Disco Madness!
And, of course, it being my current fannish obsession, I had to write at least a little something for Disco Elysium for Yuletide, so here's a little Yuletide Madness thing I did as a treat.
Title: The Cracks Are Where the Air Comes Through
Fandom: Disco Elysium
Characters/Pairings: I am, more seriously than not, calling this one Harry/Kim/Revachol
Summary: They are hers.
Rating/Warnings: Rated G. No warnings.
Length: ~500 words
Author's Note: A small Yuletide Madness treat for Delgaserasca, who had some great Disco Elysium requests. I'm also using this for a Gen Prompt Bingo card, for the prompts "Deities and Followers." A genius loci is close enough to a deity, right?
The Cracks Are Where the Air Comes Through
This one is hers.
All of them are hers, of course, because she is all of theirs. She is made from them. From their movements and their choices, their tearing down and their building up, their stability and their change. She is in their lungs with every breath, she escapes from their lips with every word. They create her and she creates them, and she loves them all, even those that injure her the most.
But this one is special. This one listens when she speaks. When she touches him, he shivers, the hairs on his neck rising to meet her, his skin quivering under her caress. He does not pull away from her, even when the wind that carries her to him is foul with the scent of rot and the news she has to whisper to him is sad. Even when he fears to know himself, he has never shrunk from knowing her.
He has made a hole for her here in his room. It's left him cold and vulnerable. She brings the sound of an engine through it, and with it raises him back into life, into wakefulness, into her.
The other one has come.
He, too, is hers. He does not hear her voice. His skin does not answer to her touch. His vision of her is blurred and imperfect. But he speaks to her, sometimes, when there is no one but her to listen. He stands on a balcony at night, and breathes her into his lungs on a path of smoke, and tells her, sometimes in so many words, that he loves her, for all her faults. He cannot interpret the reply she gives him, the swirl of air that brushes his cheek or, for an instant, brightens the glow of his cigarette. But he has faith in her anyway. He loves her without belief in the possibility of reciprocation, without the expectation of reward.
Soon, they will be close enough for one breeze to caress them both. She will do what she can for them then, her beloveds. And one day, they will return the favor. She is certain of it. The knowledge circulates endlessly through her streets, carried to her on the cold, stale winds that blow ceaselessly from the Pale.
One day, they will save her.
And perhaps, some day before that, another miracle will happen. Perhaps they will reach for each other, as she reaches now for them. Perhaps their breaths will mingle, and she will be there to join them as they kiss. Perhaps the taste of her will linger on their mouths and they will know that she is with them even when the wind is still, just as they are with each other.
It may or may not come to pass. The Pale has whispered nothing to her of this. But it is no matter.
Revachol, as she has always done, will live in hope.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1021112.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.
Title: The Cracks Are Where the Air Comes Through
Fandom: Disco Elysium
Characters/Pairings: I am, more seriously than not, calling this one Harry/Kim/Revachol
Summary: They are hers.
Rating/Warnings: Rated G. No warnings.
Length: ~500 words
Author's Note: A small Yuletide Madness treat for Delgaserasca, who had some great Disco Elysium requests. I'm also using this for a Gen Prompt Bingo card, for the prompts "Deities and Followers." A genius loci is close enough to a deity, right?
The Cracks Are Where the Air Comes Through
This one is hers.
All of them are hers, of course, because she is all of theirs. She is made from them. From their movements and their choices, their tearing down and their building up, their stability and their change. She is in their lungs with every breath, she escapes from their lips with every word. They create her and she creates them, and she loves them all, even those that injure her the most.
But this one is special. This one listens when she speaks. When she touches him, he shivers, the hairs on his neck rising to meet her, his skin quivering under her caress. He does not pull away from her, even when the wind that carries her to him is foul with the scent of rot and the news she has to whisper to him is sad. Even when he fears to know himself, he has never shrunk from knowing her.
He has made a hole for her here in his room. It's left him cold and vulnerable. She brings the sound of an engine through it, and with it raises him back into life, into wakefulness, into her.
The other one has come.
He, too, is hers. He does not hear her voice. His skin does not answer to her touch. His vision of her is blurred and imperfect. But he speaks to her, sometimes, when there is no one but her to listen. He stands on a balcony at night, and breathes her into his lungs on a path of smoke, and tells her, sometimes in so many words, that he loves her, for all her faults. He cannot interpret the reply she gives him, the swirl of air that brushes his cheek or, for an instant, brightens the glow of his cigarette. But he has faith in her anyway. He loves her without belief in the possibility of reciprocation, without the expectation of reward.
Soon, they will be close enough for one breeze to caress them both. She will do what she can for them then, her beloveds. And one day, they will return the favor. She is certain of it. The knowledge circulates endlessly through her streets, carried to her on the cold, stale winds that blow ceaselessly from the Pale.
One day, they will save her.
And perhaps, some day before that, another miracle will happen. Perhaps they will reach for each other, as she reaches now for them. Perhaps their breaths will mingle, and she will be there to join them as they kiss. Perhaps the taste of her will linger on their mouths and they will know that she is with them even when the wind is still, just as they are with each other.
It may or may not come to pass. The Pale has whispered nothing to her of this. But it is no matter.
Revachol, as she has always done, will live in hope.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1021112.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.