clingy things } perry&abe

clingy things } perry&abe Jan 30, 2016 3:53:53 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 30, 2016 3:53:53 GMT -5

"You're in charge."

Afternoon citrus kissed his skin through the kitchen window, orange hue striking like a roaring inferno with his mother's harsh eye contact. Sharp words and a sharper tongue coming through pursed lips, lying was synonyms with politics, and while she spoke he nodded simply as his eyes crinkled, "so try to act like it, Abraham." And he huffed, six p.m. disappointment sinking in as she grabs his shoulder and his jaw clenches before she leaves.

("They need you.")

It was etched into his forehead; every morning, every afternoon, every inhale and exhale they didn't really. Besides, all he needed was a name apparently. And it was something he could never grow into, his father's name, he could hardly even grow into his own at this point and the more he tried the more he grew into Zodiia, rather. His mother's voice still sharp in his mind as he walked up the stairs - "talk to him." As if he was a child, he spent eighteen years growing into fourty year old silhouettes; at eighteen, it's hard enough to raise yourself nevertheless eleven others.

Fists now tucked in his pockets, the wooden stairs creaked under his black socks - talk to him, and for once Abraham could only respond with "what about?" It's in his falsetto, a head voice built on charisma and back bone. He shook his hands before opening the door, the cold knob against the warmth of his hand. What about, Peregrine's room didn't smell like anything.

Abraham could never grow into his father's name, he knew this, sometimes it felt like he was the only one, but growing into Abraham was hard enough. And there's a groan in his throat with Perry that comes with having to rub the rust off of years of small talk, nothing more than small talk. And it felt like that between him and most of them, that by giving up childhood for a title, he gave up his siblings as well. How did his mother ever expect to do this alone, citrus dancing across the dim room through a single window.

He can barely do this alone.

Maybe it's not that bad. Being alone.

Peregrine's room wasn't like his - in the last few years, there hasn't been much in common really. It wasn't overly white, with holiday sweaters in the corner and extinguished candles littering shelves, and it too didn't have Perry Zodiia in it. A quick double take and a "Perry?" with furred eyebrows, Abraham considered for a slight sliver of time that he could just call it quits there, easily enough. But politics was never easy and the citrus six p.m. sky kissed the corner of his eye, as children it was always his hiding spot.

It was one of the few things Abraham remembered about him.

The latch to the window was already open, propped open from the outside and Abraham crawled head first through to the textured roof, scratching against his clean socks, "Perry?" his hand still pressed against the window shutter.

It smells like smoke outside.

[ i do not want power. ]

clingy things } perry&abe Feb 15, 2016 1:28:40 GMT -5

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Feb 15, 2016 1:28:40 GMT -5

P e r r y
{everybody needs
to be somewhere else}

sometimes, it's hard to breathe with air and rooftop horizons clinging to his lungs, a peerless ache that rests at the base of his windpipe and only gets sorer; sore sore fucking sore -- growing pains in bones still loosening to entropy.

when he was young and lawless as fuck, his father used to say he wasn't born to be like this -- should've gotten wings or some shit instead of the name zodiia slapped roughly between his shoulder blades, tacked on like an afterthought borne from accidents. it was supposed to be paternal premonition, extra-sensory perception, some sixth sense sorcery fulfilled; or perhaps it was really just something of a running joke.

maybe there hadn't been much consideration put into the epithet of peregrine-like-the-bird. but from the roof, hands curling against the rough tiles, wilderness unfastens his skeleton and scrapes against his skin.

it hurts, the chaos of growth.

as he's gotten older, past bedtime stories and playing truant, he doesn't crave adventures like he used to. the knightly proofs of a heroic heart had mellowed as seventeen years worth of sunsets had left his palms cupped with yellow pink blue fading fast, hands only finding fists to shake in when they close. his head feels heavy with things less pure than a road laid by daydreams, and he told himself -- a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and claustrophobia sticking in interstitial spaces -- that he needed to bring a lighter up here for no good reason. none at all, for god's sake. really.

but in the dimming light, he finds himself with orange embers smoking between his teeth, a mouthful of poison to kill off the suffocation, and a bunch of ah fuck it’s stuffed in his pockets to care about later. smoke wraps meridians around his neck, warms his thoughts, and makes the winter wind more bearable.

"perry?"

-- he supposes he’s used to his name being called like this, a chore of two syllables and wrinkled tight. the voice carries from the ledge below, and he watches as abraham zodiia re-ensembles himself one limb at a time through the open window. because who else could it be? the routine expressions of a sibling that perry had seen only in passing at dinner tables was the one thing he recognized. perry -- just like that, he swears he’s only known abraham through hearing his name being spoken in such a manner. and at this point he realizes he should probably throw the cigarettes, or himself, off the roof. but he doesn’t move to do either.

a pocketful of lucifers burning holes in his lungs, his hands bleeding red with sunlight -- he figures he’s pretty okay with getting caught right now.

“abraham,” he tries.

it's strange to say it now, and he’s never really called for his brother before. there's not much between them to follow up with that little revelation, so he reaches for the box resting in his lap. shaking the pack of cigarettes like he’s still nine and dealing sweets to his siblings from a paper bag hidden from their mother, he looks up and speaks through the smoke billowing between them. “hey, you want one?”