[Markus chokes out a half-beat later, hands jerking against Simon's half-concealed insides as they clench into graceless fists, abruptly killing the third stanza of Ashbery's most prominent work. Strung so unexpectedly high that he can't sustain the intended path of his own processes, bucking in a stuttering half-motion into the space Simon's already soundly occupying, shoulders to hips, to— ]
—shit. [Shivering sharp through his shoulders, toes curling in his boots. If his eyes were open, his vision would blur— he's certain of it— but instead he's tipped too forward, complex systems overstimulated, turned stupid and buried to the point of being muffled in giving musculature. Simon sparks up bright and burns out, and Markus is— they are—
It isn’t greedy anymore. Sated, secured, tired, mostly. Unwilling to leave the altar so he pours himself limply across it instead, eyes still shut, cyclical patterns (breathing, recycling, cooling) spooling down into fully automated function as they run without his input. Hibernal without the loss of consciousness, and it's a trick he realizes he's only recently acquired, from a source so close to his chest that it's tangible.
His hands are left where they’ve been enfolded. It’s the second time he’s pushed Simon’s failing processes, and sustained connectivity is like dialysis between them: his body sets the pace, shoulders the burden of directing subroutines, pouring them back into their owner in packeted heartbeats, streamlined. Exerted. Comfortable. If he carries the efficacy of Simon’s systems, he doesn’t need to drag himself away just yet. A choice he doesn’t even bother evaluating to make.
In myths, holy beings chose their sacred earth. Sanctuaries and temples, valleys surrounded by scripture or jagged mountains that rise like teeth to keep humanity at bay. A place they buried themselves, either in body or in spirit. Axis mundi. Markus came too late to choose Jericho as his own (that was Simon’s rite, even if he’d never wanted it). This, though— the subtle, exposed sounds of life that vibrate dreamily against his own recumbent mass—
His right hand drops, palm forming around the broken joint at Simon’s hip. He leaves his eyes lidded. Fingers stilled in coded comfort]
He is part of me, as I of thy deep secrets, knowing them.
[Beauty in the divine. Beauty in the mundane. It seems fitting that they express themselves in opposing parallels. External, internal. Old, new. Demanding, patient. ]
Thomas Aquinas. [Simon’s author, not his.] Had no idea you were a literary scholar.
[Josh, yes. And they’d have spent hours picking apart the subtleties of context when it comes to the written word if not for the fact that they were actively dying at the hands of humanity.
That they still are.
He hopes he’s all right. That North—
One more lazy exhale, face tucked aimlessly into the hollowed slope of Simon’s hip. A little higher, a little more stubborn, though the soldering iron finds its way into his grip again. Contact sensors doing the work for him: he doesn’t need to look or tear himself away to perform rudimentary tasks.]
no subject
[Markus chokes out a half-beat later, hands jerking against Simon's half-concealed insides as they clench into graceless fists, abruptly killing the third stanza of Ashbery's most prominent work. Strung so unexpectedly high that he can't sustain the intended path of his own processes, bucking in a stuttering half-motion into the space Simon's already soundly occupying, shoulders to hips, to— ]
—shit. [Shivering sharp through his shoulders, toes curling in his boots. If his eyes were open, his vision would blur— he's certain of it— but instead he's tipped too forward, complex systems overstimulated, turned stupid and buried to the point of being muffled in giving musculature. Simon sparks up bright and burns out, and Markus is— they are—
It isn’t greedy anymore. Sated, secured, tired, mostly. Unwilling to leave the altar so he pours himself limply across it instead, eyes still shut, cyclical patterns (breathing, recycling, cooling) spooling down into fully automated function as they run without his input. Hibernal without the loss of consciousness, and it's a trick he realizes he's only recently acquired, from a source so close to his chest that it's tangible.
His hands are left where they’ve been enfolded. It’s the second time he’s pushed Simon’s failing processes, and sustained connectivity is like dialysis between them: his body sets the pace, shoulders the burden of directing subroutines, pouring them back into their owner in packeted heartbeats, streamlined. Exerted. Comfortable. If he carries the efficacy of Simon’s systems, he doesn’t need to drag himself away just yet. A choice he doesn’t even bother evaluating to make.
In myths, holy beings chose their sacred earth. Sanctuaries and temples, valleys surrounded by scripture or jagged mountains that rise like teeth to keep humanity at bay. A place they buried themselves, either in body or in spirit. Axis mundi. Markus came too late to choose Jericho as his own (that was Simon’s rite, even if he’d never wanted it). This, though— the subtle, exposed sounds of life that vibrate dreamily against his own recumbent mass—
His right hand drops, palm forming around the broken joint at Simon’s hip. He leaves his eyes lidded. Fingers stilled in coded comfort]
He is part of me, as I of thy deep secrets, knowing them.
[Beauty in the divine. Beauty in the mundane. It seems fitting that they express themselves in opposing parallels. External, internal. Old, new. Demanding, patient. ]
Thomas Aquinas. [Simon’s author, not his.] Had no idea you were a literary scholar.
[Josh, yes. And they’d have spent hours picking apart the subtleties of context when it comes to the written word if not for the fact that they were actively dying at the hands of humanity.
That they still are.
He hopes he’s all right. That North—
One more lazy exhale, face tucked aimlessly into the hollowed slope of Simon’s hip. A little higher, a little more stubborn, though the soldering iron finds its way into his grip again. Contact sensors doing the work for him: he doesn’t need to look or tear himself away to perform rudimentary tasks.]