Of course, the ink-inflected, lasting words. Should Rin have known? Did they know? There’s a distance - vast, they’ve always felt - between knowing and suspecting. Knowing and half-guessing, or seeing how pieces could amount, without proof of their connection. With a time marked 7:34, and though Rin can’t place the meaning at first—
Could it have been.
That night. Early evening, dusk coming on, and candles. The first time, most vivid time they’d met beneath the protective warmth of a blanket. When a kiss first felt like heaven, and when it ended far too soon.
The tattoo had appeared not long after that night, hadn’t it? (And hadn’t the time had always strung a distant bell? Inconclusive, but somewhere attempting to amount. If only they’d seen the pieces. If only they’d known the connection.)
It had, yes. And they know now. And Sen is here now, and always has been wholly present.
And look at him: this gleaming smile, this relief. This recognition and acceptance. Belief because of course he must believe; because he’s always, perhaps, felt Rin beside hi, the way Rin has always known Sen at their side. And a question that isn’t a question, really; a word that only pleads for confirmation, certainty at the culmination of so many ambiguous years.
A word Rin is happy to meet. A word that draws Rin’s smile, and an answer spoken without need for preparation. ]
Tous mes jours. Tout mon couer.
[ Thinking as they say it: ’Oh, of course.’
Thinking, planning, to take on a new and overdue tattoo of their own. (What might it look like? How best bespeak Sen, and mirror Sen’s own mark?) ]
Yes.
Of course.
For always, and with everything I am.
Yes, how can I tell you…
[ A slight hiss of air between their teeth as they cock their head, nod to themself, then speak in French, then English— ]
I love you. And I love you.
[ Then a kaleidoscope of their shared languages, all expressing love, speaking variations on a core-deep truth punctuated with kisses drifting and pressured, with caresses, with Rin fixing their eyes on Sen and smiling, nearly daft. Speaking again, again, again that they love Sen, they adore Sen that their love belongs to Sen, that Sen’s heart holds their own. ]
Tous mes jours. Tout mon couer.
My philosopher.
My brilliant, subtle fool.
My Sen, my Senan, my Sen Ben Benice. Of course I love you dearly, with all the not-insubstantial conviction that I own. With every ounce of heart and blood I have. I adore you, I love you, you absolute absurdity and beauty of a man.
no subject
Of course, the ink-inflected, lasting words. Should Rin have known? Did they know? There’s a distance - vast, they’ve always felt - between knowing and suspecting. Knowing and half-guessing, or seeing how pieces could amount, without proof of their connection. With a time marked 7:34, and though Rin can’t place the meaning at first—
Could it have been.
That night. Early evening, dusk coming on, and candles. The first time, most vivid time they’d met beneath the protective warmth of a blanket. When a kiss first felt like heaven, and when it ended far too soon.
The tattoo had appeared not long after that night, hadn’t it? (And hadn’t the time had always strung a distant bell? Inconclusive, but somewhere attempting to amount. If only they’d seen the pieces. If only they’d known the connection.)
It had, yes. And they know now. And Sen is here now, and always has been wholly present.
And look at him: this gleaming smile, this relief. This recognition and acceptance. Belief because of course he must believe; because he’s always, perhaps, felt Rin beside hi, the way Rin has always known Sen at their side. And a question that isn’t a question, really; a word that only pleads for confirmation, certainty at the culmination of so many ambiguous years.
A word Rin is happy to meet. A word that draws Rin’s smile, and an answer spoken without need for preparation. ]
Tous mes jours. Tout mon couer.
[ Thinking as they say it: ’Oh, of course.’
Thinking, planning, to take on a new and overdue tattoo of their own. (What might it look like? How best bespeak Sen, and mirror Sen’s own mark?) ]
Yes.
Of course.
For always, and with everything I am.
Yes, how can I tell you…
[ A slight hiss of air between their teeth as they cock their head, nod to themself, then speak in French, then English— ]
I love you. And I love you.
[ Then a kaleidoscope of their shared languages, all expressing love, speaking variations on a core-deep truth punctuated with kisses drifting and pressured, with caresses, with Rin fixing their eyes on Sen and smiling, nearly daft. Speaking again, again, again that they love Sen, they adore Sen that their love belongs to Sen, that Sen’s heart holds their own. ]
Tous mes jours. Tout mon couer.
My philosopher.
My brilliant, subtle fool.
My Sen, my Senan, my Sen Ben Benice. Of course I love you dearly, with all the not-insubstantial conviction that I own. With every ounce of heart and blood I have. I adore you, I love you, you absolute absurdity and beauty of a man.