[It unfurls in a slow, startling inflorescence - a realization and an impact, red as poppy and soft as cloud. An unfinished question and an answer that sings across the surface of two SOULs, a sensation of red leaves crinkling underfoot, the wet squelch of feet across wetland, the breaking of the icy crust of snow and the set of footprints that followed.
Once upon a time, a kid stood atop a mountain, at the very peak, wind tearing at their clothes and their hair. They let go. They tipped the scales. And at the bottom of the drop was a warm voice, the diluted, watery fingers of sunlight that touched motes of dust and pollen to gold. Flowers blanketing beneath.
And underneath it all, a musical thrum of two SOULs coming into alignment. Two halves of a single whole.
A determination that burned, burns with the physiological, psychological, pathological need to
never. give. up.
If he had breath, it would've drained from his nonexistent lungs. The lights in his sockets dilated, twin points of whiteness, and if he looks hard enough - if he focuses on the echo pulsing between his metacarpals - he can see himself through their eyes, monolidded and creased at the edges in amusement, or humor.
It's him.
And it's them.
Even more, it's - it's them as they should've been. A kid, a kid who could smile easily and laugh loudly and be happy without reservation. Everything they are, without cutting that apart, trimming it away for everyone else's benefit. Everything they've felt like they can't be, because it's too much, too angry, too fierce, too -
Too loud.
He's
Not sure what kinda sound he's making.
It's a hitch in sound, something like a laugh, or maybe a sob, if he had the tear ducts for it. A vicious intermingling of disbelief, amazement, relief, awe - Love. In his own head, easily repressed. But linked with theirs, there's no barriers.
no subject
Once upon a time, a kid stood atop a mountain, at the very peak, wind tearing at their clothes and their hair. They let go. They tipped the scales. And at the bottom of the drop was a warm voice, the diluted, watery fingers of sunlight that touched motes of dust and pollen to gold. Flowers blanketing beneath.
And underneath it all, a musical thrum of two SOULs coming into alignment. Two halves of a single whole.
A determination that burned, burns with the physiological, psychological, pathological need to
never. give. up.
If he had breath, it would've drained from his nonexistent lungs. The lights in his sockets dilated, twin points of whiteness, and if he looks hard enough - if he focuses on the echo pulsing between his metacarpals - he can see himself through their eyes, monolidded and creased at the edges in amusement, or humor.
It's him.
And it's them.
Even more, it's - it's them as they should've been. A kid, a kid who could smile easily and laugh loudly and be happy without reservation. Everything they are, without cutting that apart, trimming it away for everyone else's benefit. Everything they've felt like they can't be, because it's too much, too angry, too fierce, too -
Too loud.
He's
Not sure what kinda sound he's making.
It's a hitch in sound, something like a laugh, or maybe a sob, if he had the tear ducts for it. A vicious intermingling of disbelief, amazement, relief, awe -
Love.
In his own head, easily repressed. But linked with theirs, there's no barriers.
And no point in keepin' up barriers.]