exsiliumlogs | C'est la mort. (Open)

Entry tags:

C'est la mort. (Open)

Date & Time:Tonight, around 7.
Location:The viewing windows.
Characters:Anyone who knew Peace or who might stop to pay respects at a memorial even if they didn't know her.
Summary:A memorial gathering for an Exsile who ceased to exist with the most recent world change.
Warnings:Tears, cursing, bitterness? Not sure yet. People can label threads as they come up. Everyone is free to make their own and jump around. Prose and action are both fine.

It's a waste of emergency torches, but there are a few set up around anyway, lit that soft unearthly blue of emergency lighting. The flowers are paper, clumsily folded from discharge sheets, some from the prison, some from the clinic. There are no photos. All of the ones she was in before are empty spaces, or pictures of Stanley or others who'd been holding her at the time. The music is strings, playing softly from a haphazardly tossed tablet. There are no chairs. Instead, every pillow from 144 is on the ground as seating.

Stanley isn't sitting on one, though. He's standing at the window, staring down at the planet so far below. Today, he's combed his hair. It's still in his eyes because it's too long, but he's made the effort to tame it at any rate.

He's not sure how to start things off, but if someone shows up he'll greet them. That's what you do, right? So that's what he does.

"Thanks for coming."

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[He can't tell what Peter is thinking of. It wouldn't matter to him anyway. There's a certainty in what Peter says. That's good enough for Stanley.]

No.

[Except when they get to that part. And suddenly all he can think of is a lost toddler somewhere on the astral plane or wherever spirits go in Peter's opinion. It sucks his breath away. He wheezes, a strange discord in the stale, empty harmony he's been trying to reach.

He can't. Even in words alone, it's not right.]

...no?

[it brings him up short, confused. but then, peter remembers the rest of the sentence, because it's one he's said more times than he'd bother to recount.]

Why would you want to hold her back with your grief?

[he sounds honestly bewildered by the concept. why would you want to tie anyone anywhere with sadness?]

What? I don't... I-

[Can't seem to get any oxygen, suddenly. That's uncomfortable. He bends forward, almost touching his toes, and tries again. But his lungs aren't expanding. Or maybe the air just feels thin. There's just no air in this damned moon base.]

[too late, peter understands stanley's strange breathing. it's the panicky gasping he associates with small spaces, the illusion of a lack of oxygen. not that he knows what to do about it besides catch stanley so that he doesn't fall on his head, try to get him off his feet.]

Hey, hey. Sit down.

[Right...okay. That sounds like a good idea. Except it's not, because he can't do this here. Stan shakes his head and points to the corridor. Out there, dude. Not in here with people who are trying to mourn.]

[right. okay. the process of peter getting stanley out into the corridor would probably be funny except it really just isn't. at least not to peter at the moment. it works in both of their favor that stan is a twig, though, because it means that peter can just more or less move him regardless of how well stan's breathing at the moment.]

[Luckily, he is twiggy, and he does his best to help instead of hinder. There's a bit of struggle for both of them, but they make it. Stanley stumbles forward instead of sitting down and presses his hands to the wall, bracing against the feeling. They're slick with sweat and they slide until his head is pressed to the wall too. The breathing thing still isn't going well. It kind of hurts. Breathing isn't supposed to hurt.]

Sorry.

It's cool.

[it's not cool, not much about this is cool. but peter's not gonna crawl up stan's ass for panicking. but that doesn't mean he knows what to do, how to actually help. probably because he doesn't really get stan, not like he gets other people with whom he might find himself in this situation. he doesn't know what stan is proverbially choking on, so he just stands there and rubs stanley's back, high up between his shoulders.]

You don't have to fight it, Stanley. The hurting. It's all right that it hurts.

It does.

[It helps, actually. The shoulder rubbing. The way his ribs feel cramped and painful. The way he doubles up again and his head spins while he stares down at the floor tiles. Physical things are easier. Even unpleasant physical things. They're grounding. He really just needs to feel like he can touch the ground for a moment. Now he does sit. Hard and suddenly, with a thump that echoes in the corridor.]

...Can you breathe? It's just me, right?

Yeah.

[somehow it still manages to be a surprise when stan hits the ground like his legs just lost all their bones. peter kneels down beside him, keeps on rubbing his back.]

Yeah, I can breathe. You're kinda having a panic attack or something.

[he sounds less distressed by that than he feels. but peter knows the practical rule of panic: only one person is allowed to do it at a time, or everything goes to shit.]

Shit.

[That makes sense. Kind of. He's had panic attacks before, it's just that they're never like this. They don't make his skin hurt. They don't feel like trying to have a fistfight with the ocean. But...they do feel like you can't breathe.

Peter's probably right. He tries to grasp that knowledge and calm himself with it, but it's hard to calm down when you can't catch your breath and it's hard to catch your breath when you can't calm down. ]

It happens.

[it hasn't ever happened to peter, but peter seems to have the magical ability to keep going on when he's so scared that his brain stops working.]

Hey, look at me, okay?

[because sometimes looking at the ageless wolf in peter's eyes lets other people borrow some of his calm. if nothing else maybe he can try to get stanley to breathe with him.]

[Direct request...okay. That's good. He can follow those. He looks up at Peter.

That helps too, somehow. Stanley fades out of visibility, but he's still there. There's the warmth of his body heat and the still slightly rattled sounds of his attempts to breathe to give him away. It's a little easier now. He's starting to be able to draw in a bit of oxygen.]

Jesse's gonna kill me.

[peter still has a hand on stanley, so even when he disappears, peter knows where he is. it's weird as hell rubbing the back of an invisible guy, to say nothing of trying to get stanley to look at him, but whatever. everything is weird lately.]

Jesse's not gonna be killing anybody in the near future. Don't even worry about that.

[A logical statement, but it's met with a soft groan anyway. It doesn't make him feel better that Jesse's in jail. Safer from an asskicking he probably deserves, sure. But not better.]

When I was a kid I used to play a game. A-anywhere else, right? If you're not there nothing can hurt you. I'd go to Machu Picchu. Where'd you go?

[sorry, stan. it makes peter feel better. what jesse did to tempest is a little bit too close to home.

he also doesn't really know how to play stan's game. he'd been very young when he absorbed the idea that safety wasn't a place.]

I'd just keep moving. You run, you keep running, and nothing can catch you. Machu Picchu is that abandoned city way the fuck out on a mountain, right? Guess you might be able to stop there awhile.

It's in Peru I think. Old and green and cold.

[The subject may be stupid, but talking about something else helps. He takes a deep breath, chokes on it, wheezes, tries again. It's getting a little better, he thinks.]

Be a cool thing to see, anyway. Where else you want to go?

[peter's not good at this, this comforting thing. he's not good at saying things when it matters. but he can follow along well enough. it's not like he wants to talk about peace.]

Paris.

[Okay, so none of these places were his idea. But Peter wasn't in his class for that assignment. He won't know the difference. Stan can bullshit his way through this conversation, just like the assignment.]

Really? Although I guess the French can probably party.

They've got...wine. And cheese. And...fashion.

[Okay, so Stan's look kinda screams thrift store, but that's not the point. 'Chelle liked fashion. And Paris.]

So you've got a girl who wants to go to Paris.

[because really, stan. you comb your hair as often as peter does.]

She's just a friend.

[He's not denying it. Goals of his own? Not so much. But he'd like to see other people get theirs.

And his breathing is slowly starting to even out, too.]

You got someone?

Okay. Is she pretty?

[at the question, he sighs. peter's only talked about letha once since coming to exsilium, like invoking her might inspire someone to bring her here. not that he wants lynda here either, but at least lynda is strong, practical and grounded. letha...isn't. and then there's the matter of the baby.]

Yeah. Guess so.

Beautiful. Smart. Strong. Sexy. Talented...funny. She's way more than just pretty.

[He flickers once, but slowly, the translucent shape of a boy is starting to come back.]

How 'bout yours?

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