08-13-2018, 05:48 PM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES
Sometimes he looked at her and could feel the way she was searching for answers. Her golden stare was just a bit too inquisitive, and her brow would furrow in the manner it did when she was struggling to work out the answer to a particularly complex question: confusion, mingled with careful thoughtfulness, the gears of her brain working through something. She looked at him as if he was a puzzle to figure out, had looked at him like that since nearly as early as meeting her; he still remembered the way she'd pondered over him coming to offer her a tour, the way she got that look on her face that she said didn't understand what he was doing and was trying to figure it out.
It was almost funny, really. Bastille wondered at what point she would give up trying to find some deeper meaning to his actions. There were times where he did something wrong, like drunkenly try to touch her when he knew better, and there was no deeper explanation. He was simply wrong, and lacked any semblance of self-control. Sometimes he lost his collective shit and yelled at Margy, and she might hope that there was more to it, that he was actually a better person and there was some complicated answer for his behavior, but there wasn't one. The answer to most of her questions about him could be neatly summarized in that he just wasn't a particularly good person, and she was wasting her time in trying to riddle out if he was.
He shook his head at her apology, at a loss for what she was even trying to apologize for. Thankfully she didn't seem too insistent on carry it on, as she left it be, and Bast was offering her a weak half-smile in response to her retaliation. [b]"That's fair," he agreed, adding idly, "Your response time is pretty poor, isn't it?" He flashed her a slightly more earnest smile, though he still wasn't quite at ease. It was easier to focus on fact, and to simply tell her the truth, and he was ironically more at ease in discussing his faults than pretending everything was fine and joking with her.
He offered her a nod at her guess, saying dryly, "Yeah. Couldn't quite mute everything out with just vodka, and later I needed her uppers to feel anything at all." He shrugged, providing as an after-thought, "'Sides, Rad was willing to let me nap with her if I took her trials." He wasn't sure if she quite knew the extent of his tactile nature, aside from what she'd witnessed when it was more prominently on display, but he assumed it wasn't really important enough to offer as explanation for his aside. Bast felt almost pressingly as if he needed to clarify that it wasn't really Rad he was interested in but the contact, but he bit his tongue: there was no reason Hazel should care, and explaining might imply he thought she did, so the best case was to just carry on.
Bastille looked across at her for a moment at her assertion, and found himself offering her another of those ironic smiles. He couldn't help it: it might be nice, the faith she had in him, if not for the fact that she was wrong. She was giving him undue credit, and he gave a slight shake of his head. "I am Zaniel," he pointed out, though he didn't really feel like trying to war with her on the nature of his souls and his relation to them; it was a messy matter that he didn't even know how to fully explain — even if he himself had said that he didn't want to be like Zaniel, that was only because he knew he could be because he was Zaniel.
"You're wrong, you know," he said after a moment, "I do love it. I always knew I would, if I let myself try it, but wishing I didn't doesn't mean I don't." He glanced away from her then, back down to his book, and added, "I love the taste, and the weightlessness, and the disconnect. It's only so much harder to stop because I do like it." A crooked smile, humorless. "It's in my nature to, thanks to Zaniel."
He could offer no protest to her analysis that he often seemed at odds with himself, because that was more or less true; he was consistently at odds with his souls, battling his inclination towards them and their lives, even if he knew it was pointless to resist his own nature.
Her words brought his attention back up, though, and he stared at her as she confirmed his assumptions. He'd never been entirely certain of who had harmed her in the past, assuming one parent or the other or both, but it was obvious that the alcohol and touch seemed linked to her scars. Bast wasn't sure how he felt about her confession, somewhat gratified that she didn't agree with the fear but irritated with himself all the same for prompting it in the first place. He wanted to be able to argue with conviction that he would never hurt her, but the phantom press of her throat under his fingers weakened that resolve. The truth was that he would like to believe that he wouldn't.
He was momentarily at a loss for words, not really certain how to receive her admission. On some level he had assumed that contact helped to calm her down in the middle of hysteria, given that it had worked before, but it was easy to explain that away as simply the jarring nature of it; she seemed to focus more on his touch, however, and that was not something he knew how to deal with. In the end, he found himself saying, "You know, I almost tore down the Observatory when my elementals kicked in." There was a beat, because he wasn't particularly fond of Suiteheart at the moment, but he carried on anyway, "I couldn't focus on anything other than the chaos, was totally lost, and Suiteheart tackled me. I was so startled that she yanked me out of it immediately." He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, and supplied, "I didn't really know how to help you other than to hug you, too, aside from breaking into your thoughts."
He looked away, considering for a moment, and then added, "I don't think I would hurt you. I wish I could say that I never would, but I just—" A rough exhale, his gaze trained absently to the side as he struggled to hold back the flicker of memories. "I don't always get a say in who I am, sometimes. And I don't trust the part of myself that is Pollie." The explanation was there, on the tip of his tongue; he could so easily confess to her the real reason he'd been so shaken from his overdose, why he seemed to have lost faith in himself, but he didn't. He couldn't look her in the eye and admit it.
He could look at her, however, when he heard her concluding statement. His gaze snapped to her with a scowl, and he disagreed immediately, "You're not broken. Don't be ridiculous." Bast didn't even bother to further argue his point, deeming the notion too misplaced to even pay it any attention to combat it.
It was almost funny, really. Bastille wondered at what point she would give up trying to find some deeper meaning to his actions. There were times where he did something wrong, like drunkenly try to touch her when he knew better, and there was no deeper explanation. He was simply wrong, and lacked any semblance of self-control. Sometimes he lost his collective shit and yelled at Margy, and she might hope that there was more to it, that he was actually a better person and there was some complicated answer for his behavior, but there wasn't one. The answer to most of her questions about him could be neatly summarized in that he just wasn't a particularly good person, and she was wasting her time in trying to riddle out if he was.
He shook his head at her apology, at a loss for what she was even trying to apologize for. Thankfully she didn't seem too insistent on carry it on, as she left it be, and Bast was offering her a weak half-smile in response to her retaliation. [b]"That's fair," he agreed, adding idly, "Your response time is pretty poor, isn't it?" He flashed her a slightly more earnest smile, though he still wasn't quite at ease. It was easier to focus on fact, and to simply tell her the truth, and he was ironically more at ease in discussing his faults than pretending everything was fine and joking with her.
He offered her a nod at her guess, saying dryly, "Yeah. Couldn't quite mute everything out with just vodka, and later I needed her uppers to feel anything at all." He shrugged, providing as an after-thought, "'Sides, Rad was willing to let me nap with her if I took her trials." He wasn't sure if she quite knew the extent of his tactile nature, aside from what she'd witnessed when it was more prominently on display, but he assumed it wasn't really important enough to offer as explanation for his aside. Bast felt almost pressingly as if he needed to clarify that it wasn't really Rad he was interested in but the contact, but he bit his tongue: there was no reason Hazel should care, and explaining might imply he thought she did, so the best case was to just carry on.
Bastille looked across at her for a moment at her assertion, and found himself offering her another of those ironic smiles. He couldn't help it: it might be nice, the faith she had in him, if not for the fact that she was wrong. She was giving him undue credit, and he gave a slight shake of his head. "I am Zaniel," he pointed out, though he didn't really feel like trying to war with her on the nature of his souls and his relation to them; it was a messy matter that he didn't even know how to fully explain — even if he himself had said that he didn't want to be like Zaniel, that was only because he knew he could be because he was Zaniel.
"You're wrong, you know," he said after a moment, "I do love it. I always knew I would, if I let myself try it, but wishing I didn't doesn't mean I don't." He glanced away from her then, back down to his book, and added, "I love the taste, and the weightlessness, and the disconnect. It's only so much harder to stop because I do like it." A crooked smile, humorless. "It's in my nature to, thanks to Zaniel."
He could offer no protest to her analysis that he often seemed at odds with himself, because that was more or less true; he was consistently at odds with his souls, battling his inclination towards them and their lives, even if he knew it was pointless to resist his own nature.
Her words brought his attention back up, though, and he stared at her as she confirmed his assumptions. He'd never been entirely certain of who had harmed her in the past, assuming one parent or the other or both, but it was obvious that the alcohol and touch seemed linked to her scars. Bast wasn't sure how he felt about her confession, somewhat gratified that she didn't agree with the fear but irritated with himself all the same for prompting it in the first place. He wanted to be able to argue with conviction that he would never hurt her, but the phantom press of her throat under his fingers weakened that resolve. The truth was that he would like to believe that he wouldn't.
He was momentarily at a loss for words, not really certain how to receive her admission. On some level he had assumed that contact helped to calm her down in the middle of hysteria, given that it had worked before, but it was easy to explain that away as simply the jarring nature of it; she seemed to focus more on his touch, however, and that was not something he knew how to deal with. In the end, he found himself saying, "You know, I almost tore down the Observatory when my elementals kicked in." There was a beat, because he wasn't particularly fond of Suiteheart at the moment, but he carried on anyway, "I couldn't focus on anything other than the chaos, was totally lost, and Suiteheart tackled me. I was so startled that she yanked me out of it immediately." He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, and supplied, "I didn't really know how to help you other than to hug you, too, aside from breaking into your thoughts."
He looked away, considering for a moment, and then added, "I don't think I would hurt you. I wish I could say that I never would, but I just—" A rough exhale, his gaze trained absently to the side as he struggled to hold back the flicker of memories. "I don't always get a say in who I am, sometimes. And I don't trust the part of myself that is Pollie." The explanation was there, on the tip of his tongue; he could so easily confess to her the real reason he'd been so shaken from his overdose, why he seemed to have lost faith in himself, but he didn't. He couldn't look her in the eye and admit it.
He could look at her, however, when he heard her concluding statement. His gaze snapped to her with a scowl, and he disagreed immediately, "You're not broken. Don't be ridiculous." Bast didn't even bother to further argue his point, deeming the notion too misplaced to even pay it any attention to combat it.
[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST
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]