𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒

[saltburntmods]

MISFIRES

a rambunctious duo in salt has stuck their nose where they shouldn't and now you can all reap the rewards! this is a MISFIRES meme. post a header for your character, and receive accidental texts from your local saltburntian guests. nudes, nasties, confessions of a certain persuasion? things you'd otherwise never write or send? they're all on the table. (meme threads aren't game canon, but they're not not game canon either, right)

Comments

[poppycock]

( he's drawn to her. every message that lights up his phone inspires both a terrifying affinity and an inescapable curiosity.

perhaps she is right, and he only lets people inside when he chooses who's right. his screen goes dark from idleness. he calculates and he weighs his motives, his reasons, and his desires. )

I don't feel particular, when it's you who's asking. I'd like to see you again. I want to hear your song.

The labor is what makes it worth it. I'm not humble enough to deny I possess talent, but there is a skill and practice to art that must be mastered, in each artist's own way. Yet more dire is the inspiration necessary to see each piece from its beginning to its end. They are all unfinished until they are realized, to me. Like a comma or an ellipses, not a period. A hope or a possibility.

Who's voice is it, that you hear? Your family's? ( his father's. that is who he hears, who he has always heard, haunting his thoughts. )

[temporicide]

[ She waits, wonders — not without some butterflies-in-stomach feeling, a shimmer of nervousness, but it is easy to wait. Because she wants to know what he has to say more than she wants to reach out too soon and spoil the magic. ]

You choose time and place, and I'll play it for you. Because of the song but because I'd like to see you, too.

The process is its own reward, right? I don't fully value the finished work until I'm done with learning it, in that same way. Not until I know that it's a part of my body. But I don't do my own choreography, or at least very rarely. What you do, making something entirely out of your own self, that's harder, I think.

Yes. I used to think it was Grandmother's, but
I think it's my mother. I don't remember her voice well enough to know for sure. But it must be. Who else, right?

[poppycock]

Now?

( it is an earnest impulse and an honest desire. he finds no reason to wait, nor deny himself, and plenty to flatter her besides. )

I think what you do is harder. I'd never be able nor willing to contort, stretch, and push my body to its limits the way you do, let alone with the grace required. What is your favorite? Ballet to perform, I mean?

( a pause. )

I hear my father's voice. It's difficult, at times, to hear anything else. As if his voice is also mine, or some higher power dealing immutable truths.

What does she say?

[temporicide]

Yes. I'll come to you, or wait for you. Whichever you like.

[ With no thought of varnish to cover her eagerness, she sends it. ]

Someday maybe we'll swap for a day, try on each other's passions. My favorite may be Les Sylphides, for beauty alone, and The Fountain of Bakhchisarai, for the story, too. Do you know it? A lot is made about the Khan, but I think it's a story about women. All of us are both of them, shown in the story.

[ But she pauses when he does. Both of them haunted by their family members, their parents! There is no exorcism that can cure this. It is a kind of ghost that lives within the bones of a person. How do you cleanse yourself of what grew with you when you did? ]

Our brains attribute to them the qualities of gods. Omniscience, authority. Intellectually knowing otherwise only does so much, doesn't it?

It says that I'll be just like her. Grandmother despises weakness, but I don't agree with her. I'd rather be weak than the way my mother is. I can't even say she loves nothing and no one, because she does — herself. But she also says things that are
Strange, sometimes. She accuses me of forgetting. But I don't know what I've forgotten.

Does your father's voice say things like that?