'til i'm burning on the inside | Makism

[tarquin finley ellis]

He didn't want to remember. He wanted to black the words out; all of it. It was hard enough knowing it was real and true and that he'd done those things. It would only be worse to remember them, having actually done them. There was so much guilt and horror over the whole thing, and in his mind there was just empty space. Words tumbling about that made nothing better. At least he knew he did not want to be that kind of person this time. Yet for all the fresh start he could have had, it ended up like this; with the things that had happened. Now he was feeling oddly depressed dispite his previous gratefulness to be alive. Darkness had caught him, crept through. But Quinn did not want it to keep him.

Back in bed at the ICU and hooked back up to all the monitors and IVs, a few new bruises and scrapes here and there to mark his first outing after waking up. He had no wish to repeat any of it, and he found himself oddly worn out from it. Quinn knows he's been in a coma for over a month -- he was told as much -- but he can't help being tired. Maybe being kicked around had done it, but it was more likely the story he had heard. It had made him physically sick to know those things, and it wasn't as if there had been much in his stomach to begin with at that point. He had to start eating normal foods in a more gradual sense. Not that this bugged him so long as they kept the food coming.

The earlier words of today had been hard enough to take, and yet it kept being piled on him. The doctor had dropped more information on him that had only made him more confused and uneasy. It was with a perplexed expression on his face that he stared at the wall opposite of the door to his room. His arm was around the child cuddled to his side. The creature looked slightly over two, one fluffy white wing spread partly across Quinn's waist. The little one was sleeping at this point, and Quinn had been told the creature had been placed near him after hours for awhile when he'd been in his coma. Bonding or something, though Quinn wasn't really sure how he felt about it. It had been a carefully kept secret, though.

[makism vandik tarasov]

There was this thing with Makism and sleep. It dragged him in and pulled him under. He hated the feeling of exhaustion that couldn’t be chased away by the normal things—exercise, food, hell even sleep. Sleep couldn’t keep more sleep away. All he wanted tod o was well… sleep. He’d keep himself up, propel himself outside to take his dog for a walk. Dimitri still needed him. He’d drag himself down and stay in Quinn’s room day by god damn day until Driscoll kicked him out. Stupid bastard, what did he know anyway? What did he know what Quinn needed?

The entire situation was stressing the young man out. It made his head spin, it made him ill. Quinn had attempted suicide… he hadn’t gone to him. The love of his life had run in the other direction. It was too much and he was starting to slip. He was starting to slip down into the arms of a creature that seemed more than happy to catch him. A shared language, heritage… it was comfortable. The fact that they could sit and chatter on in a foreign tongue was something that could be their little secret… they could say whatever they pleased. Maybe that was nicer than he liked. He wouldn’t admit it.

Makism wanted Quinn back, first and foremost. At the time he rolled over and checked his phone it had to have been late afternoon… something. He’d been asleep for a long damn time. There’s a text sitting on the display, and for a moment he feels a rush of emotion… all that he can see is that it involves Quinn. A part of the Russian man has a sinking hope that it means the man has simply self-destructed. It would make life easier… it was what he wanted. Quinn always got what he fucking wanted, and it was enough to make Makism sick to his stomach.

But no. The opposite. Quinn was awake, and that was something that he couldn’t react to fast enough. Maybe it’s relief that floods his system, maybe it’s something that makes him far more ill. Words couldn’t describe how much he’d wanted to be the first one Quinn saw when he woke up… hours. Hours had gone by with the green eyed man pacing the floor of the Irishman’s room, humming Russian lullabies and just talking. He’d brought Story People down, he’d been reading to Quinn… he’d spent a lot of fucking time down there. All of that to have Quinn wake up when he was passed out himself? He just couldn’t catch a fucking break and that was getting fucking old.

The young man makes his way through a now familiar door, but he isn’t in a hurry. If anything, the young man is drained. Makism is honestly tired… tired of most of this. His feet are dragging as he saunters in, a wary eye on the creature in the hospital bed. Quinn’s hair had grown in the last month… otherwise he looks just the same as he did the last time Makism saw him up. Apathy combats joy as his eyes run over the creature. The dangerous thing is the apathy may start to win out.

“You’re up.” There are two words, heavy with the Russian accent, that dance across his lips. His eyes are filled with emotion, though, maybe the only thing not covered by an iron curtain. Makism’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, posture nothing short of awkward as he peers at Quinn. He wants to run, to kiss, to touch… but he’s restrained. He doesn’t want to be pushed away again. As if an afterthought he takes note of the child as well, as if with some degree of perplexity. What the fuck was that?

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn felt a lot better when there was food. They were being rather strict about it though, only giving him small amounts at intervals. He was briefed about that whole issue as well, not that he was happy about it. Still, just another thing to add to the list of crappiness piled up on him. Not like Quinn had a lack of that, and he'd only just woken up without any memories. However, information had been pushed into his head that was enough to give anyone a headache. He was trying to not think about it right now, wanting to just go on with his life. Or what he could have of a new one.

It didn't quite click with him why he'd done it. Why suicide had been the way he'd used to try and get out. That didn't seem like something he would do. Yes, he was all sorts of horrible as a person as far as he'd learned, but it wasn't something he couldn't bounce back on, was it? Learn from and become a better person? Well, it wasn't going to do him any good racking his empty mind to figure that out. No answers were going to come, and now he could just start over and be better now. He had a second chance, so he was going to take it and do what he could with it.

In short, he wanted different things this time around. He wanted to live. He wanted to be out of this hospital bed for good, off the machines and IVs. Quinn wanted to see his own room, his own bed. He hoped it was more comfortable then this one. Yet if he was away from the hospital smell and the constant in and out of nurses, that would be nice. He felt that he had been here long enough, even if he didn't remember all of it. Or much of it. Quinn hadn't even been able to find his own way back to this room. He'd been pretty lost, though that was fixed by staff bringing him back.

He doesn't remember what he dreamt about, if in fact he did dream while he was in the coma. There was nothing he could grasp from what he may have heard while he was under. None of it had stuck with him. So he wouldn't know that Makism had been there all that time or any of it. At least, not on his own. He had been told that Makism was there, though he did not have a face to go with the name or a voice. Nothing like that. Quinn didn't even get a description of the man that he had heard was in his room visiting day in and out while he was in the coma. He didn't have much to go on.

Quinn didn't even look up or away from the wall when he heard the noise of someone coming into the room. He assumed that it was probably just another nurse to come in and check in on him. Whatever, he could just ignore it; he didn't want to talk to the staff. He wanted them to leave him alone right now. Yet when the words come, Quinn twitches. There's something different about the sound. Almost soothing, really. He looks over, surprise flashing over his features as he catches sight of the rather attractive man standing there. "Oh!" He blinked. "I mean yes, I am..." He amended with an uneasy smile.

He honestly did not want to look away from the man standing there. Quinn's expression was curious and open, but he did notice the awkward posture going on. The eyes hit a note, though it's not that he remembers them, but he has seen the shade before. "Makism." The name is soft on his lips, and he wishes that he knows all the history there. Wishes he had memories of the man standing there. Of course with those would be the bad ones, wouldn't it be? Well, Quinn did the only thing he figured he could do. He held out his hand. "You were visiting me while I was..." He bit his lower lip, unable to continue that. "Thank you." He added quietly.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism shivers slightly where he stands. He's still sick to his stomach but its alright. There's Quinn. Beautiful, charming, shining Quinn. The young man looks the same as ever, and that's enough to put his queasy belly at ease. Briefly at ease, though. His head spins slightly, making his way across the floor with an odd shuffle to his step. It's something he has learned to deal with, the constant dragging to his muscles and fatigue that hangs over his body. Still, he's got a killer grace. This is a dangerous man, but he's still in love.

Makism makes his way to Quinn's bedside. He reaches out to touch the creature, fingers gentle. They go for Quinn's cheek. It's funny, the man can't remember the last real shower he'd taken but it wasn't a big deal-- he was clean. His scent and that of theman in the bed mixed...he was wearing one of Quinn's sweaters, it hanging awkwardly long on his shorter frame. It was one of the endearing things that could be seen in the couple...when they were a couple. Makism wasn't aware they'd ever really broken up but... well hell it was complicated.

His sigh is gentle. Makism leans down, kissing Quinn's forehead. "I don't know what I would have done if I didn't... wanted to be here when you woke up though." The young man is gentle, murmuring sweetly in Russian... the same sweet nothings he always had. Same Makism as he always had been, after all.

[tarquin finley ellis]

It did mean something, knowing that someone had been there for him even when he was in a coma and unresponsive. It meant a great deal to him now. It told him that to this man he had mattered enough for that. Quinn didn't know what to say on the matter other then thanks though. He doesn't know all the things that had happened between them. Yet when it boils down to it, Makism had still been here for him when he wasn't able to give anything. Quinn can't say what that will mean, other then he is thankful, it does matter to him. Other then that he's still so very lost. It makes everything difficult.

Quinn looks at the man as Makism shuffles over, and it's clear to Quinn this isn't a normal gait. Something's off to it, and he can see what it would have been like just under the surface. They'd done something to the man to get this sort of movement. It had to be. But once Makism is close, reaching out to touch him, Quinn braces himself, allows it. The touch is gentle at his cheek, and he smiles again at the man. His hand moves to rub absently at the other cheek where there's the shadow of a bruise from having been beaten on earlier, but it's not so bad. He finds his threshold for pain is high enough, which is nice.

It's curious as well to see the overly long shirt on Makism, and Quinn can only guess that it could be his. It would fit him, after all. It would fit into place that way, but knowing parts of the story, Quinn can't help but wonder just what exactly was going on between them before the coma. He hadn't been a good person then, so it could have been bad, they way he'd treated Makism. Maybe there had been some going behind the man's back, too. That wasn't something Quinn liked to think about. It was messed up, and his core being rebelled against being disloyal in such a way. It made his stomach feel uneasy.

His eyes close for a moment, the very one where Makism leans to kiss his forehead. It's another cool touch, but it feels good against warmed skin. Then he hears the words, eyes opening again to look once more at the man there. It doesn't seem realistic that he could have attracted a creature such as this. And then to go and... He swallowed, pushed the thoughts away. His hand moved to grasp very lightly at Makism's hand. "I don't remember anything..." He finally admitted, looking miserable. "I've been told a little bit, but..." His eyes darted away for a moment. And the child curled to his side chose that moment to shift a little in his sleep with a soft coo.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism is tired. He can’t help but be on a drag, lagging behind everything else in the world. Things that used to move like clockwork simply… well, they don’t any more. It’s a very ‘that was then, this is now’ sort of situation. Everything has changed lately, and he needs a constant. The fact that the constant had been something from before… well, from before everything was a problem. Kaiden… Makism had pushed him away. Makism had done things he wasn’t proud of. It seemed like he had very little to be proud of lately. Kira… Kaiden… he just needed comfort. Honestly, the Russian man had been burning from attention because he wasn’t getting it from where he needed it the most.

And then here he is. Back to the beginning. There’s nothing left but fire and ice and a heart that’s filled with old emotion. The thing about Makism is that once you’ve got him you need to keep him. You need to keep him interested… and Quinn always has. There’s something about the Irishman that has him ensnared for good and that could honestly be a problem. Makism can’t and won’t let go. That’s what leaves him by the bedside, fighting the internal struggle. He’d been left in the dust but it would be different now.

He could have told you the moment he walked in that Quinn didn’t have a shadow of a memory of anything that had happened for the last… for a while. He knows that there are some things that may never come back… he hopes some of it never will. The night they fought… especially that night. It leaves Makism peering down into Quinn’s face, taking a knee so they can be at eye level. Eye contact… eye contact and kissing. Two things that Makism finds vital in a relationship. Up until the last time he knew the man he’d only kiss the people he loved.

And then he hadn’t known the man at all. Fire had ebbed away and become a stranger, leaving the Russian man to ice over completely. He could be warmed but never melted, not until he was up against the creature again. It didn’t matter that it was a creature he hardly knew. It hadn’t mattered then. It matters now, Makism’s fingers running down Quinn’s cheek softly. He’s warm, as if he’s had a fever recently. Fire and ice… what are they now?

“What is it that you know?” Makism has to ask. He’ll take it from there with how much he tells the man tonight. He’ll see how he feels… already the apathy is melting away. The Russian man is startled by the shifting movement, the walls and defenses that had been dropped with the tender touch back up again. It’s… a child? His brow furrows as his eyes go to the sleeping creature, teeth digging into a lower lip. “Um…?” He doesn’t know how to phrase the question or really what to ask. It’s hi hope that Quinn will sit and explain to him simply what the hell is going on.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn felt a wariness that has little to do with actual sleep deprivation. He's been in a coma for over a month not even fourty-eight hours ago, so in that way he is pretty well rested. Yet it is the mental aspect of it all that is dragging Quinn down. First it was the want to remember himself and all he was. To regain all the lost memories that had made him who he was. Or had been. But the more he knew about who he had been before, the less he wanted to remember. Maybe it was better to just forget the want to know and carve out a new life. Be a different person.

There were things he obviously couldn't run from -- those who had known him before and the things he had done; the child snuggled to his side -- but he could find a way to dig himself out of this mess and be better. Right? He needed to believe in that. Had to hold to the fact that it did not need to go back to what was. He could have a new life, a new start. That was what good could come from the coma and how he had gottent here. It still didn't make sense, but now Quinn didn't really need it to. He could just push that away. It did not make a difference now.

Getting over his past misdeeds that he was told about might be difficult, but fromt here he could start to pick up the pieces. It could be okay. Quinn wants to make his wrongs better if he can. If he is mentally or physically able or prepared to do so. There are some things he probably cannot force himself to do. There's a structure to him that he seemed to be lacking before. At least as far as the stories told him. It's where it should be -- and should stay -- now. Quinn has no interest in being any kind of disloyal, but then again, he isn't sure he's ready to jump into anything right off.

It would have to be slow, because his mental state was far too fragile. He'd been surprised to find that from the sounds of things he had been.... gay. At least there hadn't been any indication of an interest in females at what he had heard so far. He hadn't seen himself that way whe he woke, though he had to admit that he did find Makism very attractive. Yet was that enough to... want a relationship with another male? Perhaps this time there would be more interest in females. No reason not to, because he hadn't been thrown off the idea so far. He could like both.

Even so, Quinn was a little worried about what might be expected or wanted from him if he were to be in a relationship. With either gender. He didn't remember how to have sex. He was sure that instinct would probably help him with that when the time came, but it did not prevent him from being uneasy on his performance. What if it wasn't good? That was unsettling, to be sure. Honestly, it was better to refrain from that sort of thing right now. And so he would. He couldn't really miss what he didn't remember anyway. It's not a big deal to him. Sex isn't going to matter now.

He doesn't need to remember everything. It's better not to at this point. He could look at life and all it offered with fresh eyes. It could be so much better that way. He would know about the past -- what he needed to know or what those who knew chose to tell him -- and that would be good enough. He was already thinking about life. About doing something helpful. Being something more, making a difference. Even in this place with all it's limitations. Quinn could work around that. Not a big deal. He didn't really know anything else anyway. Wouldn't phase him.

There were college classes he could take. Just because he was stuck here did not mean he could help; make something of himself that made him useful somehow. Maybe he could work in the hospital to help others get better. He had no wish to become one of those that altered people into becoming something other then human. He did not want to mess with genetics, minds and physical appearences. That wasn't his thing. He'd rather do some good, actually. He could help with the sick, try to get them better. It was a goal, a good one in his opinion.

It sounded like something he probably wouldn't have done before the coma, and it was the lest he could do after everything rotten he had done. A way to give back. To show that he had changed, that he wasn't the same person as before. Because from what Quinn had heard, that person was more destructive in so many ways. He did not want to be that now, this time. Quinn could show that it wasn't just the lack of memories that made him different. Yet that really was it, wasn't it? His core being hadn't been horrible. He had been bent and broken into that. He wouldn't be that now, this time.

Quinn looks up at Makism openly, curiously. He has that little smile curled on his lips, and perhaps he's too trusting. But this was Makism, this was the man who had visited him all the time while he had been in a coma. That was dedication right there. That gave a level of trust and respect in Quinn's book. He's aware that there had been a fight with Makism. He knows that. But the man has already given Quinn more then enough of a reason to allow a fresh start, even with that information in mind. And if Quinn wanted a fresh start, to be a new person, then he needed to give anyone that deserved it the same shot.

So he would. He's already forgiven Connor for things that no longer matter, and although Quinn wanted to be friends with the male -- Connor had informed him that they had been, though Quinn's skeptical of how that could be considered friendship with some of the elements to all that -- but Quinn doesn't want to be dragged down by Connor's drug use and how unstable the male was when addicted and needing more. Quinn already has the bruises and cuts to demonstrate how bad things could get when Connor disregarded everyone around him in order to get high and do whatever it took to get there.

Quinn didn't need that now. He cared as much as he could in this situation -- wanted to be friends, wished Connor would get better and stop using -- but Quinn wasn't going to let himself get sucked into that mess. It wouldn't help anyone. Quinn needed something more stable to work with while he was just getting his life together. Learning who he even was at the base of it all. Perhaps he doesn't know if Makism was any better in that way, but as far as he knew right now, the green eyed man was probably more safe to be around.

The touch of fingers at his cheek is calming and soft, and when the words come, Quinn sighs quietly. "That we were together before, but we had a fight... and I've done horrible things to people that didn't deserve it." His eyes had drifted away from Makism at these words. Quinn can feel the guilt setting in again. He's not sure who's fault it is, who's to blame, but for some reason with all that he already knows, he feels that it's probably him, his fault. So much added up against him aleady, so it would make sense. He wouldn't be surprised if he fucked up what he had with the man before him. It was hard enough thinking that he had caught Makism once as it was.

Quinn blinks a little when Makism looks to the child, and the question in the man's tone is enough to ask all that's needed. Quinn understands that Makism wants to know, but it's so strange to even begin to explain. Quinn doesn't exactly know how to, even. "My little pigeon. He's genetically engineered and whatever... my son in some sense... though I'm not the only father.." He explains, becoming more uneasy when he speaks the last part; his gaze fixed on the little one. How was he suppost to break that news to Makism? Quinn knows the man hadn't been told; had no idea of what had been done...

[makism vandik tarasov]

The young man shivers slightly as he stands before Quinn. He knows that they’d been away from each other… he knows that Quinn has changed. He knows that there are a million things he’d rather not know and a million things he’s going to try and fail to hold on to. He doesn’t want to fail this time… he doesn’t want to lose again. He’s not in to play a losing game and he knows that when all the cards are on the table sometimes it’s just better to fold. Makism also knows that no matter how much he lays out tonight, Quinn won’t be able to return a damn bit of recondition. Not tonight.

So he draws to the man, shivering gently. There’s always been a pull and a draw. That’s what got them in trouble in the first place, that pull. They’re magnetic, enough to make their heads spin. Makism hasn’t stopped spinning since that first touch, and maybe that’s why he’s come. He’s come for a million reasons. He’s here for Quinn… he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the man. He came in knowing it would be hell on earth to be with the Irishman… look where it had gotten him.

Makism vows not to be so pissy with Quinn today. There are things that don’t need to be said when the young man can’t remember anything to start with. For now he isn’t to blame. This is a different man in the bed before him. He’s a great deal more pale than usual, muscles have done their fair share of atrophying in the past month. Wow. A month. So many things could happen than a month. If that was to be perfectly clear… well, anything was. Makism’s green eyes are gentle on Quinn’s face now, and it’s not pity. If anything he hates pity.

”That fight… it was equal parts you and me.” The young man shivers where he stands, cool fingers stroking up and down Quinn’s arm, his face, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. He’s numb… he has been for a while. There are things that can be melted with time, sure, but for now the tepidness of the emotion comes with the lack of extreme temperature in his skin. What had started as a surge of happiness is tempered again. The Russian man has learned that strong emotion is playing with fire.

And maybe he can stand to get burned. This whole damn thing has been nothing but burning hot and being frozen to the spot over and over and over again. Maybe Makism loves it—wait. Maybe. Hell yes. It’s something like an abusive relationship, or it was, and he’d loved every moment of it. That was where you got into trouble. It was less beaten wife syndrome and more… more what? This wasn’t anything he’d ever seen before in his life, and that was enough to drawn him in and drag him under. Makism’s heart pounds in his chest.

But… then everything stops. His eye curse the dove curled into Quinn’s side. Makism lets go a small, strangled noise. He’s panicking. It has wings for god’s sake. It’s got wings, a little boy with more than one father… it’s got… no. Makism shakes his head violently. ”T-two… fath-thers?” He’s shaking, the cold is coming back, and it’s emotion that rises thick in his throat. ”What he’s fucking got is wings, Tarquin!” It’s a scream. His heart is breaking all over again. ”The one god damn thing I’d ever wanted, the only thing I wanted more than anything else in the world…” He can’t decide whether to scream or yell or sob at this point, and the emotion high brings his voice down to a harsh whisper. Makism stumbles back into the wall beside the bed, shaking violently. ”The only fucking thing I wanted, and you went and gave that away too!” Makism shakes his head, everything shaking… quivering… it’s like drowning all over again.

[tarquin finley ellis]

There has been so much change. He doesn't really know the extent of it now, but he is aware that he isn't the same person he had been before the coma. It was obvious to him; he didn't even think the same way simply because what he had been told of himself shocked him. Horrified him. He didn't think he could do those things now under most circumstances. He will be better then that now, because he believes he can be. Because he will do what it takes to be that. He has all the things he wants to do forming in his mind already, and now all he had to do was sort it all out and do it.

Quinn knows that he doesn't want to disappoint Makism, yet there isn't much he can do without memories of what had been, what once was. It gave him a chance to go through things in a new way, though. Quinn wasn't sure how happy Makism would be with that, and he isn't sure how to talk about it, even. He doesn't know quite what the man wants or is expecting from him now. So much is up in the air and confusing for him. All Quinn can do right now is wait until something happens that he has to talk, has to find out where the lines are to be drawn. He thinks he knows, and it worries him.

He can feel the pull, but it doesn't really make a difference to him right now. It's just on the ever growing list of things to think about and try to unravel. He just doesn't know if he can deal with yet another mystery tonight. It makes sense though, if they'd been together at one point. And with Makism having been there for him even when Quinn was in that coma. For that and other reasons stirring within his mind, Quinn is okay with this, with these touches and these moments with the man. It might be a little awkward in his mind, but it's also physically soothing.

His eyes are on Makism's in those seconds of silence; and he feels the bit of cold from the shivering male. It's not so bad though, and he can warm himself up enough not to be bothered even if the man becomes colder. Quinn doesn't want Makism to pull away right now. Not even if he's cold. Quinn listens to the words about the fight, feeling the cool fingers at his arm, his face. It's a little easier to swallow, the fact that Makism thinks the fight was equal in wrong. Quinn doesn't want the guilt that came with thinking it had been all his fault. But he wouldn't have been in the least surprised if it had been.

Then he is speaking about the child at his side, and once the last sentance is spoken, his eyes snap back up at Makism, hearing the strangled sound the man had made. He sees the way Makism is shaking his head, is just plain shaking. Quinn can feel the cold from the man's skin, can hear the emotion in the words spoken. The emotion doesn't sound happy, not at all. And then there are more words and Quinn's eyes widen at the scream, the words that had been said in that scream. The winged little one stirs with a little whimper, and Quinn's hand flutters over the child.

Quinn shudders as more words come, unable to look away as Makism stumbles back. He's confused for a few seconds, and at the last words it all clicks and falls into place. The wings, Makism was panicking over the wings. Oh! "You think the other father is the sickly-" He gulps back the words, not wanting to say anything bad of a might-be-friend. "Makism, the wings aren't genetic. It has nothing to do with parentals." Quinn is struggling, trying to find the words now. "His eyes; his eyes say all that needs to be said." The words are more quiet, and he moves to lift the child a little, causing the boy to open his eyes and peer around in confusion. One pale grey eye, and one the shade of Makism's green.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism is shivering everywhere. The words sit on the surface for a long, tense moment before slowly sinking in. Everything is slow. He’s watching through a kaleidoscope and it’s almost as if he’ll start slipping way again. Things have been slipping and sliding so much lately, and it hurts. He can’t get ahold of himself, and that’s starting to get more and more frightening. There’s a lot to be scared of, and he’s starting to be sick of fearing the face in the mirror. For now, he’s scared of a quick decent to the floor. He’s just… tired. So tired so quickly.

It’s like his head is stuck in a fish bowl, his ears stuffed with cotton. Makism is trying and fighting to get a grip. His hand reaches back out, reaches back up to Quinn. It’s ice cold… that’s a problem. Still, it warms on contact. Fire and ice, remember? Always. Always, it was fire and ice, they would keep crashing together before they ripped apart at the seams. He’s touching Quinn now, stroking his arm with shaking hands. So much can change in a month. Nothing can change in a month. It’s all in the way that you spent that time.

”He’s—“ Makism looks at the child, eyes focusing, unfocusing and refocusing. The hand that had been resting on Quinn was warmer now, reaching out to stroke the child’s face. Makism bites his lip hard enough to bring blood to the surface, chasing it away with his tongue. Everything… everything he’d wanted was here in front of him? What? He feels sick, but it’s good sick. The Russian man appears to have back what he was missing in his life… does he? For a moment his mind flashes back to the little girl he’sbeen seeing in his dreams, and that’s simply scary. That little girl… her face… she looks like—yeah. ”He’s beautiful.” The young man strokes the child’s cheek with a shaking hand. The child… it’s his.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Most things are confusing for Quinn today. There was so much on his mind, and all the things he couldn't remember were being shoved into his head from all sides. His head was pounding as everything became tense and cold, and all he wants is the calm. It's too much, too soon. He wants to shrink away from it all and find a safe place. Somewhere quiet and calm where no one wants to hurt him with words or physically. Right now there isn't anywhere to run, and he's not allowed to go to his room -- not that he even knows where it is yet -- and he has to face all of this head on because he's trapped.

There it is, really. No good or valid way out of this, of facing everything and everyone who remembers the things about him that he cannot. He can feel the cold of Makism as the man reaches back for him, and Quinn is drifting towards emotionally listless at the moment. He's pulling away into the depths of his mind because it is certainly too much and he cannot stand the disappointment anymore. His body responds by sending heat up through the skin to warm the touched area, and Quinn shivers a little by a response he doesn't quite understand nor can put a name on. It's not enough to pull him back though.

So he holds the child up for Makism to see, settling the winged creature at his stomach and brushing a hand soothingly over the child's wings. It's like he watching the whole thing from a distance though, seeing the way Makism reached then for the child's face. Quinn waits for the words that had started to come, watching Makism's actions with a neutral gaze. Of course Makism has to know now, has to understand what is real. It's written all over the man's face and how it changes. It's in the tone of Makism's voice as he finally speaks again. Beautiful. Yes. "Our son is lovely..." He is finally able to work the words out, but it's still odd. He sighs. "I don't know why he exists, why I didn't say anything to you about it... None of it really makes sense..." He adds softly, lowly.

[makism vandik tarasov]

A million promises hung in the air between them, but they were the ones only Makism knew the words to. He was the only one that knew now what had been said and why... he was the only one that knew their story cover to cover and in the places it was still being written. Maybe that stung the most of all... what were all the inside jokes and little silly things now? What were the words that had been spoken? Makism didn't want to be the only one with all the memories. He didn't want to be the only one again...

He's sick and tired of feeling so alone, and it's starting to be too much. It's starting to be a lot, at least. It's been a lot for a long while. He's aware of how deeply Tarquin cut him, but he's also aware that he can't lose the man a second time. Makism kneels on the floor, the spot that had become his over the course of so long a time. He wouldn't leave Quinn, not for all the times he'd left as of late. He just needs to hold on.

And he hopes with everything that things can be back to at least partially normal soon. "Er... mind if I come up and sit?" As the Russian man had deteriorated, he'd spent more and more time curled up to Quinn's side, stroking his chest and back with cold hands. It was as the man had grown cold in his bed and Makism had gone cold on the floor that he'd decided it was a good idea. Maybe not it'd open the door for the green eyed man to pretend they were a happy family once more. It's called wishful thinking, and he only had the best of intentions.

He only wants his husband back.

[tarquin finley ellis]

What is he suppost to do now? He has the stories and the pieces to it, but that doesn't mean he knows what to do with them. He can't feel all the things he's told he's felt, and it will take time for him to settle into what is going on around him. It's awkward and strange to him. It's wearing him thin, and he wants a break for a few hours. Yes, he already cares for the child there with him, and he doesn't want to upset Makism or make the man sad in any way. Quinn's fragile right now, just barely clinging to some sort of self that he's been trying to figure out.

He's looking at Makism and feeling nervous all the same. Has he said something else that had offended or bothered the man to have him down at the floor? He hoped not, and he was already sorry for it if he had. He takes a heavy breath, and at the words from Makism, he simply nods warily. "Sure.." He scooted over a bit, shifting the winged child. Quinn held him out to Makism with a pleading sort of look. "Can you hold him? He bites at his lower lip. "I'm really tired..." Another sigh and he was already sinking back against the pillow.

Driscoll would be in soon anyway, to take the child back and all... But tonight Quinn could barely keep his eyes open after what had happened. It was all so much, too much. And his body was already screaming to rest and be able to heal up the cuts and bruises over his body from the craziness of the day. He all but curls to Makism when the man is there beside him; just wanting to be safe and knowing that Makism won't harm him. And so he starts to drift off, an arm sliding around the man without even thinking about it. He wasn't even awake anymore.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism wants nothing more than to hold the baby. It's like playing house as a small child... it's like they'd always planned to do. He's able to sink into Quinn's bed and be surrounded by the organic smell of the man, the feel of his skin. He's wamr, and that's something that he needs. He needs that warmth and that gentleness... he needs to feel whole again. It needs to be real and true and something that makes his life complete. Sliding into bed next to Quinn is putting the missing piece into place. He's missed it.

At the plea he simply takes the child with a warm smile. He's cuddling the winged creature to his chest, an arm wrapping around Quinn. This is where he belongs. "Go to sleep, my love." It's tender. He leans, lips brushing against the man's forehead. Everything is tender, causing an ache to rock through Makism's heart. He plays absently with the baby, not realizing until now that he doesn't know what Quinn's decided to call him. That's alright though. All he needs to know is that it's his. Even when Driscoll comes, Makism won't let him take it away. Another security blanket, another night.

At the feeling of Quinn's body fitting into his, Makism knows he's home. “It is hard to forget,” I said, “When there is such an empty space when you are gone.” The young man recites the words quietly, fully aware that Quinn has already drifted to sleep. What he needs is right here in his arms. Absently he wonders how long it will be before he gets to introduce Dimitri to the baby. He'll like that an awful lot.

[tarquin finley ellis]

There's bits and pieces he knows that he's been told. He knows that he hadn't wanted children, that he avoided them at all costs, and yet when he has the winged child close he doesn't feel those things. He wants the baby there, wants to take care of him and be there. And it's obvious that Makism is thrilled at the idea of a child of theirs, even if the man hadn't been told about it beforehand and had no clue what was going on. But that made two of them, because Quinn hadn't really told Driscoll why he had wanted the child either. Now none of them knew. But the baby was still there. And cared for, at least.

It's easy to fall asleep now, with Makism there and looking after the child for him. The words lull him to drift off. Quinn hadn't actually named the baby yet, but it'll come. And he sleeps through everything; through Driscoll coming in for the child but leaving without. This once, the doctor allows it. Only because Makism has been told about the baby, and because that means some bonding might need to be done. Driscoll didn't know what Quinn meant to do by giving the information to the Russian man, but he accepts it and leaves for the night.

Hours later Quinn stirs and yawns, snuggling closer to Makism before he jerks awake and blinks. Then he sighs, remembering the day before and saying nothing as he lays there, prying himself away and to the side, rubbing his face and looking at Makism with wide eyes. He hadn't expected the man to stay.