faderift | closed.

[The sound of the door drew his attention, put a crease between his eyebrows. Now looking down at the face by his shoulder, expressionless, he considers the details of it in silence. Presently, he turns his eyes elsewhere.

Fix it. Does he seem so naïve?]

I could stay in the city for a while longer.

[ Frustration breaks upon its absence; his sigh is apologetic. He didn't mean to snap. ]

It won't matter. There is nothing to change.

[ Nothing to go after, now, though he could. Follow the other man into the hall, explain, apologize. What would be the point, in softening things between them again? He pulls back, nurses the cigarette again instead. ]

He made a decision.

[Again his head turns toward the door. Should he look down to where Ilias had rested his head, the electric warmth left behind, he wouldn't be surprised to find it glowing.

Not every decision is permanent, and many that seem so can be rebuilt in a likeness. Every piece of rubble has its use.]

He's been trying for your attention since we left. Have you noticed?

He's been trying to avoid me.

[ Hasn't he? Even that fleeting thought reignites a dull ache in his chest; brows flex in the dark, a raw, twisting mirror of the man beside him.

The side of his hand bumps at a shoulder, cigarette held in offer. Take this away please. ]

[He takes it away; looks at the end that touched Ilias's lips moments before; touches his there, too. Smoke curling before he draws it in with a snap and breathes it through.]

The driving. The directions. Just earlier, the fire.

[Quietly enduring the memory of a time they sucked the smoke from each other's lungs to see if they could tell the difference.]

How many insects did he name today?

There were rather a lot of silverfish.

[ A sigh. There is probably at least one now, skittering up one of their sleeves. ]

If he wants my attention -- if that is your point -- then he is perfectly familiar with my name.

[Suddenly inspired to smile, Lea snakes his arm back to squeeze Ilias around the shoulders. A lean, a tilt, a smoke-fragrant murmur against his hairline,]

You know better than I do how these things go.

[ It's very easy to lean in, to let two fingers curl on the ends of soft clothes (to pretend there isn't any reason he shouldn't). ]

I don't really. [ There hadn't been anyone else, not like this, but he takes the point. ] Thank you, for putting up with me.

I enjoy every moment, [at a whisper, the kind not overheard. A quiet movement in the dark as he stubs the cigarette on the bench and sets it aside, and then: lips pressed to cheekbone, soft bristles. The mirror of a moment past.

Only, the moment grows—he doesn't stop at one. From shoulder to neck his hand slides, and the other soon joins it to cup under jaw and chin, suggesting a tilt up. In the same breath, between one delicate kiss and another, his mouth shapes words in silence: I miss you.

(Let him come back in. Let the both of them see.)]

[ The response is physical before it's anything else -- a pause in the idle rhythm of existence, the gradual loosening of tired muscles coming to a teetering halt. The jump of a pulse, a flush fanning out beneath fingers, prickling across exposing neck -- its opposite a splitting water skin behind his ribs, cold spilling into his gut.

(Sloshing stag's blood thick--)

An accordion of motion then, once-curling fingers instead splaying flat, a twist of the neck and spine to disentangle. Breath sucked through teeth. It's more than is necessary, to open up the air between them; it barely feels like enough, but he stops with the length of an arm from wrist to elbow set firm between them like a window bar.

Far enough back to look him in the eyes. Did you really just--? Ilias doesn't say anything, but that's a definite yet.

(How can he be so fucking stupid again and again and again--) ]

[Not how that was meant to finish. It was supposed to be a new secret, a small defiance—of their own rules, this time—

Along with a glance to where he knows the door to be, his hand falls away to hover in familiar placation. Back to the eyes, then, appropriately sobered. (Not even the pale hint of a flush across his own cheeks.)]

Shhh, [don't draw their attention with this,] too far, I know. Just never mind. It never happened.

You know.

[ It's poor word choice. It's more than that. Leander had neatly stamped out the cigarette first; his hands are always so steady, and Ilias's are

pulling back further, pushing himself from the bench, its short leg rocking abruptly against stone. ]

I could have-- [ Twice now, leaning to breathe the same air like it wouldn't taste of blood. ] I should not have come to you. Not like this.

[ Hurting, careless. He curses under his breath. Eyes the door. ]

[He knows by the rejection, and it's pointless to argue it—he knows that, too. Sighs, eyes closing, hands and shoulders dropping into resignation, a transition still more difficult to make with Ilias than anyone else. (Don't resent that. Cherish it.)

When they open, Leander is still there, but the contact is fleeting: he severs it with a smooth turn of his head. Level chin, eyes down. Injured but culpable. There's nothing he can say to recover, not without compromising his pride, so he says nothing.]

[ For sake of both of their pride, Ilias is grateful for that -- the absence of an opportunity to do or say anything else he'll regret, in this suddenly too-cramped corner of this mildewing, Maker-forsaken library.

He shakes his head and turns, making for the door. If he can just get some damned space to breathe and think for a minute maybe he can stop ruining absolutely everything he touches.

Wishful thinking, as it happens. ]

[Wishful thinking, all of it.

Leander lifts the half-cigarillo from the bench, scoots closer to the window, and pinches lightly at the ash until it becomes an ember. Wipes at the water on the sill with his free hand and flicks it to the floor, and again, and leans down long enough to sigh smoke through the crack.

Frustration pinches at him, too: the same old cinders. So much effort wasted on being sociable. Let them all cram themselves in the hallway, then, while he's the one left with the space to simmer in his thoughts. What Ilias fled wasn't meant to become anything more than a kiss—another facet of the familiarity they've already shared—

It's real, then.

Was.

Is.

Some sort of commotion at the door; he sits there, listening, indifferent.]

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