citylogs | [ open ] kaveh's permanent catch-all

I've already seen how that goes. It is terrible.

[dying, and coming back, and dying again. the same thing every time. the same result, the same cycle, unable to be stopped even though he's supposed to-- he's supposed to be--

...it's not what it was back then, but it hits too close, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tangled a little tighter in midnight's hair out of reflex. he wants to ignore kaveh's words, but even if kaveh doesn't think this is the time to make netzach fulfill that promise... isn't agreeing with him or denying him still netzach's choice? in that sense, he is still either breaking or fulfilling that promise. what kaveh is asking him to do is exactly what he asked before. to choose midnight and to put him first.

in this case, to protect him and keep him alive. to spare him death at netzach's hands again.]

It won't please Midnight to watch either, will it?

[the subtle implication here being: if midnight says it would harm him to watch kaveh die, then is kaveh doing what he thinks he is?]

[ At the grip in his hair, Midnight's eyelids flutter. He sighs, one sharp at its edges with need. Anything for Netzach. Anything at all. He and Kaveh have far, far too much in common. ]

Kaveh can do what he likes. Or, rather, I have no power over him. Or rather...

[ ... Midnight looks up at Kaveh. ]

He does as he pleases, and he takes me with him. Much as you do, my artist.

[ Consequences of giving his heart. Midnight knew what he was signing up for. (Or rather, he understands what letting go of his boundaries means.) ]

[ kaveh smiles. of course he does. there it is, kaveh thinks, the way love ought to be. it's in the minute grip of netzach's hand in midnight's hair. it's in the sharp edges of midnight's sigh. it's in the way netzach points to midnight's heart. it's in the way that midnight calls netzach's epitaph. my artist, like a kiss or a dream of one. kaveh's heart is filled with affection for these two men. netzach is made of love, and midnight is filled with it. both are far stronger than this world has realised; both have had their fragility overlooked for it, that strength, that resilience and candor of spirit.

and kaveh - he is taking advantage. in that moment, however, kaveh knows that he's made the right choice in leaving midnight in netzach's care. perhaps that is the only right choice he will make here. ]

Not-good, not-kind, not-decent; Midnight of all people knows what I am liable to do to his heart. I am merely living down to expectation. [ says kaveh, with a quirk of his lips and a deep, weary sorrow. there's guilt here. of course there is. but kaveh cannot see a brighter way forward, and that is his cross to bear. ] But Netzach, I make this decision knowing that you will be there to safeguard it, that ornery, fragile heart of his. He's broken it up into too many little pieces. [ with a wry lilt: ] Do tell him for me to do a little less of what he likes, and more of what he needs.

...at least be a little upset he's doing this, man.

[he mutters, giving midnight a half-hearted little nudge with his knee. it makes him feel almost unreasonable, that they both seem to just acquiesce to this. to the way things are inevitably going to go-- because if midnight will not reject it, and if kaveh is insisting, what is he really going to do when kaveh's determination to be the one to go takes a different turn?

(and it is a 'when', if he knows kaveh at all.)]

Tell him yourself. You're both right here.

[what it means is: stop talking like he's already gone. stop talking like he won't be back when they leave.

as he continues to balk, there's an ominous rumble from outside, one that faintly shakes the room in which they're all settled; the floor echoes with the tremor, and outside the window, the teeth of that city in the sky descend by what looks like inches. it must, in actuality, be miles.]

We'll live. So long as your heart holds firm, there's nothing more to ask for.

[ Midnight nudges back, but he sighs, puts a quick kiss to Netzach's knee, and sits up straight, chin tilted up to Kaveh. ]

I have everything I need, love. Now, everything I want...

[ Midnight puts his hand over Netzach's hand, running his fingers over his knuckles, the trimmed, soft polish of his nails, then clambers back onto his feet, his sword sheath falling back to his side. He faces Kaveh, a smile on his face. ]

Well, I did say there was nothing left to ask for, but in this world, what's left to us but that which we want? And I can think of a few things I want...

[ His eyes lid, his mouth curls into a smile like a fallen ember curls a scorched bed into the page of a book. Kaveh associates this tone of voice with hunger. Midnight remembers that. ]

[ midnight's eyes lid. he smiles in a way that reminds kaveh of the devastation after wildfire, the sitting embers still hearthflame orange nestled in the crackle of something dark, and black, and ashened. in the aftermath, life is supposed to grow. the appetite of a flame to consume torches what it touches; it consumes because it has a tremendous, overbearing instinct to live. the curl of midnight's tone reminds kaveh of that kind of starvation, the one that brings an entire ecosystem to its knees.

but stories didn't beget from nothing. stories beget from stories. the story this one beget from had so: a single stolen mouthful of blood. midnight's smile waxes; kaveh's smile wanes. like two moons on diametrically opposing sides of the same orbit, kaveh's wings shift. they retreat to the clink of metal. the angels and the demons of this world beget from the same place. above, the sky quakes, once. they say even an angel who crawls out of hell is a monster. ]

Did you not sate yourself already, Midnight? [ kaveh says, quietly, into the waiting hush. and then: ] Netzach, there isn't much time left. I'm sure you know.

[ the creak of the sky. the shudder of its bones. an earthquake by any other name, suspended in inexorable animation. ]

'Already'?

[don't think he didn't catch that. he stands after midnight does, remaining close to them both, eyes flicking to kaveh's neck even though he knows that if kaveh has wings here, his entire form is probably a little different.

and with midnight facing kaveh-]

...you know I have to be the one to do it. Nothing else is going to stick.

[ Midnight grins at Kaveh, leans in, has the audacity to say it in a stage whisper. ]

Darling, you were the one who called me starved, not I.

[ Then more loudly, over his shoulder: ]

You've enough blood on your hands, love. Let me soften this blow for you.

[ Midnight strikes first. One hand to Kaveh's neck, then one reaching to his hair, the golden crown of it; if both miss their targets, his hands will reach for his sword next. Midnight, of course, wants blood. Since when has he wanted anything else? ]

[ midnight reaches for kaveh's neck. of course his hand connects. of course it does. in no universe would kaveh allow midnight to reach for him and come away with the absence of him. the tips of midnight's fingers clip the line of kaveh's throat. his other hand wends into his hair. the gold of kaveh's hair is often described as a crown; the reason why angels have halos isn't to crown them. the bright flash of gold is truncated by the way reality bends around the clench of kaveh's fist. the greatsword apparates into being over kaveh's head with the weight of a sword of damocles. his gloved hand drags it down from air to earth.

kaveh's wings flare. they flare gold.

the reason why kaveh has a greatsword isn't for its range. if need be, he can extend his range with any number of tactics, lengthening curves and guiding vectors with the swing of a hand. the reason, then, that kaveh wields a greatsword is that in all his years of carving his way across the hostile sumeran sandsea, he needed its weight and force to crack open the bones of civilisation. it's that same weight and force that comes down like a forge hammer. midnight is quick. so is kaveh. that greatsword swings down in his hand like an arc of judgment, the flat of it aimed with engineered precision to lay flat and dislocate midnight's shoulder. ]

You two-!

[...regretfully, he is so used to people working things out violently that he hardly bats an eye when kaveh calls a sword into being, one that looks as if he shouldn't even be able to swing it. no, this is not so out of place.

he does take a moment, one he won't admit to, to admire the way that kaveh swings it. to acknowledge, in this fiction where the reality of things doesn't fully matter, that it's surprisingly attractive, save for the part where he means to break midnight with it.

that is the first moment. in the second, he's shifting forward, reaching for a power he suddenly and instinctively knows this role possesses, eyes bright and molten with it. a flash of red glances off kaveh's blade, hopefully just enough to nudge it askew; he doesn't intervene any further, though. only enough to attempt to keep them from harming each other too much.]

What do you think you're doing?

[ He lets go, he steps back; he pulls his own sword, fired and folded steel, well made but perfectly mundane, and with Netzach's intervention, the heavenly blade hits at an angle, slips down Midnight's edge and lands with a crash into the stone underneath them.

Midnight smiles, wide and sharklike, and readjusts his grip on his sword. He wants blood. He understands that there's no separating himself from this, or telling himself that he's better than his base desires. It smells like food, it tastes sweet; to drink from others is a part of him, something he'd have to strip from himself like pulling the veins from a shelled fin. Midnight lies well, but he never lies unless he has to. What he does best is tell the truth, then let others lie for him. ]

Softening the blow, darling. You only need hit the mortal strike. Let me have the rest. I love him well enough for that.

[ Which is a mad thing to say. Good. He hasn't been the demon king in a long time. He loved it once. The power, the madness. He lunges again, the sparks that jump from the tip of his sword, the stone at his feet, burst to flame, the only boon left to a runaway demon. When he slices up, aiming to cut Kaveh from stomach to throat, the stroke is well-practiced, precise, beautiful. He is on a path of war, and he intends to walk it well. ]

[ love. it always boils down to that, isn't it. netzach is love-made-form. midnight is filled with it. were it the opposite. midnight draws his blade. netzach activates his power. kaveh's awareness of it is the same way one might be aware of a a meteor-shower. its scintillating spark illuminates the murk of a distant galaxy. it reminds him of the activation of a vision. cryo, kaveh thinks, netzach would be cryo.

and so would midnight. kaveh's blade skates into the ground. the stone shatters beneath their feet. kaveh is already pulling it back up, the greatsword as if weightless in hand as he flips it and parries the long, carving length of a blow meant to bisect. the arc of midnight's blade is beautiful. kaveh's heart aches at it. of course it does. for a sarkaz, the continuation of life after death is picking up the blade. and midnight - he is sarkaz. he had never wanted to hurt anyone. this is midnight, this isn't midnight, and the third piece of puzzle: this is the midnight that midnight sometimes thinks he needs to be. it occurs to kaveh that that's why he is so certain of it: that midnight either intends on bisecting kaveh so that it softens the blow for netzach, or that midnight will put kaveh into a position to mortally wound him, so that netzach will kill him instead.

neither outcomes are acceptable. there are two more. kaveh's blade flashes. outlined in knife-edged negative space behind kaveh's head is the force of a halo wresting itself into shape. midnight is left-handed, tends towards quick strokes of a blade with just enough overreach that kaveh suspects he is used to a blade just a little longer than the one he currently has. kaveh's claymore parries its edge into the ground, deft strokes that keep him pressed against midnight's right-hand side. netzach's magic seems to be sight-based, and his control may have nuance - kaveh forces his angle of approach by keeping him visible to his left. the next stroke of kaveh's blade is flat, and meant for the jut of midnight's wrist. kaveh says: ]

I trust in Netzach, just as you already have. [ and then, because he is kaveh, the next words burn, that latent simmering anger, the one carried forward by a mouthful of blood with dangerous, conversational precision: ] Midnight, how is your Oripathy here?

[ kaveh's claymore sunders stone. ]

[under any other circumstances, they would both be beautiful like this-- or perhaps it's more accurate to say they are still beautiful, the situation making them devastatingly so. their blades are, figuratively and a little literally, at each other's throats, and while it makes something clench in his chest, he still can't think any differently of them.

and it may be this that leads him to be caught up in the precarious energy sparked between them, to speak without thinking.

"i love him well enough for that," midnight says. netzach's words are soft, but pointed enough to make himself heard over blade against stone:]

And I don't?

[it doesn't need an answer, exactly. he won't take umbrage if there isn't one. but what he would have wanted is for it not to come like this, to result in them coming to blows over it. this doesn't spare him.

it doesn't spare any of them, but this was never going to.

similarly, he doesn't spare kaveh this time either. kaveh is clearly accustomed to a sword and strategy. netzach doesn't think he's very accustomed to wings, and as he reaches out for one, so does the magic he's found himself with. it winds between feathers, into joints, fluid; it spreads that wing and pulls toward netzach with a curl of his fingers to throw kaveh off balance.

just as he reached for that, he reaches for a script desperately trying to get itself back on track.]

You were supposed to leave this all behind when you came to me. To leave your lives in my hands.

[his voice is still quiet, but it isn't lacking in firmness. it's the softness of a character that expects to not have to raise his voice, because everything will bend to let him be heard. fueled by his own emotions, listening to them and piecing together that this is-- it's something different. something that didn't begin here, but was brought along with the two of them.]

If this temple ever had gods, they're gone. There's only me.

[only him, and a sacrifice yet to be made. that's what this is a temple of, now, and in that sense, has this story not made a little bit of a god out of a priest meant to stop the end itself?]

[ Midnight grunts, remembers Spot repeating on your right, your right, on your right, dumbass, and shoves away Kaveh's blade just enough to create space. Kaveh has better range than him, but with a blade like his, he can only move so fast. And Midnight understands what it takes to defeat someone who outmatches him. He takes risks, then prepares to create solutions for his deficiencies. He is used to seeing the world in these sorts of risks.

He thought about answering Netzach, thought again. Revised. ]

Perhaps.

[ Said as though he really, truly thought, at one point, the answer was no. The pointed ears and teeth, though... Maybe, in this one specific story, he can afford to tighten his expectations somewhat.

But the script comes to him before his own. When the wind comes for Kaveh's wings, it's only the understanding that this little god commands him that turns his blade from Kaveh's heart to the fold of his sleeve, slicing it cleanly over his arm.

He pauses there, blade hovering over skin, fire already dying at his feet. ]

I fell away from the grace of the gods long ago. If a god cannot take my reins, I shall take my feet and walk where I will. This is how a demon chooses: my answers come from myself. Where there are no gods to save me, I create my own.

[ Then quietly, to Kaveh. ]

Darling, cut me if you like. You can find out for yourself.

[ There is no Originium in this world. The demon Midnight is in this story has never suffered from so much as a headache in his life. ]

[ the wind comes for kaveh's wings. kaveh knows its strike, knows its angle of approach. it drags him beneath the undertow anyway, because the weight and heft of his newfound appendages can't be calculated away. the angle of the world tilts. midnight's blade comes. it aims for his heart. kaveh thinks, in that split moment - it was option four after all. it could only be a lover's suicide, and netzach, he would have to kill them both. he is sorry.

midnight's blade comes. kaveh's claymore swings. suddenly, their motions truncate as if as one. kaveh's sleeve falls away, cut like a single head of a camilla flower, falling in resplendent winter. the momentum of kaveh's claymore ends just by midnight's neck, thin wisps of his hair shedding across the radiant light of its blade.

kaveh answered his god. of course he does. ]

I clawed my way out from hell long ago to seek my god. [ he says in turn, low, and slow, ] I have always known that there was only ever one. On this earth, I met another. I was wrong. I have only ever had one god. When two claims to hold my reins, I choose my own.

[ and then, because he is kaveh, and will always be kaveh, he says thus, to midnight. ] Good. I will. I am furious. That is a promise.

[ kaveh breathes out.

finally: ] Netzach, you have bound my wings. They were your wings, they always were. They are yours to bind, just as I am yours to take. Come for me.

[he couldn't be certain they'd both acquiesce until it happened. a small part of the tension he holds leaves him in a slow sigh that curves his shoulders, made to look more delicate beneath the flowing fabric draped over them. he's stubborn regardless, though.

come for me. what else could he ever do? his to bind, his to take-- it's a more appealing thought than it should be allowed to be, even if this is only a story, even if he knows kaveh cannot belong to him in truth. neither of them can. kaveh's heart fits better inside other hands, and midnight's shouldn't be held in his palms alone.

he lets kaveh remain facing midnight, steps forward behind him. kaveh's shoulder is a resting place for his head, arms draped around him, settling in the space between his wings; netzach extends a hand to midnight, then.

realization is beginning to settle in: there's a natural reaction this shape of his has, with his face nudged up by kaveh's neck, unable to escape the scent of him. he smells too good. he needs to--

ah, so this is the shape of that blood ritual.

he exhales a little shakily. if it's like this, he wants midnight here.]

[ Midnight sheathes his sword swiftly at the proffered hand, and it's as though the demon king was never there. Just Midnight the host in the costume of a demon he is not.

He takes Netzach's hand, then Kaveh's bared elbow, then tugs them to a wall. Not the throne. There isn't room for all of them to sit. ]

Sit with me, both of you. I can keep you warm.

[ Midnight will insist on this too, herding them with soft encouragement until Netzach sits with him, and Kaveh rests against him, his wings tucked to his back. He has Netzach's hand in his own, his other hand stroking through golden hair.

He puts a kiss on Netzach's temple. His eyes are open, watching the shadow of the spire in the sky blot out the sun, casting the trees into early, suffocating night. No stars, no moons. Just the rumble of distant thunder, and the threat of silence afterward. ]

Go slow until you're ready. We have time. I promise.

[ netzach settles against kaveh's back. he can feel, kaveh thinks, the beating of that gentlest organ of his, that heart that makes him so. warm and kind and sorrowful. it isn't until netzach lingers that kaveh realises it - that netzach, too, has fangs. netzach presses his face into kaveh's neck, and kaveh is reminded of it, the tunnel, the haunted house, a vampire and a man compelled to be one. how kaveh's life has become so embroiled with those who like that very specific patch of his neck is something that kaveh can't verbalise, but it has him huffing out a laugh as the claymore finally dissipates back into nothing.

midnight's hand corrals kaveh's elbow. kaveh, after a moment, goes.

against the wall, midnight settles them both as if in a cradle made from the circle of his arms. his hand carves through kaveh's hair. for a moment, kaveh thinks - the shape of him won't fit. between the three of them, of course it's kaveh who has wings the size of small parachutes. kaveh's shadow casts itself against the wall; two human-shaped creatures, and one an amorphous, nebulous blob of a thing outline in its own, sunlit light. midnight tugs him in. kaveh's wings settle awkwardly. kaveh settles awkwardly. with his wings turned to the side, tucked tight against his back, kaveh almost looks and feels as if he belongs.

he shakes his head. kaveh reaches out. he pulls netzach into his arms. the hug is a fierce one. ]

I'm sorry. [ kaveh says, to netzach, to midnight. ] I am. Though how is it that you're also a vampire, Netzach? There's an irony that I can hardly voice, that those I'm most fond of have a predilection towards blood.

...good. It should be warm, in the end.

[he wants some type of warmth that won't come from kaveh's blood.

it's just that-- well, the rest of what he wants right now is kaveh's blood.

he curls into them both, all of them entangled in each other like one creature made up of three, surrounded with warmth and touch. comfortable. comforted. this time, he's gentler with kaveh's wings when he reaches for one, fingers stroking over the feathers.]

And I don't know. Why can you fly?

[what he means is 'hell if i know', but he also thinks once again-- the wings really do suit him, in multiple ways. maybe kaveh should fly.]

Well, he strikes me as rather birdlike.

[ He kindly refrains from using the word Liberi, and instead arranges blond hair over where he had plumage in another dream. ]

A vampire for you, though... My, I do find that rather strange. I half expect to find you sleeping in the embrace of a flower.

[ He doesn't clarify, of course, that such gentleness and understanding isn't a part of demon culture, as that should be pretty obvious on its face. Midnight, after all, is a terrible vampire, so it follows that Netzach is quite the same. Hasn't the temperament for it, either of them.

He's grooming them both with his hands now, arranging their clothing and tossing his own overcoat over the tangle of their legs for weight, warmth. There's a certain part to dying that feels like falling asleep, and if Midnight can manage to keep Kaveh warm enough through the end, perhaps it will feel just like that. Like falling deeply asleep, with the promise of something lovely waiting in one's dreams. ]

Do I? I've been called a tiger and a lion before - hardly a bird. Though if I had to guess, there's meaning in having wings, but choosing to be on the ground. I'd rather be here, than in the air.

[ it's something to think about, kaveh supposes. something about the irony of these stories playing with their natures. netzach isn't suited to be a vampire. not really. neither is midnight. neither is alhaitham, if he had to be honest about it. there is an inherent gentleness to them that the world has yet to stamp out in its entirety.

kaveh doesn't intend to be the one to do so. but he is only kaveh, and this is the story that's written - this is also the only ending that kaveh can accept. midnight tosses his coat over them. his hand cards through kaveh's hair. kaveh's wings flutter beneath netzach's touch. and then, slowly, kaveh stretches it, one of his golden wings. he stretches it above the three of them like a canopy. a shadow is cast. the halo of kaveh's existence is bright beneath it. the canopy of his wing drowns out the world; he builds a world for just the three of them within. it's just the three.

finally, lastly, kaveh tips his head. it's the gentlest of touch, the way it butts into the palm of midnight's hand, and then to the curve of his neck. kaveh lets himself rest there. he says: ]

Ah, but perhaps it's your influence, Midnight. I always knew you were a terrible one, for Netzach.

[ kaveh says so, and he is smiling. ]

You still should've had the sky.

[he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; he mouths idly at kaveh's neck, careful not to let his fangs scratch the skin just yet.]

And anyway, I'm not a good influence either, so it's fine.

[he's a drunk, he's an addict, he has a history of unethical research and murder despite what he feels were pretty good reasons for the former and a lack of choice in the latter. a lot of people, he knows, would not look approvingly upon the way he pulls kaveh and midnight both from their work and insists on lazing around the majority of the time.

(and neither of them is bothered in the slightest, as far as he's ever been able to tell.)]

It doesn't have to suit me. The story was written with blood at the end, and so it has more of a reason.

He's right, you know. The sky is yours.

[ In response to Netzach, aimed toward Kaveh, followed up by a rather flippant, gentle kiss to his head, where the bone of his forehead dips into the hollow of his temple. As though this is another lazy afternoon in Kaveh's atelier, sawdust caught in a golden spray of failing light around them.

(He reaches for Netzach's hand, holds his fingers in his palm. This isn't forgiveness, as there is nothing to be forgiven here; this is the kind of hold one needs when the sky is falling, or the water is rising, or when someone beloved is about to die.) ]

A reason... Hmm.

[ Midnight laughs slightly, but lets that thought rest in him. Imagine if this wasn't a story. If this was reality, where people die to no fanfare, with no sense of poetic justice. Where people are tossed the bodies of their dead and have to work out the meaning of missing someone where there is, realistically, no meaning at all.

(Midnight thinks rather realistically, actually. It's the optimism that makes him keep such things to himself.) ]

When we escape, let's make a happier story, mm? I promise I'll come up with something grand.

[ Honestly, Midnight's squad A6 would question Netzach's sanity first, then thank him. As everyone knows, Midnight needs someone to check in on him every now and then. Several someones. It takes a village, actually, and he knows it, which really thwarts every inroads on the endeavor, to be honest. That Netzach's so patient with him, that Kaveh cares enough to push him, is no less than a miracle. ]

Yes, but has anyone here considered that I've never wanted the sky?

[ kaveh says with a smile, because of course he does. of course it's true. kaveh loves the sky. he loves the colour of sumeru's sky at dusk as it descends into the inky blot of purple shadow; he loves the colour of that long-imagined fontanian sunrise, the one that bathes the sky in ardent pinks and purples. but kaveh has always loved being able to build more, and you couldn't build anything in the sky. not yet. and even if you could, the ones who would turn that building into a home are the ones who exist within kaveh's reach. life sprouts from the ground. kaveh is dendro in ways that even lesser lord kusanali likely won't be able to express, though kaveh supposes that even thinking that is a kind of blasphemy. he doesn't think she would mind, though.

what kaveh also doesn't mind - the kiss to his temple, the way netzach mouths at his neck. kaveh allows it because it's midnight, and because it's netzach, and because in no universe could he stand against their desires when they have so little of it. in turn, kaveh's hand reaches up and cards through netzach's hair. he rests it there, warm and fond and perhaps a little helpless. it always came down to vampires in the end, it seems. ]

You are a good influence, Netzach. [ says kaveh, firmly, gently - ] You've made our lives for the better. This, I can say with the certainty that the sky is blue and that the story Midnight has prepared for all of us will be terribly cheesy and my blood pressure will spike because of it. A terrible fate.

[ but kaveh is smiling. the top of his head nudges the crook of midnight's neck, just once. ] Well, as long as Midnight doesn't make a villain of himself again. I'm tired of that particular story.

...mm. One where everyone ends up happy, then. I don't get to hear many of those.

[not even here. especially not back home, where every story extracted from living people is written in the ink of the city's streets, its influence in all the punctuation. nothing born of the city is happy, not really.

he's beginning to sound more distracted, though, his hand gripping midnight's a little tighter, head tilting into kaveh's touch with a sound that's very nearly a whine. the story wants him to do this, but you know what? so does he. he's drowning, a little, in the scent that's uniquely kaveh, one fang scratching his neck without breaking skin before he inhales a steadying breath.]

I want-

[to get this over with. to not drag it out too long. to finish this and go back to the way things are supposed to be. to taste him.

the last thought is almost what he says, but not quite, because there is one thing the setting of this story allows to him that reality does not: midnight said he can bleed.]

...I want to taste you both. Before we end this.

[insane thought? maybe. he doesn't really care.]

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