[P] you wanna hold a gun but they made you a pinup

[Hagar]

HAGAR IESHAN

i hug the world
suffocate it with a pillow

H

is head is so heavy, like some great stone laid over the bone of my shoulder, both an unbelievably comfortable pressure and an almost unbearable weight. I hold him gently, a bird cupped in the palms of my hands, dewy feathers too weighed down for a songbird to fly.

He is so fragile, really. I wonder how they don't notice-- Miriam, with all her guilt anyway, and the world at large with its discerning eye. Sometimes it is like he's just waiting for a strong enough wind to break him apart.

I think the primary rift between Adonai and I is that I used to say it. They would come in from playing or court or whatever my brothers would do while Miriam and I would learn how to paint, or to sing, or to hold our heads at just such an angle and wave in just such a way that we do not need to be asked who we are when seen-- and every month Pilate's face would grow just a little bit darker, the lines of it just a little bit sharper. He would frown more as he grew.

"Adonai," I said to him once, "please be nicer to Pilate. He looks tired."
Adonai had assured me, at the time, that he was fine. All boys sharpened as they aged. It was part of growing up. He knew, perhaps more than I did, that his brother, most fiercely beloved and desperately cherished, would be fine.

His head is on my shoulder--heavy as sin--and I hope he is fine, but I do not quite think so. He lifts his cheek off of me. You've tricked another poor boy into falling in love with you. In spite of my worry, in spite of my heart beating so hard I can barely hear myself think, it is my turn to laugh-- the only truly unrestrained thing I think I am capable of doing.

"Not a boy-- well, most recently-- but good guess."
I do not think of Isabella Foster, or her buttermilk skin. I do not think of the way she says things, always what I least expect in a life, an entire world ruled by strict expectations and carefully repeated lines. She is bold, but I do not care. She is interesting, but I care only a little.

Only enough to keep going back.
"A Terrastellan noble, interestingly. She's... fun."

I know he is dying to ask, because I say the word 'fun' and it must sound just as tinny as it feels when it drops out of me and onto the bed, like I can watch it land and fan out around my knees. It is not something I would say. It is not something I want to say. But is is the only thing.

I speak again before Pilate has the chance: "I've been eavesdropping while painting," I say, "and it sounds like you've been busy, yourself.  Do tell." I grin at him, wide, and bright. Expectant.

@Pilate