[ if not silent. that voice has always been there. the call of the void, a familiar thing, even before it became a place, a face. ]
Weird.
[ more so than the commune, since he’s been trying to understand it, control it, embrace it. not quite the agony someone like stephen or wanda feels, when they view their power as an extension of themselves.
perhaps if he’d been of use to anyone as the golden god, he’d feel greater distress at losing access to at least one half of his abilities. but he hasn’t helped anyone, has he? his barking won’t stop saber from killing maids, or protect ani against his fuck-ups, all the power of a million suns, and he can’t break them out of the balfours’ grasp.
the other side has only caused pain. and yet — he almost misses it more. last heard it echo in the coffins, when the manor was running interference on his senses. i won’t let you die. a promise. a threat. ]
Can’t tell if I have a hangover from being human or the last five months.
[ He's not surprised; Armand's own return to humanity and his eternally failing body had been painful and exhausting, the period on the sentence of his life unexpectedly swapped for a comma. Bob has been a clenched fist for so long, it must feel strange to relax.
Then, because it feels like someone should say it, though they likely won't: ]
I'm sorry.
[ For the ransacking of his body if nothing else. The violation in being changed without your permission, even if it's for the better. ]
[ how strange, to hear those words. stranger still to appreciate them, when he told the anonymous network poster that he’d get rid of it all, if he could.
wish, granted. ]
Thanks.
[ … ]
I’m sorry you have to go through this bullshit again.
[ and still hold it together, somehow. something about age and wisdom or vampires and distance or just armand. ]
[ Careful of bruised edges and fragile floorboards in the attic room, a sensation of a hand smoothing down over a bowed head. A brow pressed against a temple. Shared breath. Inhale, exhale.
Heartbeat like the steady rush of traffic, like a tide that draws you home. ]
Come to me tomorrow. Or whenever you can. Lie with me for a little while. That would make it better.
[ armand’s presence washes over him, flows through him, summer sea warm. with it, the tension in his broad shoulders eases, spine still curved over the sink, eyes still set upon his hands, his fraying cuticles. ]
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
[ Affirmation like a beacon. A long time. Yes. Something to hold onto as the evening draws in and night begins; their captors have discovered the advantages to having a subject who doesn't need to sleep, and there are long hours to fill with content before dawn arrives.
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ if not silent. that voice has always been there. the call of the void, a familiar thing, even before it became a place, a face. ]
Weird.
[ more so than the commune, since he’s been trying to understand it, control it, embrace it. not quite the agony someone like stephen or wanda feels, when they view their power as an extension of themselves.
perhaps if he’d been of use to anyone as the golden god, he’d feel greater distress at losing access to at least one half of his abilities. but he hasn’t helped anyone, has he? his barking won’t stop saber from killing maids, or protect ani against his fuck-ups, all the power of a million suns, and he can’t break them out of the balfours’ grasp.
the other side has only caused pain. and yet — he almost misses it more. last heard it echo in the coffins, when the manor was running interference on his senses. i won’t let you die. a promise. a threat. ]
Can’t tell if I have a hangover from being human or the last five months.
[ it’s probably both. ]
no subject
Both.
[ He's not surprised; Armand's own return to humanity and his eternally failing body had been painful and exhausting, the period on the sentence of his life unexpectedly swapped for a comma. Bob has been a clenched fist for so long, it must feel strange to relax.
Then, because it feels like someone should say it, though they likely won't: ]
I'm sorry.
[ For the ransacking of his body if nothing else. The violation in being changed without your permission, even if it's for the better. ]
no subject
wish, granted. ]
Thanks.
[ … ]
I’m sorry you have to go through this bullshit again.
[ and still hold it together, somehow. something about age and wisdom or vampires and distance or just armand. ]
I wish I could make it better.
no subject
Heartbeat like the steady rush of traffic, like a tide that draws you home. ]
Come to me tomorrow. Or whenever you can. Lie with me for a little while. That would make it better.
no subject
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
no subject
[ He'll find a way to explain it, or not. There's not much else he cares about as much as this. ]
no subject
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
no subject
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]