possessum | — 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

[Diarmuid hasn't seen Peter since... the dome. They'd probably prefer to not dwell much on that horrific event — and Diarmuid's only just been able to start recovering, really — but it at least gives the young monk a place to have met Peter. He finds out where he could find the boy, and promptly arrives on his doorstep, his arm in a decorated cast and sling.

The other arm has a basket hanging off it that smells of bread and stew, with a scarf wrapped around the handle neatly.

He knocks and waits for an answer with bated breath, standing there with over-grown curls and his monk robes back to engulfing him, as opposed to the form-fitting dome uniform.]

[ Though it's only been a few weeks, Peter's physical appearance has seen some improvement. While still a little tender, his nose no longer looks painfully swollen and bruised, and he's been able to stop wearing the bandage across it.

His psychological state is... a different matter. When there's a knock at the door, he freezes, eyes wide with a heart that can't sit still. His housemate wouldn't need to knock, she has keys, and they rarely have visitors.

It takes a little while for him to answer, and it comes in the form of the door very slowly creeeeaking open, inky eyes peering around the corner of it, dark fingers wrapped against the side. Is it a haunted house that Diarmuid's come upon? It could seem that way, with the quiet ghost of a young man blinking at him from the shadows.

Then his mouth parts softly in surprise. It's the boy. From the dome, with the wounded arm, his gentle comrade for those few hours, against the predators.

The door opens wider, Peter taking in the boy's atypical appearance, his attire something the devout wear. Both of them are quite a different sight from before, Peter almost seeming the picture of an average teen in his tee-shirt and pajama bottoms, socked feet. Neither of them stained with blood this time. ]

It's... it's you. [ A hitch of breath. His eyes drop to the cast upon his arm. He's had medical attention, that's good, but Peter still asks, eyes searching him. ] You... you're okay?

[They're both healing.

Or, well. Healing as much as one can.

He hadn't really considered how different Diarmuid would look with his robes, how out of place and out of time he tended to look compared to all the other kids his age. The basket looks out of place, too, as if he'd weaved it himself, the smell drifting from it pleasant.]

I'm as well as can be.

How are you? I brought you lunch.

[He hoped he wasn't imposing. He admits, a lot of these visits are hardly pre-planned, but...]

[ He does look like something straight out of another place and time, standing there on the porch with robes and hand-woven basket, but it's what he says that really draws a reaction from Peter, eyes widening. He brought him— lunch?

His mouth opens; Peter is aware, cognizant in this moment, and yet he's having trouble processing things. ]

You brought me...? [ He can smell it: warm, cooked things, a rarity these days for him. When was the last time... His heart skips an odd beat at the concept of family dinners, a normalcy that seems so far away now. ]

I've been... going to school. [ He finally answers the question (sort of, more of a report of what he's been doing than how he's been doing, but that's the default way for him.) Peter then moves to the side, opens the door a bit wider. ]

You want to come in? Henry's— out, I think. Or maybe asleep. [ He should explain who "Henry" is, but Peter's terribly out of sorts with this whole business, with... communication. ]

Edited 2019-10-18 03:53 (UTC)

[Diarmuid could certainly relate to the thoughts in Peter's head; he, too, feels a distant kinship from the smell of the freshly cooked meal, and every time he eats he thinks of his brothers at the monastery. He steps inside tentatively at the offer, glancing around the home and feeling a little intrusive. Henry was the girl from the bathroom stalls, wasn't she? He sure hoped she wouldn't be upset with him for being here.]

If it's no trouble. There's enough here to leave for Henry as well.

[He smiles back at Peter, breathing out to relax himself.]

Sorry, I've been... skittish, in new places.

Would you like some now? I could collect some bowls...

[He's been very good at collecting and preparing things one-armed.]

[ He and Henry usually opt for the path of least resistance when it comes to food — aka there's a lot of bags of chips and heat up burritos involved in their diets. An actual homecooked meal sounds.. really nice, really, even if Peter isn't able to convey that as adequately as a typical person should. He's just— stunned, still, always a little bit lost.

But he's starting to ease back into reality when he lets the boy into the home. Seeing how nervous Diarmuid seems to be, how he has to breathe out in order to coax himself down. Peter's thick brows knit slightly. ]

I— understand that.

[ Then, after a beat, there's an attempt at reassurance, soft and careful: ]

It's okay. It's just me and Henry here.

[ No one else. No one who would hurt him. Peter moves towards the kitchen, which bears the mark of two teenagers who clearly aren't concerned with keeping things anywhere near pristine: a small stack of dirty dishes piled in the sink, some stale toast left on the counter. ....Peter thinks he might have had toast two days ago. ]

I can do that for you. [ Playing the part of house host is so new for him, but he won't let the boy with the busted arm finagle with bowls. There are some clean ones that he finds, setting them on the table. After a moment's pause, he fishes out two bottles of water as well, his movements still awkward and stiff and a little nervous himself. He stands there near the table, fingers fidgeting at his sides uncertainly—

— and his stomach gives a loud, audible growl, one that surprises him. Despite his mind floating away so often, his body still remembers what it needs. Clearly Diarmuid's delicious-smelling food is calling out to him and his stomach's calling back. For the first time in......a while, Peter laughs slightly, a soft breath of a sound, head dipped as he gives his lip a chew. ]

— I guess I'm hungrier than I even realised.

[Diarmuid smiles more candidly at that, pleased despite the concerning sound.]

Well, you're in luck today. I happen to have just the meal to appease your restless stomach.

[Ah, the joys of listening to a medieval teenager chattering. He sees the sink, of course, and wishes both his hands were freed up enough that he could help wash them up before he leaves; this cast has been a thorn in his side.]

I do apologize at how uneven the bread is, though... it had been particularly unpleasant an effort, to knead and bake bread with one arm held aside.

[ It's strange to have to remember how basic human functioning works. Peter hasn't been concerned with hunger much; it's been a mindless sort of activity since he woke up here — and he's only really eaten when he really has to. But now he's remembering what it's like to look.. forward? to eating?

He spoons some of the stew into bowls for both of them as he listens to the other boy, blinking at that. ]

I still can't believe you managed to do this with just one arm. It must have been so hard.

[ A pause. ]

And.. painful.

[ It must have been, right? To move around at all with that arm still broken up. He can still remember how the wound looked when it had been fresh. Slowly, Peter eases into a chair, wishing he knew something better to say to this kind boy, something... helpful. Dark eyes fall to the scarf, really noticing it now, and something dawns on him. ]

Did you make that, too...?

[He shakes his head, a humored smile on his lips.]

... I wish I could take credit for it, but my arm has not permitted me to knit anything.

I found it in a shop — ah, it's got little fish on it... It just reminds me of you.

[Perhaps he'll just always be Peter From Team Fish, considering it had been how they met. And it was a horrible way to meet, truly, but... it was also such a dark and dangerous situation, it's hard not to feel it had left a far deeper impact than some casual banter on a feed. They were trapped and injured in a dangerous place together. It does something to you.]

With winter coming, it gets so cold here... so I thought I would make sure everyone was prepared.

[ Fish— Peter hadn't noticed that. He leans forwards slightly so as to see the garment better, and then dares to take it into his hands — dares, because he can still hardly believe that any moment is really real. Everything is a dream, or a nightmare, but

but in this moment, this is real. Somehow. He can feel it's real in his hands, the soft fabric of it against his thumbs. He's staring (Peter's special skill, really), and then swallows again as he gently folds it with care as though afraid it'll break. Nothing lasts long in his hands, but he'll take care of this. ]

Thank you. You're very kind.

[ He's studying his lunch guest more closely now, drawn together by the casual, but meaningful, intimacy of sitting at a table together with good food between them. ]

You've been here a while? If... you know how winters are here.

Mm... It's been a year this month.

[It's strange to say aloud. There aren't very many left from when he'd arrived — perhaps no more than two dozen others who would be familiar with the last October in this place. And he'd only arrived near the end of it. Just in time to accidentally get drunk and need help going home by Wade... What a strange time it'd been. So overwhelming in such different ways from now. Now, he's certainly overwhelmed and stressed, but he's developed a routine and knowledge he'd never had before.]

When I arrived — there had been blood in the streets, but I had missed the worst of it in October... mostly, I had been alarmed by all of the... the 'technology' I had seen. The things that were so common... most of it wasn't invented yet in my time.

Even paper books... I had rarely ever seen paper in my lifetime, and even when I did, it would have cost more than I could have ever afforded.

[ After carefully setting aside the scarf, Peter's turned to the food, taking bites while he listens to Diarmuid speak. The news that he's been here a year earns a visibly startled response, Peter's eyes widening, but he says nothing, opting to keep listening instead.

He can barely comprehend that concept, right now. He's not even... entirely sure what this place is. The thought of spending a year here feels so foreign, but then, the thought of returning "home" is just as foreign.

There's nothing to return to. ]

Your time... What time are you from, exactly? [ He asks softly. He's stumbled across a couple of others who seemed to be straight from the past, in the way they dressed and spoke, rather like this young man. But Diarmuid still stands out even among them in his monk robes and mannerism. He'd woken to a completely alien world, then, one with advanced technology and dress and social norms. It must have been.... terrifying.

And then Peter adds, because he's wondered: ] How old are you?

... From 1209. The 13th century, in Ireland.

[He gives that a moment to settle between them, because it's usually a shock to most of the people he talks to — even with seeing him in his monk garb and listening to him speak.]

I'm sixteen, currently. A novice from the monastery — um, that is, I haven't taken any vows officially. I'm just in training, you could say.

[ it's about 2am. she should be asleep. but she's not, not with the familiar presence in her room. ]

are you awake, Peter?

it's Luna, by the way.

[ This happens to be Peter's first time receiving a text in this place. It comes as a surprise, catching him off-guard, but in a way that's welcomed even more than he realises.

He hasn't been able to sleep, either, and could use a break from staring up at the ceiling from where he sleeps on the couch. ]

Hey, Luna.
I'm awake. Have you been up this whole time?

yes. i'm afraid i can't sleep.

[ it's safe to say there's a wave of relief that hits her when he texts back. she wishes it would be easier to actually get up and leave, but she knows her mother's watching her and will no doubt follow her.

she inhales, listens for a moment. there's a delay between the first text and the next. ]

mum's here.

Me too.

[ And just like that, they're lumped into the same category — even if it's something as simple as "two people unable to sleep." They've become a "them", and they're no longer quite alone in their aloneness.

Peter sits up a little, wolf brows furrowing. It's an odd, awful ache, Luna's situation. He frowns, deep and sad. ]

What's she doing now?

she's just sitting there. i think.

[ at least she knows she hasn't woken him. sleep in Deerington seems to hard to come by these days and she'd feel guilty had she'd torn him from what precious sleep they can scrape. ]

i can't really see her. mostly because i'm turned away from her and hiding under the covers. but i know she's just sitting there.

what about you? is your grandmother around?

[ As frightening as it is to have Ellen around, it isn't... wrenching. He doesn't lament her loss; he hopes that she'll leave him alone soon.

But he can't imagine if his mother were hanging around, haunting him. While his relationship with the woman was strained, had its holes and empty spaces and toxicities, Peter still loves her. Still misses her, still wakes many nights crying or feeling his gut fill with ice when he remembers, all over again, what.. happened. She's his mother.

The mental image of Luna, curled into her covers and hiding away from her mom, is an ache. The boy's typing is a bit messy, his hands fumbling a bit. ]

Can you
go to a different room? Or will she follow you?

[ There's a pause of his own, as Peter gets up and moves quietly to the living room window, peeking around the curtain. ]

She's outside. Drawing..
Drawing stuff on the ground again.

[ Luna walks a fine line still with her mother's presence. she's still torn over it, her existence in Deerington gives her an unspoken joy but still strikes her with the feeling that it's terribly wrong. and Pandora's odd behaviour that's starting to surface only worries her more, gives her cause to truly believe there's something unnatural about it all.

she feels a lump in her throat, shifting slightly as if to look and check on her. Pandora shifts in the chair and Luna stops, curls back up again, clutches her fluid a little tighter. Peter. keep talking to him. ]

no, i think she will follow me. she only seems to wander away if we're in the same room. she won't go much further than that. and i don't want to trouble the others. [ she pauses, horror-struck. she doesn't mean it like that. ]

i'm sorry, that sounded awful. because it sounds like i'm troubling you instead. i don't mean it like that.

[ she doesn't want to be troubling him. maybe a... distraction. or solidarity, she supposes. she might be talking about her mother but the act of actually texting him at least somewhat gets her mind off the initial, biting thought that her mother's here in the room with her. ]

what's she drawing?

is she angry at me for stunning her?

[ there feels like an unspoken superstition in her last text - of course she knows one should never speak ill of the dead. but what of angering the dead? it fills her with a cold, dull burning. ]

[ It takes him a few moments to absorb things; Peter.. has his moments of drifting in and out of himself, but Luna's presence — even if it's simply over this device — keeps him grounded. He's able to stay focused here in a way he might not with other people. ]

Oh, no
You can trouble me anytime

[ Wait, no, that's not how he meant it either —! ]

But you're not troubling me.
At all
You can talk to me any time.

[ He's trying to be comforting, he's... happy, that she'd choose him to reach out to when she's... alone. Scared? Upset. Probably all of those things. Peter can imagine. So, awkward as he is, and out of practice as he is with the whole making conversation thing, he's adding: ]

I'm here. [ Because she shouldn't have to face these things alone. ]

Like.. shapes? Earlier, she kept trying to draw them on me, too.
My mom always told me to stay away from her and now I can see why.

[ Somehow, despite all of this... subject matter, talking to Luna like this is easy? The words flow from him. It almost feels like how he used to be, back when he did have friends, and did enjoy texting them. ]

She still seems mad, but probably mostly at me.
Don't worry, though.
You were amazing, what you did.

Edited 2019-11-16 06:17 (UTC)

that's nice, then. [ a danger phrase to use, considering she's British and it warrants the risk of sounding entirely sarcastic, but Luna means it in total earnest. Peter says it alright to talk to him and it's a simple offer that means a great deal to her. it's her own strange way of appreciation. ]

shapes like symbols? do you think she's trying to do something to you? i mean if your mum didn't want you around her and this is how she's behaving then yes, maybe your mum is right.

[ it has her wondering now. back to when they first met in class, she'd thought maybe he was cursed by something. how he'd reacted, fitting on the floor, almost desperately. she doesn't know about what magic exists in his world but maybe he is cursed after all.

she feels a pang of concern, unsure of what to do. curses are powerful magic. she may be adept, but she's in no means some kind of curse breaker. ]

unfortunately i'm inclined to worry because she's angry. but why would she be mad are you? you didn't do anything to her, after all.

[ that last text makes her pause though, brings some wry smile to her lips that he can't see from behind the Fluid screen. ]

i could tell you didn't want her near you, is all. people shouldn't have to put up with that with someone else when they don't want to.

Edited 2019-11-16 14:40 (UTC)

[ He doesn't take it as sarcastic at all. In fact, it makes him smile a little, or the vague outline of one anyway, lips quirking just slightly. He believes whatever Luna says at face-value; that's... simply how it is. He can't explain it exactly, why he has such trust in this odd young woman's words.

Perhaps it's that he isn't capable of overanalysing anything or anyone, these days. He has to take people exactly how they come across, and she's... been gentle, and yet strong, in the exact ways Peter's needed it the most. She's saved him — twice now. She's a safe place. And he'll believe anything she says. ]

I'm not sure. She used to like do really weird things to my sister, too. I think she's just always been really.... strange.

I'll send you a picture.

[ Quickly, Peter takes a photo of one of the simple triangles the woman has drawn where it's visible from the window: like this, but in the dirt. After, he moves away from the window again, back to the sofa. ]

I think she's mad at me because I ran away with you. She's acting like.. I chose you over her?
But she never even talked to me when she was... alive. I don't know why she's acting like she cares about me so much now.

[ It's frightening. But...Luna's next words have him exhaling softly as he takes them in. It's such a refreshingly simple, clear way to look at it. She's right, but Peter never would have thought about it like that for himself. ]

Thank you.

[ There's a few moments' pause as he pictures Luna there hiding from her mother as she speaks to him. ]

Do you have any earbuds with you? Or.. headphones, anything like that to listen to music with? [ He's been gathering she's not exactly from the same time as him, so he's not sure. ]

Back home, when I needed an escape but couldn't actually go anywhere, I liked to lie in bed and listen. It helps. Stops the suffocated feeling.

how curious. i'm strangely reminded of alchemy symbols but i'd need to have a look at my books for anything specific. [ to both parts, really. his grandmother's behaviour around both him and his sister and the picture he texts her.

she's... actually itching to get up to her desk to have a look in her runes textbook. but that means moving, getting out of bed - something she doesn't particularly want to do right now. not with her mother in the room. ]

oh. [ well that isn't an answer she's expecting? of all the things, his grandmother's mad at him because he ran away with her instead of staying? it's... troubling. ] well that's strange. i kind of want to suggest it's guilt, maybe. but she was so angry back in the forest. death can turn things into something far uglier, i suppose.

oh that's alright.

[ as for his suggestion for a distraction: ]

no. i don't have any music to listen to anyway. we don't really use anything like the small devices i've seen people here use. we use a wireless instead. a radio? and i don't actually know any Muggle music, either.

it sounds like a nice idea, though. i know it's not much because it's not something i can do now, but maybe for another time. i shall have to look into it.

Edited 2019-11-17 03:07 (UTC)

You have books on stuff like that?

[ He's still getting used to the fact that Luna is.. something else and he still doesn't entirely understand everything. Truthfully, he would usually still be frightened at this point, of something so strange and different, but...

...he can't be frightened of her. He's not afraid, even if what she speaks about does unnerve him. Somehow, he's able to separate the girl from those things. She knows about odd symbols and spells, but she's not after him. She isn't going to hurt him. ]

I think she was probably like that when she was alive, too. My mom said she was awful, growing up. She hurt mom's brother. He died because of her.

[ It's.. a heavy thing to say, but Peter is emotionless as he types it, eyes half-lidded. Even now the usual coping mechanisms are seeping in, dulling him over, numbing. His family is... a raw wound that's been ripped wide open and he has to think of them in the detached way he always has. Uncle, Mom, Grandmother.... They're kept in some packaged compartment deep inside him. ]

Muggle... what's that mean again? [ Has he heard her use the word before..? Maaaaaybe.... Peter's memory has many holes in it these days and seems to constantly be shifting. But he's making a mental note... to do something about this music situation. He won't forget. He takes a minute, finds a pen, writes it on his hand.

Luna
Music

Don't forget. ]

What kind of music did you like, back home?

— 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

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text; un: quibbler

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