Certainty can be dangerous. Almost always.
Animals are uncertain because it means they survive. Animals hesitate because to do anything else means a mouth full of teeth, crushing.
Then, it was dangerous. When Pilate looked at Andras like a man on fire, punching a hole in each peal of thunder, daring Andras and his black something to come out in the open, instincts be damned. And now, certainly, when Andras turns back to that infurating, diplomatic patience and he has never been so certain in his life that he has seen this decadence all along.
It's been there, hasn't it? In the sharp cut of Pilate's smile, in the shine of each smooth angle, in each languid stride and each barely-murmured threat-dare-promise. He isn't surprised to find the impossibly green leaves, backlit by the dry marble of the architecture or the cloudless sky behind that. He isn't surprised to feel eyes on him, boring holes in the back his neck. He wonders what he's thinking. He hopes it's something besides that smug smile.
When he turns, he finds indignation - brows drawn together just enough to crease the skin, the slice of his pupils as dark and as hot as Andras has ever been. There is a long moment where he seems lost for words, and the warden sucks in a breath that's a little too loud for his liking.
It makes him smile.
The kind of smile that is almost entirely unwholesome, the kind of smile that in and of itself begs Andras to place his hands on the crumbling wall of Pilate's tolerance and push, just enough to feel it give way, just enough to see if there is anything like him behind all that polished marble and gold filigree.
Drinks first, Pilate says - and Andras thinks he knows better than to believe the disinterest, but who knows. He answers, "Sure." with a shrug.
But there is a part of Andras, growing by the second, that knows it wouldn't be enough. If he pushed he would never stop, so when Pilate's tail slaps his knee he follows like he always would have, crackling away as each pair of eyes sticks to his skin, one by one.
"So." he begins, when they have crossed the courtyard and it sits in a hush behind them, the prying eyes of servants turning from their charge and his guest to each other, and the noise of their gossip rises up in their wake. And he wants to say pour me a drink, in fact his jaw clenches with the effort it takes not to push, and push, and pushpushpush even though he had just decided against it, but in the end, he says:
"Are you surprised?"
Andras is surprised.
Animals are uncertain because it means they survive. Animals hesitate because to do anything else means a mouth full of teeth, crushing.
Then, it was dangerous. When Pilate looked at Andras like a man on fire, punching a hole in each peal of thunder, daring Andras and his black something to come out in the open, instincts be damned. And now, certainly, when Andras turns back to that infurating, diplomatic patience and he has never been so certain in his life that he has seen this decadence all along.
It's been there, hasn't it? In the sharp cut of Pilate's smile, in the shine of each smooth angle, in each languid stride and each barely-murmured threat-dare-promise. He isn't surprised to find the impossibly green leaves, backlit by the dry marble of the architecture or the cloudless sky behind that. He isn't surprised to feel eyes on him, boring holes in the back his neck. He wonders what he's thinking. He hopes it's something besides that smug smile.
When he turns, he finds indignation - brows drawn together just enough to crease the skin, the slice of his pupils as dark and as hot as Andras has ever been. There is a long moment where he seems lost for words, and the warden sucks in a breath that's a little too loud for his liking.
It makes him smile.
The kind of smile that is almost entirely unwholesome, the kind of smile that in and of itself begs Andras to place his hands on the crumbling wall of Pilate's tolerance and push, just enough to feel it give way, just enough to see if there is anything like him behind all that polished marble and gold filigree.
Drinks first, Pilate says - and Andras thinks he knows better than to believe the disinterest, but who knows. He answers, "Sure." with a shrug.
But there is a part of Andras, growing by the second, that knows it wouldn't be enough. If he pushed he would never stop, so when Pilate's tail slaps his knee he follows like he always would have, crackling away as each pair of eyes sticks to his skin, one by one.
"So." he begins, when they have crossed the courtyard and it sits in a hush behind them, the prying eyes of servants turning from their charge and his guest to each other, and the noise of their gossip rises up in their wake. And he wants to say pour me a drink, in fact his jaw clenches with the effort it takes not to push, and push, and pushpushpush even though he had just decided against it, but in the end, he says:
"Are you surprised?"
Andras is surprised.
sleep like dead men, wake up like dead men
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
