man on the moon | beck

[Ivan]

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The pain of hunger stirred Ivan from his sleep. He rolled over, remembering that he was eight weeks old now and therefore too old to drink milk anymore. He grit his teeth thinking about actual food. While he jumped at any chance to feel old, he would admit solid food was still something he was getting used to. It had to be a perfect taste and texture for him to even think about eating it. Ivan was such a picky eater, he might just stay small and scrawny forever.

Doing his best to ignore the stubborn rumbling in his belly, the jet-black kitten tiptoed out of the household and carefully made his way down the steps. The sun had just risen, and Ivan allowed it to warm his pelt. He raised his head to sniff the air. He hadn't been out of the house much yet, only allowed in short bursts of time to let his senses adjust to the grand world about him. He had thought that the house was big, but now he felt frankly quite small and insignificant. The sky loomed over him threateningly, reminding him that his short mortal life was just a blink in the eyes of the universe.

Ivan shivered. His heart trembled with worry. He heard a buzzing sound and pricked his ears. A grasshopper leapt in front of him. Ivan's paw flashed outward to catch it, but the insect flew out of his reach. Curling his lips in a snarl, Ivan pounced, refusing to be bested by a bug. The buzzing of the grasshopper seemed to taunt him, and Ivan failed every time he tried to catch it. The bug disappeared from his view of vision, leaving Ivan laying on the ground in frustration. He tipped his head up, wondering which of his brothers he could bother today. He loved Alice tenderly, but was never rough or unkind to her, because she was injured.

[member=67]beck[/member]

[beck.]

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    While he stubbornly turned down every offer to live with, or rather haunt Selby and Moth in the suburban home the two shared, Beck still tended to loiter, watching as his second chance at siblings developed from squirming bundles of mewling fur, worming and struggling toward a mother's swollen breast -- or breasts, in this case -- to tottering kittens, scampering underfoot and upturning half of his disfigured mouth into a crooked smile.

      He still needed to work on memorizing the names and developing interests and preferred meals of his five new siblings, stretching himself thin like a five-ended tug-o-war to cater to their needs, to take the stress from Moth and Selby, shouldering it instead. So far, Atticus and Quentin hadn't yet explored much outside their front yard, Heathcliff didn't like loud noises or crowds and spoke with solemn politeness unexpected of his age, Alice hardly allowed her twisted leg to hamper her curiosity and energy at all, and Ivan... Ivan was quite skittish. Unsure of himself. Contemplative. But still enamored with discovery; wonderstruck and teething.

    Beck blinked at the startled grasshopper's flight from tiny claws, his head pivoting to watch it cross his path and disappear into wintry grasses. He looked back at its predator, offering a crooked grin to the soot-colored kitten. "Hi, Ivan," he rasped, forcing his hoarse and grating breath to be gentle, "Sorry about your grasshopper."

    Settling onto bony haunches, the boy glanced up to the clouded sky, dark fur disturbed by the swelling breeze. "Did you have any plans? 'Cause I could take you out to learn how to hunt and stuff if you want. Don't think Selby -- er, your dad would mind," Beck reasoned, notched ear flicking as his lifeless gaze returned to Ivan, passing over his similarily scrawny frame. Gnawing on his intact cheek, he shrugged. "Don't have to. We could find something else to do." Like pranks. Or games. Or simply sitting beside him and letting Ivan wander around town. A tour would be fun. Anything would be fun. Boredom clawed at his mind just as much as it did to Ivan's.

[Ivan]

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For the kitten, knowing how the world worked was everything to him. His insignificance was still painfully present in all aspects of his thought, but he sought to make amends for it by trying his best. He was aloof and almost fiercely independent. He didn't trust most outside his family circle. Beck was a part of that lucky select view, by virtue of his relation with Ivan's father. Beck was an enigma to him even still, but family bonds ran deep.

Ivan twisted his paw upwards, fancying that he had actually caught the insect and that it was just speared by his claws unnoticed. He hoped that it was the case, but he knew in the back of his mind that the grasshopper really had gotten away. The thin Maine coon mane on the kitten's neck bristled when Beck's voice cut into his thoughts. His eyes returned to their normal narrowness when he recognized the voice of his well, elder brother.

It took a moment for Ivan to consider what had been said to him. His aquamarine gaze met Beck's lifeless stare for a while. He was a boy of few words, constantly occupied in his mind. Sometimes he'd sit still for hours with his eyes half-glazed -- which might have painted him as quite unusual for the demeanor of a kitten.

He suddenly shook himself, as if the moment of waiting had never happened. "It's alright." He responded slowly. "And no, I don't." He hated to admit, he hadn't been out much and thus had little idea of the actual culture and activities Tanglewood had to offer. He wanted to find an interest that was something other than playing devil's advocate with his siblings (he doesn't talk much, but when a subject really catches his attention he cannot shut up about it) or entertaining himself with his own imagination. "I'd like to do something that you like to do. Can you take me to your favorite places?" Ivan finally answered, hauling himself into a sitting position.

[beck.]

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    His favorite places? A faint sigh escaped from pierced lungs. Five hundred and thirty-two years allowed time for plenty of sightseeing, visiting the grandest sites and views all while never having to pay for plane fare or a place to sleep -- although, admittedly, haunting a hotel room and ordering copious amounts of room service desserts was fun on its own. The poltergeist tilted his head idly in thought, reflections of seven wonders galore glazing his dull eyes. It saddened him to realize that Ivan would likely never be able to witness the world as he had; a sympathetic twinge pulled downward at the intact corner of lips. Tanglewood was all he would know, glimpsing beyond the fence through photographs and stories.

    Realizing teeth caught on his lower lip, Beck straightened, chasing the visions from his eyes. What could be impressive enough to be considered a favorite place? Rising to stand, the boy glanced to the west, then to the east, then west again. Crooked teeth sought the comfort of gnawing flesh once again, razor-sharp points tentatively testing the barrier between skin and vessel. "O-oh... favorite places?" he echoed, racking his memory for answers before rasping, "Um, yeah, I'll take you to one. It's kinda far, though. Want me to carry you?" To further extend the offer, he lowered himself, tucking his legs like a camel might and presenting his back for Ivan to climb upon despite the paw-sized tar pit of a wound gouged between jutting shoulder blades.

    Whether Ivan climbed aboard or not, the wiry feline forced his limping steps to be gentle as he traversed the cracked sidewalk, bandaged paws silent save for the slight shuffle of cloth. There really was no specific destination in mind. He hoped to stall for more time to figure that out. But as Beck passed houses of near-uniform design and sprouting yards, a gap in the pattern caught his eye with an archaic wall strangled by creeping ivy. The little ghost paused, head rearing in interest. The black iron gates of the local cemetery stood before the pair, slightly ajar from a breeze. Glancing to Ivan, he nudged the kitten with a chilled nose. "We're here," he murmured, pushing the gate aside with a paw before slipping inside.

    He perched himself atop a rounded stone marker, his stump of a tail uselessly swishing as he wobbled precariously before recovering his balance. Hazel eyes watched his living brother, unsure how well received the final resting place for bodies would be. His ears flattened, worry tugging brows upward before he cautiously explained, "This... um, this is my favorite place. 'Cause, I dunno, it's just... quiet, y'know? And... it's nice." The thought of his remains finally beneath six feet of dirt was almost calming, a wrong being righted after centuries. And yet no bones could be recovered, much less buried. Melancholy overtook his freckled features, pearly claws digging into the weathered headstone. Sucking in a sharp wheeze, he pressed for a different subject, "What do you think?"

[Ivan]

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He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

— Бра́тья Карама́зовы

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Some people never go more than sixty miles from the place they were born. Ivan may very well turn to be one of those people. However much he might want to venture further than the marsh, foreigners and the Typhoon's distinctive smell makes him crinkle his nose in disgust. The boy's fantastical imagination suited him well enough, but when one doesn't realize what they're missing, they can't miss it. In that way, ignorance could be considered bliss. One can only desire what one knows exists. Ivan picked up on a certain change in Beck's atmosphere, but taciturn observance could never pry into someone's inner thoughts. He didn't know what he was missing, but he figured something was. But it didn't bother him.

What did bother him was the mark of pain on Beck's shoulders and Ivan immediately shook his head for his response at being carried, even being warned that it was far. He'd rather make himself suffer on sore paws than be a burden to someone else. He elected to not speak of it, but what Beck might have been able to see was the look of sorrow in Ivan's eyes. It was the same look he gave when he watched Alice walk. Maybe some people with obstacles in life would prefer to be treated normally, but in Ivan's sharply rational mind, he just could not doubt the fact that they were different. And he was different, only in a trivial matter, because being unable to see green and red was far less of an obstacle than some physical impairment.

Ivan traveled in companionable silence. Awkwardness didn't really apply well to him. He was usually comfortably quiet, but very receptive to entertaining a discussion when it interested him. He didn't like foreigners either, which usually tugged the aggressive and vocal side out of him.

The graveyard was an interesting choice. Ivan chuckled to himself, thinking that he should have seen this coming, but for all his insistence on the supernatural not existing, his ghostly brother was here next to him, taking him to a graveyard. Ivan lifted a paw and flicked it, wringing out his sore joints. He let his toes sink into the ground for a moment as he stared. He was a good starer, often sitting for hours on end with a hyper-focused look in his green-blue eyes.

For Beck, it was quiet and nice; but this place caused a turbulence in Ivan's soul. It shook Ivan's stony heart and made him tremble with humility. He felt this way when he looked up at the sky. Soon perhaps, he would find someway to not longer feel like a lackey when looking at space or graveyards. He hoped so. "It makes me think ... bodies die, but words live on forever." He mused. And perhaps, that's how one gains immortality in the physical world. But physics here seemed to operate on different rules.

"Ah," Ivan suddenly frowned. "She's here." The two headed eagle chick, who was already growing quite quickly, more quickly than normal for birds — and birds typically grew quickly — had poked its two heads around the corner of one of the houses, molting feathers marring its fledgling appearance. It couldn't have survived this long if Ivan hadn't been taking care of it, but he was extremely reluctant about it. He was annoyed to be interrupted in this private moment with his elder brother.

"She follows me." The young black cat explained half-heartedly, like one who is embarrassed by a family member while in the company of friends. "Sorry, she has a mind of her own." His brows scrunched together. "Two minds of her own."

[beck.]

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    In that moment, he learned his first mistake: never ask a kitten pondering existence and mortality to think.

    Words live on. Beck sucked in his unscathed cheek at that, teeth finding solace in the inner flesh. Words really did live on, but not often could they be described as poetic enough to engrave in polished markers. What had his own last words been? Hazel eyes fell upon the soil below, picturing a boxed skeletal curled in infinite slumber. Weathered memory brought forth no thought-provoking sentence or proclamation worthy of anybody listening. Only desperate pleas for his life and shrieks of agony as he choked on river water sullied by his blood, choked on hitching sobs while shoulders shook and an arrow was retrieved. Stop, please! Let me go! Begging for mercy wasn't special. Sputtering apologies for a crime he had been coerced into didn't make him unique in any way. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Thousands, millions of victims tossed aside dignity for a chance of keeping their lives, looking upward to the looming men with dirty bangs fallen into his bloodshot eyes, face bruised and smeared, searing sides heaving as he panted and croaked uselessly, crimson painting his chin and throat like a robin. Please... I'll do anything you want.

    His words didn't deserve to have a legacy.

    Lifeless eyes sought comfort in the brother at the base of the tombstone, his throat tightening with onsetting panic. The little poltergeist dryly swallowed, forcing strained lungs to breathe in. Then out. There were no guards. Get a grip, dammit. Sliding from his perch on the headstone, Beck allowed his paws to touch the ground once more, softly alighting in the firm mud. "Y'know... words are nice and all, but... I think actions have a lot more meaning to them," he quietly wheezed, gaze flicking toward Ivan in hopes of gleening a reaction to his unexpected tidbit of wisdom. Sure, someone could talk, through rubish slang or through educated jargon, creating an entire persona wildly different from the body the tongue belonged to. But no promise to help could impact as much as simply extending a hand to hold, offering a shoulder to cry on, or even a comforting hug when no words could be mustered.

    Without much thought behind it, the poltergeist rested a paw on Ivan's shoulders, gentle yet clammy compared to the beating sun. Like how Selby often held him in times of uncertainty and turmoil. Before he could even consider something else to say, the younger cat turned his attention to an unlikely addition. His scarred brow drew together in thought, perhaps slight curiosity as the two-headed eagle intruded further. His paw withdrew. Ivan's distaste for the creature was nearly as tangible as he was, enough for his ears to incline backward.

    Part of him recognized his absent companion when he glimpsed the fledgling, memory replacing it with a squirming flytrap gnawing at his wrist and seeking care. His punctured breath caught in his chest. "Does she have a name?" came the blurted question, Beck glancing down at Ivan with an unreadable yet bittersweet expression. Soon, an unrequested elaboration unfolded from his tongue, likely falling on deaf ears as he wistfully mumbled, "I... used to have a friend -- a best friend, actually. I found them in the swamp and took care of them. I named them Audrey III, 'cause... I like movies and stuff. I don't know." Sheepishly he fidgeted his paws, claws slipping beneath a wrapping of gauze and tugging it this way and that. "[color=#0000000]They took care of me back, too.[/color]" Sadness tinged his words, his now-severed bond painfully obvious as he heavily sighed, lapsing into silence.