i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
i used to make my parents proud
Hugo yawns.
It is the kind of yawn that comes from bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that make's a person's eyes feel too big for their head. Stinging. Heavy. And his head itself is a ton of bricks.
It is a pleasant kind of hell, having nothing to do. The bracers are dyed and waiting, the forge is chugging quietly along as it does, warm enough to stave off the cold but not warm enough to be in use, just existing, being, waiting as Hugo himself is existing, being, waiting. It is strange, perhaps, how he does not so much rest as he turns off, not entirely numb but numb enough, and that's all that matters.
Of course, hell is still hell, and even in a stupor--violet eyes glazed, brow knit in some vague expression of discomfort--there is still the sound of his own voice in the back of his head, or Rickard's voice, or some other voice altogether, telling him what it's like to fly--and what it's like to fall.
"You need to grow up," it says in the shell of his ear, cold and dull. "This is what you've always wanted. The workshop. The forge. The Halcyon."
Hugo frowns, still disconnected from the slow traffic, the snow still falling outside his tent. It is, you know--what he always wanted, that is. It's just that sometimes it's hard to smile through the constant stream of eyes searching him for a sense of completeness that he doesn't have, for purpose as clear as church bells calling him to mass, joy like a prayer to Vespera, as loud as the crashing waves and as bottomless as the sea beneath them.
They are always faces that search him and find nothing, too--and not just because they see him and see he is wanting for some indefinable quality that is not his great skill or his fanatic diligence, but there is no dawning of recognition, no point at which their face shifts to one of fondness, or even hatred, or even businesslike grace. Hugo has stood here through his whole childhood, hammering away in the background, orange as the desert sand with wings like radio static, and nobody seems to have seen him at all.
He is glad for the approaching footsteps that breaks the surface of his thought though he is gasping for proverbial air when it does, rushing to press his pieces back together in some way that looks even remotely normal. Some of the edges are uneven, steps in the porcelain where the glue oozes out, but no one will look close enough to see. Probably.
Ard and Erd round the corner, bringing their footsteps with them, and Hugo, still leaning in his own doorway, gives them a lazy salute and smiles like an Arkwright should smile: warm, pleasant, welcoming. Enthusiastic.
"Welcome," he says, as if they had been meaning to come inside all along, "it's a good day to get out of the cold."
It is the kind of yawn that comes from bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that make's a person's eyes feel too big for their head. Stinging. Heavy. And his head itself is a ton of bricks.
It is a pleasant kind of hell, having nothing to do. The bracers are dyed and waiting, the forge is chugging quietly along as it does, warm enough to stave off the cold but not warm enough to be in use, just existing, being, waiting as Hugo himself is existing, being, waiting. It is strange, perhaps, how he does not so much rest as he turns off, not entirely numb but numb enough, and that's all that matters.
Of course, hell is still hell, and even in a stupor--violet eyes glazed, brow knit in some vague expression of discomfort--there is still the sound of his own voice in the back of his head, or Rickard's voice, or some other voice altogether, telling him what it's like to fly--and what it's like to fall.
"You need to grow up," it says in the shell of his ear, cold and dull. "This is what you've always wanted. The workshop. The forge. The Halcyon."
Hugo frowns, still disconnected from the slow traffic, the snow still falling outside his tent. It is, you know--what he always wanted, that is. It's just that sometimes it's hard to smile through the constant stream of eyes searching him for a sense of completeness that he doesn't have, for purpose as clear as church bells calling him to mass, joy like a prayer to Vespera, as loud as the crashing waves and as bottomless as the sea beneath them.
They are always faces that search him and find nothing, too--and not just because they see him and see he is wanting for some indefinable quality that is not his great skill or his fanatic diligence, but there is no dawning of recognition, no point at which their face shifts to one of fondness, or even hatred, or even businesslike grace. Hugo has stood here through his whole childhood, hammering away in the background, orange as the desert sand with wings like radio static, and nobody seems to have seen him at all.
He is glad for the approaching footsteps that breaks the surface of his thought though he is gasping for proverbial air when it does, rushing to press his pieces back together in some way that looks even remotely normal. Some of the edges are uneven, steps in the porcelain where the glue oozes out, but no one will look close enough to see. Probably.
Ard and Erd round the corner, bringing their footsteps with them, and Hugo, still leaning in his own doorway, gives them a lazy salute and smiles like an Arkwright should smile: warm, pleasant, welcoming. Enthusiastic.
"Welcome," he says, as if they had been meaning to come inside all along, "it's a good day to get out of the cold."
Hugo Arkwright
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@Ard @Erd
