ISKRA
The twisted satisfaction of toppling Vesper is an unfamiliar warmth that coasts through him with a terrible ease—like it knows the hollows of him already, just watching, waiting for him to finally acknowledge this portion of himself he thought did not exist. Peaceful it laughs wryly in the back of his mind, a different sort of cruelty than the whisper that tells him he can never be enough. This one, this one tells him he is too much. Their little spark? A soft, crooning question, full of too many teeth to be a smile as it calls into question his name, the basis he's been built on. A light in the dark? No—an ember to ignite, an electric pulse to destroy. He's been hiding from himself all these years in more ways than he's realized.
Not today.
Iskra glares down at the twig he's got in his grip, pushing him into the snow like he is something that can be ground away against the angles of ice and frost. The heat is smug, because he's got him exactly where he wants him, and Iskra kneels down over that stupid smile to wipe it from Vesper's skinny face one punch at a time.
There's a glint, then he's gone.
Iskra sinks deeper in the snow, briefly unbalanced as the rat beneath him squirms away with his slippery tricks. Iskra whirls, fist still cocked—too slow. That all you got? the taunt asks as it slides with a chill against his ear, too akin to his own traitorous thoughts. It burrows deeper than likely even Vesper intended, not fully aware of the dark and broken depths of the man he faces. For someone who spends most nights drinking away the ghosts of memories, Vesper feels like a manifestation of all Iskra's worst parts. He is that haze of self-hatred made real, requiring Iskra to wonder just when he'd picked up the drink today to conjure this devil. He much preferred fighting the phantoms of his past than squaring off with one of his demons.
Vesper's arm doesn't need much to push Iskra the rest of the way off balance. Iskra falls on his left side, driving against the snow with a splash of white around his elbow that flails up, angling for control and a buffer against his head and the ground. The fist of his right arm slackens, fingers spread against his right ear and the side of his face in a shield, and to bat away the fucking starry-gnat buzzing around there. The snowball sandwich looms on twisted tethers of night, one snagging his chin. He grimaces against it, trying to twist his head away, nostrils flared with the rage that sparks hotter in his veins at this forced meal and his weakness for slipping into this position at all, especially by him.
The gnat returns, it's whine grating against his brain as it settles along his ear. The insidious whisper trickles in with all the careful and capable harm of someone in love. Like rot it curls up alongside the portions of him where Melita has left a shimmer. The viscous drip of Vesper's poison splatters dark and sticky on them, dulling the shine with a crippling fear. Vesper only took the worry that was already there, plucked expertly, a taut string beneath a musician's proficient hand. "What?" Iskra demands with a mangled whisper. His resistance stutters, eyes alight with a wild desperation that overwhelms the roar of pride and brutality. He twists his gaze towards where she should still be on the playing field, yelling out about the conclusion of the game, undoubtedly disappointed in the manner with which he assisted in ruining her fun.
It can't be true, can it? She isn't here just because she has to be, is she? She told him she had to spread cheer in Ludo's name, including at Halo, but God's did that mean him too? Is he just part of her pact, a stepping stone in her demi-godhood? Makes sense the very-Vesper like part of him agrees, tempted forth by the hammering of his heart, exertion yielding to anxiety. After all, what could she ever see in someone as useless as him? He can't even win a fucking snowball fight against someone from Torchline.
Not today.
Iskra glares down at the twig he's got in his grip, pushing him into the snow like he is something that can be ground away against the angles of ice and frost. The heat is smug, because he's got him exactly where he wants him, and Iskra kneels down over that stupid smile to wipe it from Vesper's skinny face one punch at a time.
There's a glint, then he's gone.
Iskra sinks deeper in the snow, briefly unbalanced as the rat beneath him squirms away with his slippery tricks. Iskra whirls, fist still cocked—too slow. That all you got? the taunt asks as it slides with a chill against his ear, too akin to his own traitorous thoughts. It burrows deeper than likely even Vesper intended, not fully aware of the dark and broken depths of the man he faces. For someone who spends most nights drinking away the ghosts of memories, Vesper feels like a manifestation of all Iskra's worst parts. He is that haze of self-hatred made real, requiring Iskra to wonder just when he'd picked up the drink today to conjure this devil. He much preferred fighting the phantoms of his past than squaring off with one of his demons.
Vesper's arm doesn't need much to push Iskra the rest of the way off balance. Iskra falls on his left side, driving against the snow with a splash of white around his elbow that flails up, angling for control and a buffer against his head and the ground. The fist of his right arm slackens, fingers spread against his right ear and the side of his face in a shield, and to bat away the fucking starry-gnat buzzing around there. The snowball sandwich looms on twisted tethers of night, one snagging his chin. He grimaces against it, trying to twist his head away, nostrils flared with the rage that sparks hotter in his veins at this forced meal and his weakness for slipping into this position at all, especially by him.
The gnat returns, it's whine grating against his brain as it settles along his ear. The insidious whisper trickles in with all the careful and capable harm of someone in love. Like rot it curls up alongside the portions of him where Melita has left a shimmer. The viscous drip of Vesper's poison splatters dark and sticky on them, dulling the shine with a crippling fear. Vesper only took the worry that was already there, plucked expertly, a taut string beneath a musician's proficient hand. "What?" Iskra demands with a mangled whisper. His resistance stutters, eyes alight with a wild desperation that overwhelms the roar of pride and brutality. He twists his gaze towards where she should still be on the playing field, yelling out about the conclusion of the game, undoubtedly disappointed in the manner with which he assisted in ruining her fun.
It can't be true, can it? She isn't here just because she has to be, is she? She told him she had to spread cheer in Ludo's name, including at Halo, but God's did that mean him too? Is he just part of her pact, a stepping stone in her demi-godhood? Makes sense the very-Vesper like part of him agrees, tempted forth by the hammering of his heart, exertion yielding to anxiety. After all, what could she ever see in someone as useless as him? He can't even win a fucking snowball fight against someone from Torchline.
Never felt a feeling of comfort
And all this time, I've been hiding
I'm at one with the silence
I found peace in your violence
And all this time, I've been hiding
I'm at one with the silence
I found peace in your violence
