rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
This is a familiar ache, hunger like claws in the back of his throat, some dark, bloated thing that rears his head when those fossil-eyes bore bright holes in the shield of his skin. It is darkest of all when it feels like he is falling endlessly, like there is not enough air in the world to fill him or clear the static that's filling every part of him that used to be a coherent thought, like he is burning away to ash-- and all the pain and panic that comes with it.
Pilate breathes a sharp huff that he feels just at much as he hears. Andras follows his shape through the dark, those bright eyes just as bright in the glow of the lantern as they are in the midday sun. As the door clicks shut behind him Andras sees him edged in yellow light that pools in the cup of his chest and the ridge of his brow. He looks somehow soft, though he's all sharp angles like a canvas stretched over the frame of his bones in places. It is almost enough to make him wilt, where he is not seen, tucked into the background, safe from those prying eyes that would pull him apart if he knew.
He is almost worried, when the thought makes him shudder. Almost.
Pilate turns. Pilate looks first at the room– its uncanny shapes and its cluttered stillness, wavering in the low light– and then back at Andras. Andras sees the twist of his snakes like a ghost in the dark. He watches the silhouette of one touch Pilate's face, sharp teeth and wide jaw and those same molten eyes, and he has to swallow to keep from doing more than cracking half a smile.
Pilate flinches, just barely. It becomes a full smile. One that spreads from the crease of his mouth to the skin of his cheek to the light laughing along in the lens of his glasses. It is a smile not so unlike Pilate's own and it is not particularly chaste.
’Everything?’ Pilate prods, sweet like a shot of venom, and in spite of the silence in him, in spite of the way he remembers his legs are trembling with the effort of holding him up, a weak arc of blue light floats off his skin. It takes only this long for his smile to become a toothy snarl, as bitter and black as it's ever been, then smooth itself out again.
Pilate came to him, to the woods, in the dead of night, when it was inevitable that Andras would crawl back to Solterra on his stomach, given enough time (and he had, more than once). He knows, with more certainty than he feels most things, that all the huffing and smirking and carrying on can't change that. He only wish he knew why.
It is this and the night-dark fear, the lingering image of Pilate emptying his drink and clacking away-- the two driving forces that draw him closer, and closer, until the space between them is so small that Andras can unfold one wing and touch him in a rare moment of bravery, shuddering with the weight of it. The room is dark and cramped and quiet and Andras can hear himself breathing until he starts speaking to cover the sound.
“Mhm,” he hums, quiet enough that it is little more than a rumble in his throat. His wing is still extended, and for a moment Andras wonders if Pilate will break it, or tear it off, or something just as grave and bloody and sudden. He does not wonder why the idea doesn't surprise him-- part of him knows, just as he knows why his heart is a war drum in his chest, that it is because Pilate is as dangerous as he is beautiful. He moves to tuck his wing back against his ribs but its tips skin the floor instead.
“I am intimidated, and very selfish, and unbelievably immature.” Andras says, louder now, but almost gently. “Though I don't know why, considering, I had expected you to be far less patient... and yet, here you are.” Andras tilts his head, regarding Pilate with something uncomfortably close to admiration, full of that longing straight down to his marrow that pulls him closer still, until he can see the hot coals of Pilate's eyes, and knows now more than ever than intimidated is an understatement.
Andras smiles, the way Pilate might smile: something smug, and knowing, but not nearly as patient. His heart is a panicked bird in a panicked cage. Andras draws on all the courage left in him not to see Pilate running again, not to expect the cold stare he knows is coming, not to steel himself against the inevitable. He chuckles through his nose, eyes narrowed to match the other's. “I’d thank you, if I knew why that was.”
Pilate breathes a sharp huff that he feels just at much as he hears. Andras follows his shape through the dark, those bright eyes just as bright in the glow of the lantern as they are in the midday sun. As the door clicks shut behind him Andras sees him edged in yellow light that pools in the cup of his chest and the ridge of his brow. He looks somehow soft, though he's all sharp angles like a canvas stretched over the frame of his bones in places. It is almost enough to make him wilt, where he is not seen, tucked into the background, safe from those prying eyes that would pull him apart if he knew.
He is almost worried, when the thought makes him shudder. Almost.
Pilate turns. Pilate looks first at the room– its uncanny shapes and its cluttered stillness, wavering in the low light– and then back at Andras. Andras sees the twist of his snakes like a ghost in the dark. He watches the silhouette of one touch Pilate's face, sharp teeth and wide jaw and those same molten eyes, and he has to swallow to keep from doing more than cracking half a smile.
Pilate flinches, just barely. It becomes a full smile. One that spreads from the crease of his mouth to the skin of his cheek to the light laughing along in the lens of his glasses. It is a smile not so unlike Pilate's own and it is not particularly chaste.
’Everything?’ Pilate prods, sweet like a shot of venom, and in spite of the silence in him, in spite of the way he remembers his legs are trembling with the effort of holding him up, a weak arc of blue light floats off his skin. It takes only this long for his smile to become a toothy snarl, as bitter and black as it's ever been, then smooth itself out again.
Pilate came to him, to the woods, in the dead of night, when it was inevitable that Andras would crawl back to Solterra on his stomach, given enough time (and he had, more than once). He knows, with more certainty than he feels most things, that all the huffing and smirking and carrying on can't change that. He only wish he knew why.
It is this and the night-dark fear, the lingering image of Pilate emptying his drink and clacking away-- the two driving forces that draw him closer, and closer, until the space between them is so small that Andras can unfold one wing and touch him in a rare moment of bravery, shuddering with the weight of it. The room is dark and cramped and quiet and Andras can hear himself breathing until he starts speaking to cover the sound.
“Mhm,” he hums, quiet enough that it is little more than a rumble in his throat. His wing is still extended, and for a moment Andras wonders if Pilate will break it, or tear it off, or something just as grave and bloody and sudden. He does not wonder why the idea doesn't surprise him-- part of him knows, just as he knows why his heart is a war drum in his chest, that it is because Pilate is as dangerous as he is beautiful. He moves to tuck his wing back against his ribs but its tips skin the floor instead.
“I am intimidated, and very selfish, and unbelievably immature.” Andras says, louder now, but almost gently. “Though I don't know why, considering, I had expected you to be far less patient... and yet, here you are.” Andras tilts his head, regarding Pilate with something uncomfortably close to admiration, full of that longing straight down to his marrow that pulls him closer still, until he can see the hot coals of Pilate's eyes, and knows now more than ever than intimidated is an understatement.
Andras smiles, the way Pilate might smile: something smug, and knowing, but not nearly as patient. His heart is a panicked bird in a panicked cage. Andras draws on all the courage left in him not to see Pilate running again, not to expect the cold stare he knows is coming, not to steel himself against the inevitable. He chuckles through his nose, eyes narrowed to match the other's. “I’d thank you, if I knew why that was.”
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
