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Today's Document
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@godworn
HIGHLY SELECTIVE; MUTUALS ONLY & INDEPENDENT MILES UPSHUR OF OUTLAST as recorded by Myles, 31, he/they. Highly triggering content, minors dni. / est. 2016, rebooted sep 2021.
DOC // PLAYLIST // PINTEREST
( clear text version )
pinned post, do not reblog.
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hellow.
@richardtrager
"NAH. WELL, I can, but actually seein' you like that here in front of me? Impossible. I'd think you hit yer head or somethin'." The cigarette dies just after his last drag, and he puts out on his trousers with a casual gesture, looking only partially interested at the dark circle standing out against the fabric covering his knee. It will sting, but only for a little bit. A neat little trick to impress younger kids, an admission of his true nature when he is here. Sure, the glass that also works as makeshift ashtray is just a grab away, but where would the fun in that be?
(He wouldn't know how that would work, either. It already happened once, although with a different intent, and he concluded that none of the parties involved were happy with it. Sy wouldn't consider himself a parasite - unlike some of his siblings, who ate their way into a lived-in body to be born - but the universe doesn't care about details like such. Two hosts can rarely work inside the same body, especially when of a similar nature.)
(But he wouldn't mind the haunting.)
"Just lemme know if you plan on startin' lickin' it up t' cops. I got some standards."
"Nᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ t'get all th' inside scoop t' bring 'em down."
His face is the very mask of distaste, and for good reason. It's not even a thing he has to imagine, unfortunately. Tried it once, and it was one of very few times he abandoned the thing he was working on. Well, not fully, of course: bringing down high-ish ranking members of the police force was always a cause he could bring himself to supporting fully. No, but at least the angle was utter shit. No matter the outcome, he went out on one half assed 'date' with a cop (nothing even like that: bitch was too insecure to be seen with a boy in public, not because of his image, but because what if people thought he was gay, nevermind the fact he'd been all but begging for things he never got) before he threw his whole drink on him and had to force himself not to throw the lighter on top.
"Don't ever insult me like that again."
"REALLY? FUCK, I must've missed that." Whether he is referring to one or both statements, it will stay a mystery. He does, however, scoot a little closer, arm brushing against arm, chasing after a sliver of warmth that will potentially not be there. Touching, though - that's always nice. This body is temporary, this body is more prison than freedom, but it has a memory and he will fight tooth and nail to keep it pristine and intact. Miles' leather jacket pressing against his skin. The softness of his hair when Sy pushes a lock away from his forehead. The longing etching on his fingertips forever, and ever, and ever.
(It must just be the way gods love. All-compassingly, tremendously, consuming their own insides with a feeling that will always be too big for words or gestures or human eyes. A single drop of it enough to come crashing down like unforgiving gravity.)
"Lucky you, that's just my favorite kind. No law-abidin' citizens allowed in my proximity." (Except his brother. Sometimes. Well, all the time. Again, exception.)
Lᴀᴢʏ, ʟᴀᴢʏ — the way this evening stretches, as if they have all the time in the world, and mirroring in the way some of the swarm settles, nestles, on his skin and around his neck like the world's most unique scarf, in his bones and his lungs, knitting away at the damage inside as he does it, settling on their skin as well, curious, always curious, as if They don't know him as well as he does.
It's weird, in a way. He knows it doesn't mean to harm, but such is the nature of it. A flame has to consume it's kindling, even if it kills it itself — unless it finds another way to burn. Not for the first time, he wonders. Wonders if he could convince Them to pour a little portion of Themselves into him, not enough to try and overtake (he wouldn't know how that might even end), just enough to stay. He can hear the previous ones, all. An echo, not the actual person, but it might be something. Maybe.
Or it would be worse. Or it would simply die, separate from the swarm for too long.
"Could y'even imagine, me? Like that?"
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Susan Abulhawa, from Against the Loveless World: A Novel
CHIN RESTING on the palm of his hand, lips half hidden behind fingers and poorly painted nails, he soaks it all up like a sponge, not much able to hide his smile completely. He understands it all - the obsession, the passion, the fire burning with all-consuming force, uncaring of the obstacle on its paths. It resonates with his very core, even if responding to a different tune than his, but the concept stays the same. Just dressed up a little differently.
"Ain't that how it always is as a teenager, though." He can't really tell - he has never been there, knows the dream only because he has lived through others, and it's nice to look for confirmation, admit ignorance without having to wrap it up in a more presentable, human package. It's liberating for sure.
(He will miss this. He will always miss this, and he doesn't know how much yet.)
"And not like any of it was able t' stop you."
"Dᴜɴɴᴏ ɪғ you noticed, but even death itself couldn't."
Which sounds like a metal song. Is, probably, a metal song. He wouldn't know: it's not really his genre. Most music just makes it harder for him to concentrate, too much input at once, and such isn't it an irony he's taking and kissing and living and fucking and loving and discussing the very embodiment of it all. Maybe that's partly, why. He didn't have any pre-existing idea of what that would look like. Didn't fall in love with an idea and then be disappointed by the person.
It's a nice thought. It's not one he'll mention out loud, but he might write it down. He does, a lot. Always had, of course, journals filled with research and thought, and the backs of polaroid style pictures filled with ink that flows into each other. More, now. Or rather, more personal. There's a whole life to be hold down in picture frames and clips and written out thoughts.
"'m jus' that much o' a menace t' society."
"UUUH, TEMPTING. Would be my first time on th' front page a' somethin', y'know." Hardly flattering, but if had he ever been looking for anything of that sort he wouldn't have spent decades cleaning after his traces as much as possible. Sure, some dust was always bound to slip through the cracks, but it could've been much worse. Still, the thought of a blurry cryptid-style photo of him on some dingy website makes him grin.
"Not hard t' imagine. Yer whole profession sounds like hard business, not gonna lie." Or what little is left of it by now, but he will be caught dead - ah. dead. - before saying that out loud. None of them, one in specific, needs one more reminder of how fast decline will come, how time it's left before the end of late night smokes and nicotine-stained kisses.
"I don't think you ever said what got y'into it."
"Tʜ' ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ allure o' not keepin' a schedule. 'course, that means instead o' your steady ol' nine t' five havin' nineteen hour workdays an' kinda fallin' down whenever you spend too long idle in front o' a screen — also have t' suck up to a whole other league o' people — honestly, job sounded a lot more romantic when I was a stupid teenager."
He couldn't really place it into words. The urge to make the world a better place, sure. That's easily understood, even if he's a bit of the opposite: dirty tricks and a shit personality where most things count, a moral code that's neither here nor there. Then there's obsession: something he doesn't fear to admit to Sy, not really, but it's nothing he can grasp that well and put into a neat little package of letters and words, punctuation at the end. The want to run, to not be stuck in things outside of his control (that worked out flawlessly), to actually mean something.
Well, at least he exceeds in escaping normality.
"ABSOLUTELY." His reply doesn't miss a beat, almost as if he had been waiting for the question for a while.
"Y'know how it is with conspiracy theories on th' internet. I'm pretty sure there's a few copies a' my old photos floatin' in there and several people thinkin' they connected the dots." There's a smirk haunting his lips as he lights up his own cigarette, even if the idea - truth - almost certainty makes him slightly too uncomfortable, always has. Not because of the kids looking for a deeper meaning or a new idol - never them - but worship always felt more a cage rather than an ego boost. A stupid fear, perhaps, and yet.
"Would make great material fer a new piece, uh?" He clutches his cigarette tight in the corner of his mouth, hands spreading as if to frame an imaginary title. "New Dionysus Cult or Urban Legend? Deep Dive Into The 4Chan Communities. Or somethin' like that. You're th' one with th' brains for it."
"Wʀᴏɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ writer for that."
He's hardly surprised: neither about the immediate reply, nor about the lack of information about it. He won't look into it; not because he's not curious (whenever is he not, it's his nature, the very thing that got him into an early grave, metaphorically, unless he seriously blackened out for longer than he thought), but because he respects the other one too much. A rare thing, that.
"I don't really do th' thin' with muses an' stuff. If y'wanna be plastered all over th' front page o' some C-Level website at best, I know some people, though. 'm sure some o' 'em would be most delighted on any type o'scoop. Shit like that's hard business, even more without a publisher deal."
@enchairr
"D'ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ —"
The cigarette rolls smoothly over his knuckles, flicks, settles in between them in a practiced move, one so unconscious it's as if his hands had always looked like that, had always moved this way, as if the cigarette itself is a natural addition to them only to then find it's way between his lips while he lights it, long inhale, smoke barely reaching down into his lungs before the nicotine and tar are dragged back out, bleed out, black in black in black, blood like ink —
"There's some like, dunno, y'tube cult dedicated t'you? No. Reddit? 4chan? Some weird ass kids in their basements with t'much spare time — " Like me, he doesn't add. " — found a few things online, couldn't match 'em, boom. Cult."
His free hand mimics an explosion to underline his words.
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hi.
a quick recap and explanation for things.
D. E.
yeah well why wouldn't I
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sealone:
THIS IS definitely not the first time he’s had to deal with reporters and journalists of any sort, but as years go by it hasn’t become a task he enjoys in the slightest. Not quite because he’s afraid they might look into the wrong corner, definitely not; it’s always their word against his, and besides they will be gone before they can even write one single sentence; no, it’s rather the trouble of having to interact with them that weighs on him. He might keep smiling and talking amiably throughout entire conversations, but deep down the need to be alone (and the quiet anger that grows with it) is always present, a comforting cold not much different from the one seeping off him. He watches as the boy - Miles Upshur, if he remembers the name correctly - sinks further into his jacket to shield himself from the freezing air, and he can’t help but take some delight in that. Well, at least he isn’t the only one feeling uncomfortable here.
He laughs at that reply, hands sinking into the pockets of his coat, although nothing about his stance suggests he’s in any way affected by the cold. “You know, I’ve had my fair share of journalists to deal with, and I found out that you’re never quite satisfied with only ‘surface level questions’. Must be in your nature.” No threat, no underlying implications. Even if he does hope this ends as quickly as it started, even if the ending implies sending the boy into the fog. He doubts anyone will miss him.
The ship is silent. Most of the crew got off board earlier this morning, and those who are still here are nowhere to be seen, busy someplace else and nowhere withing hearing and seeing range. For all Miles knows, it might be just him and the captain, a friendly face whose warm voice can’t dissipate the icy air cooling around them tighter and tighter. One could almost tell it’s coming from him, but how silly would it be. “But, anyway, do ask away. Just keep in mind I have business to attend to later.”
Oɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ shore, one that looks identical to this one, there's ants crawling through his veins and moths fluttering close to his body to shield him from the cold better than the bullet torn jacket can. On another shore, the hands he uses to draw out a cigarette, light it and hold out the pack offering, a habit he's always taken on, even when he doesn't like the person he's holding it out to or has any idea whether they smoke or not, are mutilated and grotesque to look at. On another shore, there are lines moving beneath his skin and static under his tongue when he speaks, and there would be the buzzing of a thousand, a million other lives with each word.
But that's not the version of himself here. It's a thing that hasn't yet happened in this particular world, and perhaps never will. Maybe something else will dig it's claws into him (he's always been close to those of Beholding, risking his life to drag the truth to light, going after every little hint). Maybe he simply will disappear on yet another beach, wandering and wandering. Maybe he will meet a more mundane fate. Perhaps there is a glimmer of that other self, of the one carrying an ancient god and a swarm and the love of corruption, only visible if one chooses to look for it. Maybe there isn't. He wouldn't know.
He's just a boy in a foreign country looking for things that strike him as odd.
"Well, in all fairness — what use's a newspaper with no details?" He flashes a smile, but it's not his usual charming one, quite aware that this will likely not work and having no interest in it. "'m jus' lookin' for a friend, though. Heard he's been hangin' 'round a while an' then didn't; given I know th' bastard he probably set off somewhere else t' escape th' consequences o' his actions. Was hopin' you'd tell me where you dropped him off." Not a lie and not a truth. He doesn't mind lying, not in the slightest, but it's more believable when it's founded in some truths. "Pasquale Rafael. Small fellow. Definitely wouldn't reach your chest. Dirty blonde. Must 've been... half a year to nine months ago?" Not the most recent disappearance, but not far enough back either to make it weird.
@enchairr : ❝ i’m not sure what love is supposed to feel like. i’ve never really had it before…but i know i feel good with you. warm. like home. ❞
"Dᴜɴɴᴏ ɪғ this 's love." He doesn't really know where to start, and the words come out of his word clumsy, awkward. It wouldn't be easier to do this in his mother tongue either: it's simply a difficult topic to him. He's not good with admitting to feelings, never was. He loves intensely, yes: and many people. Fierce, even. But not in the way people expect him to. When they speak of love, they speak of this grant romantic thing, and it's not something he quite understands. Maybe it's what he feels towards Sy, but he also thinks that labelling it as such diminishes it for what it is. He loves Sy. Definitely. More than anyone (save for maybe his nieces, but that's not comparable on any scale, and he knows the other would understand and would not ask to label one thing as greater than the other). More than anything, too, but there's not necessarily romance attached to it. There are no butterflies, there is no tingly feeling of heat.
Does he think Sy is attractive? Of course. But it's not that, either: he's never much cared for sex in the same way as most of his peers, either. It's a tool, and fun sometimes, but hardly a goal in it's own. It's to get something else: information, out of his head for a bit, servicing someone else.
Think of it that way: a boat could be beautiful, but it was only really what it's meant to be if it was out on the sea. The hands touching it's wood might be warm and loving, but the touch of the water licking up was something else, was finding purpose. He's been sitting on shore for too long until the ocean came to claim him, and while his wood is infested and won't hold out, the salt water drives out some of the things eating away, lets him hold together a little longer.
Maybe it would be stupid to say it as such.
"I mean, I do. I guess. Least there's no other word for it. I — y'give me th' strength t' go on, despite everythin'. You're makin' me feel like there's some use t' all this, still. Not complete, none o' that bullshit: everyone's complete on their own. But y'know, some things can be useful, an' some can be art, an' sometimes you put two together an' get it both, get somethin' greater than th' sum o' their parts. Does that make any sense?"
