I love you too. Take care of you as I would take care of you.
He leaves it at that for Hawke to have his day with Amelia, to soak in the sun and find what peace he can. His day is meant to be laying around on or with Jon...and that is what they do, even after Chris realizes the usual little shift in the tattoo on his inner thigh is no longer present. The lines are cold and stark, still beautiful in the shape of stylized wings, but they no longer seem to flow like waves on the shore.
He needs to go to the Theatre. He needs to collect their notes or, at least, copies of their notes, and maybe buy another stock of truffles since it would be one of the last batches. Who would even be there to take the transaction? He's not sure. He doesn't let himself think about it until evening. Jon's back to reading when he steps out for an hour to take care of everything he needs to. He didn't think the Theatre could be more quiet. Chris takes some of Nick's plants to try and propagate in Martin's garden, and then collapses back with his Archivist.
In the morning, he doesn't bother praying, he simply puts on a pair of black jeans, his sleeveless workout shirt, and takes flight from the roof. He soars higher and higher, as high as he dares and out over the ocean. For a moment, he looks out over that endless gray horizon, barely lit with the impending sun and fights back every emotion, every thought, every memory. He lets himself fall, wings curling in close as he plummets half his height down again...and then his wings vanish into black light and he lets himself really drop. No safety net.
He's near enough to shore he's sure he'll be fine even if he lands wrong, but he's banking on that sensation and the cut of sudden cold and the press against his lungs like he'll never breathe again. Maybe it'll help. He hits the water as smoothly as he can from a hundred and twenty feet up, it hurts and aches and he doesn't feel like he remembers how to breathe, even if he could, but he feels like he's finally waking up. He doesn't rise to the surface immediately, instead lingers in the blind depths and tells himself, when he swims up, Caleb will be back and will shake his head at him in that fond little way of his.
cw: poor coping mechanisms
He leaves it at that for Hawke to have his day with Amelia, to soak in the sun and find what peace he can. His day is meant to be laying around on or with Jon...and that is what they do, even after Chris realizes the usual little shift in the tattoo on his inner thigh is no longer present. The lines are cold and stark, still beautiful in the shape of stylized wings, but they no longer seem to flow like waves on the shore.
He needs to go to the Theatre. He needs to collect their notes or, at least, copies of their notes, and maybe buy another stock of truffles since it would be one of the last batches. Who would even be there to take the transaction? He's not sure. He doesn't let himself think about it until evening. Jon's back to reading when he steps out for an hour to take care of everything he needs to. He didn't think the Theatre could be more quiet. Chris takes some of Nick's plants to try and propagate in Martin's garden, and then collapses back with his Archivist.
In the morning, he doesn't bother praying, he simply puts on a pair of black jeans, his sleeveless workout shirt, and takes flight from the roof. He soars higher and higher, as high as he dares and out over the ocean. For a moment, he looks out over that endless gray horizon, barely lit with the impending sun and fights back every emotion, every thought, every memory. He lets himself fall, wings curling in close as he plummets half his height down again...and then his wings vanish into black light and he lets himself really drop. No safety net.
He's near enough to shore he's sure he'll be fine even if he lands wrong, but he's banking on that sensation and the cut of sudden cold and the press against his lungs like he'll never breathe again. Maybe it'll help. He hits the water as smoothly as he can from a hundred and twenty feet up, it hurts and aches and he doesn't feel like he remembers how to breathe, even if he could, but he feels like he's finally waking up. He doesn't rise to the surface immediately, instead lingers in the blind depths and tells himself, when he swims up, Caleb will be back and will shake his head at him in that fond little way of his.