ʙᴀɴᴀɢʜᴇʀ ʟɪɴᴋs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
argents) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
savetheearth2013-04-26 08:00 pm
argents) wrote in savetheearth2013-04-26 08:00 pm
[closed] it has enacted laws
WHO: Casval Mass (secondcomingof) & Banagher Links (argents)
WHAT: Post-being-werewolved feelings jam.
WHEN: Backdated to the night of the 20th.
WHERE: Banagher's apartmenthow did you even get this address?!
WHY: Because seeking out your once-upon-a-time mortal enemy while injured is smart.
[ He knows what night it is. By more than just name, or date. Or remembering what plans were coming to what seemed like an impossible fruition. No, somehow, he feels it. A kind of quiet tension that sits on the surface of the air and sparks every so often, causing Banagher to glance out the window. Restlessly, apprehensively. It's the kind of quiet that precedes something terrible, like a wake, but he's trying not to think about that kind of noise, or lack thereof.
Instead he's sinking into the worn trails of routine. Several days worth of coursework thrown about the coffee table, crushed between books and binders, in various states of completion. Just to have something to do other than be aware of the dark and what was sure to erupt out of it after the hunt in the Dead District.
Eventually, his brain tires of the strictly logical and linear, leaving him to stop trying to dig his heels in against the inevitable. Which was thinking about the illogical, allowing those thoughts of memories with shoddy stitching to resurface, embellished with worry for those who were heeding the first calls of an uncertain war. It's painful to be inert like this when there were people he cared for out there choosing to fight, but Banagher couldn't agree to it. Not knowing so little about the current situation, the important bits hastily dog-eared by conversation alone, and feeling so hesitant about the future paths that this would blast open. Picking up a weapon in a state like that...
Just thinking about it makes him sick. The weight of a gun in his hands. Shooting.
Killing.
He'd almost be angry about it if he had the heart, but he doesn't, not as the night drags on and the stars rise high. Maybe he hears the boom of gunfire in the distance, maybe he doesn't. Dozing in a knitted throw older than he was in the living room of his apartment takes precedence for the day ahead—Sunday, lazy Sunday where he doesn't have anything else to do but go meet Colette at her grandmother's tea shop.
Those were the important things, so long as he could remember them. Not the soft buzzing stirring to life in his head, anticipating. ]
secondcomingof) & Banagher Links (argents)WHAT: Post-being-werewolved feelings jam.
WHEN: Backdated to the night of the 20th.
WHERE: Banagher's apartment
WHY: Because seeking out your once-upon-a-time mortal enemy while injured is smart.
[ He knows what night it is. By more than just name, or date. Or remembering what plans were coming to what seemed like an impossible fruition. No, somehow, he feels it. A kind of quiet tension that sits on the surface of the air and sparks every so often, causing Banagher to glance out the window. Restlessly, apprehensively. It's the kind of quiet that precedes something terrible, like a wake, but he's trying not to think about that kind of noise, or lack thereof.
Instead he's sinking into the worn trails of routine. Several days worth of coursework thrown about the coffee table, crushed between books and binders, in various states of completion. Just to have something to do other than be aware of the dark and what was sure to erupt out of it after the hunt in the Dead District.
Eventually, his brain tires of the strictly logical and linear, leaving him to stop trying to dig his heels in against the inevitable. Which was thinking about the illogical, allowing those thoughts of memories with shoddy stitching to resurface, embellished with worry for those who were heeding the first calls of an uncertain war. It's painful to be inert like this when there were people he cared for out there choosing to fight, but Banagher couldn't agree to it. Not knowing so little about the current situation, the important bits hastily dog-eared by conversation alone, and feeling so hesitant about the future paths that this would blast open. Picking up a weapon in a state like that...
Just thinking about it makes him sick. The weight of a gun in his hands. Shooting.
Killing.
He'd almost be angry about it if he had the heart, but he doesn't, not as the night drags on and the stars rise high. Maybe he hears the boom of gunfire in the distance, maybe he doesn't. Dozing in a knitted throw older than he was in the living room of his apartment takes precedence for the day ahead—Sunday, lazy Sunday where he doesn't have anything else to do but go meet Colette at her grandmother's tea shop.
Those were the important things, so long as he could remember them. Not the soft buzzing stirring to life in his head, anticipating. ]
no subject
[ No words are spoken aloud beyond those and yet somehow he knows what Casval's withholding, beyond the shadow of a doubt, and beyond even vague concepts like intuition. Banagher senses skepticism, but also something else—even so, the brink that keeps such a lack of faith at bay, and he latches onto that, seizes it desperately and doesn't let it go because without that, this would be impossible.
So for a moment, he forgets that impossibility exists.
Brows pinching, he shuts his eyes. He concentrates on that canvas, the imprints of light leaving it not quite blank. Not to parse one emotion from another, relief from doubt, or to gather the things he knows are there to present them as logic might dictate. Instead, Banagher simply lets go.
The edge of his awareness drifts, and he pushes past the natural instinct of the mind to isolate itself as a measure of protection. To prove it, to prove that good things still existed, like sunlight bouncing off yellow flowers on the windowsill, piano chords glinting in the air like silver. Like a lullaby, or a serenade, and the lack of pretense that accompanies it, that promises:
It's safe here.
To rest, or believe in such a harbor where nothing would leap from the darkness with fangs bared if you dared to turn your back, in the way he'd been reached out to and responded in kind. Like Bakura, or Colette, Lizzie, Audrey...
What an explosion a simple tap on the heart could feel like, maybe a lifetime ago. ]