Overture Downs i know that you want one more night

for @Whittaker

an array of colors decorate the evening sky—brushes of pink and blue and orange mesh together, an oil painting. makes for a pretty picture, with reflective snow covering the slopes of overture downs.
a slender, dark figure pauses to admire it, a breath taken—seeking a brief moment of peace that doesn’t linger long, even if alamar desires it does. he’s never been good at chasing it. instead he ends up ensnared in a web, too complex to find the exit and pull loose. the spider is gonna get him eventually.
he drops his head back, sniffing and shoveling through snow, in a search of herbs that might’ve survived the not-sudden snow.  

a small pale boy walks through the warm dusk with a stained shirt. he'd slipped on a slope and crashed through several feet of bush and he had ended up losing a bit of the skin on his shoulder. it smarted with every step he took, but he'd cleaned off the blood as best as he could and herbs to him were an entirely different language.
point out to him the difference between tomato leaf and nightshade, and he'd somehow end up eating the nightshade anyway.
wearily, he shakes out his sodden shoes. there's a stranger in the distance. close-cropped black hair and androgynous, at least, from this angle. around the same age as him. whittaker stands there for a few beats, head spinning from exhaustion. luck leaks from his almost empty engine. he scratches his head as a mental fuzz slowly drowns him.

sunset over the landscape of his mind, in darker shades than the pretty pastels scraped across the sky. the air is crisp but sweet with the promise of spring, and it's quiet — as quiet as the wilds ever get. it's beautiful here. he should feel beautiful, too, he thinks. but he just feels odd and out of place, awkward and bumbling as he trails behind alamar in search of herbs. his companions fits well enough; a dark flower made brilliantly luminous under the fading golden light, shadows defining the masculine edges to his features.
watching him is easier than wrestling with his self-hatred, the looming blue-greys and dim dreary purples of his current mood. between that and pretending he's of any use in this search, he almost doesn't notice the stranger at all. but the figure catches his eye after a few beats, and his attention shifts all at once, steps halting some distance behind alamar. he waits, uncertain.

the shadow cast across the reflective snow is a constant reminder of the presence that follows, lost as he once been as a child—alamar’s shadow mingles with jaime’s, however, instead of the distance that once was in those times since past.
step, step, they go, venturing forth on a search to replenish the merger stocks that remain in alamar’s clutches. jaime’s forearm is in decent condition, joints functional and little limp left.
downcast gaze and shuffling, however, notice the pause in jaime’s shadow. the distance growing the further alamar pulls ahead, before he, too, halts. head twists first towards his companion, focus not on alamar but ahead—so twists the head that direction.
pale, petite, dressed in a illumination of pink and orange from the setting sun—a boy staggers, the scent of blood. alarm bells ring.
fuck. alamar is amazing with words, just as much as i am. jaime, get the poultice i made for you. he barks out orders like he’s made to give them—the hollow and the tree where the rest of the mixture lays is not far, just down the slope they climbed.
alamar takes to approaching the kid—battered and bruised with a figurative skinned knee. hey, you should sit down. there are those commands again. drill sergeant morales. i got some herbs to help with that wound, if you want. a nose gestures to it, most medics would creep into personal space, but alamar knows to respect it.

the stranger has a partner, or maybe it's just him seeing double. he blinks, hard. it doesn't really help.
they make eye contact and whittaker's already sweating. he tenses and grunts and twists around wildly, searching for a decent exit, and he books it. 
or well. he tries.
what he ends up doing is slipping in the slush and getting a mouthful of it without traveling a single decent meter. the cold feels good on his skinless shoulder. he lies there for a while, cheek on the ground, breathing hard, staring at his own limp hand until it goes blurry.
as if getting shocked, he jumps back up again, wild eyed and even messier now, and he can barely keep track of what's coming out of his mouth and what's writhing inside his brain like a tuna on deck gasping for air—wh-what d'you want? he'd made two things clear: one, that he was used to being chased and that maybe even someone was on his tail now, and two, that he couldn't run for shit.

he'll return next round!

he's too far for the scent of blood to register, so alamar's sudden commands seem unwarranted to him. he frowns, but obeys regardless, trying his best to ignore the chaos of the boy taking off and more or less launching himself into the ground. it's all a bit too dramatic for his tastes, and he's sure alamar has it handled anyway. so he fetches the poultice like a good dog, and leaves the flailing patient to the grumpy nurse, wondering if the boy's problems will require more than treatment for his wounds. clearly something is wrong there. alamar can be a little scary, yeah, but not usually the type to inspire metaphorical pants-shitting.

fuck.
whatever warrants the sudden launch is enough to have alamar question his judgment. maybe a bit too much of a humanitarian than he ought to be, should keep it further tucked away, a secret that’s easier hidden. he is too stubborn to back from the mess he gets himself involved in, lest til the job is done and the dude is either dealt with or patched up.
he arches an eyebrow, expression twisted in disgruntled annoyance.
i don’t want anything, he lies, there are a lot of things he wants, what he means is he doesn’t want anything from this guy. he’s a mess. maybe later. you’re pretty fucked up, i was just offering to help with that wound if you want. unless the dude has medical knowledge (press x for doubt), or a pack with a medic, alamar might be his best bet.
if not, i’ll leave you alone. and they can all pretend it never happened.

heavy breathing, a gulp, then more heavy breathing. he squints at both of them. one of them is slinking away. its finally sinking into him, what the medic boy said. offering to heal him. he slumps, shoulders shrugged in a sorry, my bad gesture.
damn, he says, before realising that he'd said it out loud and looking scandalised. sorry about that. i mean, thanks dude. that'd be cool. he laughs sheepishly, erratically. i'm just— y'know. all over the place. i need to stop rambling right about now, please.
the panic that had got its claws into him just a few moments before is completely gone. he's more himself, now, a delinquent who hasn't earned the blaze of self-assuredness in his eyes, or the rakish and cool slump of his posture. his skeptical face, boyish and sullen, is in dire need of a good beatdown.

since it's been awhile, i'mma skip and fade this? i hope you guys don't mind. feel free to reply after, or we can continue if preferred — always down for another

all over the place is an understatement. alamar arches a judging eyebrow—yet is at ease now that the awkward flailing is put to an end, and no further arguments are to be had.
yeah. blunt, simple, quiet. jaime thankfully shows up with the requested poultice—a bunch of herbs and other helpful supplies wrapped in a pelt. it needs a replacement by now. the rot smell unpleasantly attempting to overpower that of the herbs.
the doctor gets to work—snaps on his gloves and digs through the supplies to get what he needs. he instructs for the patient to take the seeds first—painkillers, might make him woozy and might make him high as a kite but it does the job. next he gets about dressing the wounds, cleaning it where need be if the boy let him.
keep it clean, and it should be fine. doubt lingers nonetheless in his voice due to the clumsy show that was put on, but nonetheless, the doctor patches up yet another soul and saves the day. they can part on their ways in decent spirit. he remains nonetheless a grumpy soul.