[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

[katabasis]

The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to the palate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.

Comments

[aletheian]

It's an indefinite thought exercise; Thomas doesn't need to be forced, he's not going to ask James to stop, but the drive needed to do this is one that is so brutal as to not be able to stop. James has confessed this horrific murder and it's as good as Thomas doing it himself for how tied to one another they are, for how their souls have grown and cracked to match. It's awful, and it's good.

They're a mess and they're not. Thomas looks at him and his eyes are clear. "I love you," he says softly, because words are failing him in this moment, almost laughably uncharacteristic-- and so, in absence of a politician's command, here's the truth. On these tangled and shadowed paths they haven't walked before, they've been of the same mind, just stumbling over different cracks in the stone.

"Sounds as though I can't talk you out of it," is even softer, something dark and satisfied in the way it curls between them. I want you to try to talk me out of it was never about wanting to stop, but always about seeking holes in logic, and holes in resolve.

It's not wrong to do this over and over. It's not wrong to seek satisfaction until life ends. That's the point of living.

[katabasis]

None of this is the kind of thing that should make a person happy. They are standing in the ocean of dark between the main house of a plantation and the slave quarters where they live, speaking of bloody plans with the tacit understanding that they are so dangerous that reasonably they could be lethal to one or both of them. But his pulse is quickening and the feeling which blooms high in his chest isn't rage or fear or the unspeakable thing that just hungers for bones to break between its teeth. It's not relief either. Not the cold comfort he's taken in this careful, methodical, evasive approach they've spent so long lingering over.

It's a wild, fervent kind of joy: cracking him open and shining a light through it. He fights down a smile, then stops and lets himself - be happy, love this this between them. --God, he loves Thomas so much and it must show in every angle of him, in the soft noise he makes when he breathes out, in every consonant: "It seems I'm committed."

[aletheian]

Thomas smiles.

Brilliant, honest, lines on his face from age and wear so much more obvious, nothing about it pained or mingled with more reasonable emotions like-- caution, wryness, regret. No. He loves James and he loves the storm in him, that abyss on the ocean, he loves the fire, he loves that he can breathe that black water and be galvanized in those flames.

I will know you even in the dark.

One hand untangles from their desperate clasp, and Thomas raises it to trace rough fingertips over James's jaw, though the red hair on his face to his ear, holding the back of his head. He kisses him. Edging on harsh, this emotion too fierce for anything else, not sealing a pact between them but striking fire in the one they've always had.