[ Rin is without exception the only person who can unerringly draw a full, uncomplicated smile from Senan these days. (What reason does he have for smiling? Except Rin. Oh, except Rin.)
Rin says I'll spare you the theatrics and Sen grins, a gleaming slash of stark white in sallow skin that challenges their vow; Rin couldn't stop their theatrics if they tried, and he doesn't expect them to try. In fact, he thinks that comment is a prelude to some grander display of them.
The problem with smiling. The problem is, it's an open door through which so many things might escape. It's a vulnerability. His lips quirk and his eyes brighten, and he settles his head against his hand, elbow propped against the back of the sofa, and all this openness allows for a slant that might be taken for adoration. (It allows for a warmth to fill him. In his midsection, a flutter familiar as an old friend - as familiar as Rin themself, truly.
He could be twenty-something again, rescuing live lobsters to impress this neither-man nor-woman, shouting "Swim for it, you ugly cunts!" at the crustaceans as he and Rin and Darius dumped them into a fountain. And Senan, twenty-something, casting glances when Rin wasn't looking. Hoping Rin was looking.
He could be a later twenty-something, sitting beside them in a place not so different from this, drunk (but not that drunk) (not really drunk at all) (not on alcohol), matching their pace as they rifled through languages the way one changes the channel on a television. Desperate to impress them, laughing uproariously when he stumbled from his own minor race. Forgot a word. Forgot a conjugation. Accidentally called their apartment a brothel.
He could be thirty-two, and it could be 7:34 p.m. on November 2nd, and outside it could be raining bitterly cold not-quite-sleet, and maybe the power's been shut off again. Maybe Rin has lit candles around the flat, and they've huddled together (almost exactly like this, in fact) against the cold. Sen could be wearing an aftershave Rin has deemed an olfactory assault (and which he will promptly throw out in the morning, to be replaced by something he knows Rin won't detest.) And Rin, like now, like a confluence of past and present, could be in his arms. (He could know it's 7:34, because he looked at the clock and thought, At 7:30, I'm going to tell them. And the minutes ticked by without speech, because the quiet was better, their own beautiful, poverty-struck world of candlelight and blankets.)
Senan, smiling happily, could be thirty-two, and his world could unmake and reform into something like enlightenment, because November 2nd, at 7:34 p.m., (a Tuesday) was the first time he kissed Rin Renault.
A note regarding the difference here, between the recollection of joy and the recollection of sorrow, and how that crucial moment sits reflecting his joy in the present, is that Rin Renault kissed him back.
And after, they never spoke of it. After, there was no apology, no recrimination. It sits in his memory untainted by any flicker of regret. A perfect encounter, crystalline and ethereal. (Though, in truth, Senan can't remember whose idea it was. He can't recall moving toward them; all that holds in memory is that they were there, and their kiss traced his own with exploratory grace. That there was nothing fierce or demanding, neither of them taking. If holy communion is the plea of a god's blessing, this was how the other side must feel: to give, and give, and feel oneself replaced by what's been given in turn. Maybe neither of them started it that night. Maybe it was an inevitability from the moment he first saw them. Maybe it was inevitable from birth.)
(They make a romantic out of him. He wishes he could have done more to make one out of them.)
With the smile he entertains - that quickly dissolves into laughter as they do, indeed, begin to further their theatrics with language shifts as natural as breathing - he could be any age, at any time, because his whole life (or so it seems) has been filled with moments just like this.
They have been his life.
And it's this openness, this stupid moment of vulnerable joy, that almost makes him forget why they can't know. (He can't do that to them.) (What this is, as it is, is perfection enough. If he tried to unmake and reform their world again, what would it mean? A heartbreaking refusal, and their remaining time spent with a new, uncomfortable distance?
Or worse. Worse, what if speaking means they are his Rin, and there is a chance, after all? Will it mean the chance has been there all along? Will it mean something changed without his notice? Will it mean Rin was always his?
And he'll leave them. Either way, unless there's a goddamn miracle to buy him ten, twenty years - he's leaving them. He can't break their heart when he goes.)
(He still forgets.)
He catches their hand post-tap to his nose, his smile softening but undimmed, and only for them. (Rin is beautiful here in this light, with that atrocious purple eyeshadow (Rin ages better than any of them, he thinks, without giving himself permission to wonder if they have in fact paid to age better) (which would be an ungentlemanly thing to wonder.)) Sen holds their hand there just below his chin, stroking his thumb across their fingers, and he wishes distantly that he knew what time it was.
In Russian, he answers. ]
Let me swear it. On the grave of any misery I knew: I have been happy. The truth is I am no fool at all; I play the part, it's true, but I have a deep core of wisdom that belies my absurd nature. What adventures we've had, hm? You and I, together?
Your Sen -
[ A chagrined sigh here. Well. Let it stand.
He transitions to French. ]
Your Sen.
He knows well how lucky he is to have known this maker of stars, this creator of galaxies. This unparalleled wonder - this 'null' who is far from such a concept. Who is so much more than can be contained, possessed, described by any single world or gender or name.
[ ...Or man, he adds silently, without rue or bitterness.
And, in Spanish now: ]
You worry for the two years of my life that describe unhappiness. I know you do. But think of it as I do: I am forty-five. I have known you since I was twenty. Two unhappy years seems such a paltry sum afforded for the other twenty-three, which have been -
[ He falls silent, cants his head and lifts a shoulder as though this is a word, itself. Then draws their hand to his lips - chaste, again. Devotional. Grateful. And he eases into English. ]
Rin, have you known me to be anything but content? Consider that it isn't because I am by nature an easily-appeased man, but rather that I have been granted everything I've ever dared to ask. And I have known you.
Be content, yourself, hm? Let me exist in my own contentedness, with you. If I have had some hand in the shaping of this masterpiece before me, then it has been an honor, and a joy, because it occurred in stealth as I was enjoying the thrall of your company.
All the world is right with you - you, at your most theatric, ever leading me on a chase through our common languages, or speaking nothing at all. My world is right, with you inhabiting it.
no subject
Rin says I'll spare you the theatrics and Sen grins, a gleaming slash of stark white in sallow skin that challenges their vow; Rin couldn't stop their theatrics if they tried, and he doesn't expect them to try. In fact, he thinks that comment is a prelude to some grander display of them.
The problem with smiling. The problem is, it's an open door through which so many things might escape. It's a vulnerability. His lips quirk and his eyes brighten, and he settles his head against his hand, elbow propped against the back of the sofa, and all this openness allows for a slant that might be taken for adoration. (It allows for a warmth to fill him. In his midsection, a flutter familiar as an old friend - as familiar as Rin themself, truly.
He could be twenty-something again, rescuing live lobsters to impress this neither-man nor-woman, shouting "Swim for it, you ugly cunts!" at the crustaceans as he and Rin and Darius dumped them into a fountain. And Senan, twenty-something, casting glances when Rin wasn't looking. Hoping Rin was looking.
He could be a later twenty-something, sitting beside them in a place not so different from this, drunk (but not that drunk) (not really drunk at all) (not on alcohol), matching their pace as they rifled through languages the way one changes the channel on a television. Desperate to impress them, laughing uproariously when he stumbled from his own minor race. Forgot a word. Forgot a conjugation. Accidentally called their apartment a brothel.
He could be thirty-two, and it could be 7:34 p.m. on November 2nd, and outside it could be raining bitterly cold not-quite-sleet, and maybe the power's been shut off again. Maybe Rin has lit candles around the flat, and they've huddled together (almost exactly like this, in fact) against the cold. Sen could be wearing an aftershave Rin has deemed an olfactory assault (and which he will promptly throw out in the morning, to be replaced by something he knows Rin won't detest.) And Rin, like now, like a confluence of past and present, could be in his arms. (He could know it's 7:34, because he looked at the clock and thought, At 7:30, I'm going to tell them. And the minutes ticked by without speech, because the quiet was better, their own beautiful, poverty-struck world of candlelight and blankets.)
Senan, smiling happily, could be thirty-two, and his world could unmake and reform into something like enlightenment, because November 2nd, at 7:34 p.m., (a Tuesday) was the first time he kissed Rin Renault.
A note regarding the difference here, between the recollection of joy and the recollection of sorrow, and how that crucial moment sits reflecting his joy in the present, is that Rin Renault kissed him back.
And after, they never spoke of it. After, there was no apology, no recrimination. It sits in his memory untainted by any flicker of regret. A perfect encounter, crystalline and ethereal. (Though, in truth, Senan can't remember whose idea it was. He can't recall moving toward them; all that holds in memory is that they were there, and their kiss traced his own with exploratory grace. That there was nothing fierce or demanding, neither of them taking. If holy communion is the plea of a god's blessing, this was how the other side must feel: to give, and give, and feel oneself replaced by what's been given in turn. Maybe neither of them started it that night. Maybe it was an inevitability from the moment he first saw them. Maybe it was inevitable from birth.)
(They make a romantic out of him. He wishes he could have done more to make one out of them.)
With the smile he entertains - that quickly dissolves into laughter as they do, indeed, begin to further their theatrics with language shifts as natural as breathing - he could be any age, at any time, because his whole life (or so it seems) has been filled with moments just like this.
They have been his life.
And it's this openness, this stupid moment of vulnerable joy, that almost makes him forget why they can't know. (He can't do that to them.) (What this is, as it is, is perfection enough. If he tried to unmake and reform their world again, what would it mean? A heartbreaking refusal, and their remaining time spent with a new, uncomfortable distance?
Or worse. Worse, what if speaking means they are his Rin, and there is a chance, after all? Will it mean the chance has been there all along? Will it mean something changed without his notice? Will it mean Rin was always his?
And he'll leave them. Either way, unless there's a goddamn miracle to buy him ten, twenty years - he's leaving them. He can't break their heart when he goes.)
(He still forgets.)
He catches their hand post-tap to his nose, his smile softening but undimmed, and only for them. (Rin is beautiful here in this light, with that atrocious purple eyeshadow (Rin ages better than any of them, he thinks, without giving himself permission to wonder if they have in fact paid to age better) (which would be an ungentlemanly thing to wonder.)) Sen holds their hand there just below his chin, stroking his thumb across their fingers, and he wishes distantly that he knew what time it was.
In Russian, he answers. ]
Let me swear it. On the grave of any misery I knew: I have been happy. The truth is I am no fool at all; I play the part, it's true, but I have a deep core of wisdom that belies my absurd nature. What adventures we've had, hm? You and I, together?
Your Sen -
[ A chagrined sigh here. Well. Let it stand.
He transitions to French. ]
Your Sen.
He knows well how lucky he is to have known this maker of stars, this creator of galaxies. This unparalleled wonder - this 'null' who is far from such a concept. Who is so much more than can be contained, possessed, described by any single world or gender or name.
[ ...Or man, he adds silently, without rue or bitterness.
And, in Spanish now: ]
You worry for the two years of my life that describe unhappiness. I know you do. But think of it as I do: I am forty-five. I have known you since I was twenty. Two unhappy years seems such a paltry sum afforded for the other twenty-three, which have been -
[ He falls silent, cants his head and lifts a shoulder as though this is a word, itself. Then draws their hand to his lips - chaste, again. Devotional. Grateful. And he eases into English. ]
Rin, have you known me to be anything but content? Consider that it isn't because I am by nature an easily-appeased man, but rather that I have been granted everything I've ever dared to ask. And I have known you.
Be content, yourself, hm? Let me exist in my own contentedness, with you. If I have had some hand in the shaping of this masterpiece before me, then it has been an honor, and a joy, because it occurred in stealth as I was enjoying the thrall of your company.
All the world is right with you - you, at your most theatric, ever leading me on a chase through our common languages, or speaking nothing at all. My world is right, with you inhabiting it.