Work Text:
Let us stay here,
Jane sings. She's been on this song for a few hours now. Martin, face buried in his knees as he curls up at the door, watching for worms, considers it to be a rather nice track, if it weren't in his ears all the time.
What will last?
Him. He swears, he swears it will be him. The song is loud but he- He can be louder! Bang some pots and pans together!
Nothing but fractured fragments.
No. Martin stands up. None of that. It's going to make him all melancholy if he sticks around like this. He stubbornly ignores the next few lines of the song as he wanders through his living room in the dim evening light. There's nothing to actually do, of course, unless he feels like playing a board game in the dark again. It doesn't really work.
No need to keep your head out of the clouds.
Nope, not happening! He's staying grounded, thank you! If he ever hears this song again, once he's rescued, he's going to first glare at whoever was playing it, and then strongly consider finding the songwriter and letting them know... No, that would just be weird, wouldn't it? He could still glare, though.
Cause here we've all you need,
Martin covers his ears with his hands, but keeps his eyes open. The song leaks in anyways.
the lotus leaves will send you on a slumber sweet and sound.
Just keep watching for worms. He'll be fine. She'll get bored, or, or someone will walk by? It'd be bad for them, of course, but he really wants to hear a voice that isn't Jane's or his or the faint humming that Jane seems to be singing to. Maybe it'd be better if he could look up the lyrics, know what the song was? It could almost sound like some song he'd heard on the radio, if it wasn't for the depressing subject matter.
No need to worry now, though I'm not proud,
Yeah. No radio would play a song about some spaceship captain going mad in a completely peaceful way. Probably? He's so tired- Nope! Nope, none of that! If he's tired, he is going to sleep on the couch! Can't use the bed, something might happen that he won't hear if he's in there. He did get most of his blankets out to the couch though.
On a long, laconic shore,
And there she goes again. Martin wraps himself up in his blankets, catches himself moving to the beat of the song, and quickly shakes himself vigorously. The sun has almost set, and he used up his sparse collection of candles a ways back, on that first night without electricity. A waste, he reflects. Martin falls asleep, lulled unwillingly by the song.
He wakes up while there still isn't any natural light. Jane is on the same song.
All will fall. Mountains will crumble, time will claim the strongest city wall.
Martin's chest itches. He kicks off his blankets, snippets of a dream about cocoons and the layers of wasp nests feeling far too familiar to stay wrapped up like that. Running a hand over the part of his chest itching doesn't reveal any holes. It's probably not where the worms would've gone, given how wrapped up he was. They'd try the face. Nothing feels odd there either, so he's as safe as he can tell. He falls back asleep.
You're with the Lotus Eaters now. No need to worry how the world spins round, no need to keep your head out of the clouds. Why cling to hope of homeward bound? Cause here we've all you need, the lotus leaves will send you on a slumber sweet and sound. So stick around...
Mouthing along to the words, Martin wonders when he woke up. It's dim. He hasn't been sleeping well, has he? Having the same background noise all the time is awful. It's almost worth risking the bedroom. He sighs and gets up for the morning can of peaches. Hooray! More... More slimy, awful little things, falling apart at the slightest touch and so sweet they hurt his teeth.
What happened to the spark that fear and fury would ignite?
He's been scraping the worst of the plaque off his teeth with his nails. He can't get to his toothbrush, the bathroom is blocked off after the toilet stopped flushing and he could swear he saw long, silvery maggots in the toilet bowl. Regular maggots, he wouldn't want in his flat, but wouldn't actually mind all that much otherwise. Supernatural maggots that will eat him alive in a way completely antithetical to how actual maggots work? Not a chance.
Let us stay here,
Ugh. Martin eats his peaches in the kitchenette. If he spills any of the juice on the sofa, even the place he sleeps will remind him of these awful things. He spends perhaps too long tilting the can to watch the dim sunlight reflect on the inside of the can. Jane's song sounds a bit louder, or maybe he's just distracted? Who knows. He marches over to his spot in front of the door.
World forgive me, I'm so tired.
Her and Martin both, heh. God. Martin switches to leaning against a nearby wall instead of the door, and slumps over. He starts to cry, the vague smell of rotting peaches and sickness overlapping.
It transpired...
He hums along to the following verse, and Jane picks up in volume as a response. She's probably happy he's performing with her, isn't she? Maybe. Who knows. For a brief, dangerous moment, Martin considers removing the stuffing from under the sil of the door and letting the worms in. He doesn't, but it would be easy. He stares at the old, loved sweaters and pants. He smells so bad, not being able to shower. The worms are probably eating the clothes he put down.
We stopped to take on water
Martin stares into his trash bin. He doesn't know when he got there. There are mushrooms growing, small and delicate, over the spoiled food he'd done his best to keep free of bugs. The thought runs through his head that if he dies through some mundane way, he won't have to get eaten alive by worms. He grabs the decaying mass of mushroom and rot and shoves it in his mouth.
What's to fight for?
It tastes awful. Most of it hits the ground, but he knows he swallows some by the way the aftertaste of peaches finally leaves him. He nearly throws up, but swallows back the bile. That would defeat the purpose of this. He'll be fine- Martin hits the ground, collapsing and sobbing all over again.
All will fall.
Yeah, whatever. Whatever, he's just-
Better to make a stand than stranded with no hope at all.
Sure. He knows the captain gives in eventually, but he's making a stand. He'll just be more successful about it. Dying, rather than being eaten. Dying... He's going to die anyways. What does it matter what to? Starvation, thirst, poisoning, worms? It's all bad. The poisoning just might hurt the least. Maybe he can kill whatever worms try to eat him after he dies if his body is toxic enough.
As they call...
And the day passes. Martin finds himself on the verge of singing with Jane far more often than he'd like. He fights it by biting back disgust and shoveling fallen rot into his mouth. Strings of mycellium catch on his tongue before they go down. He doesn't bother with any more peaches, just the trash.
No need to worry how the world spins round,
Yeah. It's fine. He'll die here, alone as he can be with the worms and the person who is probably more worm than human outside his front door, and then he won't have to worry anymore. He's definitely feeling bad.
No need to keep your head out of the clouds.
Only eating whatever garbage was around definitely would have been a bad idea in any situation other than attempting suicide. He keeps refusing to throw up, but in a haze, some bile and chunks spilled past his lips.
Why cling to hope of homeward bound?
Thin strings like spiderwebs or blood clots littered the sick on his laminate flooring. It's as good a sign as he's going to get, he supposes.
Cause here we've all you need
Martin whimpers. He just wants this to be over with. How fast does food poisoning set in? He manages to tune out the song for a while as his throat starts itching. He coughs, and nearly throws up again. This is miserable. He shouldn't have done this, should have just stayed put and waited and ate the damn peaches. But he doesn't.
He throws up into the sink. Blood and bits of plastic from where he gnawed at a takeout box fall onto the metal. He stares at the strings connecting small chunks of flesh. Jane's song is deafening. He can't hear himself think, so he heads into his bedroom. Curling up on his bed for the first time in almost two weeks, Martin can almost pretend he isn't hearing anything. He wants quiet. He just wants for there to be quiet.
Though it is the afternoon, and sleep is never quite safe, Martin takes a nap. In his dream, he is an electrical impulse racing down a neuron over and over again, never quite saying what he needs to say to the dendrites. He's pretty sure they're called dendrites. He wakes up feeling oddly good, despite the oppressive heat throughout his limbs. Only his limbs. Martin's chest is freezing, by comparison.
It's quiet. Something is wrong. He stumbles onto his feet, weak from hunger and lack of movement, fearing that he'd find the main rooms overrun with worms or rot or anything, but he stumbles into a room exactly like he left it.
Nothing but fractured fragments of the dark and dreadful past.
A thick relief hits Martin all at once. Still fine. Jane is still singing, and that isn't ideal, but his flat is safe and he's not worm food. He settles by the door again, listening to the song. In some awful way he thinks that brief period without it made him anxious? It's become such a constant that he doesn't know what to do without it.
than be stranded with no hope at all, as they call...
He hums along with the song until his throat feels too rough to make any noises at all. If the cheerier tone to the backing droning is any indication, he really shouldn't do that, but he's just so tired of pretending he'll make it out of this. So Martin engages in the only source of comfort he has, refuses to drink anything to help his throat, and startles back to awareness in the dark, coughing up a lung.
You're with the Lotus Eaters now,
Hands still caked in garbage, Martin reaches into his own mouth and pulls out of his throat what feels like a massive clump of hair. He spends a while crying, wondering how he even has all the water he's been using for tears these past few days. He's got a terrible headache at the end of it, though, and falls asleep in brief lulls in front of the door.
At some point, the probably-mycellium seems to have started growing into his hand. It's growing far faster than it should be able to, and Martin just bites back more tears.
No need to worry how the world spins round,
His throat is clear. Martin is so tired. He waits until the song nears its end, deliberating with himself the whole time, and eventually joins the chorus of tiny voices pretending to be one.
I'm with the Lotus Eaters now. No need to worry now, though I'm not proud, let others make the world keep spinning round. Forget the life you've left behind. Before the Lotus drives it from my mind, I write these words for followers to find. Don't get entwined, you'll lose your mind.
His voice scratches, but there is finally a true quiet. He breaks it by moving his barricade aside and unlocking the door. No worms come through. He takes a deep breath and opens his door. Jane meets his eyes, and his face crumples as he leans into her. The worms crawl over Martin from where Jane wraps her arms around him, but they don't bite. He's safe. He's finally safe.