Work Text:
My dreams are red because of you.
Sensation and scene, terror of sleep, your hands
would crawl through my ribcage, and into
the empty space where my heart should be
and you smiled. It was your smile that always scared me.
Your joy. My fear.
In those dreams the wires of godhood
still hang from my back, hang from my neck,
cruelty disguised as generosity, an experiment disguised
as a deity, yet you rule me absolutely.
There is nothing quite like a smile from the god of gods.
Your joy. My fear.
His dreams are red because of you, too.
In his sleep he trembles all the same, and in
wakefulness too— I see the shyness in his hands.
The shiver. The flash in his eyes. The remnants
of an illness not simply physical.
Your joy. His fear.
In those dreams the spirit of innovation
is a veneer, your smile too wicked to be friendly;
it’s cruelty disguised as generosity, an experiment disguised
as a patient, “it’s for [his] own good.”
There is nothing quite like a smile from a mask.
Your joy. His fear.
It is only his touch that I will accept,
his hands so small when they fit in mine.
I have no warmth to give his without a heart,
but as I shake he holds me steady all the same;
such is the blessing of knowing someone who knows.
My fear. His reassurance.
It is only my touch that he will accept,
my hands so cold when they fit in his.
He has no strength to give me with his frailty,
but as he shakes I hold him steady all the same;
such is the blessing of being known by someone who knows.
His fear. My reassurance.
There are better, redder emotions to have in common.
Intimately I know them, burning beating in my chest,
a remnant of the ashes that the phoenix springs from.
Bursting. Exploding. It is too violent to contain.
Carry it with me, Collei, I know you can.
My anger. My anger.
The better, redder emotions to have in common,
Intimately he knows them, buried broken in his chest,
masquerading as fear, despair, unactionable shame.
When they wake they'll ignite. Explode. So much all at once.
I will carry it for Collei, until he goes up in flames.
His anger. His anger.
I will hold his hands until they are steady on his bow.
I will carry him until the ends of the earth if need be,
Love him in all the ways he’s always deserved, take him
to you for the sake of our divine purpose,
which is only karma, after all.
His objective. Your loss.
He will lead me and follow me, take me
through the snow and to the ends of the earth if need be,
Love me in all the ways I’ve never received, come
to you for the sake of our divine purpose,
which is only karma, after all.
My objective. Your loss.
Our purpose in common, a trauma to share,
two bodies, small when you took them, grown now
and finally living, a pair of nascent phoenixes.
Let the eternal Snezhnayan snow melt to hail my presence.
Let my fledgling wings take me to you.
My approach. Our approach.
Our purpose in common, a fury to share,
two minds, broken when you shattered them, determined now
to live. We have been reincarnated.
Let the withered Snezhnayan trees bloom in his presence.
Let his quivering legs take him to you.
His approach. Our approach.
You did not recognise me when I found you.
The luxury of forgetting was afforded to you, but the tree
that withered at the axe will always remember.
You do not recognise my smile; you never saw it before,
but you know what the smile of the god of gods means.
My smile. Your fear.
You recognised him when he found you.
He did not afford you the luxury of words, of reasoning;
you know why he was there, saw that the tree
you had caused to wither had strangling roots.
He had gone up in flames.
His smile. Your fear.
And yet when I see you
I realise I am not in control. Red dreams
and clouded mind, memories
warped through a lens
that you said meant something pleasant.
Your lies. My body.
When I see you
all that I’d forced down rises up in my throat
like bile, restraint keeping me steady
and then not. You’re taking me. You’re hurting me.
I can’t fall to this now. I can’t.
Your lies. My mind.
And still my body is drawn to yours, the sensation of your hands
an automatic signal, a stranglehold around my throat, brain, heart.
Fury and love. Body and mind. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
A special cruelty. Hell is too cold for you. Hell has no fury
like mine. Your hands loved me. I want to slice them off.
My desire. My hatred.
You pull my body to yours, the sensation of your hands
all around me, a stranglehold around my throat, brain, heart.
Past and present. Pull and push. No. No. No. No.
A special cruelty. You’ve taken my heart out, turned my body to ice,
and I explode. Your hands are around me. Your hands are gone.
My hatred. My hatred.
A stranglehold around your throat. A sound from your mouth unlike
anything I’ve ever heard. It’s everything I’ve always desired.
Your hands were never around me, not today, not anymore, not now
that I take flight, up and up and up and up and up
and in my shadow you are dwarfed.
Me. You.
Right here. Right now. I design your end. I design my godhood.
My terms. Your reckoning. It’s only karma. It’s only righteous.
I design my heart. You lose yours. The transaction of our relationship.
I take flight, and I take and I take and I take and I take and I take
what is mine and what never was yours.
You. Me.
His trance explodes and he cries out at you.
Your little bird in a cage was always a phoenix, what you loved—
his feathers, his little-bird-songs— no longer entertainment, but
a transformed tool, his shame turned into his weapon,
oh, isn’t it ironic, Zandik?
Him. You.
His emotions explode and he tears at you.
Talons, feathers, beaks; hands, skin, face; you never knew
he had it in him, did you, Zandik?
These are the weapons you created, the wishes you made.
No more shame. No more fear. No more. No more.
You. Him.
His trance breaks and he leaps at you.
My trance breaks and I leap at you.
Splay the gore of your profane form across
the slick marble floor, until you slip and fall
and realise we’ve locked the door.
Us. You.
Wake up, this is a red dream
that we will lock you inside of.
Wake up, our red dreams
are what you locked us inside of.
Sword dance, steel bite, just him and me and
you. Us.
Green of a Vision. Blue of your cloak. Red.
Round and round, everything in this world
runs in a loop. You should have seen this coming.
Puppets need no masters. Puppets need hearts.
Now I know where to find one.
You. You.
Red of the world. Red on the floor. Red on your cloak
because we’re getting our hands dirty, your prized
cleanliness a veneer, it’s always been a veneer
over the rot underneath.
How decayed is your heart, Dottore?
You. You. Fuck you.
Kneel.
I am your god of gods.
Kneel.
I am the god you created.
Kneel.
To me. To me.
It would be ironic
if you had a heart.
It’s ironic,
that you would steal from me what you already had.
Let me take it back.
Mine. Mine.
Let me take it back,
take
it
from
your
chest.
Let me set it right,
take
back
what
is
mine.
Except
when I see inside
all I can do
is
laugh.
Your heart. Not my heart.
I should
have swapped it
and done what I swore
to do, but in the red
I could see clearly, right through it all.
Your heart. Not my heart.
I always thought
that I needed a heart, Zandik.
I took yours, could have repurposed yours,
like I wanted, like I wished for, as
I really had zero fucks left to give,
Zandik, Zandik.
Yet when I left you lying there,
dying a heartless man fresh without a heart—
a paradox? A cosmic joke?—
I knew that the empty space in my chest
beat louder, loved more, than your heart ever did,
Zandik, Zandik.
Perhaps
it is nothing other than spite
that drives me to live without
a heart, to drop yours and leave it there.
“You’re a human as far as I’m concerned,”
Not you. Just me.
If I were
to take your heart, it would be a step closer
to becoming you. It would be
too charitable by half to you.
I don’t need any part of you, not anymore,
not you. Just me.
When it’s over it’s five hundred years
lifted off my shoulders.
He and I shake with the energy of stars
bursting behind our eyes.
It’s done. It’s done.
Me. Him.
Imprisoned desire reoriented, he and I belong
to each other. I take him into my arms
and I do not know how to feel. There is no way
to mourn Zandik. Perhaps it is better that way.
Only in death has the Doctor finally stopped smiling.
Him. Me.
When we leave he can feel
the crawling on his skin fade away.
His hands. His smile. I want him.
I hope wholeness has returned inside his mind.
I hope his dreams are a different shade of red.
Us. Us.
When we leave I can feel
the beating of a heart inside my chest.
My hands. Large enough to hold his,
warm enough to keep him safe.
We will sleep well tonight.
Us. Us.