Chapter Text
Zolf comes in rain-soaked from yet another dead end and, now that he can focus properly without getting drenched, reaches out to his new, nameless god for a jolt of that not-quite-hope that’s been keeping him going.
It washes over him, warm and bright, for just a moment, and he finds himself completely dry, which is nice. Spares him having to wring out his beard and rebraid the bits that get mucked up. He wanders the inn looking for Wilde before he remembers Wilde won’t have any interest in seeing him.
He sighs, and calls out. “Alright, Wilde! Going into the cage now. No need to, y’know, drug me and drop me in. I’ll lock myself in, don’t worry yourself about it, yeah?”
There’s no response, so Zolf grabs his basic wooden prosthetics and heads down to quarantine himself. Slams the mechanism to lock the cell and unceremoniously hurls himself in, legs dead metal the second he crosses the threshold. He and Wilde quarantined plenty of times before, he knows the drill, this is just the first time since...well. Yeah.
He pulls his legs off, face twisting with effort, and attaches the wooden ones. He raps his knuckles against the right one. The dull thunk is oddly satisfying, and he keeps drumming, idly. Not like he’s got a whole lot else to do at present. He doesn’t like to be cut off from his new god. Not really a dependence, just...nice to have something external keeping him going. He’s gotten better at motivating himself to live since Prague, sure, but it’s still tough going, especially in times like these.
He curses himself for forgetting a lantern and books, but he’s hoping Wilde’ll be able to bring him those, at least. For now, all he can do is wait. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and thinks about--well, he tells himself he’s going to think about, y’know, nice things. Calm forests and rivers and mountains and such, the kinds of things he thinks people are supposed to think about when they’re avoiding thinking about other things, but his mind ain’t all that cooperative anymore.
(The Wilde that lives in his brain informs him that anymore implies that it ever was cooperative. Zolf thinks maybe it used to be, but that was a long, long time ago.)
He drifts towards overthinking every muscle twitch and brief chill, wondering--this it? This how being infected starts out? He really hates quarantine, but he’s pragmatic and he gets it and he’ll never offer a word of complaint.
Honestly, it sort of always reminds him of Mr. Ceiling. The long hours legless under L’Arc D’Ordinateur, hopeless and helpless and waiting on the mercy of things much bigger than him. Not a feeling he likes to remember if he can help it. Spent a lot of money and wasted a lot of nights trying to scrub it out of his mind however he could, actually, but that got him nowhere, cuz the feeling’s still always just there, waiting to pop back up.
He’s never done this alone before, though. Every time til now he’s had Wilde there, just as terrified as him but always ready to try and defuse the situation with a horrendous pun or a worse innuendo. Zolf thinks Wilde might be kind , actually, but he really tries his best not to be most of the time.
The darkness and silence start to press the air out of Zolf’s lungs. He itches for a strong drink and a long breath of that warm almost-hope from his god’s lips into his own. Or maybe he’s just itching, which could be a bad sign.
He pulls the braid out of his beard and slowly, meticulously, redoes it, staring through the bars and the far wall, trying not to let that panic about being underground come clawing up. As he finishes and gently slides the ring back over it, Wilde appears, staring at a spot above Zolf’s head.
“Hey,” Zolf says, smiling, generally glad to see another person. It’s not because it’s Wilde. Could be anyone. “I forgot to bring light and a book, could you maybe--”
“Strip off,” Wilde says, flatly, and Zolf sighs.
“Not even gonna put some enthusiasm into it?” he asks, attempting to joke, but the lack of life in Wilde’s tone sucks any emotion out of his.
“What would you prefer? Please, Zolf, please take your clothes off so I can see if you’re still you?” Wilde shrugs, still not looking Zolf in the eye. “Just do it.”
“Tell me you’ll bring me a light and my books,” Zolf says, a bit needlessly stubborn. “And maybe a bottle of something, if you’re going to be like this all week.”
“Take your fucking clothes off, Zolf.”
“That’s more like it.” Zolf can’t help but smirk. Wilde growls in his throat, and Zolf finally caves, pulling his shirt off over his head and neatly laying it on the cot he’s sitting on, undoing his trousers and pulling them down. He stands, spreads his arms, and does his best to turn around, but with the wooden legs and the trousers around his not-ankles, it proves a bit difficult, and he trips, falling back into the cot. He can’t help but laugh humorlessly at himself.
Wilde doesn’t seem the least bit amused. “You’re clear,” he says, turning to go. “Would you like When Passions Collide, or--what was the Bertie one called--”
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Zolf says. “When Passions Collide, I mean. Don’t really need to be thinking about Bertie at all right now.”
“Hmm,” Wilde says, which isn’t a very helpful line of conversation.
“You still think about him on purpose?” Zolf asks, a hint of amusement in his tone, even though thinking about Wilde touching Bertie like that still makes him feel a bit ill, for reasons he’s not all that interested in analyzing.
“I think about all of them,” Wilde says, softly, then leaves the room.
Zolf puts his clothes back on and tries not to imagine Wilde, guilt-wracked and alone, waiting for a crew that was never coming back. He always seemed like he’d be above all that. Zolf prefers to think of him as above all that, actually. Easier, somehow.
After an aimless, dark span of time, Wilde brings him When Passions Collide, the sequel, and another book Zolf’s never seen before--something about a guy called Dorian?--as well as a lantern, miso soup, and rice.
“Ain’t much substance to that,” Zolf says, flicking his chin in the direction of the food.
“I eat it all the time,” Wilde says, dismissing the comment with a shrug and a wave of his hand.
“Yeah, and you’re so thin a strong breeze could snap your bones,” Zolf says.
“Fine. I’ll get you more food.” Wilde rolls his eyes.
“I also asked for--”
“I know,” Wilde says, sighing and brandishing a bottle of sake he was keeping behind his back. “You’re very demanding today.”
“Well, y’know, gonna be a long week,” Zolf says, gratefully taking the bottle from Wilde, who takes special care to make sure their fingers don’t brush.
“I know,” Wilde says, softly. In the dim light from the lantern, his scar looks horrid, like he’s some kind of undead thing . Zolf knows he must miss his magic like a limb. He doesn’t have anything to hide behind anymore. Zolf’s seen him catch his own reflection. He never flinches away, but his back straightens like he’s rising to something, and that’s enough of an admission of pain.
“I, uh,” Zolf says, because he feels like he should say something , but nothing jumps to mind. “Sorry. About...yeah. Sorry. I should’ve been here.”
“Why?” Wilde asks, suddenly taut and poised again.
“For...for you. Shouldn’t have just left soon as you were cleared.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, you had a job to do.”
“Yeah, and it was a dead end, so I wish I’d been here with you,” Zolf says, shrugging.
“I don’t need you, Zolf. I can manage myself perfectly well.”
“Fine,” Zolf says. He shakes his head, looks away from Wilde, whose face is completely set and unmoving. “Be like that, then.”
“Like what .”
“You know, you’re allowed to want things. You don’t have to need them,” Zolf says.
“You want me to tell you I wanted you there to, what, Zolf? Hold me and comfort me?” Wilde asks, scoffing. “I got by perfectly well before you. I don’t need you by my side all the time.”
“ Fine .”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I don’t get more food?” Zolf asks, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms.
“No,” Wilde says, and almost smirks, but the scar distorts it. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Go hungry, I guess.” Zolf sighs and reaches for the soup. “Bye, then.”