[ I love you shouldn't feel like a pike to the chest.
(Maybe just now, for him, it should.) ]
You didn't want him to come between us. [ A guess; a projection; ashen fingers twist in the sheets at his lap. ] I don't either, but--
[ But.
A few feet to Isaac's left is the spot where they first kissed. This bed, the one they tumbled into. There'd been a phylactery in his pocket even then. A vine twisting back, a body left bleeding in the woods. A tendril that every day now regrows its roots. Isn't it more honest, to bare them? (Or just cruel?) ]
What if he could learn to love you the way I love you?
[ A hound; a horse. He isn’t talking about Leander. Isaac plucks up his coat, and watches fingers bend across a bed; lingering, constrained. He breathes. Amends, more softly, ]
[ A flinch. Eyes fix on the spot where his coat now isn't. ]
I won't.
[ Still as eggshells, otherwise. ]
I shouldn't have-- [ Asked, said anything, (kept wanting this); the words die in his throat, insufficient. ] You aren't the only one who doesn't have anyone else, that is all.
[ Reflex wants flinch for flinch; stifled. Always with the sad eyes. His head tips, and can't swallow in turn, ]
Is that what this is? Community service? [ Feels shit to say, feels like punching someone already gone down. Feels like that ought to feel better — ] Penance to fuck us?
You know it isn't, [ finally bitten out -- is that better? (Is that what he needs, too? To stop trying so hard to make this wound bloodless.) ]
I want you both. Is that what you want to me to admit?
[ Sounds miserable to say it, raw; more real, too. ]
I know it is selfish. I know that being with you makes me happy and being alone with him made me want to bury us both in the fucking dirt. But I know I'm less without him, too.
He listens to me. Not just about things that are easy or fun, but about things he can't possibly want to hear another word about. When you nearly killed him and then left me, [ remember that, ] and I hadn't even apologized to him for leaving him in the woods to die, he let me stay with him for weeks so I wouldn't be alone. Weeks of me moping about you, when all he wanted was for me to care about him.
It ought to feel like a beginning, too. Potential. The start of something new. It doesn't feel like that at all.
(Would it be kinder to end it here? Braver? More cowardly? Fingers cling stubborn to twisted sheets, and he imagines his skin would hurt less to peel away just now.) ]
I want to figure that out. Only-- not by running from him again. That is all.
I don't mean-- it isn't on your shoulders. You help. Being here, [ the ghost of a smile, ] even in stinking Kirkwall, that helps. If I can be kinder to him, that will help, too.
i'd choose you, but only because he wouldn't ask. i'd choose you, but he hasn't, not really. what a peculiar skill, to take oneself hostage. he needs space: a clear hall, a wall to punch. something that rage can't bruise. wouldn't it be easier if he could just be angry about this? maker, isn't he allowed to be angry?
isaac drifts toward the bed, lifts a hand free of balled linen to kiss its knuckles; soft. ]
[ The sideways pull of his lips is brittle and thin, but that at least, he has the sense to push back inside again where it needn't be laid at Isaac's feet. Somehow, his breath stays steady. ]
You know you're kinder than you ought to be, sometimes.
[ His hand gives an answering squeeze, grateful but-- releasing. (Who needs skin? A heart?) ]
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too long. he takes too long tugging buttons into place, rolling up sleeves. methodical: one, then the other. one, and two. simple.
it takes too long.
but he does stay: reluctant, when he looks over his shoulder; a delay that can't now smooth its injury. ]
I love you, [ reaffirmed. as if it were the easy thing to say: ] And I'm sorry. I should have told you about him.
[ as if it were easy to apologize. easier, abruptly, than the rest. ]
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(Maybe just now, for him, it should.) ]
You didn't want him to come between us. [ A guess; a projection; ashen fingers twist in the sheets at his lap. ] I don't either, but--
[ But.
A few feet to Isaac's left is the spot where they first kissed. This bed, the one they tumbled into. There'd been a phylactery in his pocket even then. A vine twisting back, a body left bleeding in the woods. A tendril that every day now regrows its roots. Isn't it more honest, to bare them? (Or just cruel?) ]
What if he could learn to love you the way I love you?
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He isn’t some dog you can train.
[ A hound; a horse. He isn’t talking about Leander. Isaac plucks up his coat, and watches fingers bend across a bed; lingering, constrained. He breathes. Amends, more softly, ]
Please don’t bring him in here.
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I won't.
[ Still as eggshells, otherwise. ]
I shouldn't have-- [ Asked, said anything, (kept wanting this); the words die in his throat, insufficient. ] You aren't the only one who doesn't have anyone else, that is all.
[ --is not a lot better. ]
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Is that what this is? Community service? [ Feels shit to say, feels like punching someone already gone down. Feels like that ought to feel better — ] Penance to fuck us?
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I want you both. Is that what you want to me to admit?
[ Sounds miserable to say it, raw; more real, too. ]
I know it is selfish. I know that being with you makes me happy and being alone with him made me want to bury us both in the fucking dirt. But I know I'm less without him, too.
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[ --Is not what he means to say, nor is it anyone's business, a n y w a y ]
But that is not what he does for me. He can be remarkably kind.
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[ blunt. ]
How is he kind?
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[ Fine. ]
He listens to me. Not just about things that are easy or fun, but about things he can't possibly want to hear another word about. When you nearly killed him and then left me, [ remember that, ] and I hadn't even apologized to him for leaving him in the woods to die, he let me stay with him for weeks so I wouldn't be alone. Weeks of me moping about you, when all he wanted was for me to care about him.
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Tell me, if he listens to you, and I listen to you, do you still have to listen to yourself --
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I am not saying I haven't been cruel to him, Isaac, I am saying I would like to stop.
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Nothing, right now, should steal the pounding blood from his veins or the words right off his breath but--
Ribs rise, fall. Between them, that neat line of white laid bare. One half of a pair.
(Is that enough?) ]
So, what then? [ Sharp edges blunting, ] I should abandon him instead? Ignore what he wants? Is that better for him, or just you?
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Be with me. Be with him, if it truly makes you happy.
[ bitter: ]
But if it doesn't, what are you doing?
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It ought to feel like a beginning, too. Potential. The start of something new. It doesn't feel like that at all.
(Would it be kinder to end it here? Braver? More cowardly? Fingers cling stubborn to twisted sheets, and he imagines his skin would hurt less to peel away just now.) ]
I want to figure that out. Only-- not by running from him again. That is all.
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[ i deserve to be miserable, and maybe he fucking does, if he's so set about it —
his hand lifts, levels itself; pushed down upon some silent valve. no one gets what they deserve. ]
Do you understand why I'm worried?
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He would never hurt me, Isaac. [ --sounding very sure. ] And I won't hurt him again.
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[ and how often have they talked around that ]
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A muscle in his cheek tightens. ]
That is my decision to make.
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[ well. not said, per se. ]
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[ Doesn't he? (For how long?) ]
I don't mean-- it isn't on your shoulders. You help. Being here, [ the ghost of a smile, ] even in stinking Kirkwall, that helps. If I can be kinder to him, that will help, too.
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i'd choose you, but only because he wouldn't ask. i'd choose you, but he hasn't, not really. what a peculiar skill, to take oneself hostage. he needs space: a clear hall, a wall to punch. something that rage can't bruise. wouldn't it be easier if he could just be angry about this? maker, isn't he allowed to be angry?
isaac drifts toward the bed, lifts a hand free of balled linen to kiss its knuckles; soft. ]
You have yourself.
[ it's all the three of them share. ]
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You know you're kinder than you ought to be, sometimes.
[ His hand gives an answering squeeze, grateful but-- releasing. (Who needs skin? A heart?) ]
I'll lock up.