try to be living as your vice
and can you be my type?
Something in Sunjata seemed to recoil from what Peter said, though he has no idea what it might have been. It nearly makes him stumble over the words, wanting to fall silent but not quite able to stifle himself anymore. The panther makes him want to talk, in some strange way, and this was as good a thing as any to talk about. His head comes up to bump into the panthers, letting the other offer a explanation in his own time before speaking again. Just because words wanted to come from him didn’t mean they had to, and Peter wants to offer some room, some time, some understanding.
Peter understands how Sunjata explains his discomfort, his shying away. Maybe better than anyone, he understands the urge to walls and defences up and up and up, to never let anything get too close, but it has never been sustainable for him. Not that his own way of coping, the moments of numb silence and compartmentalizing is any better, it’s just different. Pressure breaks nothing the same. You can be both, at different times. He suggests softly, wanting to offer his opinion, maybe as advice and maybe as just something to think about and ignore. Though this does seem to be another point of difference, another opposite. Where Sunjata had been taken advantage of for being soft, Peter had been ordered to be strong, to earn his place. Has always been a tool.
Talk of love has the panther pulling him in again, Peter letting himself be moved closer again, without a fight. His ears are low now though, a current of upset trickling though him, the river of emotion in his core darkened by this uncomfortable reminiscing. It’s nice (as much as any of this can be described as “nice”) to move past it, to have the focus shift back to Sunjata, even if he has managed to, for the second time, make the other uncomfortable with his words.
And again, Peter wants to argue, to say that no matter the reasons behind it, the action itself is brave, even if it’s also selfish and a little bit cowardly all at the same time. An oxymoron. If nothing else, it is still something, and that something is a hell of a lot more than the nothing he’d ever done. Twenty years of beatings, and worse, from three different hands, and he never once raised one back. That felt like more of a failure than a single rash, self destructive outburst. Still, Peter rubbed against the panther, then pulled back, looking at the other, feeling the frustrations and regrets.
It feels a little bad, trying to be comforted, and somehow still being comforted by the ones he’s trying to help. But Sunjatas words do help alleviate a breath of the guilt that hangs over Peter. I guess... dying there... if that happened, I’d never... never get the chance to get anything better. Its only half the truth, but that’s all Peter really needs to say. The rest of it flows out of him. He’s afraid to die. Afraid of the idea, the reality of it, the eventuality of it.
Peter understands how Sunjata explains his discomfort, his shying away. Maybe better than anyone, he understands the urge to walls and defences up and up and up, to never let anything get too close, but it has never been sustainable for him. Not that his own way of coping, the moments of numb silence and compartmentalizing is any better, it’s just different. Pressure breaks nothing the same. You can be both, at different times. He suggests softly, wanting to offer his opinion, maybe as advice and maybe as just something to think about and ignore. Though this does seem to be another point of difference, another opposite. Where Sunjata had been taken advantage of for being soft, Peter had been ordered to be strong, to earn his place. Has always been a tool.
Talk of love has the panther pulling him in again, Peter letting himself be moved closer again, without a fight. His ears are low now though, a current of upset trickling though him, the river of emotion in his core darkened by this uncomfortable reminiscing. It’s nice (as much as any of this can be described as “nice”) to move past it, to have the focus shift back to Sunjata, even if he has managed to, for the second time, make the other uncomfortable with his words.
And again, Peter wants to argue, to say that no matter the reasons behind it, the action itself is brave, even if it’s also selfish and a little bit cowardly all at the same time. An oxymoron. If nothing else, it is still something, and that something is a hell of a lot more than the nothing he’d ever done. Twenty years of beatings, and worse, from three different hands, and he never once raised one back. That felt like more of a failure than a single rash, self destructive outburst. Still, Peter rubbed against the panther, then pulled back, looking at the other, feeling the frustrations and regrets.
It feels a little bad, trying to be comforted, and somehow still being comforted by the ones he’s trying to help. But Sunjatas words do help alleviate a breath of the guilt that hangs over Peter. I guess... dying there... if that happened, I’d never... never get the chance to get anything better. Its only half the truth, but that’s all Peter really needs to say. The rest of it flows out of him. He’s afraid to die. Afraid of the idea, the reality of it, the eventuality of it.
cause we need to be given a good life
and can I be your type of metal?
PETER
Base Code by Sky!
