Richard Howell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingtomb) wrote2014-10-08 12:04 am
smokingtomb) wrote2014-10-08 12:04 am
And nothing will bring tears to our eyes [for the_cupbearer]
[ooc: immediately after this thread.]
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He hears the water dripping against the porcelain basin long before he realizes he's hearing anything at all. The seconds between each drop splashing feel like years, the sound like a falling tree that starts him. Vines along the walls tug when he jerks, the entire bathroom covered in greenery and growing things rooted in deep places in his body.
He realizes he has a body, and the years turn to minutes. An arm moves, brushes a patch of cool hidden away from the radiating warmth. He gasps, and the act of drawing in breath burns like fine whiskey gone down his lungs. The second breath is easier; the third, effortless. The muscles in his chest remember how to move; save for his heart, which never stopped.
A disembodied sense of urgency spurs him to open his eyes, to remember that he has eyes and how to open them. He blinks once, twice against the light that he vaguely feels should hurt somehow. The world around him is purple and green, flowers growing in bunches on vines that twist around and up like an insistent blanket over nearly all his eyes can see. Between the vines here and there are gaps that shine like clean bone in contrast, and his mouth stretches in a smile seconds after he remembers what the expression is.
Smiles. A little girl that took the deep ache and turned it bright and warm with a tiny drooling smile. A man, most beautiful in the world and would be with his face torn to ribbons. His skin is warm and he is of sea and the eternal road spreading before the three of them. Hair that curls rarely enough to be a treat and movement like an old dance celebrating coyly the joy of being a sensual creature.
His eyes close again as he thinks of the name, feeling something stir that he has never named and reach. He's near, only just too far away to touch with his fingertips but Richard can still feel him, feel enough to whisper in his mind with the sensation of warm and undefined longing for him to be there.
'Ganymede.'
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He hears the water dripping against the porcelain basin long before he realizes he's hearing anything at all. The seconds between each drop splashing feel like years, the sound like a falling tree that starts him. Vines along the walls tug when he jerks, the entire bathroom covered in greenery and growing things rooted in deep places in his body.
He realizes he has a body, and the years turn to minutes. An arm moves, brushes a patch of cool hidden away from the radiating warmth. He gasps, and the act of drawing in breath burns like fine whiskey gone down his lungs. The second breath is easier; the third, effortless. The muscles in his chest remember how to move; save for his heart, which never stopped.
A disembodied sense of urgency spurs him to open his eyes, to remember that he has eyes and how to open them. He blinks once, twice against the light that he vaguely feels should hurt somehow. The world around him is purple and green, flowers growing in bunches on vines that twist around and up like an insistent blanket over nearly all his eyes can see. Between the vines here and there are gaps that shine like clean bone in contrast, and his mouth stretches in a smile seconds after he remembers what the expression is.
Smiles. A little girl that took the deep ache and turned it bright and warm with a tiny drooling smile. A man, most beautiful in the world and would be with his face torn to ribbons. His skin is warm and he is of sea and the eternal road spreading before the three of them. Hair that curls rarely enough to be a treat and movement like an old dance celebrating coyly the joy of being a sensual creature.
His eyes close again as he thinks of the name, feeling something stir that he has never named and reach. He's near, only just too far away to touch with his fingertips but Richard can still feel him, feel enough to whisper in his mind with the sensation of warm and undefined longing for him to be there.
'Ganymede.'
no subject
no subject
Richard doesn't seem to notice the change of appearance, his face drawn in concentration. "Do you trust me, Mede? Will you trust me if I tell you that you're fine, your body's fine an' nothing bad's gonna happen?"