altimit | [ closed ]

[ You look down at a package somewhat different from the ones that still arrive every month. You've written to them not to bother, but your brothers have never answered any of your messages to begin with. You don't know if it's a gesture of continued care or the opposite.

Usually it's the same: food, a single book, a letter from your mother. Years ago, once or twice, clothes your eldest brother had outgrown, neatly folded and still smelling of cedar chips and sandalwood. They fit awkwardly on you, close enough in height but always much too loose, a sea of fabric half comforting and half a reminder (that you never follow through on) to try to put on weight or muscle.

This time the package is rectangular and thin. You slide a knife through cardboard and packing tape carefully, keeping your curiosity in check only barely as you tilt the contents out onto the floor of your dim living room. A painting? The brushstrokes are your middle brother's work, although this one is unsigned, either in modesty or -- most likely -- absentmindedness. It's a portrait, not what you remember him usually working on; but then, all you've seen in nearly a decade is whatever works are prominent enough to make it to articles online. Maybe he does portraits all the time. Maybe he's done dozens of this particular woman...

This particular woman. The lady sitting demurely for the portrait stares back at you, her gentle smile a mocking accusation. Your ruby eyes. Your colorless white hair. Your pale skin. But that face isn't yours. You've never looked that meek in your life. Those soft hands folded primly in her lap are nothing like yours, long-fingered and bony but still strong, curled around the handle of the knife. That figure isn't yours, for all that the drapery of the silk dress is captured so expressively in paint that you can practically feel it against your skin, that it sends a shiver of revulsion through you strong enough to cramp your stomach and make you swallow back bile along with your fury.

You reach for the letter that fell out of the box along with it, already knowing what it will say. "My beloved daughter Michelle--"

The letter crumples in your hand, but the knife is still clutched tightly in the other. You don't even need to hesitate for thought. You slash through the woman's face, again and again, ripping through the canvas and nearly chipping the knife blade on the wood behind it. It doesn't stop you. Nothing would stop you right now. If the knife broke in half you would throw it aside and shred the paint with your blunt nails like a frantic, clawing animal, because if you couldn't destroy this you would have to turn these sharp edges on your own skin. ]

Edited (forgot email exists) 2023-08-23 02:48 (UTC)

[ Oria would have been fine to merely watch this play out, but when he sees what's reflected in the mirror, and that portrait, the letter—

He slowly turns towards Michel with wide eyes. Oria is absolutely shell-shocked here.

He didnt think there would be anyone like him. ]

[ Michel had been standing, frozen, at this particular memory. The look on Oria's face finally seems to galvanize him again; a shudder ripples through him and he turns away quickly.

This damned place and its damned invasive, digging, prying mysteries. He already knows from Ganymede that it won't do anything. But he pulls his fist back and slams it squarely into the mirror. ]

Goddammit!

Wait! Winter, don't—

[ He gets startled when Michel slams his fist on the mirror and yells. Oria is still trying to shake off the feelings he felt when he watched that memory play out, but it stings so much, so personally. The thoughts and actions as if they were his own has truly disoriented him for a good while. ]

[ Michel, unlike Oria, only tries to feel like a person rarely. His pain sensors aren't on; the haptic feedback buzzes instead, drawing him only slightly out of his spiraling doubts. ]

What? If you have something to say, then say it.

[ Fine advice that he should probably consider applying to himself and calling up his idiot of a brother. Three years, and it still rankles deeply to see that sight again. ]

[ Oria has so many questions he wants to ask Michel, and none of them are tactful. He can try, but he also feels somewhat emotionally charged, even if leftovers from Michel's memory, his own swirls into it. He feels anxious. He swore he would never tell this to anyone in fear of becoming a social pariah, especially because his family is well-known. People would use anything for leverage against his family, and that's something that is completely unacceptable. ]

... What do you think of your family now?

[ Instead of the usual boisterous tone of voice that actually makes him seem more childish than he should be, his voice is quiet and gentle. He knows it's a rough topic, but he wants to know. ]

[ It's not the question he expected. Not the tone he expected. Michel's defensiveness falters just a little, some of the chill in his glare thawing to simple confusion instead.

Some habits are deep-ingrained. But perhaps that lingering stare wasn't what he had assumed at first. He hesitates to consider, rather than giving the first biting response that springs to mind. ]

...My mother is delusional and my brother is thoughtless. I don't know if there will ever be a place for me in their lives. But I... still want to know for certain. And even if there isn't—

[ Even if there isn't, he still can't curse them. ]

--You still want closure.

[ That's his guess. He reaches out for Michel's hand that was hitting the mirror earlier with both of his own. Oria's hands are a bit smaller than the average for his height and they're a bit soft, despite all the physical activity he does. ]

There's nothing wrong... with wanting closure.

[ Michel looks down at those hands, but doesn't recoil immediately from the touch. He's never seen Oriade this serious. That, and his reaction... Michel carefully deposits another piece of information on the mental scales, considering. ]

I've never thought of it in those terms. I simply have nowhere else I wish to go. But... perhaps.

[ Even to know their feelings with certainty would end the waiting. He tilts his head slightly. ]

What closure are you thinking of, Oriade?

I think it would be if you want to decide if it's worth waiting for. Are their approvals important to you? Why? How do you want to go about it? Can you follow through with your actions?

Being stuck in the past doesn't do anyone good... but you know that too, don't you?

[ u gotta move on bro ]

[ Michel blinks, absorbing that. And then he blinks again, his gaze focusing a little more on Oria's face. Quite a lecture, from someone half his age... ]

...Are you holding that hand so I don't thwack you?

[ Clearly, at least he's feeling that much more like himself. But after another beat, he does answer. ]

I am who I am, regardless of their approval or not. But they are [ they promised, ] my brothers. I've already long since known that nothing will go back to the way it was. But I want them to acknowledge how things are now. That's all.

[ Don't go pushing 40s so soon, Michel...

Oria smiles a little at that, though it's a little lopsided than usual. Glad to see Michel feel better. But his smile fades as he looks down at their hands. ]

If you tried in the past and they won't, there's really... nothing you can do about it. The person has to be willing to change. If they're not, they won't ever change.

[ Sure, there may be threats to convert them, but that's only ever on the outside. Nothing truly changed. He's seen it a lot—observing people has its perks, along with being vigilant of how they act around him, even if it leaves him tired. ]

... You'll have to cut your losses.

[ lbr Michel was born already pushing 40s.

He's more alert now to the nuances of Oria's expression, watching as that smile slips away. He doubts all of that can be strictly sympathy. ]

People aren't investments, or algorithms. They're fickle and unpredictable, unstable and changing. I can't change them, no. But I can hear them out. [ This time, he lets his gaze slide away again to the mirror before he adds more dryly: ] ...If they would answer their messages.

[ He knows, already. That he's still clinging to a sinking piece of driftwood and calling it hope, rather than letting go and swimming as far as his body can take him. But they're still his family. ]

You aren't just talking about my situation, are you?

[ It seemed too personal for that. He studies their reflections, wondering if the image will repeat if they stand here long enough, like a video on loop. ]

Edited 2023-08-24 18:32 (UTC)

Even if I talk about it generally, people are just like that.

[ Not to say that Oria hates people--he likes being around them, but it's always so, so, lonely. But now that he's seen Michel, he doesn't feel quite so alone anymore.

When Michel gazes into the mirror, he'll remember a memory that isn't his-- ]

[ --a scene in a cheerfully colored room is where you wake up. You've just turned ten a weeks ago, you're in bed, and you can't feel anything: physically and emotionally. The hollowness in knowing that you changed somehow, but not completely, weighs on you so heavily that it shouldn't be a child's concern. Yet, here you are.

cw transphobia, misogyny, mentions of miscarriage, gender dysphoria

The scene before you is blurry. Your glasses aren't on, but maybe that's just fine with how you don't want to see anything in the moment. However, you see a person in white and hear their footsteps rapidly leaving. They must be going to alert the doctors and his mother. A short time later, more blobs of color filter their way into his room. You know the white blob is your mother, for her beautiful white hair that somehow made her seem younger than older for her age. You feel a hand stroke your forehead.

As they discuss, many words just go in one ear and out the other, but you can hear your mother, ever so elegant, who always stands with dignity and poise... break down. You can hear her quietly crying.

"If only you were a boy... I'm sorry, Satria."

Your name is Oria Severine.

And your mother wanted a son.

You hear some more things as you blankly stare at the ceiling that's a blur of bright colors as if they're trying to cheer up. The reassignment surgery was half a failure. You vaguely remember the name "Satria", an existence that was paired with you. There were supposed to be two babies born that day. Only one came out alive.

So Kaleria Ostrovsky-Severine, your mother, was determined to raise you as a son.

From this day on, you quietly vow inside your head... that you will strive to be what you're supposed to be.

Even if you're not enough, and never will be. ]

--ter.

[ --the memory fades, and Michel will be able to resume his focus in the hall of mirrors. Oria stays there, waving his hand in front of Michel's face. ]

--Winter! Look alive, why don't you.

[ This time, it's Michel's turn to stand frozen in shock.

Your mother wanted a son — no, your mother wanted a daughter.

The resonance, the recognition rattle around in Michel's thoughts like a loose gear. He turns a thunderstruck stare towards Oria, his mouth open slightly; for what words? He has no idea. The mirrors hold no more interest for Michel. Oria is much closer to an altered reflection of himself than the images are. ]

Oria...

[ Ah.

Oria wasn't exactly hiding it--his base appearance was pretty much the same and his username was only two letters away from his real one. He's also relatively well-known, but that's not here nor there. Oria frowns when he sees Michel gaping at him like that. He doubts that Michel cares about his fame nor rumors that surrounded him, so it has to be something else. That was so shocking that gets him to be like that-- ]

--What did you see?

[ It's not a question.

It's a demand. ]

[ Michel is still reeling a little from the shape of the memory, more off-balance than if he'd been struck. He shakes his head briefly, not in refusal, just in a vain attempt to clear it.

Where does he start? He presses a hand briefly to his head. ]

Your mother. She... why did she want a son so badly?

[ No, there doesn't need to be a reason. Had Lydie ever had a reason? Did Michel need a reason for being so vehemently certain that he wasn't the daughter his mother wanted? He can't think clearly... ]

[ Oria stays frozen on the spot, even more wide eyed than before and immediately grabs Michel's arms, tightly. ]

What else did you see?

[ The grip is grounding more than alarming. He can understand that sense of urgency... very well. ]

Doctors. After your surgery...?

[ Michel isn't a delicate person. But this time each word is like feeling his way across the surface of a barely-frozen lake, listening for the ice cracking underfoot. ]

[ Oh.

Panic time.

If he hits the back of Michel's head with a pistol whip, what are the chance that he'll forget—no, no, he has to think about this carefully. ]

... How much money do you want? I'll buy your silence.

[ What strange thought just passed behind Oria's eyes? Michel shoots him a stare of utter befuddlement, startled out of his overthinking at last. ]

Just what kind of impression do you have of me?

[ Well. He's certain if he looks up the name "Severine" later it would shed some light on this. ]

[ let me know when he does so I can Spill to you in dms

Oria looks at Michel with a flat stare. People everywhere are swayed by money, especially if it's easy to obtain. He doesn't need to know about personality for that to be valid, is sure a thought that crosses his mind. ]

I think I might feel better if you accept my proposal.

[ He's dead serious. ]

[ What a cynical look. Is that how Michel looks from an outside perspective when he talks like that? That's food for thought. ]

I'm not extorting money from a teenager to make you feel better. [ Flatly! ] ...I understand that it's difficult to trust me in the circumstances. However, you already have your leverage on me.

mem 2 for oria; cw: dysphoria, emeto, self harm

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/3 ; cw transphobia, misogyny, mentions of miscarriage, gender dysphoria

3/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject