[ 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.]
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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.]