(no subject)
Title: Panflute
Author: Me, The_Ameneko, obviously.
Length: .8k (5.7k total)
Warnings: See part 1.
Summary: See part 1.
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
.III.
He is comfortable. Because of this, he lives in a constant state of astonishment. Comfort, happiness, these concepts were alien to him, and now, as he sleeps warm, belly full, he is forgetting how it really feels to be cold and hungry.
Anything he wants is brought to him at the ring of a bell. Most of the time, he wants the man whose name is Caentin, for he has forgotten his ingrained caution and given in to the feelings of love and need and affection that he so desperately had needed. But the man is the only thing he can't always have; he works, often at night, sometimes for days at a stretch, and he remembers loneliness, learns what missing someone feels like. At these times he rolls his bracelet around his wrist and pretends he can read his name. He pretends so hard and so often that, sometimes, he truly believes that he can. Jiko, Jiko, Jiko... He likes it, he loves it, he shivers whenever the man says it, to him or to others, Jiko, Jiko... The man won't tell him if it means anything, though he says it does, in his language, which makes him wonder but not ask. The man gets short with him whenever the subject turns to his origins, and he has learned to change the subject as gracefully as any socialite.
He knows every part of the building except for the servants' quarters, which the man says are not for guests, and he quite agrees, for it smells like dirt and Telani down there, and that frightens him.
When the man is with him, nothing can be bad. He is fawned over, adored, and when he has had his fill of that, he asks the questions he has always asked that nobody could ever answer. When the man knows the answer, he will tell it; when he doesn't, he says so, and the boy loves him for it.
“What is it like to see?” he asks, on his back in front of the fire, playing with a bell on a string. The man shakes it, makes it ring, and he tries to catch it before it quiets.
“It's like knowing what something will feel like before you touch it. Being able to avoid barriers without a stick ahead of you. In fact it is rather like a stick, with wider range, and greater detail. A stick with hands that can't lift.”
This, finally, makes sense. “But what about color?”
“Color... color is like the different tones of two identical bells. You can't feel that they are different, but when you play them, they are.”
“So are there only two colors?” he asks, truly curious.
“No, there are hundreds-I suppose there are hundreds of these hypothetical bells, then, you clever thing.”
He doesn't feel clever, as he truly does not know how many colors there are, but it feels good to be told so, and he does not protest.
The bells rings a few more times, and he catches it. “What color is this?” he asks, ringing it. “What is it called?”
“Gold. Your bracelet is the same color.”
“Gold...”
Now, when he feels his bracelet, he hears that tone. He knows it can't be quite accurate, but he wants to learn, to have some idea of this basic thing that has, until now, been beyond his comprehension.
“Teach me colors,” he insists, in the morning, and Caentin agrees.
.IV.
He knows red, blue, yellow, green, purple, black, and white, knows that Caentin sounds deep and hollow (“black”) with a high, tinny (“white”) stripe down his back. Jiko himself, like the rest of his people, are a cheerful tone (“orange”) with black stripes all over. It is strange to think of himself as more than shapes. It is overwhelming, and as much as he wants to learn, it frightens him, the extent of the world he can never know. He isn't sure he wants to know any more.
But after every lesson Caentin reminds him of the pleasures of the world he can and, buried in safe, strong arms and the smell of cloves, mere unknowns seem very far away.
.V.
“Why does Telani hate me?” he asks one day, interrupting Caentin, who is reading to him. He is confused when Caentin tenses, his chest suddenly hard and straight against his back.
“I'm sure that isn't the case.”
“But it is. He said so.”
There is a long pause. Too long. He squirms, uneasy, afraid that this is one of those things that he Just Doesn't Talk About, and is about to ask Caentin to recommence reading when Caentin says, “It won't happen again,” and recommences without prompting.
It doesn't seem quite right to get Telani in trouble for such a small thing; if he weren't enjoying the story so much, paying so little attention to his subconscious thoughts, he might have asked Caentin to leave it be. As it is, he leans into the man's warm embrace and luxuriates in the soft touches, the intermittent kisses, and the gentle voice.
Author: Me, The_Ameneko, obviously.
Length: .8k (5.7k total)
Warnings: See part 1.
Summary: See part 1.
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
.III.
He is comfortable. Because of this, he lives in a constant state of astonishment. Comfort, happiness, these concepts were alien to him, and now, as he sleeps warm, belly full, he is forgetting how it really feels to be cold and hungry.
Anything he wants is brought to him at the ring of a bell. Most of the time, he wants the man whose name is Caentin, for he has forgotten his ingrained caution and given in to the feelings of love and need and affection that he so desperately had needed. But the man is the only thing he can't always have; he works, often at night, sometimes for days at a stretch, and he remembers loneliness, learns what missing someone feels like. At these times he rolls his bracelet around his wrist and pretends he can read his name. He pretends so hard and so often that, sometimes, he truly believes that he can. Jiko, Jiko, Jiko... He likes it, he loves it, he shivers whenever the man says it, to him or to others, Jiko, Jiko... The man won't tell him if it means anything, though he says it does, in his language, which makes him wonder but not ask. The man gets short with him whenever the subject turns to his origins, and he has learned to change the subject as gracefully as any socialite.
He knows every part of the building except for the servants' quarters, which the man says are not for guests, and he quite agrees, for it smells like dirt and Telani down there, and that frightens him.
When the man is with him, nothing can be bad. He is fawned over, adored, and when he has had his fill of that, he asks the questions he has always asked that nobody could ever answer. When the man knows the answer, he will tell it; when he doesn't, he says so, and the boy loves him for it.
“What is it like to see?” he asks, on his back in front of the fire, playing with a bell on a string. The man shakes it, makes it ring, and he tries to catch it before it quiets.
“It's like knowing what something will feel like before you touch it. Being able to avoid barriers without a stick ahead of you. In fact it is rather like a stick, with wider range, and greater detail. A stick with hands that can't lift.”
This, finally, makes sense. “But what about color?”
“Color... color is like the different tones of two identical bells. You can't feel that they are different, but when you play them, they are.”
“So are there only two colors?” he asks, truly curious.
“No, there are hundreds-I suppose there are hundreds of these hypothetical bells, then, you clever thing.”
He doesn't feel clever, as he truly does not know how many colors there are, but it feels good to be told so, and he does not protest.
The bells rings a few more times, and he catches it. “What color is this?” he asks, ringing it. “What is it called?”
“Gold. Your bracelet is the same color.”
“Gold...”
Now, when he feels his bracelet, he hears that tone. He knows it can't be quite accurate, but he wants to learn, to have some idea of this basic thing that has, until now, been beyond his comprehension.
“Teach me colors,” he insists, in the morning, and Caentin agrees.
.IV.
He knows red, blue, yellow, green, purple, black, and white, knows that Caentin sounds deep and hollow (“black”) with a high, tinny (“white”) stripe down his back. Jiko himself, like the rest of his people, are a cheerful tone (“orange”) with black stripes all over. It is strange to think of himself as more than shapes. It is overwhelming, and as much as he wants to learn, it frightens him, the extent of the world he can never know. He isn't sure he wants to know any more.
But after every lesson Caentin reminds him of the pleasures of the world he can and, buried in safe, strong arms and the smell of cloves, mere unknowns seem very far away.
.V.
“Why does Telani hate me?” he asks one day, interrupting Caentin, who is reading to him. He is confused when Caentin tenses, his chest suddenly hard and straight against his back.
“I'm sure that isn't the case.”
“But it is. He said so.”
There is a long pause. Too long. He squirms, uneasy, afraid that this is one of those things that he Just Doesn't Talk About, and is about to ask Caentin to recommence reading when Caentin says, “It won't happen again,” and recommences without prompting.
It doesn't seem quite right to get Telani in trouble for such a small thing; if he weren't enjoying the story so much, paying so little attention to his subconscious thoughts, he might have asked Caentin to leave it be. As it is, he leans into the man's warm embrace and luxuriates in the soft touches, the intermittent kisses, and the gentle voice.