you're paralyzing me, any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

He considers the answer. Sleaze does not think himself particularly good, or kind. He certainly isn’t cruel – to anyone but himself, at least – but kind? He has never held close friends, has never served a kingdom, has never left any kind of legacy that might be called good. Or any kind of legacy at all. For what could he be remembered for? A boy who had been dragged into another reality and emerged changed with another lifetime grasping at his throat?
No. When he goes, he does not think he will be remembered.

“You’re kind to say such things,” he says, and he lets his muzzle drift across him. He doesn’t know what this is, what any of it is, but it feels good in a way Sleaze hadn’t known existed. He doesn’t know if it’s the boy himself or the quiet he brings, or maybe both, maybe both things are wrapped so intangibly in one another that Sleaze cannot untangle them.
“I didn’t know miracles such as you existed,” he says. It’s heavy, to say this, but he can breath for the first time in so long and he uses this breath to gush, “I had forgotten, what the quiet is like.”
He doesn’t ask his next thought - what will happen when you leave?
Because they do leave. His father taught him that. They all leave.

Sleaze

@[isakov]