deercountry | i am just a picture frame

cw: torture, eugenics

[When Paul cleans up the apples and the apple pie, he thinks that must be the end of it. The magic in their firm, sweet flesh is safely scoured away, dissolved into nothing inside the furnace of the self and the fermentation of the outdoor compost. It's done, as much as anything is ever done in Trench, and what is there to do except grit his teeth and bear it?

He can seek out the source of the music drifting through the warm afternoon glow of the day, lingering in the doorway only for a while before he comes to sit at the piano bench next to his angel, hands folded in his lap as he closes his eyes to listen. Sometimes it's all he needs to settle; this time is nearly one of them.

Paul tips his head to the side, dark curls against silvered fluff, and he is so tired of being wrong.

The memory unfolds into the unbearable magnification of agony that Paul watches helplessly from a remove, observing his self scattered like superheated stellar remnants, and that is horror enough to know that Kaworu bears abstracted witness to, he who has known so much unbearable agony of his own.

What follows this time is another kind of horror, of quiet words in fog, and he shivers, freezing, in the lancing beam of sunlight that falls through a clear window, eyelashes dampened with remembered salt.]

[Memories take up time but they don't flow in with time. They are both longer and shorter than the events depicted. Kaworu's hands stall at the piano, for a measure, for two, for nearly three, as the memories flood before he resumes the song. It's not right. The force on the key isn't enough on the first two, it's too much on the next. The first notes plunk into the air, like something dropping into a pool, the next is overly loud, tinny and unpleasant to the ear.

He tries to recover but the song has shifted despite himself and there's no saving it. A D minor chord rings out and he pulls back long, thin, and slightly shaking fingers from the keys, twisting them before dropping them into his lap. A sliver head inclines, mixing with dark curls.]

I didn't mean to see.

[The dissonant notes hang suspended well past when they should fall, echoing inside the inverted shelter of his skull.]

I didn't mean to show you.

[His voice is one of them, torn and rewoven into a trembling thing, as if he had been screaming aloud. Blindly, his hand searches out Kaworu's, still whole, barely sketched with tiny scars, to wind their fingers tight. He turns his face into the slighter boy's hair, breathing in the sea.]

It's not your fault. It's all right. [He tells him, muffled and thinned.] It's all right.

[There was a small part of Kaworu that feared Paul would be angry at him, even though he knows Paul and Paul knows this place as he does. If people are angry that means they might leave and he doesn't want to be left.

He steadies Paul where he can and melts into him in the places that he can't, squeezing their entwined fingers together like a promise. A part of him that has grown larger and stronger in the Trench tells him that he should be quiet and offer this simple comfort, but he can't help himself. Something that he saw... and the desire to understand it eclipses everything else, even fear.]

It's... hard to made for something. For someone's plans.

[The noise Paul makes into Kaworu's hair is not a laugh or a sob. It's a crumpled throb in the back of his throat, easier felt than heard, and Paul leans against Kaworu like a reed presses to a bank in the wind.]

I should have told you.

[There were a thousand other things to say, but that's what he spills from his mouth, holding too tightly to his hand and still shivering, frantic for the warmth of him closer.]

If there was anyone I should have, it was you.

[Kaworu steadies himself and takes on Paul's weight. It's not too much, he thinks, and he knows Paul has carried all of him on a dark beach (or he tried to). He feels the rumble of noise in Paul's throat and the tremble of his body and presses against him, trying to be firm where Paul wobbles.

But he's a curious creature by nature and curiosity is what has driven him so much of the time. Squeezing one of Paul's hands, he raises the other to card it through dark curls and then to cup a soft but carved cheek.]

Were you afraid?

[Paul treats Kaworu like spun glass, ethereal and delicate, because everything he cares for has shattered (will shatter) in his hands. He doesn't know how to hold anything except to take it apart.

Sometimes Kaworu reminds him that there's a star burning in his chest, a strength of self that can push others away when they come close - or bear them up when they falter.

He lets himself go.]

I always am. [He murmurs.] I wasn't before. I knew - I thought I knew who I was. What I was.

[He traces the furrowed lines on Paul's brow with a gentle thumb, nestling his face against Paul's cheek, ready to protect him from view of anyone who may enter the room.

It's funny to learn this about Paul after all this time, after months of falling asleep together and rising to seek the other out. But perhaps he'd always known or sensed it. A blood red string of fate that tied them together due to circumstances few could understand.]

Mmm. It isn't fair to be told what you are to be. But... you still have will, I believe that. And that perhaps "what" you are isn't the entirety of "who". That's why humans, though they are all human, are all different from each other.

[Paul had contemplated the chances of their paths crossing before, the bright starlit day on the roof where he pointed Kaworu to his home and hung moons and stars around his wrist. For all the rest of the surging sea that left him wrecked here, it also gave him this, and he cannot believe that there is not a reason for that.

He wants so badly to believe that the reason is this. That the tether between them is for this understanding that no one else could give him, of what it means to have inherited a purpose so much larger than anyone should bear.

He knows that Kaworu is not what the world would have made of him. What if he could be - ?]

What if that's not enough?

What if every choice I make only takes me down that path? I try to chose anything else, and I look over the threshold at where it takes me, and nothing changes. What if I'm not-

[Enough.]

Will doesn't mean that you change the world, or even yourself, it just means that you can try. Not all creatures possess the desire to alter things as they see fit.

[He knows this, and has innately, for most of his life. Despite being raised and taught in strict parameters all leading towards one inevitable end, he'd always considered what he could do outside of them and how he would push the boundaries when he could.

Kaworu rubs at Paul's cheek, stars around his wrist glittering in the afternoon sun.]

And if you can't... I'd still care for you. You'd still leave marks with your sharp elbows and have a terrible sense of timing for waking up. You'd still be the 'Paul Atreides' that I see as you.

[When the future opens up to swallow him, it catches his name in his teeth. They give him new ones in its place: Kwisatz Haderach, Lisan al-Gaib, Muad'Dib.

(The ghost-wind of time across the back of his neck, the hot, heavy breath of purpose: Emperor.)

They mean a messiah, a prophet, a bloody-handed tyrant star, and none of them remember him.]

You'd still see me?

[Paul asks, in a small, awful voice, a bared throat, an opened chest.]

How do you know that? How could you know that?

Edited 2022-06-04 02:15 (UTC)

[Kaworu... or someone using his mouth once called Paul "Muad'Dib" bit there's no memory of it here. He has no power to assure Paul of his fate. All he has are his feelings. His fingers run down Paul's cheek once more]

How can anyone know another or know the future? I know what I know because I know you're the one I've shared my heart with, the one I've wanted to know and been known in return. Not for any titles or intended purpose, but because you are you. And I will always seek that you. Even if that you no longer exists. I'll try to find him.

[How can anyone know the future? Paul stands in it up to his neck, dark waves flooding his eyes, and he knows it less well than he ever did.

But that's a philosophical concern. For once, Paul doesn't care about philosophy. He cares about this, these slim fingers stroking his skin, a gentle voice promising him that even if he's lost, he'll be looked for.

In a convulsive tide, he twists further, unlinking their hands only so he can drag Kaworu into a clinging embrace, his hair soft under his palm and his waist narrow in the band of his arm, his breath crashing in his lungs as they spasm.]

I'd try to let you find me. [He says, terrible and true.] I want to be that for you. I want to stay with-

[Overwhelmed, he draws back, eyes shining like forests under rain, and he hovers only for an instant before he falls on him in a kiss, fervent and mouth bruising, all the promises he can't make bound to it.]

I would find you. And even if you changed... I'd stay with you.

[He murmurs into Paul's neck before Paul pulls them apart and then forces them back together like the collision of two celestial bodies. He can feel Paul's body thrum, the beating of his heart, the tenseness in his muscles like they're his own. Like they collided and created something new, something singular. The kiss is needy, Kaworu can feel the promise on Paul's lips, even if he doesn't say it outloud. Kaworu decide to believe that Paul will keep his promise.

He pulls away slightly, looking back into eyes that swim like the sea, and breathes out his own promise.]

Even if you do what you were made to do.

Edited 2022-06-04 20:50 (UTC)

[They need to be closer. Paul drags Kaworu into his lap under the certainty of that impulse, molding them together like rolled clay, the boundaries between them soft and clinging. He doesn't care who might walk by to see, or think about how legible his heart must be to anyone who knows how to listen for it.

Kaworu would stay with him, even if he became what he was born to be, and Paul feels that grace fold around him like wings.]

I'm yours.

[He says it helplessly, bravely. He says it like it comes on him by surprise, and like he's known it all along.]

Whatever else I am, I'm yours. I won't forget that. I couldn't if I tried.

[The next kiss is softer, his hand slipping to curve along the side of Kaworu's face, thumb stroking his cheek.]

You are mine.

[Kaworu agrees softly, as he lets himself be pulled into Paul's arms, enveloped by the warmth of Paul's limbs and the warmth that rises in his chest like a tide pool warmed by the sun.

And he's Paul's, but that goes without saying. He's been Paul's since the day they spoke in bloody surf. How could he not have given everything to him after that? The promise to remember only reinforces Kaworu's commitment to those feelings. Feelings he knows are his and came from within his own heart and no one else's. Feelings that grow like a tree from a small seed at every soft kiss they share.]

Though, you are pretty handsome when you defy the tests of creepy old witches with pain boxes.

Edited 2022-06-05 17:04 (UTC)

[Finally, Paul topples from the edge his ragged breathing was poised on. His laughter is an unexpected burst of broken tension, the clinging shadows of that remembered room pushed back. It's still tinged with the breathiness of a sob, but it's still warm and alive. It's still his laugh.]

You're amazing.

[That's uncomplicated and heartfelt, as is tugging up Kaworu's shirt so he can flatten his hand on the small of his back. He kisses the corner of that teasing, irreverent little mouth, and he's here, in this moment and no others.]

She was a creepy old witch, wasn't she? [There's a vindictive spike in the disrespect.] She underestimated me.

You're needy.

[It's a tease as Paul slides a warm hand up his spine, reminding him of every vertebrae and amazing thing his body is capable of. He arches and then leans back after Paul kisses his lower lip, wrapping his legs around Paul's waist, relying on his hands to keep them upright and together.]

And she did. I'll never do such a thing.

I know you won't. And I am.

[Paul steadies Kaworu with a hand on his waist, the other sliding to press between his shoulderblades as Paul nuzzles his nose along Kaworu's, only a light trace of dampness marking the brush of his eyelashes over Kaworu's soft skin.]

I need you.

[He closes the distance between their mouths after that soft, sure statement, coaxing in familiar invitation with the tip of his tongue. He's getting better at this. He's getting better at a lot of things.]

It's alright.

[He hums softly as Paul nuzzles their noses together, shifting only a little to kiss the traces of expertly contained tears on Paul's eyelashes, as though the gesture can undo the cause.

He lets Paul pull him closer and close the distance between them, opening his mouth to another that's become increasingly familiar. He leans forward, only breaking the kiss to mumble into Paul's cheek.]

I need you too.

[Paul doesn't know how to explain the alchemy of Kaworu's murmured words flowing after those gentle, salt-stained kisses, and this is one mystery he is content to leave as one to experience, not to unravel. It is so much more than the sum of its parts, the transmution of his vulnerability to safety, and he cannot risk disrupting any element of this precious acceptance.

So he takes it, as if he could drink it down like nectar-wine. The full flushed urgency of his kiss as he drags his hands down the notches of Kaworu's spine and back up again suggests he might try, that he might want to.

(If Gideon, or Teacher forbid, Augustine were to see this, he'd never hear the end of it. He doesn't care.)]

[Unlike Paul, Kaworu doesn't even think about Gideon, or Teacher, or anyone. It's like they've shifted into a universe that's made up of only them, molding together, filling out each others imperfect edges.

Paul's hand moves up his back, thumb catching on the edge of a scar at the base of his chest.

The world shifts.

[Kaworu is prone on an operating table, younger than he is now, closer to eleven, maybe twelve, he's still so small it's hard to correctly judge his age.

Despite being a memory, the chill and hardness of the metal against his spine are stark and easy to recall. He twists, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, but his movements are sluggish. He's been given some kind of drug to take edge off... and make him less dangerous. As if for further insurance, his wrists are strapped to the table, the metal, infused with something that bites into his skin, rubs painfully against the still healing wounds on his arm. There would be little sympathy for that, he did it to himself after all.

Someone looms over him, face covered with a mask and obscured by bright lights, stating something about "a prototype of a progressive knife" before bringing it down to press into his chest. It slices open his skin from neck to the edge of his left rib, then the skin is carefully peeled back for better observation.

They're looking at his S^2 organ again. It's always baffled them how he could be both human and angel, possessing part of the source of infinite energy they desire, but still wrapped in the fragile shape of a human heart. They dare not touch it but, once again, they're calculating how they might get to it and, if he were a true angel, destroy it.

He makes a muffled sound of protest. They're going to use this against his brethren, he knows that now. He's been told that he's the "successor of life" and the one fated to return this planet to his people but... that means being the last. That means helping humans kill the rest of his kind in order to follow the plans the Ancient Ones had laid forth for Adam. He knows it doesn't matter, but all he can do is voice his displeasure before going silent. Listening to the count of each second as his skin reforms and slowly knots back together.

This isn't the first time this has happened. He tells himself he's used to it.

A gasp and he pulls away, instinctual and against all desire.]

[Kaworu has told Paul enough, shown him enough, that Paul thought he understood. He has learned to always be gentle with Kaworu, around his scars and otherwise. No nails, no teeth, no hard pressure, and these have been such simple lines to abide by that he's let his affront at each mark slip into a background hum.

It doesn't help anything to be angry, or to force conversations Kaworu doesn't want to have. He tells himself this so often it, too, became a backdrop.

The background bursts in a rupture of white-hot static behind his eyes, his body stilled in noise until Kaworu jerks away. He moves like that static, jumping from one point to another in a near-invisible transition, leaning forward to loop an arm behind Kaworu to catch him if he falls further back, his other hand flung out to brace against the piano with a dissonant crash of notes.

He doesn't say anything, at first. His heart shivers too quick and close, mimicking an alien hum. His eyes are fixed wide in a paroxysm of distress, blue shot through green like a afterimage of lightning.]

Kaworu.

[He does not know this voice, hollowed and horrified. He fights the urge to clutch Kaworu close, maintaining the slight but meaningful distance between them, even as he angles in protectively.]

I've got you. I'm here. [Warmer, better collected, pitched soothing and calm.] We're here. You're safe.

[Somehow the sound of the piano is more disconcerting to him than the memory. It snaps him back to reality, fully aware of where he is and when. He reaches out to touch the keys, as if insuring that Paul didn't do any harm before nodding.

He doesn't want to be delicate. Or fragile. Or invulnerable either. Too many people have deemed him to be one or the other.]

I know. Just a memory.

[One of those memories that doesn't hurt that much because it was so familiar. Now and then it might twinge, like an old injury that aches a little when it's cold. It's long lost all its edges, its ability to cut and cause pain, now it's just a discomfort.

He reaches out and gently grips Paul's shoulder as if he also needs to be drawn back into the waking world.]

[Paul searches Kaworu's face intently, cracked irises dilating and contracting as he conducts a rapid, incisive assessment. He leans slightly into Kaworu's hand, then straightens up, his arm coming back into contact to help guide Kaworu up with him.]

A memory.

[He leans in to touch their foreheads together, his slightly overlong curls falling just far enough to veil their eyes.]

A bad one.

[He says it almost calmly, the tremor in his voice a subdued one. It's stating the obvious, but - is it obvious?]

Do you want to talk about it?

early june | gaze: bone house | kaworu nagisa

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cw: teen handsiness

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cw: medical, surgical, experimentation, implications of self-harm

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