without a free hand to pull the fabric taut or away from his skin, it shifts under the blade, doing a better job of avoiding injury than either ruka or karkat.

the cut that finally makes way through the sleeve nicks karkat's skin, a small bubble of blood welling up on his shoulder. the knife works into the hole in the fabric, sawing the sleeve from the shirt in jagged cuts, until a final tear through the enforced seam severs it completely. the loose fabric slips down his arm, gathering and hanging off his wrist.

she swallows, blinking, and her shoulders sway forward and back. there's a crunch when her foot moves, trying to keep her balance. the red staining her neck is a patchwork of wet and dry, a dark undercoat and new blood still reflecting light; the vibrancy of color only highlights just how pale her face has become.

physical symptoms of a pain she can't yet feel.

the knife moves to his other shoulder, starting the task over. ]

[ it takes him several tries to recaptchalogue his sickle -- his sylladex is not cooperating tonight -- but he eventually manages, as ruka finishes cutting away the sleeve of his sweater. he grasps the fabric with his now-free hand, and pauses, confused as to how he is going to bandage her effectively with one hand.

he winces, breath hissing out through his teeth, as her knife inevitably scrapes and pricks at his skin while she works on the second arm, looking up at her, mouth open for both a reproach -- could you watch it with the stupid knife -- and a question -- how am i supposed to do this one handed -- but he's pulled up short by the sight of how pale she is.

fear floods through him, then. he does not want to be responsible for ruka's death. he likes ruka. he owes ruka his life. he doesn't know what the human signs of blood loss are, but he guesses pale skin isn't a good omen. ]

Hey, are you alright?

No.

[ As far as her well-being is concerned, she will never in her life be more honest than this; with every emotional wall disabled, she has no reason to consider the benefits of humility, deflection, or outright deception. Her arms are shaking, and more of her focus is going into cutting the sleeve without hurting karkat than anything else.

her throat is dry, and she's getting progressively dizzier. the sleeve comes loose. ]

Are you?

I don't matter.

[ and karkat is far too stressed, far too overwhelmed, pulled in far too many different emotional directions for his own emotional walls to hold steady. he blurts out his reply without thinking, before hastily adding; ]

I'm fine. Look, you're -- you're going to need to be touching part of me while I try and patch you up. I can't do it one handed. You'll -- just, hang in there.

[ please don't die. ]

[ she tries to nod, but the sting in her neck has pain twisting her expression into a grimace. single-handed, she refolds the knife, and with a shift and a couple misses she gets it back into the holster on her raised leg. blood smears there, as well. she has a hard time focusing on him, and her free hand lingers. ]

Skin, right?

Yeah, skin.

[ he confirms, eyeing her with concern. his head hurts. his everything hurts. he can't think straight.

he wants to curl up on the ground with his hands over his head and attempt to pretend he's someone else, somewhere else, not having to deal with any of this. ]

[ unlike her, with her asymmetrical and utterly devastated dress, karkat is almost all clothing. there's his hands, which he needs, and there's pulling shirt out of the way so she can touch stomach or ribs or where she herself stabbed him (did she? it's hard to focus), but she dismisses that more for impracticality than anything else. eventually, she lifts that free arm, settling part on his clothed shoulder, her hand moving to rest against the back of his neck. slick fingers settle under the collar of his shirt. it's contact and balance at once. her feet hurt, and it feels like her whole body is shaking.

she is very small, and very thin, and is sometimes very frail, and doesn't have a lot of blood to lose. her teeth click together for a shudder. ]

Like this?

[ he himself is attempting to focus on keeping his hands and mind steady -- trying to remind himself that that spike of terror that makes him want to violently shove ruka away from him isn't real, or that surge of anger that makes his knuckles whiten and his breathing hitch isn't his. once he feels her hand on the back of his neck, he lets go of her other one, freeing both of his hands.

his wrist is swollen and painful, since his cruel treatment of it in his fight with ruka, but it's functional enough for what he needs to do. he starts with the easiest wound; the one on her neck, wrapping his sleeve around her throat to cover the wound. he can still taste her blood in his mouth; it makes him nauseous. ]

Let me know if it's too tight. [ he tells her, voice more unsteady than he would have liked it to come out, as he ties it in a clumsy knot. ]

[ she swallows, breathing in, and out again. ]

It's fine.

[ it's hard to notice something as mundane as discomfort, when pain itself has a hard time reaching her. she isn't strangled. therefore, it's fine enough.

she's starting to feel nauseous. ]

Thank you.

[ he doesn't know how to respond to her thanking him; he did this, and wrapping a sleeve around it didn't fix it. he doesn't deserve her gratitude.

so he doesn't reply, instead crouching down to see what to do about her stomach. he considers. he could tie his sleeve around her waist, but it would be uncomfortably tight, tying the knot, as his sweater is not made of material particularly disposed to stretching. besides, proper pressure would still need to be applied to the wound.

he glances back up at her neck. that applies up there, too. ]

Okay, so, if you use one of your hands to put pressure on your neck, and I use one to hold the sleeve in place on your side, we should probably be able to keep you from exsanguinating until we get you to a hospital.

[ because no matter karkat's #empath problems, ruka needs a hospital, and karkat will not be the one to allow her to die.

this can be translated to "do i have permission to put my arm around your waist". ]

Okay. [ in some deep, smothered by emotional nullification part of her heart, she's confused by his change of heart. just a few minutes ago he was saying how he couldn't go to one at all, wasn't he? but these feelings can't reach her, so the thoughts don't have any way to manifest, nor do the words.

her free hand—only mildly cramped from the way he held it so tightly—moves to the wound on her neck, pressing against the already-dampening sleeve.

it's as much of a go-ahead as karkat will get out of her, without him asking a direct question.]

[ and he straightens up, reaching behind him to clasp the hand at the back of his neck and bring their hands around so they hang in front of them. he tries not to feel embarrassed, when he slides an arm around her middle to press the wadded up piece of fabric against her wound, stemming the flow of blood.

it's actually fairly easy, considering all the other emotions he is trying to contend with right now. he takes a deep, shuddering breath, because he knows what's coming next -- he isn't sure if that fear he feels spiking within him is really his, but it doesn't really matter, because he's going to feel so, so much worse, so very soon. ]

Now. [ he exhales. ] Hospital.

[ when the blood dries, their hands are going to be stuck together until they peel them away, she thinks absently; her thoughts feel muddled, and the world around her muddied. how is she still standing? for that matter, how is she still conscious? ruka would have expected her body to give out before now.

they're starting to walk, slow and more than a little uncertain on her end. repetition of the word nudges her thoughts. ]

What about you? You can't go to one.

You need one -- and you need me, so.

[ he tries to keep the fear out of his tone, but his pretenses are in tatters. his efforts are pretty pathetic, and the tremor in his voice is clear. ]

I don't have much choice.

[ don't think about it. don't focus on it. don't focus on anything. just breathe, walk and breathe. he'd ask if she had a phone on her -- but he can hear sirens already, not too far off, and he doesn't really want to have to loiter any longer than necessary. ]

[ she can't technically argue with that, so she doesn't. the fact is, it's probably his support that's keeping her going right now to begin with. later, she'll feel guilty for leeching from him, and for putting him in this predicament in the first place, but for now she simply walks, his hand held tight in hers.

her head is throbbing. the sound of approaching sirens, wailing through the night, does not help in the slightest; the flashing lights are blinding. ]

[ karkat feels the human authorities before they see them, as they approach the street. feels their stress, their exasperation, and he shudders, head swimming. several rush right past them, police officers and paramedics, heading towards the heart of the riot ruka and karkat are in the process of leaving behind, even though karkat shouts to try and garner their attention.

finally, though, a paramedic -- rightfully concerned by ruka's drenched in blood status -- halts, catching karkat by the shoulder, speaking a language karkat can't understand. she needs a hospital, he tries to stress to them. she needs help.

he gets some more words he can't understand in response; the paramedic is frustrated, confused, worried, and as a result, so is karkat. they gesture for the two to follow them. ]

It's Spanish. [ despite the not-even-calm neutrality of her voice, it's getting rougher the longer this goes on. she keeps swallowing, and keeps bleeding, and it's like dehydration already. her grip is gradually relaxing.

where karkat walks, she follows, but nothing seems more appealing now than closing her eyes and going to sleep. ]

The language, I mean.

It may as well be gibberish for all the good it does us. [ karkat tells her, tiredly, as they follow. ] I can't understand shit. Can they even understand us?

[ well, they seem to have at least recognized their need for medical attention; they're being led towards one of several ambulances. karkat tries not to balk at the sight of them. ]

Basic English, I would guess. [ she doesn't even have her eye open any more, for all the good it was doing her. another swallow. ] That's the way it is most anywhere I've been. Movies and music, you know. You pick up language from that.

[ he would have replied, but it so happens that they have reached the ambulance; and the medical practitioners begin their fussing, pushing the both of them to sit down in the back of the ambulance. karkat's heart is thumping somewhere in his throat. his hand shakes in ruka's -- and when one of the paramedics attempts to gently prise them apart so as to get at both their injuries more easily, karkat unthinkingly shoves them back with more force than is necessary, barking out; ]

Are you fucking crazy?

[ the violence of sound and the motion of karkat's shove startles her "awake" enough to take in their surroundings. there's a tremble up her arm that isn't her own weakness. oh, they must have been trying to have them let go of one another, was that it? it's difficult to force an emphatic expression when a person can't feel the emotions that needed to be conveyed, but she makes a good try of it. she shakes her head at the emergency responders, and moves the hand covering her neck to cup it over their interlocked hands. warm blood smears across their hand. ]

Please. Don't. [ to karkat: ] Breathe. Focus on that. They don't understand yet. [ and back: ] We're ImPorts. This is important. Please don't.

[ and karkat lays his free hand -- since peeled away from her side by one of the medics -- on top of hers, jaw set with defiance as he glares at their would be helpers. he isn't in any state to cope with a repeat experience of ruka's darkness; he believes it's incredibly likely that the pair of them would slaughter everyone in the ambulance, including each other. ]

Unless you want us all to die horrible pointless deaths. [ he adds, a scathing note to his voice. he can feel the medics' confusion, mistrust and impatience; they have a brief discussion in spanish, the word "import" is audible every now and again, before it's apparently acquiesced that it's probably not worth the risk of separating them, and they return to tending to the wounded teenagers.

the ambulance's engine starts, once they're sufficiently cleaned up; wounds dressed with actual bandages as opposed to karkat's sleeves. karkat closes his eyes.

breathe. focus on that. ]

[ injured the way she is, ruka can't keep both hands in the friendship knot; the one further from karkat retreats. it will become clear, of course, during the course of the drive what happened. the wound on ruka's throat is clearly a bite, and the blood on karkat's face is the simplest answer to cause. sure, they won't find the weapon that stabbed ruka, but the knife on her leg is still coated in his blood.

she feels pain, but can't fully react to it. with karkat's hand in hers, she focuses on his breathing, too. the strength of her grip mirrors his inhales and exhales, squeezing on the one and relaxing, slightly, on the other. as they go, she extends them. slower breathing helps regulate the heart, if she remembers right. it's hard to think. ]

[ he holds her hand with both of his -- and as the ambulance starts up, he hunches over, and as much as he tries to keep his breathing steady, it falters often.

because now, it's not the negativity of emotions that's wearing on him; it's the speed and intensity with which they hit him as the ambulance races on towards its destination. it's too much, too fast, he can't even distinguish individual grievances in the ever-changing cacophony, he can't think, his head is going to explode -- a low whine escapes the back of his throat for a moment, before he cuts it off.

he forces himself to focus on keeping a hold on ruka's hand. that purpose, that responsibility. he makes that his tether to himself. ]

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