They think he is going soft, and once upon a time Wander would have agreed with them.
Now, he isn't sure what to think. He knows that the rumors are untrue: he did not fall to his knees at the sight of acid-green eyes, or a ragged hoodie. He is under no enchantment, has fallen to no wiles, and the strumming of an acoustic guitar is no more hypnotizing to him than any other music he's heard. All-in-all, he feels exactly the same.
He eats better now, which is startling to realize in the middle of a seldom eaten breakfast. Having company, having someone to feed, ensures that he has made a habit of joining in. He sleeps better as well; the nightmares that have been in his thoughts for the majority of his life are not gone, but arms wrapped around him when he jolts awake in terror, shaking in the darkness of the bedroom and only able to see space in all its vastness...being held lets him eventually close his eyes again. His sleep is not untroubled, but at least he is sleeping.
Little things have changed: he is used to being touched now. Sometimes he even craves it. A hand to his shoulder, the gentle weight of claws trailing through his brittle fur. He is still unable to have his personal space crowded, but his limits are expanding ever so slowly.
He no longer dyes his fur. It's broken and sharp, straw-like. It's been that way for a very long time. The color is muted and stained, but it is orange like he remembers, and leaving it clean means that his arms and back are absently stroked in the evening. Sometimes it means long, slow kisses.
There is still a streak of sadism in him, but it all seems...absorbed. It is redirected, drained from him in sheets and the warm way that red colors bone. Low sounds of desperate pleasure in his ear, hanging on his every word. Trembling limbs under his fingers, winding around his chest and trying to cling to consciousness until that last second when resolves gives way. He's seen white and black and green coated in startled tears and heard shaky words that all but worship him. Kissed his pet dry and clean again, and then kept going until the tremors returned and he's never been one to kneel but the bend of a spine and the way hands clench and the body spasms...
He wants different things now. A world that isn't dark and empty and suffocating him is suddenly within his reach. Something fills it, and if he had a name for it, he'd bottle it up and label it and keep it. It can't leave now, if he lets it go, it will never come back, he knows it he knows.
Faced with a choice, the ray gun shaking in his head and his mind screaming, it takes every ounce of strength in him to not show the struggle on his face.
Hater edges forward, staying between the barrel and the Zbornak. The gun slides from Wander's grip, and with it goes everything he has. He is unarmed and despite being in a room filled to the brim with Watchdogs, he feels more alone than he has felt in a lifetime. He can feel it, that he is going to fall the minute Hater steps away and in so short a time he has become used to Hater catching him. Instead of arms there are lips, and Wander does his best to cling to him please don't leave me you can't you can't leave me please.
He slips between Wander's fingers like smoke, and without orders, the WatchDogs let them go.
The walk back to his room is a neverending series of forcing one foot to lift after another, but he cannot stop, cannot falter, if he lets himself go too then he won't get up again. If he makes it inside, he might be able to pick up the pieces of himself again, patch the holes and come back with more of what he's somehow been drained of, more than ever. He will be cruel, he will be monstrous and instead of begging, he will take.
His legs buckle outside the door and he doesn't even have the strength to scream.
The cloak gives him no warmth but he curls into it, winds it around his fingers until it chokes him and cuts off the circulation to his hands. His vision is spinning, but he cannot cry. He hasn't cried since the last time he saw his mother's smile. More than anything, he wants tears to prove that there is something inside him even now, even if it is only how much he hates himself.
The cold of the tile falls away, replaced by arms and the dull pulse of magic.
Wander goes stiff, then takes a shuddering breath that he doesn't even manage to hold before the walls crumble. The sobs are dry, and his whole body aches after each one; he feels like an idiot, wailing without restraint into a shoulder, but his hands won't stop pulling at the fabric of Hater's sleeves, trying to keep him as close as possible. He hurts and he is falling apart but there are hands piecing him back together at the same time.
They move to either side of his face, cradle him until he can draw air without heaving, and Wander realizes they are in his bed, covers drawn to his throat, and Hater is watching him. Bright green eyes blink, mouth splits into a smile, and Wander realizes that the problem isn't that he's gone soft. He always knew that he was broken.
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timeasmymeasure
fill: . shatter (warning: quite a bit of angst and a drop of self-loathing)
Date: 2013-09-21 09:22 pm (UTC)Now, he isn't sure what to think. He knows that the rumors are untrue: he did not fall to his knees at the sight of acid-green eyes, or a ragged hoodie. He is under no enchantment, has fallen to no wiles, and the strumming of an acoustic guitar is no more hypnotizing to him than any other music he's heard. All-in-all, he feels exactly the same.
He eats better now, which is startling to realize in the middle of a seldom eaten breakfast. Having company, having someone to feed, ensures that he has made a habit of joining in. He sleeps better as well; the nightmares that have been in his thoughts for the majority of his life are not gone, but arms wrapped around him when he jolts awake in terror, shaking in the darkness of the bedroom and only able to see space in all its vastness...being held lets him eventually close his eyes again. His sleep is not untroubled, but at least he is sleeping.
Little things have changed: he is used to being touched now. Sometimes he even craves it. A hand to his shoulder, the gentle weight of claws trailing through his brittle fur. He is still unable to have his personal space crowded, but his limits are expanding ever so slowly.
He no longer dyes his fur. It's broken and sharp, straw-like. It's been that way for a very long time. The color is muted and stained, but it is orange like he remembers, and leaving it clean means that his arms and back are absently stroked in the evening. Sometimes it means long, slow kisses.
There is still a streak of sadism in him, but it all seems...absorbed. It is redirected, drained from him in sheets and the warm way that red colors bone. Low sounds of desperate pleasure in his ear, hanging on his every word. Trembling limbs under his fingers, winding around his chest and trying to cling to consciousness until that last second when resolves gives way. He's seen white and black and green coated in startled tears and heard shaky words that all but worship him. Kissed his pet dry and clean again, and then kept going until the tremors returned and he's never been one to kneel but the bend of a spine and the way hands clench and the body spasms...
He wants different things now. A world that isn't dark and empty and suffocating him is suddenly within his reach. Something fills it, and if he had a name for it, he'd bottle it up and label it and keep it. It can't leave now, if he lets it go, it will never come back, he knows it he knows.
Faced with a choice, the ray gun shaking in his head and his mind screaming, it takes every ounce of strength in him to not show the struggle on his face.
Hater edges forward, staying between the barrel and the Zbornak. The gun slides from Wander's grip, and with it goes everything he has. He is unarmed and despite being in a room filled to the brim with Watchdogs, he feels more alone than he has felt in a lifetime. He can feel it, that he is going to fall the minute Hater steps away and in so short a time he has become used to Hater catching him. Instead of arms there are lips, and Wander does his best to cling to him please don't leave me you can't you can't leave me please.
He slips between Wander's fingers like smoke, and without orders, the WatchDogs let them go.
The walk back to his room is a neverending series of forcing one foot to lift after another, but he cannot stop, cannot falter, if he lets himself go too then he won't get up again. If he makes it inside, he might be able to pick up the pieces of himself again, patch the holes and come back with more of what he's somehow been drained of, more than ever. He will be cruel, he will be monstrous and instead of begging, he will take.
His legs buckle outside the door and he doesn't even have the strength to scream.
The cloak gives him no warmth but he curls into it, winds it around his fingers until it chokes him and cuts off the circulation to his hands. His vision is spinning, but he cannot cry. He hasn't cried since the last time he saw his mother's smile. More than anything, he wants tears to prove that there is something inside him even now, even if it is only how much he hates himself.
The cold of the tile falls away, replaced by arms and the dull pulse of magic.
Wander goes stiff, then takes a shuddering breath that he doesn't even manage to hold before the walls crumble. The sobs are dry, and his whole body aches after each one; he feels like an idiot, wailing without restraint into a shoulder, but his hands won't stop pulling at the fabric of Hater's sleeves, trying to keep him as close as possible. He hurts and he is falling apart but there are hands piecing him back together at the same time.
They move to either side of his face, cradle him until he can draw air without heaving, and Wander realizes they are in his bed, covers drawn to his throat, and Hater is watching him. Bright green eyes blink, mouth splits into a smile, and Wander realizes that the problem isn't that he's gone soft. He always knew that he was broken.
"I said I was coming back."
This is what being fixed feels like.