Love and hope and sex and dreams
     Are still surviving on the street
     Look at me, I'm in tatters!
     I'm shattered...
     Shadoobie...
     Mid-morning is coasting toward just after noon. The windows of the family sitting room are cranked open to let a cool summer breeze blow through, existing in juxtaposition to the warmth that has as its ground zero the family sofa. Layers of clothing have been peeled away like the skin of an orange. A suit jacket is slung on the back of a chair. Shoes are piled next to an ottoman, socks rolled up and tucked inside. A t-shirt is draped over the back of another chair...
     There is no sign of kicked off pants at least...
     Sprawled on his belly, his legs commandeering the sofa, a few pillows kicked onto the floor by bare feet, Balthazar lies, his brown-haired head, his hair shimmering with brightness beyond natural, resting on a folded arm. His other arm lies slack, his index finger brushing against the Indian rug, tracing a line, following the design. His wings, fiery things, lift and lower, twist and turn. Each idle motion causes fire and sparks to skim along the floor. Does the marble wiggle in response? If stone could move in Delight, it would.
     Laughter, joy, and loneliness and sex and sex and sex and sex...
     Look at me...
     His skin is brushed in fragrant gold, the honey dust that it emits, sugared Temptation. His eyes, darkly kohled, twin suns, shine outward, and the culmination of all of this, is Love, is Desire, is Sex. The hum of bees in the loins of the earth.
     Your sun... son... sun....

     Tiernan has been - shockingly - relaxing. There has been sex and intimacy with his husband, conversations with his wife (though to this day he has trouble thinking of her in those terms), tea and conversation with members of the family. But by and large, he is off duty, and he is younger for it. His smile has returned to what it was when he was a youth, shy but pleased, and just a little bit astonished with the world and what is in it...
     Right now, he has made his way after a stroll about the grounds, back inside for some lemonade. It is good lemonade. Your grandmother made it. Without magic, even. He spots you - and he holds it out, offering it to you. "Lemonade?"

     "The official drink of summer. I suppose I'm rather obligated, aren't I." He nods after a moment, pushing up so he can sit up and take it properly. He is extending from himself and into the universe. There is no sun in eclipse today. It is burning, yearning.
     Work and work for love and sex
     Ain't you hungry for success, success, success, success
     Does it matter? (shattered) does it matter?
     Balthazar looks to you a moment, raking his hand through his hair, the brown shimmering then smoldering. The comfort of the sultan that he had when this began is not present. Where are the rose petals at his feet? The gentle seduction of his smile? "Thanks, da." He holds it a moment, then sips at it. "That is good," and he offers it back to you.
     "I thought this was going to be a bit more fun, being a Love and Sex deity," he rolls out, sinking into the sofa, a slothful slump. His fiery wings stretch to either side of him in an exotic sprawl. Were you not his father, such a sprawl could be considered erotic. He is thankful you won't see it like that. "It sounds good on paper anyway." Balthazar's mouth makes a little smile to you.
     There are petals there yet. He's simply not ... enjoying it yet. But his father was once the same, was he not?

     "You aren't under any obligation," Tiernan answers you patiently, smiling as he surrenders his lemonade to you. There is affection in his gaze. He takes the glass back and sits down on the arm of the sofa. "But I thought you might like it."
     He does not see you as a sexual being - even if he knows, intellectually, that you are. You are his son, his little boy, the child who needed comfort when nightmares or lightning struck. And that, still, always is what he sees when he looks at you.
     "It can be very wearing, Being anything that much and thoroughly," Tiernan answers you. He is dressed simply; slacks, a shirt, sandals. For summer's heat, indeed. "It takes finding your center and resting upon it. Your father had difficulty with that."

     "When it started, I was enjoying it more. It wasn't as difficult to manage or maybe I wasn't trying to manage it. Now, when I try to just be, I feel like I'm trying to control it. So then I try not to control it which is," his eyes widen a touch, far more expressive when rimmed in kohl, "... just another way of trying to control it. I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore, or what I should do. And trying to do nothing isn't helping."
     He takes a long drink of the lemonade, setting it aside on the table. "I know the transition has already happened, but I feel like I'm still stuck, waiting for the other shoe to fall." Balthazar looks up at you, his mouth forming a small smirk. "It's already fallen. On my head."
     With an exhalation, he leans forward, elbows on his thighs and hands going to his hair. "Have any advice?" As his wings move, there is the scent of smoldering resin, of myrrh and amber. He is his own temple. "So far I've been told to enjoy the power for myself, and to stop trying to control it. I don't seem able to do either..."

     "The transition is still ongoing," Tiernan corrects gently, leaning over to rub your head. "It isn't finished yet. Even when you think it's finished, it probably won't genuinely be finished. Stop thinking of it as something that is going to eat you up alive and you will feel better, son."
     He smiles at you gently, moving the lemonade out of the way of being knocked over, giving you a thoughtful look. "There is a great deal of power here. You have always been sensitive to it, Balthazar, but you've shut yourself away from it rather than inuring yourself from it, I think. Now, I believe, you're no longer able to shut yourself away from it. Think of it as being like a radio with too many transmissions in the area." Of course he knows about radios. Not so much about rock music - but radios? Sure. "You're finding it jams you."

     Your touch has always been the ultimate comfort for him. A touch to his head would still a cough, a cry, an angered tongue. Balthazar lifts his head, looking to you again as you sit in front of him. His eyes lower to focus on some space nearby. You and not you. "I am a little afraid," he admits, lifting those amber-cinnamon eyes to you. Saying it out loud actually helps. While the intensity of the radiance does not change, the high-pitched vibration pinging around him softens.
     Sitting back, Balthazar lounges in the crook of the sofa, a summer-lazy look on his face and embodied in his form. An elbow rests on the body of the sofa, his hand moving idly along is scalp, through thick hair. "A little afraid that it means that... things i wanted before, for myself, won't be possible, or even important," he continues, his gaze steady. "I need to not worry, yes?" He smiles with helpless knowledge. Yes, do tell -- how can I stop that when I am predestined to rub a worry stone smooth as glass.
     "I feel unsettled," Balthazar quietly notes. "And ... right now... I am concerned, too, that I will not be able to repair the rift with Madison's brother. He and I argued earlier. I'm really not sure what Love is supposed to do for others... sure, inspire them to love. But what if it's me they hate?"

     "They are still important and you will still be you. These are tools being given to you to help you achieve greater results; they are not chains to weight you down. It is possible that in the course of things, your priorities might change - but that could happen even without all of this." Tiernan smiles, and he nudges you to make room for him, patting you fondly. "You are still you."
     He listens to your doubts, your fears, with an even countenance and steady eye. "Hatred most of the time comes out of a lack of understanding, and out of fear," Tiernan reminds you gently. "Does he have reason to fear you? Are there circumstances around you or anything else which might be causing fear? If so, can you reduce - or remove - those fears? And, of course, do you wish to do so..."

     Balthazar draws his legs inward, reducing the amount of sultanic sprawl. A wing likewise retracts, to give you space to sit comfortably beside him without feeling like you're surrounded. "I'm just not sure what I am really supposed to achieve, or how best to do it. London seems small now," Balthazar notes. "The band seems small. I don't know what to wear anymore," he glances around at the litter of clothing, he reduced to jeans. "I feel best in nothing," he glances to you with a curl of his lips. "Nothing looks right or feels right, da."
     Except when he is naked and wrapped around his girl. Then, Everything is Right. He is comfortable. He is Himself.
     "I don't want him to be afraid, no. Not of me. He is afraid, from what I have heard him say, that I have taken what was his, his identity. His friend. His family. I have tried to assure him that this is not the case. He doesn't believe me. He doesn't like me. He doesn't expect he can forgive me. No matter how much compassion and love I gave him, he was unmoved." That, too, is part of his discomfort: failure.
     "I guess," he exhales, "... I simply keep trying." He shrugs. "I'm not sure what else to do. I have apologized. Several times, now. I do not know how to assuage his heart. He is waiting for me to break his sister's heart in the meantime. No pressure, right?"

     "I doubt you could break that girl's heart if you tried, because you do not wish to, because you love her and already you view her as yours. A fellow creature, yes, to be sure, but yours all the same; let your wings out and look into your own heart." Tiernan smiles at you gently, with compassion and love and understanding. He knows you, his son, recognizes the wounds you inflict on yourself, and he sits next to you and takes your hand.
     "You are uncomfortable with layers between yourself and others. You wish everyone to be at ease with themselves and with one another. But human beings cannot exist without layers to protect themselves, from the world, from each other, from themselves. You must seduce them out of their layers, Balthazar - coax them gently, not by merely saying 'this is the truth so you must believe me'. When, in all the history of the race, has that ever really worked?"

     He holds your hand. You can feel the calluses earned in playing the guitar. "I'm not sure how to do that. Maybe I'm not smart enough for this task. Has the universe considered that maybe the Sun just...isn't that bright?" Balthazar smiles helplessly. "I just... I'm not sure how to move forward. I look into my heart, anyone else's and it's just too much, too much light. Will I ever feel confident again? I don't like feeling this way. I'm weary of it, really."
     His muscles twitch, his wings echoing it with a flap. The flames sigh against the air, a slight backing his of annoyance. But it fades rapidly. Balthazar exhales softly. "I guess it hasn't," he murmurs. "And those who do say that sort of thing tend to have short life-spans." His mouth curls in another half smile.
     For a moment, he is quiet, his hand held by yours still. He leans against the sofa and you. And he thinks of her. She focuses him. She gives him hope when he begins to despair of something -- like ever feeling confident again. And hope is the fuel that makes him Love. And Love sighs out of him with every breath, draping itself around you. The air becomes golden, like the sun is rising over the horizon of the sofa. "I love her... and I will love him too, even if he hates me..."

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2009 04:49 PM