09-12-2019, 08:24 AM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Black smoke billows from Castile’s nostrils, engulfing his sharply-edged face as his eyes lift toward the sky. It’s impossible to miss his draconic sun spiraling among the clouds. Like Sabra, his coat catches the light with an opalescent sheen that has always clawed at his instincts. There’s a gravitational pull – or once was – to horde the beauty in the world, but Castile has since succumbed to herding his own family underneath his wings. They are his treasures.
The twins had been no different, but they’ve always groped for independence and space from their own father. While it buried a knife into the King’s heart, he learned to accept it. His attempts at reconciliation were futile and his efforts exhausted. He cannot force them to remain so close as their siblings.
But that doesn’t mean he will disregard them when they arrive at his doorstep.
Castile meets his son when he alights. Every crack and tear of bone and muscle ripples familiarity. It’s a daily routine, to rip his body apart between shifts so that he can taste the freedom of what his alter self provides. He patiently waits, a pause marked by silence until Santana dives into conversation without so much as a hello. Emotions wrack through the body of his son as crude assumptions shadow his voice. Underneath an unruly forelock, Castile’s eyebrow lifts. His mismatched gaze sweeps back and forth and his expression remains stoic and unreadable. Even the rhythm of his heart remains steady while underneath the spotlight.
Again – still – he waits.
Santana is done, staring at him now expectantly and no longer at the shrubbery in the background. Enough time passes that it seems like Castile will not even answer, but when the single word rises from the crypts of his soul, it bleeds with blunt sincerity. ”No.” It hangs idle between them, unsupported by more until the seconds trickle into minutes. ”You and your brother weren’t – aren’t – mistakes. None of my children are mistakes.” As a breeze tousles his locks, his furrowed brows now become visible, hooding his stare with mild irritation. ”You come into my home to assume shit like that?” There is no way to mask the edge of his tone, and it’s too late to take it back. Straightening himself, Castile swallows the aggravation and searches Santana’s eyes for something more – a reason why – before finally, casually, asking, ”What happened that you’re asking this?” He imagines there is a root cause to all of this, a reason that fire burns through his son’s core beneath the winter sun.
The twins had been no different, but they’ve always groped for independence and space from their own father. While it buried a knife into the King’s heart, he learned to accept it. His attempts at reconciliation were futile and his efforts exhausted. He cannot force them to remain so close as their siblings.
But that doesn’t mean he will disregard them when they arrive at his doorstep.
Castile meets his son when he alights. Every crack and tear of bone and muscle ripples familiarity. It’s a daily routine, to rip his body apart between shifts so that he can taste the freedom of what his alter self provides. He patiently waits, a pause marked by silence until Santana dives into conversation without so much as a hello. Emotions wrack through the body of his son as crude assumptions shadow his voice. Underneath an unruly forelock, Castile’s eyebrow lifts. His mismatched gaze sweeps back and forth and his expression remains stoic and unreadable. Even the rhythm of his heart remains steady while underneath the spotlight.
Again – still – he waits.
Santana is done, staring at him now expectantly and no longer at the shrubbery in the background. Enough time passes that it seems like Castile will not even answer, but when the single word rises from the crypts of his soul, it bleeds with blunt sincerity. ”No.” It hangs idle between them, unsupported by more until the seconds trickle into minutes. ”You and your brother weren’t – aren’t – mistakes. None of my children are mistakes.” As a breeze tousles his locks, his furrowed brows now become visible, hooding his stare with mild irritation. ”You come into my home to assume shit like that?” There is no way to mask the edge of his tone, and it’s too late to take it back. Straightening himself, Castile swallows the aggravation and searches Santana’s eyes for something more – a reason why – before finally, casually, asking, ”What happened that you’re asking this?” He imagines there is a root cause to all of this, a reason that fire burns through his son’s core beneath the winter sun.
castile
@[Santana]