( the confusion elan ceres' response causes is greater than its reassurance. most of the hypotheticals four could come up with on the fly lead to some form of "yes", which isn't to say elan ceres wants him to die or even to test the nature of that substance on an augmented human being like himself; rather that this is four's job, in a sense and so why wouldn't the answer be some form of that "yes"? his thought process blurs in tandem with his vision, though he doesn't sway or lean. he thinks. or rather, he tries to; but elan ceres asks him what is wrong; elan ceres touches the back of his hand.
four doesn't know if he knows what he's doing, doesn't know if he himself knows what he's doing either. action. inaction. call. response. he's never been the type to take two steps forward. neither has he been the type to take two steps back. is this the way to be closer to the version of being that moves irregardless of his successes and victories? the line between stagnancy and balance blazes under the back and forth rock of four's feet at any given moment like a trapped falling star: already certain to die but it could go somewhere arguably better before that, if he let it.
what's wrong? from that person he never thought he would hear those words from. he's presented with the memory of elan ceres slipping his fingers under his glove not so different than the way one might press fingers checking for a pulse, even if that was not at all what he was doing.
it really is hard to breathe.
but four is four.
even all but discarded for a nameless disappearance in the depths of peil's further research, it's more than the contract at work; it's the damnation of habit and...something else. since elan ceres brought him those books. since all of his messages at weird hours. since...
just because the precautions he has in place saved him from the poison does not mean all is well. if elan ceres does not want him to get rid of the diploma then what does he want of him in this moment? what is four's role?
unbeknownst to himself, the lines of permet glare brighter along his cheeks and neck, as if aggravated by his denial of anything happening, his own gaze hooked and hanging from the disheveled collar of elan ceres' shirt. the messiest he's seen him by far. involuntarily, his head falls forward just a little, but they are close enough that his forehead touches elan ceres' shoulder. hardly a second passes before he jerks back, apology muddling the answer he fails to give into silence except for his breaths, forced to a quiet note. as if that could fool anyone, much less the person in front of him.
despite all this, he hasn't reclaimed his hand, hasn't moved that part of him at all, as if it is independent of him, losing the gentle violent kind of war: trying to understand. )
those words continue to crit me
four doesn't know if he knows what he's doing, doesn't know if he himself knows what he's doing either. action. inaction. call. response. he's never been the type to take two steps forward. neither has he been the type to take two steps back. is this the way to be closer to the version of being that moves irregardless of his successes and victories? the line between stagnancy and balance blazes under the back and forth rock of four's feet at any given moment like a trapped falling star: already certain to die but it could go somewhere arguably better before that, if he let it.
what's wrong? from that person he never thought he would hear those words from. he's presented with the memory of elan ceres slipping his fingers under his glove not so different than the way one might press fingers checking for a pulse, even if that was not at all what he was doing.
it really is hard to breathe.
but four is four.
even all but discarded for a nameless disappearance in the depths of peil's further research, it's more than the contract at work; it's the damnation of habit and...something else. since elan ceres brought him those books. since all of his messages at weird hours. since...
just because the precautions he has in place saved him from the poison does not mean all is well. if elan ceres does not want him to get rid of the diploma then what does he want of him in this moment? what is four's role?
unbeknownst to himself, the lines of permet glare brighter along his cheeks and neck, as if aggravated by his denial of anything happening, his own gaze hooked and hanging from the disheveled collar of elan ceres' shirt. the messiest he's seen him by far. involuntarily, his head falls forward just a little, but they are close enough that his forehead touches elan ceres' shoulder. hardly a second passes before he jerks back, apology muddling the answer he fails to give into silence except for his breaths, forced to a quiet note. as if that could fool anyone, much less the person in front of him.
despite all this, he hasn't reclaimed his hand, hasn't moved that part of him at all, as if it is independent of him, losing the gentle violent kind of war: trying to understand. )