d4 ] Blaise Napollyon Krigel . fin
Mar 15, 2014 10:37:41 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Mar 15, 2014 10:37:41 GMT -5
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odair
Oops, I forgot. D:
[attr="class","atemplate"]
(Not that it stops mother or his twin sister from calling him Blaise, it's always Blaise this, Blaise that, Blaise can you please pick up after yourself like the good sweetheart you've always been, Blaise can you talk to your sister she's in a tizzy all over again, can you calm her down, can you calm your father down, can you play me some music because you know I love music!
It's a wonder he survived it all.)
But while Leon is tired of listening to what everyone else wants, he's not quite ready to do the talking either. He's always been a big fan of keeping things to himself (until he breaks, because when he breaks he doesn't just crack, he shatters). Leon holds his tongue, tips his square chin down and smiles at whoever he's listening with bright blue eyes that may or may not be glazed like the fried sugar-coated bread he does so love.
But that doesn't matter because they deem him a good listener, a giver of sagely advice, love him and use him (but he uses them just as much, takes advantage of their vulnerability to steal kisses and the gentle touches he so craves). They leave, but they come back for more. Only Leon has given so much more than he can afford with his patience running thin and boiling into irritated rage he keeps under his sun-kissed skin, the heat cracking the glass of his body to ruin him.
They always ruin him.
Things are difficult. Trust is difficult, if only because Leon has had his heart broken open so many times in his young life that he's tired of having to rebuild his walls when they should never have been broken down in the first place. And sometimes (and he hates himself for it) he doesn't know if even his twin is trustworthy enough for him to lay himself bare - and so he doesn't, he keeps it all to himself. Watches the waves in the distance rise up to eat him but fall short at his feet, wishes he can swim out to sea and stay there with the lively, sleek creatures he can see from the shore.
He refuses to crack even at night, lets his broken soul plant seeds of emotions he can't control in his heart and mind. All he's got to do is conceal.
It's not like people need to know everything about him, anyway, he reasons. Nobody needs to know what he does in the nights he doesn't sleep (sits, block of wood in hand, little knife trying to capture the cheerful abandon embodied in the leaping fish, makes it and breaks it), or where he likes to go when he's trying to get away from his 'patients' (the sturdy tree on the edge of the beach where nobody ever thinks to look, not while the beach exists). They don't need to know he's got struggles and that he drags himself for a goal he's not been able to see clearly for a very long time.
His life is not all girls and sex and music and art. (There are other things to want just as much.) Except Leon doesn't know what he wants; all he knows is he wants something other than what's been laid out for him like a king's golden platter by a mother who doesn't care (doesn't notice anything about her own fucking son, doesn't realize he's been watching the true definition of easy poise and careless rationality in the past year, envious and attracted in equal parts to the attitude he could never get away with).
And truly, Leon hates him (but at the same time he thinks he wants some small part of the older boy he can keep, incorporate into his own messed up life; god it hurts to love someone like that).
Except Leon is only everyone's therapist and Hades is all freedom.
So Leon sits, listens, smiles and gives his advice.
He doesn't take it when he goes.
They'll call him pretty for his floppy golden locks and plump pale lips, nudge each other like it's funny in some fucked up way, but nobody's actually shoved Leon around. He supposes he's put them off, having fought (for mother's approval) them all; in the ones he doesn't win (very many), he leaves them as badly damaged as they leave him. Besides, Apollo knows they're all good in hand-to-hand, but none of them, in his opinion, can get even close to his level of archery. He's quite smug about it, toothy, white grin spread across his face, never mind that he's not even the best archer the Academy has.
(He's smug, nevertheless, lithe body tall and strong as he bends the bow with great ease, long limbs in a somewhat odd ratio to his torso, scars crisscrossing across his sparsely hair-covered skin. He plays the bow as though it were a lyre, the musical twang of the string followed by a solid thud as the bow hits (a little left of) its mark.
Leon thinks he's done good, anyway.)
And Leon doesn't even have to mention that he knows most of the boys' secrets, words they've spilled to him in moments of great need, and while he's never broken an oath of silence, they know better than to beat up the one boy who could end their social lives.
(Like it matters.)
He's never... he's never taken advantage of the boys before, despite it all, not because he's never had the chance; Leon has had so many chances, so many opportunities to press his presence into theirs, receive some form of love through meaningless touches.
But Leon has never wanted to. (Shut up, shut up, it's too close to real-)
Hades, he's decided from the start, is a mystery he's not sure he wants to figure out.
Except that he might have to.
When it gets cold Leon falls sick and wants to stay in the sun. He usually ends up wrapping himself in thick, cozy blankets and huddles up against the chilled window, and he's miserable at best.
Hardly anyone comes to visit when he's sick, no matter how many self-claimed 'friends' he has. Only his sister. Only his sister stays, and it might even be because she has to. Not because she wants to, and that hurts him as much as being abandoned. He likes people, genuinely likes them, thrives in their presence; only it's so hard to let it show and it's not like they've been giving him so much reason to like them at this point in time.
But it hurts Leon to stay away from crowds when he's naturally drawn to them even if he ends up drained out on the flip side. Hurts because he's got a need for physical contact that can't really be fulfilled a home and in the winter it gets to points where he'll gladly take a fist in his jaw just for the feeling of skin on skin, even if it's for a little while; hurts because it's him that's vulnerable and that much truth is as dangerous as it is relieving to give in to exhausted tears.
He hates the cold.
Leon plays music like it's bitter, like it's nothing more than a tune to be made and remade but it's not like anyone really notices the lack of emotion. There's just no way he finds it simple to pour himself into something that'll leave him wide open. No way. Not anymore.
Walls. He needs the walls he's painstakingly melded together with heat and diamond, needs them to hold his battered soul in, builds them higher each day and doesn't let any of it show as his fingers coax disjointed notes out of the instruments in a half-hearted attempt at music. Struggles and makes up in emotional lack with skillful precision nailed into his being from the youngest possible age.
The music used to flow through him... it goes around, now. Avoids what feels like a black hole in his heart to touch the instrument before leaving with cool indifference wrapped around it like an impenetrable bubble.
It used to be so easy.
harp strung with apollo's golden hair
B
laise Napollyon Krigel is his name. Leon, for short, with an E because it's his choice in a little tantrum he threw when he was much younger. He'd never liked the name Blaise, it's too... it's just too much, he doesn't need a reason for not liking it. (Not that it stops mother or his twin sister from calling him Blaise, it's always Blaise this, Blaise that, Blaise can you please pick up after yourself like the good sweetheart you've always been, Blaise can you talk to your sister she's in a tizzy all over again, can you calm her down, can you calm your father down, can you play me some music because you know I love music!
It's a wonder he survived it all.)
But while Leon is tired of listening to what everyone else wants, he's not quite ready to do the talking either. He's always been a big fan of keeping things to himself (until he breaks, because when he breaks he doesn't just crack, he shatters). Leon holds his tongue, tips his square chin down and smiles at whoever he's listening with bright blue eyes that may or may not be glazed like the fried sugar-coated bread he does so love.
But that doesn't matter because they deem him a good listener, a giver of sagely advice, love him and use him (but he uses them just as much, takes advantage of their vulnerability to steal kisses and the gentle touches he so craves). They leave, but they come back for more. Only Leon has given so much more than he can afford with his patience running thin and boiling into irritated rage he keeps under his sun-kissed skin, the heat cracking the glass of his body to ruin him.
They always ruin him.
Things are difficult. Trust is difficult, if only because Leon has had his heart broken open so many times in his young life that he's tired of having to rebuild his walls when they should never have been broken down in the first place. And sometimes (and he hates himself for it) he doesn't know if even his twin is trustworthy enough for him to lay himself bare - and so he doesn't, he keeps it all to himself. Watches the waves in the distance rise up to eat him but fall short at his feet, wishes he can swim out to sea and stay there with the lively, sleek creatures he can see from the shore.
He refuses to crack even at night, lets his broken soul plant seeds of emotions he can't control in his heart and mind. All he's got to do is conceal.
It's not like people need to know everything about him, anyway, he reasons. Nobody needs to know what he does in the nights he doesn't sleep (sits, block of wood in hand, little knife trying to capture the cheerful abandon embodied in the leaping fish, makes it and breaks it), or where he likes to go when he's trying to get away from his 'patients' (the sturdy tree on the edge of the beach where nobody ever thinks to look, not while the beach exists). They don't need to know he's got struggles and that he drags himself for a goal he's not been able to see clearly for a very long time.
His life is not all girls and sex and music and art. (There are other things to want just as much.) Except Leon doesn't know what he wants; all he knows is he wants something other than what's been laid out for him like a king's golden platter by a mother who doesn't care (doesn't notice anything about her own fucking son, doesn't realize he's been watching the true definition of easy poise and careless rationality in the past year, envious and attracted in equal parts to the attitude he could never get away with).
And truly, Leon hates him (but at the same time he thinks he wants some small part of the older boy he can keep, incorporate into his own messed up life; god it hurts to love someone like that).
Except Leon is only everyone's therapist and Hades is all freedom.
So Leon sits, listens, smiles and gives his advice.
He doesn't take it when he goes.
I'm here when you're sad,
when all of your clouds turn black.
Your secret's safe with me.
when all of your clouds turn black.
Your secret's safe with me.
They'll call him pretty for his floppy golden locks and plump pale lips, nudge each other like it's funny in some fucked up way, but nobody's actually shoved Leon around. He supposes he's put them off, having fought (for mother's approval) them all; in the ones he doesn't win (very many), he leaves them as badly damaged as they leave him. Besides, Apollo knows they're all good in hand-to-hand, but none of them, in his opinion, can get even close to his level of archery. He's quite smug about it, toothy, white grin spread across his face, never mind that he's not even the best archer the Academy has.
(He's smug, nevertheless, lithe body tall and strong as he bends the bow with great ease, long limbs in a somewhat odd ratio to his torso, scars crisscrossing across his sparsely hair-covered skin. He plays the bow as though it were a lyre, the musical twang of the string followed by a solid thud as the bow hits (a little left of) its mark.
Leon thinks he's done good, anyway.)
And Leon doesn't even have to mention that he knows most of the boys' secrets, words they've spilled to him in moments of great need, and while he's never broken an oath of silence, they know better than to beat up the one boy who could end their social lives.
(Like it matters.)
He's never... he's never taken advantage of the boys before, despite it all, not because he's never had the chance; Leon has had so many chances, so many opportunities to press his presence into theirs, receive some form of love through meaningless touches.
But Leon has never wanted to. (Shut up, shut up, it's too close to real-)
Hades, he's decided from the start, is a mystery he's not sure he wants to figure out.
Except that he might have to.
For the thrill of your touch I will shamefully lust
as you tell me we're nothing but trouble.
And it feels like war.
as you tell me we're nothing but trouble.
And it feels like war.
When it gets cold Leon falls sick and wants to stay in the sun. He usually ends up wrapping himself in thick, cozy blankets and huddles up against the chilled window, and he's miserable at best.
Hardly anyone comes to visit when he's sick, no matter how many self-claimed 'friends' he has. Only his sister. Only his sister stays, and it might even be because she has to. Not because she wants to, and that hurts him as much as being abandoned. He likes people, genuinely likes them, thrives in their presence; only it's so hard to let it show and it's not like they've been giving him so much reason to like them at this point in time.
But it hurts Leon to stay away from crowds when he's naturally drawn to them even if he ends up drained out on the flip side. Hurts because he's got a need for physical contact that can't really be fulfilled a home and in the winter it gets to points where he'll gladly take a fist in his jaw just for the feeling of skin on skin, even if it's for a little while; hurts because it's him that's vulnerable and that much truth is as dangerous as it is relieving to give in to exhausted tears.
He hates the cold.
Yes, baby, it's cold outside,
but no one's here to take your hands
even if they are just like ice.
but no one's here to take your hands
even if they are just like ice.
Leon plays music like it's bitter, like it's nothing more than a tune to be made and remade but it's not like anyone really notices the lack of emotion. There's just no way he finds it simple to pour himself into something that'll leave him wide open. No way. Not anymore.
Walls. He needs the walls he's painstakingly melded together with heat and diamond, needs them to hold his battered soul in, builds them higher each day and doesn't let any of it show as his fingers coax disjointed notes out of the instruments in a half-hearted attempt at music. Struggles and makes up in emotional lack with skillful precision nailed into his being from the youngest possible age.
The music used to flow through him... it goes around, now. Avoids what feels like a black hole in his heart to touch the instrument before leaving with cool indifference wrapped around it like an impenetrable bubble.
It used to be so easy.
The sea wants to kiss the golden shore.
The sunlight warms your skin.
All the beauty that's been lost before
wants to find us again.
The sunlight warms your skin.
All the beauty that's been lost before
wants to find us again.
there is thunder in our hearts
[attr="class","abox"]
Leon Krigel
Leon Krigel
district 4
seventeen
male
seventeen
male
odair
Oops, I forgot. D:
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