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[ open ] when you're barely breathing; while your heart's still beating
Who: Adrasteius; perhaps you
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
ii
He'd tiptoed into the kitchen, before sunrise, and made breakfast. He wasn't much of a chef quite yet, but he could manage well enough, pancakes and juice and toast, all the essentials. He set it all on a tray and surprised Adra before he woke up. Kissed him on the cheek and told him those special words in his tongue. He'd spent time with him in bed, curled close. He'd told the elf, whatever you'd like to do today, we'll do together.
But he just shook his head, and wandered off to worship, and so Gilgamesh waited.
He waited and waited and waited. He drew pictures. He read books. He spoke with a few others, but it just wasn't the same. This was Adra's special day. He should've been the one to honor it most. He should've went with him, should've insisted. But despite being so close, Adra still always felt so far away. Like a star in a distant galaxy.
It's why he's slow to approach when Adra finally does return. He joins him by the window and slips a hand around his arm. He rests his head on a wary shoulder. He looks up at his housemate with worried eyes, more concerned than he ordinarily ever lets show on kingly features. And very delicately, as delicately as he can manage, he asks:]
Tell me what ails you.
[And maybe it's less like asking, more like a command, as he's accustomed to from Gilgamesh. But he's bothered all the same.]
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I'm tired.
[ Well, it's not a lie. ]
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[It hardly seems fair. Why did this keep happening to him? No, actually... he knows exactly why it keeps happening. Because he's stubborn, and this was the cost of being so stubborn for so long. He sighs and wonders if it's even worth the argument, if he'd even listen.
Maybe he'd better just intervene, no matter how unhappy it makes him. It couldn't get much worse, anyway.]
Come to my bed, little sun. We must fix this. You know exactly how.
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No.
[ He turns his eyes back to the window. ]
Let it be.
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You are coming, and if you do not, I will drag you.
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Don't be ridiculous. My life is my own, Gil.
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I am not throwing anything away! The greatest battle is against the self, and it can only be fought alone! That's what I'm doing. That's what I have to do.
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You are killing yourself in the name of some perceived ideal you've forced upon yourself, for reasons I cannot even begin to understand and hardly care to contemplate. Do not tell me it is any kind of noble battle, as if you would dress it up with some pretty coat of paint; it is suicide, plain and simple.
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I will not be a slave to this addiction. I will not let it control me, I will not cede mastery--
[ He grips the edge of the table, breathing hard. ]
I will not.
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[You're gonna be mopping up a lot worse than spit, son, if you keep this up.]
I am here. I have always been here. I would help you, were you to drop this obstinate behavior and act your age.
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Adra manages to stand up straight. He sucks in air through his teeth. What the hell did it matter to Gil, anyway? This person who hardly ever gave him a straight answer about anything, who always left his tone ambiguous, who always seemed to be half-manipulating him. This person who thought he was some naive little rabbit, ready to hop off at the first glance of blood. ]
I'll get through this. I get through everything. It doesn't need to concern you.
[ He shoves off from the table, and starts to walk. ]
cw from this point forward for violence/dubious consent/etc.
Which could take some force. And he's fine with that. Finer than he should be, really.]
Not this time.
[He applies pressure to his arm. More and more and more with each passing second.]
We are doing this. We are doing this regardless of your comfort with the situation, because if we do not, you are going to die.
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Let me go--I never asked--I've never asked anything of you!
[ And here his voice cracks; takes on a wild quality, something terrible and sorrowful at once. ]
Not one damn thing, have I?
[ He squeezes his eyes shut. ]
I never did.
[ So why, why? ]
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[Gilgamesh just sits there, with his captive, and waits.]
Weep. Shed your tears, because I am being so cruel and so wicked, and it just isn't right, not at all, what I am doing. Because in no way did you deserve this. This is just another test, just another ordeal, the world itself is set against you but you must persevere, in the name of the Light.
[He hoists Adra up against the counter, leans down so they're forced to stare nose to nose, eye to eye. And Gilgamesh's are so red, and bright, and cruel and wicked, as he claimed. Vivid like a snake's and indicative of his true nature, slimy and severe. Poisonous, traitorous. And if Adra thinks that of him, for his actions, so be it.
It will not stop him from doing what needs to be done.]
What is it, then? You would rather be raped than accept assistance? Your pride is so great, you would let someone violate you before helping yourself?
[He finds it hard to believe. For someone of his stature, it was a crime of the highest order. So would he really let it happen, just so he could suffer some more?]
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[ He pushes a flat palm against Gilgamesh's chest; it's not really an attempt to get away, so much as it's an expression of frustration. ]
You're a damn piece of work.
[ His thoughts are muddled, hazy, but he clamps down on them, on himself. He bites his lip. ]
First of all--I'm not going to cry. Second ...
[ Well, maybe it does seem like everything is a trial for the Light. That accusation is hard to set aside. He presses forward anyway, fingers curling against Gil's chest. ]
Second, you can stop with this--whole--thing you're doing right now! You--say all this to me, and what are you, huh? This great tyrant who doesn't really care about anyone or anything, this king so far above everyone else! What you do is the exact same damn thing that I do, Gil--it's just dressed up differently!
But what it comes down to is distance.
[ He's babbling a little, but look. He is dying, OK. He thumps his fist, weakly, against Gil's chest. ]
Do you want close that distance? Why should I, if you won't?
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[What he did and what Adra did, in order to survive, were two different matters entirely. Gilgamesh may have been careless with his power, but he was also sharp with his intellect, and the diversion attempt serves to both offend and infuriate. Gilgamesh had the scent; it would not be so easy to distract him or throw him off the trail now.
But yes, he's dying. He's dying and it was entirely, one hundred percent his fault that he sunk this low, but Gilgamesh sighs and eases off immediate threats of assault.]
We are already close, you imbecile. How much closer could we possibly be? I shared your bed with you just this morning, in case you've forgotten.
[So have a little push back, Adra. Just for good measure.]
And I tell you everything as it is! What more do you want, that I could even provide? What is there even left, that you could even want?
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[ His line of reasoning wasn't a conscious feint, but he can see that it's probably not going to be productive. Even so, it's Adrasteius, so he has to get his words in edgewise, even if he is on the brink of expiring. He's himself to the end.
Groaning, he lists forward, forehead pressed to Gil's chest. ]
Including me, even though you're such a jackass, who does not tell me everything. You thought I'd faint and scream when I came across you in that train car, didn't you?
[ He thumps his fist against Gil's collarbone again. Weakly, gently. ]
And you always talk [ thump ] out of both sides [ thump ] of your goddamn mouth! Even when it's in my language, I never know how genuine you are, because you've always got this smirk on your face! This [ thump ] tone. I can never tell if I actually mean something, or if I'm just a diversion for you, or a toy, or --
[ He seizes Gil by the shoulders; grips him with surprising strength. Adra stares up into Gilgamesh's blood red eyes, his own blazing green. Is he even making sense right now? Does he even care? The answer to the second question is definitely, one hundred percent 'no'. ]
You're so--frustrating! And--handsome--and--just--leave me alone!
[ His ears flick back. His thoughts are chaos in this state; disordered and unfiltered. Maybe his body will do him a favor and just die soon. ]
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He's such a weakling, none of the pushing and pounding matters. Not even when he holds tight to his shoulders like he means to break them. Gilgamesh endures it all, eyes still fixed strong upon him. He doesn't answer any of his accusations, not to argue nor to agree. Right now, what's true and what isn't doesn't make a difference. Gilgamesh just stands calmly in place and accepts every blow and every retort without recourse.
And then, when he's done, when he shouts just leave me alone, Gilgamesh dips forward and captures those quivering lips. He grips his face in both hands and so begins to force mana into his body little by little. His feelings never even entered into the equation, because now, this has become a matter of survival.
And Adrasteius will survive. He will live on, to continue serving as his vassal. Gilgamesh has made that decision for him, so consent is irrelevant.]
No.
[That's the only word that leaves him, just a single one, to tell him just what Gilgamesh thinks of all that nonsense as he pushes their mouths together.]
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[ He stiffens at first, and makes to pull away, but then the mana begins to flow. He inhales sharply, gasps into Gil's mouth. His grip on the other man's shoulders tightens, but the rest of his muscles relax, fed as they are by the sudden influx of power. Because that was the crux of it, that was the core of the blood elf addiction. Magic was power in its most raw form, and it was this that they sought as a race, it was this that each one of them craved. Much as he'd like to be, Adrasteius is no exception.
The mana courses through his veins, pure and bright and potent. As the kiss goes on, as he lets it deepen, he feels fresh vigor in his limbs, feels his mind sharpen and his muscles grow taut. But he knows that in a few moments more, that sharpness will turn dull. His mind will soften and become malleable; he will be desperate to have more and more, to not just slake his thirst but gorge it. Already he feels the tug, the fierce pull in his burning blood.
So he pulls away, breathing hard. The color is restored to skin; his eyes are luminous. The air around him crackles with energy, shimmering and dangerous. He grips the counter, his heart racing. ]
... it's done.
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Adrasteius...
[His hands slide firmer around him, deep into those waves and waves of beautiful hair. Red eyes stare into green. One could easily lose themselves in either, and as a former being of magic he feels that tug nearly as strongly, yet Gilgamesh resolves to stay in control of the situation. Someone had to, in the otherwise absence of reason.]
Come to my quarters. I would be gentle with you.
[Quite a shift from his earlier threats. But he is softer now, more docile, more willing to accommodate him.]
You know I have desired you for some time. It would be of great benefit to the both of us.
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He did enjoy that kiss. He can admit that much. He can admit, too, that although Gilgamesh is not an elf, he is very beautiful--as humans go. It's something Adra has only noticed recently, something which troubles him to no end. ]
... I won't be another notch on your belt.
[ He shakes his head. His voice is stronger, too; clearer. Magic and his body were intimately entwined back on Azeroth, but the relationship is so much closer in Enprise. So much more frustrating. ]
You've accomplished what you set out to do. I won't let it get this far again.
[ It wasn't Gil alone, of course. He'd had people arguing with him all day. But none of them had been so quite frank (and threatening) as Gil had, just now. ]
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[Gilgamesh sounds disappointed, but not for the reasons Adra might think. As always, he's gone and presumed the wrong thing—then again, that may have been one of their fundamental flaws in their relationship. For all they cared about one another, and supported one another, the inability to properly communicate prevailed.
Though he supposes some wires may have gotten crossed just now. He was a terrifying thing, when acting imperiously, in his own interests. But as he would often say, he was not without heart. It seemed as if Adra was waiting to hear something in particular from him, and if setting aside his ego was what it took...
Well, even the great tyrant can manage that.]
You are my treasure, my vassal, my companion. I would wish it so for those reasons, not because you are a warm body and a warm hole to lodge myself within. Perhaps it was the case once, but I have grown to adore you, and thus I would seek such a thing for mutual pleasure's sake. Besides...
[His eyes darken, slightly.]
You want more. And I would offer it to you, I am generous enough a King. Why deny what is freely given?
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Adore, huh.
[ He looks away, up, at the stone ceiling of the kitchen. He taps his fingers on the counter tops. Gilgamesh had dismissed Adra's ramblings earlier, perhaps rightly so, but some parts of it needed answer. In Adra's mind, anyway. ]
Do you love me, Gil? Just say it honestly. No double-talk. No subtext. It's a yes or no question.
[ And the more thought it requires, the less true it is. ]
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[Though the answer's more complicated than that, as Gilgamesh's form of love was never quite like anyone else's.]
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