#also!! rime sent me a snippet which is the whole reason i managed to write this much smh - the way they write is gorgeous

[tinta--writes]

Of Hands and Holding

My worst title yet, lads.

Ok, I nicked @echoise‘s Keith for some angst + soft Steelstep. It’s a little abstract in parts but hopefully still coherent jsdchjfhv

Be warned!! There are a ton of Catholic-style (I think) mentions of God in this one - not for any specific reason, I just tend towards religious imagery when I write because it’s Like That sometimes.

And also I should mention there’s some talk of nerve damage too, in case that isn’t your cup of tea :O

m!Sidestep, ~1,125 words

You’re scripted - child, you’re scripted. Every little piece of you is prose, iambic pentameter; no mistakes. Because God doesn’t make mistakes. Because God decanted, built, and trained you. Because none of God’s children are mistakes, and you’re his son. They can read you, but only in the bumbling way a fourteen year old warbles through Shakespeare - wherefore means why, doesn’t it?

What do you call someone that defiles God’s work, then? Someone who takes the nerves He crafted and tears them apart, frays them beneath the skin, cuts them off from the spine? You want to vomit, and your hands shake with an intensity beyond normality - but you can’t feel it. Oh God, you can’t feel a damned thing you can’t-

“Keith?” you can hear him. Wei. He takes your hands and you hate that anything beyond your palms is black, black, black space. There’s claustrophobia in the darkness, coupled with the fear of an empty void because you end at your wrists, but you also end at your fingertips. “Keith?” again, and you flex - messy, messy movement - and he tries once more, “Is everything alright?”

“Does this look alright?” why are you irritated? What did he do? “Tell me what you see.” Wei doesn’t fall - too smart, too old - but he bites. “I see you, Keith. What is that to you?” “Right now? My shitty hands.” “Were you trying to do something?” because that was when the feeling enjoyed cropping up - in those small focussed spaces that broke only when a tremor dislodged your hand. There’s a pain in being able to see wires, understand and weave them flawlessly - read the code your weapons and suit operate on - but being powerless to actually do anything with them.

“Don’t need to be trying to fail, Wei.” “Do you need my help with anything?” dependency… you’d been taught to hate it by life, by the Farm, by God. And here he was, offering you poison on a plate. In a vial, asking you to take a sip - gulp - draught. But you’re smarter now. “No - I’m fine.” are you? “Just tired.” you don’t have to lie anymore, yet here you are. “Would you like to rest?” you should. And it pisses you off - why should I? You’re not my mother. You’re not the Farm. You’re not God. Shouldn’t we be equals in this, whatever it is?

“Rest won’t fix permanent nerve damage, Wei.” but he knows this, you just want to make him feel bad. “It may make you less tired, though.” and how dare he be right. “I’m always tired. It doesn’t make a difference.” “What’s actually wrong?” he’s still holding your hands, and you shake him off, the elbow is your pivot. Your mouth stays sealed. ‘Keith-“ “Stop it.” “Why are you being so-“ “Oh, is this a bit much for you?” “Listen,” he reaches for your hands again, but you snatch them away. “I understand,” he pleads with you, and you look down at his poisonous, synthetic hands. “No you fucking don’t!” anger, always anger. Defence. “At least-“ you shudder, “At least you have working hands!” I don’t have shit.

And in anger, you find accidents. Your teeth are a vice but your tongue already drips with venom. Wei’s mind - you can feel it go cold. Still. You’re not brave enough to call it blank, but you recognise his quiet hurt - those walls you could push through, but promised long ago you wouldn’t demolish. So you stand outside. You do not bang on the door, nor do you wail. The portcullis stays lowered and you can only stare.

“I’m sorry,” it’s scripted, you’re scripted. He isn’t there but you’re an actor. “That was uncalled for.“ but there’s no emotion on your face.

———————————————————————————————————

You’re scripted - child, you’re scripted. Every little piece of you is binary, little slashes and ellipses all crammed together to make a person. Because God made mistakes - he made you, decanted you - and gave you nary a broom with which to clean up His mess. Your mess.

You can’t read him - you’d promised not to - but the gelid fortress of his mind is palpable to you even from outside. From across the moat. You can’t stand on the other side only to gaze numbly at the crenellations - up, down, up, down - and not attempt to cross over. Over the water. Over the ice. Over the steel.

So you knock, and when he says nothing, you manage a small, “Wei?” And still, no noise, only that same frigid wall. So you punch the gates. “Can I come in?” And you heave at the foot of the portcullis. “I want to talk to you.” and you scream down into the moat. “It’s okay if you’re not ready yet.”

Finally, “It’s open.” and you trust in that. The door opens, the wall crumbles just a smidgen, and someone, somewhere in the ice, flicks on a lighter. You step inside, and he is sitting on the bed - your bed, for both of you - and you join him. Reach for his hands, and unfairly, he doesn’t move them away. Lets them be held. You feel worse, but the anger is gone, dissipated only until it is needed again. Until it solidifies like a rock in your chest once more.

“I’m sorry,” he looks up at you with tired eyes but lets you continue. “I said what I did to hurt you, not because I meant it.” “You meant to hurt me.” You don’t sigh, “Yes.” “Why?” “I was angry.” he stares. “Because you said you understood, and you were right. Maybe not the same exact type of understanding, but enough. And I hated that.” candid - the script is fraying in your hands and you can’t feel it as it falls away. “But that’s just an explanation,” time makes this dance easier. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for dismissing your genuine,” because it was, “Offer to help me.”

Something softens in Wei’s eyes, and the smile he offers you is small and almost proud. You force yourself to keep looking. He doesn’t thank you, but he does move his hands out of yours, up to your forearms, and squeezes gently. It isn’t scripted, nobody is telling him to love you. Nor to hold you, nor to offer that he help you build hands like his for yourself. A new life, he says; one in which you don’t have to hide anymore. A new life in which  you're not God’s mistake, not his partner nor anything else. Just Keith. Your own life, for you. You bring him into a hug.