Work Text:
He's in the middle of dodging a flying knife of smashing a mirror of rehearsing his lines of lighting a bonfire of dressing a child of washing the dishes of kissing when he realises that something's different. He looks around, taking in his surroundings, but –
He waits quietly.
Nothing comes. He can't see. Hasn't been able to for a while.
He used to be able to, didn't he? He used to inhabit a world, a town, a research building. He knows this to be true like he knows the scalpel the book the mechanism the pen the match the stack of papers the still-throbbing heart in his hand. He used to inhabit a world full of shapes and colours, three dimensional routes that he would find himself traversing – streets in the town, series of rooms, corridors in the research building. The environments held items in them, items he could pick up and touch – not touch, but have on him. He used to run into walls.
He blinks and takes a deep breath. There is air, then, or at least there is air now that he has started breathing. Was there air before he took that breath?
He looks down at himself, at his hands. They're still clad in black leather gloves they're bare they're bloody they're clean they're filthy. He's dressed in familiar clothing in just his underthings in Kin garments in an Inquisitor's suit in a blue jumper in nothing at all. His body is the same as ever has a cock has a cunt.
He exists, still, then. This much he knows. There is air and he exists.
What was it he'd been doing before he came to a halt? He'd been starving been nervous been running been sleeping been reading been loading his gun been kissing his –
His mortal enemy his lover his acquaintance his adversary the left hand to his right.
That's right. Artemy's here, wherever this is, and as soon as it is written, there he is. He's tired he's happy he's in the middle of fighting he's at the brink of death he's laughing he's kissing –
He gets lost in the kiss for a moment, in the feeling of lips against his. This much is real. He blinks his eyes open, meeting Artemy's bright ones. Artemy looks back at him and has a face and a body has scars has painted sigils on his chest has a bloody nose and he's young he's old he's smoking he's hanging from a noose he's cut himself shaving he's yawning he's kissing –
Again, he loses himself in the kiss. Artemy is here. Isn't he?
Artemy's always there, he thinks, that's the one constant, that's –
Hear ye, hear ye –
Artemy's dead. He doesn't know how, he wasn't there, but Artemy is gone and all hope is lost. He holds the sole vial of panacea in his hand.
There is air. This much he knows. He exists he's dead he's Simon he's downing a bottle of twyrine he's cocking his gun he's burning the papers he's kissing –
Artemy is here. The author wills it so.