οΌ he adjusts his position just slightly, slinging one clothed leg over sasuke's bare one, letting his right arm rest across his chest. the left stays where it is, tangled in the snare of a lifeline that he recognizes perhaps all too well. he tucks himself in so there's no room between them for so much as a shadow, and then he starts to speak. it's the first thing that comes to mind. sasuke had spoken of a place that was green and growing, and cy had spoken of deserts, but now his mind shifts to water, still and tranquil. οΌ
When I was new, οΌ he says, as if that means something. as if it means anything. as if it's at all an explanation of what he was when that old man took him in. perhaps he was new, or at least ravaged by newness, sensation and thought and feelings he couldn't articulate then. he was half feral, fully wild, had lived on unspeakable things down in the catacombs for how long he still can't say. less a person than a thing, cracking open amphorae for wine gone to vinegar and mouldering baskets for bread long ossified by time. he hadn't known then, why he couldn't fucking die. he'd tried every possible way. οΌ I lived in a little cabin near a lake, with a man named TakΓ«thal. οΌ his pronunciation is careful, tak-eh-tal. as if this is a precious thing, something that has lived wrapped in silks and nestled away somewhere sacred, to be only sparingly given over to the light of the day, as if it's eroded by presentation alone. he has fought for that name, for the scraps of that person, that past. he has fought so long and so hard and he is tired of that fight, but he hasn't quit yet. οΌ He was a fisherman. I used to sleep under his porch, no joke. He'd leave food out. Sometimes he'd ask for my help with a haul. I was so fucking angry, then. Violent. I didn't know how to talk, but I could listen. I learned. It took me years to become a person again. I don't know how long I had with him. It's weird to think of him like a dad, I'd already lived over a millennia by then, and he was just — mortal. But it felt that way, like he was the father of who I became. I found peace there. οΌ almost pensively — οΌ I remember crying over the fish. I didn't want them to die.
οΌ it hadn't bothered him until it did. one morning, clear as the knife's edge of daylight, he'd been helping the old man clean his catch, and he'd split open a little trout with a bellyful of eggs and it had broken something in him. he doesn't remember sobbing half so much as being held. οΌ
He's the one that named me. Cyram means 'summer's dawn'. Doesn't matter which world I go to, what the language is, what the culture is. I've changed my last name a million times. Maybe more than that. But my first name's always been Cyram.
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cw: ... there's a lot here. suicide?? cannibalism?? lmao
Date: 2024-01-17 04:53 am (UTC)οΌ he adjusts his position just slightly, slinging one clothed leg over sasuke's bare one, letting his right arm rest across his chest. the left stays where it is, tangled in the snare of a lifeline that he recognizes perhaps all too well. he tucks himself in so there's no room between them for so much as a shadow, and then he starts to speak. it's the first thing that comes to mind. sasuke had spoken of a place that was green and growing, and cy had spoken of deserts, but now his mind shifts to water, still and tranquil. οΌ
When I was new, οΌ he says, as if that means something. as if it means anything. as if it's at all an explanation of what he was when that old man took him in. perhaps he was new, or at least ravaged by newness, sensation and thought and feelings he couldn't articulate then. he was half feral, fully wild, had lived on unspeakable things down in the catacombs for how long he still can't say. less a person than a thing, cracking open amphorae for wine gone to vinegar and mouldering baskets for bread long ossified by time. he hadn't known then, why he couldn't fucking die. he'd tried every possible way. οΌ I lived in a little cabin near a lake, with a man named TakΓ«thal. οΌ his pronunciation is careful, tak-eh-tal. as if this is a precious thing, something that has lived wrapped in silks and nestled away somewhere sacred, to be only sparingly given over to the light of the day, as if it's eroded by presentation alone. he has fought for that name, for the scraps of that person, that past. he has fought so long and so hard and he is tired of that fight, but he hasn't quit yet. οΌ He was a fisherman. I used to sleep under his porch, no joke. He'd leave food out. Sometimes he'd ask for my help with a haul. I was so fucking angry, then. Violent. I didn't know how to talk, but I could listen. I learned. It took me years to become a person again. I don't know how long I had with him. It's weird to think of him like a dad, I'd already lived over a millennia by then, and he was just — mortal. But it felt that way, like he was the father of who I became. I found peace there. οΌ almost pensively — οΌ I remember crying over the fish. I didn't want them to die.
οΌ it hadn't bothered him until it did. one morning, clear as the knife's edge of daylight, he'd been helping the old man clean his catch, and he'd split open a little trout with a bellyful of eggs and it had broken something in him. he doesn't remember sobbing half so much as being held. οΌ
He's the one that named me. Cyram means 'summer's dawn'. Doesn't matter which world I go to, what the language is, what the culture is. I've changed my last name a million times. Maybe more than that. But my first name's always been Cyram.