10-26-2016, 06:12 PM
“Bruise?”
The corners of his mouth twitch upwards as he considers the boy. “Interesting.” She had seemed a thing left black-and-blue. Ruptured, just under that delicate skin, by someone with crueler hands than even he. Crueler, because he had left love around her bruises, yellow and sore, ever expanding as arterial blood continues its outpour.
He supposes mad minds are prone to project ‒ to reach out into the world and look for lost things, leaving breadcrumbs behind, in case they never come back.
(Bruise. A hurt.)
(Pollock. A nonsense.
—an artist, in that distant world, under those other constellations.)
(Nameless things. At least one other – indigo-haired and golden-bodied.
And Bruise.)
It is more interesting, still, when he realizes it must be the makings of his own young mind. How very dark. He’d get a chuckle out of the full story. Maybe will, one day.
He might even be proud.
“Yes,” his mouth forms it’s straight, stern line again and he straightens up, jaw flexing as his teeth clench together. “Yes, well, I grew tired of waiting, too.” A seed from this very apple, indeed. Patience had never been his forte. It may have even been his downfall, just as it may have been Bruise’s; because the wilds could have gotten them both, wood-beasts and mountain-ghouls. Such tender and soft-boned morsels, easy pickings. Undefended and largely defenseless.
(Except Bruise had his Fear and Pollock, his invisibility. He’d have to take the boy back up that Mountain one day, where his mother may still be, black-and blue, and show him how high the stakes truly are.)
Men like them build.
They build until they are great, and then like iron-clawed titans, they tear each other down, just to be the greatest.
He speaks of mother and… no. With anyone else, that would be a no-no. But he gives the boy a warning eye (very paternal) and exhales slowly through his nose. She is a distant thing he is meant to forget. She is buried below a hundred leagues of sand and bone. “My mother called me Pollock.” He lowers his head again, down to the upturned chin and bold eyes, “never ask me about that bitch again, Bruise.
Fuck our mothers.” He holds his eye for a moment long, depth meets depth, and they echo each other. “You’re with me now.”
The corners of his mouth twitch upwards as he considers the boy. “Interesting.” She had seemed a thing left black-and-blue. Ruptured, just under that delicate skin, by someone with crueler hands than even he. Crueler, because he had left love around her bruises, yellow and sore, ever expanding as arterial blood continues its outpour.
He supposes mad minds are prone to project ‒ to reach out into the world and look for lost things, leaving breadcrumbs behind, in case they never come back.
(Bruise. A hurt.)
(Pollock. A nonsense.
—an artist, in that distant world, under those other constellations.)
(Nameless things. At least one other – indigo-haired and golden-bodied.
And Bruise.)
It is more interesting, still, when he realizes it must be the makings of his own young mind. How very dark. He’d get a chuckle out of the full story. Maybe will, one day.
He might even be proud.
“Yes,” his mouth forms it’s straight, stern line again and he straightens up, jaw flexing as his teeth clench together. “Yes, well, I grew tired of waiting, too.” A seed from this very apple, indeed. Patience had never been his forte. It may have even been his downfall, just as it may have been Bruise’s; because the wilds could have gotten them both, wood-beasts and mountain-ghouls. Such tender and soft-boned morsels, easy pickings. Undefended and largely defenseless.
(Except Bruise had his Fear and Pollock, his invisibility. He’d have to take the boy back up that Mountain one day, where his mother may still be, black-and blue, and show him how high the stakes truly are.)
Men like them build.
They build until they are great, and then like iron-clawed titans, they tear each other down, just to be the greatest.
He speaks of mother and… no. With anyone else, that would be a no-no. But he gives the boy a warning eye (very paternal) and exhales slowly through his nose. She is a distant thing he is meant to forget. She is buried below a hundred leagues of sand and bone. “My mother called me Pollock.” He lowers his head again, down to the upturned chin and bold eyes, “never ask me about that bitch again, Bruise.
Fuck our mothers.” He holds his eye for a moment long, depth meets depth, and they echo each other. “You’re with me now.”
(so paternal. much dadliness. wow. sorrythistooksolong. forgive me, @[Laura]. whenever you want, we can always skip timeline other to post-pangea, since this would be before carnage met with everyone. doesn't matter to me!)
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)