singillatim | well, i've made so many new friends, with open arms they've let me in

Entry tags:

well, i've made so many new friends, with open arms they've let me in

Who: Vasiliy (

m1895), Konstantin (

sputnik), others as starters are written!
What: Assorted Jan/Feb non-event happenings.
When: When the characters are interacting.
Where: Where the characters are interacting.

Content Warnings: Graphic-ish description of slaughter of a bird, animal death, blood, vomiting, alien parasite, possible Yezhovshchina/torture/execution mentions.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( for konstantin (

sputnik); early january. warnings for graphic animal death/slaughter. )

[ It takes days for Vasiliy to catch something. He's not a hunter, and he's not used to firing at a target that moves as briskly as any of the sparsely populated prey animals that occupy the Canadian wilderness. He does, however, eventually both encounter and hit something: a round white bird the size of a chicken, with furry white feet. Brilliant red streams down its colorless feathers as it struggles, immobilized: he hit its center mass, not a wing, but the bullet didn't kill it.

It would be frivolous sentimentality to waste another bullet to end it here, so he holds it by the legs and carries it back to the cabin as its struggles lessen; whether it's growing weaker or being held upside down has subdued it, he's unsure.

He retrieves a mixing bowl and the sharpest kitchen knife he can find when he steps into the house; Konstantin isn't in the living room, so presumably he's resting again. That's for the better; he doesn't need to see this, horrified as he already is with his current state, his current needs. He steps back out into the snow, sets the bowl atop the stump he's been splitting firewood on, and puzzles at the bird, trying to walk backwards in time to remember what Yevgena had said about the shochet who prepared the meat he was served when he ate with her parents, how he had made the cuts to exsanguinate fowl in the way rabbinical law dictated. He's bleeding it for different purposes, but the method, the efficiency, it should be the same.

Obviously severing the jugular vein or the carotid artery or both is the way to do this, but there was enough of an art to it that men were trained and awarded quite a bit of respect when they mastered it. He hasn't been trained, and he hasn't slaughtered an animal in his life. He lived in a tenement block in Petrograd, and then a kommunalka in the same city, now Leningrad, and then his own small apartment in central Moscow. At no point was it necessary for him to even handle a dead animal.

He does remember that the shochtim didn't behead the birds like the gentile butchers. He's not... confident that this knife could do that, anyway. They slit the throat, but Yevgena never specified on what side. He'll just have to guess.

His guess is correct enough; his inexperienced hand is able to still its weak struggles and bring forth a stream of blood into the bowl relatively quickly. The knife was sharp—good luck. Ideally; he'd be able to hang it up and let it bleed for a few hours, but there's not really anything to hang it on, and he can't move the stump the bowl is on. So he holds it as long as he can, then switches the places of the bowl and the carcass for the time being, warmth traveling through the metal and radiating into his bare palms as he slides his feet from his shoes in the doorway and transports it to the stove he sets it on.

He's apprehensive about not cooking it—who knows what kind of diseases it might be carrying? But the alien might not want it if it's cooked; it might denature it somehow. He remembers seeing some commercial about how meat that wasn't raw was bad for dogs, back in America. The same principal could apply.

He knocks gently on the bowed door to the bedroom, not wanting to startle a guest who considers himself to be on the run; he himself certainly doesn't react well to being abruptly awoken. ]

Konstantin. I caught something. You can try to feed it.

[ The thing hasn't emerged since that first night, at least as far as Konstantin is aware. He remains unable to have access to its memories: a mercy in some ways, a horror in others. Whatever minimal amount of control he might have had over this situation has been completely snatched away from him — now he doesn't know what it gets up to, has no idea when it's out of him. He can only cling onto the absence of evidence, hoping that it's enough. The lack of slime it would exude if it were out, the way his throat isn't coated in the same thick muculent substance when he wakes the next morning.

And of course, Vasiliy's reactions. If the creature had made an appearance, the other man would know, whether it's on a night they're sharing a bed or not; the cabin is so small that Konstantin's sure Vasiliy would hear the thing if it were roaming around. Of course, his consistent fear is that it will attack the man, that he'll wake one day to a mess of blood and the limp form of the EMT, skull cracked open and things leaking out. The knowledge that he has a weapon is, at least, something, but it's a concern that never quite goes away.

The gentle rap of knuckles against the bedroom door tugs him out of a hazy doze he'd been in the middle of; he's so prone to taking naps these days, body fatigued. But it's nice, being able to sleep when he likes, no longer a prisoner to the facility's strict regimen. He's stirring, eyes heavy-lidded as he sits up and shrugs off the blankets he'd been keeping warm under. That's another thing. He's been wondering if that's why the alien residing in him hasn't come out — this environment is surely difficult for its sensitive body. But it will have to feed. He knows Vasiliy's been working on it, a task that Konstantin thinks upon fretfully.

Speaking of which—

He blinks out of his sleepy daze, heading over to open the door, eyes a little wide, unable to suppress a certain tension from tightening his muscles. He hasn't been looking forward to this, despite knowing its necessity. He doesn't even know if it'll work. But he's been growing weaker and weaker as the days pass and the creature lacks the sustenance it needs; even if their bond has changed here, weakened in some ways, they're still tethered. ]

You caught something? What is it?

A ptarmigan.

[ From a small flock, he'd managed to shoot one, non-fatally—but he's lucky he got anything, and glad for it. He'll go back with snares next time—Vasiliy took care to remember the path he took to get to the clearing, and the landmarks on the way back. If they settled there once, they're bound to come back. ]

I bled it outside. There's blood ready for you. ...Just take it slowly. I'll put it in a glass.

[ Because drinking from a tremendous vat of it like an animal at its trough will no doubt only upset him further, accentuating even more the brutishness that he clearly finds so upsetting. Human beings drink from cups, and Konstantin Veshnyakov still is human, even if his confidence in that basic fact seems to be waning. ]

We should try this in the bathroom.

[ Vasiliy's a pragmatist—it seems likely that he'll vomit and need to attempt it again. It's a revolting taste, a revolting texture, and who knows what he'll feel internally when the thing wakes up and begins to feed? It's likely to start moving in his stomach, which won't be pleasant. They might as well do this somewhere easy to clean. ]

[ Konstantin stands there in the threshold of the bedroom's doorframe, hesitating, tense, listening to the other man's words. Somehow, despite the abundance of gore and horror he's known so intimately as of late in his life, hearing the words from Vasiliy manages to startle him, in some odd, off-putting way.

'I bled it outside. There's blood ready for you.'

None of it is without... care; the younger man is thorough, taking care with him as always, warning him to take it slowly, that he'll put it in a glass for him..... but it's the fact itself, hearing a human being speak of bleeding an animal, so easily. Perhaps it comes with the territory of being involved in medical emergencies, being used to seeing bloodshed, becoming desensitised to it, but... the act of killing and bleeding a thing has to be different. ]

I'm sorry you've had to do this, [ Konstantin offers with a soft wince, reaching to grasp the other man's shoulder briefly, as though in some gesture of support. Perhaps Vasiliy is simply internalising things, or.. tackling them with his steady calm; Konstantin feels bad for it either way.

The bathroom sounds like a good plan, and he'll nod before heading that way, trying to stave his nerves. Will this work...? Will the creature accept feeding this way? Will there be enough cortisol in this poor creature's bloodstream to satisfy the alien thing inside of him? He brushes his palms over his track pants, nervous, and waits for Vasiliy to return with the glass of blood.

At a point, he catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, and holds eye contact for only a second or two before he has to look away. ]

[ Konstantin's very tactile; they both are, really, as a matter of a cultural norm—but his heart still flutters in his chest at the firm, warm contact of his grip. It's unbecoming, he thinks, as he always does when feeling this particular unsteadiness: he's acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, not a grown man. ]

Don't apologize. It's nothing. Really.

[ And that's the truth—there was nothing particularly upsetting to him about any part of this; dimly, he recognizes that's not normal, at least in the future. Konstantin is probably assuming this is difficult or especially undesirable work for him, as it would be for most people—he's not aware that some human reflex inside of him is long broken, no longer triggered by the sight of blood, of pain. Whatever evolutionary urge kept his ancestors away from danger is simply... absent, and has been for most of what he can remember.

As he walks to the kitchen and pours some of the bowl's warm contents into a glass Vasiliy finds himself idly attempting to pin a date or a moment to the last time blood did upset him: seeing someone shot to death for the first time when he was seven is what he comes to settle on. He still remembers that. He doesn't think he'll ever forget it.

He's never let himself forget it, acutely aware of his position in the last generation to remember life before the Revolution, before Communism. Sometimes he wishes he could pull Lenin's American critics back in time, to stand with his child self and listen to guns crack in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, and watch human bodies crumple onto the ground and stop moving in the name of demonstrating the tsar's power. They were rats to those men. It was like killing rats.

The blood warms his hand through the glass as he pads to the bathroom, holding it out to his guest when he gets there. ]

Slowly. Even if it's just a mouthful, it's something.

[ It's not nothing — it can't be. This man just hunted an animal for him, to help him feed from it. (....Not him, but the unnatural, disgusting, deadly thing inside of him.) It's a task that no one should have to do. A sacrifice. Vasiliy's already given so much to help him.

Konstantin waits for the other man to return, trying not to get lost in his own thoughts, but anxiety is building and building. He's nervous in a way he doesn't often get: palms a little sweaty, heart restless. (Maybe he's afraid, too. He hasn't gotten to spend much time with that particular emotion; everything's flown by so quickly, like a nightmare that won't stop.)

But he is afraid of it. This.... horrible fucking thing. He's afraid of what it might do. What if it gets angry? Breaks right through him? He can't control any of this; it's an unknown, terrifying.

Vasiliy's returning, and he removes his hand from where it had been at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose lightly, lifting his head. His eyes fall on the glass — red and dark and so familiar, but not.... like this. Not consuming it like this.

Konstantin swallows, unable to hide his anxiety as his eyes widen, as he reaches for the glass of liquid that Vasiliy has bled from a living creature. With a grim nod, he carefully lifts it to his mouth, but he hesitates too long, and the smell of it gets into him, sharp and tangy. There's a sudden jolt from the thing, a violent twitch of awareness; even in its larval form, it's capable of sensing things, reacting to them.

Konstantin gasps loudly and jerks the glass away from himself, hand shuddering as he casts huge eyes to Vasiliy. Even now he's surprised by this, by its movements; he's so unused to this. To it reacting so much while still inside of his body. ]

It's awake. It's— it can smell this, I think. I don't know if it's going to get angry because it's animal blood.

[ Which are... concerns that are obvious, have been obvious, but in the moment, Konstantin's nerves are raring, not necessarily panicking, but.... the pupils of his eyes are dilated, his breathing too quick and short. ]

I don't know what it might do. [ I'm scared, is what he doesn't say, not him, Konstantin Veshnyakov, a grown adult man, a cosmonaut of the Soviet Union. But it's there, some basic human horror and fear. ]

[ Vasiliy has, over his time in EMS, and his time in the NKVD before that, seen what probably amounts to thousands of people in a state of fear: and that's what this is, unquestionably. Konstantin has been to space, somewhere Vasiliy would never go because of fear—but this is something very different from the cold nothingness of the void outside of a spacecraft. This is inside of him, threatening a painful death, not the more instant end most of the accidents that could happen up there would create.

He takes over the glass for a moment, setting it to the side an arm's length away, then rests both hands on his shoulders, squeezing. He's comforting a patient, at the core of this interaction. It's something he's been through countless times before, familiar (but no less genuine) song and dance he sinks into easily. ]

It won't kill its host. Without you, it dies. You'll be alright, Konstantin. Just take it slow, okay?

[ The glass leaves his hand as Vasiliy takes it away and Konstantin is so grateful for that simple gesture, shuddering as he leans forwards a bit, not at all shying away from the comforting squeeze to his shoulders. This isn't something he's ever done, he has no guidance, no stability, no—

....But he does have those things. Vasiliy is providing both, as best as he can, and it's so much more than if he were having to do this alone. The older man looks into the other's eyes with that lingering desperation, latching onto what Vasiliy's offering him, which is guidance and stability. He's nodding again, trying to calm himself, to hang onto the words. It won't kill him; it's too smart for that. It knows it needs him. It's just.... confused, upset, maybe angry, yes, but it won't kill him.

He takes a moment to breathe again, and then swallows. ]

Slowly. Okay. Slowly.

[ And he'll reach for the cup again, giving Vasiliy another nod to show he's all right, he's ready.... very slowly lifting it to his mouth. This time he forces himself through the reaction, eyes scrunched shut in discomfort as he coaxes a small sip of blood down his throat.

It's.... unpleasant. Indescribably so. The memories he'd absorbed from the creature before here were gruesome and detailed and over time he began to feel as though he were experiencing those sensations — tearing into human flesh, drinking down blood, pulpy with brain matter. But there was still some degree of separation, at the end of the day. He knew it wasn't really him doing it.

Now...? The blood goes down his throat alone, thick and hot and horrible. He's wincing at the feel of it, but that's nothing compared to when it finds its way into his stomach and to the creature that lives there, and— it starts writhing, squirming uncontrollably, and he doesn't know if that means it's in a frenzy to feed, most likely desperate with hunger at this point, or if it's upset by this strange new method. Either way, his stomach can't handle the nauseating, grotesque sensation of the thick wet thing twisting inside of him, and Konstantin quickly sets the glass down again, rushing towards the toilet, but doesn't quite make it — throwing up with a vicious splash against the wall and floor. Fortunately, it's only the small amount of blood he'd consumed, but it's still something of a mess, splattered as it is.

The creature continues to writhe in his gut, and he presses a hand to his front, moaning. ]

It's freaking out, Vasiliy. It's— [ A sharp hiss of pain, and he's moaning, leaning against the wall, forehead pressed to it. ] It's going crazy inside of me.

Edited 2024-02-14 18:50 (UTC)

[ The splash of grouse blood goes unnoticed in the sudden burst of chaos—his primary concern, his only concern, is the way the other has crumpled in pain with the thing's thrashing. He thinks of the radiograph, how big it was, already stretching his stomach longitudinally when motionless. Now there's the real risk of a rupture as its writhing undoubtedly puts more concentrated pressure on the already stretched walls of the organ it's chosen for its residence. They have to calm it down before it kills him.

There's real fear, but Vasiliy doesn't show it. Konstantin needs him to be completely unphased, confident and in control, or he'll crumble apart. It's no different than any other graphic scene he's been on—he can't outwardly react.

So he puts a hand between the man's shoulderblades, rubbing in a way he hopes is soothing, and urges, ]

You have to stay calm. If you panic it will panic. Focus on breathing evenly. It can hear your heartbeat.

[ Vasiliy's there again, touching him, and Konstantin's trying to breathe through his own pained moans, willing himself with every ounce of self-control not to dig his fingers into his stomach in some desperate attempt to stop the thing's movements. It won't work, he knows it won't work, will only make it worse, but every piece of him wants to fight against this unnatural thing within him, including his mind. Even if the flow of thoughts ultimately follow no logic, couldn't possibly be done, and he knows that—

If he could just dig it out, just claw through his own body, dig it out — or maybe plead with Vasiliy to just try cutting it out, take a knife, take any sharp fucking thing and just get it out of him

He turns away from where he's facing the wall, so that his back's pressed against it instead. Breathing labored, he slowly starts sinking down to the bathroom floor, uncaring of the streak of blood that follows him, staining his clothing. Long legs splayed out, he keeps that hand against his abdomen, but his other— his other has caught Vasiliy's arm and then slid down to his wrist as his own body slid down to the floor, and now his fingers are looped weakly around the other man's wrist like that, unwilling to let go. Konstantin holds on, looking up at him, eyelids fluttering. ]

I can't— I can't calm my heart down. I can't. I'm trying, but it's—

[ Spasming just like the little creature writhing fitfully inside of him. Konstantin isn't used to this nearly complete lack of control; he's been able to calm himself any time he needed. It's been part of his training, such an essential part. But it's so hard, and he's already so ill, and he pants for breath, fingers groping for Vasiliy's hand, latching against the younger man's slender digits. It's another display of weakness, vulnerability, things he'd never imagine he would show before. In this moment, so close to panic, they come so naturally. ]

[ He's seen countless panic attacks—it's not uncommon for people to call an ambulance because the constriction of their chest creates the illusion of a heart attack—but it's usually young women. He never thought he'd see someone he holds in such high regard—a cosmonaut—fall to pieces like this. He doesn't think any less of him, of course, but it's so human, such a far cry from the sorts of men he saw on postage stamps, the abstractions of this sort of character.

He's real, and painfully human, afraid and sick and in pain. He doesn't really process the rush of prospective emotions the hand-holding would elicit in normal circumstances; instead he just squeezes the man's hand, eyes never leaving his. ]

Okay. Alright. Why don't we lie down? I'll give you a towel to rest your head on. We can try again some other day.

[ Somewhere in the fog of his rising panic, there's... something else. Konstantin blinks widely, looking up at the other man.

This can stop. They can try again another day. There's... some degree of control over this situation. He can go lie down — and it's everything he wants, more than anything, but...

The creature continues to squirm, and although the shift is a subtle one, he can feel it, the way its movements become less frenzied — maybe it suffered a shock, with the blood uncharacteristically poured into its nesting place — and more insistent. It rolls, its slimy little body twisting this way and that, like a snake burrowing, only there's nowhere for it to burrow; it can only push insistently into the walls of his stomach. Bumping itself against its tight container, searching.

It's hungry, he thinks, remembering that at the core of everything, that's what matters. The thing is hungry; it freaked out, but it still needs to feed, it's smelled blood. He can't run away. He's... strong, has to be strong.

He's slowly releasing the other man's hand, lowering it to his side as he breathes, willing himself through. ]

It's okay. It's okay. I need to... do this. I have to feed it. Have to show it... how things are going to be, now.

[ This is still his body. And in this place, it's become apparent that the creature holds less capability and power. It's weak. It's... even more reliant on him than before. He swallows, closes his eyes for several long moments, and something to the control that Vasiliy's reminded him of helps. This is his body. His body.

After several moments of silence, the cosmonaut opens dark eyes again, and lifts his hand towards the glass resting on the counter. ]

I'll do it again. But you might have to help me hold the glass steady. If it.... moves so violently again, I might spill it.

[ To his surprise, Konstantin regroups—and reaches for the glass again. He nods, serious, and lets his hand hover near the one that's wrapped around it, ready to stabilize if it suddenly moves. ]

Alright. Slowly. Just a mouthful at first. See if it can handle that.

[ And if he can handle it. Raw animal blood would be a dramatic dietary change for anyone hailing from the USSR, regardless of which time period they're from, and there is his own body's upset independent of the creature unnaturally occupying it to consider, too. There's a reason people throw up if they swallow too much of their own blood. ]

getting back some autonomy by manually feeding ur worm!!!! with ur undead roomie's help...

sputnik - 2024-02-14 22:34 (UTC) - Expand

just think of it as a v8, kostya. an EXTRA bloody mary if you will

m1895 - 2024-02-14 23:00 (UTC) - Expand

"bloody mary" as their code for when he needs to eat and everyone just thinks he's an alcoholic

sputnik - 2024-02-15 00:12 (UTC) - Expand

someone drinking more than the one bloody mary it takes them to realize it's gross should be shamed

m1895 - 2024-02-15 02:27 (UTC) - Expand

YOU'RE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT

sputnik - 2024-02-21 23:07 (UTC) - Expand

𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑻𝑯

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NOOOOO THAT LAST LINE... KILLING ME HARMING ME!! cw death/gun violence flashback

meanwhile this tag about Vasiliy's Past about to break me.................

oh you know!!

cw: throwing up blood.... as usual. but especially violently this time

it's good fucking food. not for wormy though

EAT YOUR FOOD, WORMY!!!! you'll feel better... also this Gay Behaviour.....

covering my mouth,

the Gay Touch gave him the strength....

'it's his body' crying in the club rn

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gomen for the rambling.... very necessary paragraphs spent for Kostya watching Vasya chop wood

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