06-13-2018, 11:47 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
There was a particular point where he reached his peak and everything hung in a precarious balance — so close to normalcy but not quite there. In thise times where he felt almost like he was play-acting: pretending to be the Bastille he used to be and should be, but as if he had forgotten how to do it just perfectly. When he wasn’t gone enough or the mixture wasn’t right, he was still caught in a state of apathy; and when he was too high or the mixture reacted in a nasty fashion, he felt too much at once or plunged even deeper into his demons. It was harder to find those moments where he almost seemed normal, but when they came out... he forgot.
Forgot the burning anger in his gut. The twist of vicious words on his tongue. The terrible person he was, lashing out because he was hurting and didn’t know how to handle it, how to handle his souls screaming at him. He simply looked up and straight at Margy and felt... nothing. Just the faint pull for companionship, for sitting with her and wine and being near her again because it’d been so goddamn long.
”Mm, yeah. It’s a classic,” he said, easy, words not quite slurred but not quite punctual. Languid, lazy, even — a slow drawl, as he contemplated. ”I like a good soulmate story, even if they never end up together.” Bastille didn’t seem to believe in much, but he did have a love-hate relationship with Fate — and he had always known her to be cruel enough for the concept of soulmates to exist, in some fashion. He didn’t believe they had to love one another or be happy, because Fate was cruel, but he believed you could be bound to someone so terribly that there was no rivaling the sensation.
”Like you and Suite, I guess,” he muttered aloud, a tangent thought as his attention drifted, shifting towards golden light and honey. A beat, and he blinked, bringing his unfocused focus back to her. ”Except you’re not tragic ones, I guess.”
[align=center][b]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSForgot the burning anger in his gut. The twist of vicious words on his tongue. The terrible person he was, lashing out because he was hurting and didn’t know how to handle it, how to handle his souls screaming at him. He simply looked up and straight at Margy and felt... nothing. Just the faint pull for companionship, for sitting with her and wine and being near her again because it’d been so goddamn long.
”Mm, yeah. It’s a classic,” he said, easy, words not quite slurred but not quite punctual. Languid, lazy, even — a slow drawl, as he contemplated. ”I like a good soulmate story, even if they never end up together.” Bastille didn’t seem to believe in much, but he did have a love-hate relationship with Fate — and he had always known her to be cruel enough for the concept of soulmates to exist, in some fashion. He didn’t believe they had to love one another or be happy, because Fate was cruel, but he believed you could be bound to someone so terribly that there was no rivaling the sensation.
”Like you and Suite, I guess,” he muttered aloud, a tangent thought as his attention drifted, shifting towards golden light and honey. A beat, and he blinked, bringing his unfocused focus back to her. ”Except you’re not tragic ones, I guess.”
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]