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Death was fast.
At least, this time it was. Turns out, it isn't as daunting to bleed out in front of an audience when they are aware that you're dying. Nobody was applauding him on an incredible performance, there were no flowers tossed in front of his limp body that was rapidly growing cold, no prolonged pause as everyone finally came to the realisation that something was wrong. These people that he's come to know - friends and enemies alike - at least knew what was going to happen. That's... well, he can certainly ask for better, but it's still a vast improvement compared to last time. Not that it's much of a high bar to clear, anyways.
There's definitely a commitment to the aesthetic in the Underworld. The water around him is dark (reminiscent of the shadows Pearl can summon), too dark for him to see what's at the bottom, but it's also reflective enough to let him catch a glimpse of his body. Sure enough, his reflection is the one he's always had. Floaty white hair, green eyes, pale skin, his gold jewellery and blue toga surprisingly pristine. Has dying restored them and wiped the blood stains from the fabric? Not the best way of doing laundry, but it's better than actually doing my own laundry. He chuckles to himself, although even to his own ears it isn't anything close to genuine. It sounds too scratchy, too weak, too primal. The scar across his neck is there, too. Scott wonders for a moment if the killing blow that Owen landed on him has left a similar scar, then decides against checking.
He doesn't want to know. His body is already too scarred for his liking, and if his body does bear the brand of Owen taking his first obol, then he might cry. And he's a pretty crier, but crying in front of Charon isn't an experience he's keen on having.
Paying attention to the spiel that Charon gives him is difficult. It isn't like he chose to be resurrected from death for the purpose of a literal death tournament. Venting about his frustrations to Scott is probably easier than trying to lecture the gods on it, though. Still, he doesn't much care for it. He has died, and all he's received from it is irritation and scorn. Scott halfheartedly pays attention, up until it's time for him to finally leave the Underworld and return to the tournament.
It's only when he touches down in his home that he realises how cold he had felt.
To a degree, he's still pretty cold. Scott rubs his bare arms and takes a deep breath in, then exhales slowly. He's alive. It isn't disorienting, it isn't, he's fine. He's alive.
He's alive until he's sent back into the arena, or until he's hunted down outside of it, and then he'll be shunted back there, back where everything is cold and numb and dark, where the only company he has is a grouchy and complaining man who clearly resents the tournament and by extension all of them-
Nope. Don't think about it. Just don't.
It doesn't really matter, does it? He's back home. Scott turns around and takes in the familiar sight of his home: the torches ensconced in the walls, casting dancing shadows on the marble walls; the open windows overlooking the sheer drop of the cliff; the wooden planks that conceal the entrance to his basement. The smell of flowers is light on the air, a breeze rolling in from an open window and curling around him, warm and gentle, a facsimile of a proper embrace. It doesn't do much to stave off the lingering chill that has seeped into his bones, but he appreciates it enough to crack a small smile.
His bed is here, too. It sits, unassuming and entirely innocent, where it has always been. The bed is exactly as he left it this morning, with rumpled sheets and pillows strewn about messily. He walks over to it and just stares at it. He's tired, really tired, but the thought of trying to sleep now is about as appealing as dying yet again.
Maybe it's the fact that sleep has never come easily to him, and it certainly won't now. Or maybe it's the fact that a sleeping body can very easily resemble a corpse, that he will be silent and still and not breathing, oh Gods, is he breathing-
Scott throws himself out of the nearest window, and leaps over the cliff.
Okay, so throwing himself off of a cliff isn't a great idea, but he lands in the water, so he's fine. He just can't think about that. Any of that. The wind whips around him, ruffling his hair and brushing against his bare flesh, making the hairs on his arms and legs go erect, and it nuzzles against his cheek. His arms go wide, as do his legs. His stomach swoops the closer to the water's surface he gets. Scott shuts his eyes and doesn't try to reduce the impact of the collision; the water smacks against his body, brutal and hard and painful, and he briefly goes under the surface before managing to breach it. Each gulp of air is greedy.
He treads in water, legs kicking to and fro, arms making swirling motions, and the water laps at the underside of his chin. The water is warm, thankfully. Scott starts to swim towards the edge of the lake, slowly and leisurely, letting his thoughts drift away as he focuses on moving his limbs. Maybe he should take up swimming as a hobby. This water is warm, and pleasant, and it's so clear that if Scott looks down, he can see his legs kicking and the plants growing at the bottom of the lake. Nothing like the water in the Underworld.
Pulling himself out of the lake is a bit of a challenge - his arms struggle to find purchase, and his body feels weak enough that actually pushing himself up and out is a process that he has to repeat a couple of times. When he's out, he rolls over onto his back. The grass tickles his shoulders and face.
A sharp gale of wind slams into his stomach, completely out of nowhere. Scott shoots up and doubles over as he coughs. "What was that for?" He rasps, looking up to the sky. Is Aeolus mad at him? "Look, if it's about the arena, I tried, okay? Owen was the worst person I could have gone up against, and I tried my best, but-"
The air is stolen from his lungs, effectively shutting him up, and Scott gasps as he tries to breathe. This is- he must have really upset Aeolus, huh? Fresh out of the Underworld and he's going to get sent back immediately because his god has decided to asphyxiate him until he passes out and probably dies. He scrambles backwards and his hand slips, fingers skimming water, and he almost falls in before a gust blows him away from the edge, fast and almost panicked.
I'm sorry I don't understand make it stop please make it stop makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop-
Air gently flows into his nose and down his trachea, reaching his lungs. His heart races and he braces himself for the worst, but nothing happens. Air is sucked in, and then it leaves, and then it returns. There has to be some kind of catch, right? There has to be. If the gods are kind to them, then why do they have to fight each other to the death?
His heart rate slows to a normal pace. Scott breathes in and then out. He's shaking. He's soaking wet, and he's shaking, and breathing is still a little difficult, and what is all of that in the face of death?
A zephyr blows around his midsection. It feels strangely apologetic, even if he can't place why. Once Scott has calmed a bit more, the winds start to speak.
"I'm fine. It was just... never mind. It's nothing. Did you need something? No, you- you don't have to check in on me, there's nothing to worry about." Nothing worth worrying about when he's going to die again. What's the point?
Scott rises to his feet. A squall kicks up around him and this time, it carries a voice.
"Like I said, I'm fine! I'm going to go find some lotus petals and enjoy my night. You can go now." Being flippant with a god is a bit of a death wish, but for better or for worse, Aeolus has always been somewhat lenient. Scott picks a direction at random and starts to walk.
...And immediately a blast of air slams into him and pushes him backwards. The meaning is pretty clear.
"What do you want with me? I'm not in a mood for games right now." He picks a new direction and sure enough, he's buffeted back that time as well. Frustration starts to swell as, time and time again, he's prevented from running off.
Aeolus wants to play games? Fine! Scott can play games too!
Wind gathers around his feet and he launches himself up into the air, higher and higher and higher, until he can land atop the cliff once more. This time the winds don't prevent him from running off, and if he was in a better state of mind he'd question it more (if Aeolus is so insistent on not letting him run off, then surely he wouldn't be allowed to use the winds to evade him), but for now he's just glad that he's not being pushed around.
There aren't any more irritating gusts, so Scott takes it as a win. Maybe Aeolus has finally decided that he's not entertaining enough right now and has moved on to do other things. It doesn't matter either way. He's in real need of some wine and lotus petals and by the Gods he is going to get them.
"Pretty one!" A bolt of lightning strikes the ground next to him, scorching the dirt, and the smoke clears to reveal Nikos standing to his side. "You fought well in the arena! Are you alright?"
Scott starts to speak, probably to say something along the lines of I'm perfectly fine, thanks for asking, do you mind if I dig into your stash of wine a bit? but then he falters. He shuts his mouth. There is an itching underneath his skin that he doesn't know how to alleviate. Instead of putting up a facade, he marches up to Nikos and just collapses against him.
Strong arms catch him immediately, and Scott goes limp in them. It's comfortable. Nikos is firm underneath him, and his body is warm and dry, and Scott is too tired to extricate himself and regain a bit of dignity, so he simply doesn't. He's allowed to have a bit of a moment, he thinks. He buries his face against Nikos's chest and breathes in. Nikos laughs, a little confused, and Scott can feel it reverberate through his chest, a soothing rumble. "Is anything the matter?"
"Just tired, is all. You don't happen to have any wine, do you? I could do with a drink right now."
"I believe I may have run out." Scott hums in displeasure. Damn. If he can't have wine, maybe he can get his hands on a lotus? There's probably some in his basement if he heads back to his house.
...Going back home doesn't appeal to him much, though. He'll just be alone, tired and unable to sleep, stuck spending the night pacing a hole into the floor and trying to convince himself that he's still alive and kicking. He's tempted to dive back into the lake, then decides against it. He's already dripping with water. No need to make himself even more damp.
Wait. He's wet. And Nikos is...
"Sorry about making you wet," He mumbles, without making any effort to step away. Nikos is far too comfortable to just up and run off! "I... took a bit of a dip, let's just say."
"Ah, was that you, launching off the cliff? I saw somebody falling but couldn't tell who it was."
Colour rushes into his cheeks, heating up his face. "I may or may not have had a lapse in judgement. Jumping out the window wasn't my greatest idea, I'll admit." He laughs it off, and this time it doesn't sound quite so forced. He pulls back just enough to see Nikos's face, still firmly holding onto him, and grins. Something must show on his face - exhaustion, misery, some bitter and ugly emotion that Scott would normally be hesitant to show - because Nikos looks down at him with a soft expression.
"Is this the kind of thing that makes you want to hit something, or feel miserable?"
"I wish I wanted to hit something right now. No, it's just plain old misery." With a healthy dose of frustration and lingering panic, of course. The shock of dying has mostly worn off but not fast enough for his liking. "Why? Got something in mind?"
Nikos grins, his eyes crinkling in delight, and Scott wishes he could have seen him in life. Properly in life, not trapped in this ridiculous tournament. Maybe in a happier life, Nikos went to see one of Scott's plays, and they talked for a bit after the show, then progressed beyond that. Maybe Scott could have seen him and his people, met his wife, danced with him and laughed. If things were better, if circumstances were different, would they have gotten along? Scott hopes so. It'd be a shame, for them to have a chance at meeting and never trying to take it. Nikos's laughter must have been quite the sight. Wild, effervescent. Beautiful, too, although it's hard to tell whether Nikos would enjoy being described as such.
"Maybe a little," A bolt of lightning manifests in his hand, and he gently grabs Scott's bicep. On instinct, Scott lays a hand over his pectoral and tucks himself as close to his chest as possible. Nikos smells of ozone, wine, and something soft and earthy. It's calming. He inhales the scent deeply, and sighs with contentment. The air is charged and crackling with sparks that pop and fizz, and Scott shuts his eyes just as he feels his feet leave the ground.
They're deposited close to Nikos's abode. Neither of them let go of each other as they walk the remainder of the way, Scott holding onto Nikos's arm and leaning his head against his shoulder, and Nikos holding onto him with an arm slung around his waist. It's an incredibly short journey. There's ash on the floor around logs that are mostly burnt, aside from a few glowing embers that stubbornly refuse to be extinguished. Scott flicks his wrist and a puff of air puts them out completely.
Nikos sits him down on the bed and disappears for a moment. Scott stares down at the burnt logs, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. He's alive.
Applause echoes dimly in his ears and Scott firmly shuts it down, digging his hands into the sheets beneath him. Not the time. He's here to forget himself, not to dig his fingers into an old wound, even if it has reopened. A cool breeze circles his face; he swats it with his hand and fixes the sky with a stern look. Not today. Not right now. As if sensing this, the wind gives him a parting brush against the tip of his nose before retreating.
Some petals are dropped into his lap. He blinks for a second, then reaches for them and pops them into his mouth, nodding his thanks at Nikos, who settles next to him on the bed. It's a tight squeeze - their shoulders touch, and their knees bump together - yet it's comforting, having him so close. The petals are sweet on his tongue, like sweet grapes, and Scott swallows them and leans back a little, allowing some of the tension in his body to melt away. His eyes slip shut as he waits for the petals to take effect.
They sit in silence for a while. When Scott opens his eyes, the world is more saturated, brighter and happier, making it impossible not to smile. As soon as the effects begin to dull and the world loses its radiance, he reaches for more petals, only to be stopped by a hand laid over his.
"Take it easy. Don't want to have too many, hm? It'll be havoc when you wake up in the morning." Nikos's tone is light, but firm.
Scott can't help snorting. "I'm used to it by now, trust me. I have a very high tolerance for this kind of stuff."
"Even still, don't abuse it too much. You need to be in fighting shape for tomorrow. Blessings to grab and whatnot."
"Right, yeah." Fighting. He swallows, then hesitantly asks, "I wasn't boring to watch, was I?"
Nikos laughs, loud and uproarious, then shakes his head. "Of course not! For an actor, you fight quite decently. You should be proud." Scott nods, and leans against him. "What's with the question?"
"Just thinking, that's all. Every death I've had so far has been in front of an audience." The shouts from the other Champions - the cheering, the outrage, the nervous murmurs - is all too easy to relate to that audience watching a play, oblivious to what was truly playing out in front of them. There is a whistle of air that jolts him out of his thoughts, enough for him to look sheepish.
Briefly, he wonders if they'll lapse into silence again. It goes on long enough that Scott swallows another petal, too fast to savour the taste, and waits for the world to become vibrant again. The colours and lights make things easier. The landscape is already undeniably gorgeous, but it's even prettier like this. More cheerful. If he ignores the fact that he's destined to die here, he can imagine that he's travelled here for fun instead. It's a nice spot. Artists would love drawing the lakes and clouds and cliffs, the small temples and the arena atop the mountain, the deep caves of crystal and fire and moss.
"What was dying like to you?" He finds himself asking, then feels a bit mortified for the question.
Nikos looks down at him inquisitively. Luckily, he doesn't seem to take offence to it. "Which death?"
"Whichever one you feel is easiest to talk about, I guess."
"Hm." He pauses, his face going pensive as he looks into the distance. There's a small crease between his eyebrows that Scott smooths out with his thumb without even thinking about it. Nikos glances down at him with raised eyebrows and Scott chuckles at him. The petals must be kicking in harder, making him giggly and silly. "Frustrating. The child was not supposed to interfere as he did. If he hadn't intervened, perhaps I'd have managed to clip the bird's wings." He doesn't talk about his first death, and Scott doesn't press him for answers. He understands, in a way. It's not a nice thing to talk about.
"I... I don't know if I really feel alive anymore. Do you know what I mean? This is just futile. We're going to keep killing each other, and-" And I don't want to keep dying. I want this to be over. Why don't I have a choice to opt out? I'm done. I'm tired. "I guess I'm wondering what the point is. To all of this."
"We are alive. That is what is important. If you think too much about death, then you will hardly be living, no?" For a moment, Nikos's face twists into a dark expression. It is gone almost as soon as it arrives, but Scott keeps staring, waiting for it to come back long enough for him to make sense of it. Nikos breathes out slowly, his fists clenching then relaxing. His smile returns. He grabs Scott's hand and squeezes it. "If you need help feeling alive, though, I have an idea or two."
He perks up a little at that. "Really, now? And what's your idea?"
Nikos stands up, then sits back down on the bed directly behind Scott. Arms wrap around his waist, and while it's not quite what he'd been expecting, Scott leans back against his chest and sighs.
...Then he abruptly yelps as he starts pitching backwards.
Nikos laughs and lightly taps him on the nose, shifting so that Scott is lying half on top of him. His head is guided to rest directly over his heart. Scott can hear it beating, can feel how his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. A kiss is pressed to the top of his head.
"What was that for?" He grumbles, wriggling to get more comfortable. He lifts his head and leans up just enough to kiss Nikos, their lips sliding together, slow and tender, before parting. "Could've given me a bit of warning first."
"But where's the fun in that?"
"...True." Scott kisses Nikos again, stopping that ridiculous little smirk from forming, and sighs into his mouth. The effects of the petals have faded (if only they lasted longer, he briefly laments) yet the world still feels vibrant. It's hard to feel cadaverous when he is so warm all over, when the body underneath him is undeniably alive and he must be as well. Pettiness motivates him to nip Nikos's lip which earns him an amused huff.
They exchange slow kisses for a while, allowing time to slip by. It never gets heated - neither of them are in the mood for anything too intense tonight - and it's... pleasant. It's nice to kiss with tenderness instead of searing passion. Nikos's hand cards through his hair, and he melts into the touch embarrassingly quickly. Scott cups his cheeks and strokes his thumb along Nikos's cheekbones, tilting his head to get a better angle. By now he feels pliable, lethargic. As they separate for air once more, Scott presses a kiss to Nikos's forehead then settles back down on his chest, ear hovering over his heart, listening to each thump.
His eyes start to slip shut; he doesn't fight it, exhaling softly as he gets comfortable. The air around them is just humid enough to feel like a blanket draped over their bodies instead of being an oppressive heat.
Scott falls asleep, for the first time in a while without the aid of alcohol, to fingers playing with his hair and a steady heartbeat against his ear.