But his wavering is human - human, because his decayed heart tells him it doesn't matter. Let Ginger be upset, just for the moment - it will pass, he will alive, and he will be fine.
And he will be alive because Mika will have removed every threat to Ginger's life prior. )
... If I can do right by him, then I will. I've done it for Yuu-chan, and I'd do it for Ginger. My life isn't worth much, but it is worth that.
( But even now, in the faint stirrings of his heart, he remembers what Ginger had said: that he wouldn't set Mika's weight down. That maybe Ginger wouldn't just get over him - that Mika's memory might be a weight too heavy to carry.
[Carefully, carefully, his hand slips for his wand. His pulse still moves, a tip to the caution as well as the fear, prey with their ears up and their attention forward.]
How is that doing right by him?
How is that doing right by anything other than your own fear, Mika? You can find ways to work with him, but this isn't it.
This isn't about Ginger. This has not been about Ginger. I am worried about you right now.
( Solomon's tension feeds into his own as if theirs was a heartbeat shared, and he doesn't miss the slight movement toward his wand, his eyesight perfect in the dark.
I'm not going to allow you to hurt me, and I'm not going to allow you to leave this room if you cannot get a hold of yourself. But I would be a monster if I let you hurt yourself.
[The part of him that sees the human, the part of him that is watching it wither and wondering what is merciful.]
If there's anything that makes him falter - more than even his uncertainty over which path is best for Ginger, by his own bloody hands - it's this word, which, when from the lips of another, lands like a stake to the heart.
( While it's hard to say if it makes Mika any less agitated, it reroutes his anxieties a different way - one that seems to, for the time being, deprive him of his hostility - hobbled by a different sort of torment.
... )
... I can't do anything.
( A final, frustrated confession - not a threat, not a cool word from a fanged maw. Just hurt. Being alive hurts.
If there is anything that being a vampire allows you, it is a desperation for the death you were forever denied. )
He doesn't let his grip go on his wand at first. He keeps himself steady, stable, bracing.
As Mika's emotions crumple into themselves in fragile cracks and crevices, his heartbeat finally starts to slow. Intentional breaths.
...
He keeps his steps cautious. But he will carefully close the distance, letting his wand go back into hiding, letting his hand rest, very gently, on the top of Mika's head.
Being alive truly, truly hurts. There's nothing he can do to take that away, for Mika or for himself.]
I believe you can. [It's quiet.]
Just don't lose yourself before you see what you can do.
He doesn't accept the touch, because he doesn't deserve it, but he doesn't reject it, either, even if Solomon is someone uncertain. He's just... feeling a lot, and so the gesture lands without the usual chilliness Mika might use as a divider, a defense. )
( Krul had pet his head like this before - he hadn't been sure how to take it then, either. But... he's exhausted, too, and in this moment, it doesn't feel terrible, despite everything.
But in some way, understanding can hurt, when you're so certain you don't deserve it. )
... Okay.
( Mika will pull away and trail toward the couch recessed into a wooden frame. It could serve as a bed, and only these past few nights has he somewhat used it like one (to curl up in, not to sleep) - there's a set of abandoned blankets he pushes aside as he climbs onto it.
The small table with two chairs seems a more natural choice for guests, but Mika simply ignores it. )
[He doesn't mind - Ibuki preferred the bed, too. Comfort wasn't something he would deny. Not right now.
He settles himself, and starts to weave a tale.
--
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a king.
This king was visited by a strange old man. The man had only half of everything. Half of a head, half of a body, half of his arms and legs.
"Who are you?" asked the king.
"I am death's messenger", said the half-man, "and I have come to take your soul."
The king was frightened. "It's far too soon!" he answered. "I beg you to give me seven years' grace so that I can prepare myself!"
The half-man fell quiet for a moment, and then said: "So be it. I will pardon you. But I am the only one who can choose the moment you must go. Know that you will see me again, between tomorrow and the end of the seventh year. You will not know when. You will not know how."
He went on his way, and the king wept.
The king ordered a solid fort to be built for him, surrounded by seven deep trenches, and a rampart defending its inner walls. A leaded iron door blocked the entrance, to where he had a small palace meant only for him, with only one small window as an opening to the outside, out which he never looked. There, he thought, he could protect himself from the threat of death.
He said to his porters and chamberlains, his servants and soldiers, "Don't let anyone in to see me! I mean no one!"
After one year had passed, his wife tried to come to see him. She couldn't get past the iron doors, and was turned away despite her weeping.
In the third year of his captivity, his daughter who he loved very much also came. She was also not allowed admission, no matter how she begged.
In the fourth, it was his son, in whom he held immense pride, who received the same treatment.
One day, during the seventh year, the half-man suddenly reappeared in front of the king, to his agony. "How did you get here?" the king demanded. "Who let you in???"
The half-man answered, "I go where I choose, and when I choose."
The king, enraged, called his porters and chamberlains, his servants and soldiers. "Why have you allowed this man in? Were you not instructed to not let anyone in?"
Those under his care swore they had never admitted such a man. "But, sire", they said, "Truth be told, these seven years we have seen your wife who wept for you, your much-loved daughter who pleaded, and your son in whom you are very proud. But we have kept your gates seals, and their locks guarded."
And so, the half-man said to the king, "A wall is nothing to me. Neither battlements, nor ramparts, nor ditches."
"What do you want?" asked the king. "To take your soul," said the man. "Is it necessary?" asked the king. "Yes," said the man. "But where will I be when you take my soul?" asked the king.
"Nowhere," said the man, "Except in the tomb you have created."
The king protested. "I never built any tomb! I built a mighty rampart with seven trenches! I built an iron door and a palace for myself!"
The half-man looked, with his single eye that saw all, and at last replied, "This palace is your tomb. This bed you lie on is one that you have made for yourself to lie in these last seven years. In fleeing me so, you have not escaped death. You have only wasted life."
The king looked at the half-man. He thought of his wife who had wept for him. He thought of his much-loved daughter. He thought of his son, in whom he still was so very proud.
He looked to the window for the first time in seven years. He saw a mountain, topped with snow, that he'd never seen before. He'd never touched snow. His heart yearned for it, beyond his fear. But he could not take it back.
So he laid down, and wept for his loss as his breath left his body, in the tomb of his own making.]
I think it's a possibility, just like anything else.
[He leans against his knees, his hands gently folded in front of him as his head tilts to look at Mika.]
Fear makes us into a lot of different things. It's a hungry wolf that demands we feed it. It tells us "never". It tells us "only". It tells us "always". And we feed it our time, our dreams, our decisions, because the fear feels so much larger if we don't.
I don't think it's wrong to be frightened. It's the heart's way of saying "I want to live." But you cannot let fear devour so much that your entire life, however long it lasts, becomes a tomb instead of a treasure.
... I don't know. It doesn't feel like enough. I feel like I need someone to hurt me. To yell at me for all the things I've done wrong and tell me how ugly I am. But...
( His head... sinks between his knees, his fingers running through his hair. )
Dangerous, at times, and not always at fault of your own. Stubborn. Maybe gloomy.
But not terrible.
[...]
If someone truly did that, and still forgave you, do you think you would believe it? Or would it just be further proof for your punishment to continue?
[Because he sincerely doesn't know if what Mika wants is actually forgiveness. Would he know it if it came to him? Would he even be willing to take it?]
... Probably. But I'd thank them... if they forgave me. If they punished me more.
( He... falls quiet, then. Thinking about what Solomon's said; thinking about... )
... But I feel a little better with Ginger.
( Is this healthy? Arguably. Arguably not. Ginger's easy to drown in. It's easy to forget about himself. He still feels guilty, but Ginger is a lot - more overwhelming than his own thoughts are, sometimes.
... Ginger would never do anything bad to me. ( Drain him dry, or whatever else. ) Don't say that. And don't say "despite." He is a kind person. If mean his heritage, you don't know what you're talking about.
Okay, so Solomon knows stuff, too. He wonders if Solomon is on Ginger's list of friends... )
... Is there a way to help him feel better? I try to think about it like my situation, but there's no fixing how I feel about me. But I want to help him.
( He says this without thinking twice about the hypocrisy of the sentiment, )
( He won't respond to the first thing Solomon says just yet, because - he doesn't want to believe there's nothing he can do for Ginger. But such is Mika's constant struggle - not being able to control Ginger's life (for the better) - and what Solomon's trying to tell him to ease off of. )
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cw: suicidal ideation talk to be safe until they're done with this topic
That is what gets Solomon's pulse to finally quicken.]
Mika. You're not thinking rationally. If you care about him, think very, very carefully about what you're saying. Think about how he reacted.
I know you're very, very scared. But this isn't a solution.
cw: suicidal ideation jic
So now you care about him?
( He nearly hisses, the sound almost bestial.
But his wavering is human - human, because his decayed heart tells him it doesn't matter. Let Ginger be upset, just for the moment - it will pass, he will alive, and he will be fine.
And he will be alive because Mika will have removed every threat to Ginger's life prior. )
... If I can do right by him, then I will. I've done it for Yuu-chan, and I'd do it for Ginger. My life isn't worth much, but it is worth that.
( But even now, in the faint stirrings of his heart, he remembers what Ginger had said: that he wouldn't set Mika's weight down. That maybe Ginger wouldn't just get over him - that Mika's memory might be a weight too heavy to carry.
But if not this, what else could he do? )
cw: suicidal ideation jic
How is that doing right by him?
How is that doing right by anything other than your own fear, Mika? You can find ways to work with him, but this isn't it.
This isn't about Ginger. This has not been about Ginger. I am worried about you right now.
cw: suicidal ideation jic
He narrows his eyes, quiet - the air taut. )
... Then what are you getting your wand for?
( His own hand on his rapier, gaze still. )
cw: suicidal ideation jic
I'm not going to allow you to hurt me, and I'm not going to allow you to leave this room if you cannot get a hold of yourself. But I would be a monster if I let you hurt yourself.
[The part of him that sees the human, the part of him that is watching it wither and wondering what is merciful.]
So I need you to calm down. Okay?
/2 cw: suicidal ideation jic
If there's anything that makes him falter - more than even his uncertainty over which path is best for Ginger, by his own bloody hands - it's this word, which, when from the lips of another, lands like a stake to the heart.
Ah... )
cw: suicidal ideation
... )
... I can't do anything.
( A final, frustrated confession - not a threat, not a cool word from a fanged maw. Just hurt. Being alive hurts.
If there is anything that being a vampire allows you, it is a desperation for the death you were forever denied. )
... I just... want to save someone, for once.
no subject
He doesn't let his grip go on his wand at first. He keeps himself steady, stable, bracing.
As Mika's emotions crumple into themselves in fragile cracks and crevices, his heartbeat finally starts to slow. Intentional breaths.
...
He keeps his steps cautious. But he will carefully close the distance, letting his wand go back into hiding, letting his hand rest, very gently, on the top of Mika's head.
Being alive truly, truly hurts. There's nothing he can do to take that away, for Mika or for himself.]
I believe you can. [It's quiet.]
Just don't lose yourself before you see what you can do.
no subject
He doesn't accept the touch, because he doesn't deserve it, but he doesn't reject it, either, even if Solomon is someone uncertain. He's just... feeling a lot, and so the gesture lands without the usual chilliness Mika might use as a divider, a defense. )
... I don't know if I have that much time.
( His limit, whenever that comes. )
no subject
My statement still stands.
[His thumb strokes gently. An acknowledgement of the overwhelmed boy, not of the monster.]
Here. Sit with me for a moment. I have a story to tell you.
no subject
But in some way, understanding can hurt, when you're so certain you don't deserve it. )
... Okay.
( Mika will pull away and trail toward the couch recessed into a wooden frame. It could serve as a bed, and only these past few nights has he somewhat used it like one (to curl up in, not to sleep) - there's a set of abandoned blankets he pushes aside as he climbs onto it.
The small table with two chairs seems a more natural choice for guests, but Mika simply ignores it. )
no subject
He settles himself, and starts to weave a tale.
--
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a king.
This king was visited by a strange old man. The man had only half of everything. Half of a head, half of a body, half of his arms and legs.
"Who are you?" asked the king.
"I am death's messenger", said the half-man, "and I have come to take your soul."
The king was frightened. "It's far too soon!" he answered. "I beg you to give me seven years' grace so that I can prepare myself!"
The half-man fell quiet for a moment, and then said: "So be it. I will pardon you. But I am the only one who can choose the moment you must go. Know that you will see me again, between tomorrow and the end of the seventh year. You will not know when. You will not know how."
He went on his way, and the king wept.
The king ordered a solid fort to be built for him, surrounded by seven deep trenches, and a rampart defending its inner walls. A leaded iron door blocked the entrance, to where he had a small palace meant only for him, with only one small window as an opening to the outside, out which he never looked. There, he thought, he could protect himself from the threat of death.
He said to his porters and chamberlains, his servants and soldiers, "Don't let anyone in to see me! I mean no one!"
After one year had passed, his wife tried to come to see him. She couldn't get past the iron doors, and was turned away despite her weeping.
In the third year of his captivity, his daughter who he loved very much also came. She was also not allowed admission, no matter how she begged.
In the fourth, it was his son, in whom he held immense pride, who received the same treatment.
One day, during the seventh year, the half-man suddenly reappeared in front of the king, to his agony. "How did you get here?" the king demanded. "Who let you in???"
The half-man answered, "I go where I choose, and when I choose."
The king, enraged, called his porters and chamberlains, his servants and soldiers. "Why have you allowed this man in? Were you not instructed to not let anyone in?"
Those under his care swore they had never admitted such a man. "But, sire", they said, "Truth be told, these seven years we have seen your wife who wept for you, your much-loved daughter who pleaded, and your son in whom you are very proud. But we have kept your gates seals, and their locks guarded."
And so, the half-man said to the king, "A wall is nothing to me. Neither battlements, nor ramparts, nor ditches."
"What do you want?" asked the king.
"To take your soul," said the man.
"Is it necessary?" asked the king.
"Yes," said the man.
"But where will I be when you take my soul?" asked the king.
"Nowhere," said the man, "Except in the tomb you have created."
The king protested. "I never built any tomb! I built a mighty rampart with seven trenches! I built an iron door and a palace for myself!"
The half-man looked, with his single eye that saw all, and at last replied, "This palace is your tomb. This bed you lie on is one that you have made for yourself to lie in these last seven years. In fleeing me so, you have not escaped death. You have only wasted life."
The king looked at the half-man. He thought of his wife who had wept for him. He thought of his much-loved daughter. He thought of his son, in whom he still was so very proud.
He looked to the window for the first time in seven years. He saw a mountain, topped with snow, that he'd never seen before. He'd never touched snow. His heart yearned for it, beyond his fear. But he could not take it back.
So he laid down, and wept for his loss as his breath left his body, in the tomb of his own making.]
no subject
When the tale is done, he is quiet for a time, before he eventually asks: )
... Do you think I'm the king, then, in this story? Hiding away from the inevitable?
no subject
[He leans against his knees, his hands gently folded in front of him as his head tilts to look at Mika.]
Fear makes us into a lot of different things. It's a hungry wolf that demands we feed it. It tells us "never". It tells us "only". It tells us "always". And we feed it our time, our dreams, our decisions, because the fear feels so much larger if we don't.
I don't think it's wrong to be frightened. It's the heart's way of saying "I want to live." But you cannot let fear devour so much that your entire life, however long it lasts, becomes a tomb instead of a treasure.
no subject
... But it's not my life at stake. It's always someone else's. Every time I fail to think ahead, they're the ones put in danger.
( Mika closes his eyes... )
... I don't mind becoming a tomb for them. I just... want to be the one to pay the price for once, for my carelessness.
( And in some adjacent way, what he really says here is this: I want to be punished. )
no subject
No price you pay will bring any peace for how low you place yourself.
It doesn't take a keen eye to see that you're miserable, Mika. You've already had enough taken. And you're looking death in the face every moment.
Isn't this punishment enough?
[Why does he think he could possibly need more?]
cw: effectively fantasizing about flagellation
( His head... sinks between his knees, his fingers running through his hair. )
... Then I want them to forgive me.
( He wants them to love him.
... )
I'm terrible.
no subject
Dangerous, at times, and not always at fault of your own. Stubborn. Maybe gloomy.
But not terrible.
[...]
If someone truly did that, and still forgave you, do you think you would believe it? Or would it just be further proof for your punishment to continue?
[Because he sincerely doesn't know if what Mika wants is actually forgiveness. Would he know it if it came to him? Would he even be willing to take it?]
no subject
... I don't know.
( ... An exhale. And then, more wryly: )
... Probably. But I'd thank them... if they forgave me. If they punished me more.
( He... falls quiet, then. Thinking about what Solomon's said; thinking about... )
... But I feel a little better with Ginger.
( Is this healthy? Arguably. Arguably not. Ginger's easy to drown in. It's easy to forget about himself. He still feels guilty, but Ginger is a lot - more overwhelming than his own thoughts are, sometimes.
Whether blood or a bottle, maybe that's enough. )
no subject
So long as you're being careful. Ginger is a very kind soul despite what he struggles with, and he cares about your well being very much.
I just worry that the two of you might drain each other dry in your attempts to protect each other. You're both very similar, in that regard.
no subject
... Ginger would never do anything bad to me. ( Drain him dry, or whatever else. ) Don't say that. And don't say "despite." He is a kind person. If mean his heritage, you don't know what you're talking about.
no subject
I didn't say he wasn't kind, Mika.
I just know, very well, that the struggle he faces is a very hard one, even for full-blooded demons. Just like you struggle with your own state now.
no subject
Okay, so Solomon knows stuff, too. He wonders if Solomon is on Ginger's list of friends... )
... Is there a way to help him feel better? I try to think about it like my situation, but there's no fixing how I feel about me. But I want to help him.
( He says this without thinking twice about the hypocrisy of the sentiment, )
no subject
[The similarities are striking. One just exists on a much more emotional plane than the other, in Solomon's eyes.]
I don't know. His realm of life is more familiar to me than yours. But the only things I could offer him are not things he would take lightly.
no subject
... Like what?
( He won't respond to the first thing Solomon says just yet, because - he doesn't want to believe there's nothing he can do for Ginger. But such is Mika's constant struggle - not being able to control Ginger's life (for the better) - and what Solomon's trying to tell him to ease off of. )
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