[ That's where he'll be, then. Waiting, wondering if there's something he should have at the ready. Probably not. Wesley isn't one to demand much that Petre doesn't usually have on him anyway. ]
[Wesley shows up soon enough, near silent in his steps - sullen in expression, but his eyes will lock onto Petre when he sees him like there's warmth in him to absorb. Touch is immediately what he seeks out, moving forward.]
[ Not many people get to see the look in Petre's eyes, half-expectant and half-greedy, rising from his bed to hold out an arm, hand on Wesley's cheek. The same sense of soft ownership that, in his view, is mutual, though one day Wesley may realize that's far from being the case.
Petre hugs him the same way Vaerqui would (no, not would, does) sometimes — a reminder that sinks a knife in his chest and dissipates a moment after — to ground him, feel the too-warm presence of their bodies together when there's nothing else either of them needs. Not for a while. ]
[Wesley melts against Petre, head pressing into the crook of his neck - arms winding around him with a gentle squeeze. He breathes in deep and feels serene, letting himself fall back on long since dissipated Void-effected belief that they're brothers; he only maintains this connection to that feeling out of sheer will, unwilling to give it up. He's let it take root in him now.]
I felt like...
[This is the interesting part, what comes from his mouth now:]
It felt like I was being told what to think again, by Wil. What to do.
[ The pause is so he can think about what he's being told. His memories of Wil are fabricated, faded because it was in someone else's dream. But whatever he felt there was real enough to know exactly how he killed Wesley's father, the hurt was heavy enough to make him comfortable saying he'd do it again. Even if the man came to Rubilykskoye, and no matter how many times the Duchess welcomed him back, Petre would continue to fix her mistake. ]
[Not his usual "I don't think that'd help", or deflection. Wesley seriously considers it but returns to the part of himself that struggles to let it go instead. Anger is still something he's new at dealing with. May not be the best thing to navigate with Petre's guidance, but alas.]
The ones who kidnapped me did it as a favor. Thought they were doing good. I can't - hurt them, though I want to. I wasn't hurt. I was only helpless. I was away from everyone, and everything. I couldn't-
[Zoya died. He was not there.]
My anger has no justified root. Which makes it so much more intense.
You don't believe that. [ Petre says it almost as soon as Wesley finishes the thought.
My anger has no justified root, as if anyone ever says that about other emotions. Other consequences. Can't have consequences without a cause, though, isn't that right? ]
And I don't believe it either.
[ Vaerqui had to calm him down in the beginning, when Petre was raw; a monster that had to learn the opposite of what Wesley is going through now. This is his chance to guide him, then. It makes that illusion of their bond all the more real. ]
'It's for your own good. Stop being selfish. Think of others'. It's all the same bullshit, Wes. And none of them are thinking about you. They're thinking for you.
If you're angry, be angry. It's part of who you are. [ A pause. If Wesley's averting his gaze, Petre is chasing it. ] Who we are.
[What we were in a dream - Petre's different, yet the same. Wesley has never asked him questions he's wondered about. Where were you born? Did you know your parents? Were you born at all, or were you a freak like me - made of ash and bone, burning sigils in a purple flamed fire. Do you ever feel like you don't know how to belong, sometimes? Do you ever feel like you're so different you want to slip from your skin and disappear.
Wesley's breathing hard. His teeth are set together. Nails digging halfmoons into Petre's arms where he's gripping him - If you're angry, be angry. If he's angry, is it that easy? How do you know - how do you know how to feel things that feel like they will consume you.]
Before I came here, I was angry. So angry I felt cold, like I could choke on it in my throat. It went away here. I haven't felt that way since - I'm afraid to. I feel like...
[Wesley's skin is cold now, notably so at his fingertips. They're black like a spill of oil, down past his wrists where they fade to gray by his elbows. His voice is low, lower than normal, a hum-like resonance at the back of his throat and an unstable shudder in his chest.
[ Petre was made for this — to experience someone's anger, drink it, make it worse — and to feel it coming from Wesley is like basking in the sun. He doesn't care about the wounds his brother is carving in his arms. It's the heat of his emotions contrasting with the coldness at his fingertips creeping in that finally gets him to look away, watching the darkness take over where they're touching. He grabs Wesley's hand to bring it to his lips, eyes closed. Once the warmth settles, he moves that hand to his throat, either for a soft embrace or a tight grip. He trusts him to make his own decision. He trusts him to not let go. ]
[Like black tar and ice - like something inside him is shriveling up and taking away all the good he's learned to be, letting something else take his place. He feels like a shadow left behind, something thin, something stretched and malleable but ultimately connected to someone or something else. He no longer feels like he knows how to be in control, evident by the hunch in his back and the grey that bleeds down in his skin from his forehead, branching out like ink in water across and down the bridge of his nose.
Wesley's head hangs forward, sucking in a gasp as bones in his neck creak and pointed nails bite into Petre's flesh around his throat. For a moment he doesn't remember he's there - he's freefalling into something else, shallow water rushing all around him and pulling him farther back inside his own head, away from his eyes, from which a view of Petre and his room gets farther and farther away.
His jaw cracks, body morphing but still resembling himself - bits and pieces stitched together with inky black veins beneath the skin and pointed, sharp white teeth. He breathes hard, the scent of burnt flesh and bone seeping out from him alongside a growing sense of dread.
I don't want to be - I don't want to be - I don't want to be-]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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or do you think you're finally getting a look at what's really in there?
[ He did have a lot of time to think about it. ]
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and i don't want you to hide from people who think you're something you're not anymore
you're better
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thanks
are you busy right now?
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my room
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Petre hugs him the same way Vaerqui would (no, not would, does) sometimes — a reminder that sinks a knife in his chest and dissipates a moment after — to ground him, feel the too-warm presence of their bodies together when there's nothing else either of them needs. Not for a while. ]
What happened.
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I felt like...
[This is the interesting part, what comes from his mouth now:]
It felt like I was being told what to think again, by Wil. What to do.
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Do you want to take it out on someone?
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[Not his usual "I don't think that'd help", or deflection. Wesley seriously considers it but returns to the part of himself that struggles to let it go instead. Anger is still something he's new at dealing with. May not be the best thing to navigate with Petre's guidance, but alas.]
The ones who kidnapped me did it as a favor. Thought they were doing good. I can't - hurt them, though I want to. I wasn't hurt. I was only helpless. I was away from everyone, and everything. I couldn't-
[Zoya died. He was not there.]
My anger has no justified root. Which makes it so much more intense.
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My anger has no justified root, as if anyone ever says that about other emotions. Other consequences. Can't have consequences without a cause, though, isn't that right? ]
And I don't believe it either.
[ Vaerqui had to calm him down in the beginning, when Petre was raw; a monster that had to learn the opposite of what Wesley is going through now. This is his chance to guide him, then. It makes that illusion of their bond all the more real. ]
'It's for your own good. Stop being selfish. Think of others'. It's all the same bullshit, Wes. And none of them are thinking about you. They're thinking for you.
If you're angry, be angry. It's part of who you are. [ A pause. If Wesley's averting his gaze, Petre is chasing it. ] Who we are.
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[What we were in a dream - Petre's different, yet the same. Wesley has never asked him questions he's wondered about. Where were you born? Did you know your parents? Were you born at all, or were you a freak like me - made of ash and bone, burning sigils in a purple flamed fire. Do you ever feel like you don't know how to belong, sometimes? Do you ever feel like you're so different you want to slip from your skin and disappear.
Wesley's breathing hard. His teeth are set together. Nails digging halfmoons into Petre's arms where he's gripping him - If you're angry, be angry. If he's angry, is it that easy? How do you know - how do you know how to feel things that feel like they will consume you.]
Before I came here, I was angry. So angry I felt cold, like I could choke on it in my throat. It went away here. I haven't felt that way since - I'm afraid to. I feel like...
[Wesley's skin is cold now, notably so at his fingertips. They're black like a spill of oil, down past his wrists where they fade to gray by his elbows. His voice is low, lower than normal, a hum-like resonance at the back of his throat and an unstable shudder in his chest.
'I feel like a monster'.]
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Say it. Out loud.
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[Like black tar and ice - like something inside him is shriveling up and taking away all the good he's learned to be, letting something else take his place. He feels like a shadow left behind, something thin, something stretched and malleable but ultimately connected to someone or something else. He no longer feels like he knows how to be in control, evident by the hunch in his back and the grey that bleeds down in his skin from his forehead, branching out like ink in water across and down the bridge of his nose.
Wesley's head hangs forward, sucking in a gasp as bones in his neck creak and pointed nails bite into Petre's flesh around his throat. For a moment he doesn't remember he's there - he's freefalling into something else, shallow water rushing all around him and pulling him farther back inside his own head, away from his eyes, from which a view of Petre and his room gets farther and farther away.
His jaw cracks, body morphing but still resembling himself - bits and pieces stitched together with inky black veins beneath the skin and pointed, sharp white teeth. He breathes hard, the scent of burnt flesh and bone seeping out from him alongside a growing sense of dread.
I don't want to be - I don't want to be - I don't want to be-]
A mon̶s̴t̵e̵r̷.
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