Buried in the Sand [Riocard]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Heart beat – too fast. Temperature, abnormally high. Vision swimming. Head pounding. Inability to remember where he was or where he is going.

Jericho is ninety-nine point nine percent certain that he has been drugged.

Keep a low profile, Micah had commanded. We can’t afford to raise the pack’s interest until we know what’s going on, the older brother had elaborated. But did Jericho listen-- of course not. The answer is obvious and resonates in each aching muscle, in every bead of sweat that rolls down his pallid forehead. He cannot hide. He cannot be sequestered into a secretive life. Jericho is plagued by an intrinsic need to know and to be known, and it is a weakness that has finally come to its inevitable fruition. He wonders now, through the haze in his mind, which of the pretty, smiling faces in the club was his undoing.

It was the woman in the red dress that smelled of jasmine. No. Perhaps the chatty college-aged boy with a heartbreaker’s smile and an apparent love for waistcoats. The bartender with the gauged ears and tattooed arms. He cannot remember. There are no clues to be found within the volatile mix of drug-skewed memories. Faces explode and reform, they mix, and they combine into a god awful visage of everyone he has encountered.

A hand glides over the surface of a stone wall as the werewolf ambles his way down an low-traffic street. Those he passes by pay him no heed; he is nothing more than a tourist that bit off more than he could chew from Ponta Delgada’s nightlife. His beast is too rattled to accept help from the mundane as it is – for no human could understand.

Micah, he thinks. Micah will know what to do. Breathe, he remembers, and his lungs burst open to a rush of air. The sidewalk ahead twists and turns, and warps into a corrupted corridor of odd swirling lights. He is sinking into the pavement, drowning in imaginary quicksand. Invisible shackles wrap around his ankles, unseen fingers grab and pull at his clothing.

A car horn howls and it sends a lightning-shot of pain ricocheting through the werewolf’s skull. His animal paces, howls, claws from within the man’s bones. He is afraid. His wolf is afraid. Flight or fight has taken over. Adrenaline pumps through his bloodstream and it is the only thing keeping him awake and moving forward. Self-preservation is instinctual to all living things, but to a wolf it is a creed, an absolute law.

He has to survive. He must find sanctuary.

The world blinks into darkness for an instant and it causes him to stumble. Jericho’s hands shoot forward and miraculously find something steady to hold onto. Fingers curl into clothing and he peers upwards into the face of a goateed man. The air between them runs electric with the unmistakable stench of wolf, and he feels a sliver of comfort. They are not brothers. They are not pack mates. For all the esquire knows, the man before him is the one who poisoned his drink. But he is wolf and in that there is hope.

”You have to,” he croaks and swallows what feels like a wad of cotton stuck in his throat. ”You have to help me.” Desperation resonates from him in waves. With pleading eyes he says, ”Please.” Far be it for Jericho to forget his manners.

[Riocard.]

ooc; I just followed through with things. You can ignore things and add things, it doesn't matterrrr

---

The vacation was very much needed, this year at the university was... exhausting to say the least. Although his aging as slowed down, he felt as if he were at least twenty years older. He had always scoffed at the professors who felt they needed to retire after a decade of teaching at their university, now he agrees that every now and then a break is a welcoming embrace. It could also be that he has been working nonstop for the last five years, also attempting to find a more suitable job. Riocard is a historian; he has studied for quite a few years at local museums and well regarded schools – even dabbling in medicine and psychology. But alas… he was a university professor who (instead of studying history) teaches history to a bunch of snot nosed miscreants.

So if one were to fail some of those miscreants, he would have a barrage of complaints from relatives who paid for them to sit and listen (and fail).

But, in doing something that he swore he never do (vacation), he had stumbled upon a local university who wished to use his knowledge. Not just for teaching… but to actually have the opportunity to study, for his knowledge to be used for something, rather than just speaking at blank still-intoxicated faces. He thanked them, and assured them he would be in touch, meaning he had to first resign his current position and move all his things out here. That being said, he is leaving in a few days – having already contacted upper management.

For now, he was enjoying what was left of his vacation before he had to head back and pack his things. It was late he had had settled for a few hours at one of the bars, having craved for his wine he had left at home. The wine here wasn't all that bad to his surprise. So after a couple he paid his bill and headed out on to the street. It was not as busy as it had been a few hours ago. But nonetheless he ignored all the locals and ‘kin tourists’ and his slate eyes instead searched for his car which was supposed to be parked… ah ther—

Suddenly a man stumbled into him, hands grasping onto his suit (he was thankful he decided not to wear a tie). “Dammit! What are yo- !!” he spat before his body suddenly stiffened. Of course as soon as he took a breath, he knew what he scented and of course that meant it did as well. Riocard was immediately on the defensive, if he was on his own and not a beast this encounter would already be over. However, it was his wolf, the disgusting creature, who caused him to pause. It would snarl and or ignore important humans, pushing them away and causing a fuss. But if a drunk beast crosses its path… it is inclined to stay. It wanted to stay, and there was a push which let Riocard know that if he left... he wouldn't be in any state to drive. Not without this... this werewolf.

The man’s pleads did not go unheard, he simply chose not to reply to them. If Rio was in his position... would he beg, plead for help to the first werewolf he ran into? The thought went unanswered as Riocard tried to steady the man on his feet. As bitter as he was, he could not help but feel what his wolf feels as he has lived with him for quite some time. To protect your own, and as much as he likes to deny it, Riocard was not human.

“Easy… you're safe.” he explained hooking the man’s arm around his shoulder and walking with him to his car. His words were… semi-sincere but in all honesty he wasn’t too fond of taking home strays. As cold as Riocard seems to be… it’s all just a mask – one of the many he tends to wear.

If Jericho was conscious enough he would be placed in front with him. If not... Riocard would lay Jericho down in the back seat where he could keep an eye on the man through the rear view mirror. He did not look well, judging by his... state -- Riocard could only guess that one of his drinks may have been laced with something. With what, he could only grasp meaninglessly at... he may have studied some medicine, but he was no doctor.

On the way up to his suite, if there were any on lookers they would have received a very heated glare. His wolf was pacing, anxious not even settling when they entered his hotel room. Through all that he still managed to gently settle Jericho onto the couch. If the man was awake water would be forced to drink... hoping to dilute whatever it was inside his body. If he wasn't, water would be left on the coffee table beside the couch. Hands would repeatedly run through his own hair as he paced for a few moments. His gaze would frequently return to Jericho, watching to see if he would still be breathing.

He never tested... or asked if werewolves could sleep off poison -- he guessed he would find out. Sighing, he resigned himself to setting the coffee machine for eight am and settling into the chair beside the couch. Naturally a light sleeper... if Jericho suddenly seized or convulsed during the night he would wake.

Adrenaline faded as he settled into the arm chair, of course so did his consciousness.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Salvation.

Or is he taking candy from strangers?

It does not matter. The fear ripping into his nerves is too much; when the stranger moves to help, Jericho does not retaliate. The ghost of relief cools the fervent beating of the werewolf’s heart enough to ease his breathing. He slumps into the passenger side seat, sweaty brow pressed into the cold of the car window. A world of strange colors and fantastical shapes that coalesce into the hungry maws of demons passes by. The werewolf is forced to close his eyes but he does not lose consciousness – not right away.

Regrets of a man convinced he is dying race through a muddled mind with surprising precision. He never listens. Why does he never listen. Micah was right. Micah is always right. He should have known better. He should have obeyed. He should grow up. He should stop shirking responsibility to leave others, to leave better men cleaning up his messes. They are aspiring notions, self-made promises that he will turn a new leaf if the universe plays nice and allows him to survive. Promises that, when the morning arrives and he is fine, will dissipate into a place of forgotten things.

Bad habits are hard to kick.

The last thought that hits the werewolf like a punch to the gut is this – he really misses his brother. Sound fades. Senses dull. Jericho passes out and the good Samaritan is left to play nurse. As animated as the esquire is in his waking form, when asleep, when hurting he is disturbingly still. The man assumes the visage of an ailing animal and that is to give away nothing, to show no weakness lest it attract the attention of things with bigger teeth.

Hours pass in which the werewolf is as still as a corpse, save for his shallow breathing and the odd muscle spasm. Sweat drenches through expensive clothing but it serves its purpose. Fever breaks, danger fades. Though outwardly still, Jericho’s mind is an animated landscape of swimming colors. Familiar voices reach across the void; he thinks he hears his father calling to him. Dreams warp to nightmares and back again until he is safe, until his pulse is normal and his temperature fair.

Morning light trickles into the motel room and the werewolf stirs. Bleary eyes open to unfamiliar surroundings, but Jericho is not alarmed – this is hardly the first time he has awoken in a strange hotel room. Jericho moves to rise but the action is stilted by an overwhelming amount of ache. The entirety of his body is sore and he briefly wonders if he got hit by a bus. After a session of measured breaths, he tries again and manages to sit.

He sees the glass of lukewarm water sitting on the table and immediately grabs for it, downing the entirety of its contents in one go. The liquid hurts on the way down; his throat is sore, but it is enough to dispel some of the grogginess holding his mind captive. Palms press into eyes and he wills an encroaching headache away. When he is ready, he takes stock of his surroundings. A stranger sits in an armchair and Jericho has no idea who he is. The events of the previous night are something of a mystery.

”Who the hell are you?” It is a sandpaper-rough accusation. If the rescuer was expecting a grateful victim, he is about to be sorely disappointed.

[Riocard.]

(sorry its shoort)

Riocard's sleep was restless, seems he envisioned the poisoned wolf dying on his couch... and him being entirely responsible. Why this bothered him? Riocard should have pushed the beast away and went on home, like the others ignoring his new guest as some drunk who had a bit too much. It would have been a lot easier... and he would have forgotten his face as soon as morning broke and he had his coffee. Of course, on a whim of not wishing to deal with his beast in an unknown public place -- he had submitted. All in all, he should have never involved himself especially with one who shared his curse, hoping to avoid the issue entirely and go about his life. So it wasn’t guilt, he felt in his pointless dream… it was regret. He regrets even getting involved.

Rio stirred at the sound of the glass leaving the table, the louder than subtle scrape against the table. Blue-grey eyes opened to find his guest drowning himself in the water he left. As he fully opened his eyes, the effects of last night’s drinks took hold as the light sent stabbing pains behind his eyes. He leaned forward head in his hands as he tried to will the drowsiness away. Wine was a bitter sweet drink, headaches were guaranteed no matter how much one drinks – he was no stranger.

The voice of his stray, graded his ears like the sandpaper it sounded like – but Jericho was met with a slight smirk. It was mainly to himself, and had nothing to do with his next words. Could Jericho see the regret in his eyes?

“Ah. You don’t remember last night’s adventure?” he replied leaning back in his chair once more, ignoring his question. “ Pleading for my help? the smirk fades into a more curious expression as he could actually see the man properly now. But the moment passed, as the smell of coffee filled the room and Riocard got up from his chair, joints cracking. He shall remind his darker half next time to leave the near dead be…

"I appreciate knowing that there's a chance I will live if poisoned. I never had the pleasure of experiencing this first hand." a clearly faux smile was tossed over his shoulder as he proceeded to the kitchen. Sarcasm was evident, and to his surprise Riocard was not at all trying to be the polite host he normally is? He sincerely wondered why. It could be because Riocard is naturally bitter towards is curse... that anyone associated was a target to this as well.

An attempt was made to remedy this.

“Coffee? Or would you prefer a fresh glass of water?” he asked as he approached the counter grabbing himself a mug from the cupboard. There was a forced politeness to his voice, it seems he couldn't muster up the appropriate social edicate for this situation– he just wanted a coffee.

As he prepared his own, he waited for Jericho's response.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Jericho can be certain of two things. One, he did not sleep with this man. And, a more concerning two, he reeks like he just ran a marathon in a suit. The werewolf’s nose crinkles in displeasure. Fingers grip at the ruined shirt and pull, and Jericho can feel the fabric peel away from his skin. The look he wears is that of a dejected child who just discovered that the tooth fairy is not real, and that his goddamned brother was right. ”I do not plead.” The younger man snipes and his eyes flare to life with arrogance.

In the quartered off room of his mind labeled Embarrassing Things, Carry On and Do Not Enter, is the fragmented image of him gripping at a goateed man’s chest and begging for help. Blood rushes to Jericho’s head and paints his cheeks a telling red. ”Poisoned.” Repetition through bewilderment. The good Samaritan rises to see to his coffee and Jericho is left to internalize. Shame. Residual fear. Guilt. These are not emotions that the esquire is remotely prepared to deal with.

It is with a shaky breath that his eyes slide shut. He will remain calm. He will deal with this rationally. He will --

”Fuck!” --yell loud enough to wake the rest of the building and leap to his feet. It is an action he immediately regrets. Vision swims, equilibrium shatters, and Jericho promptly falls back onto the couch, slumping in defeat. ”Oh for fuck’s sake.” The words are muffled into his hands, which at this point cover his face. ”Why am I such a goddamned idiot. Micah is going to kill me.” Riocard is forgotten during the muttered tirade, and at this point it would be fair to call Jericho’s sanity into question.

”Micah.” Spoken like an epiphany—because it is. Jericho forgets his sulking and reaches a hand into one of his pants pockets. He pulls out a phone and pushes a side button, only to find the device devoid of power. His face crumbles and he runs shaking hands through a messy mane of hair. Breathe. Breathe and think. Green eyes flash up to Riocard, as if seeing the man for the first time.

Angels sing. Jesus descends from heaven. Riocard is a godsend. ”Do you have a phone?” His tone is clipped but it lacks any venom. ”Please tell me you have a phone.” The werewolf employs a doe-eyed look to cajole an affirmative response, but the effect is somewhat lost due to pallor in his skin. He looks like an addict begging for a fix.

[Riocard.]

Initial irritation diffused into something resembling amusement, which could be the beginnings of a slight sadistic trait. But he couldn’t help but feel some satisfaction watching the young man struggle internally. For all Riocard cared, Jericho should be thankful that he had even bothered to assist. Then again Riocard was a university teacher, he expected just the same from students younger than Jericho. Then again the only reason Jericho was here was because his wolf wanted to assist, and there wasn’t any compromise.

Riocard saw to his coffee, taking his time preferring to spend as little time in the man’s presence as possible, even just for a moment. Of course his question on whether he wanted water or coffee went unanswered, so Riocard sighed and finished up his own coffee, and putting everything else away. Turning around, he was met with a sudden loud outburst causing the man to stiffen up almost spilling his coffee. There was a moment where he watched Jericho slump back on the couch with his face in his hands. As irritated was Rio was… he couldn’t help but feel a tad sorry for him, very little mind you but it was there.

“Water it is then.” he muttered turning around and grabbing a glass from the counter, he was going to wash everything when he returned to Boston anyway – as clean as this place was, you never really know. Riocard filled the glass with ice and the water (brought from the US), taking both beverages to the coffee table placing Jericho’s water in front of him. “Drink, it will help,” was all he had to say while he sat back in the armchair finally taking a sip of his own coffee, ignoring Jericho as he scrambled for his phone.

Grey eyes looked to Jericho as he… asked (not pleading of course) for a phone.

Sighing Riocard reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his own Android. He pressed a button to confirm he had plenty of battery power and handed the device over to Jericho.

“ Does this happen often…?” he asked returning to his own coffee, not particularly looking for an answer. ‘This’ was referring to the whole situation, and for that moment he was sincerely curious.

“If you needed a ride anywhere…” he would say when Jericho was free from the call, “my hospitality still has room for another favor,” his nose then wrinkled at Jericho as his scent was taken in, “possibly a shower as well.”