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KENOS IC CONTACT
© TESSISAMESS
[ Communion with Silco is like being doused in cold, polluted water. It feels like taking a breath is difficult, like there's fingers around your throat, pain all over. The water is too-slick like it's almost more pollutants than water, and the water crashes against you, inescapable, even if you were to somehow find the ability to breathe, there is still no escape from the sickening undertow. Somewhere, perhaps deeper in the water, or something else, is a simmering, vile hatred, resentment, and it feels like it should be hot enough to make the water around you boil, even if it's almost too-placid, and too cold. Like all of this hatred is buried deep. Then again, the fact that it feels so close means it must burn so hot. ]
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Silco's methods weren't meant to work for people who did not speak his language, and he had none of the fear or need to make peace that he did with the Pilties, to change. He was all of his worst qualities here, so it's always surprising when someone actually responds to it properly.
His lips twitched, and he reached out with that graying, corrupted hand. ]
Very well.
[ Matt will feel it, the moment he makes contact. Silco wears gloves for several reasons — less than he had before Sebastian had tried to eat his soul — but when his skin makes contact with Matt, he will feel it, that electric jolt, like placing his hand on the third rail, and feeling all of the power, none of the pain. He'll jerk, because your body must when infused with so much Adrenaline, but Silco's hand grasps Matt's wrist, and holds it still.
That's it. There's no bulking of his body, but Matt, if he looks to the window, will notice violet in his eyes. No haze, no strength, no speed. But the tightening of Silco's hand on his wrist will feel...distant. As if it's through batting, instead of desiccated flesh on flesh. ]
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He draws in another deep breath. His eyes skitter off Silco's face rather than meeting his gaze, landing on the objects arranged on his shelves. The artificial arm grabs his attention this time; it seems to echo his own physical detachment, his high-flying mental precision. He wonders if Nebula's okay.
Matt counts as he breathes, words rising from the depths of his brain: As Day and Night are not afraid, nor ever suffer loss or harm--
He can't tell if it's some distorting quality of the glass here. But in the window, he sees his pupils blown wide, an unfamiliar purple coloring his irises. ]
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[ He says, and it's firm, but soft. Spoken into the soft silence of his office, where the only sounds shared between them are breaths, and Matt's gasps. His hand is a manacle of iron around his wrist, but as soon as Silco sees that the shimmer has taken hold — he does not waste time. He does not hesitate, he only leaned forward, and twisted the wrist to offer veins to his mouth.
It does not hurt this time, well — as much — as Matt will still feel the pinpricks, against his wrist, and the puncture does ache, but it is distant. Like the delayed reaction between when pain starts, and when it blossoms never seems to complete itself, and Silco drinks.
Because as dismissive as he was, he is hungry, and he had not attended to those needs as well as he should have. Losing Sebastian's servitude came with more disadvantages than just his safety. It came with a disadvantage to his meal plan too. This is a welcome change, to have someone willing to donate, and in exchange for entering his club as the price?
It's a hell of a cover charge, but he accepts it. ]
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He has his reasons for offering what he's offering. Not that he was lying about what he told Silco. But it represents perhaps the tip of the iceberg of motivation. Just underneath "be able to visit Draumahol without getting randomly attacked" is fear--of the pain, of not knowing when it'll come, of all the predatory men Matt's proven powerless to stop. At least this way, he has some control over the manner in which he gets eaten.
A layer down, there's a more altruistic concern. A starving vampire is a dangerous one, for himself and the people around him. Matt didn't think Silco would want to hear you're clearly out of control, so he kept that one to himself.
Past that point ... things get hard to explain. A piece of Matt can't help believing that all wants are worth honoring, especially one as unvarnished as hunger. What could be more honest than communicating on this level? He cherishes a faint, stupid hope that his blood will prove persuasive, infusing some leniency or kindness into Silco that he currently lacks.
And at last, bone-deepest-down, he thinks Quetzalcoatl would approve of this. Of the sacrifice, the spilling of lifeblood for the person who least deserves it. If gods are made by their believers, maybe an act like this will plant the seed of another her, someplace. He hopes. ]
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Nor really any of the rest, because Silco would have refuted each and every one of them in order, with careful, modulated anger, because he was always angry, but who could blame him, given the circumstances he was in, the hatred he felt, and the reasons for it? Well, most could, but he would have been seen as slightly more likable if he'd been open and honest with such reasons. No, though, Silco was a creature whose secrets and obfuscations would and always did end in his own downfall, and would have, were his world to continue.
The blood flooded into his mouth, and he drank. There was no sound from him, no pleasure, no hunger. It was eerily silent, two eyes remained open — one blinked occasionally — the other eerily still, not searching for every exit like a hunted animal like he usually did. It was fixed on the prey in front of him, on the food.
It hung for several minutes in the air, Silco's eerie silence, not even the sound of a beast feasting, just a silent, cruel creature that took what he could, especially when it was easy, and offered.
Finally, he let go, and pulled a kerchief from his pocket, using it on his own mouth, before pocketing it. He didn't offer Matt one. (Rude.) ]
Not too much, I hope. I'd prefer to leave you to be able to stand and walk out of here on your own.
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Apart from Communion misfires.
The time that passes doesn't feel silent to Matt. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears, the dim pulse of pain too compelling, his breathing too much hollow rush. He can't remember if Silco was this quiet last time. Then Silco's pulling away, dabbing at his mouth, and Matt considers his bleeding wrist. Why didn't he think to bring something to bandage himself with?
Something to consider for next time.
He breathes in, lets it out. Flexes his fingers. Turns his head to the left and then the right, attentive to signs of dizziness. ]
I think I'm good, [ he concludes after a moment. He's not not in pain. He's colder than he was a few minutes ago. And he has a strange feeling of guilt, or perhaps emptiness--but on the whole, this is much better than this time. He rises from the couch, a touch unsteady. ] Can I grab some water downstairs?
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And Silco, after all, had certainly done his part to scare him away from Draumahol, hadn't he?
His lips twitched, and he waved a hand, almost dismissively. ]
Get whatever you like downstairs, just don't pass out before you leave.
[ Gregór, the bartender, would even offer him first aid, though he would brusquely tell him it's because he doesn't want him to bleed on the floors, and upset the boss. ]
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Mmhmm. [ Something wheels in his brain about I do my best not to pass out in clubs as a rule, but he can't make it cohere into something suitably snippy. Matt rolls his neck, finds he's still not too dizzy. Glances down at his wrist again. At last, he looks Silco's way. ]
See you next week.
[ Downstairs, he's quietly pleased to receive both water and light medical treatment from Gregór. The bartender may be brusque, but it's a kind thing to offer.
Besides. Gruff sounds nice in his accent. ]