inaugural tdm of unspecified duration.

[vestigemods]

VESTIGE TEST DRIVE MEME

WHAT IS THIS?

This is a test drive meme for Vestige is a musebox-game successor to The Box (yeah, the one that died like five years ago). It's invite-only with no activity check and almost no application to speak of.

This is a horror jamjar based on Cabin In The Woods, in which characters are pulled into this containment zone run by the Technicians working from a lab underground with the goal of creating Good Quality Suffering™️ to appease the elder gods who hover on the verge of creating a worldwide apocalypse. But of course, suffering is pointless if everyone is too numb to properly suffer, so there are plenty of morale boosts provided in between bouts of fear and misery.

This TDM is ongoing and will fill the gap between now and when I get around to setting up the comms. There is no official start date and currently literally nothing but this TDM available for perusal, but I'll update this section of the blurb as that changes. Threads in this TDM are welcome to be game canon once this shit opens because fuck it. If you have questions, feel free to ask in the top-level below or just wing it tbh, we'll be doing a lot of winging it up in this shit.

Characters arrive with all powers intact and carrying all items that they had with them on their canonpoint.

Also, feel free to hit up the Intro + Friending meme to network with your future peers in this suffering endeavor. (EDIT 5/20: We also now have a DISCORD SERVER! So hop on into that if you'd like.)

PROMPT 1 ► just your ordinary cabin in the woods

⬛ARRIVAL + GENERAL PROMPT

Whenever you're from or wherever you were, you awaken now with the mildest of headaches in a medium-sized wooden cabin. Maybe you wake in a bed, barely padded and covered in dust (so are you now, congrats!). Maybe you wake on the floor, arguably softer than the bed in spots thanks to some handy dandy water damage. Either way, you certainly aren't where you were before, and you have no recollection whatsoever of arriving.

The cabin is modest but multi-roomed and fully kitted with a kitchen and cozy living room. Nice, dry wood sits stacked by the fireplace, and if you check the various switches, the lights turn on with only the faintest protesting static. The cabinets are surprisingly well-stocked, as is the fridge, with perishables and non-perishables alike. As if someone has been here recently... but how, when everything else seems so thoroughly abandoned?

Should you choose to ignore the cabin's supposed hospitality and try to leave, you'll find that both the front and back doors are securely locked, in a way that no amount of fumbling with the locking mechanism seems to remedy.

That's when a sloooooow creak draws your attention to a door nearby, one you may not have noticed before... but it's open now. Was it before? Better yet, should you check out what lies beyond?

PROMPT 2 ► who's up for some fighty-fight, kids??

⬛MONSTER HORROR.

The basement is musty and dim, though a pull-string at the curve of the creaky stairs seems to turn on a sparse row of lightbulbs dangling precariously from the ceiling along the center of the room. This little bit of light illuminates a room absolutely packed with items, furniture and boxes and various knick-knacks of unknown and questionable origin. Spiderwebs litter nooks and crannies, many with actual spiders still nesting inside, and a layer of dust coats most every surface in sight.

It doesn't seem like there's anyone down here, nor is there any sign of an exit at the basement's far end. There is, however, something that catches your eye. An item, one that your feet seem to carry you toward without your mind quite telling them to do so. Perhaps it's familiar somehow. Perhaps it's so foreign to you that you can't help but get a closer look. One way or another, you somehow end up reaching out to touch it. But what harm can that do, a single touch?

Oh, sweet summer child. Haven't you seen this movie?




---




Whatever else your characters might touch, to activate this prompt they'll also touch one of the following five items:


• A child's drawing, of what appears to be... shit, what even is that? Is it a bat? Is it some kind of... reptile? We just don't know. (result! warnings for gore/violence.)
  
  
• A light-blue paper face mask, the sort used in hospitals for patients who have a cold. Maybe you guys should've brought masks too. It sure would keep all this dust the hell out of your nose... ( result! warning for body horror! )
  
  
• A buzzsaw blade, dusty but intact. ( result! warnings for gore/violence. )
  
  
• A music box, covered in faded yellow flowers. I wonder what music it plays? ( result! warnings for gore/violence and Alarming Children. )
  
  
• A funeral urn. But... It seems that someone glued it shut around the edges? I guess that's one way to make sure nobody spills grandma. ( result! )

These enemies can and will follow characters outside, should they try to flee. It might actually be a good idea to face these foes outdoors where it's less confined, provided they don't stray too far from the cabin (see prompt #4).

The blurbs are just guidelines, feel free to scale up or down how strong/weak the monsters are, how many there are, etc. in order to better fit your characters' level of capability. The Technicians know your characters' strengths and weaknesses, so they'd know how to send enough to make this challenging but not insurmountable.

PROMPT 3 ► congratulations, you fucked up

⬛SURVIVAL HORROR.

Perhaps you didn't touch anything in the basement. Hell, maybe you didn't even set foot through that ominous basement door. But hey, we get it. Not everyone likes to party. You're not getting off easy, but at least you can say that you didn't fall into the trap.

If, by the time an hour has passed since the creaking open of the basement door, no object has been touched and no baddie has been summoned, you'll find your nose assaulted by the prevailing smell of smoke. One glance out any window tells you why: The cabin has been surrounded in it, an oblong ring of fire six feet thick burning tight along the exterior cabin walls. You're safe inside for the moment, but how long will that last?

Now, you have no choice but to try to escape the blaze. It overtakes the cabin quickly, creeping up over the rooftop, shattering windows and burning a path inside. No matter which way you try to run, you're almost certain to get burned... But that's certainly better than burning to death in here.

PROMPT 4 ► "escape"? never heard of her.

⬛PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR.

For some, staying in this creepy cabin with its stupid locked door was never an option. Maybe you break one of the windows and crawl through that, or maybe you're angry and OP and punched a man-sized hole in the wall itself. Hey, we're not judging. You got yourself outside, and that's what counts.

The outside of the cabin is... actually pretty nice. Picturesque woods, birds singing, perhaps a couple of deer bounding through the trees not far off. This place might actually be relaxing, if it weren't so alarming and kidnap-y. But it is, so it's time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Or to try to, anyway. Just a few short meters into the trees, you find yourself entering a deep and all-encompassing fog. You can barely see your hand out in front of your face, let alone your path through the forest ahead. If you're not alone in this venture, you'd best keep a hand on your companion lest you lose track of them, as well. And is it just you, or is there a slight chemical taste to the fog that you're breathing in?

(Yes. The answer is definitely yes.)

Before long, you find yourself turned around, stepping back out of the fog with the cabin in front of you. Little do you realize that simply turning you around is the most merciful fate that this fog has to offer.

---

This is easier to break down without narrative, so!

• The first time your character ventures into the fog, they're just turned around and sent back to the cabin.
  
  
• The second time, they hallucinate things that they don't want to hear. Something they fear, something that hurts them, something that stresses them the fuck out. Maybe a character's worst fear is wildcats and they hear one growling just out of sight in the mist. Maybe instead they hear a loved one crying for help back in the direction from which they've come, drawing them back to the cabin. Or maybe they hear the voice of someone they admire berating their cowardice or stupidity or something, for running away from the cabin in the first place. The goal is to psych them out and send them running back to the place where the action is happening.
  
  
• The third time, it's the same but full-blown visual or even physical hallucinations. Basically anything that might lure, scare, emotionally wound, etc. them into going back to the vicinity of the cabin.

Characters are welcome to start off venturing into the mist together, or to discover one another while they're already in the mist. If it's the latter, look out - it may be harder to tell friend from foe when you can't quite trust your own mind.

THE LOOP ► a note on replayability

Regardless of which prompt your character faces, they'll be left unbothered after the creature is defeated or the problem is overcome until sunrise the following morning. Though the fog still keeps characters from straying from the area, they're welcome to recover and lick their wounds in the immediate cabin vicinity. An unburnt cabin leaves them food and resting facilities, while a burnt cabin... Well, at least the fire never spread from that self-contained ring, so they have some nice unburnt grass to sleep on.

Come sunrise, all characters still awake will fall unconscious. At this point, many of them will reawaken in a perfectly undamaged cabin back in Prompt #1 to begin the loop anew. They may have the same comrades in this loop, or perhaps they have different ones. Maybe their new companions have done this before as well. Maybe they're brand new and have no idea what they're up against. R.I.P., you poor unsuspecting fucks.

This is, in effect, a series of trial runs by the current batch of Technicians to see if they're able to run this containment zone scenario long-term. When Vestige opens properly, characters will awaken free of the loop and will have quite a bit more continuity and recovery time between horrors. The 'loop' mechanic is specifically in place to give this TDM some shelf life and let y'all entertain yourselves while I work on the actual pages and such, rather than the one-and-done feeling of the usual TDM.

CODE BY TESSISAMESS (patreon)

Comments

[hydraulics]

[ It's a mark of how absolutely drained Mace is that Ian's already halfway onto the bed before his eyes flutter open, only just noticing the absence of sleek black hair between his fingers, the firm hand around his thigh. He fumbles with his jeans, pulling them up as he turns around with almost less coordination than Ian just had, taking in his expression intently — pleased, sated, and a flicker of an emotion that Mace can’t really place.

At that wisecrack, his mouth does something strange, not quite a smile, but closer to that than anything else.

Maybe it’s better if he takes the same route. Says something along similar lines, like I bet you say that to all the EMTs. Safer to just enjoy the quiet aftermath of what they’d shared, take satisfaction of his own in the throaty way Ian’s speaking, and then let the moment pass by them.

But he doesn’t want to. That’s not his way. From the moment he’d asked Ian if he wanted him — that unspoken yes he’d received had opened a door inside him that’s not gonna close until Mace decides to turn the key again. And like the rest of him, it’ll need something concrete first. Until then, it’s letting all the light and warmth in.

He shifts forward silently, gaze dropping meaningfully to Ian’s lips before raising back to his eyes, telegraphing his movements as he leans in with his voice still hoarse, still soft, but with something deep and steady underneath. You know what they say about still waters. ]

You missed a spot.

[ And this time when he kisses Ian, it’s with both hands cupping his face and gently holding him in place, not against a headboard or as a prelude to something more, but pulling him close to Mace instead, just to feel the heat of his body near his own. Unhurried and searching like they’ve got all the time in the fucking world, lapping the taste of himself out of that sweet mouth like he’s trying to say something.

In a way, he is. ]

[wittingly]

[ A joke would've been the easier path for Ian to follow. Dismiss the intimacy with humor, reel it back, step into the role they'd been in before they descended into this whole experience. It'd have been far easier than the way Mace leans in, cups his face like something precious. Kisses him without heat but rather with feeling, and outside of the realm of sex Ian can't easily ignore the way his heart responds.

He becomes passive. Pliant. Closes his eyes this time not to get lost but rather to detach.

Let it go.

He peels away slowly, gently, untangling with the ease and care of someone who knows how not to hurt someone's feelings as they end a moment.

He's got a good enough excuse lined up - a nod at the place where their small can of fire's still burning beneath a hot steel dish, balanced on a board that's deceptive in its sturdiness considering it's subject to spill at the wrong move of an inner-spring mattress. ]

It's a wonder we didn't burn the place down.

[hydraulics]

[ The disentangling is done deftly enough on Ian’s part that Mace doesn’t notice it as anything but the moment coming to its natural end, and there’s a clarity in his eyes when they open again, no more the unsteadiness of a few minutes ago. The exhaustion’s going too, and there’s a new strength in his limbs in its place, as though he’d just had a full meal.

Feels like he could do everything they’d done up until now all over again, and he’s not talking about the sex. ]

God, don’t jinx it.

[ And there’s the humour again, as Mace gets up to put out the small flame and bring the soup over to Ian, balanced on the makeshift board-tray of the drawer panel.

He'd technically had a meal the day before with the sandwich, but it's Ian who’s been on nothing but some soup and half a clementine for the last two days now. He must be goddamn starving, and with that in mind, Mace goes hunting for something else from their stash to easily pair with the soup.

Returns a minute later with some whole wheat crackers and, more importantly, a sealed bag of dried fruits. Protein, in lieu of some kind of meat. He tears open the seal and puts it all to the side with a pointed little look, brushing Ian's hair absently back from his forehead. ]

Finish your vegetables, I’m gonna go run us a shower. [ Together, of course. But the us implies it. ]

[wittingly]

[ He'd put in what he thought was enough for two people, thought it was obvious they were meant to share. He'd enforce that, too, except... It's the hand reaching out to softly brush his hair back away from his forehead. It's run us a shower. It's those things combined, and the tone Mace says with it, and the implication.

He freezes. Plain and simple, he's too frozen to try and push it. Too frozen even to say listen, I don't, but another part of his mind digs its heels in.

They're stuck here together. They're here together, and they might fucking die tonight. Even if he doesn't do this for himself (even if he can pretend no part of him wants it), who the fuck is he to do that to the guy who saved his life? Who the fuck does he think he is, taking away this one good in all the bad?

So his chin ducks, and he shovels food into his mouth instead of shoveling his foot into it.

He's starving.

(For food and for intimacy.)

Besides that, a shower sounds fucking fantastic after two days of sweating and bleeding and screwing around in the dust.

The quantity he puts down between the time Mace leaves and the time Ian joins him is almost astounding, frankly. Full, warm, post-coital, stepping into the shower is like the final nail in the coffin for how fucking tired he'll be after. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Ian's not wrong; it had been obvious they were meant to share it. But Mace had figured it would sound ridiculous if he'd tried to explain that one kiss — not the sex, not even the charged moment before it, but a single meeting of mouths — had been enough to refresh him. Or — not ridiculous, maybe, but it would've been too much.

He'll have a few bites before they turn in, he’s not too fussed. If he gets another kiss before they sleep, he won’t need that either.

Much like the rest of the cabin, the interior of the bathroom is heavy with dust, including the shower area. Stepping inside, Mace wrinkles his nose and promptly sets about washing everything he can with a military precision. Luckily, it’s an old-fashioned bathroom, with a center drain in the tile below rather than something modern and harder to clean.

Admittedly, he wouldn’t have bothered if it was just him, or if Ian was almost anyone else. But the thought of somebody he’d held, somebody he'd kissed, somebody he’d slept with, bathing in filth is frankly unacceptable to Mace. So by the time Ian enters the bathroom it’s gleaming, with a billowing cloud of steam welcoming him in and Mace at the shower, naked and placing various bottles along the side ledge.

His hair is already soaked and plastered to his face, and when he glances over his shoulder at Ian, he has to wipe it out of his eyes. Knows how he looks — like a wet shaggy dog, maybe, and there’s a bit of a grin on his face as he speaks. ]

Careful not to slip. The door off to the side goes to the laundry — we've got some pretty thoughtful hosts.

[ A pause, and then idly, holding out a hand for Ian: ] Y'know, for murderers.

[wittingly]

[ He'd worry their hosts were going to burst in on them during this, but frankly if they were in the business of interrupting during something vulnerable he can't imagine a better time than when he had his mouth wrapped around Mace's dick. If he were a murderer with a sense of humor, that's when he'd have done it.

He's been in this bathroom. He remembers what it looked like then, and comparing it now... it's obvious Mace took the time to scrub while Ian was eating. Can't say if he's amused or impressed or flattered, maybe some combination of all three of them.

He glances at the door to the laundry, skirts it and instead begins the process of peeling off his clothes and settling them in the sink. Whether it's a laundry chute (no way in fuck he's going downstairs) or a laundry room (probably a head in the drier, right?) there's no way he's trusting it right now.

Shower first, worry about clothes second.

And then they're both naked, and Ian takes the offered hand. Not like he needs the help, not that he- it's the gesture, and it's cinching something in him painfully, and fuck, god fucking damn it why here and now of all places? All this time being so fucking careful and he can't get himself under control in the place they're most likely going to die?

Stupid.

Another thing worth noting, maybe is that Mace looks good as fuck wet and naked. It's kind of a contrast to Ian and his unsightly fucking burn taking up the center point of his chest. The eye-catcher, the first thing and maybe the only thing anyone would look at if they saw him undressed.

It's gonna be there forever, in some form or fashion. No more wearing only swim trunks to the beach.

He steps under the spray to wet his hair and water goes cascading down his wound. He hisses softly, but there's really nothing for it. No way to block off that much of his body in the shower. It's not gonna hurt it, if anything doing a pass with some soap might not be a bad idea.

Apparently he hasn't noticed the bottles yet. Can't blame him, given what else he has to look at. ]

Was there actually - you know, stuff in here? Shampoo?

[ Or are they strictly burning off the gross with hot water? ]

[hydraulics]

[ It’s only after Mace holds out his hand that it occurs to him — there’s a chance Ian might not take it. Might see it as him trying to help Ian into the shower, which, fair enough.

But it’s more than that. It’s every bit as instinctive as brushing aside Ian’s hair had been, borne out of the simple desire to touch him again; the decreased chance of slippage is the cherry on top of the dessert, and when Ian’s palm slides against his own, Mace can’t help but rub his thumb against the knuckles, a secret, back-and-forth gesture.

Obscured by the steam, it isn’t until Ian steps into the shower that Mace sees him properly, and once that happens, fuck. He can’t look away, not immediately. He’s bruised, he’s bloody, the horrible scar running down his front is more vivid than ever. He’s drop-dead fucking gorgeous and all Mace can think of, watching the water sluice down his chest and the curve of his spine and the sweet little divots of his hips, is that he wants to kiss him again and not stop.

Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding onto Ian’s hand.

He doesn’t let go until Ian does. ]

Shampoo, conditioner, soap, and fuckin’ aftershave. They stocked the hell outta this place.

[ Kinda hard to keep sounding amused when Ian’s this close to him, naked — all that beautiful, wet skin within reach — but he manages it all the same, placing both hands on Ian’s shoulders and gently steering him until he’s in front of Mace. Still half-under the spray but without the full force of it hitting his chest, both of them facing each other, with Mace strategically placing himself between the door and Ian.

They make eye contact, and this time the humour comes easier, Mace's grin going a little crooked. ]

Bet there's lube in the nightstand.

[ A truly shameless eyebrow waggle follows, and then Mace is putting slight pressure on Ian’s shoulders, nudging him to turn around so that his back is to Mace’s front. ]

Pass me the shampoo. Biggest bottle, to the left.

[ Why yes, he intends to wash your hair, Ian. ]

[wittingly]

[ It shouldn't spark something in him, that thumb brushing over his knuckles. He shouldn't be feeling some type of way over how it lingers, or how Mace puts his hands on Ian's shoulders to steer him around. He goes mutely, obediently, pliant and malleable while completely out of his depth. When's the last time he shared a shower with another person? Not in years, probably, and even then it'd been one of those morning sex situations with somebody he didn't see again after. It had been entirely physical, playful, lustful, and very little cleaning actually got done there.

Stop letting this happen. You need to back up. You need to set boundaries. You need to stop playing house.

He reaches down. Plucks up the shampoo bottle. Passes it back.

(It feels good, though. To have an excuse to let it happen this time. They're somewhere removed from reality. This isn't real, this place is a nightmare so why can't it be a dream?)

It's going to hurt when it ends.

It'll probably end with him dying, so he'll never have to feel that hurt, will he?

Fuck, the duality, the conflict is so strong it's almost rendering him speechless. Certainly contemplative, a little withdrawn, a little quiet. Might be able to pass it off as being tired. The hot water feels good anyway. Mace feels good, just this presence. The steadiness of it, the safety, the security. Like a rock, a suit of armor. Something to latch onto that feels safer than a barred door, safer than a wall. A coping mechanism.

If he were here alone, he'd have lost it already. Even if he'd managed to survive somehow, he'd be locked in the bedroom going slowly insane. ]

I can make lube.

[ He murmurs dismissively, as though to say this cabin isn't all that impressive. But it does bring to mind a good question: ]

Why the fuck would they bother, though? Why give us food, why give us fucking shampoo if they just brought us here to try and kill us? Is it- like a test, to see how long we survive it?

[hydraulics]

[ Ian’s gone a little quiet, and Mace doesn’t think much of it at first. Takes it as just post-coital contentment — that maybe this is how Ian’s like afterward, loose-limbed and pliable and calm, and exhausted to boot, considering what they’ve been through. It’s certainly the way Mace is feeling on the inside, with the exception of the sudden vitality in his body that has less to do with sex, and more to do with Ian himself.

But then there’s a shampoo bottle being placed in his hand, and it comes with a question that flicks a light switch in Mace’s mind, lets him know whereabouts Ian’s thoughts are at the moment, and his smile turns a little regretful.

It's a good question. If they hadn't just slept together, Mace would've broached the topic himself, would've been ready for both of them to put their heads together and see if they couldn't find a weak link in the chain being wrapped around their throats.

But all the possible answers to that question are going to be laced with a sense of despair. And this moment, here and now? This peace that they've managed to snatch, this sweet calm that's settled over Ian for the first time since their nightmare began — Mace doesn't want to let it go.

He keeps that regret out of his voice as he pours out a palmful of shampoo and then begins to lather it, the scent of sandalwood filling the warm air around them. ]

Got a hypothesis. But I feel like … [ The pads of his fingers move along Ian’s scalp in firm, careful, circular rubs, and it’s not the utilitarian way one would expect a guy like Mace to wash hair. No brisk movements with the sole intention of cleaning as efficiently as possible. No quick rinse afterward. He’s not just washing, he’s massaging, unspoken affection in every touch. ]

It’s not in my best interests to tell you what’s on my mind. Because … [ Still keeping his tone low and conversational, sliding his thumbs to the base of Ian’s ears and gently rubbing the area there in firm, upward sweeps. ]

If I do that ... then that’s gonna be the only thing you think about tonight. And I don’t want that. I want you to ...

[ He knows this is ultimately futile. Telling Ian that he has an idea but that he’s not telling him is probably going to prompt him to want to know what the hell Mace is being so mysterious about; in a way, then, this is Mace just delaying the inevitable. And finally, some of what he’s feeling enters his voice as he murmurs into Ian’s ear, ]

Close your eyes.

[ So he can rinse. ]

[wittingly]

[ Nobody's ever done this for him before. Nobody, not even when was still actually willing to date back in his twenties. As much as a stubborn piece of him wants to carry his uncertainty and his discomfort, it's impossible to with fingers massaging his scalp. The effect is nearly instantaneous, with Ian's shoulders slumping and his head tilting into the feeling, all muscles going soft.

He places his palm flat against the shower wall, just to make sure he doesn't go falling the fuck over because he spaces out too hard.

Thumbs at his ears. Low voice. ]

Oh my god.

[ Murmured so that the syllables bleed together, a low rolling drawl. ]

I don't even remember what we were talking about. You keep doing that we can do whatever you want.

[ He would argue that it's better than whatever Mace was feeling on the receiving end of his lips and humming throat. Maybe they can work out a bartering system. One for one exchange rate.

His eyes go closed. His head tips to be more accessible to the flow of water.

Low, and nearly under his breath: ]

What are you even doin' to me, man?

[ Taking him apart and putting him back together again, is what it feels like. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Looks like they’re not hopping the fence toward that dead end just yet. Ian’s shoulders slump forward, his body loosening further with each rhythmic circle of Mace’s fingertips against his scalp, and when the hand goes out to brace itself against wet tile, Mace gives a small inward sigh of relief. Good. ]

Trying to get you to stop thinking so much, mainly.

[ Another murmur as he starts to rinse the suds out of Ian’s hair, grime and sweat and blood swirling down the drain until the water runs clear at their feet.

Let Ian settle into this feeling. Let him block out, just for a little, the fucking hellscape that they’re trapped in. They don’t have the guarantee of tomorrow, and they don’t even have the guarantee of the rest of the night while they’re asleep. They just have this piece of time given to them for whatever reason — because Mace’s hunch is that it’s for something horrible on its way — and there’s no sense in it, for him, to not make the most of it.

You live in the moment, because the moment is all you have.

And it really is both of them making the most of it, because it’s not like Mace isn’t getting anything out of this. In fact, if asked, he’d probably say in all sincerity that they’re already at an equal exchange rate with this.

He likes this. He likes the way Ian’s muscles go soft in response to his touches, likes hearing the way his words slur together, likes knowing he's making him feel good instead of being the cause of yet more bruises on his body.

Frankly, Mace just thoroughly enjoys taking care of somebody he made love to. Knows the biological reasons behind it — because nature has very little use for things like feelings — but the why of it, that’s not his business. ]

Pass the soap, Mr. Lube.

[wittingly]

[ Well, it works. It probably isn't just this shower, it isn't just Mace's hands, but on top of everything else? It's enough to teeter him over the edge. From curious to content, from active to hibernation. He's ready, he thinks, resigned to going to sleep despite everything that could happen to them tonight. Despite what's probably going to happen to them, if not overnight then first thing in the morning.

Until then, though, they have this. They have the tired-languid feeling in their bodies. They have the comfort of each other. They'll have falling asleep together, he thinks, because he still maintains that keeping a watch is pointless.

Let it happen.

At least there's this.

It's like that resignation breaks through his conflict finally, helps him make up his mind on how he'll handle them, the two of them, during this reality. He plucks up the soap, but rather than handing it over immediately he instead turns to dip into Mace's space. To press their lips together in a manner that, while sudden, doesn't feel abrupt. It's too deliberate for that, too controlled a landing, it's just that it's warningless.

Fuck it, right? Suppose they're to die tonight. Suppose he could look back after and think for eight hours, you could have at least pretended you were in love and that someone loved you back. Who wouldn't choose that? Who wouldn't ask for that consolation like a last meal?

Thank you.

For the touches and the kindness, and for everything you keep doing for him, and for being who you are. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Instead of soap, he gets a kiss, and Mace doesn’t even try to hide the way it makes him smile or the small rumble it pulls out of him, a little surprised and a lot pleased.

It’s not lost on him that this is the first time Ian’s initiated a kiss between them, unasked. It makes something unspool inside his chest, because somehow this time feels different than the others before, more intimate, more aching. It feels, he realizes, like the kiss he’d given Ian back on the bed, right after they’d finished. Like it’s Ian trying to tell him something, this time.

One arm goes round Ian's waist, the palm splaying across the small of his back as Mace pulls him in properly, until there’s barely enough space between them to slide in a dime. Then that disappears, too; he’s still being careful of the wound, but the desire to have them pressed chest-to-chest wins. To feel the other guy’s heartbeat, to hammer the point in home for both of them — we’re still alive.

The kiss stays mostly chaste; he doesn’t think either of them are angling for round two just yet. ]

Hey. [ Under the running water, their lips barely apart. It’s odd, kissing somebody as tall as himself. Maybe even taller by an inch.

Mace thinks of what he didn’t say before. That the reason they were giving the two of them this moment of reprieve was because it'd make it hurt worse when it all ended. If their time here was an endless bout of misery, it would be far easier to hit that final wall. But to be given something like this, to know goodness one last time only to have it torn away —

This close, Ian’s eyes remind him of the dark between the stars. ]

Doesn’t matter what happens. Doesn't matter what else they take. They can’t have this.

[ He takes the soap out of Ian’s hand, rubbing it in slow circles against his back until a lather forms. ]

And I'm glad.

[ I'm glad it was you. I'm glad to have had this. It'll be worth the fall, for me. ]

[wittingly]

[ It's been so, so long since he let himself have anything like this. It's like new skin, raw nerve, no callouses. Sensitive and delicate, so much so that even an arm around his waist has his heart pulling itself apart like cotton candy. Sugary, gritty threads stretched out across his ribs. The possessiveness of it, the way it feels like he's being guarded, it's just so god damn good that it pricks at something he has to swallow down.

They're flush from lips to chest to thighs. They're skin to skin, naked, nothing but water in between them, and barely even that. Mace might be able to pick up on that heartbeat after all, because his is hammering out too hard, too deep, too loud.

When they pull apart he's a little breathless, there's shower water clinging to his eyelashes, and despite the humidity he can still feel breath on his lips when Mace talks.

They can't have this.

He's glad for the running water, makes it harder to tell that his eyes are shining. Maybe harder to tell that something's welling up inside him, the lamenting of a child who's presented for the first time with something concretely unfair and with no recourse for it.

They're gonna take it, though, aren't they? That's what this is. Maybe they both know it. Maybe this place is Ian's hell, where they're going to slit open his chest and expose his heart, and once it's out in the open they're going to take it from him.

He knows suddenly, sure as breathing. He knows it like he knows gravity.

What escapes his throat is thick and mournful, contrasting the sweetness and the confidence in Mace. It's absolutely despairing, but unshakably certain in his hypothesis. ]

I think they're gonna kill you and make me watch.

[hydraulics]

[ Even now, even after having had his body carved into and then seared shut, it’s not they’re gonna kill me — no, Ian’s still thinking about Mace first, and it makes him want to kiss the quiet anguish right out of that perfect mouth. Replace it with lips and tongue and teeth, until even the memory of it melts away like a bad dream.

His other hand continues washing away at whatever part of Ian he can reach, but the arm around his waist tightens, as if Mace can protect him just by holding him like this. Shield him from whatever the fuck is headed their way. The knowledge that he can’t — that if and when it comes down to it, he probably won’t be able to do a single goddamn thing to stop it —

That he can’t reassure him, I won’t let that happen, or I’m gonna get you out of here —

Mace swallows. But his voice stays steady; grows even steadier, because he means what he’s about to say next. He’d heard certitude in Ian’s voice alongside the heaviness of despair, and he needs to at least try to combat it, even if he won’t succeed. ]

Then you close your eyes.

[ He doesn’t know if it’s the water, or if it’s something else making them damp, but the sight of it is cutting into him worse than any shard of glass or scalpel. ]

And you stop your ears, if you can. And you go someplace good inside your head, until it’s over. [ Another kiss, swift and clumsy, to hide what saying all of this is making him feel in turn — and then he presses their foreheads together, their noses touching, his lips twisting with something wistful. ]

Here, maybe. If it’s good enough to stay in. Ian, Ian, listen to me.

[ If dying meant he’d be able to get Ian out of this place, he wouldn’t give a fuck; he’s pretty sure he’s dead already, and to have been brought back long enough to know what something like this feels like to have, it’s fucking worth it. But he can’t make that trade. He can’t make reassurances he has no hope of keeping. The one thing he can promise, though: ]

I’ll see them in hell first.

[wittingly]

[ He's got it wrong, he really does. It's more selfish than thinking of Mace first - he's thinking of himself. He's thinking of that rending pain he felt when his mother died. He's thinking of that decades-long slow, low ache of never having a father. He's thinking of that feeling of loss, and how it tore him so bad he never let himself come close to feeling it again. Not until this fucking place. Not until now.

Petulantly, wildly, he thinks but it's gonna hurt.

He's giving himself a panic attack. He recognizes it, and though he tries to pump the breaks it's Mace's determined reassurance that seems to want to send him careening off the cliff. It just means so much, it keeps him from detaching. Keeps him from peeling back from this and floating off somewhere else in his mind. Ian, Ian, listen to me.

Fuck. God, fuck. Fuck, man.

This was a mistake. This was a mistake from the second he took Mace's wrist in his hands, because he's the one that set this whole turn of events into motion. He could've pretended he didn't know the signs for that kiss. He could've reeled back at any point before they got intimate, because apparently there's no un-intimate now. There's a clear line of demarcation. Before they became whatever this is and after, now.

It's too late. There's no going back from this, and it is going to hurt.

He swallows down the lump rising up in his throat. Tightens up his chest to seal in the pressure of a storm that wants to escape. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he going through a fucking roller coaster of emotions? Maybe he has lost his goddamn mind.

Or maybe he's just so god damn tired. Maybe it's fatigue taking a toll on his emotion regulation. His ability to process all of this mentally.

He licks his lips. Swallows. Peels his eyes away and toward the shower floor.

Rasps out quietly: ]

I think I just need sleep. I think I really wanna go to bed. Can we--

[ Finish here, and go somewhere with the lights off, with the door barred, with blankets to hide under. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Thing is, Mace wouldn’t be able to identify that as selfishness even if he tried. Even if they didn’t have this between them — even if he weren’t so hopelessly compromised the way he is now — just the fact that Ian’s linking his own pain to Mace’s existence is something that could not translate as selfish to him.

But he can see the effect all of this is having on Ian now, see it in his eyes when he drops his gaze, in the way he has to swallow and lick his lips before he speaks, and in the way his voice goes suddenly hoarse.

Okay. Okay, it’s too much, that’s all right. ]

Yeah, we can.

[ Agreeably, because Ian’s right; all of this is getting to him in a way that needs some sleep to balance it out, or at least an attempt at sleep. Draws back just enough so that he isn’t so much in Ian’s immediate space, but not far enough that it feels sudden and empty. He doesn’t want to let go of Ian’s waist, feels like his arm belongs there — but reluctantly pulls it back so that he can finish washing the rest of Ian’s upper body, fingers pressing in firm and soothing, working out whatever kinks he can find.

One palm rests briefly over Ian's left breast, and then he's lathering himself up right after in quick, perfunctory scrubs. Puts the soap into Ian’s hand again in case he wants it for anything else while Mace rinses himself off.

The air in the bathroom after he turns the water off is heavy with more than just the moisture, and Mace gives Ian a searching glance before ducking away into the laundry for something to dry them with. Silence something he’s used to, comfortable with, and confronted with having to fill it — he’s a little out of his element.

He’s not normally as talkative as he’s been with Ian the last few hours.

A minute later, he reemerges with the sole bathrobe he’d found hanging there earlier, and a towel. Wraps Ian up in the robe, mainly because it’s the quickest way to get him dried and also because there’s something about the way he looks — open, bare, forlorn — that makes Mace want to bundle him up and hide him away. Then he slings the towel around his own waist, saying quietly: ]

There’s somebody's clothes in the hamper, but.

[ They can wear them in the morning, when (if) they wake up. Or he can grab them now, if Ian wants, but sleeping in the almost-nude isn't something Mace minds. He holds out his hand again, nodding his head toward the bedroom outside. ]

[wittingly]

[ He can't seem to decide whether that new distance is welcome or not. Whether he likes the idea of having set up a boundary and pulled back, or whether he's discontent about how he immediately misses it. He shouldn't be. They've known each other for two fucking days, two days.

Then again, they've almost died slightly more than once per day. Near-death experiences cause trauma bonding. Still, though, it shouldn't make him want to act like they're in a god damn relationship. It shouldn't make him want to be familiar with one another in that way that touch becomes a constant, a second-nature, an easy-as-breathing.

Hard to keep from feeling that way when Mace takes care of him like a lover would. That- actually doesn't even feel like a fair assessment, because he's been one of those before. Had one of those before. The care and dedication on display now surpasses anything he'd given or received.

Two days.

The water stops. The robe goes on. He combs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back and away. It won't last long, it inevitably winds up succumbing to gravity and falling around his ears like a wet dog.

He eyes the hamper. Puffs out a breath. ]

Let 'em look me in the dick when they kill me in my sleep.

[ He sleeps nearly naked at home anyway. If it's his last night on earth, or their last night together, might as well go for the full experience, right? Pretend-normal. Fast-forward fantasizing about being on that level with one another, rushing through first kiss and first fuck and showering together and now sleeping together. Give it another week and they'll be engaged.

He takes Mace's hand.

Another new habit they're adopting like it's not unusual. Standard procedure. Expected.

The cabin is dark. There is no moon. The bedroom light beneath the crack in the door is the only welcoming sensation, the rest of it from the hallway down seems to loom in. It feels vulnerable crossing between bathroom and bedroom. Feels like it's no man's land, and the pressing sense of being watched increases tenfold from some source near the front door he can't see through the dark.

Shutting the door and locking it behind them is a relief.

That last dresser slat remains unused, and he holds it up along with some nails. ]

Think we should...?

[ Hammer that god damn door closed too, like the window? Maybe see if it takes a little better than just the dresser did? Might not make any fucking difference, but it might give their minds at least enough illusion of safety that they can fall asleep. ]

[hydraulics]

[ There was a movie, from the same era as the others they’ve talked about: the story of a bodyguard falling for his charge, and vice versa. Happened within a matter of days — and Mace thinks that his earlier comment about not being a prince, but a bodyguard instead, was right on the money.

Hey, Hollywood had to get their ideas from somewhere, right? It’s not impossible. And there’s something about being so completely focused on someone — of spending hours on end with nothing but their safety on the forefront of your mind, protecting them first with weapons and then your body, flesh tied to flesh and the mind following suit.

The intimacy of knowing what they sounded like in the throes of red-hot agony and white-hot pleasure, both inflicted by your own two hands —

Ian takes his hand, and the darkness in front of them loses all meaning and horror. He can sense something in the emptiness of the cabin around them, and it loses any element of trepidation for Mace. They can't have this. ]

They look anywhere near your dick, I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em in my sleep.

[ Spoken with dead-seriousness, as he takes the remaining slat and nails, picks up the hammer from where he’d left it, and goes to work hammering the door shut right in his little towel-toga.

There’s definitely a world of difference between someone managing to push a dresser out of the way, and manually tearing off a barrier; besides, it’ll give them some measure of peace, anyway. The placebo effect exists for a reason, after all, and if they’ve only got one more night of sleep ahead of them — at least it’ll be a sounder one.

By the time he crawls into bed next to Ian, he’s finished doing the last perimeter check of the night, and the mattress is devoid of anything but Ian’s long, robed limbs and the sheets. With the added protection of the blankets around him, from what Mace can feel as he slides himself underneath them too.

The room around them is dark, almost pitch black because there isn’t even the light from underneath the bedroom door anymore, and somehow it feels slightly colder. A chill hanging in the air that hadn’t been there before.

Mace wordlessly draws as close as he can to Ian’s side, and after a beat, lays an arm carefully across his upper body. It’s so vastly different from the way they’d slept the night before. Ian with his fresh, charred wound, and Mace laying flat on his back like he was back in an army regulation sleeping bag. Separate from each other, a formality brought about through pain. Now they're practically nestled together.

In the dark, his hand finds the back of Ian’s damp hair, and he runs his fingers through it slow and lulling. ]

[wittingly]

[ Mace earns a soft, breathy laugh for his troubles. He's not sure what to call that - jealousy, possessiveness, in any case he's never had whatever that is, either. A partner feeling guarded on behalf of his body. Can't think about it too much right now.

He wants to offer to take up a hammer. To nail in the other side of their board. He knows, though, the look Mace will shoot him just on instinct. This time he gives in without a protest, allows the fatigue to carry him to the bed. To shake out the blankets and pillows so that they aren't sleeping under dust.

When Mace climbs in, Ian spends all of thirty seconds contemplating whether or not he should even try restraint here. Gives in too quick and rolls over onto his side, backs himself up until he's pressed against Mace's chest.

Yeah, the arm wrapped around him is good. Feeling him across the span of his back and his shoulders is better, safer somehow in a way that doesn't make any sense.

Fingers card through his hair.

He exhales.

The panic from earlier has faded down to a soft, sad creature in his chest. It's an improvement, but it still drives him to speak after a few quiet minutes like this. ]

I don't do this. Back home.

[ It's an admission, almost guilty sounding. ]

I don't... Date. Or... let people...

[ In. Take care of him. Hammer his nails. Plaster themselves around his back so that he feels secure. He gets that security from himself back there.

Can't say why he felt the need, but there it is. A confession. ]

[hydraulics]

[ He almost says, let people make puns around you, because Mace is many things and self-aware is one of them. He knows how odd his sense of humour is, and nine times out of ten, it’s only for his own benefit. Ian’s taking up that last slot, though; even what he’d said earlier had been to get a smile out of him, something to gainsay the approaching panic he could sense welling up.

That, and maybe a measure of — possessiveness, for lack of the right word. Mace isn’t generally an old-fashioned guy, but the thought of some son of a bitch trespassing over such a vulnerable area of his partner’s body evokes a certain knee-jerk reaction of fuck no out of him, straight from the heart. And … for the duration of their stay, and as long as Ian gives him the green light for it, that dick is nobody else’s business but Mace’s.

But the way Ian’s speaking right now, it stops him from making any jokes, droll or otherwise. There’s a note of guilt in Ian’s voice that he doesn’t understand, and it makes him want to tread softly here. Near this part of Ian that he’s choosing to expose, whether out of some swell of emotion, or just bone-deep exhaustion.

Whatever the reason behind it, it’s a show of trust that’s perhaps more private than what they’d shared here earlier, or in the shower just now. ]

Nothing wrong with that.

[ Mace’s eyes have adjusted a little bit even to the current gloom, and in front of him he can just about see the gentle slope of a neck, hair falling across a nape. He thinks of pressing his lips there — just trails the tips of his fingers there instead, a faint touch meant to be both acknowledging and reassuring, before sliding them back into Ian’s hair.

I don’t date. Was it because he didn’t want to? ]

You know, I remember reading in college … the Band of Thebes.

[ Ian probably already knows, he’s a professor. Mace presses on anyway, his voice a low, steady thrum in the darkness. ] It was a military squadron. Comprised entirely of lovers. The idea was … well, you give a man somebody to fight for. Put that somebody right next to him on the battlefield, and … he’d find himself equal to whatever it was that came their way.

[ In the end, that’d been death for the Thebians. All three hundred of them, slaughtered. But that’s not what Mace is getting at, not why he’s saying this and probably sounding like a fool for it, too. ]

Thank you for letting me.

[ Letting him do whatever is that you don’t normally let people do. He doesn’t need to know what the specificity of that is; thinks he gets it, anyway. And with that, he brushes his lips right to the base of Ian's neck. ]

[wittingly]

[ Wellp, considering the current population of the cabin consists of Mace and aggressively amputation-happy zombie doctors, Ian's quite happy with his dick being nobody's business but theirs for the duration of their stay.

The touch to his skin, to his hair, it's incredibly pacifying. It lulls out anxiety a little, edges it closer toward rest. Soothes away some of the tension that could easily take root in his brow and in his shoulders. He's tactile, but he didn't realize that meant receiving too.

The Band of Thebes is a familiar story, but in a distant and detached way. He remembers the name, remembers vague details, but the elaboration is welcomed and immediately understood. It's another root, another tendril weaving its way into the knotted tree that's been rising in his chest. The branches have been thick and so have the boughs, filling him uncomfortably full.

Give him somebody to fight for.

If he only knew the kind of person Ian was, what he'd do if they weren't here, he wouldn't be so quick to fight for him probably. If he knew that by now Ian would've left, run for the hills, turned off his phone... if he knew Ian would absorb himself in a new project for the next four weeks to make sure whatever this was would be good and dead by the time he resurfaced again...

He's disingenuous. He feels guilty in a way he can't really explain. ]

You shouldn't thank me.

[ He murmurs tiredly, reaching up to curl his fingers around the wrist Mace has settled over him. ]

I'd have left by now. After that kiss - maybe before. The first one. I'd be gone already.

[ He's not trying to be hurtful, and he normally doesn't even talk about it, but... every time Mace opens his mouth he says the exact kind of thing that pries Ian open a little farther. Makes him want to issue warnings, protect him in kind like he'd planned to do when he peeled that dresser away from the door.

It's only fair, he thinks. He'd be an asshole for not being upfront about himself at this point. ]

[hydraulics]

[ His mouth is still pressed to Ian’s nape when fingers wind around his wrist, a careful touch that he immediately likes. More points of contact between them felt better. It reminds him of what Ian had done earlier — the gesture that had, in a way, been the first spark to their oil.

Instead of drawing away immediately, like he’d initially meant to, Mace stays where he is and mulls over what he’s hearing. Nose slightly buried in Ian’s hair, still damp from the shower, smelling woodsy and sweet.

Despite the topic, despite where they are, he’s starting to feel his own limbs go loose and heavy now, relaxed in a way that he knows means he won’t have much trouble sleeping when the time comes. The heat of Ian’s body, the comfort of the shower — the simple intimacy of post-coital pillow talk.

Although, it’s a pretty unique kind of pillow talk. But it doesn’t hurt. If anything, Mace appreciates the honesty of it and the fact that Ian’s clearly aware of this part of himself instead of hiding it away or pretending it doesn’t exist. He can also tell it’s meant as a sort of caveat, like what Mace had tried to do when he’d told Ian about Cassie, about the type of person he was.

I’d be gone already. ]

But you didn’t leave here, did you. You stayed. You … let me. So that doesn’t change why I’m thanking you.

[ Mace’s lips brush against his skin with every word, and at Ian’s chest, the hand that he’s holding by the wrist strokes his sternum from atop the robe, trying to tell him without saying so that it’s okay. Whatever he's saying, it's okay.

He's also getting the feeling that maybe they're not on the same page about what he meant by fighting for somebody, going by the growing sound of guilt in that tired voice. ]

If this were back home, though — just a hypothetical. Don't overthink it, don't worry what I'm gonna think about it. Would it have been because you didn’t want me?

[ He doesn’t want to pry but there’s a curiosity in him to know the answer to that, if only because it’s something he can’t really wrap his mind around. ]

[wittingly]

[ Does it count as staying when he doesn't have a choice? When the alternative is - what, go hide in the other bedroom alone at best, brave the fog alone at worst? There is no other path besides staying here and letting this unfold, and it's only through that necessity that any of this even happened. It's the only reason it's still happening.

The feeling of lips at the back of his neck sends sensation rippling down his spine - not a heat like earlier, but that static autonomic sensory meridian response, tingling and pleasant hums. The breath puffing warm against him helps. It's all so much nicer than he really deserves. ]

Fuck- no, it's not that. You're fantastic.

[ He murmurs immediately, instantly, because apparently not overthinking isn't even an issue for that question.

It's the opposite, actually. It's because he does want you, and that's the problem.

He licks his lips, then softly elaborates. ]

I told you. Back at the start. I don't have anybody.

[ It's a choice. It's on purpose. Not because he couldn't, but because he knows better.

It's easier to confess this, this secret usually unspoken part, in the dark and with his eyes closed. With soothing touches that keep him grounded. With the inhibition removal that comes from extreme tiredness. It's the perfect environment to strip away barriers and allow the truth to float up. ]

[hydraulics]

[ Honestly, it counts as staying in Mace’s book, which is written mostly in medium, bold lettering, with clear diagrams and very little ambiguity. Because — yeah, that would be a feasible option from where he’s standing. Ian could’ve hidden alone, could’ve left Mace to his own devices. And he hadn’t just stayed in the cabin, but he’d stayed on the bed. He’d stayed in the shower. He was staying here and now, held in Mace’s arms and against his chest, his spine pressed to the beat of Mace’s heart.

There's always a choice. Mace had offered Ian one earlier, and Ian had chosen to kiss him back.

All the same, he's glad of the swift way Ian responds to his question, his lips curving into a smile where they’re still touching the back of Ian’s neck. It promptly does away with the new and unpleasant possibility that had begun to form in the back of his mind — that Ian, given the choice, wouldn’t have wanted what they’d just shared. Had done it only for the sake of doing it.

The elaboration, though. Mace turns it over in his head and then gives a confused little huff. His first thought is that it's disinterest in commitment, but a guy like Ian doesn't seem the type. ]

Okay, tell me if I get this wrong. You — don’t have anybody. But it’s not because you don't want anybody. You do want ... a hypothetical somebody. But if you got 'em, you’d leave, because ... because.

[ Slowly spelling it out like this is an equation and he has to show his work, except the longer he talks, the more confounding it gets. The stupider it sounds, too, because he’s missing a piece here and he knows it. His brows furrow as he tries to figure it out, his fingers tapping a gentle tattoo where they rest near Ian’s collarbone.

I’d have left by now. I’d be gone already. You shouldn’t be thanking me. I don’t have anybody. I don’t do this, back home. I’d have left...

Like all equations, it’s simple once you see it. It isn't a thesis, it's a single damn word, written in invisible ink at the end of what Ian’s trying to convey, and Mace holds up the lighter behind it and sees what he’s been missing all along. ]

You'd leave first.

[ His fingers stop and then resume, with only the slightest hitch, and his tone stays warm and low like they're still discussing shampoo. Not commitment, then, that's the problem. No, there was only one real reason somebody like Ian would want to exit a relationship first, and Mace didn't need to be an aerospace engineer to see that it started with a capital letter A. ]

Gotta say, that still doesn't tell me why I shouldn't be thanking you.