photophobic | [IC CONTACT]

One soulmate for every person. Someone you're fated to be with, like you're carved out of the same marble. The universe aligns to bring you together, step by step, and you're whole again.

I used to believe in it. Now I'm not so sure. And I guess it made me re-evaluate the whole fate thing as a result. Nowadays I'm pretty damn sure we make our own fates. What we do determines our future, not the other way around.

Language is so imperfect. Isn't it.

"We make our own fates." "What we do determines our future."

What is "we".

I don't know. Me. Everyone. Or maybe just anyone who doesn't believe in predetermined futures. I'm not starting a revolution against the concept of fate, I've just lost faith in it.

Look, you're the one who's good with words, not me.

You're working from an isolated, singular, individual perspective. You, and I. Every single person, as their own limited and contained entity, determining their own path. Each individual with autonomous control over their choices, using them to shape their own future.

You must see how that isn't possible.

Must I? Sounds ideal, actually.

[ says the anarchist ]

[Kylo's lips tug into a small, unseen and almost fond smile.
Perhaps some things do have to be seen to be believed.]

A pleasant fantasy, yes.
As for "soulmates". No. I don't believe in them as you describe. But I don't believe in the kind of fate you have lost faith in, either.

Sounds like I'm not the only on to lose faith.

That would require me to have had any to begin with.

True.

Do you mind if I return the question, purely out of curiosity? Do you consider yourself sinful?

What other reason to ask a question is there?
But no. I don't mind.

Do I consider myself sinful.

It isn't the word I would have used. I'm not certain there is a word, where I am from, for what I believed I was. For what I was taught beings like me are.
Sinful may be close. I'd known since I was a child that I was something that couldn't be allowed to exist. An abomination. A monster.
And I am all the things they told me were unacceptable. There is and has always been a darkness within me.

But I no longer believe my darkness disqualifies me from the light.

Edited 2019-08-29 01:18 (UTC)

[ Oh no. Midnighter feelings. ]

Of course it doesn't.

Who's 'they'? Who told you that?

All our stories. Our culture. Our history.

And my family believed it too. Those with the ability to sense the Force are either selfless heroes who feel no anger or passion, or they are ruthless villains consumed by it.

They didn't need to say it. I knew they were afraid of what I might become. I knew they were right to be afraid.
And I knew they would reject me once they realised I was not the hope of their new Republic or their new Jedi Order, like they wanted me to be.

[Well. He's come this far. After a moment of thought he adds:]

I didn't expect they would try to kill me in my sleep. I should have done.

[ Frowning at his phone in the darkness, Apollo has to read that a few times to really make sure he's understood that right. It doesn't make him any less angry. ]

Your own family. What happened next?

[What happened next.

Kylo stares at the words on the screen, an unpleasant tension building as he considers his answer. There's a significant delay.

Then:]

I wasn't their hero. I gave them their villain.

[ What the fuck is he meant to say in response to that? Apollo's seen bad, he's seen evil, but nearly all of it was cause and effect. A response to something - pain, fear, trauma. ]

They did try and kill you.

[ Turnabout, and all that. ]

[There had been a time when that had been all the justification Kylo needed. The memory of his uncle standing over him, everything bathed in the lurid green light of a failed execution. The reflected imagery of Luke's vision, the certainty of the future horror stretched out before them.

But with Snoke a proven liar and so much of what he'd done in service to him built on a belief he no longer holds, there's little comfort left to be found in the reminder that he was betrayed first.

He'd been used.

He still hasn't confronted the shame of that realisation— only the fury it's packaged in— but something of it slips past his defenses as he reads and re-reads Apollo's reply, recognising the generosity of the excuse he's offering. Loathing it. If he were alone, he'd be on his feet by now with his weapon in hand, tearing whatever was closest enough to shreds.

But he isn't alone. Ronan lies beside him, the steady rhythm of his breathing waiting to guide Kylo's pounding heart back to stability. He's warm. And if Kylo chooses, he can draw Ronan's arms around his body and surround himself in the evidence of all the things he is that neither Snoke or Luke or anyone else could see.

He's wrapped in Ronan's arms with his back pressed up against Ronan's chest by the time he responds:]

And they paid for their failure.
You could say that they made their own fates. When they decided mine.

[ The bitter undertone is to be expected, really. A murder attempt from your own family, from those your trust - Apollo can hardly blame the guy for wanting violent retribution. Still... Apollo faintly regrets not having this conversation in the light of day. ]

I suppose this is something beyond forgiveness, isn't it.

[ Statement, not a question. ]

[It's highly unlikely Kylo would have had this conversation in the light of day. Nestled in Ronan's arms, he types back the only response anyone should expect from him:]

I don't believe in forgiveness.

And why should you. There's no room for it, in circumstances like those.

There's no use for it. What would an apology achieve. What could it ever achieve. It can't change the past.

The past is dead.

Most people never understand what I mean when I say that. They assume I mean it's worthless. Irrelevant. That it should be left behind, or that it no longer possesses any power. But you and I... I think we know our dead. Our lost. I think we know what it is, to carry them.

Death doesn't change the nature of anything, only our ability to reach and affect it. No. Death is the opposite of change. It freezes. It locks what it claims in place and locks us out.
That's why I don't believe in forgiveness. I don't believe it's truly possible.

Did they ever explain why? Not that an explanation would make anything better. But can you understand what they did?

I always wondered if I'd be capable of forgiving. It wouldn't change the hurt, you're right, nothing will, but sometimes I'm so fucking sick of grieving for the past without understanding what happened. I'm not sure if I can stop mourning without at least some kind of explanation. Feeling this much anger and grief for something in the past, that I can't change or do anything about, makes me feel even more powerless than before.

They didn't have to explain why.
I can hear thoughts. I feel fears. Can you understand what that means? What it does? There was no uncertainty. I knew. I always knew exactly what they thought of me. I always knew what would happen should I ever fail in my efforts to hide everything I was that would prove them right.
Knowing isn't a relief from pain. It won't free you from despair. You might find nothing to replace your feeling of powerlessness but the certain knowledge of it.

[There's a pause.]

Though I don't know why they gave up on me before I had failed.

Who failed you, Apollo? Are they here?

[ For a wild moment Apollo isn't sure whether Kylo is saying he can feel his fears, all the way from wherever it is Kylo is (or isn't) sleeping. That fear of the Darkness, the absence of light, the loss of power and helplessness that he swore he'd never feel again. It's a purely irrational thought that passes as soon as it comes; they'd met in the flesh for barely a few minutes, and surely no telepath could be that skilled...

And then the questions give him pause, a welcome distraction from his irrational worry. Apollo takes a moment to listen to Midnighter's steady breathing beside him before slowly typing out his reply. ]

A version of him. Not the same man. You know how things are here.

[ Complicated. As for the what: ]

Have you been in love? Proper love, I mean. I think from your poems you must have but it feels wrong to just assume these things...

[Kylo stares at the question.
Has he ever been in love?

There are a hundred, thousand things he could say. He could expound on love, as a concept. He could answer the question with any number of diversions. He could avoid it, reframe it, respond with a description of his bond with Ronan and leave Apollo to draw his conclusion from the evidence— and he almost does. But in the end, there's only one answer to the question, immediate as instinct.

Impossible as it is.]

Yes.

[ Well. Here goes. ]

You know when people say they were made for each other? Midnighter and I literally were. Made. Together. My question earlier about soulmates had this in mind, I guess. I was so sure.

I always thought you don't stop being love, not if it's real love. The lifechanging kind of love, or I guess it's more a life STARTING kind of love, the kind of love where you didn't really exist before. Because I didn't and neither did he, the people that existed before Apollo and the Midnighter just didn't matter anymore.

Our jobs were hard but we had a purpose and we had each other. We got married, not that it was legal anywhere at the time. The world hated us for all kinds of reasons but we were defiantly in love and determined to show it. We adopted our daughter. Her name is Jenny, she's eight now. She can tear things apart with her mind and she is very, very loved. She'd adore this world, she really would. I wish she was here every damn day.

Anyway, our jobs got harder. The world hated us even more. I don't think I was a very good husband. We fought occasionally, not often but apparently enough to put a crack in things. One day Midnighter walked out on me, on both of us. That was three years ago. I've seen him since but he won't tell me why he left. He says I wouldn't understand.

And do you know what's so fucking weird? Three years ago he was here. I've seen his post on the network. Isn't that fucked up? It makes you wonder.

I could say he wronged me but every time I try to tell this story I get this feeling that maybe it was me all along. Hence why I don't tell this story very often.

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