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.]

[ 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.

Peter, if you see these dark ghost-like creatures in the sky, stay away from them. They're called Dementors, they're from my world.

Please do not go near them, they're dangerous.

If you need me to walk you anywhere, like to school or anything, I can do that. I know how to deal with them. But otherwise please be very careful, I can't stress that enough.

[ Peter will find outside his front door, next to a piece of coal labeled to Henry, from Wade, a shirt with a bow on it and a label similar to Henry's but this one is addressed to Peter from Wade. ]

Edited (forgot the front door part) 2019-12-26 01:33 (UTC)

[of course peter gets a gift from will -- a handpainted mug, mostly because he can remember how much peter seemed to like the ocean when it surrounded deerington.

inside are a few tiny moleskine journals, and a couple soft-leaded pencils, just in case peter has things of his own he'd like to draw.]

[ A leather bracelet that he hopes fits Peter's aesthetic. ]

[ The package is unassuming: small and soft to handle, wrapped in plain brown paper but tied with a delicate silvery ribbon. Inside is a hand-made striped scarf in the colours of one of the four Hogwarts houses — the one Luna thought best the receiver of her gift belonged to.

When worn, the scarf will radiate a low-level warming magic to keep the chilly weather away from its wearer.

Inside is a handwritten note, the verse of one of the Sorting Hat's many songs —]

To Peter,

'... you might belong in Hufflepuff,
where they are just and loyal.
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
and unafraid of toil.'

Merry Christmas,

— Luna.

— SHIP DECK, NIGHT content warnings: demonic possession, familial death, effects of physical sickness including death ideation, allusion to mental illness and institutionalisation (not descriptive!)

[ Like his cousin has once, Peter has been drawn up onto the deck by some other force, though it isn't sleepwalking, not exactly. What half-guides Peter's body is no subconscious auto-pilot, no parasomnia. It is something else, something out of place and confused, coated in layers of fog, its confusion amplified by the sudden existence in this place.

It's weak— but when Peter sleeps, it can emerge more easily, filling into the spaces of the body in ways that... shouldn't be. Contorting some nights, drifting upwards others. It's an awful sight, the way a body can move at its limits, how far a spine can curve inwards without snapping, how tangled limbs can become. Mercifully, Peter generally sleeps through these periods, and they largely go unnoticed — though the young man he's rooming with may have come across them once or twice and, just as mercifully, seems in no hurry to cast him out for what he is.

— Possessed by the devil.

Or, a devil. Some dark thing. Peter believes it to be true, and has hidden it. The malady began some unknown time ago, he can't quite remember; it just seems to his mind that he knows of it, and he knows it has grown worse after the deaths of his family. After the brutal puncture of abrupt, ultimate loss weakened him, and let dark things sink their claws into him more deeply. Emotionally, he's an ideal host for it, but his body hasn't been able to cope well with the intrusion. Peter's— sick, very sick. It's a parasite sucking at him from the inside, hollowing him out.

Truthfully, he thinks he will die from it.

For now, he passes it off as "a chronic illness", one that has him faint and weak most days, falling into things as he loses autonomy over his body. Dizziness, dissociation, loss of self... Coughing, violently, smelling blood and bile and rot that seems to come from his own throat, and at times his shaky hand removes the handkerchief with dread, half-expecting to see worms curling there against the cloth — but after a second or two, the putrid smell and taste have vanished. Is it all in his mind? Is his mind what's afflicted, damaged? Surely others would think so, and he could be locked away. It's what he fears most, to be taken and held in those white rooms, the way his mother had been for awhile. The way his mother had been.... unwell.

So he hides his affliction for what it really is, while quietly seeking any who might be able to offer insight or answers. This place is...not all it seems. The people are layered, here. Everyone has a story, and many stories involve the strange, the unusual. He's already glimpsed that.

He won't remember his strange, only barely-conscious journey up to the deck when the sun begins to set. Perhaps the thing inside of him seeks familiarity, and the ocean is... a comfort for it. Peter ends up curled in on himself, long-limbed, behind some thick roping near the deck's edge, tucked mostly out of sight. If he stays quiet, it's likely that no one would see him.

The sun has long-since set by then, and the air is black and frigid now, bitterly cold. The ocean wind is a harsh sting against the young man's cheek, but he stays sleeping the way no one should be able to out here — too deeply sunken into himself, in the blackness. The nightmares have him, nightmares and memories and aches that threaten to rip him to pieces from the inside outwards. The softer whimpers behind his trembling lips become moans after awhile, and then — cries. Like an animal or a... child, the muscles of his face tight, mouth tugged back at the corners, he cries out, chest lifting and falling quickly with those whimpers bordering on panic. His fingers scrape like claws against the wood of the deck below, but he doesn't wake. He's trapped inside himself. ]

Edited 2020-01-04 04:52 (UTC)

What the fuck is going on?

[ They've spent little time apart since their reunion in Arcadia. In some ways, it's almost like being back at school in Deerington — Peter looming behind her in corridors, silent and solemn and trailing after her. But it's been different, too — she's noticed. He trails behind her less, quick to take her hand or arm and keep at her side — less like a shadow and more like... something else. Some strange reflection, as if she stood with her hand pressed against a mirror — existing in tandem.

Luna... likes this. There's a great deal of comfort in his presence at her side; it makes the void of his absence for so many weeks seem more of a distant memory. There's a feeling of continuation that means she isn't looking back, she isn't thinking about how difficult the start of the year has been — letting her push forward. And mostly, she just feels a whole lot less lonely.

It's been a successful day's scavenging, picking through abandoned apartments and shops of Rapture. Difficult work, considering the dangers here — keeping hidden and low to avoid any of the strange machines and monstrous people who inhabit this place. And with that — the need for breaks every so often. The brunt of illness that came following her death may have eased — but there's a constant exhaustion that hangs onto her. Luna feels weary, aches terribly — and while she'd explained it to her companion as the slow recovery of some vague illness following the sinking, she never seems to look as if she's getting better. It's etched into skin, pale and sickly — dark circles under her eyes and still somewhat feverish. She's able, but it's slow-going most days, limited in what she can do.

On the floor of the refuge Peter shares with Ben, they lay out their finds of the day: tinned goods, mostly. A few other dried good items of food, a little water and rudimentary medical supplies. Luna kneels on the floor, too tired to stand for now, sharing out the items between them into equal-sized piles. She'll take her share back to Newt and Theseus, their apartment a little further on from where Peter's staying.

With an accomplished smile, quietly pleased by their efforts, she sits back — her hands resting on her knees. She looks across to Peter, still smiling and nods. ]

Quite a good haul, I think. Oh, and— [ Luna turns and pulls out a small circular tin from a side pocket on her bag. She places it down at Peter's pile — it's half-full with earl grey tea. Sadly not full, but they'll take what they can get, in all honesty. And if anything, it's a small luxury within the limited resources and scarce food down here in this place. ] give this to Ben, he'll appreciate it. I'll even let you take the credit for it.

[ She might have been the one who found it, but she doesn't mind. She's happy for Peter to take credit for it when Ben comes back.

Luna goes quiet for a short while, just looking at their finds — not moving. She's... tired, though. Even with breaks, and as nice as it is to be with Peter, she just wants to get back — get some sleep. If she can manage that, that is. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion she feels, she can't seem to manage it with sleep. Sometimes she sleeps too much, sometimes too little — lies awake for hours on end amongst the artificial lights of Rapture. Even in the dead of night, the ocean outside is lit up with a constant blue gloom — it's hard to tell when it's night or day without their Fluids to hand.

But it's evening now, and even if it's probably too early to go to bed — she wants nothing more than to curl up and at least try to sleep for a while in hope of easing how she feels. Slowly, she leans forward again and starts to pack up her share of items, tucking them neatly in her bag. ]

I— should go. Head back. [ Newt and Theseus already know she's here — she'd let them know with a text that they'd at least made it back to here since it's on the way. That it's a safe place — and she's been making sure they know where she is, all things considering for them. ] I'm— I'm quite tired now.

[ She could just speak to him via their red string, in all honesty. But she's missed texting him, really. Not to mention she's been wondering about something else since they got back to Deerington, and it's probably better to ask him over text. ]

Are you still alright to come over on Thursday so we can look over the new semester work together?

_{[She happens to spy his six feet of curly hair rising above the jumble of groaning bodies at the hotel, like bedraggled Godzilla rising from the deep (and that's a comparison she forbids her brain ever make again, after the Titanic insanity). That's more or less how they end up making the trek across town together.

She supposes... they're headed to the same place. The same home. It somehow feels more surreal than being back in Deerington, and that already feels a bit like one of her sleepwalking stints. She hasn't lived in the house on Howard Hill in a while.

And it's not her home. It was never that. She's untethered to any one person or place now; proof she doesn't have a home in any world.]}

It's weird to be back.

_{[The townspeople's strangely friendly behavior on the bus ride back poses a distraction sufficient enough to keep small talk to a minimum, even if either of them were inclined to it. It isn't until they cross the bridge on foot in sight of their old street that she voices the reservation bubbling up in the back of her head.]}

[ she's not surprised he passed out when he did, especially since the whole chain of events didn't exactly happen with the kind of care it should, if done under the right circumstances. but she comes from a gritty world where you work with what you have; maybe if the right medical care was possible, she'd still have both eyes.

unfortunately, shit is the way it is, and you learn to deal.

at the very least, she'd managed to get the gross thing out of him, but she'd left him in the care of some friend of his before waiting to see if he woke back up. keeping track of anything was nearly impossible in rapture, but since they've been back, addy's at least been able to look him up. ]

hey

you're the slug kid, right?

you still kicking?

Alright i think i get the "yas queen" thing but what the fuck does "yeet" mean?

OMG I FINALLY FOUND YOU

title or description

[behold, a completely contextless picture text, just for you, peter.]

My apologies for sending this at such an hour, but you wouldn't happen to have an axe, would you?

can you water the basement
i'm going to be late at school and eliots out of commish
i 'm not going to lie sticking my hand into the pencil sharpener instead of grading is just
so tempting

I helped to reunite her body with her head.

[ K is referring to helping the AI, Arid, put herself back together. Not that Peter could possibly know that. ]

What if someone did, though?

[ backdated to 7/31. ]

peter? paimon, whichever. it's john. call me as soon as you get this, lad. let me know you're all right.

Hey, um, I'm just calling to tell you that I moved in with some friends, so you don't have to bring me food anymore, or anything.

[ To say things have been... difficult, is an understatement. The last month's taken a lot out of her: the magic, the deal with Paimon, to find out Ruby had died, and then to spend several days unconscious? The days following waking up in the home of Mrs. Sheringham have been spent quietly, and then weathering out the storm and subsequent power-cut.

Part of her's glad July's over, to know Peter's back in control of himself again. But August is quick to bring its own challenges, and Luna already feels exhausted by it. They'll have to talk about things properly soon. But today, as she sits perched on top of a familiar old trunk, she can bring perhaps a helpful and welcome distraction. She'd seen Julia's message. She'd known about Kady already, but Eliot and Quentin, too? ]

How are you feeling?

I saw Quentin's gone, Eliot too. I'm sorry.

_{[After this, Henry can't be the only one thinking the obvious.]}

Are you talking to the weird demon doctor?

Are you going back to school?

Action.

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xmas morning

christmas gifts

christmas present!

december 24th

( closed to Will Graham ) — Titanic event

backdated to pre-sinking

— rapture

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also gently puts this here for the post-Rapture return

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