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They enter their home, together. Cillian Quinn slides into the bathroom to tend his wounds, leaving Tempest sinking onto the couch. It puffs up around him, no doubt soaking through in a way that will be unpleasant to clean later. The oddity of Cillian closing the door is lost on him in the moment. During the trip back down, Tempest had slowly felt more and more human. Shock and adrenaline leaking from his body to only leave behind the empty remnants of what he had become.[break][break]

Temp's eyes feel so heavy, as if he hasn't slept in days. He longs to rest them and sink back into the soft cushions, ignore the mess and call of obligations. Allow himself the rest he clearly so needs... but....[break][break]

A gnawing hunger starts in his stomach, belly cramping as it growls loudly and fiercely. Despite being soaked from the rainwater, Tempest realizes how parched and dry his mouth is. His skin feels slick and slimy from sweat and blood and rainwater and whatever still stuck from him from the inside of the cocoon.[break][break]

When Cillian finishes hiding in the bathroom, he will hear a loud 'Ick!' from the kitchen.[break][break]

Tempest pulls the milk away from his mouth, face twisted in disgust. White film on his upper lip and some spilling down his chin. The mostly-full half gallon is hastily placed on the counter, sloshing out some of the soured contents. The cabinet doors are open, two cans of pear halves, now empty, laying on it's side to drip the syrup on the counter. Tempest hastily wipes his mouth clean on the back of his hand, stealing one of Cillian's vitamin waters and uncapping it. He doesn't stop drinking, head tilted back in wide gulps, until it is drained. The empty bottle joins the pear cans.[break][break]

Temp is shoving his hand inside a half empty box of cereal, then, gripping large fistfuls of dry bran and raisins to bring to his mouth. A bowl and spoon sit accusingly next to him, forgotten.[break][break]

"The milk's spoiled!" Tempest says, as if this was a personal crime to him. There is an indigence there, in the bag under his eyes and how sharp teeth chomp on the cereal. A glass of water is filled from the sink to wash it down. "We just bought that!" Is grumbled out after, mouth quickly filled with more grain.

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It's messier than it needs to be, shaky hands causing further damage as Cillian plucks at shards of bloody glass. He'd normally ask for, welcome his husband's help with something like this.[break][break]

Nothing about this situation was normal.[break][break]

So Cillian suffers in brooding silence but for the occasional hiss of pain. A few strangled sobs are buried by the rushing of taps in the bath, water turning pink with his blood. It's not from pain that he cries. He's so sick of the tears but they won't stop, now, even though his sinuses ache with the effort. He scrubs at his face with handfuls of water, runs damp hands through his hair and breathes.[break][break]

When he exits the bathroom minutes later, there is no sign of the tears but for the redness in his eyes. His feet are bound in light gauze, and there's a slight limp in his step.[break][break]

He pauses at the kitchen's threshold, not wanting to intrude upon Temp's space. His gaze flicks between the emptied pear cans and the discarded bowl, then settle on the milk.[break][break]

His nose wrinkles.[break][break]

"That's been off for days." His voice is normally soft. But normally, that softness is one of pride and authority. Now, Cillian just sounds drained. Each syllable is an effort. "We bought it weeks ago."[break][break]

He hasn't quite realized the discrepancy between them. His thoughts feel like chunks of rock being put through a sieve, only the smallest of shards getting through.

[break][break]

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Cillian Quinn enter, Tempest turning eyes upon the other. Even the mess he was (they both were, right now) it brings him comfort to see the other. Inside of Yveltal's grasp, he hadn't been sure his efforts had been enough. That line of doubt plaguing him before he couldn't hold onto it any longer, fading mind barely firing.[break][break]

But what Cillian says doesn't make any sense.[break][break]

"We just bought it. Just... three, four days ago?" They had a small grocery trip to pick up essentials. Milk, eggs, bread, a few small things missing from the pantry. Tempest remembered because it was one of the rare times the two of them got to spend small jaunts like that together. A chore shared that was often spent apart due to busy lives and duties.[break][break]

Tempest places the box down and dusts off his finger tips, picking up the offending jug. He squints at the side before nodding to him, then holds it out for Cillian to inspect.[break][break]

"See? It doesn't go bad for a few more days!" But the date printed on the side was more than a week past.

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Cillian doesn't need to look at the jug to know what it says. It expired three days ago. It had been close to the best-before date when they'd bought it; he'd planned to cook dinner after the mission, before it had all gone wrong. They didn't like to let things go to waste.
[break][break]
But with Temp gone, food waste hadn't seemed like such a big deal. It was nothing compared to the crushing weight of grief.[break][break]

Wordless, Cillian pulls out his phone. Unlocks it with a fingerprint before sliding it across the counter to nudge against the box of cereal Temp has gorged on.[break][break]

The date is displayed clearly beneath the time.[break][break]

"It's been over a week."[break][break]

His voice breaks on the last word.

[break][break]

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A deep breath stays lodged in his chest.[break][break]

"No."[break][break]

It is not said to deny Cillian Quinn the truth. Instead, is has the sharpness of dawning horror.[break][break]

Sure enough, the date on the screen does not lie. Tempest even picks it up and opens up the internet, typing in to check the current day and time. He has been gone for almost twelve days. Placing the phone down, fresh eyes look over their home again.[break][break]

The scene in the living room makes more sense. The state of the kitchen. Hell, even the starvation and dehydration that had been crawling up the back of his throat. It all snapped into a clear sort of focus.[break][break]

Over a week and a half.[break][break]

Tempest swallows thickly.[break][break]

Then his eyes snap up to inspect Cillian more closely. The bags under the other's eyes, thin frame, the way he seems haggard and tired. Tempest's lower lip trembles a bit before he firms it into a thin line.[break][break]

"Cillian." Breathless. He takes one, two steps to be in the other's space. Wrap arms tight around him and gather the other into his arms.[break][break]

Tempest is colder to the touch, now. It is like the warmth inside of him is not quite enough to reach the top of his skin.

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Cillian lingers uncomfortably at the edge of the room as Temp faces the reality of his death.[break][break]

He doesn't resist when he's gathered into his husband's arms. There's a stiffness, a discomfort, before he slowly returns the embrace and allows himself to selfishly indulge in his husband's scent.[break][break]

It's different. Not unpleasant, not entirely foreign, but with new accents that had not been there before. It's not just that Temp hasn't been able to shower in two weeks. It's akin to the petrichor that lingers beneath Cillian's musk of peppermint and cigarette smoke. The spice of Avatarship.[break][break]

Temp is colder than he remembers, as though his circulation were poor.[break][break]

But this is still his husband. The love of his life.[break][break]

Cillian doesn't deserve to be held so tenderly after what he's done. This he knows, yet still he clings to Tempest as a drowning man might cling to his last memory of oxygen.[break][break]

"I mourned you." He can't help the accusatory note that crawls into his tone. "We planned your funeral." We. He pulls back suddenly, urgent. "You need to call Tulio. No. You need to go see him."

[break][break]

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We planned your funeral.[break][break]

Tempest swallows thickly. Wetness wants to collect at the corners of his eyes, only stress and dehydration keeping it at a careful bay.[break][break]

"I'm sorry." For so much, that he doesn't even know exactly what he's apologizing for in the moment. It's still so much to take in. Temp is just quiet, after, as he mind moves sluggishly. A desperate clinging to Cillian Quinn as some type of rock in this mental storm.[break][break]

Eventually his stomach gurgles again, making him reluctantly pull back.[break][break]

"I will tomorrow. Right after..." A sigh. "I'll have to let declan walsh know, too. Mission success."[break][break]

He sounds less than enthused in those last two words.

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Anger spikes so sudden and aggressive that it makes Cillian feel cold all over.[break][break]

Where Temp is reluctant to disentangle from him, Cillian jerks back as though he's been burned. The fury darkens his eyes, Lugia's influence clear in their corruption.[break][break]

"Sorry?" he spits. "Maybe you should've thought of what would happen when you fucking-"[break][break]

He's so angry that he can't find the words, breaking off with a frustrated grunt. He takes a step back, fingers flexing in want of an outlet for his frustration. Guilt sobers him, some, as he remembers what had happened the last time he'd wrapped his fingers around Temp's throat.[break][break]

"You promised me you wouldn't do anything stupid."[break][break]

You lied lingers in the eldritch echo of Cillian's voice. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes, betraying the sorrow and grief behind his anger.

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He doesn't understand where the anger is coming from. So sudden and hot. Tempest flexes his fingers to reach for Cillian Quinn, then flinches and pulls them back at his sides.[break][break]

A sudden breath is taken in.[break][break]

"She was going to kill you all." Is defended, with his own quiet fierceness.[break][break]

Hadn't they been able to tell? Whatever it was doing, it would have drained them all of life. If he hadn't done something then...[break][break]

Death feels smug in the back of his mind, unwelcome.[break][break]

"I was just trying to protect you."

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"She?"
[break][break]

Cillian never yells. His voice is soft.
[break][break]

But it is far from gentle.
[break][break]

It feels almost like a betrayal to hear Temp refer to Yveltal with such familiarity. To place 'her' above the strength of four of Rocket's soldiers. But it is the justification of Temp's recklessness that pisses Cillian off the most. That he couldn't even admit that he'd tried to martyr himself after promising Cillian that he wouldn't.
[break][break]

"We're not that fragile and you know it."
[break][break]

The most fragile thing about Cillian was his heart, and Temp's death had shattered it.

[break][break]

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Tempest hates fighting with Cillian Quinn. Usually he bends and bends and bends to try and get the other to understand. The faint memory of the last time they had a major fight, of when they almost lost each other, a constant reminder of what could be.[break][break]

But Temp is tired.[break][break]

His body is weak and strange and hungry. All he had wanted since coming home was the comfort of someone he loved, the man that Tempest loved more than anything else in this world.[break][break]

Instead he had his throat ripped out. Now, Cillian was attacking him in other ways. Tempest knows exactly what the other is implying.[break][break]

So instead of bending, Tempest breaks.[break][break]

"I wasn't trying to fucking kill myself, Cillian!" His voice is rough, growling at the end as anger colors the snap of his tongue. Gold eyes flicker blue as they narrow at the other's, a flare of anger joining a surge of power.[break][break]

It's over in an instant, as if Tempest hadn't even realized he had done it. But Cillian would feel it. The starting of petrification before it faded.

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There is one counter to Cillian's fury.[break][break]

Fear.[break][break]

The snarl in Tempest's tone is enough to set off alarm bells trained by years of conditioning. Instinct tells him to cower, to comply, but his anger is powerful enough that he does not yield to it immediately. His eyes narrow, too, a quiet challenge burning in their depths. He bares his teeth.[break][break]

And then he feels it. That same creeping stiffness that had seized his limbs before, when Temp had sank sharp teeth into his neck.[break][break]

Cillian's eyes widen in alarm and accusation as it fades, and he takes several steps back to put distance between them. His SHADOW MIASMA begins to flood the room, an unconscious mechanism in his own defense.[break][break]

"You could've fooled me."[break][break]

Bitter. Hurt.

[break][break]

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He wants to cry.[break][break]

The tears don't come.[break][break]

Tempest would never do anything to hurt Cillian Quinn. At least, not in a way the other didn't want. But he's really tempted to throw a punch at him. Instead, he takes a breath and backs away, turning to rustle around in the cabinets. If he could just eat then maybe he wouldn't....[break][break]

A can of pasta is slammed none-too-gently on the counter. A drawer opened with more force than needed as shaky hands search for the can opener.[break][break]

The pure exhaustion weighing on him makes the verbal slap do little more than make him flinch. He fumbles with aligning the opening on the top as he starts to speak again. Heated and low, but he doesn't yell.[break][break]

"Just- I'm not fucking arguing with you right now. Go start me a fucking shower or lay down and be pissy somewhere else." The of the can is pulled off and tossed roughly in the sink. Temp doesn't even get a fork or heat up the canned ravioli; he just lifts it to his mouth and digs into the gelatinous tomato sauce with his fingers.[break][break]

"You'd think you'd be happy to see your fucking dead husband." Is muttered hotly just before he starts to devour the cold food.