#deificates

[instituteled-a]

“ where i’m going, you can’t come. ” from peter.

Where the Water Tastes Like Wine | @deificates

     Tʜᴀᴛ's ᴡʜᴀᴛ it always comes down to, isn't it? No matter what happens in the time in between (sometimes, it's nothing but fights, sitting at each other's throats if engaging with another at all, sometimes it's almost gentle — after all, there are some reasons why they keep returning to circle one another, and not all of them the obvious ones — more often than not, some thing in between, something not quite equal, but similar to an addiction and no will to quit); but in the end, it's always this: Peter returning for months back to the sea and him, well, he got enough things to do in the meantime. It's hardly even notable he's gone at all. (Who is he lying to, though? It's not like Peter is the one inside his head, after all.)

     It is for the better, after all. They are both aware that the first loyalty of them each lays far from one another but the things they serve, no matter where they currently stand with one another. (That doesn't dismiss any trust, that — as far as possible at least — sits there clearly and maybe a little too obvious, a little too gentle and easy to take apart no matter what else happens, but again, knowing someone else as well and for as long — entirely regardless from Knowing itself — tends to only happen in two directions, this being the lighter one of it.) And in all honesty, whatever it is they share, it wouldn't work without these long times of separation. Not even if they were other people, not even if this was merely between two normal human beings and not having to feed their masters. No: these are quite necessary.

     And besides, can you imagine? Him — him! — following Lukas into the Lonely? One of the few things shielded from his view? Even worse, the accommodations of the Tundra? (It happened once. Briefly. He'd been sick for weeks after; both from the boat — been a long time before that that he ever stepped on one — and from starving out there at sea, and it's not something he'd like to repeat, ever.)

     No, most certainly this is for the best. Still, the sentimentality of that soft fool is appreciated. Maybe even returned, somewhere, in that rotten thing that might have been a heart so long ago. (Before it's been stolen, of course, and then given away — it's safer with this one than himself.)

     "Suppose I have to trust you to return on your own, then."

     (And that's just it, isn't it? Trusting another, despite... everything. Still being able to.)

     "Don't be late."

[instituteled-a]

“ i’m afraid you owe me. your life, sure - but more than that. ” from peter.

Where the Water Tastes Like Wine | @deificates​​

     Tʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs spark irritation. Not of the confused type, don't be mistaken: this is the type that sits straight before anger, that is a thin layer of something akin to aggressive. Of course, that doesn't show much. It should be obvious to Peter, naturally — if anyone, then this man, most certainly, can read the subtle changes that first come with a raised brow and a very long calculating glance, one that's very close edging on freezing.

     "Excuse me, I think I misheard. I thought you just said I'd owe you my — my life? Most certainly that's not what you just said."

     Whatever this man is hoping to achieve, he better have the common sense to retreat given the chance. Maybe he was — god forbid — attempting to be 'cute' in his own way, which would be the easier option, because if he's serious about this, he sure has another thing coming.

     Infuriating. The irritation still sits right under his voice, and in his features when he moves to round the chair, hands set against the plate behind him, eyes fixated on the other's face, waiting for an answer that's hopefully — hopefully! — a bit more thought through than whatever this is supposed to imply, while never adverting his gaze from him.

     (Oh: he has his attention alright. Both the eyes he can see and those he can't, they are all on him now.)

[instituteled-a]

“ i know the look of you. know what you’re here for. ” from peter.

Where the Water Tastes Like Wine | @deificates

     Dᴏᴇs ʜᴇ, now? It's not entirely unlikely; it stands to reason that the one living person that has the best idea of what might go on inside his head is the man facing him right now. No more than a very educated guess of course (and how do people do that? Simply having to assume about others, simply guessing, hoping they are right, being potentially lied to at any given moment, for years at that, and never having a chance of knowing? Naturally, he knows that he should remember such a state from far before, but it's been so long it's become impossible to imagine; much like trying to recall one's precise feeling and thoughts at some time in the past. Maybe an echo, and maybe it's not even that far from accurate, but not the same). But still the one with the deepest foundation, likely.

     Doesn't mean being called out as such helps his mood swings in any way. Something funny: for someone so obsessed with the idea of knowing as much as there is to, more than any being could, should, or might comprehend — being told that he, too, is known is such a difficult concept. Something not quite bad in that sense (certainly: not terrifying as it might be to someone else), but simply unexpected. Before Peter, it had been a long while since anyone had. At least, anyone he had wanted to, anyone he had let in himself.

     Funny how that goes, isn't it. Some decisions not made consciously, but looking back, it's one being made over and over again, in small gestures, in admitting something, and over the years, it just became second nature. Not in the way other people might trust each other (they both know that they are not their first priority, wouldn't ever be; know that there are things simply more important, and what really does trust count for when you can simply tell most of the time if someone is honest with you? Even if he attempts not to, sometimes. Another rare thing; there's hardly anyone else extended that kind of privacy from him, and it doesn't always apply, but for the most part, he does stay out of the other's head).

     Hands patting over the lapels of the other, smoothing it down, a gesture that could be counted as intimate maybe, or caring, but just the same it's the way a cat might watch prey curiously before dealing the first hit, and both things are equally likely.

     "Well, amuse me. Enlighten me, even, Peter. What am I here for, then?"

     (Oh, but they both know it. Both of them the moth and the flame simultaneously, burning each other's wings, and yet. And yet.)

[arcvist]

@deificates​      /      tim       :       [      i am sad and angry and i want everyone to be alive again.       ]       *

jon cannot remember if he has ever been as exhausted as he is right now.      must have been      —      he knows he went days without sleep in university,      but the memory is all facts and no feeling to it,      the hours passing by on a clock without remembering the way it had hit him.      not like now.      now,      when he feels every minute as if it is years      —            &       the weight of tim’s eyes on him makes the seconds tick past so,      so slowly.      the guilt jon feels      :      and he wants,      so badly,      to make everything alright,      to bring everyone back,      and he knows equally deeply that he cannot.

(      does tim know how it had shaken jon,      how he had trembled with his grief to find out sasha had been replaced?      how long he had stood in the middle of his office staring at those damned tape recorders as if they could have told him sooner and had purposefully,      incomprehensibly,      cruelly concealed the truth of it from him?      how much jon still blames himself?      he should have noticed,      should have done something,      should have known.      sasha was his friend,      too.      he should have known.

would it make any difference?      or would tim keep looking at him like that      —      cold,      sharp,      knowing jon is to blame.      jon can’t even tell him it isn’t true.      )

‘      i know.      ’            jon knows it is the wrong answer.      that it’s not what tim wants to hear,      that it’ll be taken the wrong way,      that tim will jump to he’s reading my mind rather than he feels the exact same way,      but it slips out anyway alongside a heavy sigh.      jon resists the deep urge to put his head in his hands and avoid tim’s gaze.      makes himself look tim in the eyes.            ‘      i      —      i can’t change it,      tim.      i don’t      —      i don’t know what you want me to do.      if there was      —      was anything i could do about all of this,      if i could fix it,      i swear to you i would’ve already,      but      —      but there’s not.      ’

to the core of jon’s soul,      he hates the way tim looks at him now      :      like jon is a monster to be defeated.      they’d been friends,      once.      jon thinks they had.      they’d been something.      jon’s no good with friends,      so maybe it’s for the best that it’d turned to this,      to a blatant rage every time tim’s in the same room as jon,      but      . . .      if jon could change it,      he would have already.      true of those they’ve lost,      and true,      too,      of this.            ‘      i’m sorry,      tim.      ’            it’s not what tim wants to hear.      it’s all jon can say.

[unrite-a]

@deificates​      /      agnes      :      MAYBE I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN YOU.      *

it does feel that way,      doesn’t it?      gertrude can almost see the threads connecting soul to soul      :      if she squints,      if she looks a certain way,      if she closes her eyes entirely,      if she looks not with her eyes but with something deeper and more terrifying within her.      she can almost see it.      is this knowing a side - effect of that ritual that had twined the two together,      or something else entirely?      something gertrude can study?      something that will find a home in her notebooks,      buried deep in her files      :      quasi - statement of agnes montague,      on the after - effects of a more personal knowledge than most will ever possess.      i’ve always known you,      like the phrase could be committed to paper      —      it’s almost laughable to think of writing it down,      something that feels so      . . .      personal.      so private.

instead      :      she tilts her head.      she refuses to think of this as research.      analyze after the fact      —      this moment demands to be lived in,      as some moments do.            ‘      always,      ’            gertrude repeats,      rolling the word around in her mouth experimentally.            ‘      quite a long time,      isn’t it?      but still      . . .      it feels right.      ’            something has changed retroactively in gertrude      :      she cannot imagine a time she was not connected to agnes in some way,      though she knows not how she feels about the notion.      logically,      there was such a time.      it wasn’t so long ago.      but she tries to imagine it and it seems undeniably false.            ‘      i hardly know anything about you,      not really      —      and yet it feels like i always have,      and like i know you more than anyone else in the world.      ’

[brutlistarchive]

@deificates​ said : ❛ my arm hurts. it really hurts. and my head. ❜ from jane 😬

     "     𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 , 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰     ---     you’re alright .     “     a father’s intonation he couldn’t withhold even if he’d been conscious of it on the wisp of a breath he lets out when he takes a hold of her bird’s bone arm in his hands , large and careful to examine the red , furious raze of fair haired skin . it’s an angry affliction , swelling on it’s lightly flayed edges . she’s lucky . it could’ve been much worse .     “     i know it hurts .     “     mable when she was two and her tricycle tipped on the lip of an overgrown lawn and too much confidence often found in a child - babe , and an elbow blushed and pricked by the unyielding sidewalk ; bubbling tears . her chubby little fingers had reached for him in that desperate way that’d torn little pieces out of him he hadn’t , and would never ask back .     “     hurt ain’t nothing but a thing that’s gonna be gone before you know it .     “     

     “     if you’re lucky , it’ll scar .     “     it won’t . the fleshy yellow mottled by blood already clotting is too shallow . but it’s fun to tease , he thinks , thumbing back her wild hair to check her forehead for a wound similar , or worse .     “     make for a cool story you can  make up to strangers     ---     i’m gonna pour alcohol on this . you can cuss me out of you want .      “ 

[arcvist]

@deificates​      /      tim      :      [     💏 + 7 from tim... but like reversed... tim is kissing jon to shut him up 👀      ]      *

tim is laughing.      it takes jon a moment to register this      —      he has been rambling on for quite a while now,      trying to weave strings from statement upon statement together to create something even approaching cohesive.      difficult to do when you haven’t slept in      . . .      jon’s lost track.      difficult to do much of anything,      really      —      but so long as martin is sleeping in the files room and prentiss remains a danger,      he needs to sort this mystery out,      needs to track her down before she finds them instead,      needs to      —

tim has a nice laugh.

it’s hardly the first time jon’s heard it,      having worked together for as long as they have,      but he thinks it is certainly the first time the sound has pierced him so.      it breaks through some barrier,      echoes around the cramped office,      and there is a moment jon can hardly breathe.      his brow furrows      :      he chooses scrutiny towards tim rather than himself.      decides that sorting out what he’s feeling is an issue that can wait for another time,      introspection never quite one of his strong suits,      but tim      —

‘      tim,      please,      i’m trying to      —      to      —      why are you smiling like that?      really,      what’s so      —      i need to focus on these statements,      i might be getting somewhere,      tim      —      ’            jon shouldn’t be surprised,      as focused on that smile of tim’s as he is,      when their lips are suddenly inches apart.      should have seen the movement.      but it’s a bit of a blur,      and then tim is looking at him      —      waiting for an acknowledgement,      for permission,      jon realizes all at once.      jon nods.      the slightest movement,      and then tim is kissing him      —      and jon cannot say he hasn’t thought about this before,      something he has tried resolutely to push to the back of his mind in the interest of professionalism,      in the interest of boundaries,      of      —      of things he can no longer recall,      in this moment.

when tim pulls back he’s giving jon one of those smiles that says he is seconds away from telling jon he worries too much,      needs to relax,      c’mon boss.            ‘      oh,      shut up,      ’            jon says before he can try.      between the smile and the flush of his face,      his grumbling hardly holds any weight.