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 Posted: Sun Aug 07, 2016 9:31 pm
The thing was, Krish did matter. Quite a bit, actually. And if Julian had known that the man thought otherwise-- that his dearest and most trusted friend considered himself to be insignificant-- it likely would have been the azurette who was further moved to tears. The backpack he'd clung to on his trek across the city was a testament to the things that mattered to the youngest of the St Jude boys. A few battered books, much read, that had been sent by the man in front of him. The items that he'd retrieved on release, which were now the sum of his personal effects. A single, unopened jar of Nutella. And every letter Krish had ever sent him-- at least the ones that had made it through prison sorting, and had survived his sentence without being destroyed out of spite by other inmates.
Yet, for all that the metal mage was a star in his sky, bright and shining and important, there were some things that Julian was simply too oblivious to perceive. In the same way that Krish believed his own emotions didn't matter, the azurette simply didn't view himself as a person that inspired deep feeling in others. He was aware that eyes traced his movements when he walked down a street, but the attention wasn't something he awarded merit to. Even less so now, when the slide of any gaze over his form felt only like an assessment, the way a shopper might try to select the ripest mango. People looked at him, but they didn't see him. What they saw, what they liked, what they had use for, was only the packaging. Only Krish seemed to have any intention of pulling at the faded ribbons to see what lay inside. A jumbled mess, mostly, scattered with pop culture references. Head fulla fantasies of dying like a martyr. Julian could only ever remember being a cause. Julian was pacifism. Julian was seeing the good in others when they couldn't see it yet themselves. And now, Julian was not sure if any of those things were really who he was anymore.
But his friend didn't seem to mind.
And there was never a moment that the azurette believed he really deserved the older man's kindness, his patience, the reassuring warmth of arms around his too-thin body-- not pushing, not emprisoning, not forcing him to comply. It wasn't that he inspired these things, but that they were qualities innate to Krish. Proof of this man's goodness. And so Julian saw the beauty and worth of the gold, but never dreamed that it could belong to him. Surely something that shone with such luster could only ever rest in the hands of better men. The thought occurred to him only as a might-have-been, a long-ago-and-far-away that had been smashed as soon as Julian had taken up residence in a room that was all concrete and metal. However flawed he'd been before, the certainty remained that he was worse off now. It wasn't a tarnish he'd inflict on anyone whose glow was so brilliant.
"Sweetest sap I know. Must be maple." Another effort at humor, this one a little better. Maybe because his slightly smaller frame was nestled against the brunette like a lizard on a sun rock. Maybe because he was finally registering that he had reached a place that could be considered safe.
Still, Krish swayed him, lulling, and the younger mage only startled a little when his feet were pulled from the floor. Before, he might have made some playfully indignant noise about how his friend's princess was in another castle, but that was a year ago. And a year changed a lot more than just the weight of his body. The shell had gotten so much lighter, and the mind inside it was like lead. Julian curled tight until he was transported to the couch, and even there he rested his chin on his knees, watching Krish as he moved through the apartment. Moving from where he'd been put didn't even occur to him. Neither did the concept of searching for a film, even though the two men had watched countless titles in the past, taking turns deciding what should play. He had, after all, completely hijacked the evening, which had been planned with someone else in mind.
The suggestion that he kick his friend out of his own bed made all the guilt come home to roost.
"Krish, you're already going above and beyond. Letting me stay, lending me clothes, feeding me, altering your plans." The arms that curled around his folded legs were enveloped in the sweater he'd been given, the garment hitting him at mid-thigh and making him look smaller than he really was. It robbed some of the gravity from what he was saying, surely, that Julian appeared very much like a girl wearing her boyfriend's shirt. His head had tipped slightly to the side, and the spill of his hair over cinnamon-scented fabric was a wash of teal and blue and a deep turquoise. "And besides, I seem to recall some mustachioed gentleman assuring me that I would become very well acquainted with his couch."
Little by little, his smile was getting stronger. Like a muscle, the expression had atrophied in the last year, leaving Julian unaccustomed to its use. Each rendition of it held a sadness that couldn't quite be pinpointed. Was it in the corner of his mouth, like Mrs Darling's secret kiss? Or was it there behind his eyes, leaving citrine depths dull and murky? The ink mage's attempts at levity made it worse in some ways, giving irrefutable proof that he knew he was damaged.
Yet.
He had done this over and over for strangers. For Krish when he had still been one. The papers were just garnish. Just the inevitable bureaucratic fluff. To provide them was nothing; less than nothing. What was really needed was vision. Intention. Planning. And those things came from each individual, when they decided who they wanted to be-- what they wanted to do. It was always work. Never easy.
Julian started from an easy vantage point, really. He was a citizen. One with the mark of a prison sentence on his record, yes. One whose family had labeled him a non-entity. One who slept badly, and felt in his waking hours a simultaneous dread of and longing for the man he'd orbited around for six months in prison. But whatever the marks he'd been given, visible or not, he was starting with less obstacles than most of the people he'd forged for. And the obstacles he did have were ones he'd earned himself.
If he ever found the will to stand up again, he'd keep running until his legs fell apart. Once he had the plan in mind, he'd smash himself against any walls in his way until they crumbled down around him. It was the gaining momentum that would be difficult. But the motivation was right there in front of him, standing in the kitchen and putting together a meal. Because no matter what had happened, Julian would never allow himself to tear down everything that Krish had built. Everything that Krish had become.
"..I want you to know that I'll be working hard to get my own place again as soon as I can. " He tried to make it sound reassuring, instead of like what it was: something the azurette worried about. "My parole officer.. she'll want to see where I'm living. Do searches. Be a general pain in the a**. And I.. don't want to bring that down on you."
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Posted: Wed Aug 24, 2016 12:47 pm
  As he spooned pasta onto the plate and placed chicken and cheese where was deemed appropriate, Krish felt a familiar sense of pleasure. The trust that was put into was immense. Julian had deemed him safe and worthy. Here he was, then, feeding his friend who trusted that the food was not poisoned and the meal would be sufficient. The man had to stop in the middle of dishing to roll his eyes at himself. This was ridiculous. All these thoughts to run through his head at this time. Violence was an answer less traveled since cultural osmosis and care of being sought out said "hey, don't do that" but it still came up as pure reflex. Julian was so easy though, that was the thing. He was so easy to hurt just like so many other master-bred boys and girls. The exposure to prison life and the crushing experiences must have revealed that to the other as well, who kept himself so self-conscious of spaces, areas, and existences. Slaves were reared in many different subdivisions of purpose and Krish happened to have multitudes of usefulness. But many of those skills should not come to mind unless he was having an episode. When helping a hurt friend with food, friendliness and hospitality? Probably not the best.
Instead, he decided to think about the good things that would come of his influence on Julian now that he was back. First and foremost, that hair. Oh, that hair. Krish would sit and get him a good brush. Something for grooming, right; the slave never had personal experiences with meditative brushing. Maybe it was being taken care of that would help. Spas were out of the idea until further notice. Open areas where the senses were requested to be taken away almost on principle- something a little better. He could buy a personal footbath. One of those take home spas. The metal mage would help; he would be on his knees and have a foot in his hands to comfort and massage. They would laugh. A voice told him, 'Positions of power', but Krish thought that maybe, maybe he would allow himself to be in the business of making a master feel better. Rebellious instincts gagged him quite literally and the pocket of air stuck harsh. Lips pushed out a sharp sigh as he worked through the eventual knot but reflecting on his reaction was unneeded. Physically, mentally, the slave was putting himself down into a position of lower standing like some kind of life-scale. But what would be the counterweight? Having a job, an apartment-- Julian as a tenant, perhaps?
He was reasoning unreasonably. Putting Julian up and himself down wouldn't do well because the man on his couch wasn't an idiot, or latently powerhungry. Julian was sensitive to emotions and nice. Azure hair, golden eyes, they were still there. The bushy tail had been thinned and its wag was gone, flat to leg. Clipped? It didn't hurt to look, but knowing was what bought the pain. 'Snap out of it' because this was his friend, his dearest one, all circumstances only one, a close comrade who had earned his heart and treated it gently. Julian was so tender it almost made Krish squirm away from the younger man who talked to him in gentle ways that the slave had fought with himself so many times questioning that legitimacy. Because people like Julian existed- maybe- and if they walked the Earth, they'd been lost in tragedies far beyond the scale of reality that it almost seemed ironic.
But no, there he was. Julian. Sweet as can be. It crept up on even the most emotionally compromised. It wasn't a decay. It was an overgrowth. Clung. Crawled all around-- you look away and then survey the area again to see that it has curled all around the yard, stretched and yawned, back shaking before settling down heavy with a sigh of contentment. Almost unaware of itself.
The plate was done- voila! The juice was poured- mwuah! Krish turned to hear kicked puppy words and felt himself frown before Julian even finished. He didn't look small but unintentionally cute. Something Julian was excellent in. But the visual only disposed more pangs of feeling and lent to the image of sadness and sweetness that was mixed into almost all of their current moments. Sighing outwardly seemed rude so the wind that swept Krish's intestines could have blown back the cilia as if it was golden wheat for a good harvest. Jests helped but he knew the intent of his man's message. Pools were constructed for swimming; they were safe, they had outs. But looking at Julian was like witnessing the weathering of a lake. As the embankments of its shores grew and the water thinned, a river roared violent and filled it up. Each rocking disturbance in its depths was a reminder that nature would prevail. But when? And after how much? Would the bed be covered with manufactured stone and dust? The river blocked?
"Didn't the cartoons teach you that mustachioed gentleman are dastardly wafflers? I have to follow my facial hair's urges."
He set the plate down on the coffee table before the other and passed a magazine over to serve as a coaster for the azurette's drink. Although his jest was gentle, Krish's voice had quieted in a huff at being reminded of such written promises. Noticing his lapse in memory he went to get the other a fork and returned to a dimmed man and another frown on his lips. The mention of searches was prickles to Krish's spine. Still, thoughts that belittled his decision to take the newly freed man into his home didn't cross. Parole officer. He could handle parole officer. He was a good looking citizen; just a friend, who had a job and went to school, whose existence was documented a long time ago. A smile to shake off the paranoia. But the fears weren't totally dislodged.
Unlike some less fortunate slaves, there had never once been a search and seizure on Krish's person or his residence. He was, by all accounts, a good neighbor who didn't have any unsettling habits or a suspicious disposition. Good income. Active around the community. Good, good, good. A respectable gentleman with a nice moustache and a knack for yoga and tripping over the stairs. The comical and normal traits of Krish were so strong that it had to overpower any negative ill will that any of his fellow complex dwellers felt in regard of him. Sometimes it was weird to be situated near a person who was very much for the enslavement of others- for wholesomde, well-motivated fun. Even thinking about it felt threatening. Like they'd use a honing device to uncover the whereabouts of slaves. It didn't seem to propitious to lie.
Krish took a seat next to the other and smiled encouragingly. "Just do what you need; I get why you're concerned but-" He looked around and shrugged again, "It's not that big of a deal anyway. You're a guest, you're my friend, and you're already really rearing to get to working and stacking up cash yourself. So I'm not-- just. Food, in mouth, alright?"
He never sat for long and again got up to clean the area. The dishes in the sink had fresh water splashed on them and the slave took to washing. It was cathartic for some reason. He had heard once that knitting was that to many people but stitching and crocheting held less appeal to him compared. Perhaps he should stop comparing. Perhaps he should stop trying to daze out while Julian was there, so the man turned his head some to watch his friend.
A part of him feared his food would be subpar, or that Julian had lost his sense or care for taste. He wanted to see how the other interacted when presented with a meal. Did that sound too detached? The helper in him wanted to watch every increment movement and subtle flash that lit and shadowed the face of the only person he considered his personal heart.
That was creepy.
ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆ ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆
xxxxxxxxxnow you've got to kiss me...
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Posted: Fri Aug 26, 2016 10:53 am
In some ways, Julian had become as wary of kindness as he was of cruelty. A gentle word or touch wasn't simply something for the mage to bask in, but also a thing to be carefully considered and measured. Intent was everything in his world, and he had rationalized the actions of others-- of Odin-- to allow himself to believe that they could be relied upon, even when logic and experience said otherwise. It turned out that he was Mulder after all, because down to the marrow of him Julian wanted to believe. That he hadn't been only a thing to be bartered, a bleating sheep for the slaughter. But he remembered too well, too sharply, and his mind turned each memory from one angle to another, like a Rubik's cube, trying to align pieces until they were solid. Names and faces, their behaviors, their intentions. Not for the first time, the azurette wondered how different things could have gone if he'd been born what he was supposed to be. Not filtered through with ink in every layer of him, no. Aware, like his mother had always been aware, of every thought that flashed in the minds of others. He would have been the coveted one, as he was expected to be, and he would never have gone to prison because he'd have been born to one. He would have stayed in the ivory tower with Nhu Linh and they would have whispered into each other's minds, the way he had always spoken in silence to Odin through the Ink beneath his skin. And Julian would never have known hardship, or hurt. Would never have to remember the way Hotts' hands could go razor sharp at the fingertips and slice him, or how those same hands had pretended gentleness once. Lying, like the man's oily insinuations and petnames. Only his anger had ever been sincere. Julian would have no recollection of any of it, if he'd been born like his mother. But then, he wouldn't have met Odin, either. And he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Trying to protect the werewolf had been a stupidity, probably. A lesson in martyrdom. And he'd been forced to learn something he should have just grasped from the Wicked soundtrack: No good deed goes unpunished. In being willing to trade himself for Odin's safety, Julian had turned himself in to a bargaining chip, to be used how the blonde saw fit. And the mage, stupid and soft and battered everyday, had wanted to believe that his cellmate would understand the gravity of it, the potential for damage. That Odin would help him. Would try to minimize what the rest did to him, because he had before, as though he didn't like other people touching his things. If Julian had been born right, none of it would have ever occurred. And he wasn't sure how he felt on that front at all. He should hate Odin, but didn't. Feared his anger, resented his abrupt disappearance, wondered about his well-being, even missed-- in some ways-- the necessity of keeping himself vigilant to avoid irritating the werewolf. What would it be like to be free of all those conflicts? The azurette didn't know.
What he understood implicitly was that the version of him that could have evaded suffering--the Julian that didn't exist-- wouldn't be in Krish's apartment with a home cooked meal in front of him. That Julian would never have met this man, or if he had, it would have been on a different route, one that probably wouldn't have ended in their friendship. After everything, the inkwell's trust should have been irreparably broken. He should have viewed the other mage's nearness with fear, should have looked on the food with suspicion. But he didn't. Hotts had done his best to sculpt that version of Julian into existence, but hadn't counted on people like Krish or Leon, whose kindnesses were real and whose words could be believed. Without them, it would have been easy. So easy. But there were hands here that held up the world.
Also hands that provided beautiful plates of pasta the likes of which the azurette hadn't seen in a year. The effort was touching, and the smell of the food caused an embarrassing gurgle from his stomach. As his diminished build probably suggested, Julian had eaten very little in prison. Not out of pickiness, but from sheer nerves. Fear had not been good for his appetite, and he worried now how his body would handle the abundance in front of him. Krish was kind to do this for him, to so completely derail his own plans, to reassure him when Julian let his worries out into the air. The last thing the mage wanted to do was appear ungrateful. Unresponsive.
"Thank you." He said it as the brunette settled beside him, fitting the fork into his hand. The words were sheepish, and the citrine of his eyes followed his friend back across the room, to the kitchen. Unaware, mostly, of how much attention he paid now to people in his vicinity. It felt normal, natural, to keep his focus primarily on Krish, even when the metal mage had put distance between them. The man was trusted, even more than Leon, who was like an older-yet-littler brother to the azurette, but it seemed reflexive to check where he'd gone just the same.
But Krish had said to eat. Krish had gone to the trouble of making the food. So he couldn't just stare at the brunette while his efforts went to waste.
The first bite was small and careful-- testing for heat, because nothing in prison had been served past room temperature-- and made the azurette hum appreciatively, eyes closing for a moment. Julian had always tried to savor things, wanting to experience them from the top to the bottom, before he'd gone away. A slow eater, the kind of person who tried to dissect a recipe with his tongue to understand what was in it, how it had been made. And that trait, it seemed, was still there. Rusty with disuse after a year of exclusively precooked meals served on plastic trays, but there.
Because he looked up again after the third bite, very serious. Solemn even.
" I know I told you I'd never say this, but this beats the pesto you made that time." Before, he meant. And it felt nice to lance through the last year, reference something beyond it, like he could stitch time together and leave that part out. Like taking in a waistline. "I know you had some already, but really. Just come here. Taste it twice-cooked, because seriously. Krish, really. We have to give Virginia Lewis ten out of ten."
He could do this. Moments like these proved it. He could be something besides dejected. Could live somewhere besides his nightmares of the last year. He could make obscure references to six hour long mini series. He was still Julian.
Just add pasta.
Ooc: Sorry for the shortness of ths. D: I wrote it on my phone before work and am now out of time, since I have to get ready. @____@
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2016 11:28 am
Krish had wet a rag to sweep around the grime on his stove top and counter. The repetitive motions of swirling his cloth in little circular gestures was oddly relaxing. The sound of Julian’s interest and reaction made his mood brighten. Because he was just so happy, to have that feeling, even if he wasn’t completely comprehending the world around him. It didn’t register fully; there was pleasure in life and Krish was just happy to feel it prickle his fingers and tighten his chest. He smiled and then paused because what had Julian said, exactly?
He was staring blankly when summoned and turned to come without really intending to listen to the rest. It sent a wave of nausea through him because that was his response to conflicting disgust that raged in the pits of his stomach and head. There was a lot to sort out. Bedding and board, the groceries, the laundry. This wasn’t a sleep-over. Julian hadn’t wanted to take a break at his apartment while he searched for a job. They couldn’t run to thrift shops at random or obsess over trinkets on store displays. There wasn’t staying up and motivating each other, one to do essays, one to master another yoga position. Julian was walking amongst the flow of life not as a simply coveted figure; the eyes that watched him did not want to spread him out, they wanted to see him chained, they wanted to see an infraction that took away perfection. And those eyes would be aimed on his associates.
Masters never changed; the flower could grow different or be spliced at budding but the dirt that nourished roots couldn’t be switched out. And children grew tree trunk anchors by the time they were in primary school. So the same could be made of slaves, that Krish was a working man at the beck and call of a man who didn’t have the knowledge of his effect on people. Could this lead to battles and scars? A joint-sentence where they hauled off to the cells attached by rings and dots like something out of Sonic Chaoticx. But his feet had crossed the water from the island and he was before Julian with an alert smile with intentions to do what was needed of him. His gagreflex was really working this time.
There were hooks in him that he knew wanted to serve. He had a complex. To fight against it was better than succumbing, lost in the downpour of uselessness fulfilled by displaying initiative and being rewarded by the praise of someone explicitly better than yourself. To be at the beck and call. He knew former slaves that worked at security posts or as bodyguards, secretaries, assistants, maids, and knew that in every one of them the crevices that yearned for release shuddered and glowed at even the smallest praise. His mind told him that he would feel even better if Julian ever allowed the waft of rage to float into his mental stream. If he ever allowed himself the chance to yell and belittle. That if Krish was there, he would take it, not cowering but soaking. It was absolutely sickening. He could feel the urge to shake on every nerve standing tall and agonizing. Why did they belong to a wreck of a man? Brown boy he used to be, then a tool, and now he had fought all these years to what? Collapse at kindness? Giving so much of himself for free. His home.
He deserved to be selfish. He deserved to question what he was doing. He deserved to feel vile.
But Julain didn’t need this. He was in a place with food, as grateful and kind as anyone could be. His friend. There needn’t be discussion of it further. The slave smiled and leaned down to take a taste of the pasta dish, craven as ever by picking up the noodles and one piece of haggard looking chicken before tossing them into his mouth. “Mm!” He tilted his head then rocked back on his heels, making a so-so gesture, all in the lips, wrinkles and head bobbing. “Alright. I see your point. Now I have something else to one up, huh?” He faked a hiss and grimaced, looking dramatically to his feet. “Another day another dish. When will my expertise finally take a break? When will the culinary heavens open up to me and accept me for my pizza-roll-stuffed-hot-pockets? When? Oh when.”
Chortling, the slave affectionately pinched Julian’s cheek and then went to the television to begin flipping through interesting material. He needed to do something for himself. Take charge. They would watch… this! A light-hearted look at the life of the Addams Family, according to Canada, and this interesting, cool syndicated television show. Off the cuff, out of the blue, and purely his idea. Krish felt better already. He relaxed backwards into the couch and watch the grey to white circle buffer. The thought of the intimacies that had just occurred on the furniture made him simmer. The knowledge of what could have happened left a burn of shame flush down his chest. To think, on the day his friend came home, to be so flippant in his treatment of the day and the people. At least it had led to his serving of pasta. And Julian’s enjoyment. That was good- that made up for it.
ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆ ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆
xxxxxxxxxnow you've got to kiss me...
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2016 8:33 pm
A long, long, long time ago, in a galaxy very far away, there was a boy named Julian, who wanted to help people. This wasn't because of an innate goodness, really, because for a long time he didn't realize how spoiled and selfish he was. The boy would help his family's slaves while they did their duties, moving from floor to floor in the vast hive of the compound. He swept and mopped and prepared ingredients for recipes, and doing those things made him feel as though the invisible layers of caste and class had dissolved, leaving him with a new family, a new set of friends. People who cared for him, and appreciated his consideration. People who taught him, and believed that he could do well if he applied himself and remained determined. The only person on the Outside of the hive who seemed to do those things was Leon, and Julian was sure that real brothers were supposed to be like the fairy was. Real brothers didn't hit or bully, even if it was supposedly for your own good. Unfortunately, Leon was only for special occasions, when the families met and affirmed social alliances. Leon was like Christmas or New Years, and for all the days on the calendar in between, the azurette wandered the rooms with the high ceilings and felt.. apart. Mother was a ghost and Father was an alien on another planet, and all his big brothers were sharks that circled far out in the ocean, swimming in to bite whenever they knew blood was in the water. There were cousins and aunts and uncles on other floors of the hive, but Julian didn't like their whispers or their stares, because in every one of them was the reminder that he wasn't what he was supposed to be. Only an Ink Mage. What an embarrassment. What a disappointment. He would rather live in the forest all the time. Maple and Willow and Birch never looked at the young sir that way. They were kind, and they were patient, and if he cried they never told him to 'grow up, Jules' like Ben did. They let him help, they gave him occupation for his child mind, and as he grew he wished he had roots, too. And when Yew was bought, he was young, but not so young that his heart hadn't been broken or his body broken in, and he was so smitten with her soft beauty and her sunkissed face and her gentle manner. And like the sun, he kissed her, too, in youthful misunderstanding. Watched her dissolve to tears, watched her delicate hands rise to her blouse and the buttons and watched her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and he had felt sick terror in those moments. Self-loathing and revulsion and the fruit of knowledge came from that tree, because only then had he understood what he was, and who. A master. To be obeyed tearfully, and thanked when he said nonono I'm sorry I never meant I would never You don't have to That isn't right and tugged the buttons closed. Thanked, for not taking advantage, for not abusing the authority he'd never even considered using. That one tearful expression of gratitude had brought down his entire world. It razed to the ground the forest he'd wanted to live in. Made him question every act of kindness, wondering if it had only been obligation. Duty. If every moment spent treating him like a person had only been coerced by the difference in status. It had opened his eyes in a way that they'd never been before, and suddenly he saw the strings that hung between every request and response. The invisible chains of protocol that made punishment possible because some people were really property, and could be bought or sold or discarded out of hand.
And although he avoided her ever after, never meeting her eyes, leaving rooms where he found her serving, Yew was the one who sent him down, out of the ivory tower where he'd been raised. She, with her tears, had put his feet on the ground and shown him the truth. For her, and for people like her, the world was a tilted gameboard. And somebody needed to bring it back to balance.Yew put him Outside, and once he was Outside Julian learned to work with his own hands. Outside, he went to Haven, and he took their punishments for his hubris, because that was fair. He was a thing that they hated, he was a master, he couldn't change that. But he could suffer for it. And he did. Down into Haven, then back to the Steps, again and again, until Maluk Avasaad's signs started to make more sense a little at a time as he glanced between hands and board through eyes gone black from the knuckles of those he wanted so badly to save. And the first time he ever met Krish D'Juan the man had been curt and a bit cold-- qualities Julian had already come to associate with a general distrust of him. But the papers changed hands and the azurette had checked in every so often, inquiring after the wellbeing of a person who, unbeknownst to him, had considered him as a possible subject for a probably pragmatic murder.
What I want is to change the world. I'm starting here, and I'm going there. So arrogant, so idealistic, he'd pointed out into the city. At those tall, tall buildings where the wealthy lived in state and others did all the work. And if one of those buildings was the one he'd been raised in, the one where a hundred trees had shaded him only because they had to, he didn't say anything about it. Even the most cursory research would have yielded the results of who he was. Julian St Jude. Well-to-do and so well-meaning. His friendship with Krish had bloomed from determination and a respect for the metal mage's desire to help others. And if, before prison, before Odin, before Hotts, before anything, the azurette had looked on the other mage and thought that he was beautiful, that was entirely inappropriate. It wasn't an issue of gender. No, not something so petty, even when all of the inkwell's experience had been couched with women, which Krish was most certainly not. He was, quicker than he might have realized it, Julian's best friend, the partner in crime for a thousand food truck heists and rambling walks through the park. He was intelligent and capable and the very heart of humor in Julian's world, but those papers had changed hands, and there were the invisible strings, and if the azurette had ever drawn his friend close to kiss him then the question would be there between them, hanging like an ax. He watched so carefully for those strings, those small suggestions that kindnesses might be obligations, might be compensations, might be something Julian had no right to, but received anyway, because of what Krish had been once and what the ink mage couldn't help being.
And so. Curiosity, and warm affection, and a deep trust, and simple attraction. And he did nothing. Other people mistook them for what they weren't, and Julian never corrected them because he was so comfortable with what they were. And he did nothing. Made his flirtations into half jests and pop culture references and waited to see how they landed. Embraced and touched casually, comfortingly, as though it were only a matter of course, but toeing that line, so careful. Anything he might have done could have been an affront or an insult, might have been mistaken as an assumption of payment due or some other display of ownership. And none of those things were meant. Julian might appreciate the heat of the sun, but he would never presume to believe that he owned it. When he said, so simply, do this, do that, he had always thought-- in his heart of hearts, so tender and fragile and easy to break-- that with his papers he had also somehow given Krish the understanding that No was well within his rights. But even in believing that, he did nothing. And the metalmancer did nothing. And Julian had taken that as answer enough.
And he had been a different person then, but a year hadn't changed that part of him. A thousand bruises and unkind touches hadn't changed it. Hotts hadn't changed it. Odin hadn't changed it, even if he'd changed everything else. Little boy blue still wanted to save the world.
But.
Julian spoke, and he didn't think enough about his words, and it didn't even register that they could have been construed as a command. It was laughable, really, the thought that he might direct anyone, tell anyone what to do. He'd spent a year in fractured silence, his voice a constant irritation to the man who'd owned him, body and mind and every other thing that there was. Claimed him and saved him and destroyed him by turns, held him and soothed him and nearly killed him, bartered or traded or sold him, or maybe simply turned his eyes away out of indifference or disinterest. So much of the azurette had been molded into another shape. In the last year, he had clung to letters from the person who settled on the couch beside him. To Krish's words about the future, which was now. Hoping that when the future came, it would double easily with the past and the Julian he'd been would take over for the Julian he'd become. There were moments when that happened, and his heart lurched with the joy of it, the comforting feeling of coming home. Krish's pinching fingers brought a smile to the face they touched, but not quite to its eyes. Leon would have understood so implicitly. This feeling of being oneself and yet being something terrible and different. Something that, no matter how you tried, could never be put back together again. At least not in the same shape it had once been.
He was a thing that would draw attention to Krish, albeit secondarily, from the angry little caim who'd been chosen for his parole officer. He was a lightning rod that would bring shock after shock down on everything the metal mage had worked so very hard to build. He would wear at the other man's morale simply by existing so imperfectly, by interrupting his life in a thousand unintentional ways. By divulging those things that crawled up his throat and needed desperately to be said. Things that would change how his friend looked at him. His best friend in the world. Not like Leon, who was the brother he'd have picked if nature had given him a choice. Krish could have been something else, once. Or maybe that was a fleck in the eye of memory. Maybe that was hindsight, twenty-twenty. Maybe that was seeing things through a very different lens, which no longer fit.
Things were done to me, and they hurt, and it was all terribly sad. But I did things, too. I manipulated people, I got people injured, sometimes almost killed. And sometimes I meant well, but sometimes I didn't, and that scares me. I wanted to tell you, because before I thought I could tell you anything in the world. And now, all I want is not to hurt you or make you sad. I don't want to repay all your kindness by disappointing you. I bounce from one extreme to the other. Have for months now. The moon comes and I curl up in a ball and I cry, Krish. All my structure is gone. I build it up as best as I can, but then I get an errant thought and it all goes over. I wonder all day long, whywhywhywhywhywhywhy, but that doesn't change it. That doesn't fix it. I stood there and I looked down at the cars and I wanted to jump, but I didn't. Why?
But he didn't say it. What he did was finish his meal, smiling softly at his plate and glancing up every now and then at the program his friend had chosen. And when he finished the food, he fought the learned instinct that told him to remain where he was until directed otherwise. Krish was not Odin. Moving through his territory wouldn't cause irritation or suspicion. Would it? No. The azurette washed his plate in the sink, eyes down on the task of cleaning until the last traces of sauce were gone. The fork followed, and then the glass, empty now of juice. Placed each item in the rack on the counter, careful and precise. He hadn't asked permission to do it, hadn't been told to. But this was not the cell, and Odin wasn't here, and although he couldn't settle on whether that was a good thing or a bad one, Julian needed to remember who he was and the rules that had applied to that person. He returned to the couch, not because that was the space allocated for him, but because his friend was on it. Settled there beside Krish, wearing the sweater he'd been loaned, bare legs folding to his own chest and secured with the ring of his arms. And slowly, very slowly, the azurette eased back. Let go of the tight curl he'd made of his spine, forcing himself to feel no concern over his fragile organs. Leaned back against the couch the way that the other mage leaned against it.
And although he'd believed once that he might never sleep again, it was only minutes before his exhausted body betrayed him.
OOC: If you like, this post could easily wrap up Julian's homecoming, unless you'd like poor Krish to be subjected to his night terrors right away. The kid is, as ever, a total mess. I also apologize for the lack of dialogue. It's in keeping with traits he took on in prison, but.. It does make for difficulty when other characters are interacting with him, especially since he bounces from one end of his emotions to the other very quickly.
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