#thepersistenceofmemory

[2] Istvan wears black, as if he’s always in mourning. But Erik thinks of him in shades of red (scarlet crimson vermillion and carmine). To him Istvan is life itself, and life itself is the color of sweet wine, ruddy cheeks in winter, coals glowing warm, fresh bruises from a spar, poppies in the fields, blood to be kissed from a wound.

Istvan believes in nothing past the grave; he swears the saints cut him off a long time ago. He drinks and laughs and shows Erik that to be alive is the only thing worth his worship. When they make love they are two kindred flames, dancing together in the night. When they fight together it is Istvan’s shadow behind him that keeps him safe.

Istvan wears gold, and the brocade filigree he adorns himself with reminds Erik of the sun when it nudges its lip over the horizon, how the golden lashes outline everything still subsumed in darkness. There is something more achingly beautiful in this contrast of light on dark than anything he has witnessed at high noon. The quiet calm on the cusp of dawn is the only time Erik feels at ease in his flesh. It was on some same morning that they first met, when Istvan stepped through the smoke in a flash of glimmering gold, illuminated in the glow of flames. ~

The Persistence of Memory

A lyric prose story exploring the resurfacing and erosion of Erik’s memories in the wake of Istvan’s death.

[1] When he considered the trail of blood left in the half-remembered, half-delirious wake of his wretched life, he could see how one might, from afar, recoil in disgust. But to Erik, every splatter was a painting unto itself, a masterwork of passion and delight within every drop of pain and madness. Passion, pain, delight, madness. Sick and sicker, the worshipped and the worshipper.

This will be my master post for people to explore the whole thing! Subscribe for updates to it and I’ll keep adding the numbered pieces as they go up.

Also for isterik fans, this has very sharp teeth, so... heads up. I'm not sure I even need to say that, but some isterik enjoyers seem to make them very lovey and cute and that's fine, it's just not this. Is there love? Yes. But a very messy kind.

[cw: manipulation, gaslighting, grooming, grief, dubcon, and everything else isterik]

//

[4] [cw: abuse]

He took you in after he killed your family, don’t you remember?

It was a lie, he knew it to be. One more trick from the slavering mouth of that mangy dog before he had the chance to cut out its stinking tongue.

It was a lie, but the memories attempted to surface all the same (smoke billowing up from thatch) (skin parting to a blade).

Erik did not want them.

What he wanted was to see the light leave the whoreson’s eyes, to see his skull collapse and morph beneath his fists until Erik had made a new painting, a new masterpiece, an icon on wood to carry with him in memory of Istvan’s name.

Don’t you remember?

.

“Erik.” Istvan’s voice clips sharp, says his name like a lashing. “I will not tell you again. Remember what I say to you the first time, or I’ll know you were not paying attention.”

.

“You are the very light of my life, its only recourse,” Istvan swears, the press of his fingers deep as if to bruise, to reinforce his words with marks. The brush of Istvan’s lips follows in echoes.

How it makes Erik feel alight to be held in Istvan’s palm, a whiff of kindling set ablaze.

.