featherduster | ( limelight ) overflow

Can't imagine it made for the most pleasant viewing.

Not exactly. But...

I'm glad for anything that helps me understand you better.

Well.

[looks at the pile. the pile that he watched Aloe write and then stole immediately to hoard away]

I get it. Maybe.

[ Also looks at it ]

Yes, I suppose you do.

[( '-')]

I'm just greedy, though.

I can't claim I'm not. Picking it out of the bowl was an accident, but if there'd been some way of knowing? I'd have done it anyway.

...there is, now.

I took some of the blank papers. If there's anything you really wanted to see, I'd show you.

... I don't want to reopen old wounds...

[ "But" ]

[squeezes his hand]

It's okay. I'm offering.

After that performance.

When you altered my memory.

You want to see what I was thinking?

No. I want to see what you were feeling.

[he starts to say something else, but it sticks in his throat

just scribbles a couple of lines on a blank slip and hands it over]

[ He studies Frost's expression for a long moment, but then reaches out to take it ]

[he just went very closed for a second there, blank

It hurts so much that you're not sure what you're feeling is pain anymore. You're in a soup of adrenaline and agony, the pain of being shredded and dismantled and the pain of your flesh knitting blending into each other until they're one and the same. You want to know what's happened to the others, but you can barely think outside the confines of your own bleeding self. Flesh parts, parts again. You're dismembered, vivisected, blown apart, crushed. You wonder if you're screaming; you lost track, multiple fatal wounds ago. Your vocal cords were probably destroyed at least once, five, fifty times anyway. You just don't know.

(the urge is still there)

At some point the agony lessens enough for you to perceive it has lessened. Not enough to get you lucid, but if you're noticing at all it must have eased by an exponential degree.

(the urge is still strong, to use what you've been given)

There are hands on you, a babble of voices, a point of focus. Warmth, cutting through a cleavage point in your world of pain. Healing that doesn't hurt.

(the urge claws its way out, and rationale comes with it to make it make sense, in your scrambling, scrambled mind. get away get away i deserve this i hurt him i'll hurt you more. i'll make you go while i can. i'll use this to make things better. it's better if you just know to hate me.)

You seize him. You give in.]

[ Yeah. He thought it might be something like that. Like the time with Lethe and Minuet...

He closes his hand around the paper, expression inscrutable ]

Thank you.

[low]

I want one back.

[ He blinks once, the only indicator of his surprise ]

Alright.

Show me what you were thinking, when you first goaded me into sleeping with you.

Not the act itself; I know you don't want to revisit that. Just what made you go there.

[ Ah ]

...

[ He wordlessly reaches for one of the paper strips, scrawling across it for a moment. He still doesn't say anything as he holds it out. ]

[he takes it from Aloe’s hands with great gentleness.]

[ The hallway is dark and cold. You're splitting along every pressure point, the inky rot of who you are spilling out, threatening to poison everything.

Your neck hurts with a phantom pain, and no matter what you try to focus on, your brain keeps supplying the sound of your own vertebrae being severed again and again. Even the sound of your own skin tearing from your arm just sounds like a guillotine falling.

It doesn't make controlling the roiling emotions any easier.

You stare at Frost and shake with some combination of adrenaline and anger, but if you're being completely honest with yourself -- hurt. This man, who saved your life at his own expense (why? why? why? what does it mean?), then goaded and threatened you with it, holding everything you love over a precipice (is that why? is that all it was?); this man who sent Acidia to the gallows in that performance and feels no remorse, refuses to even be effected by it at all; this man who doesn't seem to give a shit about you one way or another, as long as he can twist your strings for his own sick amusement. Acting so fucking above it all-- exactly like the men who broke your fingers over and over and over again.

It's so different from that vision, suffused with warmth and trust. It's so different from that brief moment where Frost turned away, choosing to protect you; that moment where your heart caught in disbelief, and you thought -- has it been wrong, this whole time? Could it have been different?

So you goad him, while panic rings in the back of your head (he saw it too? no. he can't. he'll just use that to hurt you too--). You want him to show you something real, one way or another. (why did you save me? why? why? it can't really be because--)

You kiss him; if he's going to do this to you, it should matter, you should matter, it should be more than just some sick game at your expense. You try not to think about another world, where love was possible. ]

[he’s gone very pale, in the wake of the memory, eyes wide and suspiciously wet.

he doesn’t let that spill over, though; just swallows hard against the ache in his throat, closing his hand over the paper]

I appreciate it.

[ A little regretfully ]

Did it tell you what you wanted to know?

I think so.

[he had not really known what he wanted to know, but he had known there was something. better this than a torturous conversation to work out what.]

I am sorry.

Re: top-level (frost)

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cw gore, torture

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