(no subject)
Part 2.
Title: Panflute
Author: Me, The_Ameneko, obviously.
Length: 1k (5.7k total)
Warnings: See part 1.
Summary: See part 1.
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
.II.
Dreams of chocolate and raspberries and cream and cloves haunt him like dreams of bread crusts and clean water used to. Alone and cold again after too large a taste of love and warmth, he can't remember how he had borne it. It is no use pretending that he cares about the risk and fear and guilt and shame, though he tries anyway. Here is the shame and regret he had failed to brace himself for; shame for the knowledge that he won't admit to that he accepted the job for itself nearly as much as for the pay, and that he gave himself so wholly when he wasn't wanted. He sleeps all he can, and it helps to dull these feelings.
When he can't sleep, which is all too often, he fingers the bracelet he found on his wrist when he woke up outside, umbrella propped over his head. An uneven design is etched into the bracelet. He comes to know it intimately, to be able to feel it on his fingers at any moment, and yet cannot discern what it is.
Half asleep on a day hot as death, the air so wet he swears one could drown just breathing, he dreams that a pair of muscular arms lift his ragged body and carry him to a cold bath that smells of cloves, but when he wakes, he is instead behind a bread shop, and somebody has thrown a bucket of cold water on him. Stale (now wet) bread crusts can be felt wherever he reaches, smelling of every spice he knows and many he doesn't. It feels as though it had been real, had been taken away again, and he hardens himself against the waves of despair and crawls away from the shop, a ratty kitten worth no more than the crusts he sleeps among.
He remains by the side of the shop for hours, playing his panflute and hearing a little money fall into his umbrella. He earns less, begging with melancholy songs, but he doesn't wish to play anything else. As he considers playing The Tragedy of the Sparrow and the Reed, anger covering his renewed and stupid desire to cry, a police woman grabs him by the shoulder.
“Shopkeep says you been hangin' round all day. Plannin' on stealin' what rightfully his, eh? I ain't plannin' on 'lowing that. Come on.” She tugs, ignoring his protests, denials, jerking him to his feet to trip over his umbrella, scattering his hard-earned coin. “Please, slow down!” he begs as she drags him. “I'm blind!”
“Shut up,” she snaps at him, and then she stops, grabbing hold of his wrist instead. “You steal this too, eh?” she turns the bracelet, tries to pull it off him and, when she fails, pulls him by it instead. “Damn fool kid, steal a bracelet with the address on. I'll drop you myself when comes time; stole from the palace apartments, damn! Be dropped for sure.”
He shudders, tripping at the same time. He would protest, but she wouldn't believe him. He prays that the man will be home, will take him in for at least the moment instead of leaving him to fall. He has heard people be dropped to their deaths many times before, their ears chopped off by giant scissors he had once been forced to touch, their bodies then pushed off the edge of any available bridge of the treetop city, their screams quickly vanishing as they fell the hundred feet to the ground.
He bites her hand and gets steel in his mouth.
He doesn't want to die like that.
They climb a set of three stairs, him falling on his face when she doesn't warn him. The doorbell rings. His forehead hurts, but he ignores it, praying that the man is as kind and gentle as he seemed, though doubting it. He fights until she jerks his arm almost out of its socket.
Telani answers, his slightly burned scent almost overwhelming that of the man standing close behind him.
He is terrified again. This time, it is because his life is in this man's hands, and the man doesn't know.
“Is this yours?” the policewoman asks, relentlessly jerking him forward to brandish his wrist high in the air. It hurts, but then a big, warm hand that makes his heart unwillingly race takes his, leading him gently away from the policewoman, running into obstacle at her vice grip. “Yes, ma'am, he is mine,” he says. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
“No, no, the bracelet-you know that nobody gets away with theft. Is it yours?”
“Yes. I put them on all my servants; see? It has his name, not mine. This one has a problem with sleepwalking and, as you'll notice, is blind. He couldn't find his way back. May I have my servant back, please, or should I accuse you of stealing?”
“But... it's gold...”
His voice is hard, unyielding, and she immediately releases him when he says, “I'm a rich man, ma'am.”
The man guides him back just far enough to close the door, then scoops him up in an embrace that confuses him to the utmost, showering him in a rain of kisses that make him dizzy as a fever. He doesn't understand. He doesn't want the hope that he can't seem to quash.
And then the man shoves him away and yells, “Why did you run away? I told you I would care for you; I was worried sick! Why? What happened?”
“I... I didn't...” he stutters, voice high and squeaky, shocked and confused. “I... what?” He sniffles, ashamed the moment he does it, but the weeks of misery and glimpse of happiness have beaten his control into a bloody pulp, cut off its ears, and thrown it off a bridge. And when the man's voice gentles to soft hushing sounds, when he pulls him into another embrace and strokes his hair, it is too much, and he sobs until the man's chest is soaked.
“Don't worry,” the man murmurs, “It won't happen again.”
Title: Panflute
Author: Me, The_Ameneko, obviously.
Length: 1k (5.7k total)
Warnings: See part 1.
Summary: See part 1.
I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
.II.
Dreams of chocolate and raspberries and cream and cloves haunt him like dreams of bread crusts and clean water used to. Alone and cold again after too large a taste of love and warmth, he can't remember how he had borne it. It is no use pretending that he cares about the risk and fear and guilt and shame, though he tries anyway. Here is the shame and regret he had failed to brace himself for; shame for the knowledge that he won't admit to that he accepted the job for itself nearly as much as for the pay, and that he gave himself so wholly when he wasn't wanted. He sleeps all he can, and it helps to dull these feelings.
When he can't sleep, which is all too often, he fingers the bracelet he found on his wrist when he woke up outside, umbrella propped over his head. An uneven design is etched into the bracelet. He comes to know it intimately, to be able to feel it on his fingers at any moment, and yet cannot discern what it is.
Half asleep on a day hot as death, the air so wet he swears one could drown just breathing, he dreams that a pair of muscular arms lift his ragged body and carry him to a cold bath that smells of cloves, but when he wakes, he is instead behind a bread shop, and somebody has thrown a bucket of cold water on him. Stale (now wet) bread crusts can be felt wherever he reaches, smelling of every spice he knows and many he doesn't. It feels as though it had been real, had been taken away again, and he hardens himself against the waves of despair and crawls away from the shop, a ratty kitten worth no more than the crusts he sleeps among.
He remains by the side of the shop for hours, playing his panflute and hearing a little money fall into his umbrella. He earns less, begging with melancholy songs, but he doesn't wish to play anything else. As he considers playing The Tragedy of the Sparrow and the Reed, anger covering his renewed and stupid desire to cry, a police woman grabs him by the shoulder.
“Shopkeep says you been hangin' round all day. Plannin' on stealin' what rightfully his, eh? I ain't plannin' on 'lowing that. Come on.” She tugs, ignoring his protests, denials, jerking him to his feet to trip over his umbrella, scattering his hard-earned coin. “Please, slow down!” he begs as she drags him. “I'm blind!”
“Shut up,” she snaps at him, and then she stops, grabbing hold of his wrist instead. “You steal this too, eh?” she turns the bracelet, tries to pull it off him and, when she fails, pulls him by it instead. “Damn fool kid, steal a bracelet with the address on. I'll drop you myself when comes time; stole from the palace apartments, damn! Be dropped for sure.”
He shudders, tripping at the same time. He would protest, but she wouldn't believe him. He prays that the man will be home, will take him in for at least the moment instead of leaving him to fall. He has heard people be dropped to their deaths many times before, their ears chopped off by giant scissors he had once been forced to touch, their bodies then pushed off the edge of any available bridge of the treetop city, their screams quickly vanishing as they fell the hundred feet to the ground.
He bites her hand and gets steel in his mouth.
He doesn't want to die like that.
They climb a set of three stairs, him falling on his face when she doesn't warn him. The doorbell rings. His forehead hurts, but he ignores it, praying that the man is as kind and gentle as he seemed, though doubting it. He fights until she jerks his arm almost out of its socket.
Telani answers, his slightly burned scent almost overwhelming that of the man standing close behind him.
He is terrified again. This time, it is because his life is in this man's hands, and the man doesn't know.
“Is this yours?” the policewoman asks, relentlessly jerking him forward to brandish his wrist high in the air. It hurts, but then a big, warm hand that makes his heart unwillingly race takes his, leading him gently away from the policewoman, running into obstacle at her vice grip. “Yes, ma'am, he is mine,” he says. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
“No, no, the bracelet-you know that nobody gets away with theft. Is it yours?”
“Yes. I put them on all my servants; see? It has his name, not mine. This one has a problem with sleepwalking and, as you'll notice, is blind. He couldn't find his way back. May I have my servant back, please, or should I accuse you of stealing?”
“But... it's gold...”
His voice is hard, unyielding, and she immediately releases him when he says, “I'm a rich man, ma'am.”
The man guides him back just far enough to close the door, then scoops him up in an embrace that confuses him to the utmost, showering him in a rain of kisses that make him dizzy as a fever. He doesn't understand. He doesn't want the hope that he can't seem to quash.
And then the man shoves him away and yells, “Why did you run away? I told you I would care for you; I was worried sick! Why? What happened?”
“I... I didn't...” he stutters, voice high and squeaky, shocked and confused. “I... what?” He sniffles, ashamed the moment he does it, but the weeks of misery and glimpse of happiness have beaten his control into a bloody pulp, cut off its ears, and thrown it off a bridge. And when the man's voice gentles to soft hushing sounds, when he pulls him into another embrace and strokes his hair, it is too much, and he sobs until the man's chest is soaked.
“Don't worry,” the man murmurs, “It won't happen again.”