[She lifts her gaze to focus on him. Tate witnessed her repeated attempts to flee the house, all to no avail...which only leaves her with questions of course.]
'There'?
Wh...but...how?
[I thought we were trapped.
And maybe she was okay with that. Somehow the thinnest sliver of potential suggesting otherwise makes her defensive rather than anything else, not daring yet to think of it as a good thing when she just doesn't understand.]
[In life it was more immediate. The separation between her father, mother, and herself. Easier to see how one would sooner send her away than protect her. Yet she had called for his help anyway and she's not sure what that says. Does she love her parents? She wasn't lying when she said they made her sick. Sometimes. Maybe even a lot of the time.
Worse than sick though, that lurking underneath: alone.
But the house seemed almost to want her. Or was that only Tate?
Is that?
Just us he says and she feels...
...warm even though she's dead. Warm. And...like she wants to be okay with that.
But isn't.
Not entirely.
Why is it so hard to let go...even of people she's spent the last year hating?
Her hand reaches out almost of its own accord, aiming to grasp his, as if to prove to herself they really are both here, even if it makes no sense. None of it.]
What...[She swallows a little.] What's it like?
[Never finish exploring? She pictures a house with endless doors and endless rooms, wonders if that is what he means.]
[ And Tate hesitates. Violet's thinking--that much he can tell. She's so sensitive, so much more sensitive than he is, he thinks. So he lets her ask her question and all the blonde can think about is how her meek little voice sounds like a little kitten, soft and afraid and even if violet had shouted she wasn't scared of anything Tate knows.
Because he scared her.
Because he was told to go away and that's how he ended up in that other manor, in that fucked up world. ]
It's nice. It's warm, you know. The other houses, they don't have it--they just have fire places, but we have the whole place to ourselves, almost. [ And that's a lie--a small, small lie. ]
[Her mouth twitches, as if it's remembering how to smile, which is not such an exaggeration. Somewhat of a stalled start, she listens, attentive to his words. As of yet Violet thinks of Tate's deception of life versus death in terms of what she herself had been attempting to do: protect. Other transgressions remain unawares to her own knowledge, for now, which is for the best.
In this in-between nebula, a visceral reaction could land either one of them anywhere, though they do not know it.
Letting her hand fall away from his, she rubs it up and down her own forearm, strangely comforted by the abrasions of razor marks, not because they mean anything vital now - much the opposite - but because they are a part of her. Even in death. When she swallows this time, it hurts a bit, like a jagged something scraping along her insides. She can't explain her trepidation.
Tate's voice is kind and insofar as Violet knows, chooses to notice, honest. Between Tate and her parents, it's a no brainer who's the lesser of two evils - well, three. Not that they're evil. She raises her hand to her forehead, steps back, her voice still quiet as ever.]
You sound like you know it pretty well.
Been there...a while, huh?
[If her tone takes on a hesitant lilt, she cannot help it; last she knew, Tate was with her in the bedroom, sitting on the floor like the only friend she'd ever known. Ever has.]
No--no, but I need you, Violet. [ Her hand dropped but that doesn't stop Tate from leaning forward, from moving to push her hair behind her ears. Tate craves touch, craves the feeling of being needed, wanted. Violet gave him that. ]
That's why. I miss you. [ I don't know what I'm going to do if you're not there. ]
[ What Tate perceives, what he gets out of this is not so different from Violet. The graze of fingers to her head, behind her ear, in her hair - all this is a form of acknowledgement not only admitting that she exists but, just maybe, that she has reason to do so. Her eyes fall shut briefly and perhaps at the last second she raises her hand again, her own fingertips barely alighting on the jut of Tate's wrist. Contact. Reality. Or is it?
At the core of her: a desire to be wanted in all the complicated and uncomplicated versions of the word. Tangled in that: an impulse to protect this boy she barely knows but who she feels might know her better than anyone else.
She swallows. How did he get there, this house he's talking about, if he really did. And how does she confirm it without doubting him out loud? When the world narrows close to just one other entity, there may be nothing more terrifying than the idea of losing that keyhole.
Opening her eyes, she lets her gaze come into focus on Tate's mouth. She can't think of any reason he'd have to lie to her - not now, anyway. ]
I'd miss you too...I think. Except...I was just with you.
That's why I'm confused.
But...
[ Her voice always a little lower than people expect, is still soft, her natural intonation and cadence something of a murmur, asking questions in pauses as much as the words themselves. ]
[ Tate can't help it. He's a poet, sure, the heart of a Byronic hero, but Violet's always had such a way with words, such a way with thoughts and feelings when Tate would just lose it, would just curl into himself and cry.
That's why he needs Violet, he thinks, and no sooner than Violet had touched his wrist with the scars that he can't get rid of than he has her in a tight embrace. He doesn't want to let her go because where he comes from, there's no feather-light touches, no unsure questions--just 'go away' and Violet calling him nothing but darkness.
He savours this moment, tries not to cry. It's hard, and he buries his face in her neck. ]
You'll get a mirror--and I'll ask the Faerie queen if you can stay where I can stay, too. Not where the rest of them are. Okay? It'll be real easy, I'll fix everything for you.
[ This is how they fit: not a lock and a key so much as need to need, perfectly imperfectly suited. Adages come from truths usually; like this one: ignorance is bliss. Much of what happens here can happen only in the invisibility of what Violet does not yet know. For as things are now, she is nowhere near telling the arms around her to go away.
One of her hands pushes into his hair, runs fingers through it in some semblance of soothing the frenzied thing she knows is part of him, even if she can't quite understand it. The other hand rests at his back, curled into a meaningless fist against his spine. Violet is opposites - softs and hards threaded together in a way that on many faces can be written off as typical of being a teenager. But always there is a bit more under things already taken for granted.
If Tate is a Byronic hero's heart, Violet is the wishful ink, trying to write a world for them to fit into. Where and when she is from, she has already begun to think of Death as that place, Death as a home, less surprised than others would be to find that Death can love you. Just as much as life.
With her face pressed to his chest, she breathes him in, strokes her fingers across his scalp a little harder when he promises to fix everything for her. She speaks before she thinks, ] You shouldn't make such big promises.
[ She leans back just enough, still in his frame, to peer up at him - that keen, awareness to her eyes most often dulled by the blinds of her hair. ]
You don't mean...a real...'Faerie' queen...do you?
[ But considering ghosts, Violet is hardly closed off to the idea. She just has to ask. Maybe it comes of being the child of parents who never ask anything at all. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
screeching come into my arms
/runs into! testing her out circa end of episode 10
Unless she plans on bringing the house with her, it won't happen.
[She pauses, eyes dropping to the floor, her arms crossed, because she's not sure how they're 'here' either - or where 'here' even is.]
no subject
I know a place. I'm there right now and there's a house--it's not the house but we can stay there. Together.
no subject
'There'?
Wh...but...how?
[I thought we were trapped.
And maybe she was okay with that. Somehow the thinnest sliver of potential suggesting otherwise makes her defensive rather than anything else, not daring yet to think of it as a good thing when she just doesn't understand.]
no subject
We'll be together, Violet. Again.
no subject
Is it haunted too? I mean...besides you...
[And maybe me, she thinks but doesn't say.]
no subject
no subject
Worse than sick though, that lurking underneath: alone.
But the house seemed almost to want her. Or was that only Tate?
Is that?
Just us he says and she feels...
...warm even though she's dead. Warm. And...like she wants to be okay with that.
But isn't.
Not entirely.
Why is it so hard to let go...even of people she's spent the last year hating?
Her hand reaches out almost of its own accord, aiming to grasp his, as if to prove to herself they really are both here, even if it makes no sense. None of it.]
What...[She swallows a little.] What's it like?
[Never finish exploring? She pictures a house with endless doors and endless rooms, wonders if that is what he means.]
no subject
Because he scared her.
Because he was told to go away and that's how he ended up in that other manor, in that fucked up world. ]
It's nice. It's warm, you know. The other houses, they don't have it--they just have fire places, but we have the whole place to ourselves, almost. [ And that's a lie--a small, small lie. ]
no subject
In this in-between nebula, a visceral reaction could land either one of them anywhere, though they do not know it.
Letting her hand fall away from his, she rubs it up and down her own forearm, strangely comforted by the abrasions of razor marks, not because they mean anything vital now - much the opposite - but because they are a part of her. Even in death. When she swallows this time, it hurts a bit, like a jagged something scraping along her insides. She can't explain her trepidation.
Tate's voice is kind and insofar as Violet knows, chooses to notice, honest. Between Tate and her parents, it's a no brainer who's the lesser of two evils - well, three. Not that they're evil. She raises her hand to her forehead, steps back, her voice still quiet as ever.]
You sound like you know it pretty well.
Been there...a while, huh?
[If her tone takes on a hesitant lilt, she cannot help it; last she knew, Tate was with her in the bedroom, sitting on the floor like the only friend she'd ever known. Ever has.]
no subject
That's why. I miss you. [ I don't know what I'm going to do if you're not there. ]
no subject
At the core of her: a desire to be wanted in all the complicated and uncomplicated versions of the word. Tangled in that: an impulse to protect this boy she barely knows but who she feels might know her better than anyone else.
She swallows. How did he get there, this house he's talking about, if he really did. And how does she confirm it without doubting him out loud? When the world narrows close to just one other entity, there may be nothing more terrifying than the idea of losing that keyhole.
Opening her eyes, she lets her gaze come into focus on Tate's mouth. She can't think of any reason he'd have to lie to her - not now, anyway. ]
I'd miss you too...I think. Except...I was just with you.
That's why I'm confused.
But...
[ Her voice always a little lower than people expect, is still soft, her natural intonation and cadence something of a murmur, asking questions in pauses as much as the words themselves. ]
How do I find you?
[ There. Anywhere not the house. ]
no subject
That's why he needs Violet, he thinks, and no sooner than Violet had touched his wrist with the scars that he can't get rid of than he has her in a tight embrace. He doesn't want to let her go because where he comes from, there's no feather-light touches, no unsure questions--just 'go away' and Violet calling him nothing but darkness.
He savours this moment, tries not to cry. It's hard, and he buries his face in her neck. ]
You'll get a mirror--and I'll ask the Faerie queen if you can stay where I can stay, too. Not where the rest of them are. Okay? It'll be real easy, I'll fix everything for you.
no subject
One of her hands pushes into his hair, runs fingers through it in some semblance of soothing the frenzied thing she knows is part of him, even if she can't quite understand it. The other hand rests at his back, curled into a meaningless fist against his spine. Violet is opposites - softs and hards threaded together in a way that on many faces can be written off as typical of being a teenager. But always there is a bit more under things already taken for granted.
If Tate is a Byronic hero's heart, Violet is the wishful ink, trying to write a world for them to fit into. Where and when she is from, she has already begun to think of Death as that place, Death as a home, less surprised than others would be to find that Death can love you. Just as much as life.
With her face pressed to his chest, she breathes him in, strokes her fingers across his scalp a little harder when he promises to fix everything for her. She speaks before she thinks, ] You shouldn't make such big promises.
[ She leans back just enough, still in his frame, to peer up at him - that keen, awareness to her eyes most often dulled by the blinds of her hair. ]
You don't mean...a real...'Faerie' queen...do you?
[ But considering ghosts, Violet is hardly closed off to the idea. She just has to ask. Maybe it comes of being the child of parents who never ask anything at all. ]
so sorry this took so late