drear | great dane's cheekbones, teenage hormones.

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great dane's cheekbones, teenage hormones.

[ It's over, finally. Everything is being cleared out of the building except for the people who will keep it running during this next period of hopefully-peace. People are celebrating, but Heine's just tired. He wants to go... away. Not home, never home. He'll find somewhere new.

(His spine is fucked from a mine they hadn't been able to avoid. One of his legs was nearly shattered from the blast, never quite healed, and it still bothers him, but there are others still worse off. He should be thankful, but he just doesn't care anymore.)

Passing by the dog pens, he pauses, pivoting on his crutches. There are soldiers being reunited with the dogs that saved their lives, their companions and fellow survivors. Most of the dogs have been taken in elsewhere or will be kept for guard duties, except for a few left. He asks about them without thinking it through. Even those still in the pen have been claimed and will be picked up later. Heine looks over the remaining dogs, gaze falling on the biggest one with fluffy brown hair and an equally fluffy tail. Something in his face is familiar, but he can't quite place it. Maybe they'd fought somewhere together, he can't remember.

He hesitates for a while longer. Company isn't necessary. But... Heine sighs through his nose and gets the necessary papers done, not taking up the offer to meet the dog before adopting him. The guy running the process goes to call the dog over to the gate, handing Heine a battered leather leash he can use. Heine doubts he'll be using it, though. It's hard enough to get around on crutches already; leading someone else around on a leash isn't going to make it any easier.

The dog comes over to the exit, and Heine knows that he knows him. But the memory keeps slipping away, and he doesn't have the energy to chase it. ]

Hey. [ If it's possible to mumble one word, he does it. ] ...Randall, right?

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That sounds good! I have my checks to open an account with as well, so I can pay for my things.

[ Randall by no means wants to be a bother, even if he has significantly less than Heine.

And luckily for Heine, his new dog is friendly enough to make up for his grouchy demeanor. He greets everyone they pass and asks how they are, barely slowing down his pace so Heine doesn't grow annoyed if they take too long because of those pleasantries. He introduces them to a couple of people who ask, but for the most part it just seems to be the townsfolk gauging their amiability.

He can see the sign for the bank and ambles towards it, not able to keep the little smile from his face. This was nice. Randall already likes the people here and his ears are perked up and his tail is wagging slowly, easily. It takes a little juggling, but he'll step forward with a hand still on the opposite handle of the chair if Heine doesn't want to take over to open the door to the bank and push him in, ears twitching with the little bell that dings. ]

[ Heine just makes an acknowledging sound, looking around as they travel through town. He manages a greeting or two, but he'd still rather be alone. And not in pain. That'd be preferable too.

He can't get enough leverage without hurting his back to open the door, so though he doesn't want to, he lets Randall get the door. The inside of the bank is a little more polished than the rest of Almsport, but still with touches of seaside charm that most people would call quaint. Heine directs them toward the teller's booth, which is empty at the moment.

After reaching up to ring the bell, Heine slouches back in his seat. The teller, an elderly man, well-dressed, hurries over with a genial expression and a welcome. Heine cuts him off with, ] I'd like to open an account.

[ And that's that, more or less. Heine is curt but not overtly rude, and the teller accommodates his requests easily. Once he's done, he looks up over his shoulder at Randall. ] Your turn.

Ah, yes! Me too! I'd also like to open an account.

[ The conversation is a little more light-hearted with the teller as he fumbles for the envelope with all of his checks inside, passing them over with his identification papers. It goes smoothly, and within a handful of minutes, he's turning back to Heine and slotting his identification papers back into his satchel with his new account information, seeming rather pleased. ]

There we go, all done. Where to now?

[ Did Heine want to continue pushing himself, now, or should Randall? He hovers for a moment at his side to see what he'd like to do. ]

[ Where to... Heine shuffles his own belongings in his lap, new accounting book and papers folded up. ]

Groceries. [ He's vaguely aware of where the market is, and he knows that at this time of day it's bound to be busy. Really, he shouldn't even be going, but being stuck inside is even worse, so he'll compromise. ]

You'll have to—push the wheelchair. [ Heine looks back at the teller, asks for and receives directions, and then they're off! ] If you want anything at the market, just tell me.

Of course; not a problem. [ The market! His tail wags ferociously at the thought, taking hold of the wheelchair's handles and beginning to push without a second to spare, barely letting the teller finish his directions before he's pushing the door open with his back and pulling Heine out backwards to turn around and be on their way once more.

He's getting the hang of this.

Once they're outside again, in the fresh air and sunshine that's completely eaten away the fogbank, he strikes up the courage to ask. ]

Are you feeling all right? Was it hurting your back to work the chair?

[ It had seemed like it, the way the faintest beads of sweat had formed at his brow earlier and he turned grouchier than before. He didn't want to say anything at the time, giving him a chance to simmer back down. ]

[ God, he's so excited. It's weird. Heine rests his elbows on the armrests, slouching though it doesn't help his back any. He looks out over the sea again as they go, almost startled out of his thoughts when Randall asks. ]

...yeah. [ He doesn't want to say it, but apparently he wasn't subtle enough. ] I can't get enough leverage to move without straining it.

[ Heine goes quiet after that, looking forward as they go toward the market area. ]

[ If he weren't focusing so much of his attention on Heine, he may not have noticed. He was doing his best to hide it, after all, but Randall's ears were sharp and his senses keen. With them fully trained on his master, it's impossible to escape his notice. Hell, he could hear the creak of cartilage and the strain of his muscles when they tightened, stressed and in pain. The rigid line of his spine was enough of a tip alone without the rest. ]

Mm, I see. It's important to rest your body, but I can get the anxious urge to keep moving. It's hard to stay so still for such a long time, but you only make it worse when you strain.

[ He knows a thing or two about recovering from serious injuries. Randall follows suit and let's the conversation drop, not minding the silence in the least. The ocean is beautiful and the people are pleasant, if a little wary. His tail rests comfortably with his ears perked high, swiveling at every new sound around them. He's a very diligent driver in any case, keeping Heine from bumping into anyone with a comfortable bubble around them.

The directions the teller gave them are followed to a T, and they're at the market in no time. There's a good deal more bustle and he'll stop at the fringes, seeming to consider how best to enter the fray in a tactful manner. The farmer's market? The tailor? The carpenter's workshop...? Ah, the choices were endless. There's even a jeweler! ]

I know. [ Heine sighs softly, settling completely into his seat. Just because he knows doesn't mean he has to be happy about it, though.

Fortunately, the environment and bustle of the market are distraction enough. Heine looks around more subtly than Randall does, but he's interested all the same. ]

We should get the food last, don't want it to spoil in the sun. [ Well, the carpenter's shop is right over there, not so far into the market that they'd have to wade through the crowds. Heine jerks his chin at it. ] Let's go there first. Get you a decent bed.

Edited (wrong icon) 2015-05-08 13:38 (UTC)

[ His ears flatten at the tone, feeling as though he's overstepped his bounds and wanting to step back away to give him his space— but that would mean letting him careen away downhill, and he has to fight the urge to shrink away. You can do it Randall!! You're a big strong dog!!

The moment passes blissfully soon, though, and Heine's speaking up again with direction. The carpenter's! That should be easier, since they'd have to send it via order. It'd come to the cottage in a truck, most like, unless Heine has plans to order something small for himself. A special seat or... something. ]

That makes sense. It really doesn't have to be anything fancy, even if it's just an extension to add at the bottom of the bed I have now. I'm even fine without one!

[ CAN YOU TELL HE FEELS BAD YET. Even with his protests, he wheels Heine right through the open workshop door, large rolling metal above a modest little garage. But the works inside are beautiful; intricately-carved pieces of furniture, era replicas, fine toys and dollhouses and all manner of things— even some decorative prosthetics, it looked like. ]

Or why don't you just get yourself a nicer bed and I'll take the one you have now...? If you're unhappy with it. [ ~~Save wat--lumber, sleep with a friend.~~ ]

[ Dude, do not let go of the wheelchair now. That's UNSAFE WHEELCHAIR BEHAVIOR.

At the carpenter's shop, Heine greets the worker, who welcomes them to the store and to the town. He starts offering up tables and chairs before Heine gently interrupts. ]

I actually—just need a new bed. For my dog.

[ It's really weird calling Randall that, as he's starting to remember what happened in his past life. He's sure now that Randall must have been involved in that time, but he can't quite figure out how just yet. ]

Oh! You'll be needing a larger one?

Yeah. However big you think it should be for him—what kind of materials do you have?

[ While they're discussing, Heine waves Randall off to explore if he wants to. They wrap up in about twenty minutes, so he could probably use something to occupy himself with. ]

[ UNSAFE WHEELCHAIR BEHAVIOR IS MY MIDDLE NAME!!!

Randall ducks his head instinctively when they enter, even with the ten foot garage door clearing, towering over the carpenter. After an initial gauge at his measurement, Randall gets waved off and has a look around the shop at things, never straying from sight. The chess set in particular of finely-carved and lacquered wood catches his attention, reaching out to touch one of the pieces before catching himself and snatching his hand back. They're on a fine marble slab, etched with the gridwork to designate sides.

Next was the line of baby toys done in silver and ivory, then some simple farming tools, and then some ironwork lanterns. Everything was beautiful and it was clear this man was an artisan.

That meant the bed was probably something he'd cringe at the price of. When the chatter of different woods and styles and lacquers finishes up, he circles back around just in time to hear a proposition about a different (more stylish) chair and he can't help but smile. He didn't know the difference between platform and sleigh beds and veneers and he likely couldn't tell walnut from oak, but Heine seems to have settled on a general design and that was good.

The matter of whether or not it'd fit into Randall's room is likely going to be a problem, small as it was. The heel of his hand settles on one chair handle just to notify Heine of his presence behind him, ears flattened against the sound of the smithy next door but otherwise seeming amiable. He didn't return with anything in his hands since it all seemed rather trivial to waste money on, but that won't be the case later. ]

[ Walnut with lacquer finish is what Heine decides on. He really doesn't understand the reasoning behind home decor, or whatever, but the color seems like it'll match how he remembers the interior of the cottage. He pays after choosing a style, just as Randall comes back and sets a hand on the handles of the chair. ]

All right, let's go to the bank, then the marketplace.

[ It's a busy first day in town. They end up having to meet many more new people, which Heine finds just as tiring as getting around. He has Randall push his chair for most of the trip, still ends up being too tired to complain, and they return to the little cottage loaded down with groceries. Heine holds a bag of food in his lap, the other bags hanging off the handles of the wheelchair and Randall's hands. Bread, cheese, vegetables and smoked meats that'll keep, mostly—Heine doesn't know how to cook.

It's past noon by the time they get back. Heine sighs as they get out of the sun, directing Randall to put the perishables in the icebox. ]

I'll make lunch. You hungry?

[ Randall is a willing pet, in any case. He listens to commands immediately, striving to make himself as useful as possible and following things to a T. It's in the grocery store that he gets the most troublesome, getting excited over the sight of foods he likes and coming back to Heine with them in hand, each time saying he'll pay for it and looking for approval. A variety of sausages, pork cuts, different heads of lettuces— he greatly enjoys salads. Everything is exciting after years and years of military fare and thin stews made to stretch as far as possible.

He doesn't fumble with the locks this time once they return to the cottage, opening the door and going back to push Heine up the wooden ramp that had been left butted up against the two steps to the front door, made to accommodate the chair before they'd even arrived. For Randall, anyway, it had been a fun excursion and he'd enjoyed meeting people, taking over the convos as much as possible when he noticed Heine's irritability surfacing. Once inside, he sets down the groceries over his wrists and begins removing bags from the handles of the chair, taking Heine's last from his lap to begin unpacking and setting into groups. Freezer-fare, fridge-fare, cupboard groups of canned goods and dried goods like pasta and rice. As Heine dictates their place, Randall does his best to put them away and arrange them in a space-saving manner. ]

I am! Oh, but you don't have to make anything— aren't you tired? I don't mind making something...! Like sandwiches and salad. You should rest, if you can...

[ He'll just stand in the middle of the kitchen and wait, wondering if he'd want to lay on the couch in the meantime or turn on the radio... Or just go back to his room. Breakfast definitely hadn't filled him up, though, and pushing a wheelchair around with someone exerted more energy than he would've originally thought. It'd take some getting used to, definitely! ]

[ Heine mostly indulges Randall on whatever he wants to buy; since it's his own money, why should he care? Being left in the wheelchair in various places does get a little aggravating, though. ]

It doesn't take that much work to make a sandwich. I'm not tired.

[ He scowls at Randall and wheels himself off into the hallway to retrieve his crutches, giving Randall a pointed command to not do anything until he gets back.

The cottage is a little too cramped to maneuver the wheelchair with ease, and Heine's already getting jittery from spending too much time confined to it—even though "too much" had really just been a few hours while they were shopping. He gets himself over to the counter, taking out a bread knife and starting to cut up bread into thick slices.

Balancing on the crutches and using a knife at the same time is harder than he expected. He has to rest at least part of his weight on the foot in a cast. The dull ache that results can be ignored, at least for now. ]

[ It had been easy and a good way to add vegetables to Heine's assortment of smoked meats and cheeses and breads, but he hadn't quite realized how he was stranding him when he did wander off. At least it wasn't far and he remained in sight, trotting off to grab things they passed and adding it to the basket. When reprimanded, his ears flatten and he ducks his head again, watching Heine push his chair back down the hall to retrieve his crutches. ]

Ah, all right then, I'm sorry.

[ Relationships weren't built in a day. He realizes that. Being commanded not to do anything in his absence, however, just leaves him fidgeting behind the breakfast bar, not even taking a seat to wait.

At least he followed commands to a T. When he comes back, Randall continues to wait and eventually moves to sit when Heine doesn't speak any further, watching him slice up the dense loaf of bread as he juggles his crutches with the knife. ]

The town sure was nice though, wasn't it? Everyone was so pleasant and kind. Except the fishermen, but they probably just want to keep to themselves, huh...?

[ Awkward filler convo is a go! ]

[ He cuts up some smoked meat, too, and tears off some lettuce leaves to add to the sandwiches. A salad is beyond him at the moment. He's hungry, and the effort of actually mixing and matching ingredients and making dressing out of whatever condiments he might be able to scrounge up is beyond him.

The sandwiches look good, at least, and the bread smells fresh. Heine digs up a plate for each of them, but he can't carry them both and walk on his crutches, so he gestures for Randall to come closer. ]

Yeah. It was okay. [ Heine manages to bring his own plate with him to his seat at the table. He expects Randall to follow and come sit with him, and... to let the filler conversation die. He wants to eat and sulk in peace, okay. ]

[ He can take a hint fairly well. He'll hum an acknowledgement and come when Heine beckons for him, take his plate and moving to the table. The fog has completely burned off and the view from the bay windows is of a glittering blue bay, the lighthouse on the cape standing proud and stark. It was a beautiful, wonderful home— never in a million years would he have dreamt of living in a place so lovely. He was truly lucky to have met this man who struck such deep familiar feelings within him, unable to stop himself from staring sometimes to try and figure it out.

The sun is hitting the opposite side of the house, however, and the sound of the waves even through the glass is making him sleepy, exhaustion from their trip and muscles aching leading him to yawn. First just once, then it's followed by another a few minutes later and they only grow more frequent the more he tries to turn his thoughts away.

He shouldn't be this tired, not yet. He hasn't even finished eating yet, still a few bites left to go. The rye bread was delicious, and the greens were so fresh they must have arrived at the market that morning. This was a life he felt he didn't deserve but was eager to settle into and enjoy to its fullest alongside his new master. Randall barely swallows the last bite before he's yawning again, covering his mouth with both hands and looking apologetic.

His voice is barely audible when he speaks up through them. ]

Sorry...

[ Heine finishes about half of his sandwich, then picks out some of the lettuce and eats it separately. The meat and most of the remaining bed, he leaves behind. He needs to eat less than before, it seems, but maybe it's just the move affecting his appetite. (Or maybe he's just making excuses.)

Randall's yawning gets a look from Heine. He has to yawn, too, in reaction, and covers his mouth reflexively. ]

Tired?

[ Well, it's been a long morning. He offers his plate to Randall, in case he wants any of the remaining food, before reaching for his crutches again. ]

You can take a nap if you're that tired. [ Oh, but... his bed. Heine thinks about it for a moment. ] Take my bed for now.

Ah, a bit. I guess I'm still recovering, haha.

[ He won't mention that it was more tiring to push a wheelchair around than he first imagined, because Heine would likely take it as complaining or a slight and not allow him to anymore.

Randall didn't waste food. Even dead tired and full from his own, he'll take the plate gratefully and eat the last few bites, not even minding that someone else's mouth was on it as he tries not to think too hard about why Heine was eating so little. He certainly didn't know the man prior and is prone to worrying, but otherwise... Maybe it'd improve. Or maybe it's why he's so thin.

When offered the other man's bed, he bites back down an immediate deflection. He's growing used to Heine's limits and realizes an attempt at kindness when he comes up and only bows his head, something thankful and a little shy. ]

But what about you? [ They were contagious, of course— the yawning, but he had been out and about as well for those few hours. Wasn't he tired too? ]

[ Heine watches Randall eat, idly turning the plate on the table. ]

Hm? [ Oh, sleeping. Heine shrugs, leaning back in his seat. ] I'm not that tired.

[ Even so, he supposes he could use a rest. Maybe he could sleep on the couch... but then that'd really get his dog going. God, accommodating someone else's preferences and desires is so difficult. How do people do this on a daily basis?? ]

I could probably fit in the bed too. Or take yours, at least until the carpenter finishes the new one.

Oh, I see. I'd just hate to fall asleep in case you need anything, even if it's only a few hours.

[ How could he not be? His arms must ache, his back probably hurts worse, underarms bruised from the crutches. Randall's sure if it were him, he'd be exhausted. Maybe the pain makes it difficult for him to sleep.

With the change, however, he perks up a bit. Is it strange to look forward to the opportunity to be close to someone? He thought it'd be nice, ears perking with a slight splay. ]

I don't think there'd be room for the pillows along your sides in my bed, honestly. I don't mind sharing.

[ Before Heine can say much else, he's quick to snatch the plates with a mischievous, wary little smile and trot into the kitchen to wash them. He could be sly too. They're quick to run a rag over and rinse, drying on the flour sack towel hung over the oven handle, and placed back in the shelves. Was he ready to go? ]

[ What Randall's saying has some truth to it. Heine really would need help with reaching many things, even in this little cottage. He won't admit to it directly, though. ]

All right, fine. [ Heine watches Randall clear the table grudgingly. ] Let's go.

[ To bed, that is! Heine grabs his crutches and gets over to the bedroom at a slow enough pace that he doesn't jostle anything too badly. Randall will be stuck behind him in the hallway, though.

When he gets to the bedroom, Heine stays on his crutches as he sets up two pillows again for his nap. There's room enough for them to both fit on the mattress. ]

[ Or what if he overexerted himself or tripped or fell? What if someone broke in and hurt him? Randall has an active imagination and has learned to prepare for the worst. It doesn't take long for Randall to come up behind Heine, tail wagging, but he has no problems walking slowly. It's something he'd likely have to get used to either way, and he's a patient person to begin with. It doesn't bother him now, and it won't bother him ten years from now. He'd much prefer Heine take his time and take care of himself.

As Heine works on one side, Randall will fluff one of the feather pillows and lay it down for Heine in the middle of the bed to support his other side, doing his best to help. It's done without a second thought, and he moves right to shedding his belt and dress shirt, leaving him in socks, unbuttoned jeans, and a t-shirt. With a stretch and a moment's consideration of the bed (and how best to go about arranging himself on the bed, he'll put one knee on and start to climb on, mindful of his stomach wound and the space he takes up. He won't face Heine, but he'll also try to maintain his distance. He doesn't even have to curl up much to fit himself on the bed, which is nice for a change.

Randall takes his time about it, just in case Heine needs help with anything. It wouldn't do to get cozy, because then Heine would likely struggle rather than bother him for assistance. ]

[ Once the pillows are all set, Heine puts his crutches aside, sitting down so he can unbutton his shirt. His shoes and belt come off next. He's already lying down when he remembers that his pants are still on. Maybe they should buy an iron.

Heine pulls the pillows around himself and resigns himself to wrinkles. They barely fit into the bed together, but there's still space enough. Heine settles in and clasps his hands together on his stomach, eyes closing in the sun.

He's full and more or less comfortable. It only takes a few minutes for him to doze off. ]

[ It's good to see him lie down in relative comfort, not like the previous night. It was probably just something his body had to adjust to.

With Heine settled and dozing off, Randall turns his back to him, body just brushing against one of Heine's elbows. Typical dog, always having to touch their master. With that tiny thing, Randall is quick to fall asleep in the sunshine as well.

Heine will probably be the first to wake, and it'd be to Randall's mumbling, limbs twitching in his sleep and brows furrowed. Whatever it is he's dreaming about, his tail is tucked tight between his legs and his ears are flattened to his skull, scared. It wouldn't be enough to wake him, at least.

Not until he starts whimpering a few minutes later, legs twitching as if he were running from something. His heart races, thudding hard in his chest as his breathing increases, panting in shallow little huffs. His knees pull up to his chest and he curls as much as he physically could, shifting back even closer to Heine, pressing against the line of the pillow between them.

Töten sie. Töten sie. Töten sie. Blood was washing over his feet, rushing hard enough to shake his foundation, naked and bared to the blinding dusty sun above him. The colors were all wrong, greens and reds and little else as the blood fills the space, a never-ending wave crashing over him, sickeningly hot until it's at his chest, splashing his face, choking on the thick copper of life's blood.

Clammy hands in the tide grab at him, dead nails scraping him raw and ripping strips of flesh from him in a dead grip, lifeless mouths moaning from surfacing bloated faces.

Tears leak from between his lashes, still fitfully asleep as the pillowcase goes damp, suffering silently from the twisted landscapes of his mind. ]

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SHOULD WE HANDWAVE GROCERIES AND GET THEM BACK...

SURE

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