Wild Roses fic prompt 004 "Insides"
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael
Prompt: 004 "Insides"
Word Count: 210
Rating: PG
Notes: follows this.
He could half-remember what this feeling had been like once, years ago. Like running his hand across the strings that held the universe together, touch setting off tiny ripples and patterns of note and silence, deep drones of living stone and lighter glissandos of air moving past, the rhythm of breathing and of footsteps tying one to, tying one within the greater space around.
He'd never have guessed that from what he interacted with now, the feel of steely strings beneath his mental fingers catching at his skin, filed to burrs and tearing his hands to bleeding, useless, invisible ruin.
His head ached, whenever he leaned a little too hard, wished light from a dark room or a rucksack lighter on an uphill trail. It set him apart, near-alone, in a family filled with finger-snapped sparks and a tendency to regard realities as rooms. Filled his life with fragmentary glimpses of too-blue eyes looking back at him from half-seen mirrors, made him walk with feet deliberately out-of-step with the music he heard sometimes to save the headache it accompanied.
Enough, he thought, deliberate, and pushed. Pressed his unmoving hands to invisible strings and ran them up, rang the steel out, rang them back to their source and their home.
Prompt: 004 "Insides"
Word Count: 210
Rating: PG
Notes: follows this.
He could half-remember what this feeling had been like once, years ago. Like running his hand across the strings that held the universe together, touch setting off tiny ripples and patterns of note and silence, deep drones of living stone and lighter glissandos of air moving past, the rhythm of breathing and of footsteps tying one to, tying one within the greater space around.
He'd never have guessed that from what he interacted with now, the feel of steely strings beneath his mental fingers catching at his skin, filed to burrs and tearing his hands to bleeding, useless, invisible ruin.
His head ached, whenever he leaned a little too hard, wished light from a dark room or a rucksack lighter on an uphill trail. It set him apart, near-alone, in a family filled with finger-snapped sparks and a tendency to regard realities as rooms. Filled his life with fragmentary glimpses of too-blue eyes looking back at him from half-seen mirrors, made him walk with feet deliberately out-of-step with the music he heard sometimes to save the headache it accompanied.
Enough, he thought, deliberate, and pushed. Pressed his unmoving hands to invisible strings and ran them up, rang the steel out, rang them back to their source and their home.