thisavrou_log | [ all my favorite people are broken ]

Entry tags:

[ all my favorite people are broken ]

Who: Miles and company
When: the 9th through the 15th
Where: the Kvortira, Moro Deck #009
What: Now that Miles is a little more stable, Ivan and Gregor are permitting him visitors at their cabin.
Warnings: Mental illness/trauma, TBD

It's been...a long week. It's been a long month. A long -- Miles could go on, but there's no sense in counting backwards like that. The last several days have been spent adrift in a terrifying daze, not quite sure of himself or who he is -- the details he hadn't lost, mostly, but they'd been spilled free of their boundaries, a tangled mess. Who belonged to which life, which one of him had done what, kept this secret or another, what parts of him they filled in -- he'd almost lost it all, it'd almost slipped through his fingers. That peculiar sensation of being pulled slowly apart that he'd been feeling for months now had hit its peak. He'd never felt so raw and aching, ripped right open and stuffing torn out. He'd never felt so lost. The ice bath had shocked him right out of the whirlwind smashing everything up, but then he'd been left to carefully reassemble the pieces.

He's doing better now. It took a while, but somewhere in the dark, he fished out the pieces of himself and put them back together. His house of cards rebuilt, he's got both feet on the ground, whole again. It took him all this time and trauma to come to understand, finally, that as long as he's on this ship, he can't really be Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, just one or the other. It left him feeling incomplete. He can't really be either of them at all here, really. Lord Vorkosigan is nothing without Barrayar, he's realized, and Admiral Naismith nothing without the Dendarii. It's all about context, he knows, and here, neither might as well exist. But the Moira does, and Miles has been here since the beginning of all this, and here, it's become an inextricable part of him, just the same as his anchors back home. He needs it, in a way. So when he finally emerged from that tumultuous sea, it wasn't as Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, but Crewman Miles Naismith-Vorkosigan of the Moira.

He's still getting used to himself all over again, and he's still finding his footing, but it's a relief to have found himself again. He feels he can relax for the first time in...a long time. And for the first time in the last month, he's sleeping again, actually sleeping, and he's not totally free of nightmares, but it's been better. It's getting a little better every day. He looks a little thinner, more gaunt than usual, and far paler, but he still looks better than when he'd been so sleep deprived and unsteady. He's just still a little shaky, that's all, but he's feeling worlds better, aside from how stir crazy he's starting to feel. Ivan and Gregor still won't let him out of the cabin for now, and it's maddening, however good their intentions. He doesn't quite have the energy to fight them on it. A few visitors would do him good, though. He's starting to feel starved for human contact outside of his cousins.

[ feel free to write a starter or let me know if you want me to write one! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Miles laughs softly despite himself. "Yeah, well. It wasn't the first time."

He squeezes Bel's hand and gives it a gentle tug closer, resting his head against their arm. He can tell Bel's been shaken, because Bel's a worrier and Miles knows he'd given them enough of a scare before. He lets his eyes slide closed. "I just...I know I scared you a little. But it's not going to happen again."

He wants Bel to know that, because he doesn't want them to have any reason to second-guess his command or his ability to do his job. He doesn't want any of them to.

That surprises an answering laugh. "What, once in a while or as a traditional Barrayaran remedy?"

That light pull is all it takes, his tired eyes disarming, knowing and alive. Scooting closer so he can lean more comfortably, Bel gathers him in and just holds him, head pressed against his hair, tension bleeding away with a faint sound of relief.

His fitness to command is in no doubt at all, any more than when he was recovering from his ulcer or Dagoola or any of dozens of physical setbacks; they'd still follow him into fire any day if he asked ~~granting a judicious recovery period, and possibly with a bucket of ice at the ready~~. He'll always manage to remake himself, find a way to lead no matter where the universe puts him -- that it hasn't put him out of Bel's reach yet is more than they could have asked.

"Oh yes it will." The laugh still lurks in Bel's voice, muffled against his hair. "I didn't fall for you because you're boring--"

It had been frightening, more so for all the unknowns. Back home, they'd have had all the fleet's resources available for Miles: medics who knew him, familiar ground, the knowledge that everything possible could and would be done for him. It might not even have come to this, back there. Here -- maybe it's the isolation, maybe the loss of control, groundless fears layered like ash -- everything seems magnified. If he'd lost himself.... but he hasn't. He hasn't.

A ghost of a smile haunts Miles's face, but he doesn't have a good answer for that, so he just buries his face in Bel's shoulder with a sigh. "You'd have to ask Ivan."

But Bel's words warm him, almost overwhelming him, and he clutches them tight wth his good arm, exhaling heavily. He's still so tired, but at least he's on the upswing.

"No, it's not. Not like that." It can't happen again. The idea that it might, that he might fall to utter pieces again -- he might not be so lucky repairing himself if there is a next time -- it makes him shudder.

"Oh, I will," Bel snickers. "I'm missing out on a lot of great stories about you, it seems."

His exhaustion is palpable, and Bel rubs his back slowly, soothingly, his hair prickling against their face. "No more of that, no. You've never scared me the same way twice." But he's afraid too, and no wonder; he's the one who had to fight through it. Bel leans against his head, letting him lean as heavily and hold on as hard as he needs to, and asks softly, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

If he doesn't -- or can't -- fair enough. But if he does, Bel can listen.

Miles draws in a breath and exhales heavily, pressing his forehead to Bel's shoulder. Being held helps, at least. He needs a little extra grounding, lately. He's not sure he likes it, that need.

"I don't know," he sighs, muffled against Bel's shoulder. Their scent is warm and familiar, and Miles buries his face in it. "I don't know what there is to tell, other than -- " He shrugs one shoulder and lets it drop. "It just all came apart. I don't know how to describe it. I just...lost track."

And it'd been terrifying. London -- London had been hard, but all this on the Moira, it damn near defeated him.

It's grounding for Bel too, startlingly so, everything narrowed down to Miles's weight and voice and scent, as though he's the only real thing in the room. He so seldom needs an anchor -- or lets on when he does. He's never felt like this before.

Bowing over his head, Bel breathes a quiet, comforting sound into his hair. He's been worth every moment, every giddy extreme of all their years together and apart, even the knifelike freefall those few mornings before. And he's not supposed to go that way, damn it; he's supposed to retire to his mountain district, hale and satisfied and ready for his next life. But... he couldn't, from here, even if he wanted to.

That's not supposed to be a relief. Love and duty are both clear -- if there were a chance to get him home, where he belongs and wants to be, Bel would take it in a heartbeat. They might not even remember what happened here, if the rumors about the Ingress are true; they might not even know they'd been gone.

It doesn't mean Bel's ready.

But the opportunity hasn't come.

"Of yourself?" Bel murmurs, leaning back against the bedboard, letting Miles rest against them, curled closely in their arms.

If it's an anchor he needs, something solid and predictable where they are now, he can have it. Bel's not going anywhere.

Miles doesn't want to need an anchor. An anchor would just slow him down, keep him tied down.But the longer he spends on the Moira, the more he realizes he's always had an anchor -- Barrayar or the Dendarii, keeping Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith grounded and whole. That neither exists here has been part of the whole problem, so he'd made the Moira his new anchor, because without context to hold him down he just goes into freefall, spinning endlessly. But the Moira is new, even after all these months, an uncertain foundation to this new house of cards. Miles leans back, nestling snugly against Bel with his cheek pressed to their arm. He takes a moment just to feel them, their breath warm in his hair, their slender arms solid around him. He takes in a slow breath and holds it, trying to will away the tightness in his chest.

"Yeah," he says, finally, his voice a reluctant murmur. It almost causes him physical discomfort to admit it. He doesn't know what else to say.

"I could think of worse things," Bel admits, stroking the back of his head, "but only through having a really good imagination." ~~The kind that can lead to really bad decisions, like bargaining with Baron Fell for your freedom....~~ But the low assent had taken a moment to sink in, the quiet, reluctant tone and careful breath showing the mark it's made on him. Bel pulls him closer, holds him tighter, cautious of his broken arm.

Of course it was complicated, the empire-spanning web of his gravitic influence, strangers falling endlessly into new orbital dances around and about and after him. For them -- for so many -- he is the context, consistent chaos made a constant, a rollicking, roiling galactic north. And here he is, compact body curled inward, perpetual motion at rest, an imprint of warmth seeping through the layers between them. Whittled down to.... himself? Nothing less, surely. He could never be less.

"I can't." Miles's voice quiet, reluctantly heavy. He buries his face in Bel's shoulder. There's nothing that terrifies him more than the idea of losing his mind entirely, and while he hadn't quite hit on that note last month, nearly losing himself was close enough. He breathes out slowly and pulls back, willing a smile to appear on his face, even managing to brighten his face.

"But, like I said, it's not going to happen again." He switches accents with a little quirk of his head, deliberately this time. "You'd be really up shit creek without a paddle if the little Admiral disappeared for good, y'know?"

Bel shivers, curling around Miles as though to hold him together bodily. He'd never be alone -- too many people love him to let that happen, and one holds an entire empire in sway -- but to lose one's own interior connections to others and self, the threads that shape them and make them meaningful... it doesn't bear imagining.

Readjusting when he moves again, Bel looks down into the old-young face, mirroring its beautiful, stubborn assurance with a helpless smile.

"Hell, I'll hold onto my little Admiral for as long as he's with us." Bel's voice is tight, one hand cradling his cheek. "I'm just glad you won't be gone when the clock strikes twelve."

"What, and let the Ariel turn into a pumpkin?" Miles scrounges up an irreverent grin, an Admiral Naismith special, but he turns his face into Bel's hand to press a kiss to their palm. He lets his voice melt back into his Barrayaran accent with a small sigh, though it's not quite weary. "No, I'm not leaving the ball just yet. At this point you'd have to pry me out of it with a crowbar."

"And the rest of us birds and white mice.... Could be worse than a bird who knows where you live." Chuckling silently, Bel runs a thumb over Miles's cheekbone, breath catching a little at the soft brush of his lips. Can he feel the heartbeat under the grey velvet? If fickle time would slow for anyone, surely it would be for him. "A little thing like a slipper never did hold you back. God, remember those felt things you were wearing over Aslund? Speaking of leaving the ball--" Bel's head drops against Miles's, laughter muffled in his hair, leaning further to kiss his temple. Three years after Tau Verde, not a whisper until that damned pod--

It's not a private room. Ivan or Gregor could walk in at any moment. They can get their own lieutenant-lord-admiral-changeling; this one's taken. Bel tips Miles's head back to kiss him with soft certainty, a promise for later.

"Oh God, those things?" Bel gets a real laugh out of Miles, a soft one, but genuine. "My feet were so damn cold, I'd have killed for actual boots."

He grins at the laugh muffled in his hair, at Bel's lips at his temple. But then Bel's lips are on his and oh, hello, that's a nice distraction. Miles twists slightly in Bel's grip to kiss them back properly, no demand, just a soft exchange with a hint of relief. This, at least, is some kind of constant.

"Yes," Bel laughs, "that's why you made a point of wearing them all over the flagship for an entire day. Fortunately you have plenty of footwear now--" Their mad, wild, brilliant little commander, always spending himself so freely..... Adjusting with him, Bel pulls a pillow behind their back and slides down a little (the better for Miles to lie in their arms without bothering his bones), melting into the deep, sweet kiss and returning it in kind.

As they break for air, Bel twitches the blanket further up to keep it from sliding off Miles's legs, murmuring, "I can stay, if you like. No other place I should be. Bring you tea later?"

It'd take an order to shift them, really. Miles is still so tired, and he'd felt as though he doesn't want to be left to himself right now. And Bel, holding him close, would rather be nowhere else.

"Later," Miles agrees decisively, melting bonelessly against Bel, looking more sleepy than exhausted. Which in itself is an improvement over the last month. He blinks owlishly, stifling a yawn into a sigh, and buries his face against their shoulder. "But for now...do stay, please."

Bel hums assent, rubbing the last of the tension out of Miles's shoulderblades. This kind of tiredness looks much better on him, the expressive features relaxed but somehow more present, less hollow than the past month.

It's been a haunting thought as Bel had waited for news -- Miles has his own life, they're not joined at the hip, but what he'd endured should never have gone this far. Miles has always hidden his wounds, especially from those closer to him, always resisted anyone finding them out. But he's not an island, not alone. Please come to me next time trips over should have seen, should have known, and all Bel can do is silently vow not to let it happen again.

Settling under his weight, awake but at ease for the first time in days, Bel runs a hand through his hair and whispers, "I will."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ all my favorite people are broken ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject