[OOC] Your Crossing
Based on this thread and also because I told Erik I'd write her something.
And the sand covered your crossing / So I could not follow your footsteps
He can’t dream, but he tries. He tries so hard that his eyelids squeeze and shutter, and everything is uncomfortable, his body breathing out like bagpipes (no one remembers what a bagpipe is, all that future slipping through the cracks).
He gives up after a while.
“Always observing.”
Yes, the truth is undeniable. He is at heart, the observer. He meddles, but he meddles on the thin line of love and indifference, ploys and plays people into his hands until he has mended them and they can be set off on their journal. There’s something raw about the beginner, the pioneer and he is drawn to that. Fair, understandable, him who never got to leave home.
The Worm roars in his head, a roaring that never subsides, never dies and Leto just wants everything to be over, but nothing ever ends. So he watches and loves, shadows in the night. He thinks of stars and prophecies and wishes (if he was truly god and all) that he could blot it all out.
Erik tells him about how fascinating he is, how beautiful his skin is. Leto thinks to the worms, their rising beauty, and feels he falls a little short. He says nothing to Erik, never stops the compliments and coy grins. He could, he should, he doesn’t and he sinks back on them, comforted.
He tells Charles about this.
Charles laughs, “That doesn’t really surprise me. What did you expect?”
Nothing, I expect nothing, Leto thinks, and Charles says, “It’s not that bad. You’re not me. You’re allowed to compromise.”
Leto says, “There are no rules except the ones we make.” And Charles had the grace to look sheepish.
Erik is all sharpness and angles. You could cut yourself on him.
Leto is made of rough patches, a mismatch doll. Not a good match, when you think about it.
When Leto thinks of love, he thinks of the love that dragged his father through the mud and chaos of prescience and thinks of his mother as the woman who should have lived instead of wasting her life on two children who never wanted to be born.
Leto thinks of all the loves he knew, from Agamemnon’s craze and lust to Wilma’s gentleness and suffocation. He knows love through every life, knows each touch, each lovesong as if it was sung for him.
He thinks about drowning in those memories again, plunging the dagger deep so that he never wakes up. He doesn’t, but he thinks about it.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Lying is pretentious, “I am.”
“Why?”
Leto laughs, wants to choke on it, “Surely you have more insight than that.”
“You’ve never complained.”
Ah, so that’s how it is. You never complained, you never turned me away, look what you’ve done. It was a good move, worthy of a chess master. It did good damage to his heart. Leto closes his eyes, lets silence tide across the sky and waits. It wasn’t his move yet. Or was this his move? He wants Ghanima, wants her insight. She always knew what to do. He feels fingerless, lost, in something he didn’t know he made.
A shuffle of feet. Erik is standing in front of him. There are seven different versions, different positions, but his expression never changes.
“Don’t do this,” it’s a command, and Leto can almost picture Erik as royalty, “You don’t even want to.”
He opens his eyes and smiles, “No, I do not.”
Erik relaxes, even if his sharpness never fades. Leto feels out all their possibilities and picks one to his choosing, the one that does the least amount of damage.
He tries to dream again. Leto stretches out, into the darkness and wants to dream.
He doesn’t.
And the sand covered your crossing / So I could not follow your footsteps
He can’t dream, but he tries. He tries so hard that his eyelids squeeze and shutter, and everything is uncomfortable, his body breathing out like bagpipes (no one remembers what a bagpipe is, all that future slipping through the cracks).
He gives up after a while.
“Always observing.”
Yes, the truth is undeniable. He is at heart, the observer. He meddles, but he meddles on the thin line of love and indifference, ploys and plays people into his hands until he has mended them and they can be set off on their journal. There’s something raw about the beginner, the pioneer and he is drawn to that. Fair, understandable, him who never got to leave home.
The Worm roars in his head, a roaring that never subsides, never dies and Leto just wants everything to be over, but nothing ever ends. So he watches and loves, shadows in the night. He thinks of stars and prophecies and wishes (if he was truly god and all) that he could blot it all out.
Erik tells him about how fascinating he is, how beautiful his skin is. Leto thinks to the worms, their rising beauty, and feels he falls a little short. He says nothing to Erik, never stops the compliments and coy grins. He could, he should, he doesn’t and he sinks back on them, comforted.
He tells Charles about this.
Charles laughs, “That doesn’t really surprise me. What did you expect?”
Nothing, I expect nothing, Leto thinks, and Charles says, “It’s not that bad. You’re not me. You’re allowed to compromise.”
Leto says, “There are no rules except the ones we make.” And Charles had the grace to look sheepish.
Erik is all sharpness and angles. You could cut yourself on him.
Leto is made of rough patches, a mismatch doll. Not a good match, when you think about it.
When Leto thinks of love, he thinks of the love that dragged his father through the mud and chaos of prescience and thinks of his mother as the woman who should have lived instead of wasting her life on two children who never wanted to be born.
Leto thinks of all the loves he knew, from Agamemnon’s craze and lust to Wilma’s gentleness and suffocation. He knows love through every life, knows each touch, each lovesong as if it was sung for him.
He thinks about drowning in those memories again, plunging the dagger deep so that he never wakes up. He doesn’t, but he thinks about it.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Lying is pretentious, “I am.”
“Why?”
Leto laughs, wants to choke on it, “Surely you have more insight than that.”
“You’ve never complained.”
Ah, so that’s how it is. You never complained, you never turned me away, look what you’ve done. It was a good move, worthy of a chess master. It did good damage to his heart. Leto closes his eyes, lets silence tide across the sky and waits. It wasn’t his move yet. Or was this his move? He wants Ghanima, wants her insight. She always knew what to do. He feels fingerless, lost, in something he didn’t know he made.
A shuffle of feet. Erik is standing in front of him. There are seven different versions, different positions, but his expression never changes.
“Don’t do this,” it’s a command, and Leto can almost picture Erik as royalty, “You don’t even want to.”
He opens his eyes and smiles, “No, I do not.”
Erik relaxes, even if his sharpness never fades. Leto feels out all their possibilities and picks one to his choosing, the one that does the least amount of damage.
He tries to dream again. Leto stretches out, into the darkness and wants to dream.
He doesn’t.