a light flickers inside four's head at the anomaly of panic housed in the frame of the voice belonging to elan ceres. a stranger in the home. he sees it for the first time: striations like strings, not the same color as those that move the clones but strings nonetheless. because elan ceres says "no" — as good as a command four must receive —, says "i'm fine" — a lie four must receive and see how imperfect mirrors really are —, says "precautions" — a perspective four must receive and consider. it saves four from unraveling, enough to process in his mind that the way elan ceres leans into his touch has considerable competition for the confusion and well buried response in him: this...this...this...
two birds. one stone.
if one were to grade four's intelligence, the score would be high. if one were to grade four's wisdom, he would fail over and over. the problem at hand asks the former of him more than the latter.
inhale. exhale. an ordinary pain.
he blinks once, only for his eyes to go improbably wide. they seem to want to be a slightly different shape, rounder, distinctly not elan's eyes.
the feeling of elan's hand on his arm, his wrist, the back of his own hand where the permet lies ominously dormant still. one curse to another, perhaps it doesn't care for competition. not a thought four has, but not out of hand. mined. concocted. intruders to the body. one to acclimate to or die from. one to reject with "preparations" and neutralizers and antidotes pre-administered or die from. vaguely he's aware of how clammy elan's hand is and how it contradicts the burst of strength. that four was not about to rescind his hand anyway, hardly matters.
right?
more than the touch, perhaps, it's that word.
sorry.
four sighs.
he doesn't try to parse if elan ceres means it. it is not as though he would be able to tell, or what he would do with either answer; it's not his place. surveying elan ceres again brings four no particularly new data — struggling breaths, spike in body temperature and the resulting sweat that mats his hair and the collar of his shirt to his skin in a way four has never seen. poisoned. how? for a moment, four hesitates. again: it is not his place. at the same time, he detests inefficiency and absence of logic. this time when he blinks, the wideness disappears like it was only an illusion.
maybe it was.
his gaze is familiar, what little elan ceres can likely see of it based on how his eyes fail to focus still. )
Your jacket.
( it makes sense to remove it. four does not know if he should help. his complete disregard for the piece of paper elan set down may as good as tells his origin point that he's not thinking about it, much less putting the pieces together. if he did, he would even feel some doubt. peil has many easier ways of ridding themselves of him. but perhaps not elan ceres himself, and once he worked his way to that conclusion he might understand. for now, there is no such comprehension, four's fingers unconsciously flexing slightly against elan's subtly sharper cheek, his own hand completely covered by the other's.
such a terrible personality.
he's not sure that it is. what makes it terrible?
four thinks of the books on the cart that he only just denied being his own, the tomato plant, the diploma.
terrible?
terrible. selfish.
perhaps they are more alike than he guessed.
no.
he stops the thought, folds a new box around it and puts it into the old room behind the other rooms.
no. )
Please...tell me what to do.
( please. it should be easy shouldn't it? to reinstate the roles, to match the pattern set out for him and move just so. please. in this abnormality return to the norm where even the way elan ceres prolongs touch in a way that burns worse than the permet eating away at him can be explained explained explained until it makes so much sense four no longer has to contend with the alternative.
please.
underneath it all, elan ceres' words repeat both a promise and a curse and in no voice four can recognize:
i'm fine. really. just fine. don't hate me. please.
no subject
a light flickers inside four's head at the anomaly of panic housed in the frame of the voice belonging to elan ceres. a stranger in the home. he sees it for the first time: striations like strings, not the same color as those that move the clones but strings nonetheless. because elan ceres says "no" — as good as a command four must receive —, says "i'm fine" — a lie four must receive and see how imperfect mirrors really are —, says "precautions" — a perspective four must receive and consider. it saves four from unraveling, enough to process in his mind that the way elan ceres leans into his touch has considerable competition for the confusion and well buried response in him: this...this...this...
two birds. one stone.
if one were to grade four's intelligence, the score would be high. if one were to grade four's wisdom, he would fail over and over. the problem at hand asks the former of him more than the latter.
inhale. exhale. an ordinary pain.
he blinks once, only for his eyes to go improbably wide. they seem to want to be a slightly different shape, rounder, distinctly not elan's eyes.
the feeling of elan's hand on his arm, his wrist, the back of his own hand where the permet lies ominously dormant still. one curse to another, perhaps it doesn't care for competition. not a thought four has, but not out of hand. mined. concocted. intruders to the body. one to acclimate to or die from. one to reject with "preparations" and neutralizers and antidotes pre-administered or die from. vaguely he's aware of how clammy elan's hand is and how it contradicts the burst of strength. that four was not about to rescind his hand anyway, hardly matters.
right?
more than the touch, perhaps, it's that word.
sorry.
four sighs.
he doesn't try to parse if elan ceres means it. it is not as though he would be able to tell, or what he would do with either answer; it's not his place. surveying elan ceres again brings four no particularly new data — struggling breaths, spike in body temperature and the resulting sweat that mats his hair and the collar of his shirt to his skin in a way four has never seen. poisoned. how? for a moment, four hesitates. again: it is not his place. at the same time, he detests inefficiency and absence of logic. this time when he blinks, the wideness disappears like it was only an illusion.
maybe it was.
his gaze is familiar, what little elan ceres can likely see of it based on how his eyes fail to focus still. )
Your jacket.
( it makes sense to remove it. four does not know if he should help. his complete disregard for the piece of paper elan set down may as good as tells his origin point that he's not thinking about it, much less putting the pieces together. if he did, he would even feel some doubt. peil has many easier ways of ridding themselves of him. but perhaps not elan ceres himself, and once he worked his way to that conclusion he might understand. for now, there is no such comprehension, four's fingers unconsciously flexing slightly against elan's subtly sharper cheek, his own hand completely covered by the other's.
such a terrible personality.
he's not sure that it is. what makes it terrible?
four thinks of the books on the cart that he only just denied being his own, the tomato plant, the diploma.
terrible?
terrible. selfish.
perhaps they are more alike than he guessed.
no.
he stops the thought, folds a new box around it and puts it into the old room behind the other rooms.
no. )
Please...tell me what to do.
( please. it should be easy shouldn't it? to reinstate the roles, to match the pattern set out for him and move just so. please. in this abnormality return to the norm where even the way elan ceres prolongs touch in a way that burns worse than the permet eating away at him can be explained explained explained until it makes so much sense four no longer has to contend with the alternative.
please.
underneath it all, elan ceres' words repeat both a promise and a curse and in no voice four can recognize:
i'm fine. really. just fine.
don't hate me. please.inhale —
— exhale. )