#andryuska

IT  WILL  ONLY  MAKE  IT  WORSE! head has been wrought with weariness, thoughts clouded by pain, and still he knows certainly that he does not want to go! that though therapy has been offered by doctors, suggested by other friends in other times, he has always know that the idea of being FORCED to speak of it —- forced to spill the pain from his heart into the hands of a cold stranger —- and that he will not be able to ENDURE it. that it will be too hard, and bring him still further into an uncaring past. that once his heart is pried from his ribs and put upon a table to be examined, he will never be able to force it back into his chest, where icy walls keep even him from feeling how wretched it can be. no, luke isWRONG about this. there is something awful about going to therapy, something too exposed, and when it is mentioned to him, his expression SOURS and his hands are knit together, anxious and frustrated all at once.

it has been a recurring topic in the household, since the flashbacks had become more and more frequent, and more and more difficult to come back from. how could TALKING ABOUT IT possibly make it better? how could it do anything but bring all that he has tried so hard to REPRESS right to thesurface?

“ i have to DISAGREE with that. ” for all the warmth that luke has taught him, andrei has still remembered how to become perfectly cold. even brown hues, once learning kindness, are clouded with ice, chilled and lined with the promise that this is only meant to mask something sadder —- and it does not do so very well. hands rub over his forehead, and palms press into his eyes, and when he moves, it is as though he is RESTRAINED in honey, made slow with the weight of too much history. “ it won’t HELP me, luke. it won’t do anything but makethis feel worse than it already is. ”

LUKE  DOESN’T KNOW  FOR  CERTAIN IT  WILL  HELP. he’s  taking  a  risk putting  his  faith  in  something he  knows  nothing  about, but  the  possibility that  it  will  help  andrei exists,  and  that  is  enough. andrei  has  a  wound  that  did  not  heal  over  with  time,  and  it’s  gnawing  deeper  and deeper.  it cannot  be  bandaged by  all  the  love  and  affection  luke  has  to  give,  no—  his  dearest  is  in  pain  and luke  cannot  help  him.  let  someone else  be  able  to.

“  you  can’t  know  that.  ”  his beloved  is  so  quick  to  judge. he  runs  from  things  that  scare him,  but  andrei  can’t  run forever.  greater  terrors are  quickly  catching up  to  him,  tormenting  him,  and  luke  cannot, will  not stand  to  watch  him  suffer needlessly.  if  help  exists then  he  wants it.  andrei  deserves  it  even  if  he  will  not  do  it  for  himself,  does  not  care  to. luke  reaches  out  to hands  hiding  brown  hues,  grasps his  fingers  and  seeks  to  draw  them  away,  hoping to  soothe  this  clear  discomfort.  it  is  alright.

“  this  isn’t  helping you  either,  andrei. things  are  getting worse  and  something needs  to  change. you  shouldn’t have  to  live  like  this. ”  pale  hues  are  flooded with  sympathy,  and  he  searches to  greet  brown. let  him  see  the  earnestness  in his  eyes,  that  he  wishes for  nothing  but  what  is  the  very  best  for his  beloved.  he’d  do  anything to  bring  him  peace  from  what  nightmares  have returned  to  life,  but  this  is  not  something  luke  can  do  for  him.  he  hopes  does  not  need  to  be  said  that  despite the  unfamiliarity  andrei  must  venture  should he  agree  to  therapy, that  luke  would  hold  his  hand  every  step  of  the  way.  

THE  CALL  IS  ENDED  WITH  A  TAP  OF  HIS  THUMB  BEFORE  HIS  DEAREST’S  PHONE  IS  TOSSED, rather  haphazardly,  into  the  bedside table  drawer  then  shoved  shut. 

KISSES  ONCE  LIKE  OCEAN  MIST  now carry only sadness and wine. the scent is strong, and harsh, and cuts through the familiarity of the apartment, as though to take from it something that had once made it home. arms wrapped around his lover’s body, legs entangled in that way that should make his heart pound, can now only repulse him. he loves the man beneath the scent of alcohol, beneath the haziness that comes with it. he lovessomeone else, someone he knows to be within the man laying beside him, who still feels stunningly absent. but it would hurt him too much to ask if he might visit him for a while —- for though pain exists, it lives within a steady peace, and asking for anything more, asking for the return of that which andrei himself has ruined, is to bring the war across the sea into what is left of their home.

and so the distance, towering waves within that stormy ocean, will swell, and break over him. and when he drowns beneath them, but he does so silently.

and in the end, is it not his fault that they are both dying? was it not his choice to spend this afternoon working, instead of staying as close as his body would allow to finnick? was it not his choice to come home, but only for a little while, and in that awful, hardened state that the military has beaten into him? was it not his choice to go to war at all, to leave for months, years at a time, to fight for a cause for which he does not care, at the expense of finnick —- whom he loves more than the sun and sky and the world itself? obligation has made a monster of him, has made him into something apathetic, and especially cold, and he would not have cared, were his love not so viciously affected. the ocean in his lover’s lips has been polluted, numbed, and andrei is to blame for this as well. it makes him sick.

brown hues, themselves lined with the beginnings of tears, flutter closed, and distance is drawn between them. lips pressed together is tolerated, a habit of their bedtime routine, and he must fight theurge to draw his hand up and to wipe away the foul taste that finnick leaves lingering in his mouth. nothing is said : promises of love are withheld, and the fear that he will not sleep for the night is not mentioned. andrei loves finnick, loves him more than anything, but he is no longer sure that love is returned, and he is no longer confident that he might speak his own affection without setting something off between them.

so instead, while the shattered edges of their love are still spread between them, left to cut their flesh should either grow too close, andrei turns around, and closes his eyes, and pretends to fall asleep.

THERE’S  NOTHING! there  are  no  words  spoken, the  arms  around him  have  slipped away,  turned  away.  what  is  he  supposed  to  do  now?  he  has  nothing else  to  give,  nothing  left  to  convince  his  love  to please  stay,  please love  him  like  he  SAID  he  did!  finnick’s  love  is not  enough.  his pleas  are not  enough. what  is?  WHAT IS?  even  andrei’s attention  it seems  is  no  longer  his  but  is  apparently more  worthily  spent  on  work.  he  is  not  slipping away,  he’s  already  left.

his  everything  lies  in  the  one  at  his  side,  and  yet  never in  his  life  has  finnick felt  so  lonely, so  heartbroken.  there are  crueler  horror stories  beneath  his  tongue  and  written  into  the  scars  carved  across his  skin,  but  always  they  had  been  expected. the  hands  that  killed him  had  never  held  his  heart—  this  is  a  betrayal. he’s  confused  and nothing  andrei  has  told  him  has  satisfied his questions.

green  hues  are  overflowing with  drunken  tears, body  shaking  as  he  quietly sobs  into knuckles  pressed  to  his  lips.  he feels  like  an  intruder in  this  bed,  in  this  house. unwanted,  UNLOVED.  if he  left,  simply wandered  the night  and  felt  the  singe  of  cold  air  coat  his  lungs  rather  than  body  heat  and the  scent  of  his  darling, would  it  even  matter? there  is  no  one  to  hold  him  close in  either  place  and  he  will  find  no  rest  tonight, not  the  next  night,  not  the  next.  he  feels  homesick for  some  place  that  used  to  be  here  and  isn’t anymore.  

there  is  little thought  in a  hazy  mind  lethargic with  alcohol,  but  he’s  desperate. their  time  together has  fallen  to  pieces far  beyond  repair,  and too  soon  there  will  be  danger surrounding  his  darling. too  soon  this  bed  will  be  cold.  there is  one  thing  that  has  kept  finnick alive  for  this  long.  for  better or  worse,  it’s  held  more  persuasion  than  his  words  ever  could. all  else has  failed  him  here  when  it  matters most,  and  he  doesn’t know  what  else  to  do.  he  shifts, lifting  himself  slightly and  his  murmur is  shed  of  accusation  and  holds  only  uncertainty.

WARMTH  DRIPS  FROM  SODDEN  CLOTHES onto the floor, fleeing the body in which it belongs. hours have passed and andrei has not be concerned —- has not even realized something is wrong, and now as his love stands in the doorway, guilt is a frozen current through his body. it wraps around his stomach and squeezes the heat from his chest, and seeps into the pools of freezing river water that have gathered at luke’s feet. it had been too cold to go out, and andrei had chosen to not go with him. he’d chosen to let it happen, somehow. this is his fault.

“ come inside. ” hands reach to gathered his friend as his murmur becomesmist in the frigid air that encroaches their doorway. he draws the other across the threshold into the heated place, and shuts that coldness behind them, and though he wants to embrace the other, apologize for his negligence a thousand times over, necessity grips him.

having merely touched his friend he knows the absence of warmth where there is so often an abundance. he knows the wrong feeling of freezing and slick flesh against his own, and it sends gooseflesh racing up his arms and curling within his chest. his heart seizes within, and when he looks back, hues are lined with reddened guilt. hands release ( stupid, wrong relief ) and are soon pulling ablanket around these thin shoulders to preserve what little heat is left.

     “ you need a warm bath. ”

IT’S  HAPPENED BEFORE  THAT  THE  PRACTICED  GRACE  IN  WHICH  LUKE  EXPLORES HIS  SURROUNDINGS  HAS  BEEN  SACRIFICED TO  SLICKNESS  BENEATH HIS  HEEL,  though perhaps  not  with  such  drastic consequences.  it’s  his  own  fault, really.  he  knows  he  shouldn’t  have  been  so  close  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  when  his  foot  had  slipped  and  cracked  through thin  ice,  the  rest  of  his  body  had  followed. a  rare  curse  had escaped  at  the  shocking  sensation and  realization  of  a  dangerous  mistake,  and  as  quickly as  he’d  scrambled back  out,  the  damage  had  been  done.  

the  little  strength in  his  legs  that  keeps  him  upright is  challenged  at  the  pull  of  a  blanket  around his  shoulders,  and  he  stumbles, heavy  breath  pushing through  a  severely tightened  chest  as  if  to  gasp. ice  has  laced  the  marrow of  his  bones, infecting  his  movements with  rigidity  and  devours what  warmth  had  existed  beneath his  coat.  numb  fingers  have  curled  into  his  dearest’s sweater,  seeking  balance when  his  has  been stolen.  violent shaking  and  stiff  limbs  are  not  steadied wrapped  within  the  gifted  blanket he  clutches,  a  confusion  of  relief  and  anxiety  whirling within  his  weary  head.  to  make  it  home  had  been  the  priority,  but  all  the  way  heavy  shame  has  twisted guilt  into  his  stomach.  inconvenience  and worry  are consequences  that  will  befall  his  love  because of  luke’s  mistake,  and  it  isn’t  fair  to  andrei.

alienist au where everything's the same except mary lives and no one ever hurts her

THEY  HAVEN’T TREKKED  THAT  FAR  OUT,  and  luke  doesn’t think  they’ll  go  too much  farther.  the  plan  was  an  afternoon walk  through  the  woods,  and  andrei  likes  to  stick  to  plans, and  luke  likes  doing  things that  make  andrei happy,  but  he  thinks  he  could  stay  outside  for  days and  enjoy  himself. that  is a  wonderful  thing  about  the  woods,  however. the  trees,  patient  and unconcerned  with  the  triviality  of  time,  will  wait  for  them  to  return  whenever they  choose  to  visit again. no rush  exists,  nor  pressure  to  linger.

slung  over  both  shoulders  is  a  small  backpack  that  contains  flower  seeds  ( he’d  like  to  plant  a  few  ),  left  over  gingerbread cookies  should  they  get  hungry, and  water.  one  hand  is  running  his  thumb  over  a  rock  he  found, and  the  other  is  where  it  always is,  laced  together with  his  beloved’s.

WITH  FINNICK’S  VOICE  THE  WORLD  RETURNS. sand - worn walls that frame the empty sky into which the screams ( his own ) echo, agony through his bones of a wound untreated, become the cleanliness of a sterile room. and sound of the wind, bracing, pushing through canvas to dust a contorted face, becomes the soft hum of the man who had loved him before he had DISAPPEARED into the war. the distant murmur of machinery promisesthat his heart is pounding within the weakened walls of his chest, as if to match the pace of labored breath. every inhale is PAIN ripping through his side.

he’s dying, but he’s safe right now. his corpse, rotting within, is SECUREagainst the sand that would have it buried in lonely obscurity.

“ fin —- ” his hand is reaching, straining and trembling from the sheets where it had been hidden away from the COLD that would ache into his fingertips, to contact his love, as though to ensure that he is real. you were gone for a second, his heart wants to say, but the words will not come, because they willBREAK the thin barrier that withholds his sobs, and because something has already shattered, and there are some things that cannot be said any more. his love, his finnick, should never know about the loneliness of those nights before they could move him. he should never have the image in his head of andrei upon his stretcher, blood dripping from bandages into the dirt, as he had waited, hoped, for death. he’s SAFE now, his love has said. safe from everything but memory.

NO  ATTEMPT HAS  BEEN  MADE  TO  SLEEP  THIS  NIGHT, and  none  will  be  made  the  next.  finnick  has  no  intention of  finding  rest  at  his  dearest’s  bedside— it’s  been  days  since he’s  slept  at  all  and  he  still  has  no  want  for  it.  there  is  no  room  within a  mind  wholly captured  by  a  state  of  urgency. words  are  unwanted and  unnecessary,  finnick already  knows  that  andrei  has  left  him,  returned  to  the  echo  of  gunfire and  bone  and  flesh  speared  by a  bullet,  and  he  knows  that  his  words  have  brought  him  back  to  life.  andrei has  never  experienced the  terror  the  comes  with  closing  his  eyes  and  returning  to  memories  waiting like  wolves  in  the  dark  to  drag  him  back  and  eat  him  alive, but  finnick has.  andrei  has  heard  his  cries  split  the  night  and  seen  his  seat  soaked  clothes, uncomprehending  eyes,  and  for  once  he  supposes that  this  endured agony  will  serve  a  purpose.