I will not ask you where you came from
I will not ask, and neither should you
Michael first sees their startled faces, then Ard’s scowl, and says “Sorry,”
Michael is a popped balloon, all the air rushing out of him at once, a breath that turns to a snort that turns to a sigh. Sometimes his life feels like one long sigh.
There is no right way to do anything. This is one of the few and simple rules that Michael lives by. There is no right way to rule, to love, or to settle. There is no way to apologize that does not feel pandering. There is no way to live as long as Michael and escape with every part of yourself. He may tell himself this to stay alive in the first place.
He is swimming with the things that he cannot say and has not said while Erd introduces himself, pale and vivid and lovely. Michael’s smile is long-suffering but genuine.
He angles his head toward Ard as he’s also introduced but has already decided not to pry. He does offer him a kind inclination of his head but, based on the reaction he’s already gotten, Michael doesn’t expect it to be reciprocated or even accepted.
This would not be the first time.
“It’s nice to meet you. Really, it is.”
Erd is a lot like Michael, or at least whatever echo of Michael’s old self is still bouncing around his ribcage. He has perhaps never been that driven in his whole life, but the golden horse recognizes the easy trust that pours from him in waves. Ard is probably correct. Michael is the way that he is because he has been too open for too long and inevitably someone stuck their dirty hands right into all the raw parts.
Michael is still an exposed nerve, as inviting as ever when he can remember how to be, and there’s no doubt he’d lay down his life for anyone that needed it, but he has still paid his price.
Anyway, he thinks. Anyway,
“I’m… usually out in the snow, if I’m honest.” he says. His voice is apple cider and cable knit sweaters and the oranges and yellows of fall. He has never quite belonged to winter. Michael shivers, visibly.
“I suppose I do live here. Do you?” he asks, then glances at the brother packed tight against Erd.
“Sorry, before you answer that,” Michael raises his head to stop pause the conversation, “I don’t want to interrupt. Should I go?” I would say that Michael is noble, offering to walk away without question (and he would, oh he would), but if he had really wanted to, he should have drifted off already.
Michael is a popped balloon, all the air rushing out of him at once, a breath that turns to a snort that turns to a sigh. Sometimes his life feels like one long sigh.
There is no right way to do anything. This is one of the few and simple rules that Michael lives by. There is no right way to rule, to love, or to settle. There is no way to apologize that does not feel pandering. There is no way to live as long as Michael and escape with every part of yourself. He may tell himself this to stay alive in the first place.
He is swimming with the things that he cannot say and has not said while Erd introduces himself, pale and vivid and lovely. Michael’s smile is long-suffering but genuine.
He angles his head toward Ard as he’s also introduced but has already decided not to pry. He does offer him a kind inclination of his head but, based on the reaction he’s already gotten, Michael doesn’t expect it to be reciprocated or even accepted.
This would not be the first time.
“It’s nice to meet you. Really, it is.”
Erd is a lot like Michael, or at least whatever echo of Michael’s old self is still bouncing around his ribcage. He has perhaps never been that driven in his whole life, but the golden horse recognizes the easy trust that pours from him in waves. Ard is probably correct. Michael is the way that he is because he has been too open for too long and inevitably someone stuck their dirty hands right into all the raw parts.
Michael is still an exposed nerve, as inviting as ever when he can remember how to be, and there’s no doubt he’d lay down his life for anyone that needed it, but he has still paid his price.
Anyway, he thinks. Anyway,
“I’m… usually out in the snow, if I’m honest.” he says. His voice is apple cider and cable knit sweaters and the oranges and yellows of fall. He has never quite belonged to winter. Michael shivers, visibly.
“I suppose I do live here. Do you?” he asks, then glances at the brother packed tight against Erd.
“Sorry, before you answer that,” Michael raises his head to stop pause the conversation, “I don’t want to interrupt. Should I go?” I would say that Michael is noble, offering to walk away without question (and he would, oh he would), but if he had really wanted to, he should have drifted off already.
@Ard @Erd
