@brokentoys @batserved
Look. This may have been a whole ass Alice In Wonderland bit in a kid’s graphic novel... but this is the most on point characterization I’ve seen from Dee.Cee. in a long ass time.
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@brokentoys @batserved
Look. This may have been a whole ass Alice In Wonderland bit in a kid’s graphic novel... but this is the most on point characterization I’ve seen from Dee.Cee. in a long ass time.
@batserved said : [ TOGETHER ] in a gesture intended to prove to the receiver that they're no longer alone, sender takes their hand and holds it firmly.
shadows cast by the night stretch long, stretch far, and maybe it’s a fool’s hope egged on by years of practice that made jason believe he could disappear enough to be an unknown here. to think he’d find anything other than the grimace which twists sharp features, the squeeze in his chest — but he needed to see it ( to ask him why would be to ask why flowers shrivel in winter, why trees buckle beneath wildfire ; nature is not kind to wants & desires ).
the slab of concrete which juts out like a thorn from patches of green and dirt to present the carved letters of a demise that didn’t stick. something wars with itself inside jason’s chest and he lingers too long on the conflict between the piece of him that feels frustration that the stone is still here & the piece of him swathed in unhealthy graciousness for the reminder that it’s not all in his head. one hand tucked in a pocket of his jacket, fingers fiddling with a loose thread inside the fold of fabric.
he hears the footsteps even before the soft glow of lantern light swims over the space and bathes this little patch of their world in orange & yellow ( alfred always did walk with a purposeful gait, slow and steady and always with intent, and it’s nice to see some things don’t change ).
he’s half expecting some sort of lecture ; well - meaning words of encouragement that will inevitably miss their target. there’s none. just shifting light as the source is placed upon the ground, and a quiet insistent pressure over the hand not tucked away. jason’s gaze is slow to turn to it, staring at the way alfred’s enfolded it in both of his own palms as if he doesn’t understand . . . but he does. the line of the old man’s mouth does not smile, does not attempt to dissuade jason from lingering in sticky, bittersweet emotions, but offers silent solidarity in this moment rife with demons.
there’s so much of jason that screams to be left alone in this pitiful state ; the desire to shrink away, put up walls, to let the shadows swallow him up until the darkness paints him a blank slate once again. but something in the tether of alfred’s hands around his own keeps him from melting away, and the dam in jason’s chest cracks just a little ; just enough.
no judgement. no expectations. suddenly he’s just a boy again, scraping up what bits of comfort he can find from someone willing to give it without strings. if his hand slowly squeezes back, tightly, neither of them say anything of it.
and if his cheeks stain with silent, saltwater trails — neither of them say anything of that either.