FOR NIKKI.
ALL Y'ALL CAN GO FUCK YOURSELVES.
OR NOT.
ESPECIALLY IF YOU CAN DIG SOME DARK PRINCE/PRINCE.
AND ESPECIALLY ESPECIALLY IF YOU DON'T CALL THE PRINCE "DASTAN."
Understand that it is by no mortal means that he is weakened, that he lays smeared on the floor, grains and chipping hunks of his skin crumbling where he had bounced, where he had hit the ground with such sickening force. It is-cannot be-by any mortal means. The sheer speed of reactions, from being in places for mere split seconds; and suddenly there is no breath, no wonderment, barely any weapon in his hand as, in a flurry of sensations, he cannot think for his mind has been bled out. There is a leak, a gouge in the center of his stomach while he cuts and breaks, desperately winding his way to a heap of unshakable strength.
Fear touches him. Fear of what he may find, what he may discover when he breaks the barrier of imagination and reality. The idea that something that he has been given might be taken away again - that he might not be able to repair another situation - shakes the man to his very core. To the point where he stops, dead in his tracks, to stare at the scene before him. He fears of the very tangible atrocity. He fears himself, of his own reaction.
His feet wretch, the bones and arches sob from the scorch of dirt roads and coals and pins and little daemons, scratching at every step closer, every quiet shuffle. He can barely hear over their cackles and giggles, their squeals of delight when he winces from his own injuries, from the sight before him.
He wonders, idly, closing in, gripping at his arm to suffocate the wound, why the other hasn’t said a word yet. Hasn’t called for help. Hasn’t uttered cordials or obscenities. It worries Prince, nibbles lightly at the base of his spine as he continues to battle his childish imps. They cling to his shins, now, nipping and biting at his calves. Soon he is unable to walk. Soon he feels the crushing guilt of the world on his shoulders, forcing him to feel the sharp crack of his kneecaps on the hardened dirt. It hurts. It burns, just as his feet have. He wheezes, the setting sun too bright in his eyes as it hides behind buildings, the ache of a chill edging him forward slowly.
Rasping, he calls quietly for an answer-small, his voice tiny and insignificant against the daemons’ screeches, their chanting and chiding. They whisper awful things to him, promising him terrors as he drags his corpse closer. He calls again. Again. He’s sure that the other cannot hear him, that the teasing is too loud in both of their ears; and soon Prince is wishing like a child for himself to be whole, for all the bad to be back inside his head.
They are incomplete like this.
He touches the silk pants. He stains the rich fabric with his cheap blood, shifting closer, pulling his legs and crawling with every inch of his life.
The imps quiet, seeing their job is finished. They allow the prince to watch, his eyes drinking it in. His breath stills-it seems so unfair when there is little going through the other; and he cannot stop his hands, touching lightly the cracking and eroding flesh. They burn. He hurts. Every feather touch is killing him, and still, he desires more. He needs more. He needs this more than the air, than the sun, than bandage and water.
And he manages to pull himself closer, propped weakly up to see as the other finally takes bleary notice of him.
They are both weak-both wary and wobbling, desperate for the other’s touch, another reassurance that somehow, someway, there is more to do. There is more to accomplish. They simply need to relax and recuperate; and both are quiet in the acceptance to lay and watch.
The whispers from dark lips are far gentler than Prince can remember. Perhaps it’s the wheeze that accompanies, or how there’s a small cough interrupting the flow of thought.
He asks for a kiss-and Prince complies.
He asks for another-and Prince doesn’t see how he could ever refuse.
He asks for one last one-and Prince shakes with the force that seems to be absent.
Prince hates himself. He admits this to the graying form, brushing his hand against gritty features. Prince hates how he must watch, how he reduces Dark to this; and of course, it brings life to him, brings life enough for there to be protest, to the grip on Prince’s arm tightening as he is pulled hairs closer. The other doesn’t have enough of the world in him to keep the charade going, to produce the proper wording.
He settles, though. Quite nicely for the situation that he is in; but for what he can manage is not nearly enough what is required, and all that is drifted about is pursing and silent murmurs that make sense to him. Prince sees, he knows-oh, he knows. There is no one he could know better. There is no one that could know him better; and for all of it, for all the things he wants to hear, that he is so desperate to let a dying creature cling to him and believe he is murmuring, Prince cannot let himself. He cannot allow himself to steal these last words, and, softly, he hushes his other-the sound familiar and comforting, childish in nature as he does his best to nurture.
Stay, he whispers. Stay and be quiet. No one must leave. They have so much time, so gracious amounts of time. He doesn’t want to admit how light his dagger feels, how the patterns on Dark’s body grow fainter with each frantic beat of his heart. The gleam and glare of the gold have been polished away, and Prince cannot stop himself from leaning and pressing his lips to one intricate pattern. The skin feels cold, his lips rough and ground when he pulls up.
OR NOT.
ESPECIALLY IF YOU CAN DIG SOME DARK PRINCE/PRINCE.
AND ESPECIALLY ESPECIALLY IF YOU DON'T CALL THE PRINCE "DASTAN."
Understand that it is by no mortal means that he is weakened, that he lays smeared on the floor, grains and chipping hunks of his skin crumbling where he had bounced, where he had hit the ground with such sickening force. It is-cannot be-by any mortal means. The sheer speed of reactions, from being in places for mere split seconds; and suddenly there is no breath, no wonderment, barely any weapon in his hand as, in a flurry of sensations, he cannot think for his mind has been bled out. There is a leak, a gouge in the center of his stomach while he cuts and breaks, desperately winding his way to a heap of unshakable strength.
Fear touches him. Fear of what he may find, what he may discover when he breaks the barrier of imagination and reality. The idea that something that he has been given might be taken away again - that he might not be able to repair another situation - shakes the man to his very core. To the point where he stops, dead in his tracks, to stare at the scene before him. He fears of the very tangible atrocity. He fears himself, of his own reaction.
His feet wretch, the bones and arches sob from the scorch of dirt roads and coals and pins and little daemons, scratching at every step closer, every quiet shuffle. He can barely hear over their cackles and giggles, their squeals of delight when he winces from his own injuries, from the sight before him.
He wonders, idly, closing in, gripping at his arm to suffocate the wound, why the other hasn’t said a word yet. Hasn’t called for help. Hasn’t uttered cordials or obscenities. It worries Prince, nibbles lightly at the base of his spine as he continues to battle his childish imps. They cling to his shins, now, nipping and biting at his calves. Soon he is unable to walk. Soon he feels the crushing guilt of the world on his shoulders, forcing him to feel the sharp crack of his kneecaps on the hardened dirt. It hurts. It burns, just as his feet have. He wheezes, the setting sun too bright in his eyes as it hides behind buildings, the ache of a chill edging him forward slowly.
Rasping, he calls quietly for an answer-small, his voice tiny and insignificant against the daemons’ screeches, their chanting and chiding. They whisper awful things to him, promising him terrors as he drags his corpse closer. He calls again. Again. He’s sure that the other cannot hear him, that the teasing is too loud in both of their ears; and soon Prince is wishing like a child for himself to be whole, for all the bad to be back inside his head.
They are incomplete like this.
He touches the silk pants. He stains the rich fabric with his cheap blood, shifting closer, pulling his legs and crawling with every inch of his life.
The imps quiet, seeing their job is finished. They allow the prince to watch, his eyes drinking it in. His breath stills-it seems so unfair when there is little going through the other; and he cannot stop his hands, touching lightly the cracking and eroding flesh. They burn. He hurts. Every feather touch is killing him, and still, he desires more. He needs more. He needs this more than the air, than the sun, than bandage and water.
And he manages to pull himself closer, propped weakly up to see as the other finally takes bleary notice of him.
They are both weak-both wary and wobbling, desperate for the other’s touch, another reassurance that somehow, someway, there is more to do. There is more to accomplish. They simply need to relax and recuperate; and both are quiet in the acceptance to lay and watch.
The whispers from dark lips are far gentler than Prince can remember. Perhaps it’s the wheeze that accompanies, or how there’s a small cough interrupting the flow of thought.
He asks for a kiss-and Prince complies.
He asks for another-and Prince doesn’t see how he could ever refuse.
He asks for one last one-and Prince shakes with the force that seems to be absent.
Prince hates himself. He admits this to the graying form, brushing his hand against gritty features. Prince hates how he must watch, how he reduces Dark to this; and of course, it brings life to him, brings life enough for there to be protest, to the grip on Prince’s arm tightening as he is pulled hairs closer. The other doesn’t have enough of the world in him to keep the charade going, to produce the proper wording.
He settles, though. Quite nicely for the situation that he is in; but for what he can manage is not nearly enough what is required, and all that is drifted about is pursing and silent murmurs that make sense to him. Prince sees, he knows-oh, he knows. There is no one he could know better. There is no one that could know him better; and for all of it, for all the things he wants to hear, that he is so desperate to let a dying creature cling to him and believe he is murmuring, Prince cannot let himself. He cannot allow himself to steal these last words, and, softly, he hushes his other-the sound familiar and comforting, childish in nature as he does his best to nurture.
Stay, he whispers. Stay and be quiet. No one must leave. They have so much time, so gracious amounts of time. He doesn’t want to admit how light his dagger feels, how the patterns on Dark’s body grow fainter with each frantic beat of his heart. The gleam and glare of the gold have been polished away, and Prince cannot stop himself from leaning and pressing his lips to one intricate pattern. The skin feels cold, his lips rough and ground when he pulls up.