#ibuzoo

Beneath the skies of Csilla, separation is all too painful to bear –  Ivant keeps the memories as tokens, dissecting them for signs, as if anything has escaped his notice before. 

I don’t like the idea of separation, he’d told Thrawn so before his departure; he felt severed from all he knew. (Good day, Lieutenant Vanto – the indifference stings, even though in hindsight Ivant knows – Ivant hopes he was mistaken).

Ivant is Thrawn’s legacy, his gift to the Ascendancy, the problem is Ivant is not satisfied with just being that.

And if Ivant needs to throw his career into the metaphorical depths of Mustafar to get Thrawn back, well, the ‘greater good’ has always been more of Thrawn’s thing than his own.

Ivant is only human, after all.

—bisections of stars; scene vii(x) || Eliot C.||☕||

we all want our deaths to mean something, however small, to someone to anyone. but the universe is so vast, our lives are not even dust. the sheer scale of what surrounds us is sometimes beyond what we can even comprehend. sometimes, if you try to understand it all you go mad. then death follows. 

no one remembers the death of mad men. 

-excerpt from The Novel WIP

Yeshua is more mouthpiece than human towards the end. Revered and untouchable, immortal and mortal. His flesh no longer flesh, just sand and stone against Judah’s metallic frame. They sleep side by side in the desert, in the train, in the flimsy buildings left behind by the devastation of a never-ending war.

||☕|| For @ibuzoo|| AO3 HERE

Yeshua has never considered himself a divine being, though he’s been told since he had been old enough to rise from among the dead that he was. A god or His son — both, depending on who is asked. But Yeshua himself has considered himself a being of luck and opportunity.

Less human, less divine.

He fills his mouth with silver and spits out gold, his followers lining up to follow the path he crafts. Yeshua has no more, no less feelings for those that step in his every step, that stay in his every shadow.

Not everyone is made to stand in the sun. Not with its scorching light and how frail human skin is. But Yeshua stands in its direct glare, feels the edges of him dry and flake.

Less human, less divine.

Judah though, he does not burn like the others would under the light. His skin turns cool, cooler when the sun reaches its pinnacle, smooth like metal and just as impenetrable to Yeshua’s entreaties. He will not beg for a return but he does miss it: the ease, the trust, the humanity between them.

Bloomed in the desert shade, watered by the light of the moon and having grown from weed to flower, to something stronger with branches and leaves — enduring against the arid environment. Yeshua thinks he cut it down late one afternoon, but he can’t recall.

Maybe it had been Judah who pruned it too far and left silver coins in its place.

Yeshua has not returned to look at it again, certain that if it is meant to endure it would do so without interference. Yeshua is like that sometimes.

Less human, less divine.

Leave the course of the sandstorm to nature to decide. Watch the tearing down of buildings and institutions brought on by his words following their own due course. For all the claims surrounding him, Yeshua has very little control once his actions and words are out in the word. It is flattering people think of him as omnipotent, even those around him who should know better.

Judah knows better.

That is perhaps why Yeshua hates and loves him in equal measure. To feel so frayed and exposed, and yet to be seen as he is.

No amount of smeared oils and scented crowns will hide the stench of blood that follows Yeshua in his wake. But they never blame him for it, they never seem to notice.

Less human, less divine. More monstrous, made of infinity and luck and destiny. Whatever those were, stitched into the fabric of this world and guiding its outcome.

Yeshua is more mouthpiece than human towards the end. Revered and untouchable, immortal and mortal. His flesh no longer flesh, just sand and stone against Judah’s metallic frame. They sleep side by side in the desert, in the train, in the flimsy buildings left behind by the devastation of a never-ending war.

Every day he feels more distant, even in the growing disapproval that Judah wears like an armor. Every day he feels it become more impenetrable, until the softness only remains in Judah’s eyes, dripping like blood when he looks at Yeshua.

He doesn’t look at Yeshua often now, if at all. Avoiding it with no subtlety. Yeshua knows, he always does. But he lets the lie lay between their bodies at night.

Yeshua finds it difficult to breathe in those moments. He would forgo doing it if he didn’t worry what Judah would say to find Yeshua living and not breathing — an impossibility that would upend his neat narrative about what and who Yeshua is.

It would be easier not to breathe.

It would hurt less to stop pretending.

Yeshua does not hide the way the holes in his eyes widen daily, how his skin continues peeling away, how his muscles follow by unraveling like kite ribbons.

He is barely human, barely divine.

He pens a letter to Judah, the night before it all deserts him. Leaves it tucked in Judah’s worn backpack, between the laptop and the memories of their first meeting, spilling them all in ink. What a mess they made, and what a mess Yeshua is leaving behind.

He knows Judah will forgive him. In time.

Yeshua is no longer human, no longer divine. And monsters are immortal and eternal, he has time to spare. He will wait for Judah’s forgiveness.

Loneliness makes for a constant companion, my fingers tangled with their — wishing for a shift in the stars, an end to this companionship and the arrival of

A thing that does not have a name when it takes root in my mind. I dream of the open highways and the twisting trees that grow wild alongside. I dream of driving down those roads with

The static of broken radio stations punctuating the silences between us.