[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-]
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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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