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thisavrou_log2016-04-10 12:56 pm
forwardmomentum) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-04-10 12:56 pm
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! ]
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! ]
no subject
This ever happened to you before? Y'know... [He gestures from the bed to Miles' two man armed guard.] All this?
no subject
It's not a license, it's a mandate. They won't even give me any work to do in here. My brain's going to atrophy right out of my ears.
[ okay, so he's being a little dramatic, but what else is new. he sighs, rubbing his face. ]
Um -- not really, no. Not like this. The ice bath wasn't a brand new innovation, Ivan's done that before. [ that's not exactly a boon to his dignity to admit, but he's a little past defending his dignity so carefully, let alone in front of sans. and there was that one time he tried, very earnestly, to commit suicide... ] No, ah, this was...a consequence of some very unique circumstances.
[ or so he'd like to think, anyway. he hopes to god he's not going to let it happen again. ]
no subject
Yeah. Seems like you were burnin' the midnight oil a little harder than usual... Or maybe you just didn't have any oil left to burn.
[Sans leans forward on the bed slightly, jaw cupped in his hands. Whether he's acting out of genuine concern or parodying it... well, the line seems very thin.]
I was worried about ya, kid. Don't be an idiot again.
no subject
[ miles raises an eyebrow and gives sans a wry look, but something flickers in his expression and he sits back with a frown. ]
Don't mistake me for my cousin, Sans. It wasn't idiocy, it was... [ what, hubris? sheer ego? not any less unflattering, that. he starts over. ] You know, I'm fairly certain I remember hearing about some old Earth legend -- some religious anecdote from my grandmother, I think -- about a pot of oil that burned eight times as long as it was meant to. Some kind of miracle. But the truth is there's always oil left to burn, so long as you keep the flame lit. Forward momentum and all that.
[ the mantra on which miles has built his life and himself, because slow is death, he's sure of it. but he still looks tired, still regaining that momentum, staring in the middle distance, but then he quirks a vague smile at sans, his face otherwise unreadable. ]
Sorry I made you go to all that effort of caring. Never again, eh?
no subject
It was downright inspiring, until it you were on the other end of it.]
You keep that forward momentum jazz, bud. Seems to do you pretty good, 'til you get put in timeout for it anyway. [He gets up, flipping his hood up out of habit.] I'll take the path of least resistance. From what I can tell, you'll get a great view of it from the high road.
no subject
[ what exactly he's referring to isn't clear, but miles just gives sans a shrug and a lazy salute. ]
To each his own, eh? Whatever keeps you moving. Or not, as the case may be.
no subject
[And with a turn back towards the wall, Sans disappears into nothing.]