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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[ --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.