He senses it coming in the other's breaths, the barely-there movement of his lips. The heat from Four's skin becomes unbearable. He lets the hand he's holding slip away, attention traveling from the books as they're knocked over, down the nape of Four's neck, to the glow of permet just under his collar and the fist clenched against the floor. This is something Elan wanted to see, for his own sake. In his mind's eye a much younger version of himself does exactly what he's told, mimics his tutors' behaviors in miniature, and is pristine in every moment of his childhood's debasement because he knows it won't pay in the short- or long-term to resist or make things difficult. He'll be freer than anybody when they're through with him. Freer because richer, more competent, more well-connected, more.
When Elan looks down at Four, he knows it's a lie.
His non-position at Peil's brought the bully out in him for lack of anything better to be. The chats, books, this visit -- all in the service of carving out a space for himself, however small, where he can exercise his authority over someone. It's pathetic, but Elan can't say it's beneath him when it's a defining feature of the people who made him the man he is. The thought almost turns his stomach.
Slowly, Elan crouches until he's almost at eye level with Four. He studies the fine, red-white lines pulsing under the other's skin, right at the edge of the cravat; the sheen of sweat on his skin; the set of his mouth. I did this; I did this; I did this. Within the nothing that he feels, he's conscious of his heart thudding against his chest, growing stronger every minute that passes. He wants to leave; he wants to stay. He wants to shake Four senseless; he wants to pull him close. He wants to taunt Four for collapsing; he wants to tell him he's been heard. He wants to do them all, all at once -- anything to avoid whatever's beyond the nothing that characterizes his existence, broken only by amusement and play-acting ambition. (But is that true? Why would he have done something like this, if not to...?)
His hand's back on Four's, Elan realizes, palm burning up against the other's fist. It's the sting that does it. The solution to his contradictions comes in the form of two fingers sliding under the glove to rest, painfully, against Four's skin. ]
no subject
He senses it coming in the other's breaths, the barely-there movement of his lips. The heat from Four's skin becomes unbearable. He lets the hand he's holding slip away, attention traveling from the books as they're knocked over, down the nape of Four's neck, to the glow of permet just under his collar and the fist clenched against the floor. This is something Elan wanted to see, for his own sake. In his mind's eye a much younger version of himself does exactly what he's told, mimics his tutors' behaviors in miniature, and is pristine in every moment of his childhood's debasement because he knows it won't pay in the short- or long-term to resist or make things difficult. He'll be freer than anybody when they're through with him. Freer because richer, more competent, more well-connected, more.
When Elan looks down at Four, he knows it's a lie.
His non-position at Peil's brought the bully out in him for lack of anything better to be. The chats, books, this visit -- all in the service of carving out a space for himself, however small, where he can exercise his authority over someone. It's pathetic, but Elan can't say it's beneath him when it's a defining feature of the people who made him the man he is. The thought almost turns his stomach.
Slowly, Elan crouches until he's almost at eye level with Four. He studies the fine, red-white lines pulsing under the other's skin, right at the edge of the cravat; the sheen of sweat on his skin; the set of his mouth. I did this; I did this; I did this. Within the nothing that he feels, he's conscious of his heart thudding against his chest, growing stronger every minute that passes. He wants to leave; he wants to stay. He wants to shake Four senseless; he wants to pull him close. He wants to taunt Four for collapsing; he wants to tell him he's been heard. He wants to do them all, all at once -- anything to avoid whatever's beyond the nothing that characterizes his existence, broken only by amusement and play-acting ambition. (But is that true? Why would he have done something like this, if not to...?)
His hand's back on Four's, Elan realizes, palm burning up against the other's fist. It's the sting that does it. The solution to his contradictions comes in the form of two fingers sliding under the glove to rest, painfully, against Four's skin. ]