#perdefinitio

it's a smart response to her words—i can't hear myself in this fucking music, sev—and it's an equally unappreciated one; so much so that severin earns himself a disgruntled look over the shoulder as they ascend the beer sodden stairwell. there's some alternate version of tonight, maria thinks, somewhere in all the stupid cosmos and all its stupid infinities; one with no afternoon beers at the pub, no giddy decision to move from pubs to bars, no drunken decision to fuck the bars off and head to the clubs. then again, if there are a plethora of infinities out there to rifle through, then there are a thousand different realities able to fix her life's miserable trajectory; ones she'd choose well over rewriting tonight. maria realises, in her quickly sobering state, that's about as close as she'll come to admitting she wouldn't change much at all about an evening of them together—tomorrow's hangover be damned.

          ❝   OH, BUT IT’S SO MUCH MORE  FUN  TO WATCH YOU STRUGGLE FROM OVER HERE!   ❞       tristan lingers not far away, almost akin to a stray cat with a curiosity about the habits of a passing stranger  -  except he is, in fact, simply a small and irksome man who is indeed acquainted with severin, at least to some extent.  perched on a stool, knees curled to his chest, his keen dark eyes fixed on his companion with a good deal more   MIRTH   than the situation certainly calls for.  in one hand, he flips a small empty vial over and over in his fingers, in some way apparently  pleased  with himself  -  or, at the very least, just amused.   ❝   besides, I distinctly remember   TRYING   to help and you telling me I was  wrong.  so, sev, I wonder  ...  is this your way of apologizing?  because if so, I have to tell you, it’s not terribly effective!   ❞

      »   𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍   (  @perdefinitio​  )  ,

                     𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐄?     ilias stood there , in the bathroom of the very address that was on the invitation that ira had hand-delivered to him a few months prior.   a celebration.   of love , an enduring kind of love , one that had been sealed by the cut constrictions of laws that did not apply to monsters like them.  and yet , they found it in themselves to celebrate.  it was a display of devotion and everlasting hope  ,  not just for lovers but for the ever living  —— all gathered here.  faces that he promised he’d never see again , for his own sake and for theirs.  four hundred years ,   and he decided to wear a motherfucking tie. 

                     out of pure frustration  ,  ilias pulled the knot of his tie and unraveled it.  he spent six minutes trying to pick one , wondering what would be the best for this impression.  the four hundred year old buffer from the elizabethean ruff and the cravat  ,  and he was hung up between the striped or the solid tie.  he even ironed the wrinkles out before carefully tying it around his neck.  but now , it was crumpled in his left pocket and he felt the sudden urge to leave.  he could hear them ,  the crowd that he avoided as soon as ira let him in.  they didn’t know  ,  it was a surprise.       hey , congratulations on being in love.  remember the guy that tried to give freja up to men who tortured people for science?  yup ,  surprise!

                     this was a bad idea.  he had months to think it through and every time , he knew it was a bad idea.  but he was here.  in an unfamiliar space that smelled and felt wrong ,  ilias thought that memories were meant to last.  but perhaps some of them were meant to wear out , to grow stale and to reappear once before disappearing again.  it scared him  :  severin’s expression of surprise.  all ilias could imagine was horror , maybe even disgust.  he expected that much from the others , and it scared him.  four hundred years had done a toll on his heart , it broke down the hardened exterior and made him soft —— it made him more human than he had hoped. 

                     he looked up at his reflection in the mirror and took a single deep breath.  gods, did they look different now.  a constricting dark blue suit with a white shirt and , no tie.  it was around this time that ilias realized that he had no choice but to go out and face his four century old fear.          so  ,  he opened the door and locked eyes on the very gaze that cradled him when he woke up from his first death.   ilias hesitated and warily looked around at the others before attempting to maintain eye contact with severin.  

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅-𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 — she takes her place on his couch as if it somehow belonged to her, legs folded beneath her, sprawled as the very rudest of guests, and yet somehow she doesn’t bother with etiquette: politeness is hardly the matter between the two of them, is it ? not when his very presence feels like home — and even this apartment she’s not too familiar with ( much more used to the back of tour buses and changing rooms, seedy bas and high end clubs ) is home enough to let her rest, draw a satisfied sigh out of her as she leans her back against the couch and smiles. her smile, actually, is genuine. it’s a luxury, to be able to see it —— the true shine of a real dawson brand of joy, nothing like the silver-coated fake grin that gets plastered on the pages. her eyes are tired though, jet-lagged and weary, and she barely tries to hide it all, not the heaviness of her eyelids nor the yawn that cuts through her lips. somehow he always gets a front row seat to the freddie show — for better or worse. it’s just easier when it’s the former, when all he gets to see is a mildly ridiculous version of her, not the mess, not the turmoil beneath. actually, she’s calm now. her breath is slow and she’s not too guarded.

“ i’ve been… yeah, great, actually. i’ve been splendid. ” shifting slightly just enough to reach him, she lets a hand stretch towards severin and touch the side of his face: a tender gesture, a promise that she’s there, attached to him whether he likes it or not, even if half the year’s been spent in sweden, and l.a. is loudly reclaiming her presence from the other side of the pond. but in between her two natures lies severin, burrowed into her heart, patron saint of her restlessness and the epitome of family. he’d cringe in mildly feigned disgusted if she admitted it, wouldn’t he ? how it’s not just a detour, layovers didn’t force her to a london escapade: this was a deliberate visit, and it’s not gonna last two days, either. freddie smiles, then stretches some more, takes off her shoes with an overblown huff before she starts wandering the premises like she had any claim over his living quarters at all. “ what about you ? ”, asked in passing while she makes her way to the kitchen, rummages around for scraps of alcohol or food, whatever comes first. her quest is disappointing at best, and when she re-emerges from the kitchen it’s with a half-empty box of cereals and a frown on her face.

“ the fuck’s going on with your kitchen ? there’s homeless shelters if you’re suddenly broke, you know ? i can drive you. ” 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬, but laughter, and music, the tinkling of champagne glasses inevitably followed by a choir of cheers. the air rings with joy —— she sits by her table half - mesmerized, so incredibly surprised by the way life can crack itself open and reveal the shining light peering through the holes. a hundred thousand wounds collected over a hundred thousand lifetimes, not once scarred over, their skins still as tender and exposed as the day they first discovered their unnameable secret. joy has snuck up on her: not forgotten, over the years, but distant from her she once resolved to yearn for her instead, like a lost, impossible companion, and eventually relegated to a magnificent what-if that seemed to only appear in flashing glimpses, never bright bursts of sunlight. she’s picked a pearly grey dress for the wedding, as if her mind had all but forgotten the notion of blue skies and summer days. yet the wine has flowed freely into her cup, and it has not been the cause for the flush in her cheeks, but such vivid smiling as she had forgotten herself capable of. from the distance, earlier, she even spotted the shadow of the other immortal soul she’d once tried to save, the one who’d once killed her —— and she’d found no anger in her, no fear, but the palest hint of sunlight in her smile, for an old friend seen again in spite of all the odds.

the odds, ah —— endlessly marking her and her brethren’s existence as impossible and their joy as unattainable, yet her gaze now wraps itself around severin and ira like threads of gold willing to accompany them along their dances. and though there is nothing surprising in a love that has settled itself in stone over centuries, as comforting to her as the hearth in their home by which she warms when the winter gets too unforgiving, it all seems to shine with something holy, transcending the mundanity of real life. she thinks of herself, the girl she once was, two thousand years ago, almost: her bones frail and quivering by the hearth of a goddess much larger than she could dream, while the city raged on questioning why do we go to battle, if not for glory ? and once fear of the question itself had gripped her by the throat, upon that hearth she’d found the answer: for love. for love. for love.

for love she rises now, called by a frivolous proposition that paints a girl’s smile on her face, and though she has not danced in the last fifty years no beat is lost, no breath surrendered to hesitation: eagerness straightens her back and places her hands on severin’s shoulders, swaying along to some waltz-like tempo that does not request excessive attention, just the spontaneous harmony of bodies celebrating harmony itself. “ you are beaming ”, her voice hushed but betraying the same joy: she, too, is beaming, and when she lets go of her dancing partner’s shoulder it is to cup his face and hold him close, foreheads close in an exchange of bliss —— there are a thousand hers and a hims celebrating as well, a million instances of them in fact. sharing vapors of half-frozen breaths in the jaws of a harsh northern winter. washing the blood out of their mouths with the water of the same turkish river. sharing the sourness of a shared grief over a lost friend once. and the tickling fear of loving, and losing, and not loving enough, when things got difficult and the thread binding them seemed to want to break.

nothing is broken now, everything is whole, everything is holy, they feast of the joy radiating from severin’s eyes like they feast off the love shining in ira’s gaze —— with her arms wrapping around severin, she feels the thread, she feels its hold, it bringing shards of her back together again with the holy fire of love, its capital declination, infusing into her bones —— and ancient wounds finally seem to want to surrender to scarring tissue, and grow tender again.

“ my heart is so full, sev. ” the tears fred sheds don’t come from grief, or sorrow: so much light, in the end, has to come out somehow. she keeps her embrace tight as roots, digging mercilessly into the ground, for he is the ground and the foundation of her being, he and ira, he and his love, they all and the family they wrapped around themselves —— threads of gold spilling outwards, covering everything, drowning them all in sunlight.

                                    paramount  to  the  way  in  which  they  transverse  through  the  summers  of  the  earth,            two  bodies  that  renew  despite  the  hazards  of  life,     time seems to come grinding to a halt.         under shining spotlight,      ira is the driver,       he who slams forth the rusted wrought iron brakes;       severin’s energy seems scattered,       fragmented.          he sensed this,        as he sensed the man’s growing unsteadiness,     too;        may it masquerade itself to others,       or be as simple as daylight.         he cannot remain in shadow to the long-lost prince,       nor does ira believe he ever wishes to.        the magnitude of the moment between them seems significant enough to push waves on a Richter scale;         ira has a honeyed gaze trained on his husband,      as though to look away is to commit a cardinal sin.         there is something burning behind the glass.         why else would he retract so apace ?        for what other reason would the cool,    effortless breeze of the rebel-hearted mercian,       shift so corruptly to an exhausted downpour ?         he sensed this in him.        hunger growing for it’s source,       ira cannot hear severin’s pleas.        centuries of devoting his mind,     his soul,        his body to him,        has rendered the man incapable of playing devil’s advocate.         he will seek out the source and he will eradicate it.

heavy steps,     weighted,      take the man forth,      as though he were a knight on some valiant trail to glory.       indicative of the hundreds,     if not thousands of times he has marched onward for severin,     and for severin alone.         though it pains him to perhaps pay semblance into his love’s disquiet,      ira is not such a timid man as to simply lay bare to it;        he is a lore,       a legend,       THE WINCHESTER WIGHT,         the terrible    𝔚𝔲𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔣𝔬𝔡    that smirks the rotten forests with sharp teeth and sharper blades;          he will not sit idly by and watch severin ache.          though he may wish it were simple as a bodied foe.         when the ancient eyes find author of the other’s alarm,        he,      too,     is shaken.

the lights in the glass casing are harsh and bold,      synthetic.      there isn’t a scrap of activity beside them;      the pair are in the room alone together.       the room itself is peeling,     unloved,       with draping grey cobwebs in tall,     unreachable corners,        and splintering wooden floorboards.         some scrap of carpet in the corner is stained,        perhaps having seen hundreds of onlookers.       in-keeping with the theme,     it seems,        there is no  wholesomeness  to the way the letter is displayed.        blistering under the spotlights like kindling.         as if that’s all it was ever for.         ira’s gaze widens.

“   ira,   ”          the name seems to lose itself in the ether,     sound appears to fragment.        “   let’s just move onto the next room,   please ?   ”

but the man is silent.        there isn’t a thing severin can do to remove his focus,     nor can he detract from the severity of the situation.      this letter,     damaged through time,     marked here and there with the bloods of dirt,      is not so simple as a shred of history;       this letter is a whistle-blower.      this letter is a mark of the oppression they have faced their entire lives.       this letter,     in writing so obviously severin’s,      is a heron,      and it caws at him as if it were hellish;          this letter is,    quite simply,         trauma.          he doesn’t recognize it,      can’t place it’s nature,      and can’t seem to dedicate a year to it,    either.        simply that it speaks of a time they had been apart,      and that it had been lost along it’s way to finding him.      from how he has written it,       ira wonders if this had been in separation forced;      how long had it have been at this point ?        where was he,     if not by severin’s side,     where he is to belong for eternity;         when was it from ?          WHY WAS HE NOT THERE ?           somehow,      underneath the stoic exterior,     though no sound breaks the barrier,        ira feels himself lose breath in a motionless whimper.       the spring of his confident guise slips almost immediately into a    cold,      harrowing winter.        every moment he has ever spent away from the other seems to taunt him,     suddenly,      as though the room floods with cackling demons.

if severin speaks to him again,       ira can’t hear him.        it’s only when he feels the man’s touch,       open palm flat against the brace of his forearm,       that he breaks the fog.        his gaze retreats to meet the other’s.        oh,     the agony you have had to endure my love,       and the agony i have not been present to remedy.      he can’t move,     can’t uproot his boots from the spot;       an oak destined to stay put,     stay still,      to wait,        to wait for severin to arrive,       to watch that pine doorframe until the small hours of shivering morning,       and still remain without him,        still remain frozen,        still feel the scolding chill.         ira blinks.