As if the world’s spilled over and rewritten itself. As if Sen’s reached into the heart of them, or found them at their core.
They’re—
Oh. Captured. Rapt. Thrummed through with warmth, their cheeks flush, breath too-shallow and jarred by deeper, jagged inhalations.
They are— Tender and struck voltaic, Sen’s words a tempest spun around them, Sen’s words a splendid razing, and yes, yes, in every nerve Rin would welcome more, could yearn for more. This man could undo them. These words could undo them - have undone them? - do set them stirring, molten heat searing coiled through their chest, an agitated kindling at their groin.
They’ve lost the world around them. The counter beneath them, the chatter - if there is chatter; if any chatter could sustain against the stagger of Sen’s words - flickering through Null Set, the intake of air against their lungs.They know they’re breathing or they expect they’re breathing because that’s automatic, that’s existence, but gods, fuck, gods, what can they hope to feel?
And Sen’s eyes fixed on theirs. And Sen’s eyes permanent, and real, and so, so bracingly close.
(And Sen’s thumb at their cheek. And Sen’s touch a burn of its own; does he know? Does he know his own fire, and how can he talk of searing of burning of freezing when his own touch settles so intense?)
He said— So many words. Thoughts. Images and half-filtering suggestions. Words striking deep; words striking chords scarce-guessed, or guessed and then discarded years ago, or words lighting receptors never quite discerned, or something, or something, or Rin can’t take hold of any of it now. Hears and feels the words move through their being, but binding anything to sense is beyond them.
A deluge. They stepped into the water, they splashed beyond familiar depths, they plummeted.
Not to their detriment. Only. Only. Just now, it’s all that they can do to keep above the water. To take in intermittent breaths. Overwhelmed, half-drowned, half-struck with shock, they can only paddle automatic, letting the whole world wash around them.
Where the whole world is Sen, and all of Sen’s words.
Rin’s heard clever words before. From admirers and paramours-to-be, sometimes-artful efforts that never achieved a quarter of this potency. Sen himself has been a font of electric wild romping words, words forever driving back the mundane horrors of the world, words forever inviting engagement, words forever forging bonds between Sen and Rin, but those words were never toned like this. Has Sen ever spoken like this? Has Rin ever heard this… this hushed and transfixing focus, the voice like attar, permeative, spellbinding. This voice that merges through them, that whispers down through every corner and could stay forever.
What Sen means is (difficult) (simple; a truth long-writ, if never rightly seen) (clear, if Rin could only fix a hold on anything) (unlikely?) (an echo that runs back through years, he said a quarter of a century, a quarter of a century, a quarter of a— yes, there’s meaning there) beyond Rin’s hold right now.
(What Sen means is not beyond their unparsed knowing.) (What Sen means will filter to clear understanding with time. With space.)
They caught Sen’s kiss (the first time; the only time) (they ventured far beyond the shore). And Sen returned with turmoil, astonishing and monumental. And beautiful, and glorious, if Rin could only step back, if Rin weren’t so blinded in this shock of could-be-light.
Sen called them a fool. Exposing them, they felt. They feel. Rin, struck with plummeting. Rin, thinking, yes, yes, I suppose that’s so. I am.
A fool, and presently struck dumb.
They should respond.
They want to respond. Or… Do anything. Something. (Reciprocate?) (Take Sen’s hand.) (Speak Sen’s name.) (Breath.) (Blink?) They try to search for words. Try seeking voice across every language in their knowing, but nothing suffices. Nothing offers any hold, or root to cling to.
A question forming behind the shaken blankness of their eyes: ’What can I do. What can I possibly do?’
What they’d say if they could begin to speak: ’I know nonsense when I speak it, Sen. I know springtime when I feel it.’
Or. And.
’Forgive me. Forgive me.’
Or. And.
’I have kept all of your words.
‘Without effort. With and without intent; they have found my veins inevitably; they have strung their way to becoming part of me. Do you think a single word has been wasted? Do you believe one voice, one breath of yours has been lost?
‘Not from me; never from your Rin. I have kept your memory and I will keep you, be kept with you always.’
If only they could speak. If only they could unseal their mouth, or even express with a subtle shifting of expression, a deepening in their eyes, the heart of what they feel.
It’s impossible, however - torturously, regrettably (what do they lose by not speaking?) (have they mistaken everything?) (they know truth when they hear it; they know their own heart when it clamors) - to put voice to any of this. Impossible, almost, to think them. In Rin’s knowing, they compose an atmosphere, a backdrop and suffusion woven of impressions, uncatchable in any singular idea. Impossible to clearly glimpse just now, however deep the truth they feel.
It’s— Oh. A lot.
Exquisite.
They try, again, to breath. To take a little more air; to center themself, come back a step or two toward the present. (Toward Sen, whose touch rests still upon them. Toward Sen, whose eyes are ease, are promise and the focal point of awe.) Dimly, Rin thinks it’s impossible that they haven’t gone slack, but they’re still upright, still balanced on the counter. Their knuckles have turned white, fingers gripping the bar, gripping to keep them upright, here with Sen.
They don’t want to move an inch.
They don’t want to lose this moment, impossible as it is to comprehend.
Rin swallows, a difficult endeavor. Manages to flex the fingers of their left hand, barely. Thinks ’How,’ and ’How,’ and ’How?’
And finally, their hand moves, tremoring near-imperceptibly, to seek Sen’s hand and - if they find it - to rest, to gently press.
And - quietly, in French - they speak— ]
You.
You remarkable man.
Please.
Let me never leave you cold.
[ Watching now with more presence in their own eyes, they think, ’You’ve undone me.’ And, pressing again, light at Sen’s hand if they can— ]
Always, you belong here.
There will be no more winter, for you. My Sen. I vow it.
no subject
Or.
How is this possible.
And.
How they find themself undone.
As if the world’s spilled over and rewritten itself. As if Sen’s reached into the heart of them, or found them at their core.
They’re—
Oh. Captured. Rapt. Thrummed through with warmth, their cheeks flush, breath too-shallow and jarred by deeper, jagged inhalations.
They are— Tender and struck voltaic, Sen’s words a tempest spun around them, Sen’s words a splendid razing, and yes, yes, in every nerve Rin would welcome more, could yearn for more. This man could undo them. These words could undo them - have undone them? - do set them stirring, molten heat searing coiled through their chest, an agitated kindling at their groin.
They’ve lost the world around them. The counter beneath them, the chatter - if there is chatter; if any chatter could sustain against the stagger of Sen’s words - flickering through Null Set, the intake of air against their lungs.They know they’re breathing or they expect they’re breathing because that’s automatic, that’s existence, but gods, fuck, gods, what can they hope to feel?
And Sen’s eyes fixed on theirs. And Sen’s eyes permanent, and real, and so, so bracingly close.
(And Sen’s thumb at their cheek. And Sen’s touch a burn of its own; does he know? Does he know his own fire, and how can he talk of searing of burning of freezing when his own touch settles so intense?)
He said— So many words. Thoughts. Images and half-filtering suggestions. Words striking deep; words striking chords scarce-guessed, or guessed and then discarded years ago, or words lighting receptors never quite discerned, or something, or something, or Rin can’t take hold of any of it now. Hears and feels the words move through their being, but binding anything to sense is beyond them.
A deluge. They stepped into the water, they splashed beyond familiar depths, they plummeted.
Not to their detriment. Only. Only. Just now, it’s all that they can do to keep above the water. To take in intermittent breaths. Overwhelmed, half-drowned, half-struck with shock, they can only paddle automatic, letting the whole world wash around them.
Where the whole world is Sen, and all of Sen’s words.
Rin’s heard clever words before. From admirers and paramours-to-be, sometimes-artful efforts that never achieved a quarter of this potency. Sen himself has been a font of electric wild romping words, words forever driving back the mundane horrors of the world, words forever inviting engagement, words forever forging bonds between Sen and Rin, but those words were never toned like this. Has Sen ever spoken like this? Has Rin ever heard this… this hushed and transfixing focus, the voice like attar, permeative, spellbinding. This voice that merges through them, that whispers down through every corner and could stay forever.
What Sen means is (difficult) (simple; a truth long-writ, if never rightly seen) (clear, if Rin could only fix a hold on anything) (unlikely?) (an echo that runs back through years, he said a quarter of a century, a quarter of a century, a quarter of a— yes, there’s meaning there) beyond Rin’s hold right now.
(What Sen means is not beyond their unparsed knowing.) (What Sen means will filter to clear understanding with time. With space.)
They caught Sen’s kiss (the first time; the only time) (they ventured far beyond the shore). And Sen returned with turmoil, astonishing and monumental. And beautiful, and glorious, if Rin could only step back, if Rin weren’t so blinded in this shock of could-be-light.
Sen called them a fool. Exposing them, they felt. They feel. Rin, struck with plummeting. Rin, thinking, yes, yes, I suppose that’s so. I am.
A fool, and presently struck dumb.
They should respond.
They want to respond. Or… Do anything. Something. (Reciprocate?) (Take Sen’s hand.) (Speak Sen’s name.) (Breath.) (Blink?) They try to search for words. Try seeking voice across every language in their knowing, but nothing suffices. Nothing offers any hold, or root to cling to.
A question forming behind the shaken blankness of their eyes: ’What can I do. What can I possibly do?’
What they’d say if they could begin to speak: ’I know nonsense when I speak it, Sen. I know springtime when I feel it.’
Or. And.
’Forgive me. Forgive me.’
Or. And.
’I have kept all of your words.
‘Without effort. With and without intent; they have found my veins inevitably; they have strung their way to becoming part of me. Do you think a single word has been wasted? Do you believe one voice, one breath of yours has been lost?
‘Not from me; never from your Rin. I have kept your memory and I will keep you, be kept with you always.’
If only they could speak. If only they could unseal their mouth, or even express with a subtle shifting of expression, a deepening in their eyes, the heart of what they feel.
It’s impossible, however - torturously, regrettably (what do they lose by not speaking?) (have they mistaken everything?) (they know truth when they hear it; they know their own heart when it clamors) - to put voice to any of this. Impossible, almost, to think them. In Rin’s knowing, they compose an atmosphere, a backdrop and suffusion woven of impressions, uncatchable in any singular idea. Impossible to clearly glimpse just now, however deep the truth they feel.
It’s— Oh. A lot.
Exquisite.
They try, again, to breath. To take a little more air; to center themself, come back a step or two toward the present. (Toward Sen, whose touch rests still upon them. Toward Sen, whose eyes are ease, are promise and the focal point of awe.) Dimly, Rin thinks it’s impossible that they haven’t gone slack, but they’re still upright, still balanced on the counter. Their knuckles have turned white, fingers gripping the bar, gripping to keep them upright, here with Sen.
They don’t want to move an inch.
They don’t want to lose this moment, impossible as it is to comprehend.
Rin swallows, a difficult endeavor. Manages to flex the fingers of their left hand, barely. Thinks ’How,’ and ’How,’ and ’How?’
And finally, their hand moves, tremoring near-imperceptibly, to seek Sen’s hand and - if they find it - to rest, to gently press.
And - quietly, in French - they speak— ]
You.
You remarkable man.
Please.
Let me never leave you cold.
[ Watching now with more presence in their own eyes, they think, ’You’ve undone me.’ And, pressing again, light at Sen’s hand if they can— ]
Always, you belong here.
There will be no more winter, for you. My Sen. I vow it.