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?
[ 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.
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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.
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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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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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