enchairr

[enchairr]

starters  /  prompts taken from various characters starring in the game   fire emblem : three houses .  feel free to change pronouns  /  tenses as necessary .

“  feel free to say hi whenever you like  ”

“  don’t hold back for my sake  ”

“  you think I’m so clumsy that I need someone to watch over me ?  ”

“  you act like you’re full of regret  ,  but I know you don’t really mean it  ”

“  you actually look more handsome to me with honesty on your face  ”

“  don’t be ashamed of crying  ”

“  could you keep quiet for a bit ?  ”

“  you’re actually kind of amazing  ”

“  do you mean to imply you have no intention of acting a bit more respectably ?  ”

“  stop acting so nonchalant about getting hurt or killed  ”

“  naive and uptight is no way to live your life  ”

“  you’d better watch that temper  ”

“  i am absolutely disinterested in spending any time with you  ”

“  your lack of self-awareness is deeply troubling  ”

“  I’ll just be straightforward about taking advantage of you  ”

“  when will you tire of challenging me in pointless competitions ?  ”

“  you expect me to believe that ?  ”

“  i’ve had enough of your foolish antics  ”

“  i wish you would not sneak up on me like that  ”

“  before you reprimand me  ,  take a moment to consider your own failings  ”

“  it is like hearing a snake sing an aria  ”

“  am I hearing a deathbed confession ?  ”

“  i never have any idea what you’re talking about  ”

“  don’t walk away when i’m talking to you  ”

“  you’ll be the death of me for sure  ”

“  i do not intend to die  ”

“  i can’t believe you put yourself at risk for my benefit  ”

“  i don’t think i’ve ever seen you smile  ”

“  i do not desire your gratitude  ”

“  you’re surprisingly strong for how slender you appear  ”

“  perhaps i was flustered needlessly  ”

“  i had forgotten how charmingly ethereal you can be  ”

“  you’re going a little overboard  ”

“  you have shaken me to my very core  ”

“  so this is what death is like  ”

“  if you get sick of me  ,  i’m sorry ahead of time  ”

“  i’m embarrassed just thinking about it  ”

“  you’re like a little brother to me  ”

“  spending the rest of my life with you doesn’t sound so bad  ”

“  if our roles were reversed  ,  I don’t think I’d be able to forgive you  ”

“  you actually hate me  ,  right ?  ”

“  you haven’t stabbed me yet  ”

“  i want to be more like you  ”

“  i actually envy the size of your heart  ”

“  i don’t think you can solve all your problems by throwing a few punches  ”

“  there aren’t a lot of people like you in the world  ”

“  sorry I’ve been so oblivious to your needs  ”

“  sometimes you just can’t afford to wait around for someone else to notice ”

“  yesterday’s enemy is today’s ally  ”

“  you have to abandon old feuds  ”

“  learn to protect yourself before trying to protect me  ”

“  i always trust that you’ve got my back  ”

“  if only people could be more like flowers  ”

“  if you promise not to resort to violence  ,  I’ll do whatever you want  ”

“  i can’t stand the sight of me either  ”

“  i would be even more impressed if you hadn’t been screaming the whole time  ”

“  i did what was necessary to get you to comply  ”

“  you have so much power in you  ,  just waiting to be unleashed  ”

“  i’m hopelessly terrified of you  ”

[enchairr]

DETACHMENT WOULD be fine, is fine when he catches a glimpse of it in the other's eyes; it's exactly what he has been looking for - the uncaring comfort of a fling that won't treat him like he will blow up in a million glass smithereens if he stays a moment longer under pressure. Everyone means well - he knows, because what else would they want if not him feeling better - but it has become suffocating to be looked at like he is fragile. Nathaniel's reaction comes as fresh water, and he almost has to suppress a sigh of relief.

(What bothers you, as if it was a thorny situation at work or a temporary financial issue. He finds himself holding back laughter, and he hasn't even said a word about it all yet. Really goes to show how he's holding on by a single, worn-out thread these days.)

"Tea's good. Thank you." He puts the cigarette out in his metal tin, watching smoke rise one last time before dying, dissolving into thin air but leaving a faint trace of its piercing smell behind. He suddenly feels like he hasn't slept in days, if not weeks - and isn't it funny, when he doesn't really need to sleep. He wonders if exhaustion runs so deep that it carved a path next to his veins.

"I promise I'll make it up t' you for th', uh, interruption," he offers with a weak smile. Whether it's tumbling back onto the bed or grabbing a drink out. Probably the former. Who would've thought sex was that effective when it came to turning his brain off entirely.

“I KNOW a thing or two ‘bout pets myself, yeah. Better leave ‘em t’ their own devices sometimes.” Except that his pet would hate being addressed as such, and he can only be glad she is in no range to hear him and give him the most shrilling of earfuls when he is out of this house. Better this way. He’d rather keep his good mood going as long as he can - a luxury he can barely afford these days, and he will jump on every chance he has to turn his mind off just a little, just a moment longer. Can he be blamed for it.

Still he finds unbelievably hard to keep a straight face after the following statement, what with the way it resonates within him, a bell striking his already malfunctioning heart and making it ache as if squeezed by icy dead fingers. He never minded loneliness, even if he has always been a creature of companionship first and foremost, but with all that happened that’s a feeling he now barely welcomes - one more reason why he has sought Nathaniel’s company more than he usually would with any other fling. It creeps up on him on midnight roads where it’s just him and the streetlights and in the middle of warm sweating crowds all the same, just in different flavors.

(Once he read how people who underwent an amputation will always feel their missing limb, present but constantly out of reach, close but not close enough to be real anymore. He gets the feeling now. His hand keeps trying to close around another’s that won’t squeeze his fingers back anymore.)

“Guess so,” is the only response he manages to push past his lips, and even then he is not entirely sure how, when he feels like he is choking on his closed throat. “Not much difference between 'em.” (He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to think about it, relive it, but he is so tired-)

[enchairr]

been sad and thinking about my favorite queer punk later. gib him love

[enchairr]

does that mean etienne wants to do more religious and/or priest roleplay

the fact that the answer is yes is worse than the question itself

[enchairr]

When I say I have a priest kink I mean I want to be so sexy I turn a man away from god

[enchairr]

good shit

[enchairr]

i hate it when people ask me “what’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?” like. awfully bold of you to assume i’ve reached peak dumbass.

[enchairr]

i love that mayhem is a legal term. like u can be charged with mayhem. its like arresting someone for funny business

[enchairr]

"I KNOW a thing or two 'bout pets myself, yeah. Better leave 'em t' their own devices sometimes." Except that his pet would hate being addressed as such, and he can only be glad she is in no range to hear him and give him the most shrilling of earfuls when he is out of this house. Better this way. He'd rather keep his good mood going as long as he can - a luxury he can barely afford these days, and he will jump on every chance he has to turn his mind off just a little, just a moment longer. Can he be blamed for it.

Still he finds unbelievably hard to keep a straight face after the following statement, what with the way it resonates within him, a bell striking his already malfunctioning heart and making it ache as if squeezed by icy dead fingers. He never minded loneliness, even if he has always been a creature of companionship first and foremost, but with all that happened that's a feeling he now barely welcomes - one more reason why he has sought Nathaniel's company more than he usually would with any other fling. It creeps up on him on midnight roads where it's just him and the streetlights and in the middle of warm sweating crowds all the same, just in different flavors.

(Once he read how people who underwent an amputation will always feel their missing limb, present but constantly out of reach, close but not close enough to be real anymore. He gets the feeling now. His hand keeps trying to close around another's that won't squeeze his fingers back anymore.)

"Guess so," is the only response he manages to push past his lips, and even then he is not entirely sure how, when he feels like he is choking on his closed throat. "Not much difference between 'em." (He doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to think about it, relive it, but he is so tired-)

SY.

    FOR ONCE, his laugh feels genuine - at least more than usual. “That all?” he teases, fully knowing it’s not. “Y’could have asked me. I got plenty a’ those.” He wouldn’t go and show the most suspicious photos to someone who is, in some regards, still a perfect stranger, but the others, he sure can. Who hasn’t gone to a party whose theme was one of the past decades anyway. Add some good costumes and makeup and photo editing and oop, a perfect fake photo. An act he’s used to, so no worries about that.

     He notices how the other stares at his cigarette, and he makes an offering motion in his general direction. “All alone in this big house?” The surprise is genuine. The only place he ever saw resembling this one is Etienne’s own house, and even then it feels more fitting for him rather than for a guy around his (apparent) age. Weird, but not suspicious. Family heirlooms can take all shapes and forms.

     His gaze lingers around on the furniture and the carpet and the curtains. A sun ray sneaks under his half-unbuttoned shirt and wraps around the grotesque outline of his heart. “Doesn’t it get… lonely after a while?”

     "Nᴏᴛ ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴛᴇ alone. The cat should be around here somewhere. She doesn’t typically show herself to strangers, though.“ Not as obvious as a mortal cat: her white fur only leaves the occasional hair, not shedding all over the furniture as one would expect. There are some toys shattered, but as with most pets, those have often made their way underneath something where neither cat nor owner could reach, and her beds and towers are mostly fit into the decor subtly enough to be mistaken for decorations at first glance. There’s just the one in the study that really speaks out: perhaps because that’s because they both spend most of their time in there. Of course he’s aware of how much like a cliché he sounds: I’m not lonely, I have my cat. But he can’t quite mention the husband far away at sea without spoiling the moment.

     He’s really just enjoying his little snack for now. Not much to ask for, is it?

     Finally, he does reach out for that cigarette: knowing full well it won’t quite scratch an itch. Modern ones are so soft. Still deadly, of course, but without most of the kick that makes it worse. Besides the fact that it was considered quite the opposite: and in fairness, given how London air had been during a good chunk of his younger years, a cigarette made no difference at all. It lights up easily enough, and as expected: it doesn’t do much good to take a drag. Not in comparison to things dearly missed. Could still get them, of course: but it wouldn’t be the same, and most of those things too have weakened over the years.

     Disappointing.

     "Besides, makes no difference whether it’s a big or a small space in terms of getting lonely, in my experience. Just different flavors.”

[enchairr]

#usually it's all 'sy is my baby uwu' until etienne crawls out of his sleep and i know i am fucked

you guys will never guess who got out of dormancy

ah yes, my multimuse blog [constantly writes just one queer bitch]

[enchairr]

I MISS A LOVE I NEVER HAD; ON LONGING

unknown // haruki murakami // unknown // lucille clifton // emily palermo // mahmoud darwish // frank o’hara.

[enchairr]

"BABE, Y'KNOW you're th' prettiest boy in my book, but I have yet t' see a cop admittin' they would have a thin' for th' same sex." As if that was the main issue here at all. He raises his hands in an admission of guilt, chuckling under his breath. "My bad. Pinky promise."

Not that he thinks Miles could be capable of such a thing for anything that's not potentially work-/ethics-related. If that was even a remote possibility, the chances of both of them sharing the same space like this, closeness suffocating in the way your favorite blanket is in winter, would be extra slim. Potentially closer to zero.

"Will a kiss make it up for it?"

"Nᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ t'get all th' inside scoop t' bring 'em down."

His face is the very mask of distaste, and for good reason. It's not even a thing he has to imagine, unfortunately. Tried it once, and it was one of very few times he abandoned the thing he was working on. Well, not fully, of course: bringing down high-ish ranking members of the police force was always a cause he could bring himself to supporting fully. No, but at least the angle was utter shit. No matter the outcome, he went out on one half assed 'date' with a cop (nothing even like that: bitch was too insecure to be seen with a boy in public, not because of his image, but because what if people thought he was gay, nevermind the fact he'd been all but begging for things he never got) before he threw his whole drink on him and had to force himself not to throw the lighter on top.

"Don't ever insult me like that again."

[enchairr]

"NAH. WELL, I can, but actually seein' you like that here in front of me? Impossible. I'd think you hit yer head or somethin'." The cigarette dies just after his last drag, and he puts out on his trousers with a casual gesture, looking only partially interested at the dark circle standing out against the fabric covering his knee. It will sting, but only for a little bit. A neat little trick to impress younger kids, an admission of his true nature when he is here. Sure, the glass that also works as makeshift ashtray is just a grab away, but where would the fun in that be?

(He wouldn't know how that would work, either. It already happened once, although with a different intent, and he concluded that none of the parties involved were happy with it. Sy wouldn't consider himself a parasite - unlike some of his siblings, who ate their way into a lived-in body to be born - but the universe doesn't care about details like such. Two hosts can rarely work inside the same body, especially when of a similar nature.)

(But he wouldn't mind the haunting.)

"Just lemme know if you plan on startin' lickin' it up t' cops. I got some standards."

Lᴀᴢʏ, ʟᴀᴢʏ — the way this evening stretches, as if they have all the time in the world, and mirroring in the way some of the swarm settles, nestles, on his skin and around his neck like the world's most unique scarf, in his bones and his lungs, knitting away at the damage inside as he does it, settling on their skin as well, curious, always curious, as if They don't know him as well as he does.

It's weird, in a way. He knows it doesn't mean to harm, but such is the nature of it. A flame has to consume it's kindling, even if it kills it itself — unless it finds another way to burn. Not for the first time, he wonders. Wonders if he could convince Them to pour a little portion of Themselves into him, not enough to try and overtake (he wouldn't know how that might even end), just enough to stay. He can hear the previous ones, all. An echo, not the actual person, but it might be something. Maybe.

Or it would be worse. Or it would simply die, separate from the swarm for too long.

"Could y'even imagine, me? Like that?"

[enchairr]

ah yes, my multimuse blog [constantly writes just one queer bitch]

[enchairr]

"REALLY? FUCK, I must've missed that." Whether he is referring to one or both statements, it will stay a mystery. He does, however, scoot a little closer, arm brushing against arm, chasing after a sliver of warmth that will potentially not be there. Touching, though - that's always nice. This body is temporary, this body is more prison than freedom, but it has a memory and he will fight tooth and nail to keep it pristine and intact. Miles' leather jacket pressing against his skin. The softness of his hair when Sy pushes a lock away from his forehead. The longing etching on his fingertips forever, and ever, and ever.

(It must just be the way gods love. All-compassingly, tremendously, consuming their own insides with a feeling that will always be too big for words or gestures or human eyes. A single drop of it enough to come crashing down like unforgiving gravity.)

"Lucky you, that's just my favorite kind. No law-abidin' citizens allowed in my proximity." (Except his brother. Sometimes. Well, all the time. Again, exception.)

"Dᴜɴɴᴏ ɪғ you noticed, but even death itself couldn't."

Which sounds like a metal song. Is, probably, a metal song. He wouldn't know: it's not really his genre. Most music just makes it harder for him to concentrate, too much input at once, and such isn't it an irony he's taking and kissing and living and fucking and loving and discussing the very embodiment of it all. Maybe that's partly, why. He didn't have any pre-existing idea of what that would look like. Didn't fall in love with an idea and then be disappointed by the person.

It's a nice thought. It's not one he'll mention out loud, but he might write it down. He does, a lot. Always had, of course, journals filled with research and thought, and the backs of polaroid style pictures filled with ink that flows into each other. More, now. Or rather, more personal. There's a whole life to be hold down in picture frames and clips and written out thoughts.

"'m jus' that much o' a menace t' society."

[enchairr]

CHIN RESTING on the palm of his hand, lips half hidden behind fingers and poorly painted nails, he soaks it all up like a sponge, not much able to hide his smile completely. He understands it all - the obsession, the passion, the fire burning with all-consuming force, uncaring of the obstacle on its paths. It resonates with his very core, even if responding to a different tune than his, but the concept stays the same. Just dressed up a little differently.

"Ain't that how it always is as a teenager, though." He can't really tell - he has never been there, knows the dream only because he has lived through others, and it's nice to look for confirmation, admit ignorance without having to wrap it up in a more presentable, human package. It's liberating for sure.

(He will miss this. He will always miss this, and he doesn't know how much yet.)

"And not like any of it was able t' stop you."

"Tʜ' ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ allure o' not keepin' a schedule. 'course, that means instead o' your steady ol' nine t' five havin' nineteen hour workdays an' kinda fallin' down whenever you spend too long idle in front o' a screen — also have t' suck up to a whole other league o' people — honestly, job sounded a lot more romantic when I was a stupid teenager."

He couldn't really place it into words. The urge to make the world a better place, sure. That's easily understood, even if he's a bit of the opposite: dirty tricks and a shit personality where most things count, a moral code that's neither here nor there. Then there's obsession: something he doesn't fear to admit to Sy, not really, but it's nothing he can grasp that well and put into a neat little package of letters and words, punctuation at the end. The want to run, to not be stuck in things outside of his control (that worked out flawlessly), to actually mean something.

Well, at least he exceeds in escaping normality.

[enchairr]

"UUUH, TEMPTING. Would be my first time on th' front page a' somethin', y'know." Hardly flattering, but if had he ever been looking for anything of that sort he wouldn't have spent decades cleaning after his traces as much as possible. Sure, some dust was always bound to slip through the cracks, but it could've been much worse. Still, the thought of a blurry cryptid-style photo of him on some dingy website makes him grin.

"Not hard t' imagine. Yer whole profession sounds like hard business, not gonna lie." Or what little is left of it by now, but he will be caught dead - ah. dead. - before saying that out loud. None of them, one in specific, needs one more reminder of how fast decline will come, how time it's left before the end of late night smokes and nicotine-stained kisses.

"I don't think you ever said what got y'into it."

"Wʀᴏɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ writer for that."

He's hardly surprised: neither about the immediate reply, nor about the lack of information about it. He won't look into it; not because he's not curious (whenever is he not, it's his nature, the very thing that got him into an early grave, metaphorically, unless he seriously blackened out for longer than he thought), but because he respects the other one too much. A rare thing, that.

"I don't really do th' thin' with muses an' stuff. If y'wanna be plastered all over th' front page o' some C-Level website at best, I know some people, though. 'm sure some o' 'em would be most delighted on any type o'scoop. Shit like that's hard business, even more without a publisher deal."