( it's frustrating, being exposed like this. it doesn't matter that elan ceres would well already know what four's status is, how well or unwell he is, and the shape of it. it doesn't. four never wanted to show anyone this side of him, irregardless. his erratic breaths flood the largely empty unit, with nothing to muffle or catch them into something quieter. it burns. it hurts. he can't see properly. and throughout it all he's viscerally aware of elan ceres: first above him and then closer. confusingly closer. four hardly has time to wonder what before he gets an answer that is also another question.
elan's fingers are like ice laid across a burn still livewire. four's focus goes pinhole finite. he really can't breathe.
what does he want from him?
what does he want, period?
it's not a question four has had come up before, knotted and tangled in his own questionable choices and actions therein. typically it is more than enough to leave no room for anything else. the chats, books, this visit -- all of it changes meaning without giving four any kinds of answers at all; and if an answer is a door opened, this might be a window from many stories up. sure, you can see out; and yes, you can leave.
what happens after that is anyone's guess.
but you have to tell me.
he trembles. there is a willful violence in four's limitations. the things he thinks won't hurt as much if he does not admit them are not necessarily true, and the things he thinks he should be saying are not necessarily right. nothing comes out anyway, not what is asked of him and not what isn't. some of that causes duress too; four bites down on his conditioned nature: to reply when spoken to by those of peil whether elan ceres or aught else. in this way, the overwhelming nature of the permet, is a cursed kind of blessing.
the hand, once a fist, still burns but it rests in a limp fold of fingers against the floor. his other hand goes to cover his own mouth in case he's sicker, just trying to catch enough breath to be quiet again. stop listening. stop seeing. four isn't without pride but in this moment he can feel the plea in every part of him. when he tries to withdraw his hand, it's a weak motion, and the way elan's fingers pressed in, the glove keeps him from doing so.
if he admits that he wants to live, won't it hurt more? be harder to breathe? the burn more unbearable?
self preservation takes as many forms as self destruction.
where four's successor and peer in the wings exhibits this by holding back in piloting and risk taking, four builds himself a false world made of one step in front of the other. parallel to this but never truly touching: the books he is reading and the words and ideas in them. questions, but not his questions. because four is sure. so very sure.
of his purpose. of what he's willing to sacrifice, because why would he be here otherwise. of the pointlessness of being lonely and wanting someone else with him.
not that he is lonely. not that he wants to live. of course.
breathe. be quiet.
it's mortifying, on his knees with his head bowed and a sting in his eyes that blurs his limited vision, and no one is more surprised perhaps than four himself when his voice steals out, softness undermined by a hoarseness that would make anyone flinch, )
Why?
( the fact of the matter is that it's not his place to ask and inwardly four recoils at his own question, alarmed, furious —
— afraid.
it's worth that much, at least. elan ceres' words will echo in his head for the rest of his life however short. at present, four riles against it however silently: no.
no subject
elan's fingers are like ice laid across a burn still livewire. four's focus goes pinhole finite. he really can't breathe.
what does he want from him?
what does he want, period?
it's not a question four has had come up before, knotted and tangled in his own questionable choices and actions therein. typically it is more than enough to leave no room for anything else. the chats, books, this visit -- all of it changes meaning without giving four any kinds of answers at all; and if an answer is a door opened, this might be a window from many stories up. sure, you can see out; and yes, you can leave.
what happens after that is anyone's guess.
but you have to tell me.
he trembles. there is a willful violence in four's limitations. the things he thinks won't hurt as much if he does not admit them are not necessarily true, and the things he thinks he should be saying are not necessarily right. nothing comes out anyway, not what is asked of him and not what isn't. some of that causes duress too; four bites down on his conditioned nature: to reply when spoken to by those of peil whether elan ceres or aught else. in this way, the overwhelming nature of the permet, is a cursed kind of blessing.
the hand, once a fist, still burns but it rests in a limp fold of fingers against the floor. his other hand goes to cover his own mouth in case he's sicker, just trying to catch enough breath to be quiet again. stop listening. stop seeing. four isn't without pride but in this moment he can feel the plea in every part of him. when he tries to withdraw his hand, it's a weak motion, and the way elan's fingers pressed in, the glove keeps him from doing so.
if he admits that he wants to live, won't it hurt more? be harder to breathe? the burn more unbearable?
self preservation takes as many forms as self destruction.
where four's successor and peer in the wings exhibits this by holding back in piloting and risk taking, four builds himself a false world made of one step in front of the other. parallel to this but never truly touching: the books he is reading and the words and ideas in them. questions, but not his questions. because four is sure. so very sure.
of his purpose. of what he's willing to sacrifice, because why would he be here otherwise. of the pointlessness of being lonely and wanting someone else with him.
not that he is lonely. not that he wants to live. of course.
breathe. be quiet.
it's mortifying, on his knees with his head bowed and a sting in his eyes that blurs his limited vision, and no one is more surprised perhaps than four himself when his voice steals out, softness undermined by a hoarseness that would make anyone flinch, )
Why?
( the fact of the matter is that it's not his place to ask and inwardly four recoils at his own question, alarmed, furious —
— afraid.
it's worth that much, at least. elan ceres' words will echo in his head for the rest of his life however short. at present, four riles against it however silently: no.
it's not. )