He might have been thrown by their words, and perhaps if they were anyone else, if they weren't Rin, who from the moment he met them has been central, primary and as compulsory to his own existence as he is to theirs, he might have been staggered enough to fall motionless. To stare, wide-eyed and wondering, that anyone could hold such lofty notions of him.
But of course Rin does. Of course Rin speaks this way (as no one else on earth would speak, because people don't talk this way - earnest, heartfelt, theatric) (no one but Rin and himself, to one another, in a language all their own, as though they carved this cramped and wretched world into a space for themselves.)
Move past wonder and staggered stillness, and after comes relief. When he does pass from their sight (where he has existed, where he has been grateful to persist), pieces of him will remain held enshrined in the mind of the one he loves so well. No matter the pain. No matter the devastation of his end.
And he will. Pass from their sight. End. What a stark reality it is, encroaching on the dreamlike thrall of his forehead to Rin's, their hand in his, their breath as familiar as his own. How bleak. How unacceptably, horribly mundane - to die. But he can bear it, he's sure, knowing they'll remember him.
- Had he doubted it? Had he believed a moment ago that Rin's memory was an insubstantial, gossamer thing, composed of impression and snatches of conversation? That someone like Rin could hardly be expected to remember in detail the press of a hand or every last word he ever spoke?
It's criminal. It's a miscarriage of justice. It's a betrayal. Fucking look at them, hear their voice; if a man could be reconstructed from memory, Senan would live again as wholly as he does now from the precision of their mind's eye. They see him. They forget nothing.
(And.
What he was avoiding. His avid refusal to speak the future to them, to protect their heart. Oh, look at them, with such wide, keenly bright eyes.
They suspect.
And their heart will break.)
He believes it all.
And if it hadn't been Rin, he would be dumbstruck to see how deep he's been driven. How important he is, to anyone at all, nevermind to the one he loves.
Instead, his mouth twists in a baffled smile, and his breath hitches; what follows is as simple as any other inevitability.
Senan can never judge who moves first (though fancifully, he thinks it's never either of them, and that they find themselves caught in a natural force like gravitational pull, like magnetism, like a swift-flowing current.) Someone is kissing, and someone is kissing back; Rin is gentle and soft, and Sen is restrained, reverent, lingering through each rise and fall because it could be the last.
Because they were never his (they were always his, weren't they?) and because these were stolen moments slipped sideways from time - or, because he has so little time left - he has always kissed them like it might be the last.
It might be.
His hand eases from theirs to caress their cheek (his hand, that he ordered to love them, and long to do just this), then settles with delicate presence at their jaw.
They've done this together more times than he should count (but he does count them - reconstructs each one in savored memory, holds them in his mind like small sanctuaries), and the world still blazes from the smallest brush of lips. His chest shudders with the hammering of his heart, and he could laugh - wildly, wickedly, freely - if it didn't mean sacrificing any part of this.
There is no drug as potent, no joy so complete, no perfection of art or nature in all the world. If prison, his separation from Rin, was hell, this is a paradise. This is heaven. (When he dies, if he somehow earned a ticket through someone's eternal gates, he hopes this is how it feels.)
What alters this instance from any other: he has always restrained himself, and for all that their kisses have been what they are, they have remained innocent. (Friendly.) But what if this time really is the last? The thought is a distant, incoherent cry that presses him nearer, draws his arm tighter around them.
There's a language here all their own, and without words, he offers (what you love) more, and anything at all, if they want (him) it. A hand. A kiss. A heart. Says without words, I think and Maybe, bereft sentence starting toward a notion built from the brightness of wide eyes and the consecration of memory.
Could you.
And.
Because I do.
And.
I have, for so long.
(Oh, relief in that silent admission. Relief in the conveyance, in not taking it to his grave, in knowing there is nothing about him hidden from Rin. Twining the direst confession of love with a kiss is as good as any absolution.)
With a kiss that happens as it always happens, but now (for the first and possibly last time) reaches new, unimagined heights, he asks without any sound at all if they might try to love him for the rest of his life. ]
no subject
Every time.
He might have been thrown by their words, and perhaps if they were anyone else, if they weren't Rin, who from the moment he met them has been central, primary and as compulsory to his own existence as he is to theirs, he might have been staggered enough to fall motionless. To stare, wide-eyed and wondering, that anyone could hold such lofty notions of him.
But of course Rin does. Of course Rin speaks this way (as no one else on earth would speak, because people don't talk this way - earnest, heartfelt, theatric) (no one but Rin and himself, to one another, in a language all their own, as though they carved this cramped and wretched world into a space for themselves.)
Move past wonder and staggered stillness, and after comes relief. When he does pass from their sight (where he has existed, where he has been grateful to persist), pieces of him will remain held enshrined in the mind of the one he loves so well. No matter the pain. No matter the devastation of his end.
And he will. Pass from their sight. End. What a stark reality it is, encroaching on the dreamlike thrall of his forehead to Rin's, their hand in his, their breath as familiar as his own. How bleak. How unacceptably, horribly mundane - to die. But he can bear it, he's sure, knowing they'll remember him.
- Had he doubted it? Had he believed a moment ago that Rin's memory was an insubstantial, gossamer thing, composed of impression and snatches of conversation? That someone like Rin could hardly be expected to remember in detail the press of a hand or every last word he ever spoke?
It's criminal. It's a miscarriage of justice. It's a betrayal. Fucking look at them, hear their voice; if a man could be reconstructed from memory, Senan would live again as wholly as he does now from the precision of their mind's eye. They see him. They forget nothing.
(And.
What he was avoiding. His avid refusal to speak the future to them, to protect their heart. Oh, look at them, with such wide, keenly bright eyes.
They suspect.
And their heart will break.)
He believes it all.
And if it hadn't been Rin, he would be dumbstruck to see how deep he's been driven. How important he is, to anyone at all, nevermind to the one he loves.
Instead, his mouth twists in a baffled smile, and his breath hitches; what follows is as simple as any other inevitability.
Senan can never judge who moves first (though fancifully, he thinks it's never either of them, and that they find themselves caught in a natural force like gravitational pull, like magnetism, like a swift-flowing current.) Someone is kissing, and someone is kissing back; Rin is gentle and soft, and Sen is restrained, reverent, lingering through each rise and fall because it could be the last.
Because they were never his (they were always his, weren't they?) and because these were stolen moments slipped sideways from time - or, because he has so little time left - he has always kissed them like it might be the last.
It might be.
His hand eases from theirs to caress their cheek (his hand, that he ordered to love them, and long to do just this), then settles with delicate presence at their jaw.
They've done this together more times than he should count (but he does count them - reconstructs each one in savored memory, holds them in his mind like small sanctuaries), and the world still blazes from the smallest brush of lips. His chest shudders with the hammering of his heart, and he could laugh - wildly, wickedly, freely - if it didn't mean sacrificing any part of this.
There is no drug as potent, no joy so complete, no perfection of art or nature in all the world. If prison, his separation from Rin, was hell, this is a paradise. This is heaven. (When he dies, if he somehow earned a ticket through someone's eternal gates, he hopes this is how it feels.)
What alters this instance from any other: he has always restrained himself, and for all that their kisses have been what they are, they have remained innocent. (Friendly.) But what if this time really is the last? The thought is a distant, incoherent cry that presses him nearer, draws his arm tighter around them.
There's a language here all their own, and without words, he offers (what you love) more, and anything at all, if they want (him) it. A hand. A kiss. A heart. Says without words, I think and Maybe, bereft sentence starting toward a notion built from the brightness of wide eyes and the consecration of memory.
Could you.
And.
Because I do.
And.
I have, for so long.
(Oh, relief in that silent admission. Relief in the conveyance, in not taking it to his grave, in knowing there is nothing about him hidden from Rin. Twining the direst confession of love with a kiss is as good as any absolution.)
With a kiss that happens as it always happens, but now (for the first and possibly last time) reaches new, unimagined heights, he asks without any sound at all if they might try to love him for the rest of his life. ]