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charles kisses him and
he falls
into an empty room in the left wing of the house ((quiet)) cream walls and hardwood floors, bare windows ((brightness)); a room for solitude, for thinking. he loves the sparseness ((simplicity, silence)) though he does not yet know why. he stares at the ceiling, stares until his eyes unfocus and then he's staring at the particles in the air floating, sunlit, suspended by cross-cutting light pouring in. and the floor is his mind, swept clean; and the room is his mind, a still picture; but the moment is not eternal, and soon he hears the gardener and cook a few feet from the windows. another kind of lightness fills him, then ((devotion)) because he's beginning to feel their minds in his head, a new, terrifying intimacy ((hesitance)). he reaches out now but he's unpracticed and the distance mutes them; he cannot make out their words or their minds, fuzzy like the voices of children on a playground—
—the bench overlooks the small lake where families have come to picnic ((longing)) and the children come together to explore the boundaries of the park, where he resides. he tilts his face up, and when he closes his eyes his heart feels birdchirp bright ((peace)). a stampede of small feet runs past him, suddenly filling his mind with indistinguishable noise, laughing innocence brighter than the sun ((uplifted)). he delights, tucking the sound into a deep pocket so that their reverberations form with him a chorus, as though they can laugh together across infinite time—
—the field behind the house, tears beginning to leak from his eyes ((mirth)) and his belly hurts from laughter as raven shucks the body of his tutor and looks down at him, unabashed. "well, he is a horse's ass." his heart clenches ((grateful)) and he surges up to hug her fiercely ((adoring)) overcome and unable to express what he feels—
—walking down to breakfast, he feels their minds before he hears them and pauses ((searching)). raven dryly murmurs a joke at his expense and the children burst into laughter ((exasperation)). he rounds the corner and the others immediately hush, but raven grins brightly because she knows ((fondness, amusement)) and he grins back ((love))—
—((nostalgia)) raven sits in his rocking chair, flipping the pages of his article. "you missed an i in mendelian." the soft beat of her thoughts soothing like the resonance of running water—
—the fountain in center of the formal garden, its grey weathered stone memorized in his minds eye. the alcove is another retreat ((loneliness, necessity)) from the house, his family ((resignation)). he's six, resting his splayed fingers on the surface of the water and marveling ((curious)) at the sensation, how the water seamlessly touches his skin, determined to find the book in his father's study that explains why. ten, with a small stack of books, and sometimes he huffs in frustration, looks up from his page and stare, stare at the water, head tilted, listening to the voices, brow furrowed as he deliberately tugs at each, quieting them one by one until he nods and can return again to gulliver's travels without interruption. seventeen: pacing in slow circles, gently dragging his knuckles across the stone ((stubborn)). the calmest part of his mind sits in this sanctuary ((solitude)), and he shares it with no one, until—
their mouths break apart and erik breathes greedily, a man finally resurfaced.
"erik," charles begins ((and erik cannot ever catalogue what he feels entwined here, pronounceable only to the tongues of telepaths)) but erik reaches forward and cuts him off with another kiss, wanting to be drowned again.
he falls
into an empty room in the left wing of the house ((quiet)) cream walls and hardwood floors, bare windows ((brightness)); a room for solitude, for thinking. he loves the sparseness ((simplicity, silence)) though he does not yet know why. he stares at the ceiling, stares until his eyes unfocus and then he's staring at the particles in the air floating, sunlit, suspended by cross-cutting light pouring in. and the floor is his mind, swept clean; and the room is his mind, a still picture; but the moment is not eternal, and soon he hears the gardener and cook a few feet from the windows. another kind of lightness fills him, then ((devotion)) because he's beginning to feel their minds in his head, a new, terrifying intimacy ((hesitance)). he reaches out now but he's unpracticed and the distance mutes them; he cannot make out their words or their minds, fuzzy like the voices of children on a playground—
—the bench overlooks the small lake where families have come to picnic ((longing)) and the children come together to explore the boundaries of the park, where he resides. he tilts his face up, and when he closes his eyes his heart feels birdchirp bright ((peace)). a stampede of small feet runs past him, suddenly filling his mind with indistinguishable noise, laughing innocence brighter than the sun ((uplifted)). he delights, tucking the sound into a deep pocket so that their reverberations form with him a chorus, as though they can laugh together across infinite time—
—the field behind the house, tears beginning to leak from his eyes ((mirth)) and his belly hurts from laughter as raven shucks the body of his tutor and looks down at him, unabashed. "well, he is a horse's ass." his heart clenches ((grateful)) and he surges up to hug her fiercely ((adoring)) overcome and unable to express what he feels—
—walking down to breakfast, he feels their minds before he hears them and pauses ((searching)). raven dryly murmurs a joke at his expense and the children burst into laughter ((exasperation)). he rounds the corner and the others immediately hush, but raven grins brightly because she knows ((fondness, amusement)) and he grins back ((love))—
—((nostalgia)) raven sits in his rocking chair, flipping the pages of his article. "you missed an i in mendelian." the soft beat of her thoughts soothing like the resonance of running water—
—the fountain in center of the formal garden, its grey weathered stone memorized in his minds eye. the alcove is another retreat ((loneliness, necessity)) from the house, his family ((resignation)). he's six, resting his splayed fingers on the surface of the water and marveling ((curious)) at the sensation, how the water seamlessly touches his skin, determined to find the book in his father's study that explains why. ten, with a small stack of books, and sometimes he huffs in frustration, looks up from his page and stare, stare at the water, head tilted, listening to the voices, brow furrowed as he deliberately tugs at each, quieting them one by one until he nods and can return again to gulliver's travels without interruption. seventeen: pacing in slow circles, gently dragging his knuckles across the stone ((stubborn)). the calmest part of his mind sits in this sanctuary ((solitude)), and he shares it with no one, until—
their mouths break apart and erik breathes greedily, a man finally resurfaced.
"erik," charles begins ((and erik cannot ever catalogue what he feels entwined here, pronounceable only to the tongues of telepaths)) but erik reaches forward and cuts him off with another kiss, wanting to be drowned again.