For a Smile
Jan. 20th, 2012 03:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archiveofarethusaSometime in the past seven years, Valentio was able to connect the dots and realize that the Cygnelius he'd first befriended wasn't coming back. Valentio didn't know what he was expecting; children seldom stayed the same, and even though Cyg was nineteen now, he was still changing every day. But it wasn't that - it went even smaller than that. People didn't change that much, and if Valentio was going to pinpoint it, it began slowly after Cyg had returned from his father's fellowship, after he'd been Marked.
Ibis took Valentio's best friend and bent him into a shape unnatural for the boy; Valentio only knew him for a few months before he was whisked off with the late Dr. Corvo, but he thought he knew Cyg, and the boy was knifelike; sharp, strong, immovable. When he came back, Cygnelius was smaller, somehow, gaunt and thin and hard yet brittle, like an ironcast twig. Now, of course, he was the fly frozen in amber, unchanging, trapped, beautiful forever. He'd live forever in the protective casing that grew around him daily.
And still Valentio stayed with him, because it was Cyg, and what else could he do? If Cygnelius asked for the moon, Valentio would break all non-existent galactic peace treaties and sack the entire thing for him. Valentio knew the favor would not be returned.
This wasn't all fun anymore. But that was Cyg in there somewhere. And honestly, that was Cyg. If Valentio was honest with himself, he loved Cygnelius; if he wasn't, Cygnelius was just a convenient connection whom the thought of, for no truly sane reason, warmed his cockles. Valentio was getting more and more honest each day, and no matter what, Cygnelius just kept getting farther away. It ticked him off, but he didn't know what the hell was going on in the boy's head. But during the winter Valentio sometimes caught him loitering in the gardens, staring at the frozen fountains like maybe he sympathized, and Valentio thought he might understand.
Cygnelius thought he was alone.
So Valentio cornered him in the garden one day and asked, "What's your problem?"
Cygnelius stared at him like they had just met, and Valentio had to clamp down on his impulse to indulge in a minor nervous breakdown. Cygnelius shrugged and said, "It's the season. Everything is dead."
Dead. Right. Like his soul, one imagined. There were a thousand jokes Valentio could have made in just as many different ways, but today, none of them were funny.
"Right," Valentio said. "So when the summer next comes around and everything is growing up to your eyeballs and green and not really gray and dead, why don't you try focusing on what's living and not what's going to be the future dead in that morbid brain of yours?"
Cygnelius didn't say anything at all for a while, just stood there for a half a second looking like he was trying to understand it and not needing much effort - and he didn't, doesn't need to think hard; this is who he is, and not even an acid trip god can change that - and finally said, "You're...definitely right. But it's not that easy. I need to disconnect. I look at you and I can't help but wonder how long you've got."
"How long, do you think?" Valentio said.
"At the rate you chainsmoke?" Cygnelius snorted. "Christ, you're lucky your lungs haven't been completely overridden by malignant growth by now."
"And that is how not to mope," Valentio said proudly. Cygnelius's gaze was withering and amused at once. "You know, I can never tell exactly how many times you were dropped on the head as an infant, and yet I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be friends with. What do you suppose that says about me?"
"That you have excellent taste, obviously," Valentio said, and Cygnelius smiled. It was small, and he would probably deny it later with the same intensity as he denied having ever read children's books, but it was enough that Valentio found himself smiling tenfold for it. It was some old man, too wise to just be recalled at graduations, who had said the journey of a thousand miles began with a single step. Valentio's thousand mile journey had just begun, and he intended to drag Cyg along all the way. Valentio would stay on course and step merrily into footache hell for that smile.
Ibis took Valentio's best friend and bent him into a shape unnatural for the boy; Valentio only knew him for a few months before he was whisked off with the late Dr. Corvo, but he thought he knew Cyg, and the boy was knifelike; sharp, strong, immovable. When he came back, Cygnelius was smaller, somehow, gaunt and thin and hard yet brittle, like an ironcast twig. Now, of course, he was the fly frozen in amber, unchanging, trapped, beautiful forever. He'd live forever in the protective casing that grew around him daily.
And still Valentio stayed with him, because it was Cyg, and what else could he do? If Cygnelius asked for the moon, Valentio would break all non-existent galactic peace treaties and sack the entire thing for him. Valentio knew the favor would not be returned.
This wasn't all fun anymore. But that was Cyg in there somewhere. And honestly, that was Cyg. If Valentio was honest with himself, he loved Cygnelius; if he wasn't, Cygnelius was just a convenient connection whom the thought of, for no truly sane reason, warmed his cockles. Valentio was getting more and more honest each day, and no matter what, Cygnelius just kept getting farther away. It ticked him off, but he didn't know what the hell was going on in the boy's head. But during the winter Valentio sometimes caught him loitering in the gardens, staring at the frozen fountains like maybe he sympathized, and Valentio thought he might understand.
Cygnelius thought he was alone.
So Valentio cornered him in the garden one day and asked, "What's your problem?"
Cygnelius stared at him like they had just met, and Valentio had to clamp down on his impulse to indulge in a minor nervous breakdown. Cygnelius shrugged and said, "It's the season. Everything is dead."
Dead. Right. Like his soul, one imagined. There were a thousand jokes Valentio could have made in just as many different ways, but today, none of them were funny.
"Right," Valentio said. "So when the summer next comes around and everything is growing up to your eyeballs and green and not really gray and dead, why don't you try focusing on what's living and not what's going to be the future dead in that morbid brain of yours?"
Cygnelius didn't say anything at all for a while, just stood there for a half a second looking like he was trying to understand it and not needing much effort - and he didn't, doesn't need to think hard; this is who he is, and not even an acid trip god can change that - and finally said, "You're...definitely right. But it's not that easy. I need to disconnect. I look at you and I can't help but wonder how long you've got."
"How long, do you think?" Valentio said.
"At the rate you chainsmoke?" Cygnelius snorted. "Christ, you're lucky your lungs haven't been completely overridden by malignant growth by now."
"And that is how not to mope," Valentio said proudly. Cygnelius's gaze was withering and amused at once. "You know, I can never tell exactly how many times you were dropped on the head as an infant, and yet I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be friends with. What do you suppose that says about me?"
"That you have excellent taste, obviously," Valentio said, and Cygnelius smiled. It was small, and he would probably deny it later with the same intensity as he denied having ever read children's books, but it was enough that Valentio found himself smiling tenfold for it. It was some old man, too wise to just be recalled at graduations, who had said the journey of a thousand miles began with a single step. Valentio's thousand mile journey had just begun, and he intended to drag Cyg along all the way. Valentio would stay on course and step merrily into footache hell for that smile.