[ Ilias sighs, stretching shoulder and elbow into the vacated space. He does rather prefer fucking to talking about his problems. If distraction was an effective alternative, if the subject weren't already pressing into every corner of his mind, he might not have brought it up at all.
But he did bring it up, and not for nothing. He's never known Isaac to give a straight answer; equally important, then, the route he chooses to take. ]
He works with Lady Asgard. [ the shape of a gap, to be filled as he collects his own thoughts in turn. ] There are reports sometimes, of his missions. He minds the archives still. Helps with the horse, when he thinks I'm not looking. He sketches.
[ None of it the point. Lips press flat; eyes find the ceiling. ]
I do not think he's hurt anyone since he arrived here. [ Well— ] Not anyone he wasn't meant to. Not outside of extraordinary circumstances.
[ What he does; whether he's hurt anyone. Would it matter if he had? A question to which Isaac already knows the answer. One which Ilias seems perilously frequent to forget. ]
[ But. Ilias squints, as if wondering whether Isaac used to be taller, perhaps with more hair up top, or less down— anyway. ]
Only he can't live his whole life under my supervision. At some point I have to trust him, or— [ blood and saliva spill onto dirt, fingers crunch into dead leaves; ] I don't know what happens if I can't.
i promise i'm changing back the icons later i just havent gotten around to it yet
[ Another little phylactery and murder plot. Ilias knows the stakes, certainly better than Isaac, peering always through glass.
They're worse when they're together, He'd told Kostos, and meant it. There was a time, however short, when he'd known them apart. Clipped images, maybe. But finer in the frame. ]
When I asked you of his days — What I mean is this. He has a life outside you. [ The girl, Clio; a corpse, and forever a girl. They were young: Ten years ago, maybe fifteen. ] He deserves that.
[ Isaac stretches a leg, an excuse to shift his gaze. The room is dim, and cloth strains the light indistinct. Perhaps it's the same outside, he loses track of late. His nights, Ilias' days, and this illness. Time bleeds. ]
You do.
if i die still having to picture danny devito naked i will haunt you forever
[ I can't, he thinks. Sink knife into flesh again. Listen to that primordial fear rise in the voice of someone he loves.
I can't — have a life despite it. Deserve that. (Deserve this.) Mirrored eyes trace the line of him, a careful arrangement of edges where the light catches. A moment stretches on into the dark.
[ You do, you do. What does Isaac deserve, exactly? A life outside Leander, Maker, give him that much credit. Beyond Ilias? This petty legacy of trying to be wanted by men who want for nothing.
This is a life. He stole it, and sooner than later they'll ask it back, but for now it's his: The stark scraped edges of this room, beyond reproach; the warmer spill of his Infirmary desk. A bed only built for one.
[ Softening, thoughtful. More than I thought I would. Every life is a temporary thing; his own more than most, but lately— lingering. Leaving a night shirt beneath the bed. Eying the width of the space between bed frame and window. ]
And not only because of you.
[ But partly. Influence, instead of permeation. What a funny thing, for there to be a difference.
He shifts finally, bending at the waist into a languid approximation of uprightness. Dry lips and bristle peck at the knot of a shoulder, breathe warm to skin in pursuit of nothing but a moment's grounding. Perhaps it isn't a sin to linger, if he doesn't mean to leave. ]
What did you think of him before? When you didn't know he was anything to me.
Funny, [ — Are the circumstances of that introduction: An improbably fortunate fumble, the pace of shade to follow. ] Clever.
[ That shadow, dragging itself over Fade dirt. ]
Odd. [ Disconnected thoughts: Gareth with a specimen jar and a gleam in his eye. The same mad look as Leander, skin already curling open to spit, you stupid fuck. He pauses, ] I think he left me a bug.
It has occurred to him to think what Ilias knows. Whether, and when he knew. It's seemed a fruitless point of inquiry: A wound to unearth, or nothing of note, and difficult to say which would be worse. The warmth in his voice rankles.
He reaches (again) for the absent packet. Rolls eyes at himself when a palm closes (again) upon empty air. There are things he could say — that he doesn't like gifts, even those little corpses left prone upon his desk, or the knife he carries wherever he goes. He could say that he doesn't like surprises, that those have never ceased, that they'd only begun to see each other. That he wouldn't have, if he'd known.
But he might have. He might have, just to make a point. ]
I don't know what he likes. [ Flattery. Leverage. That can't be all there is — an unfair cast, from a familiar mold. ] I'd say art, but artists always seem to hate it.
[ He stretches, hooks a finger around the edge of his jacket at last, tugs its drapery from the chair to dig in a pocket. Maybe they aren't all on the other side of the ocean, maybe he remembered to bring a few, ]
[ he agrees, something less warm in that note; not the absence of wound, but the skinned-over divot left behind, still tender to the touch. ]
I imagine he would have used it sooner, if he had.
[ Used. It's not the impression he wants to leave now. A tool, a bit of poisoned arrow he's already decided to keep inside. Neither of them knew. Neither of them did anything wrong. Neither of them told him until it was useful to do so, that is all.
Smoothing instead, fingers across sheets, serenity forced across his expression, he leans to scoop the edge of a robe from the floor. Somewhere in a pocket, a cigarette case. An offer. An excuse to keep a hand near. ]
He asked me to choose between you. [ Dropped, finally, like a coin in a bucket. ] It-- made me wonder why you hadn't.
[ Halfway. One foot out the door, in a grave, or something else terribly dramatic. It sounds a little better like that — that small wrinkle in Ilias' voice. A point scored.
You can gamble, even if you're bad at cards. You just fold when you don't care to lose. His thumb brushes paper, not skin; burns without lifting to his mouth. ]
[ finally, his fingers stretch out -- palm curls to crush the cigarette within. there's no reaction to the sting of the coal into flesh. when it unfolds, extinguished, his hand will be whole.
breathe: ]
I haven't either, you know. Touched anyone else. Not since him.
[ Only. The way those words brighten his eyes isn't
simple, the way it ought to be. Yours, written in ink or whispered flush against skin. Warm breath tucked into the crook of a neck. Fingers, touched now to fingers. All of those things, yes, but something else too, hanging heavy in between. ]
Then I'll tell him.
[ —isn't the same words at all. ]
If he wants me to make a choice, it will be you. It will always be you.
[ and isn't that exactly what he wanted? isn't that all you can ask?
there's a hand on his. he should smile now: say thank you, say i know this is hard; lean in toward victory and the rough bristle of a mouth. a kiss, a simple scene cut. easy. everyone gets what they want.
he doesn't lean in. his hand doesn't unpeel, but turns to wrap about ilias'. ash smears grey between them, its heat faded. isaac rubs a circle through it, then lifts his knuckles to lips. brief. still. ]
Lock the door when you go?
[ he stands to shrug on a shirt, put his back to the bed. to turn his face anywhere away. ]
[ 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?
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But he did bring it up, and not for nothing. He's never known Isaac to give a straight answer; equally important, then, the route he chooses to take. ]
He works with Lady Asgard. [ the shape of a gap, to be filled as he collects his own thoughts in turn. ] There are reports sometimes, of his missions. He minds the archives still. Helps with the horse, when he thinks I'm not looking. He sketches.
[ None of it the point. Lips press flat; eyes find the ceiling. ]
I do not think he's hurt anyone since he arrived here. [ Well— ] Not anyone he wasn't meant to. Not outside of extraordinary circumstances.
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[ What he does; whether he's hurt anyone. Would it matter if he had? A question to which Isaac already knows the answer. One which Ilias seems perilously frequent to forget. ]
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Important. Of course it is important.
[ But. Ilias squints, as if wondering whether Isaac used to be taller, perhaps with more hair up top, or less down— anyway. ]
Only he can't live his whole life under my supervision. At some point I have to trust him, or— [ blood and saliva spill onto dirt, fingers crunch into dead leaves; ] I don't know what happens if I can't.
i promise i'm changing back the icons later i just havent gotten around to it yet
[ Another little phylactery and murder plot. Ilias knows the stakes, certainly better than Isaac, peering always through glass.
They're worse when they're together, He'd told Kostos, and meant it. There was a time, however short, when he'd known them apart. Clipped images, maybe. But finer in the frame. ]
When I asked you of his days — What I mean is this. He has a life outside you. [ The girl, Clio; a corpse, and forever a girl. They were young: Ten years ago, maybe fifteen. ] He deserves that.
[ Isaac stretches a leg, an excuse to shift his gaze. The room is dim, and cloth strains the light indistinct. Perhaps it's the same outside, he loses track of late. His nights, Ilias' days, and this illness. Time bleeds. ]
You do.
if i die still having to picture danny devito naked i will haunt you forever
I can't — have a life despite it. Deserve that. (Deserve this.) Mirrored eyes trace the line of him, a careful arrangement of edges where the light catches. A moment stretches on into the dark.
In place of a lie, he says, ]
You do, too.
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[ You do, you do. What does Isaac deserve, exactly? A life outside Leander, Maker, give him that much credit. Beyond Ilias? This petty legacy of trying to be wanted by men who want for nothing.
This is a life. He stole it, and sooner than later they'll ask it back, but for now it's his: The stark scraped edges of this room, beyond reproach; the warmer spill of his Infirmary desk. A bed only built for one.
Staked claims.
At length: ]
What do you do in a day, Ilias?
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[ Softening, thoughtful. More than I thought I would. Every life is a temporary thing; his own more than most, but lately— lingering. Leaving a night shirt beneath the bed. Eying the width of the space between bed frame and window. ]
And not only because of you.
[ But partly. Influence, instead of permeation. What a funny thing, for there to be a difference.
He shifts finally, bending at the waist into a languid approximation of uprightness. Dry lips and bristle peck at the knot of a shoulder, breathe warm to skin in pursuit of nothing but a moment's grounding. Perhaps it isn't a sin to linger, if he doesn't mean to leave. ]
What did you think of him before? When you didn't know he was anything to me.
no subject
[ That shadow, dragging itself over Fade dirt. ]
Odd. [ Disconnected thoughts: Gareth with a specimen jar and a gleam in his eye. The same mad look as Leander, skin already curling open to spit, you stupid fuck. He pauses, ] I think he left me a bug.
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[ Affectionate. Equally so: ]
He must have liked you. Apart from physically, I mean. [ As if they'd already discussed-- (They haven't.) ] As much as he likes anyone.
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It has occurred to him to think what Ilias knows. Whether, and when he knew. It's seemed a fruitless point of inquiry: A wound to unearth, or nothing of note, and difficult to say which would be worse. The warmth in his voice rankles.
He reaches (again) for the absent packet. Rolls eyes at himself when a palm closes (again) upon empty air. There are things he could say — that he doesn't like gifts, even those little corpses left prone upon his desk, or the knife he carries wherever he goes. He could say that he doesn't like surprises, that those have never ceased, that they'd only begun to see each other. That he wouldn't have, if he'd known.
But he might have. He might have, just to make a point. ]
I don't know what he likes. [ Flattery. Leverage. That can't be all there is — an unfair cast, from a familiar mold. ] I'd say art, but artists always seem to hate it.
[ He stretches, hooks a finger around the edge of his jacket at last, tugs its drapery from the chair to dig in a pocket. Maybe they aren't all on the other side of the ocean, maybe he remembered to bring a few, ]
I don't think he knew, Ilias. I was just there.
[ He's thought about that, too. ]
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[ he agrees, something less warm in that note; not the absence of wound, but the skinned-over divot left behind, still tender to the touch. ]
I imagine he would have used it sooner, if he had.
[ Used. It's not the impression he wants to leave now. A tool, a bit of poisoned arrow he's already decided to keep inside. Neither of them knew. Neither of them did anything wrong. Neither of them told him until it was useful to do so, that is all.
Smoothing instead, fingers across sheets, serenity forced across his expression, he leans to scoop the edge of a robe from the floor. Somewhere in a pocket, a cigarette case. An offer. An excuse to keep a hand near. ]
He asked me to choose between you. [ Dropped, finally, like a coin in a bucket. ] It-- made me wonder why you hadn't.
and then the quilt caught on fire scene over
You're here, aren't you?
[ Halfway. One foot out the door, in a grave, or something else terribly dramatic. It sounds a little better like that — that small wrinkle in Ilias' voice. A point scored.
You can gamble, even if you're bad at cards. You just fold when you don't care to lose. His thumb brushes paper, not skin; burns without lifting to his mouth. ]
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[ Halfway. His smile is quick and teetering, eyes dropping to ember. ]
But it does not matter to you, what else I do in a day?
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I'm hardly going to lock you in a tower.
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[ Warming just a bit, as if that is a charmingly novel quirk of personality and not, say, a requirement to share his bed. ]
I haven't, you know. Touched him, or anyone else in some time. I just didn't want to say.
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[ why not say it, why not fuck leander, why not fuck any man with a pulse —
paper continues to burn its slow way down to ash. he's noticed; doesn't move to stop it yet. there's time.
he doesn't need to start a fight. there's time. it's nevarra, the pulse can hardly be a requirement — ]
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[ 'Sheep'. Cuter another time, perhaps. Lips pull. His hand doesn't move, either, to save cigarette nor sheets. ]
I don't want to obligate you, Isaac. But I want you to be certain of me.
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breathe: ]
I haven't either, you know. Touched anyone else. Not since him.
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There's no flinch; that doesn't mean there's nothing to soothe. ]
Is that what you want?
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I only want you.
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simple, the way it ought to be. Yours, written in ink or whispered flush against skin. Warm breath tucked into the crook of a neck. Fingers, touched now to fingers. All of those things, yes, but something else too, hanging heavy in between. ]
Then I'll tell him.
[ —isn't the same words at all. ]
If he wants me to make a choice, it will be you. It will always be you.
no subject
there's a hand on his. he should smile now: say thank you, say i know this is hard; lean in toward victory and the rough bristle of a mouth. a kiss, a simple scene cut. easy. everyone gets what they want.
he doesn't lean in. his hand doesn't unpeel, but turns to wrap about ilias'. ash smears grey between them, its heat faded. isaac rubs a circle through it, then lifts his knuckles to lips. brief. still. ]
Lock the door when you go?
[ he stands to shrug on a shirt, put his back to the bed. to turn his face anywhere away. ]
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Isaac.
[ Hollow, in a room that's always had too much space; too little of it filled. ]
Please don't.
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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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