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.
Oh god, he is obsessed.
So much that it hurts. So much that his legs that ache just from standing tremble under the weight of it. If he is a stone than this mass of affection mixed with desperate joy mixed with breathless dread is an entire mountain coming down on his back. Sometimes it is pebble by pebble, plinking into place as neatly as it can.
Sometimes-- like when Pilate laughs, like when a smile breaks over his face and it is enough to stagger Andras, when it is enough that he chokes on it for the blink of an eye-- it falls in fat slabs on the hills of his shoulders, his back, his hips. God, he is obsessed, more and more by the second. Pilate smiles and Andras feels too full of everything at once. Pilate smiles and Andras wishes he was dead because the force of it is catastrophic.
The dread becomes joy becomes ache becomes dread in an endless loop and it is all Andras can do to smile back without his knees giving out beneath him.
Pilate laughs like he means it. Pilate smiles like the vicious sun of the Mors and Andras holds his breath. He knows he would do anything-- absolutely anything-- if it meant Pilate would smile like that, at him, every day of his life. Even though this prince is so selfish, so stubborn, so beautiful (I will die, he thinks-- I am dying) when he says "of course you are" Andras' heart beats in time with it.
Of course I am, of course, of course, of course...
Genuine affection looks strange on his face, too large of a thing to fit in such a small, savage animal. He wants to laugh, or cry, but what comes out is some strangled, breathless, choking chuckle that sticks first in his throat and then in his teeth.
He says, "Oh my gods," and steps closer again--another barrier broken, another stride that feels like a mile, another moment where his bones seem to stick in that fear that's not clawing, it's drilling into his stomach. Andras smiles like a dare but he feels like one large jagged fault line that will either scrape against the other or fall into the sea with no way of knowing. If his magic were awake, if his legs were not weak, if he could breathe at all he would be incandescent.
But it is sleeping, or comatose, rather, and Andras thanks his rash decisions, because he thinks that to see this in full light would be to lose it forever.
Gods. Please. No.
Pilate's eyes are black gashes in the shield of his face. Andras realizes he can hear both of them breathing. He steps closer again, until the tips of his unfolded wings brush both of their ankles. They are so close he thinks he will die, and he would. He would. If Pilate asked.
Andras touches the corner of Pilate's mouth with his, lips and teeth. He touches the sharp cut of his cheek, the curve of his jaw, the columns of his neck. He has never touched something of any real value. He has never valued anything, at all. Until-- until. Why wouldn't you?
"Should I tell you why?" They are still touching. Andras is so tired, so sore, so terribly, terribly obsessed. "Or is one compliment enough for the night?"
So much that it hurts. So much that his legs that ache just from standing tremble under the weight of it. If he is a stone than this mass of affection mixed with desperate joy mixed with breathless dread is an entire mountain coming down on his back. Sometimes it is pebble by pebble, plinking into place as neatly as it can.
Sometimes-- like when Pilate laughs, like when a smile breaks over his face and it is enough to stagger Andras, when it is enough that he chokes on it for the blink of an eye-- it falls in fat slabs on the hills of his shoulders, his back, his hips. God, he is obsessed, more and more by the second. Pilate smiles and Andras feels too full of everything at once. Pilate smiles and Andras wishes he was dead because the force of it is catastrophic.
The dread becomes joy becomes ache becomes dread in an endless loop and it is all Andras can do to smile back without his knees giving out beneath him.
Pilate laughs like he means it. Pilate smiles like the vicious sun of the Mors and Andras holds his breath. He knows he would do anything-- absolutely anything-- if it meant Pilate would smile like that, at him, every day of his life. Even though this prince is so selfish, so stubborn, so beautiful (I will die, he thinks-- I am dying) when he says "of course you are" Andras' heart beats in time with it.
Of course I am, of course, of course, of course...
Genuine affection looks strange on his face, too large of a thing to fit in such a small, savage animal. He wants to laugh, or cry, but what comes out is some strangled, breathless, choking chuckle that sticks first in his throat and then in his teeth.
He says, "Oh my gods," and steps closer again--another barrier broken, another stride that feels like a mile, another moment where his bones seem to stick in that fear that's not clawing, it's drilling into his stomach. Andras smiles like a dare but he feels like one large jagged fault line that will either scrape against the other or fall into the sea with no way of knowing. If his magic were awake, if his legs were not weak, if he could breathe at all he would be incandescent.
But it is sleeping, or comatose, rather, and Andras thanks his rash decisions, because he thinks that to see this in full light would be to lose it forever.
Gods. Please. No.
Pilate's eyes are black gashes in the shield of his face. Andras realizes he can hear both of them breathing. He steps closer again, until the tips of his unfolded wings brush both of their ankles. They are so close he thinks he will die, and he would. He would. If Pilate asked.
Andras touches the corner of Pilate's mouth with his, lips and teeth. He touches the sharp cut of his cheek, the curve of his jaw, the columns of his neck. He has never touched something of any real value. He has never valued anything, at all. Until-- until. Why wouldn't you?
"Should I tell you why?" They are still touching. Andras is so tired, so sore, so terribly, terribly obsessed. "Or is one compliment enough for the night?"
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
