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Derek wakes with a new, persistent nudging in his head. It’s not painful, not anymore, but it is stubborn.
He blearily rubs the sleep from his eyes, finding himself splayed quite embarrassingly on the floor of his room. His monitor screen is completely shattered. Flecks of golden ichor are splattered across the keyboard and desk. His mirror is fine. His drawers are… fine? His room is okay. Kind of.
Oh, and he’s also okay. The ichor’s on him too—unpleasantly dried, but it’s manageable. Despite all the mess, he’s alive.
Shit.
He’s alive.
He’s alive!?
A sharp ringing pierces his ears, prompting him to curl up a little tighter, a painful hiss escaping his teeth. Aw, damn, he’s dizzy.
*Did I startle you?
Derek stiffens, turns to the mirror, notes a yellow haze in his vision, and slams his palms against his eyes. No. No. No.
This can’t be happening.
“I’ll slit my throat. I’m so serious.” He mutters determinedly, already beginning to eye the entrance to the small kitchen in his apartment. The knife block is just through there.
The King feels a dollop of panic soak into his thoughts.
No… he wouldn’t? Mm. No. No, he would. He absolutely would. It’d be no good to die with his vessel just a moment after awakening.
He must make his move before Derek makes his.
Summoning and outstretching large, partially corporeal hands, the King grips Derek by the shoulders, tilting his crowned head to offer a soft, saccharine olive branch.
It’s drenched with deceit; the too-tight hold he has on his unwanted vessel doesn’t aid the King, either.
*Oh, my. No need to jump to such grim solutions. We’re united now, yes? Surely we can work something out. I can settle with becoming a quiet, passive spectator in your life. Come now, turn your eyes to me. Don’t look to the kitchen, hm?
Even just uttering the words sends a deep wrongness trickling down the King’s spine. Disgusting. A King, kneeling to a lord? Abhorrent. Horrible. Terrible. Truly wrong.
“Your stupid method to placate me isn’t gonna work. Having you quiet down and become ‘a passive spectator’ in my brain isn’t enough. I want you dead. I want you gone. For good.”
Derek glares at the messy phantom of the King’s visage, searing his fiery intent as deep as bone. If only looks could kill.
Oh, there’s the sparks that the King adores.
A pleased chuckle spirals and swirls around, around, around in Derek’s head. He can feel the ghosts of warped digits trailing down his shoulders and carding through his hair.
*You should have known reciting a little spell wasn’t going to banish me. You know all, I know all. We know it wasn’t going to work.
The lord whips his head to face the direction the King’s voice was echoing from, his face screwed up in irritation. Is anyone else feeling nauseous?
“You’re a fucking liar. You know it too. You were shivering and begging me to reverse the incantation because you thought it was going to work. Don’t lie. It isn’t a good look on you.”
Hm. He was hoping Derek would forget that bit.
The King winces for a split second before breathing out a quiet exhale. He must make do. Being stripped of his power, his influence, his self… It isn’t pleasant. It is an infinitely alien feeling to such a being like the King to be brought to heel by an ordinary man.
No, not ordinary. Such a man shouldn’t be reduced to such a title.
It leaves a twinge of satisfaction in the King’s stomach.
It’s nearly refreshing. The King’s ruled for so long, hasn’t he?
He will make do. Yes. He will make something of what he has now.
The King knows all. The King is infinite. The King will not throw an immature tantrum about being stuck in a mortal’s body.
Piercing yellow eyes—now softened by just a tad—shift away from Derek.
*A quaint little dwelling you have yourself here, Derek.
The King withdraws his icy touch, opting to drape himself over the bed in the room. His robes still glisten with his own golden blood spilled from the prior attempt at banishment.
“Don’t speak.” Derek groans, finally releasing his eyes from the prison of occasional rough scrubbing with his hands. “I feel like shit. It’s all your fault. It’s always your fault. I hate you, I hate you, euuggh–”
He keels over, painfully dry-heaving into his rug. He hasn’t eaten anything proper since… He doesn’t remember. How long has it been? Oh, he’s exhausted. Can’t pass out. Not now. Damn. Nauseous. Dizzy. Yeah, yeah, okay.
*Derek? No need to kiss the ground, you’ve already messed up your greeting to me beyond repair.
How long has it–?
Avery.
*Derek. You’ve gone white as bone. While it’s slightly amusing to see you like this, I hate to ask, but are you alright?
Oh my god.
Avery? Avery. Avery.
Is Avery okay? Shit. These are the questions he should be asking, not pointlessly squabbling with the local god in his mind. Avery, oh my god. He has to… He has to get up. He has to get up and contact Avery but he can’t because his
*Derek. Come now, tell me so I can possibly aid you. It’d be such an unsavory end to us both if you choke on your own throat and die.
monitor is fucked to shit and probably his PC too and he can’t see anything and the world is spinning and, jesus, he’s really nauseous and there’s spit collecting in his mouth and
*I can see the panic in your eyes. It’s really past the time for all that, isn’t it? Surely you’ve done enough thinking. Really, you should do something about your… complexion. This can’t be healthy for a mortal–
Derek chokes, retches, and throws up an inky black liquid, dotted with globs.
Oh, god, it just keeps coming. He hacks up more, clawing at his throat, miserably vomiting his insides out.
After a handful of horrible, gut-twisting moments, Derek leans back, his jaw a mess, dripping with liquid, and his eyes lined with tears as the acrid burning in his mouth and throat assaults all of his senses.
Oh, what a mess. It’s completely ruined his rug. At least it didn’t get on the floor. It doesn’t smell like vomit, thankfully. It doesn’t smell like anything at all. His mouth doesn’t taste of typical bile; it’s taken on a sort of… sooty aftertaste.
*... Ah.
The King is at a loss. Forgive him for his crude language, but what the fuck just happened to his vessel? Why did he just purge up something akin to crude oil?
He supposes a merging gone awry has repercussions for the both of them. I mean, it was assumed that those repercussions would simply be death, but they’ve obviously been proved incorrect.
Hesitantly, the King swipes a tissue from the box on the bedside table he was previously lounging beside and tips Derek’s head back with his free hand.
Cleaning his vessel proves to be no easy task, as the liquid is sticky and clings to skin stubbornly.
The most our yellow god achieves is smearing the ink around.
Ah. Hm. Perhaps water will do a better job at cleansing than a dry, thin paper.
*Come now, stand with me. It appears our union has done harm to both of us. Let me guide you to your washroom.
Derek feels like 17 trucks ran over him. Then poured a bunch of tar on his prone corpse. Then laughed and cursed him to be sad for all eternity. Damn, this sucks.
With no fight left in him after spitting up whatever that goop was, Derek relents, letting the King hold him up with too many hands. It’s an awkward half-carry they have going on, but they stumble to the bathroom anyway.
Moving to support him, the King nudges him toward the sink.
*I don’t trust you not to drown yourself. Hold still.
He dampens a towel and gently dabs the black residue off, swiping at the stubborn stains.
It’s nearly domestic. A bit strange for the both of them; Derek won’t admit he finds it soothing.
“Fffffuuhh-ck. M’rg. My rug. It’s screwed. Ugh. All y’r fault.” He mutters between strokes of the towel. His eyes have gone into a sleepy droop.
It’s not an unpleasant sight. The King notes this and silently continues until the ink is all smudged away.
*Rinse your mouth out. Do whatever it is you do to clean yourself.
Leaving Derek at the sink with 2 phantom hands to hold him steady, the King paces over to the soaked rug.
It’s completely ruined. No hope in saving it, and he’s not sure if Derek would even want to.
The King gingerly pinches a dry-ish corner with his talons, mourning the loss of his kingly dignity, and drops it into the large trashcan in the kitchen.
Disgusting. Never in his eternity would the King in Yellow have thought he’d be cleaning and caring for a flawed vessel.
He pointedly ignores the gentle warmth in the back of his mind.
Why the change of heart? So sudden, too. The King sighs heavily, upset with his own behavior. Just minutes ago he was content aggravating Derek to no end. What’s changed?
Or, what’s been with him all along that hasn’t reared it’s head until now?
It wasn’t an enjoyable sight seeing Derek weak and battered on the ground. It sent a frustrated twinge into the King’s hands. That just wouldn’t do. His vessel deserved better.
The King groans.
Why wasn’t it enjoyable? Derek has done nothing but disrupt and completely ruin his plans. He’s taken his power—his destiny away from him. Nothing from Derek’s behavior warrants such a patient and, ugh, concerned side of him.
He can’t believe he’s even conjuring these lines of thought. Has he truly gone mad?
The merging truly has done a number on him. That must be it. Of course!
It isn’t his mind speaking for him, it’s the side effects of their overlapping!
Aha. Now it all makes sense. Mhm. Of course. It’s not the King’s wants, it’s Derek’s. Who wouldn’t want… CURSES! That biting warmth is back and has sunk it’s teeth into him with a fervor!
No, he couldn’t possibly. No. It just isn’t feasible. It just isn’t right. It’s never–
A pitiful fit of coughing erupts from the bathroom.
From the doorway emerges a slightly soggy and quite sad looking Derek.
Immediately, all upcoming thoughts of denial fly their way out the window of the King’s mental train.
Stepping closer to Derek a bit too fast, the King’s many hands all softly pat him down in slight worry.
*I trust you are well? You handled whatever happened to you?
“Mhm.” Derek nods weakly, dozing off where he stands. It’s understandable. He’s practically been to hell and back.
*Ah. Rest it is then. Fine.
The quip from the King lacks any real heat as Derek unceremoniously flops down into his mattress.
He’s out like a light.
The King sighs, striding his way over to the bed to sit beside his unconscious vessel.
What a predicament he’s found himself in.
Hands slowly tuck Derek in and stroke his hair, ending with a soft caress between his shoulder blades.
It’s far too affectionate for a god like the King in Yellow, but he will indulge.
They’ll work something out. Just not right now.
*Sleep well, Derek.