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Jan. 27th, 2008
[MTM] January Topic: Choice
Jan. 27th, 2008 04:46 pmAny change, any loss, does not make us victims. Others can shake you, surprise you, disappoint you, but they can't prevent you from acting, from taking the situation you're presented with and moving on. No matter where you are in life, no matter what your situation, you can always do something. You always have a choice and the choice can be power. - John Donne
The nightmares still came, but he worked to ignore them as best he could, waking up in a cold sweat, leaving the bed and anyone who happened to be in it. He moved then in silent ritual, through routines, finding comfort in the familiar patterns of various kata. Old habits, old training, some forms lost but for the few who remembered them in muscle and bone and synapses. The sword, an old one if not the sword, flashed when he moved, catching the glint of fire and moon, feet quiet on honey-colored wood floors. Shirtless, heedless of the cold that blew in from empty windows in a semblance of fresh air, sweat glistening despite it, he pushed himself harder, faster, until exhaustion made his arms and legs heavy and the sun rose over brick buildings and fire escapes and glistened on new-fallen snow.
There was coffee and croissants, fresh from the bakery around the corner, buttery, flaky, sometimes filled with chocolate so he could imagine he was back in Paris. Sometimes there was company, warm arms, soft smiles, kisses and laughter, scolding about the open windows and coaxing back to bed. Sometimes the hours stretched, quiet except for the city sounds that rose up as the world came to life, and music pounded and dogs barked and he remembered either way that he wasn't alone, locked away. Not anymore.
Freedom meant more now. Every moment he had was his own, to do with as he pleased. He'd never relished it so before. Not that he hadn't been in jail for this or that in the past, but he'd never been imprisoned so long, so controlled, and by people he couldn't escape by faking his own death. The regimented control had been new. What he ate. What he wore. What he read. When he got to see the sun. Always watched, sleeping, eating, using the rest room even, like a rat in a cage. Pills and knives and electricity and he had no say in it, ever. Not even the British navy had treated him that way, and it snapped at his heels even now.
But he was free, and the scalding heat of coffee over his too cold throat proved that, sweet and bitter and denied him all that time. Every choice he made now, to stay, to go, to love, to hate, to sleep, to rise, to fuck, to read, to watch TV, to run, to go to the park, to go to Europe, to seek revenge, to learn to forgive, to find a compromise--they were all his. His responsibility. His time, his moments, his life, to do with as he willed, to reshape a renewed world from the fragmented pieces of the old, or strike the final match and let it all burn as he walked away and never looked back on the smoldering ashes.
He had the power now. Whatever he chose, he hoped they trembled as they waited. They should.
The nightmares still came, but he worked to ignore them as best he could, waking up in a cold sweat, leaving the bed and anyone who happened to be in it. He moved then in silent ritual, through routines, finding comfort in the familiar patterns of various kata. Old habits, old training, some forms lost but for the few who remembered them in muscle and bone and synapses. The sword, an old one if not the sword, flashed when he moved, catching the glint of fire and moon, feet quiet on honey-colored wood floors. Shirtless, heedless of the cold that blew in from empty windows in a semblance of fresh air, sweat glistening despite it, he pushed himself harder, faster, until exhaustion made his arms and legs heavy and the sun rose over brick buildings and fire escapes and glistened on new-fallen snow.
There was coffee and croissants, fresh from the bakery around the corner, buttery, flaky, sometimes filled with chocolate so he could imagine he was back in Paris. Sometimes there was company, warm arms, soft smiles, kisses and laughter, scolding about the open windows and coaxing back to bed. Sometimes the hours stretched, quiet except for the city sounds that rose up as the world came to life, and music pounded and dogs barked and he remembered either way that he wasn't alone, locked away. Not anymore.
Freedom meant more now. Every moment he had was his own, to do with as he pleased. He'd never relished it so before. Not that he hadn't been in jail for this or that in the past, but he'd never been imprisoned so long, so controlled, and by people he couldn't escape by faking his own death. The regimented control had been new. What he ate. What he wore. What he read. When he got to see the sun. Always watched, sleeping, eating, using the rest room even, like a rat in a cage. Pills and knives and electricity and he had no say in it, ever. Not even the British navy had treated him that way, and it snapped at his heels even now.
But he was free, and the scalding heat of coffee over his too cold throat proved that, sweet and bitter and denied him all that time. Every choice he made now, to stay, to go, to love, to hate, to sleep, to rise, to fuck, to read, to watch TV, to run, to go to the park, to go to Europe, to seek revenge, to learn to forgive, to find a compromise--they were all his. His responsibility. His time, his moments, his life, to do with as he willed, to reshape a renewed world from the fragmented pieces of the old, or strike the final match and let it all burn as he walked away and never looked back on the smoldering ashes.
He had the power now. Whatever he chose, he hoped they trembled as they waited. They should.
"There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness." - Josh Billings
He doesn't understand it, even now, watching him sleep. His face is so young in sleep, trusting. His hand rests on Adam's chest as it rises and falls, and Adam finds he is loath to move, to pull away, shifting instead to watch him. He curls close, dark hair a mess, heightening the impression of youth, though the bruises on his neck deny that truth. He isn't a child, no matter what Kensei thought at first, but a man. Young still, perhaps, though there are shadows under his eyes that were not there a year ago, longer. The brightness that sparkled in them in Japan 340 years before is gone, dead. It doesn't sparkle, even when he smiles.
He killed it, Adam thinks, knows. First Kaito, then the vault, the virus, the guilt. Hiro had almost died, almost left him, and that he pulled him back from the brink of it all matters, but maybe not enough. He changed the world, their world. Destroyed it, tore it down, and built it back up into something new. That he finds it better, fresh and clean, he knows isn't a view most take. Sorrow laces through his friends and lovers and only Peter can he hope will live long enough and finally come to see it was for the best after all. Hiro will always mourn, and deep inside him, he knows on a level where everyone else only suspects. Adam did this. He did it on purpose. He did it because of all the words between them and all the time that twisted in his head. For vengeance and salvation and anarchy into order. He did this. He killed them all, and somewhere inside of him, he knows Hiro knows, and that he does not understand how it was necessary.
And yet, still, he curls closer to him in sleep, soft hand brushing Adam's skin. Awake, he stands behind him, guarding, protecting, watching over him, pushing him toward things, people, that make him smile. He frets and makes him sleep, makes him eat, kisses him, calls him his own.
It's almost impossible to bear. He wishes, sometimes, that Hiro would scream, blame him, hurt him, leave--all the things he understands, expects. All the things he knows most would do, if not outright seek his death. He killed Hiro's father. He killed the world. And Hiro kisses him goodnight with sad eyes and a heartbreaking sweetness that hurts more than any biting words ever could.
He wonders if he knows, if that is his plan, this his conscious vengeance, because even as he pulls him closer, snuggling back down beside him and presses a kiss to Hiro's shoulder, Adam cannot believe that anyone could truly forgive him.
He doesn't understand it, even now, watching him sleep. His face is so young in sleep, trusting. His hand rests on Adam's chest as it rises and falls, and Adam finds he is loath to move, to pull away, shifting instead to watch him. He curls close, dark hair a mess, heightening the impression of youth, though the bruises on his neck deny that truth. He isn't a child, no matter what Kensei thought at first, but a man. Young still, perhaps, though there are shadows under his eyes that were not there a year ago, longer. The brightness that sparkled in them in Japan 340 years before is gone, dead. It doesn't sparkle, even when he smiles.
He killed it, Adam thinks, knows. First Kaito, then the vault, the virus, the guilt. Hiro had almost died, almost left him, and that he pulled him back from the brink of it all matters, but maybe not enough. He changed the world, their world. Destroyed it, tore it down, and built it back up into something new. That he finds it better, fresh and clean, he knows isn't a view most take. Sorrow laces through his friends and lovers and only Peter can he hope will live long enough and finally come to see it was for the best after all. Hiro will always mourn, and deep inside him, he knows on a level where everyone else only suspects. Adam did this. He did it on purpose. He did it because of all the words between them and all the time that twisted in his head. For vengeance and salvation and anarchy into order. He did this. He killed them all, and somewhere inside of him, he knows Hiro knows, and that he does not understand how it was necessary.
And yet, still, he curls closer to him in sleep, soft hand brushing Adam's skin. Awake, he stands behind him, guarding, protecting, watching over him, pushing him toward things, people, that make him smile. He frets and makes him sleep, makes him eat, kisses him, calls him his own.
It's almost impossible to bear. He wishes, sometimes, that Hiro would scream, blame him, hurt him, leave--all the things he understands, expects. All the things he knows most would do, if not outright seek his death. He killed Hiro's father. He killed the world. And Hiro kisses him goodnight with sad eyes and a heartbreaking sweetness that hurts more than any biting words ever could.
He wonders if he knows, if that is his plan, this his conscious vengeance, because even as he pulls him closer, snuggling back down beside him and presses a kiss to Hiro's shoulder, Adam cannot believe that anyone could truly forgive him.
New 'Verse/Pellam 'Verse: To be tagged "verse: 05" whenever I write prompts for it, but all structured RP will be over in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watch_overyou.
It's another AU 'verse, sort of spinning off Elle's 'verse (02) with a twist--this time the plan goes right. The Haitian is stopped from amnesia-whacking Peter, and Adam, Peter and Elle run off to Montreal together immediately after healing Nathan. Adam and Elle try to figure out a way to get Peter fully on their side, and Peter tries to figure out how to save them from themselves.
Adam/Elle, Adam/Peter, probably Peter/Elle (expect mild fits from Adam), and if the other two can convince Adam to get over his flailing about threesomes (and I fully expect them to do so *stern look*), the plan is to let them grow into Peter/Adam/Elle.
Feel free to friend the community if you'd like to watch! I'm really, really excited about this one, and Adam's positively glowing with glee. *bounces lots*
Cast/Players/Whatever:
Elle -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
not_myfirstday
Peter -its_myturn
watch_overyou.It's another AU 'verse, sort of spinning off Elle's 'verse (02) with a twist--this time the plan goes right. The Haitian is stopped from amnesia-whacking Peter, and Adam, Peter and Elle run off to Montreal together immediately after healing Nathan. Adam and Elle try to figure out a way to get Peter fully on their side, and Peter tries to figure out how to save them from themselves.
Adam/Elle, Adam/Peter, probably Peter/Elle (expect mild fits from Adam), and if the other two can convince Adam to get over his flailing about threesomes (and I fully expect them to do so *stern look*), the plan is to let them grow into Peter/Adam/Elle.
Feel free to friend the community if you'd like to watch! I'm really, really excited about this one, and Adam's positively glowing with glee. *bounces lots*
Cast/Players/Whatever:
Elle -
not_myfirstdayPeter -
its_myturn