[ Unfortunately, Set has proven himself rather drawn to Hostile Bastards. He clutches at them with the ferocity of someone who wants to hunch over them and bite the hands that try to wrest them from his person, territorial and protective of what he views as 'his'. Whether they reciprocate or not, that is the madness of a god — it is found in what they sink their claws into, and what they spurn. If Set has managed to carve a path into Silco's graces, what does that mean for Gen? Set has long laid eyes upon the young man's defenses, and has worked to assail them, to wear him down; in this, he can be far more patient than any other soul.
Or, not patient. Simply stubborn.
When Gen sinks teeth into his fingers, he winces. He hisses through his own teeth and the flinch of his body threatens retaliation, an immediate need to find purchase with a bite of his own against Gen. To not let such an attack go un-answered. ]
What did you think Meridian expected of you, Gen?
[ It is only a question, to learn more. He draws his fingers back with exaggerated slowness, flexing them until he feels them begin to ache far too much; again, he winces and tucks his hand down between them, where it is warm and he can stroke the center of Gen's chest with the back of that bruised hand. A methodical motion, not unlike an attempt at foreign intimacy, or just the act of trying to soothe that aching heart he can feel in their corner of Communion. ]
You could just be gone, if that is what you want. You need not take everything with you. For I only wanted you to be you. Rude, annoying. Irritable. Sad and angry. Rotten, just like me.
[ A proposal. If Gen wants what he wants, it is fine. If he does not belong, that is fine. But, Set cannot fathom why he would want to destroy it all, if within him is the — that plaintive little whisper, about wanting himself gone most of all. It is not an unfamiliar call. It is a whisper that Set gathers into his own mind and sets in his lap, running hands over attentively. Gen wants to die. ]
You are not a waste, Gen. This world asks a hard question of us all, and the magic of it will push us in directions we would not normally have to travel in worlds of our own. Perhaps in yours, you would have found that end. Or a new beginning. Now, all you have to your name is the choice of how, when and by what hand you will die. And maybe, who will mourn you.
no subject
Or, not patient. Simply stubborn.
When Gen sinks teeth into his fingers, he winces. He hisses through his own teeth and the flinch of his body threatens retaliation, an immediate need to find purchase with a bite of his own against Gen. To not let such an attack go un-answered. ]
What did you think Meridian expected of you, Gen?
[ It is only a question, to learn more. He draws his fingers back with exaggerated slowness, flexing them until he feels them begin to ache far too much; again, he winces and tucks his hand down between them, where it is warm and he can stroke the center of Gen's chest with the back of that bruised hand. A methodical motion, not unlike an attempt at foreign intimacy, or just the act of trying to soothe that aching heart he can feel in their corner of Communion. ]
You could just be gone, if that is what you want. You need not take everything with you. For I only wanted you to be you. Rude, annoying. Irritable. Sad and angry. Rotten, just like me.
[ A proposal. If Gen wants what he wants, it is fine. If he does not belong, that is fine. But, Set cannot fathom why he would want to destroy it all, if within him is the — that plaintive little whisper, about wanting himself gone most of all. It is not an unfamiliar call. It is a whisper that Set gathers into his own mind and sets in his lap, running hands over attentively. Gen wants to die. ]
You are not a waste, Gen. This world asks a hard question of us all, and the magic of it will push us in directions we would not normally have to travel in worlds of our own. Perhaps in yours, you would have found that end. Or a new beginning. Now, all you have to your name is the choice of how, when and by what hand you will die. And maybe, who will mourn you.