It feels like a dream until the shade touches his forehead and the dive in temperature brings him back to the tick of their feet echoed off gold-plated furniture knobs and the ring of high ceilings, muffled only by a shuffling murmur in the background and the somehow comforting drum and hiss of plates being made and set and carried. The smell of sweet bread and juice squeezed fresh from the food is almost too much with anything else.
He wonders why he is drawn, always, from the dark hole of his room in a library in the middle of the woods, where voices are hushed and unhurried and the silent panic of a nation is almost a comfort, hung over his back like a blanket.
As they cross the threshold to the kitchen he thinks how much like him Pilate must look, with his jaw wrenched tight, breathing like he'll hollow himself out, like breathing at all will untie the knot in him. Pilate turns his back on Andras to pluck two glasses out of god knows where, and Andras thinks--if he were to reach out, to touch him, would Pilate flinch, now? If he stretched one wing, hooked its feathers in the fabric of his cloak or the cold glint of his gold chain-- what then?
It's a thought that has his heart racing, a private moment that Andras shares (unwillingly) with the hungry-eyed servants and their urgent whispering before Pilate hands him a glass that tinkles as it changes hands. He smiles, thin and tight-lipped, and curses that fucking smile for the third time that morning.
The light through the window, the wrinkle of his eyelid, half-closed against it, and the other one, bright like most dangerous things, searching his face for something Andras is almost certain he'll find there--all of it makes his mouth dry.
No, Pilate hums. Andras glares at him, a look that moves eyes-mouth-glass-eyes, then sips his own, the cold rim of the glass turned blue by the fingers of light that walk their way down the stiff lines of his neck. "Mm," he hums in agreement, and the smile that follows it is uncharacteristically calm. "What does surprise you? I sincerely doubt it's drinks."
He wonders why he is drawn, always, from the dark hole of his room in a library in the middle of the woods, where voices are hushed and unhurried and the silent panic of a nation is almost a comfort, hung over his back like a blanket.
As they cross the threshold to the kitchen he thinks how much like him Pilate must look, with his jaw wrenched tight, breathing like he'll hollow himself out, like breathing at all will untie the knot in him. Pilate turns his back on Andras to pluck two glasses out of god knows where, and Andras thinks--if he were to reach out, to touch him, would Pilate flinch, now? If he stretched one wing, hooked its feathers in the fabric of his cloak or the cold glint of his gold chain-- what then?
It's a thought that has his heart racing, a private moment that Andras shares (unwillingly) with the hungry-eyed servants and their urgent whispering before Pilate hands him a glass that tinkles as it changes hands. He smiles, thin and tight-lipped, and curses that fucking smile for the third time that morning.
The light through the window, the wrinkle of his eyelid, half-closed against it, and the other one, bright like most dangerous things, searching his face for something Andras is almost certain he'll find there--all of it makes his mouth dry.
No, Pilate hums. Andras glares at him, a look that moves eyes-mouth-glass-eyes, then sips his own, the cold rim of the glass turned blue by the fingers of light that walk their way down the stiff lines of his neck. "Mm," he hums in agreement, and the smile that follows it is uncharacteristically calm. "What does surprise you? I sincerely doubt it's drinks."
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
