[For once, however, the words do not carry the same concrete certainty intrinsic to his nature. He has seen it, but only in a few, yielding outcomes not identical. How difficult it has become, making these predictions on such limited ground. Perhaps it's only an excuse. And he doesn't enjoy that—not knowing what it is that guides the people around him, what motivates them, casting him unmoored by the unpredictability of their actions. Guanshan more than most.
He senses the approach before that lean, angular form dips into his sightline, copper-eyed, shoulders sloped.]
... If I have changed, it was not intentional. [The hook of panic tugs at him, although he manages to soothe it away. Whatever influence the gem in his throat has over him is impossible to avoid. It doesn't mean he enjoys that truth. And how much worse is it if he's changed because of his own decisions?
Dark eyes fix onto Guanshan, like a wild cat cornered.] I told you before that I have already died. I was never supposed to live this long, and any additional time spent here is borrowed. Anything you attempt to pursue with me is meaningless. The ending will always be the same.
The ending will always be the same, [ agreed in a parroted murmur, straightening back up as he mulls the words over, distracted. proximity has brought another sense into the churning gears of Guanshan's reality, and a sharp chef's olfaction picks out familiar notes from beyond his noseblindness to herb and his own home. understated tea and smoke and cold earth wetting the dry cotton on his tastebuds, damp and bright. ]
[ his pupils dilate with the realization, darkened gaze slipping over the few pale strips of Itachi's exposed skin: adam's apple, jugular, the darkest corner of the jaw. a furtive entreaty, it feels taboo. he licks his lips and continues, feeling even more confident in his point: if Itachi came truly intending to push him away, why do something that would make him yearn to be so close? he's well-read in mixed signals. ]
You're not wrong about that, but it don't make it meaningless. It makes it more meaningful. Itachi...
[ what Synchrony allows through the muffle of clothing is filtered and staticky but earnest and truthful as he graps Itachi's forearm and presses his hand deadcenter to his chest. palm to bone, lifelines crossing lungs, it feels like a purr in time with his voice. ]
Everyone's fucked up, and everyone's on a time limit that no one knows. We'll feel that hurt no matter what. I'm willin' to suffer a lot if it means I get to feel the other shit, too.
[Even Itachi does not understand the compulsion of what he's done. It acts against trained nature, erases secrecy, brings him into the light where he is visible and exposed—easily hunted, easily found. And on an occasion like this where he is trying to put distance between them with the reality of his actions, there's no sense to the decision. The truth is that he'd simply liked it and wanted to wear it.
Frustration continues to climb inside his chest, wringing the muscle of a tired heart. Guanshan doesn't understand the complexity of his confession because he has not seen it, or experienced it, or intimately known someone involved. Someone who is not him. Someone who was hurt, badly, by his choice. Someone who deserves empathy.
It is not acknowledgment, let alone forgiveness, because their perspectives are just too different from the start—as much as Guanshan attempts to peel back those layers. He wonders how long it will take. How much trying and effort, wasted on someone like him. Can he prevent it when everything has already gone so wrong? It seems he continues to allow himself to be backed into this corner.]
You talk of meaning without fully comprehending what it is I have told you. You're ignorant, but rather than try to understand the other perspective, you value your own hedonism instead.
[The words are quiet, but not gentle; something sharper edges his tone. His hand is lifted and laid against Guanshan's chest—it's almost as though he's put the knife into his hand. Itachi closes his fingers into a fist, gathering the shirt's fabric, and uses this hold to yank hard. The movement is a quick blur. He's pulled Guanshan around, slamming him against the wall. That deceptively strong hand slides up to hold him around the throat. There's no real supernatural strength involved; he doesn't even need it.]
How much are you willing to suffer? What is it you really wish to feel?
[ tossed around like he weighs nothing isn't a new sensation, his back smarting in familiar places, notches of his spine and wings of shoulderblades, a sharp-boned body with edges that always go to battle. his palms stay on Itachi's forearm, feeling the flexed muscle beneath as if they were made of steel cord; powerlessness has been his bedfellow since the days of virginity. none of Itachi's accusations are wrong, nor are they deemed especially important. ]
[ wearing his flaws on his sleeve has always been a little like armor, a little like bait. an insurance policy for when humans inevitably let each other down — I told you so — but also dripping meat the right (wrong?) person wants to take a bite of. it's more relief than alarm that Itachi shows him some teeth, something like irritation starting to brighten his tone, enliven it. anything that deviates from his calm and collected baseline feels like a victory, and Guanshan licks his lips to the honeypot. ]
[ and then there's his Pavlovian response to violence: the pulse, the breath, the coil. ]
Alive. [ the good and the bad, the hard and the soft, dark and light, painful and ecstatic. to be simultaneously wanted and rejected is the rollercoaster he craves, with the right intensity. it's a work in progress. ] Everything.
[ the tightness of Itachi's fingers on his throat impresses the shape of both words into his palm. he has to look down over angular cheekbones and a long nose to see him now, finding the darkest point of his eyes. ]
My interest don't come with any qualifications that sound like "I'm a good person who's done nothin' wrong", and I won't punish you like you want me to. [ and then, a concession, because Guanshan is loyal to nothing if not family: ] Even if you deserve it.
[There's no fear to feel in this. He isn't aware that is what he seeks until Guanshan's emotions spill across Synchrony in their usual bleeding effusiveness—potent, run dark with sincerity and intensity. He's crashed against this wall enough times that it no longer bludgeons him. It burns, hot and quick.
He can feel the vibration of voice against the shackle of his hand, palm on skin, fingers constricted over the long, vulnerable column of Guanshan's throat. Physical contact brings a clarity to Synchrony that is, as always, difficult to shake. Those words assail him; not a threat, not mean or afraid, just honest.
There is the difference: he cannot bear to endure the sensation of being alive. He hates it, unlike Guanshan. And it is most often with Guanshan that he is forced into this painful wakefulness. How could anyone enjoy it—the sticky, tacky frustration and longing both boiling up inside of him like tar, clouding his head, slowing his judgment. How it prevents him from making the right decisions. How it hurts. How could anyone want to feel this when the alternative is blissful peace, and nothing.
His fingers tighten, pressure hard enough that the impression of a hand-shaped bruise is just beginning to form, and Guanshan's air supply is just beginning to be choked off, before he releases the hold. Steps back. Turning around, he heads for the balcony to leave unless he's stopped.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[For once, however, the words do not carry the same concrete certainty intrinsic to his nature. He has seen it, but only in a few, yielding outcomes not identical. How difficult it has become, making these predictions on such limited ground. Perhaps it's only an excuse. And he doesn't enjoy that—not knowing what it is that guides the people around him, what motivates them, casting him unmoored by the unpredictability of their actions. Guanshan more than most.
He senses the approach before that lean, angular form dips into his sightline, copper-eyed, shoulders sloped.]
... If I have changed, it was not intentional. [The hook of panic tugs at him, although he manages to soothe it away. Whatever influence the gem in his throat has over him is impossible to avoid. It doesn't mean he enjoys that truth. And how much worse is it if he's changed because of his own decisions?
Dark eyes fix onto Guanshan, like a wild cat cornered.] I told you before that I have already died. I was never supposed to live this long, and any additional time spent here is borrowed. Anything you attempt to pursue with me is meaningless. The ending will always be the same.
[A warning for a challenge.]
no subject
[ his pupils dilate with the realization, darkened gaze slipping over the few pale strips of Itachi's exposed skin: adam's apple, jugular, the darkest corner of the jaw. a furtive entreaty, it feels taboo. he licks his lips and continues, feeling even more confident in his point: if Itachi came truly intending to push him away, why do something that would make him yearn to be so close? he's well-read in mixed signals. ]
You're not wrong about that, but it don't make it meaningless. It makes it more meaningful. Itachi...
[ what Synchrony allows through the muffle of clothing is filtered and staticky but earnest and truthful as he graps Itachi's forearm and presses his hand deadcenter to his chest. palm to bone, lifelines crossing lungs, it feels like a purr in time with his voice. ]
Everyone's fucked up, and everyone's on a time limit that no one knows. We'll feel that hurt no matter what. I'm willin' to suffer a lot if it means I get to feel the other shit, too.
no subject
Frustration continues to climb inside his chest, wringing the muscle of a tired heart. Guanshan doesn't understand the complexity of his confession because he has not seen it, or experienced it, or intimately known someone involved. Someone who is not him. Someone who was hurt, badly, by his choice. Someone who deserves empathy.
It is not acknowledgment, let alone forgiveness, because their perspectives are just too different from the start—as much as Guanshan attempts to peel back those layers. He wonders how long it will take. How much trying and effort, wasted on someone like him. Can he prevent it when everything has already gone so wrong? It seems he continues to allow himself to be backed into this corner.]
You talk of meaning without fully comprehending what it is I have told you. You're ignorant, but rather than try to understand the other perspective, you value your own hedonism instead.
[The words are quiet, but not gentle; something sharper edges his tone. His hand is lifted and laid against Guanshan's chest—it's almost as though he's put the knife into his hand. Itachi closes his fingers into a fist, gathering the shirt's fabric, and uses this hold to yank hard. The movement is a quick blur. He's pulled Guanshan around, slamming him against the wall. That deceptively strong hand slides up to hold him around the throat. There's no real supernatural strength involved; he doesn't even need it.]
How much are you willing to suffer? What is it you really wish to feel?
no subject
[ wearing his flaws on his sleeve has always been a little like armor, a little like bait. an insurance policy for when humans inevitably let each other down — I told you so — but also dripping meat the right (wrong?) person wants to take a bite of. it's more relief than alarm that Itachi shows him some teeth, something like irritation starting to brighten his tone, enliven it. anything that deviates from his calm and collected baseline feels like a victory, and Guanshan licks his lips to the honeypot. ]
[ and then there's his Pavlovian response to violence: the pulse, the breath, the coil. ]
Alive. [ the good and the bad, the hard and the soft, dark and light, painful and ecstatic. to be simultaneously wanted and rejected is the rollercoaster he craves, with the right intensity. it's a work in progress. ] Everything.
[ the tightness of Itachi's fingers on his throat impresses the shape of both words into his palm. he has to look down over angular cheekbones and a long nose to see him now, finding the darkest point of his eyes. ]
My interest don't come with any qualifications that sound like "I'm a good person who's done nothin' wrong", and I won't punish you like you want me to. [ and then, a concession, because Guanshan is loyal to nothing if not family: ] Even if you deserve it.
no subject
He can feel the vibration of voice against the shackle of his hand, palm on skin, fingers constricted over the long, vulnerable column of Guanshan's throat. Physical contact brings a clarity to Synchrony that is, as always, difficult to shake. Those words assail him; not a threat, not mean or afraid, just honest.
There is the difference: he cannot bear to endure the sensation of being alive. He hates it, unlike Guanshan. And it is most often with Guanshan that he is forced into this painful wakefulness. How could anyone enjoy it—the sticky, tacky frustration and longing both boiling up inside of him like tar, clouding his head, slowing his judgment. How it prevents him from making the right decisions. How it hurts. How could anyone want to feel this when the alternative is blissful peace, and nothing.
His fingers tighten, pressure hard enough that the impression of a hand-shaped bruise is just beginning to form, and Guanshan's air supply is just beginning to be choked off, before he releases the hold. Steps back. Turning around, he heads for the balcony to leave unless he's stopped.]