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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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[Though the answer's more complicated than that, as Gilgamesh's form of love was never quite like anyone else's.]
no subject
no subject
It means I would not abandon them, because they now possess a piece of my heart.
no subject
Adra leans forward, pressing a soft, warm kiss to Gil's lips. While it's true that he's never truly consummated any relationship, that doesn't mean he has no experience. He's kissed plenty of people, plenty of times. In this arena, at least, he knows exactly what he's doing. He cups Gil's cheek with one hand; his kiss is gentle, mostly mouth, but it's ardent nevertheless. ]
That will do.
no subject
He would've gone that far, if he had to. He would've broken him, if it was required. That's just the sort of person Gilgamesh was and would always be: a man after the "bottom line" of his own relationships. Sorting people, categorizing people. Thinking of them as things, as treasures, rather than what they are.
Gilgamesh's form of love of special, because Gilgamesh's form of love simply wasn't love at all. It was obsession.]
Is it enough?
[He's really asking, are you ready? Kissing him back on the cheek, looking at him expectantly.]
no subject
I wouldn't ask you to be anything other than what you are.
[ He leans forward, pressing that kissed cheek against Gil's chest. ]
I just want honesty. Whatever that entails.
[ In other words, yes. ]
no subject
[True, in a sense. Gilgamesh could be deceitful, but he rarely, if ever, employed lies. Reaching down, he winds their fingers together and places a kiss on the crown of Adra's head. Now that they've established what's necessary, he's all softness, all gentleness. No trace of the former tyrant remains.
He simply slumbers, for the time being.]
And I shall embrace, you in turn, just as you are.
[He gives a little nudge, cheek to cheek, then asks:]
Lead us. Where you go, I will follow.
no subject
But, after just a moment, he takes Gil's hand and leads him down the hallway, into Adra's own bedroom. If this is going to happen, it'll be in his place, on his bed.
But once they're in there, his decisiveness falters. He looks up at Gil, fiddling with the collar of his coat. ]
I'm sure you remember that I'm a virgin.