[CLOSED] And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth

[stumbledfromtheashes]

who: Iona Lavellan (stumbledfromtheashes) and Dorian Pavus (tevinteraltus), Iona Lavellan and Relm Hawke (indigobird), Iona Lavellan and Natasha Romanoff (unmakeme)
what: A friend and lover has left the Quarantine
when: Somewhere around the October 10th-14th range? Just after Cullen left.
where: their place
warnings: Nothing. Just a lot of heartbreak


REALISATION. For Dorian.
Iona doesn’t believe it, at first. When Cullen goes silent, when she doesn’t hear from him, see him... She refuses to believe it. (A part of her knows. A part of her knows what it means. But she just... can’t. Not yet. Not at first.) But she needs to know. She has to. So she checks. With the guard, first.

And then she goes to his room. The one they shared as much as they shared hers.

Pushing open the door, she stands in the doorway, staring at his pristine quarters, the things he’d purchased, the things she’d bought him to make his room a little homier, sitting where they had been carefully placed. But no Cullen.

It’s then that reality sets in. The heart-wrenching realisation that he’s gone. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. She stands there, the hand she has pressed against the doorjam unsteady. She doesn’t even notice the tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

He’s gone.

LATER. For Hawke.
It’s later, how long Iona doesn’t know, when she makes her way down to their wine cellar (‘wine’, although there’s more than that), choosing whatever bottle of the strongest alcohol she can find first, and heads outside, to curl up in the nature corner. In the hammock. She spent a lot of time there, with Cullen. Curled up just the two of them. And now he’s gone.

It guts her, and she hates it. Hates that she’s so destroyed by his loss. (Does he even remember her? He’s gone back to his world, his Inquisitor... does he even remember their time together? Does he miss her the way she misses him?) Hates that he’s gone. She hates a lot of things at the moment.

Mostly her heart is broken. Just shattered in her chest and she doesn’t know what to do with it. With herself.

So she curls up in the hammock with a bottle of alcohol, wearing one of Cullen’s shirts (she’s laid claim to his clothes. Mostly his shirts. His shirts and the little things that remind her of him. Because she’s a fool) and starting to aggressively drink her sorrow away. Or numbing it as best she’s able.

Comments

[unmakeme]

The couch is good. And comfortable is also good. Not much about life is going to be comfortable in the days to come. This might as well be.

Before she sits, Natasha grabs the nearest piece of small furniture. Table, chair, ottoman, doesn’t matter. Just something to drag closer to them, touching the couch cushions, just something to set a couple of glasses and the bottle down on.

She toes off her ballet flats next to the couch. Barefoot, like Iona, she folds herself onto the cushions. She still hasn’t spoken. There still isn’t anything to say that makes it better. She knows that, more intimately than most people do. There’s nothing that could ever be said that makes it better. You just have to wait it out. You wait for it to fade. And that sucks. It sucks so much.

Which is what makes numbness so appealing. Which is why Natasha pops the cork and pours the liquor. Who is she of all people to deny anyone their avoidance?

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Iona feels as though she should probably say... something. Perhaps several somethings, even. But she doesn’t have the words, and she doesn’t have the energy to spare for them, even if she DID. So instead she curls up on the couch. Later. The words will come later. After the numbness.

Instead she takes the glass of liquor that Natasha pours her and takes a large swallow.

[unmakeme]

Natasha isn't offended when Iona doesn't speak. She's not in any hurry to break the silence, herself, because words aren't anything but another weapon to her. This is more honest, and the liquor is more important, anyway. It's the point of all of this, the numbness that Iona has apparently opted for in the wake of her loss. Natasha knows it's not exactly healthy, but she's also in no position to judge. Iona is a grown ass woman, and if this is how she wants to deal, this is how Natasha will support her dealing.

She tucks her legs up underneath herself when Iona does, silent little bookends on the couch, each absorbed in their cups, which empty far too quickly. Natasha lifts the bottle again, nudging Iona's cup down to rest on the cushion before she fills it, and then hers. Old habits and all that. She takes another sip, feeling it burning through her veins, hitting her mind, softening the sharp edges. No, she's in no position to judge anyone who chooses to take this approach to coping.