[ There's a pattern to it, now. Trevor likes patterns. He likes things that he can measure and watch for and have it all make sense to him. Not magic, or creatures too small to see that somehow carry illness (magic), or poisons in the blood (magic). Sunset is about three and a half hours before midnight, and he turns. For half an hour, the agony is too great to think. For three hours, he has fangs. At midnight, he is human. Between dawn and somewhere around noon, he is able to walk outside in the sunlight. At noon, the sun becomes too bright and staying out in it bursts the tiny blood vessels (Alucard calls them caterpillars, or something like that) under his skin and leaves him covered in little marks like red spiderwebs. Between noon and sunset, he is in the late stages of turning. And then three and a half hours before midnight, he turns again.
Sypha is uncomfortably close for this turning. His jaw is wedged open, molars biting down on a thick piece of wood, so that she can see the fangs as she observes the changes to his skull as best she can. Something something, magic bullshit, something something, spell to help with the worst of the pain by either preventing the changing of the bone or making it go more smoothly. She pokes at the fangs with a measuring ruler, taking note of how far they push out, where the teeth that they displaced are forced to.
He hasn't eaten more than about a mouthful at each meal since before the battle. He physically can't. The process of turning twists the parts of himself that are for eating into something different, built for an entirely different sort of sustenance. The process of turning back undoes all of that, but leaves the insides of him ruined, withered away and incapable of more sipping at water and broth and warm milk with honey stirred into it (Alucard has taken to giving him that, when he can't stomach anything else, and he suspects that it's as much for Alucard's comfort as it is for his own). And it's- fine. He'll need more sooner or later, Sypha's already commented once on how his skin seems looser on him in places as his body starts to consume muscle to fuel the constant turning and turning back. But- with any luck, there won't be a later. His body has always been forced to consume itself to survive every winter until coming to the castle, he has a fairly strong idea of how far this can go and still be reversible with a few weeks of rest and decent meals.
Only now, now there's something else inside of him. He almost wants to call it survival but it isn't. He knows survival. He's good at survival. This, all of this, is survival and this thing is darker. It's- he wants to call it selfishness, but it's crueler. It's survival through terrible means, the drive to destroy something else to ensure that he continues. And it's powerful, so powerful, strong as the compulsion on this room's door had been. And Sypha's hand is right there, the blood so close to the skin from that bruise he'd left her with two nights back. And he can't warn her, because his mouth is wedged open and the desperate shouting just sounds like more of his screams from the turning process, earning only a pained smile and attempt at comfort.
The first sound is Trevor biting clean through the wood holding his mouth open. The second is Sypha yelling in alarm as he pounces her, all teeth and claws and very little Trevor at all. ]
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Sypha is uncomfortably close for this turning. His jaw is wedged open, molars biting down on a thick piece of wood, so that she can see the fangs as she observes the changes to his skull as best she can. Something something, magic bullshit, something something, spell to help with the worst of the pain by either preventing the changing of the bone or making it go more smoothly. She pokes at the fangs with a measuring ruler, taking note of how far they push out, where the teeth that they displaced are forced to.
He hasn't eaten more than about a mouthful at each meal since before the battle. He physically can't. The process of turning twists the parts of himself that are for eating into something different, built for an entirely different sort of sustenance. The process of turning back undoes all of that, but leaves the insides of him ruined, withered away and incapable of more sipping at water and broth and warm milk with honey stirred into it (Alucard has taken to giving him that, when he can't stomach anything else, and he suspects that it's as much for Alucard's comfort as it is for his own). And it's- fine. He'll need more sooner or later, Sypha's already commented once on how his skin seems looser on him in places as his body starts to consume muscle to fuel the constant turning and turning back. But- with any luck, there won't be a later. His body has always been forced to consume itself to survive every winter until coming to the castle, he has a fairly strong idea of how far this can go and still be reversible with a few weeks of rest and decent meals.
Only now, now there's something else inside of him. He almost wants to call it survival but it isn't. He knows survival. He's good at survival. This, all of this, is survival and this thing is darker. It's- he wants to call it selfishness, but it's crueler. It's survival through terrible means, the drive to destroy something else to ensure that he continues. And it's powerful, so powerful, strong as the compulsion on this room's door had been. And Sypha's hand is right there, the blood so close to the skin from that bruise he'd left her with two nights back. And he can't warn her, because his mouth is wedged open and the desperate shouting just sounds like more of his screams from the turning process, earning only a pained smile and attempt at comfort.
The first sound is Trevor biting clean through the wood holding his mouth open. The second is Sypha yelling in alarm as he pounces her, all teeth and claws and very little Trevor at all. ]