[ despite having three to four full bowls of porridge without complaint every morning, jayce hungers, and his stomach would remain a bottomless pit that left him lethargic, unwell, and a little cranky throughout the road trip, hoarding foods easy enough to pick with his fingers and stuff in the passenger seat of his colorful pickup (although none of it satisfies, to his disdain). hours become days, and jayce gets worse.
an ironic twist of fate, this all was; it wasn't supposed to happen this fast, or even in this way, but jayce, nevertheless, begins to detereorate. fast, without intervention, deferred with medication but never enough to cease. he grows exhausted driving for too long, prefers to sleep in a curled up, shivering ball as feverish chills steal the warmth from his flesh away. he's clammy and sweating ice cold most of the time, aching in every joint and especially on his braced leg, white dolor striking the poorly healed bone like a knife to the gut, constant like a beating heart.
he has better evenings, and worse ones. talk of a radio tower stirs him from his torpor tonight, coupled with an intense need to follow viktor wherever he'd hobble off to and taking advantage of his consciousness while it lasted, no matter how much it seemed to drain him to walk up the stairs of the cabin and uses railings for support, frequently stopping to catch his breath. he's been a lousy partner lately— but when hasn't that been the latest scandal?
the dim crackle of music from the radio trees around them hum in his ears like a sweet, comforting lullaby, and the monotonous sermones of the moon's fases fill their minds with a mind map of common knowledge. ]
The frequency this technnology is on . . . Is something else.
[ jayce muses about it longingly— during a time he was still clean shaven and naive, he'd be ecstatic about learning more, taking it apart and understanding the wonder and using that to create. now, it is a balm for his nausea, fatigue and nostalgia.
he's smiling, at least, and that smile wrinkles the crow's feet lining the corners of his eyes, heavy with bags but shimmering with a touch of life he may have needed to see under the fall of messy bangs. ]
@becomerobot (feb event, radio tower)
an ironic twist of fate, this all was; it wasn't supposed to happen this fast, or even in this way, but jayce, nevertheless, begins to detereorate. fast, without intervention, deferred with medication but never enough to cease. he grows exhausted driving for too long, prefers to sleep in a curled up, shivering ball as feverish chills steal the warmth from his flesh away. he's clammy and sweating ice cold most of the time, aching in every joint and especially on his braced leg, white dolor striking the poorly healed bone like a knife to the gut, constant like a beating heart.
he has better evenings, and worse ones. talk of a radio tower stirs him from his torpor tonight, coupled with an intense need to follow viktor wherever he'd hobble off to and taking advantage of his consciousness while it lasted, no matter how much it seemed to drain him to walk up the stairs of the cabin and uses railings for support, frequently stopping to catch his breath. he's been a lousy partner lately— but when hasn't that been the latest scandal?
the dim crackle of music from the radio trees around them hum in his ears like a sweet, comforting lullaby, and the monotonous sermones of the moon's fases fill their minds with a mind map of common knowledge. ]
The frequency this technnology is on . . . Is something else.
[ jayce muses about it longingly— during a time he was still clean shaven and naive, he'd be ecstatic about learning more, taking it apart and understanding the wonder and using that to create. now, it is a balm for his nausea, fatigue and nostalgia.
he's smiling, at least, and that smile wrinkles the crow's feet lining the corners of his eyes, heavy with bags but shimmering with a touch of life he may have needed to see under the fall of messy bangs. ]