#i went a little pretentious and crazy w this cuz i don't feel like it's possible to write peter any other way

[spirestar]

Being a million tiny pieces of nothing is a taxing job. Living a little life in each mote and cell, every invisible creature inside a drop of blood and each drop of blood in a stream and all the little bugs that aren't bugs at all that creep inside veins and sleep. There is nothing but the big vat of it all, of life, of living and wishing for dying and living too many times to count. Laughter inside of paper walls that glow like a candle in a lover's window. All the little creatures never go quiet under skin, always with their cicada wings rubbing noisily and their crying, mourning, sobbing. It makes the one they live inside's head feel like it may burst---And here's the doctor to diagnose them, to call them imagination and call them liars. In the warm, gentle arms of twyrine Peter can't hear them, not so much; If every dream of that wretched miracle is a song, he will hear them, but by the god that is his brother and his own hands made one, he wishes they'd leave him alone.

"You just ran into the wall. It's time to lie down." That voice swims in his ears for longer than he realizes, reverberating off the wide walls of center stage. The Bachelor, cast in a halo of light, a beam overhead blazing into the back of his head. And Peter is only backlit, a veritable shadow where he's landed / crashed / fallen to the wooden floor. Where is the wall? Where is his pen? Peter has seen angels in his sleep, has been sung to and flayed and used to create whatever masterpieces they deigned, but never has he touched one in a waking hour; He blinks blearily, the light too hot and bright in his face.

There's a hand on his arm--helping him up?--and that dingy orange light of his brother's watering hole has returned. Iron stings his tongue, thicker than ichor, and he laughs. Helpless. The world is a swirl of nothing at all, the same the same the same, and he is the only fraying end, unspooling himself onto the floor into tangles and knots that no one will ever dare gather up to salvage. Part of Peter misses that light. Dankovsky is all human again. There's nothing more beautiful than humans, mortal and fickle and true. Nothing more terrifying than the divine they create, the divine they empower and revere. Peter should know: He can remember killing god in his sleep, or was that his shadow?

"Bachelor," he breathes, the least coherent bits of him grasping for anything other than the fellow's name. For some reason it frightens him so now. "A wall where there was none--Just picture it." For effect, and perhaps for comedy that he no longer has any grasp of but once did, he knocks a trembling hand against said wall. The one he's clearly left him mark on, if the blood on it is any proof. His nose maybe? He can't really feel the source. "Now, why do you think my brother would do that to me. He knows I hate a cage," a willful smile, "and a jailer. That's not you, is it? Shepherding the little sheep and diseases to sleep?" Peter leans into the arm holding him up, but not because he means to. "Have you had a drink?"

@heartinhands

#heartinhands #peter stamatin: ic. #alcoholism / #substance abuse / #suicidal ideation / #unreality / #umm. okay here's where the tagging begins #lemme know if i should tag anything else !! i'm still figuring out the best way #i went a little pretentious and crazy w this cuz i don't feel like it's possible to write peter any other way #also i'm goin for mostly classic peter but i want him to have 2's jacket because it's cool