PROMETHEAN - SHOT .

Inside  the  modern  temple  resides  the  broken  image  of  the  would-be  god.   His  body  shares  itself  with  its  own  statue:  half-him  and  half-approximation.   Even  if  the  body  is  dressed,  it  is  still  demolished.   Helene  watches  him  through  the  corner  of  her  slit  eye.   His  sharp,  starey  blue  eyes  hold  their  aim  toward  the  roof  of  his  observatory.   The  false  stars  shimmer  their  pale  insentience,  and  James  looks  to  them  as  though  he  had  a  task.   Something  stirs,  is  moved  in  Helene’s  heart.   He  wants  to  become  a  star  in  the  sky.

Helene  leans  over  him  then,  drooping  like  a  flower  which  had  been  left  too  long  in  the  rain.     “ Do  the  stars  have  anything  interesting  to  say  today? ”

@warpathos

They  reflect  in  his  eyes,  shining  back  in  fractured  lights,  painting  his  sorrow  and  his  bitterness  and  the  rising  anger  a  blank  white.  (  Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires   -----   )   His  hand  is  still  his  hand.  If  he  could  take  a  great  fishing  net  and  gather  them  as  if  they  were  minnows,  he  would.    He  blinks.   Orion,  like  him,   sparkles  with  unease.

He  looks  awful,  Pearl  observes.   The  pale,  dispassionate  light  of  his  screen  sends  shadows  to  carve  out  the  slopes  of  his  face  and  shape  him  to  look  like  the  negative  of  a  person  Pearl  had  never  met  before.

From  her  place  across  the  room,  her  eyes  find  and  hold  his.   Yes,  ask  me,  knower  of  all  things  romantic  and  cellular.

“ That  depends. ”    She  says,  smiling  a  slow,  ambiguous  smile.     “ What  color  is  it? ”

❝     Red,   but  they’re  occasionally  blue  .  .  .  Though,  you  would  imagine  that  they’d  be  purple  .  .  .   considering.    ❞       He  leans  closer,  the  light  reflecting  in  his  eyes,   turning  them  an  even  more  inhuman  blue.     After  a  moment,  he  looks  up  at  her    ----    there  is  something  in  the  depth  of  his  gaze,   an  anxiety  pertaining  to  the  romantic.   (  The  way  she’s  looking  at  him  gives  him  anxiety,  he  decides.   )    He  chooses  to  fire  a  rebuttal.   It  would  give  him  some  form  of  and  answer  and  reflect  the  tension  back  onto  her   ----   two  birds  with  one  stone,   one  could  say.      ❝     What  is  it  ?      Would  you  send  this  sort  of  thing  to  Amethyst  ?     ❞       

          it’s still new, sleeping beside someone else. something that corvid still couldn’t quite get his mind around. it’s nice, not feeling so alone when he lays his head against a pillow when he eventually offers himself the time to rest - being able to feel someone else as uneasy at the idea of closing their eyes and allowing their mind to take full control. he thinks they’ve found something of a routine, a way to ease into it, even if they only allow the briefest or most gentle of touches. just enough to tell the other that they’re there, they’re both together beneath the sheets. 

          it doesn’t prepare him, though, for the sudden shift. staring bleary eyed at the ceiling above and finding the body beside him shifting. he isn’t ready to hear the choked denial when scarred hand reaches out to james, flinches away at the harsh words. he’s sat up, then watching with wide eyes and parted lips, watching as strong shoulders shake with a deep breath. concern settles in the pit of his stomach and rises like bile as frame shifts, hand covering the back of general’s own. “hey,” though he doesn’t move closer, not until he’s invited. no matter how much corvid wants to press himself close and allow lips to find nape of james’ neck, he holds back winding scarred fingers ‘round the hand offered. 

          for once, his words are chosen carefully, slowly - “tha’… tha’ don’ look like fine, ta me…”

the feeling of qrow’s calloused hand against his allows his shoulders to relax. calm claims him, slowly. he brushes his thumb over qrow’s fingers and his heart lurches behind his ribs. the intimacy of it all remains unfamiliar.      ❝    occasionally, i have .  .  .    ❞      a shuddered breath as he attempts to regain control of his thoughts. he searches for an adequate word or term. flashbacks. night terrors. nightmares. all are far too visceral. if he were to speak them into existence, that would give them truth, give them power, make them real.       ❝    .  .  .  dreams.   ❞      

he feels  ----  vulnerable.      ❝    i’m ----   ❞      the vulnerability is intense and sickening and something like the beginnings of an apology forms upon his lips in spite of the burning anger that makes his forming migraine intensify. an anger at allowing himself to be in this position, an anger for feeling guilty, an anger for being angry, an apology for being angry and having nightmares and getting too close and  ----

his hands still shake. the hand that qrow holds tightens.

qrow. qrow wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be, he tries to remind himself. finally, he turns to him. there is no anxiety or agony or sorrow spread across his face. it would be difficult to tell that he was struggling if his hands had not been shaking. james simply looks tired, but in his eyes, something fond and soft and only for qrow is held. he blinks, and it is replaced with that perpetual exhaustion that lurks under his steely resolve.

he tries to breathe, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. his feet hit the floor in his attempt to ground himself, to feel something other than the way the sheets twisted around him.    ❝    i’m fine,     ❞      harsher than he means. he breathes, finally, closing his eyes, body coiled into itself like a spring as he rubs the back of his neck. his own heartbeat pounds in his ears, a reminder of his fragility, his faults, his capacity for failure. he opens his eyes again, placing his hand where qrow can reach it. gentler, then :     ❝   .  .  .  i’m fine.    ❞      

     arthur rubs idly at his wrists, thankfully free of their restraints now that he’s stuck behind a foot of metal and glass, under the scrutiny of his own security cameras and without his aura to help him or heal the wound along his face. he scoffs. “the fact that you ask proves you know nothing about her.” he smirks, steps as close to the window as space will allow.

          “it means that ozpin knows nothing about her anymore either.” he looks pleased, smug even behind bars. “peculiar; you’ve already lost.”

❝     . . .  You know what you need to do.    ❞