松野一松 「мaтѕuno ιcнιмaтѕu」 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ichininyaanshi) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lifeaftr2017-08-15 12:38 am
ichininyaanshi) wrote in lifeaftr2017-08-15 12:38 am
[day 13AUG] wake up, you're a drama queen
Who: Ichimatsu + ota
What: A man goes looking for cats. He gets one... in a sense.
When: August 13
Where: Enso D6
Warnings: Catastrophe, warnings to be added if appropriate
--
"I'm going out," he had told whichever of his brothers had been listening at the time. It might have been both, or perhaps it was neither -- if he were to guess, it would be the latter. Maybe it would have seemed a little odd to hear from the reclusive Ichimatsu, let alone in the middle of the day, when the sun was out and bearing down without relief. If so, Ichimatsu had likely shuffled off into the jungle without opening the floor to questions.
The truth is, he can't stand it anymore. It's been nearly two weeks of nothing but his brothers and a whole lot of strangers for company.
Ichimatsu needs to know if there are cats on this island.
He doubts it. Other than the fierce wildlife variety, that is -- tigers or leopards or whatever, he'd take it. Ichimatsu isn't picky. He'd just like to spend time in the company of something that won't force him to talk, or look at him like the sweaty garbage he is. If that means getting eaten by a leopard, well... no pain, no gain.
He begins at (i.) the pools south of the Storyteller's temple, to bottle and purify some water for his trip. From there, he picks a direction and goes. West, as it would so happen. With his hoodie tied around his waist and his knapsack drawn over one shoulder, he sets out on his search.
To be honest, it's all right with him if he doesn't find cats. He just needs some time to himself.
Ichimatsu spends some time simply (ii.) exploring the jungle. His knife finds its way through several trunks of trees to mark his path, and once or twice, his fingernails might be employed to do the job instead. Yes, really. A nap under the shade to escape the heat for an hour or so, or to hell with it: perhaps he simply sits on a rock, whittling away at a hunk of broken-off branch to ease his boredom.
It's just barely getting dark when Ichimatsu gives up his search for cat-kind, with less than half a bottle of water left, and begins searching for his nearest marking to follow his path home. Funnily enough, though his eyes catch a streak of clawmarks in the bark of a lush tree, something feels like it's pulling him in the complete opposite direction.
(iii.) Literally.
It's with a startled grunt that Ichimatsu jerks away from the physical pull, slamming into the jungle floor. He scrabbles at the grass, looking over his shoulder just in time to see one of his sandals come loose. A mass of black energy pulsates in an open clearing just a short distance away; a miniature, billowing cloud, a typhoon contained in its own vortex. He's never seen anything like it. A gravitational pull pounds through his skull like a sharp, sucking beat of tinnitus, and suddenly Ichimatsu registers what's going on.
Shit. He's gonna die.
That's fine, he thinks. He doesn't care. And yet he digs his fingers deeper into the soil, dragging himself forward inch by grueling inch until he can sling one arm around a tree trunk and hold on tight, his eyes screwing shut. What the hell is that thing? What'll happen if he lets go? He figures he'll find out eventually, but...
Yeah, he'll admit it. He's sort of scared to find out. So he grits his teeth and he holds on, weighing his options to the last.
Slowly, evening begins to fall across the island.
What: A man goes looking for cats. He gets one... in a sense.
When: August 13
Where: Enso D6
Warnings: Catastrophe, warnings to be added if appropriate
--
"I'm going out," he had told whichever of his brothers had been listening at the time. It might have been both, or perhaps it was neither -- if he were to guess, it would be the latter. Maybe it would have seemed a little odd to hear from the reclusive Ichimatsu, let alone in the middle of the day, when the sun was out and bearing down without relief. If so, Ichimatsu had likely shuffled off into the jungle without opening the floor to questions.
The truth is, he can't stand it anymore. It's been nearly two weeks of nothing but his brothers and a whole lot of strangers for company.
Ichimatsu needs to know if there are cats on this island.
He doubts it. Other than the fierce wildlife variety, that is -- tigers or leopards or whatever, he'd take it. Ichimatsu isn't picky. He'd just like to spend time in the company of something that won't force him to talk, or look at him like the sweaty garbage he is. If that means getting eaten by a leopard, well... no pain, no gain.
He begins at (i.) the pools south of the Storyteller's temple, to bottle and purify some water for his trip. From there, he picks a direction and goes. West, as it would so happen. With his hoodie tied around his waist and his knapsack drawn over one shoulder, he sets out on his search.
To be honest, it's all right with him if he doesn't find cats. He just needs some time to himself.
Ichimatsu spends some time simply (ii.) exploring the jungle. His knife finds its way through several trunks of trees to mark his path, and once or twice, his fingernails might be employed to do the job instead. Yes, really. A nap under the shade to escape the heat for an hour or so, or to hell with it: perhaps he simply sits on a rock, whittling away at a hunk of broken-off branch to ease his boredom.
It's just barely getting dark when Ichimatsu gives up his search for cat-kind, with less than half a bottle of water left, and begins searching for his nearest marking to follow his path home. Funnily enough, though his eyes catch a streak of clawmarks in the bark of a lush tree, something feels like it's pulling him in the complete opposite direction.
(iii.) Literally.
It's with a startled grunt that Ichimatsu jerks away from the physical pull, slamming into the jungle floor. He scrabbles at the grass, looking over his shoulder just in time to see one of his sandals come loose. A mass of black energy pulsates in an open clearing just a short distance away; a miniature, billowing cloud, a typhoon contained in its own vortex. He's never seen anything like it. A gravitational pull pounds through his skull like a sharp, sucking beat of tinnitus, and suddenly Ichimatsu registers what's going on.
Shit. He's gonna die.
That's fine, he thinks. He doesn't care. And yet he digs his fingers deeper into the soil, dragging himself forward inch by grueling inch until he can sling one arm around a tree trunk and hold on tight, his eyes screwing shut. What the hell is that thing? What'll happen if he lets go? He figures he'll find out eventually, but...
Yeah, he'll admit it. He's sort of scared to find out. So he grits his teeth and he holds on, weighing his options to the last.
Slowly, evening begins to fall across the island.
no subject
Ichimatsu doesn't even have time to react to the skeleton showing up, really. The kid makes an effort, but their strength gives and they snap back; Ichimatsu muffles a curse between his locked teeth as his own forearm, wrapped back up in one loop for anchoring, jerks with them and bangs against the trunk. Fuck, he's really gonna bruise. The damn brat's probably getting it even worse.
And they aren't complaining about it. Somehow that just darkens his hopes further, even if he's the one that just told them not to.
Once he's taken a moment to work the pressure off of his wrist, he glares up at that tree with the skeletal hand flopping about from behind it. The hell is that supposed to be? The voice is vaguely familiar, but honestly, he doesn't give a shit. He'll deal with whoever that is later.
"Shut up! I don't have time for you, too!" he bellows, setting back on the rope to reel his passenger in again. If the kid can't freaking help themself, he'll have to figure something out.
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Sans doesn't really care for adding to the weight of a situation, especially if he's gotta stick around for the fallout. Which-- well, technically, he doesn't have to stick around for this one, except for the fact that he has to.
He can't explain it, or why the very second he sees the kid lose their grip and start to fall causes the bottom of something in him to plummet, except that his bones feel cold and Ichimatsu's bellow sounds like it's coming from the other end of a very long tunnel. He doesn't even think, Blue Magic is already seeking to saturate the kid's soul, trying to catch them against a greater pull that would steal his breath if he had any.
Sans wheezes, and hugs the trunk of the tree he lays against, and then realizes that if he's going to get one, he has to get both, because there's still a rope tethering them together.
His sockets are wide and dark as his skull hangs around the edge, peering 'down' at the two of them, bright beads of condensed magic dotting the crown. Can skeletons look bewildered? Sans does, when he attempts to divert that blue magic to catch a second target -- difficult, but as his experiences in a certain dusty castle proved, not impossible.
no subject
They have a brief moment, in which to consider this. And then a very familiar sensation seeps into them.
Again, they stay quiet. But their SOUL leaps from their chest in response, a vivid red that shifts to deep blue, almost too quickly for the eye to see. There's no shout. There's no jerk of surprise. They don't look wildly about for the source of what's happening to them.
Chara continues looking straight at sans. And there is no fear, not at the situation, nor at his action, to be seen.
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Jyushimatsu or Todomatsu or even Karamatsu.
It's the same old question. What's the point of dying when he's still stupid and soft enough to think things like that?
But then, what's the point of living when he can't even save one stinking kid?
If there are few things that Ichimatsu does excel at, it's being stubborn until his very last. Maybe that's why he's unwilling to give up, even when his grip around the tree starts to slip. That's why he grits his teeth and growls into the dirt when his arm tingles a numb, throbbing beat, and he knows he must be losing grip there, too. Screw this fucking black hole. Maybe this kid is willing to go silently, but it can drag him kicking and screaming.
He doesn't expect to get dragged, kicking and screaming, so abruptly.
It's so unexpected that he freezes, his fingers uncurling from the tree at the horrible, icy feeling of something inside of him solidifying into a hard mass. Gulping back a yelp, Ichimatsu clutches at his chest just long enough for the vertigo to go unnoticed. And when it slams into him, it does so full force. Ichimatsu swings wildly at the air with his fists, his feet, anything to convey exactly how displeased he is to be gravity's plaything -- just about the only extremity he doesn't flail around is the arm still tethered to Chara.
He hasn't even realized he's moving away from the black hole, not towards it.
Hissing and yowling is all he's got left.
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Alarmed by how swiftly he feels his limit being reached, Sans doesn't wait, he just jumps off the tree trunk the moment they begin to lift past him, latching onto the back of Ichimatsu's hoodie while the other hand points in the direction he intends for them to continue going -- away from the black hole.
Don't accidentally clock him with your flailing, buddy, or at least not hard enough to make all their days a lot worse.
Their trip is brief, with one or two moments where Sans's aim is a little off, resulting in the two humans getting flogged by a bit of vegetation, perhaps, but eventually their 'forward' momentum slows, the force lifting them off the ground flagging.
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There's no point, for one. As the rope goes slack, there's no point to it; no way to wriggle out of what's gripped them. But it's not the black hole pulling them in- and they know that, too. Sans joins the two of them in their merry sailing through the jungle, and that? That is the only thing that spurs them into any action.
Yanking their way viciously up the rope, using that as the propulsion necessary to take advantage of where their SOUL is being directed to. A child's body veers right in front of Sans, taking any lashings from the overgrowth they speed through, right up until they stop heading forwards, and start to descend.
And again, Chara doesn't hesitate at all. They don't ask for permission- in those hasty moments before they crash into the ground, they're already wrapping their arms around his shoulders, curling over the slope of his skull.
If he dies for their sake, they'll never forgive themself.
He doesn't need another crack to join the one on the ridge of his eye socket.
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He just lets it happen to him.
Comically, it might be the violent tug against the back of his hoodie choking him again, like some kitten instinct to go limp when grabbed by the scruff. It might just be the hilarious irony of catching himself fighting back against that uninvited, unwelcome weight in his middle when it's not that different, not really, except in that it's trying to push him somewhere, not weigh him down into immobility.
Either way, he's pushed, and he's lashed by twigs and vegetation, and his arm yanks and he can't stop thinking about how badly this stupid damn kid has to be getting fucked up with every yank against his screaming wrist.
At some point, when their trajectory begins to slow, the rope tugs at a more consistent pull, and it occurs to him to look over his shoulder. What he sees is the kid crawling all over the... the skeleton, who's familiar, but fuck if it's important -- and he realizes they're bracing themself. Because they're not just slowing, they're all descending. Ah.
Well, he's useless for everything else. Who cares, now?
He twists around, the rope pulling so tight that it pins his arm to his side, and throws his remaining one around the skeleton, too. Somehow it's even shorter than he is, and it doesn't escape Ichimatsu what a ridiculous picture they must make, two humans bracing a dressed-up dead thing against a fall, but he's doing it more for the kid, anyway.
If they're lucky, maybe he'll be the one to hit the ground.
If he's lucky, maybe he'll break his spine.
He doesn't care anymore, either way. He tried. Let a good person care about it working out or not.
no subject
Well, besides the danger they're escaping from, there's now the danger they might crash, because for some reason, the kid's decided to wrap themself around his skull and--
Why are they doing this?
It's crazy, he knows it's impossible, but somehow the... smell? Yeah, maybe it's a smell, the humans are all variably a bit ripe if he's honest, but it's the familiarity that wraps cold fingers around the column of his spine and shakes him. Somehow, he both knows them and doesn't know them, and the dissonance of these things running up against a powerful need to not think about this anymore, that none of this is important makes his skull pound.
A weight, a steady pressure makes his ribcage ache. Sans can't drown, he hasn't the respiratory system to, and yet if he had to describe this, it'd be drowning or at the very least smothering.
Sans makes a brief sound, somewhere between surprise and dismay. The phalanges of one hand fix to part of their sweater.
Maybe he should peel the kid off his skull.
He should.
He can't.
All forward (and downward) motion comes to a dead stop. Maybe finding himself in a tangle of human limbs broke the monster's concentration because after a beat, the weight around their souls lifts, sending the lot of them plummeting the last half-foot to the ground.
Hopefully, no one's wrist or spine is broken, because while Sans might know a thing or two about binding a cut in human flesh, there's a lot else he can't fix.
no subject
No pull from the black hole in the distance. Chara's SOUL, freed from Sans' magic, goes back to a vibrant red, lighting up both skin and bone before it's roughly, and abruptly, shoved back into their chest.
Then it's just a matter of untangling themself as quickly as possible, squirming out of the awkward, almost hug they've seemingly fashioned. Their elbow hits something hard- might have been someone's nose or chin. They don't really care.
They need Out.
"No one asked for your help."
no subject
First, the three of them are flying backwards, as if propelled or tied to a chain and dragged at velocity. He's bracing himself to hurt, to break something, and he doesn't have enough time to be afraid of the pain other than an instinctual jump of adrenaline in his stomach.
Then, the three of them stop. Just stop. A suspension in midair that reminds him of the way a baseball thrown straight up hovers, just for a moment, before falling back down to the earth. Only they're not baseballs, and the fall to earth is a lot shorter than whatever height Jyushimatsu's arm is typically capable of achieving. They thud to the ground, and really, Ichimatsu would come out of it spotless if it weren't for the fact that he's at the bottom of the pile.
The skeleton is pretty light. But the kid has flesh to give them some weight, and being at the top just means that Sans's hard ridges dig into Ichimatsu's ribs pretty damn uncomfortably. He wheezes out a grunt at the impact, feels the kid's elbow knock him in the back of the head, which jars his vision a bit but doesn't hurt too badly. He's busy trying to untangle himself in turn, twist his arm out of the rope before the kid scrambles away so quickly they just end up yanking again.
The second his arm is free, Ichimatsu is the one shoving away, springing backwards onto all fours -- all threes, actually, because one of his hands is gripping his chest, where that crawling weight has released him, but lingers inside him like a stinger. Whatever the fuck that was, he hated it.
And it saved his life.
He's not even looking at the kid. His eyes are fixed on their savior as he staggers back up onto two feet, still clutching his middle, trying to place that familiar, slovenly appearance that doesn't reflect very well on his stricken skull-face.
They're right. No one asked for his damn help.
But they both sure as hell got it.
no subject
The dark Queen of the place he's left behind would toy with people like him, manipulating anything from their emotions to their memories to stir up trouble and sow the seeds of discord, but this compulsion was nothing like that.
For one moment, nothing was more important than saving some kid he doesn't know.
No one asked for your help.
Sans looks up to find both humans looking -- by his own interpretation -- hostile and on alert, and he finds himself getting irritated. It ain't like he gives a damn one way or another if they're grateful, but give him a break. His skull is aching, a dull fog is settling in all around them, and all he wants to do is sleep it off. Why the hell won't they just let him off the hook?
It doesn't occur to Sans that his unreasonable aggravation is extreme and abrupt fatigue, pure and simple.
"Nobody asked for your opinion, either," argues the skeleton, staggering back to his feet with an unsteady wobble. His pounding skull feels like it's full of boulders; Sans holds it upright with one hand while the other gropes blindly for the tree trunk nearby. "You're whining's a little late. You knew exactly what I was doing."
Holy moly, he is so tired.
"How'd-- how'd you," he huffs, giving his head a shake. "Hold up, I'm just gonna--"
Sans drops himself back onto the ground to sit, holding his skull with his hands. Whatever he was going to say, apparently it's not important enough to discuss, let alone remember. The humans are frustrated, scared, glaring at him, but uh, he's too tired to care. He'll just lean against this tree trunk and, yeah, just rest a bit. Can't even remember why it's such a big deal. What, did they want to fall into a black hole? Fine, they can march their tailbones right back into the singularity, for all he cares.
"Gimme a minute, ok?"
no subject
Such effort would have been tiring before, certainly, but not like this.
And suddenly, they have a higher priority. Sorry, Sans, it looks like they don't have time for the argument you'd like.
"You," Chara's attention shifts to Ichimatsu entirely as they shove a hand down the front of their shirt, holding his blade in front of them moments later. "If you want me to even consider returning this, you will stay with him. Neither of you move unless that thing gets closer, understand?"
Sans might be light, but they're certainly not going to trust the guy who basically ruined their wrist to carry him all the way back to camp.
"I will return shortly, with someone who can carry him."
no subject
But his heartrate is still soaring. He doesn't know what the skeleton did, but it invaded something inside of him, gripped it and shoved it around, and he feels violated in some vague sense. It's enough to foster an immediate resentment where there should be overwhelming, groveling gratitude.
He's just a great guy like that.
When the kid waves the knife around in front of his face and starts making demands, it takes Ichimatsu a moment to register. He stares for a moment, still gripping the front of his jacket. Then a dark look comes over his face. At once he seems to compose himself, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching forward.
This little punk... they're holding him hostage.
Heh. That's definitely something he and his brothers would have done to somebody at this kid's age. He almost respects that, in a way.
Almost.
"Huhh? You want me to protect this guy? I'm just weak garbage, you know." His eyes narrow. "Give it first."
no subject
His extremities prickle, his magic terribly depleted, and Sans can only think, heh, can't see the forest for the trees when you can't see the trees.
Like that's funny, like that matters when there's humans squabbling over a knife.
Why the hell does a kid have a knife anyway? Who lets them collect knives to stow in their sweater sleeves or between their mattress and the wall. Hell, on the occasions he's tried to cook in the castle sometimes he's found the drawer nearly empty of 'em.
There's a hollow thunk as Sans drops his skull back against the tree trunk he uses as a prop to keep him upright. The very second his headache begins to abate, he rasps a chuckle. He's overdone it, he thinks. Wade and him got carried away again, maybe if he stays really still, he won't do himself in by tripping over an empty bottle.
He's not drunk, he's exhausted, and he can't tell the difference.
"Heh heh heh, sure, leave it to the human," he says, a little deliriously, "Just do me a favor, pal. Whenever you get the guts to use it, make sure it counts."
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"Listen to me, you uncultured trash," Chara begins, voice low- quiet enough, perhaps, that Sans will not pick up all the words being said. He might be taller than them, and they may have to look up to see him- but there is no mistaking the fact that they are looking down at him. "If you've misunderstood this to be a negotiation, then let me make this simple for you."
The knife shifts in their hand, held with the confidence of practice. Undoubtedly, they look seconds away from lashing out.
They are.
"You will stay here. You will watch him. And if anything happens to him, even the Storyteller won't be capable of putting you back together."
They give Ichimatsu a few moments, lets their words sink in- and then the knife is going back into their sweater. Their voice returns to a normal volume.
"I will return shortly. Please remain seated, Sans."
no subject
It doesn't take a whole lot of common sense to see that Chara means business. In fact, Ichimatsu is perfectly capable of picking that up. It's his own total lack of self-preservation that darkens his expression -- or perhaps, more accurately, the sour vindictiveness he's built his entire modus operandi on, brick by brick. For a moment, he doesn't see a kid, injured and attempting to control the situation. He sees someone threatening him; someone looking down on him.
It pisses him off.
There's something in their voice. He can't pin it, but it makes the inside of him feel heavy in that same, raw way that the skeleton had invaded him, and his lip curls into a silent snarl. The knife? He suddenly doesn't care anymore. If the kid buries it in his ribs within the next two seconds, it'll be a comedy. Killed with his own knife? Hilariously fitting for garbage.
They call him uncultured trash; that is the smallest offense, and he's fine with proving their point.
He turns, hands shoving into his hoodie pocket, and eyes the clearly worn skeleton with a subdued yet critical look. He really does owe that weird guy his life. He hates that, hates his own burst of petty indignation that refuses to quell, but he hates being bossed around by random pricks more.
Sorry, skeleton man. He'll make it up to you some other time.
"Bite me," he snaps.
Without hesitation, he turns and begins stalking away.
no subject
For a moment, all Chara can do is stare, completely rigid in the wake of his complete denial. They can't leave Sans here alone. They can't carry him. This... utter sack of useless human is the key component to having ANY control over this situation, and his response to that?
Bite me.
There's no more time to think. There's the slap of shoes behind him; a child running to cut off his exit before it occurs, and when they meet his gaze, they hold a knife aloft once more.
Just not his knife.
"If you stay, I'll give you this."
And with a twist of their wrist, the blade alights with vibrant, cheerful flames.
no subject
He'd envy them for being so energetic after narrowly escaping a black hole, if it wasn't so damned inconvenient.
It doesn't matter. It's not his problem.
One of them is leaving, and that's a relief, he thinks. Maybe he can finally get some sleep. One of them chases the other, stops them. Pulls out something that lights up with tongues of flame, throwing Ichimatsu's back into stark shadow.
That tugs on his drifting attention.
A dagger set alight. A shadow.
He's seen that before, not just the spine-crawling twinge of deja vu but a familiarity that threatens to shatter his ribs, break open his mandible in its urgency to crawl out of all his empty spaces, something he knows is a vacancy, as ridiculous as trying to vomit up an empty mason jar, a noisy nothing crowding up the inner walls of his skull. This isn't important, he presses the heels of his hands over his empty eye sockets, blotting the sight of it out.
This is too much. He is much too spent for this. Much too tired. It's not important, it's not, no matter how much his bones ache.
He won't think about this anymore.
no subject
Then the blade erupts into a column of flame, and the caustic burn behind his own teeth snuffs out. His eyebrows leaping up into his sweaty hairline, Ichimatsu stares, transfixed for a bewildered moment at the display. It's not as if he's never heard of things (or people) lighting up like that. But this? This... is new.
Chara speaks. Slowly, Ichimatsu's eyes track to theirs, and his lids droop once more, diminishing some of the fire-glint in his eyes. For a few seconds, he stands in utter silence. He's studying them with shameless intensity.
Hey, kid. Thought this wasn't a negotiation.
And then something occurs to him. Why is this brat going through so much effort to make him stay, anyway? What do they care? He breaks his gaze just long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder, towards the squat skeleton in a galaxy-print hoodie, looking as completely spent as Ichimatsu himself does on a bad day -- without all the jacked-up hair and sallow skin to help. That skeleton, pressing the flats of his bony palms into his eyesockets, like there's even anything in there to keep inside his skull.
Come on, really? Is that what changed your mind?
His eyes move back to Chara, and for a moment, he's biting his tongue, tightening the corner of his mouth to keep from smirking. They want him to keep an eye on the sack of bones that badly, huh? What, just because they're secretly soft? Yeah, right. He's got about half their number. Just half... but it's enough.
You know what?
"... fine," he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
Fine, because he feels like a giant bruise, and he's not looking for excuses to go home and continue hanging around his brothers, wearing his hoodie in the humidity to conceal the sad state of his flesh. Fine, because now he's getting sort of interested in how this is playing out. And because -- though he still hates to admit it -- he does owe that skeleton.
Fine.
no subject
They refuse to be cowed by him. The only thing keeping him alive right now is Sans
And the fact that as of yet, they do not know precisely what happens to people when they die here. There's no point stepping on cockroaches if all they do is come back.
That doesn't mean they hate him any less.
"Fine." They echo flatly. Flipping the blade around, they offer it to him hilt first- or rather, they roughly push it into his chest. The sharp edge slices their skin- they don't feel it, nor do they care.
"If you leave before I get back, I'll kill you. That fact has not changed, sir."
no subject
They piss him off. But he's impressed.
Fine, they echo, and looks like negotiations are over. As they shove the knife into his chest, hilt-first, he grunts and brings up one hand to receive it. He notices a thin line of blood on the blade, and of course his eyes move to track their hand, but he says nothing. Only tightens his grip on the handle and lets it drop to his side. It's still warm from the flames, singed and smelling of warm metal and quickly-browning iron. Heh. Where'd a child like them get ahold of something so useful?
Well, a deal's a deal.
"Sure," he says without smiling. The threat of death isn't an exceptionally effective one against him, but he seems willing to cooperate nonetheless.
Then he turns, showing Chara his back for the second time, and picks a tree to settle against; dropping to the ground and drawing his knees up. His arms wrap around his legs, the knife drooping in his grip, and he stares at the reeling skeleton.
Get a move on, kid.
no subject
All he knows is the were two there and now there's one, staring at him in a position that might mirror his own exactly -- if not for the fact he's got a knife held loosely in one human hand.
"Where'd they get that," slurs Sans. It feels like he's trying to wade through a river against the current, just trying to speak. He's tired. "Where'd they go," he adds, sluggishly tipping up his skull.
It doesn't sound like he's particularly concerned so much as curious -- and a little bewildered besides.
What were they doing out here again? What was he doing? And why's he so freakin' tired?
no subject
He doesn't really care, though. Not that much.
So he lets his charge sleep, his eyes darkly flitting between Sans and the vast panel of foliage surrounding them. Idly, he flicks the knife back and forth on occasion, trying to get it to do the flaming trick the kid had done -- to no avail. Frustration gradually curls his mouth into a frown, and he gives up to continue his vigilant watch of a whole lot of fucking nothing.
The kid better get back soon. If he stays into the night, his brothers... well, they'd notice, at least. He doubts they'd do much except wonder where he wandered off to.
The sudden question comes as a bit of a surprise. Ichimatsu's dull gaze turns away from a shadowy fern to pin Sans with a look of mild irritation. Jeez, why did he have to wake up? Clearly he's not in the shape for it, anyway.
"Dunno," he deadpans in response to both questions. He lays the knife over the top of his knees and leans back against his tree. "Said they'd be back."
no subject
There's a jumble of questions Sans wants to ask (and some he doesn't), but they're all snarled up in each other like a tangle of subterranean roots. What he ends up with is a bewildered:
"You stayed?"
Knackered as he was, even Sans could see that Ichimatsu wanted to do anything but. He doesn't think that knife is his -- or anyone's, it belongs to nobody, or nothing that ever existed -- and somehow it is. Right there. Inert and dangerous. Sans, eye lights fuzzy and unfocused, stares across at the human with open suspicion.
"You're easy to bribe." Because that's what it is, right? Bribed to stay? Surely it wasn't out of the goodness of his heart. Ichi has as many reasons to give a damn about Sans as the skeleton does about the human.
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He doesn't give a damn, it's true. The skeleton saved his life, so by conventional morals he probably owes Sans this favor at the very least, but he doesn't have enough sincerity behind the gesture to point it out. The knife had only been a part of it. Mostly, he's sore and tired and he doesn't feel like moving for a while. He figures someone as disheveled-looking as this guy can understand that sentiment.
Maybe, just maybe... he's a little interested in seeing how this plays out, too.
"It doesn't matter to me why you think I'm doing this," he says bluntly. Then his muddy eyes slide to Sans, edged and jeering. "If I were you, I'd be asking those questions about someone else."
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/casually saunters back in
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