[ Senan listens with the softest of smiles lingering at the corners of his mouth. They speak like this so infrequently, and when they do offer such an outpouring of emotion, of lovely monologue too expansive for one language alone, he finds himself subdued to silence. Awed by them; the inner worlds they possess. (And he finds he loves to hear them speak his name. Any name they apply to him. Fool, or Sen, or Senan, or, yes, Sen Ben Benice.)
He read once that some faiths held that hell was not a physical place, but rather the removal of a soul from the innermost circles of their god's presence. Felt keenly, felt like loneliness, like despair, like rejection. To be so far from blessing and benevolence. Hell is the distance from god.
He has no particular faith, but he has gleaned some understanding of the meaning of that form of hell. There were many unpleasant aspects, granted, making his incarceration seem a very real and physical hell, but the worst of it - oh, the worst was his distance from Rin.
He could sit here for hours and listen to them chide him.
He's not thinking about how such notions (or reactions to their words) might flit undisguised across his face. When Rin says your null, his breath catches and his smile turns faintly wistful, and immediately he shakes his head - no, never, he would never leave them to wilt for want of praise. Never languishing.
(See how happy it makes them, to hear him speak? (See how happy it makes them, to simply be here beside him?) (Wishful thought?) (Maybe. Maybe not.))
By the time their (beautiful) tirade ends, he's nodding, smiling ruefully but nodding not in agreement that he will speak well of himself, but, as before with the text claiming the same, that he is ever and always their Sen.
In whatever form they would have him. Fool or guardian or friend.
On impulse, he lets their words settle, then presses a kiss to their temple. Chaste, gentle, and lingering long enough for him to draw breath, to absorb the scent of their hair, the warmth of their being deep into his own.
And as he often does, he withdraws with his eyes turned to some other quarter as though it never occurred. (And as he often does, he holds that breath in his lungs until they burn with it. Slowly, slowly exhales.) (How deeply they inhabit him.) (How difficult it is to think of anything but them, when they're here at his side.) ]
Your debate on the matter of stars would be built on the fallacy that there are two at all. Harmonies exist, true, but such harmonies exist between stars and the lesser celestial bodies in orbit around them.
[ He speaks musingly, eyes flickering down to his empty hand, where his fingers shift a twitch in search of a cigarette. But he doesn't need - or indeed particularly want - to smoke. It's simply something to do with his hand, movement by movement an occupation for the restless soul. ]
You'd make a star of the solitary moon, the asteroid glowing only with the reflection of its sun's light. You'd make a monarch of the jester. I am unscathed in your eyes. Imperfect though I am when I leave the gravitational pull of my Rin, I have boundless perfection in their company. No matter what I seem to the observing eye, I feel my own...contented peace. And that is perfection enough.
[ He looks at them again, thoughtful, thinking he ought to feel melancholy. Thinking he doesn't feel melancholy at all.
Being here is (nearly) being at peace.
He had thought he would tell them, somehow and someday, how much he loved them. But there's beauty in the longing, and this has always been enough. And if they wanted him -
What could he give? What could he have given before, and what can he offer now but a handful of months?
No, he'll fill the remaining time with words. ]
Your third compliment was to be thematically tailored to your fate, but perhaps it's more appropriate to oblige your request. I shall speak well of your Sen, for whom you are fate-on-view.
He is not so wretched; he has learned to speak with tempered words, with patience, with utmost care. Where others would fall to old, habitual rages, or lay curses for the misfortunes they encounter, he has found within himself a reserve of humor. He has emulated resilience, and applied the pragmatism of cooler heads.
And for all that he is unwise, he knows - with blind, unerring faith - that he is fortunate in his one truest companion, whose face is more dear to him than any other. Whose words render him silent and wondering. Your Sen - yours, loyally and to his bitterest end - is intelligent enough, has common sense enough to know that he needn't be a king, an emperor, a star. He is content with the riches at his side.
[ Another faint lift of a smile and a look that trails too long: their eyes, their mouth, their form against his own. Appreciative and delicate in the gazing, without force or invasion. As though this is all he could ever wish. ]
If I must speak well of your Sen, then I will say of him -
Of myself. I am happy, and you have been the cause.
no subject
He read once that some faiths held that hell was not a physical place, but rather the removal of a soul from the innermost circles of their god's presence. Felt keenly, felt like loneliness, like despair, like rejection. To be so far from blessing and benevolence. Hell is the distance from god.
He has no particular faith, but he has gleaned some understanding of the meaning of that form of hell. There were many unpleasant aspects, granted, making his incarceration seem a very real and physical hell, but the worst of it - oh, the worst was his distance from Rin.
He could sit here for hours and listen to them chide him.
He's not thinking about how such notions (or reactions to their words) might flit undisguised across his face. When Rin says your null, his breath catches and his smile turns faintly wistful, and immediately he shakes his head - no, never, he would never leave them to wilt for want of praise. Never languishing.
(See how happy it makes them, to hear him speak? (See how happy it makes them, to simply be here beside him?) (Wishful thought?) (Maybe. Maybe not.))
By the time their (beautiful) tirade ends, he's nodding, smiling ruefully but nodding not in agreement that he will speak well of himself, but, as before with the text claiming the same, that he is ever and always their Sen.
In whatever form they would have him. Fool or guardian or friend.
On impulse, he lets their words settle, then presses a kiss to their temple. Chaste, gentle, and lingering long enough for him to draw breath, to absorb the scent of their hair, the warmth of their being deep into his own.
And as he often does, he withdraws with his eyes turned to some other quarter as though it never occurred. (And as he often does, he holds that breath in his lungs until they burn with it. Slowly, slowly exhales.) (How deeply they inhabit him.) (How difficult it is to think of anything but them, when they're here at his side.) ]
Your debate on the matter of stars would be built on the fallacy that there are two at all. Harmonies exist, true, but such harmonies exist between stars and the lesser celestial bodies in orbit around them.
[ He speaks musingly, eyes flickering down to his empty hand, where his fingers shift a twitch in search of a cigarette. But he doesn't need - or indeed particularly want - to smoke. It's simply something to do with his hand, movement by movement an occupation for the restless soul. ]
You'd make a star of the solitary moon, the asteroid glowing only with the reflection of its sun's light. You'd make a monarch of the jester. I am unscathed in your eyes. Imperfect though I am when I leave the gravitational pull of my Rin, I have boundless perfection in their company. No matter what I seem to the observing eye, I feel my own...contented peace. And that is perfection enough.
[ He looks at them again, thoughtful, thinking he ought to feel melancholy. Thinking he doesn't feel melancholy at all.
Being here is (nearly) being at peace.
He had thought he would tell them, somehow and someday, how much he loved them. But there's beauty in the longing, and this has always been enough. And if they wanted him -
What could he give? What could he have given before, and what can he offer now but a handful of months?
No, he'll fill the remaining time with words. ]
Your third compliment was to be thematically tailored to your fate, but perhaps it's more appropriate to oblige your request. I shall speak well of your Sen, for whom you are fate-on-view.
He is not so wretched; he has learned to speak with tempered words, with patience, with utmost care. Where others would fall to old, habitual rages, or lay curses for the misfortunes they encounter, he has found within himself a reserve of humor. He has emulated resilience, and applied the pragmatism of cooler heads.
And for all that he is unwise, he knows - with blind, unerring faith - that he is fortunate in his one truest companion, whose face is more dear to him than any other. Whose words render him silent and wondering. Your Sen - yours, loyally and to his bitterest end - is intelligent enough, has common sense enough to know that he needn't be a king, an emperor, a star. He is content with the riches at his side.
[ Another faint lift of a smile and a look that trails too long: their eyes, their mouth, their form against his own. Appreciative and delicate in the gazing, without force or invasion. As though this is all he could ever wish. ]
If I must speak well of your Sen, then I will say of him -
Of myself. I am happy, and you have been the cause.