kate denson. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
basslines) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2018-03-08 12:23 pm
basslines) wrote in bakerstreet2018-03-08 12:23 pm
Entry tags:
picture prompt
the picture prompt meme
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Re: so... maybe?
I'm getting a reincarnation vibe from these... Did you want to try that or are you more comfortable with doing something within the fate universe? I'm down with anything.
I'm so excited that you tagged me...)
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i’m intrigued by the reincarnation route, and am definitely down to try. (i'm new with hector and new to uh reincarnationing so might be a bit clunky, but again, would like to go for it.) thanks for checking in on that, and i'm excited to see where/how this goes! )
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And okay! So before I write this I wanted to touch base with you regarding how we do this. I was thinking of basing the reincarnation thing off of Please Save my Earth, wherein these two have dreams of their previous lifetime and that's how they come to understand their counterparts and the fact that they're reincarnations - they can have different names in the AU? Achilles can be Alexander, lol.
And when they see each other or one sees the other, they get this foreboding sense, like they know this person, they hate them, but there's this weird kinship, too.
Does this sound alright? You can work through what you'd like Hector to be and how old he is. )
no subject
that sounds good to me. i’m not familiar with please save my earth, but i’m looking into it now just to have an idea or whatever. i do know i’m a sucker for meaningful dreams, especially if they have the potential for shaking characters’ sense of themselves/the ways they’re living, or/and to knock something into place. and i’m a fan of getting those Feelings/forebodings when seeing the other.
also. gonna steal the same-letter trick and say hector’s likely to be horace, though i’ll think on that one. (and while this probably doesn’t need to be said now, i’ll probably go with early-/mid-forties. beyond that, i’ll spend some time thinking about details. if you’d like to have them before writing the starter, just let me know and i’ll pass them along.
anyway. yes yes and yes; let’s do this! )
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His mother was the overbearing type. As his night terrors became more and more excessive and frequent, she decided to bring him to psychologists and doctors in hopes of finding a solution that would enable him to have restful nights. Nothing prescribed to him ever helped, but as he got older the terrors seemed to stop.
He still dreams. It's like a movie, how his experiences panned out in this other world, though they were never quite linear. His dreams were more like pieces to a puzzle that he had to assemble himself afterwards - eventually, he came to understand what it all meant and who he was.
He's never talked to anyone about it, not even his mother. Anyone he'd talk to about it would think he was crazy to believe he was the actual ancient hero Achilles. And maybe he was; it doesn't matter. For Achilles is the very basis of who he grew up to be, anyway.
At the age of twenty-five, he's already a successful athlete who is well on his way to the Olympics. He'd always been talented physically, with impressive hand-eye coordination, speed, and power. People had always told him he was born gifted by the gods, or something to that effect. Little did they know, that might have been entirely true.
But that's not to say his life is perfect or that he's perfect. He still suffers a great deal, haunted by memories he can't say are his own, and the mood swings that ensue due to his trauma. He's never been quite stable, and that holds true even as an adult. He's just gotten good at concealing that part of himself, really. His mom invested a lot into his psychiatric appointments and anger management classes, after all.
It's probably a normal day when he just by chance comes across someone he thinks he recognizes. He's just finished his morning jog and is standing in line at Starbucks when he sees a familiar face. A part of him thinks it's a trick of the imagination, or leftover residue from the dream he had earlier. But he stares unabashedly until he's noticed. ]
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The dreams were never really clear. Faces were dulled, impossible to piece out, and though he could discern recurrent voices, the words scarcely formed into sense. It was war or it was disagreement or it was senseless senseless slaughter. It was and was not of his own doing, he was and was not a willing participant. And there was no constraining the reaches of violence.
(There were moments of warmth, too. Vague figures that could almost burst his heart, voices that sounded only and always like missing. Like he’d been hollowed out and never would recover.)
It was real it was so real but of course it was not. Only a dream. A dream that was only ever one dream one incomprehensible recurrence that would leave him shaken and certain that the world around had almost lost its whole foundation. Sometimes he feels he won't have a waking hour without some lingering impression. Sometimes it feels as if he's living in two worlds at once. Sometimes as if he's living the wrong life entirely.
It's hard to be truly with anyone when he's so distant. Though he’s learned to put up a solid front in the world (something he’s grateful for; there’s no reason to get others caught in his troubles), he can’t keep it going all of the time. Anyone who came close to him would run into his unrelenting distraction, outward vestiges of his internal divide. So while he's had companions, almost partners, there’s never been anything that lasted. If he's lonely (he is, he is), it's easy enough to tell himself he does just fine on his own.
Still, he's rarely alone. All his life, he's found himself surrounded by people, playing guardian to his siblings, the bullied student, the recruit who’d been injured in a fistfight, the neighbor who’d been wrongfully evicted, his clients, his students, the harried pedestrian, the weeping divorcee, the coworker going through a thorny time, and on and on and on. It happens naturally, somehow. And he almost always succeeds in aiding them. It’s nothing he minds, and if it sometimes runs him ragged, it’s also the best chance he has of distracting himself from the dreams.
It isn’t only the dreams that give him trouble, though. Starting in his late twenties, brought on by who could say what, the dreams had sporadically become accompanied by physical pain. At times after dreaming - and very rarely in the middle of the day - he aches and doesn't know why (it has to do with the dream, something to do with himself, but he’s never tried too hard to connect the two). Aches in his chest, then inexplicably in his throat, his ankles, gradually the whole of his body. There are days it's difficult to function. Physicians have no explanations, and he'd never seen the point in visiting a therapist (or maybe he hadn't wanted to, hadn't wished to dig anything open).
Well. He makes it all work, more or less. If living feels divided, if he feels so often hollow, at least he feels okay about the things he’s done. If the dreams and pains never leave him, at least he’s found a way of living with them.
It'd been another sleepless night, and coffee seems necessary. He's staring vaguely at the menu, sunk deep in thought when he feels a slow sense of being watched (and there’s something more to it, a feeling that tenses his back). He glances up and feels his insides sink, feels the onset of his aching.
There’s something familiar here. And something very, very wrong. He knows this man, or he knows something of him. He’s never seen the guy in his life, and yet…
Words catch in his throat, and there’s a moment before he can form a halting sentence. (He should run, though, is what he should do, run and never look back, never think of this again. Sometimes there’s no outrunning destiny but he could, but he could, if only he could.) ]
You–
Can I help you.
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This could be a coincidence. Though his dreams were vivid and clear, it's not like those images in his head were at all reliable. He wants to convince himself of that, but those eyes, tired and sunken, and his uncanny resemblance to a face he'd seen countless times in his head - he can't just turn away from him and ignore that pang in his gut when seeing this man.
His eyes soften somewhat, expression shifting from startled to somewhat annoyed as his brow naturally furrows and tightens. His angular features have always made his smiles and frowns look more severe than they actually were, and in this case it's no different. He doesn't consider how unapproachable he might seem as he squares his own shoulders and moves to step beside the older man. ]
Maybe. [ A clipped response and not one he actually thought about. If Hector were an attractive girl his own age it would seem obvious to onlookers and eavesdroppers that he was trying to come onto them. ]
Got anywhere to be right now? [ He should be nervous, and maybe he is, but he's good at hiding it. Years of performing in front of mass audiences has prepared him for this and he's not going to suddenly break of all times in the middle of a Starbucks just because some guy looks like the man who'd been haunting him for years. ]
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Now it’s his entire body that tenses, and the aching makes itself more insistent. It’s nerves, of course, it’s nerves that are responsible, but why should he be nervous about anything? Hector doesn’t (does he? does he?) know this man. This man this very nearly just a boy is nothing to him, really, only now that boy is approaching and it’s difficult to parse the expression on his face.
Like something driven, he thinks. Like something burning too fast. Like something with a will no force can break.
And how, how is it so familiar.
His pulse is racing, alarm apparent as he takes a step back. ] In fact I do.
[ He doesn’t, really. Not for a few hours. Hector had been intending to use this rare space of open time to relax, try to collect himself and get ready to meet the day. He hadn’t counted on this young man who looked for all the world as if he had a plan for Hector.
He should leave right now. He really, really should.]
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But he's not the type to give up so easily.
He's left the line, now, losing his spot to a teenage girl who eagerly steps up to fill in the gap he'd left. If he were to turn back now, it'd all be for nothing. With a shake of his head, he leans forward to displace a bit of weight into his hand, somewhat cornering the older man as he waits for his order. ]
Alright. I'll be quick, then.
What's your name? [ Just. Direct. ] Let me give you my number.
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He's breaking into a cold sweat beneath his rumpled button-down, his worn blazer, and he'd take another step backward if he wasn't just about pressed up against the wall. Why doesn't anyone else in the shop end this? What does this man want? (And why is he why is Hector so, yes, so terrified of this man or what this man might mean?)
It's too much. ]
What do you want with me?
no subject
It doesn't help that the older man is visibly alarmed, looking small as he's effectively squished into the small space that has him wedged between him and the wall behind where the man is standing. Luckily, no one would step in for a forty-year old man trying to shoulder the efforts of a twenty-year old. ]
What... do I want? [ That catches him off-guard. He'd been so singular-focused that he didn't really consider how he might be coming off...
With a shake of his head, he finally steps away like he'd just woken up from a spell or a trance. ] What do you mean?
[ He's breaking, slightly. He needs to get out of here. ] I don't want anything. I just - [ His stare is squarely on this man, unwavering in face of the other's expression. ]
I thought I knew you. [ It sounds so stupid, and he's partly conscious of that. It's why his voice is much more hushed and quiet as he explains himself. ]
no subject
Maybe it really is a case of mistaken identity. Maybe the kid lost track of himself and pushed a little too far. It happens. It’s human. (But is that all of it? The way the man had felt - still feels - so uncommonly close. The way he reminds Hector of gold and steel and shouting, the way Hector can’t look at the man without feeling flashes of the dream. And the ache. The aching hasn’t receded since the man appeared. Nor has his conviction that there’s something dangerous about the man.) In any case, it seems possible that the man intends no harm.
He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. He’s still tense, he’s probably going to be tense for a while after this, but the gesture helps him feel a little more like himself. ] It’s fine.
But I’ve never seen you before. [ He’s surprised by how much that feels like a lie. Like he’s betraying something, someone. ] My memory might not be the greatest, but I think I’d remember you.
[ Something about that, something about all of this, snags at his mind, his chest, his knowing. ]