[Jedao listens to it while he's hungover, the lights as low as he can stand, the communicator tucked against his chest while he lies on the floor, eyes unfocused gazing at the gentle blue of his fish tank. Jedao listens to it wedged in a suit locker on the Roci, close as a coffin. Jedao listens to it while turning the communicator over and over and over in his hands, making Quentin's voice waver in soft sine curve, when he doesn't trust himself to touch his gun. When his teeth hurt with how badly he wants to taste it.
It's stupid, Kujen is dead and he is - neither free nor alive, but farther away than he could have imagined. Kujen is dead and Jedao imagines he can feel a beautiful long-fingered hand squeeze gently with every pump of his heart. Some wretched part of Jedao wishes the feeling were clearer.
Jedao wants to crawl to Quentin and - beg him, beg him for anything, and he doesn't know if he wants to be cradled in those hands or kicked away. He hates himself for not being able to pull them perfectly apart in his mind, and wonders how much trouble it would be to steal enough vinegar from the kitchen to bury his head in a bucket of it - a lot more trouble, now that he's quit. Fives would notice if he took cleaning supplies. He wants to feel scoured, wants to drip his own scathing acid contempt on himself and then wash it away, but he also can't be bothered to finish the orange Fives brought him, or put his boots on or move for hours at a time, so he doesn't. It's pathetic and it's absurd, hisses the part of him that knows how utterly, radically different they are. But none of the bitter chorus are trustworthy.
For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me, that's what Clark's play said. Does he love Quentin for his wonders, for his perfect gentleness - or for all of them together, with the part of himself that asked Quentin to hurt him until he couldn't think, that invited Quentin to ask whatever his scientific endeavors prompted him to ask, that always wants to curl up like -
The story runs out, and Jedao has only the vaguest idea of the ending, but he starts it again, and makes himself tea. He thinks of New Year's Dances. His vision swims a little and he almost throws up again, but his hands don't shake. His hands never shake. Ginger tea for nausea. It's easier than breathing, after the week's practice he got with Nico.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-09-29 04:46 am (UTC)It's stupid, Kujen is dead and he is - neither free nor alive, but farther away than he could have imagined. Kujen is dead and Jedao imagines he can feel a beautiful long-fingered hand squeeze gently with every pump of his heart. Some wretched part of Jedao wishes the feeling were clearer.
Jedao wants to crawl to Quentin and - beg him, beg him for anything, and he doesn't know if he wants to be cradled in those hands or kicked away. He hates himself for not being able to pull them perfectly apart in his mind, and wonders how much trouble it would be to steal enough vinegar from the kitchen to bury his head in a bucket of it - a lot more trouble, now that he's quit. Fives would notice if he took cleaning supplies. He wants to feel scoured, wants to drip his own scathing acid contempt on himself and then wash it away, but he also can't be bothered to finish the orange Fives brought him, or put his boots on or move for hours at a time, so he doesn't. It's pathetic and it's absurd, hisses the part of him that knows how utterly, radically different they are. But none of the bitter chorus are trustworthy.
For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me, that's what Clark's play said. Does he love Quentin for his wonders, for his perfect gentleness - or for all of them together, with the part of himself that asked Quentin to hurt him until he couldn't think, that invited Quentin to ask whatever his scientific endeavors prompted him to ask, that always wants to curl up like -
The story runs out, and Jedao has only the vaguest idea of the ending, but he starts it again, and makes himself tea. He thinks of New Year's Dances. His vision swims a little and he almost throws up again, but his hands don't shake. His hands never shake. Ginger tea for nausea. It's easier than breathing, after the week's practice he got with Nico.]
thank you