god lived as a devil dog — tw, day 1

Lu leaves. With Tick’s bag.

For a long, long second he just sits there on the grave, dumb against the headstone.

”Are you-“

Is that it? Are we going? Are you coming back?

Is this happening, should he be following?

Tick only scrambles up and after Lu because he’s still got the bag. And the book.

Didn’t think he’d actually take it. Why would he need two bags. And now that it's gone, he really wants it back actually. He was so sure Lu wouldn't actually want it. It was just something to say. A little olive branch to prove that Tick could be reasonable, no need to bring the rock back out.

But it is out. And then Lu trades it for a lance.

Maybe Tick lags behind a bit.

What’s so dangerous about a guy with one hand.

Nevermind the ache in his spine right now. Ignore where the bruise’s probably started to mottle. The situation looks a whole lot funnier when there's distance involved. Someone could come along and take Lu out easily. It wouldn't be that hard. So maybe Tick should tag along, keep an eye out, maybe get something out of it.

His bag back, mainly.

The cemetery fades out as they walk. The graves turn fewer and fewer as the trees get older. The statues change from weeping to ferocious. There's one, kneeling on the ground and twisted with pain, stuck with its hands outstretched. Shielding itself. There's something shining in its fist.

Tick rushes to catch up with Lu.

The trunks are so thick here. The air is thick, dappled light hitting the ground through the canopy. It could be pretty, if the entire place didn't feel like the shrill whine of a warning. Something very wrong.

Walk in.

He jolts, whipping to look at Lu. Acknowledged, finally. Not forgotten about after all.

The pond would be pretty too, if not for the emerald scrum. That entire feeling of wrong. They’re both covered in streaks of dirt. Tick fiddles with the little glint of silver between his fingers, sleeve tucked over his thumb.

There's another one in his boot.

It's not like the statue needed them.

He sticks his empty hand out. The water laps at his heel. He' much more confident now that he’s vertical and several feet away.

“Give me my bag back first.”

He knows it’s about to happen right before it happens.

Lu drops the bag from his shoulder, winds back, and Tick’s face is already falling, already, c'mon, don’t-

You’ve got to be kidding.

The bag lands in the pond. The book lands in the pond.

You’ve got to be kidding.

He glares at Lu, just a spare second, because he does splash in after it. Put down manipulative right next to aggressive. Put down what a little asshole. Do not engage. Difficult and annoying. Now he has to pray to the unknown that there’s nothing but the algae waiting for him in there as he very gingerly, very hurriedly, wades through the water.

It's cold.

At least the damn boots come up to his knees. At least the pants tuck at the ankle. The cloak’s a goner, same with the rest of the too-much fabric, hem of the tunic stained violet dark, but no love lost there.

He snatches the bag up, the bottom completely soaked, and tentatively peeks inside to see how bad the book is.

“Oh good.” He calls through gritted teeth, targeted tone, “It’s fine.”

Sound of the water behind him, tiny splash as the scum churns. He should've gotten rid of the cloak. He really, really should've.

It pulls, and he only gets out a "Hey-" before he starts choking a little, he has to move in order to get some slack, has to bend backwards and stumble, closer to where Lu's standing, pinning it down into the water.

"What's in the book."

It's getting a little harder to play nice. Play neutral. Hairline fracture on the self-control. He's one-handedly pulling at the cloak clasp, still trying to keep the bag dry, attempting to breathe normally without teetering into the water.

"It's just a book." He's saying, somewhat strained given the circumstances. "Maybe if it wasn't so wet, I'd know what it says."

He glances over, stuck in the half crouch. Why won't the cloak undo.

One hand. Okay. Maybe his balance isn't very good. Especially if he's holding the lance like that. Especially if his weight's bearing down on it like that, like a walking stick. Maybe Tick can just. Do something about that.

"You're stepping on me." He says politely. Nasty undertone.

The blank expression is enough of an answer.

Tick shoves the lance.