milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"Shiva wept!" Autor yelps, crumpling to the floor of his room in a heap.

He expected every break, sprain, and bruise to stick around after he changed back, so he wasn't surprised at his unsteadiness when his Lego-fused braces dissolved.

But what was viciously unpleasant was that the medication he'd been popping to keep from feeling every break, sprain, and bruise dissipated when his bloodstream changed.

And that he had to feel everything snap again--all at once--in his new bones.

The boy laugh-sobs, quietly sick, and props himself up in the doorframe to catch a wait rat by the tail. When it returns, he takes some tea and some ice and some serious pain pills, and waits for it all to kick in so he can drag himself down to the infirmary.

And so, just because he's in a genuinely good mood and he can't exactly move, heirDrosselmeyer is signed on.

[OOC: Millitimed to around midnight.]

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"Then I must try what thou doest taste of, monklet," Poins says, bends his head, and kisses Autor's lips.

Autor tilts his chin and smiles, somnolent and content. "Aw," he says softly, "that was nice of you."

Poins chuckles. "Thy taste is truly sweet," he says, "and some odd thing hath drawn thy sting, and left thee thus compliant."

"Oh, yes," he says cheerfully. "I took two strong pills from Lady Bar, otherwise I'd be writing. Writhing. Not writing. Writing is what I want to be doing; writhing is what I would be doing. Does that make sense? Am I making sense?"

Edited 2013-06-13 22:51 (UTC)

"Barely, but yes, thou art," Poins says. "Those pills have made thee soft and gentle, and pliant as a kitten."

"A kitten!" Autor says, giggly. "Why does everyone call me that? I'm not a kitten with a twee little bonnet, nor a Kittenbrodudski."

He yawns again. "Soft and sweet and all of these things are lovely, but they're more you all than me, I think. All of these wonderful people! And I break them. So sad.

"Poins," he says, suddenly solemn. "Poins. You. Are fabulous. Though you should know."

"I know, my kitten monklet!" Poins giggles, and proceeds to tickle Autor's chin, just like a cat's.

Autor raises his hand to bat him away, and then draws it back, hissing. "Ah-!" he says, carefully lowering his wrist. "I'm not a real cat. Promise. There's nothing on my chinny chin chin."

He yawns again, and his head droops ever more. "You were a hound once, though."

"And thou must be a cat, next year!" Poins says, gently pulling upon his ears.

Autor squeaks. "Maybe," he says, and drops his sleepy gaze to his lap. "If I'm around for Cubefall next year and have that option. A hound suits you, I think. You need to be a hound again. On a couch, so I can lift it."

"I would fain see a tiny kitten lift a couch!" Poins laughs, still stroking Autor's ears.

Autor nearly collapses against Poins' shoulder with a giggle-fit. "That's terrible. Okay, I'll do that. If I'm alive for Cubefall next year, then I'll be a kitten. And lift a couch."

Drowsy again, he presses his cheek against his friend's upper arm and sighs, thoroughly at ease.

Poins stretches his long legs, and settles, ready to be a cushion for his friend just for a while.

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