I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
Pan turns to face Michael with the same expresion that he used to wear, somehow unsurprised and full of wonder at the same time, and Michael does see a mirror, but not in the way it should look.
Because while Michael and Pan are very much the same they are very different, and Michael feels now perhaps more than in the hundred or so years he's been alive that yawning chasm that separates him from everyone else. Perhaps it is time. Perhaps it is the indefinite heaviness that he can't shake no matter how hard he tries. Perhaps it is just that Michael was not meant to exist. He tries not to dwell. He rarely succeeds.
Still, Michael says "Pan," with a placid smile. Maybe not placid. Sedated. He is so, so tired. "You know, I like that."
Michael's ocean eyes are dull and dark as he searches Pan for---something. He doesn't know what he hopes to find but he does know that he doesn't find it. The light that glints off his scales is close. The quirk of his eyebrow and the easy smile are closer.
(This stallion reminds Michael of a girl with silver skin and eyes like the summer sky. For a moment his head is filled with her sun-freckled cheeks and her laughter like cinnamon sugar. It hurts.)
Perhaps it is these dusty trails from many years ago that cause Michael to look behind him on either side, squint, and say, "A... crocodile? Oh. I'm Michael. Tell me about this crocodile, though."
Honestly though, yes. Its snapping jaws and the steady drum of time bite at his heels with every new second. Suddenly his cells are dying again. Maybe that's the reason he can't sleep.
@pan
Because while Michael and Pan are very much the same they are very different, and Michael feels now perhaps more than in the hundred or so years he's been alive that yawning chasm that separates him from everyone else. Perhaps it is time. Perhaps it is the indefinite heaviness that he can't shake no matter how hard he tries. Perhaps it is just that Michael was not meant to exist. He tries not to dwell. He rarely succeeds.
Still, Michael says "Pan," with a placid smile. Maybe not placid. Sedated. He is so, so tired. "You know, I like that."
Michael's ocean eyes are dull and dark as he searches Pan for---something. He doesn't know what he hopes to find but he does know that he doesn't find it. The light that glints off his scales is close. The quirk of his eyebrow and the easy smile are closer.
(This stallion reminds Michael of a girl with silver skin and eyes like the summer sky. For a moment his head is filled with her sun-freckled cheeks and her laughter like cinnamon sugar. It hurts.)
Perhaps it is these dusty trails from many years ago that cause Michael to look behind him on either side, squint, and say, "A... crocodile? Oh. I'm Michael. Tell me about this crocodile, though."
Honestly though, yes. Its snapping jaws and the steady drum of time bite at his heels with every new second. Suddenly his cells are dying again. Maybe that's the reason he can't sleep.
@pan
