[But what does that mean, being yourself? Three minutes ago he would have had absolute conviction that without some forced stimulus he would never of his own accord become of a sudden aroused over Rico Dredd. The whole of him: presence, sensation, carnal reality. Scent of starch and ink and deep, preferred cologne. The sound of his beating heart. A guardian's embrace, that could remove Arthur from this life if he ever wished, tighten with the strength of a boa constrictor.
Never mind the sprinkle of conflicted, troubled fantasies which would torment Arthur into waking over these months β long before the chill of winter hit the air, and compounded during his time under this roof. Seized by this lapse, this loss of self β how else to describe it? β he stares into the small space made new between them when Rico allows him to loosen free. Already that terrible heartbeat surges, rattled.
And his familiar boy, Rico places hand to face, and receives the dip of visage, more eyelashes as Arthur retreats partially into himself, diffident, warm skin heating rose. His legs stay planted though, obedient, up until he's shuffling back and to the side to give up what space Rico needs to move. He glances beyond him into the master bedroom, at the desk, and the abandoned work.
What an argument to lead him here. It isn't what he wanted. Not to be embraced, to be lit from the inside out by the corporeality of Rico. He wanted things to feel like they once did β simple, menial work. Easy conversation, absent of expectation. No one reaching to touch him for too long, or at all. Is the loneliness turning him mad? All that's transpired between them, will any form which banishes loneliness make him less of the person he remembers?
Never for being yourself.
What does that mean, when Rico's punished him for the rebellion he clung to so it felt and feels a very fixed part of himself? Being yourself.
Who and what is that?
Rico could be speaking to him now, but it hasn't registered. He's dissociated into himself, for a moment or minutes, neither moving nor speaking, absent gaze on the legs of the desk. Unfocused inside this room which he's never been allowed into. No dogs in the bedroom.
With a slow, heavy blink, he sinks back into his own body, says, an almost yet not quite empty vessel:] I can manage.
[Not retaliation, so much as it is suggestion. It's what he'd like β to put himself to bed without company or interference. But there's no tells he'll make a pain of himself should Rico insist on his involvement.]
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judgementcrime) wrote2000-08-20 11:21 am
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Never mind the sprinkle of conflicted, troubled fantasies which would torment Arthur into waking over these months β long before the chill of winter hit the air, and compounded during his time under this roof. Seized by this lapse, this loss of self β how else to describe it? β he stares into the small space made new between them when Rico allows him to loosen free. Already that terrible heartbeat surges, rattled.
And his familiar boy, Rico places hand to face, and receives the dip of visage, more eyelashes as Arthur retreats partially into himself, diffident, warm skin heating rose. His legs stay planted though, obedient, up until he's shuffling back and to the side to give up what space Rico needs to move. He glances beyond him into the master bedroom, at the desk, and the abandoned work.
What an argument to lead him here. It isn't what he wanted. Not to be embraced, to be lit from the inside out by the corporeality of Rico. He wanted things to feel like they once did β simple, menial work. Easy conversation, absent of expectation. No one reaching to touch him for too long, or at all. Is the loneliness turning him mad? All that's transpired between them, will any form which banishes loneliness make him less of the person he remembers?
Never for being yourself.
What does that mean, when Rico's punished him for the rebellion he clung to so it felt and feels a very fixed part of himself? Being yourself.
Who and what is that?
Rico could be speaking to him now, but it hasn't registered. He's dissociated into himself, for a moment or minutes, neither moving nor speaking, absent gaze on the legs of the desk. Unfocused inside this room which he's never been allowed into. No dogs in the bedroom.
With a slow, heavy blink, he sinks back into his own body, says, an almost yet not quite empty vessel:] I can manage.
[Not retaliation, so much as it is suggestion. It's what he'd like β to put himself to bed without company or interference. But there's no tells he'll make a pain of himself should Rico insist on his involvement.]