"We're here because you're always here," says the man beside him — practically nothing more than a boy, no matter the way middle-age leaves patterns pressed into his skin — and the way the yellow sky lights his eyes, as he glances sideways, is almost, almost as golden as John's eyes were, for such a brief span; as golden as the eyes of the beautiful creature asleep behind them —
(There is something at least as inhuman as her eyes are at their worst, as variably present as the palmaris longus tendon — traced by the light scrape of a thumbnail's edge — when calculated statistically throughout the population John has killed in cold blood, at the end of humanity and in all the days since; there, and gone again, as often as the sun tries to pierce the impenetrable clouds.)
"You still dream of it, all the time; you've never stopped."
They're John's own words, and they might have been thrown back in his face — but they're spoken like prophecy, like it's not Augustine but some sort of oracle here beside him, seeing visions caused by the fumes of a dying world's paroxysms. They are each held and considered, like pieces of a puzzle with no reference image, and set down in place between them with deliberate certainty.
"You can't ever stop remembering."
He twists; he shifts; he resettles, and he's kneeling in front of John, now — but since John is sitting, and Augustine has always been taller than him anyway, the absence of the feeling of worshipful prostration is as sharp as a thorn, as a whole crown's worth of thorns, piercing his flesh and pinning him, on display. Augustine kneels before him, his wrist still trapped in that pale and gentle grip, and then Augustine's right hand is pressed against his face, cupping his jaw, his cheek —
There's no moonlight here; no soul-destroying rattle of wasps' wings, just the muted roar of the ocean, the fitful crackle of the fire, the occasional catch of John's breath in his lungs; and Augustine, holding him, looking at him so thoughtfully.
Perceiving him, or something in him, in his protests —
"Your slate isn't clean, my Lord," he says, as gentle as a caress. "Ten billion lives? You've only dyed the whole page a solid black." He shakes his head — only slightly, not dropping eye contact. "No matter how often you lie to the rest of us, it's time to stop lying to yourself about that."
(His thumb slips, tracing the edge of John's lower lip with far too familiar a knowledge for youth or oracle either one.)
no subject
(There is something at least as inhuman as her eyes are at their worst, as variably present as the palmaris longus tendon — traced by the light scrape of a thumbnail's edge — when calculated statistically throughout the population John has killed in cold blood, at the end of humanity and in all the days since; there, and gone again, as often as the sun tries to pierce the impenetrable clouds.)
"You still dream of it, all the time; you've never stopped."
They're John's own words, and they might have been thrown back in his face — but they're spoken like prophecy, like it's not Augustine but some sort of oracle here beside him, seeing visions caused by the fumes of a dying world's paroxysms. They are each held and considered, like pieces of a puzzle with no reference image, and set down in place between them with deliberate certainty.
"You can't ever stop remembering."
He twists; he shifts; he resettles, and he's kneeling in front of John, now — but since John is sitting, and Augustine has always been taller than him anyway, the absence of the feeling of worshipful prostration is as sharp as a thorn, as a whole crown's worth of thorns, piercing his flesh and pinning him, on display. Augustine kneels before him, his wrist still trapped in that pale and gentle grip, and then Augustine's right hand is pressed against his face, cupping his jaw, his cheek —
There's no moonlight here; no soul-destroying rattle of wasps' wings, just the muted roar of the ocean, the fitful crackle of the fire, the occasional catch of John's breath in his lungs; and Augustine, holding him, looking at him so thoughtfully.
Perceiving him, or something in him, in his protests —
"Your slate isn't clean, my Lord," he says, as gentle as a caress. "Ten billion lives? You've only dyed the whole page a solid black." He shakes his head — only slightly, not dropping eye contact. "No matter how often you lie to the rest of us, it's time to stop lying to yourself about that."
(His thumb slips, tracing the edge of John's lower lip with far too familiar a knowledge for youth or oracle either one.)