kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

Did you send me a

Of course you sent me a picture. Sen. Wilkes. Senan. You’re in deep, aren’t you? …As if you haven’t been for god knows how many years.

…We’re all a bunch of fucking fools, aren’t we?

I might endure. I don’t promise that I’ll refrain from muttering my irritations. Which are and I suspect will be many, if you’re to insist on such effusive sentimentality.

Not to say it doesn’t suit you. Or to brush over your talent for turning even the grossest predilections into not-wholly-noxious lyrical disquisitions. But I swear by the name of all that fucks, if I leave this string of messages feeling the least bit saccharine, my curse - and this abject sin - will be a sin on your head.

~~You’re stepping perilously close with your ‘friend’ talk, Sen.~~

Point one: If they’ve professed their love, you should probably expect Rin’s right beside you in bliss. Shit’s sake, when have the pair of you been far removed on any opinions? Two stubborn assholes in one asshole pod.

More precisely: You’re a dick, Wilkes, and a bona fide piece of shit, but they’ve always seemed to like you, and in fact I have it on semi-decent authority that they love you, so maybe start thinking of that - fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this - paradise as mutual.

…Can’t believe I’m saying this, either, but you might not make the worst husband. ~~And, fuck, what’ve you got to lose by asking? If, if they say no, you’ve only got a year, tops, to carry that rejection around.~~ And if anyone can get a ring on that snarky little shit’s finger, it’s you.

[ … ]

I can’t believe you sent a fucking photo.

[ … ]

All right. They’re looking good. Fine. Lucky you, etc. etc. (Again, no fucking telling them I said as much.)

Double lucky you - double lucky them? the way I hear it, you’ve both got talents to bring to the table ~~not that you showed much that time we~~ ~~you know what never mind~~ - if I’m reading you right about ‘sharing their bed.’ And I assume I’m correct; don’t need clarification. Thanks.

Lucky Sen.

Lucky Rin.

An extra round of drinks when I see you. For celebration's sake.

[ … ]

You do remember I’m a menace at weddings, right? You remember who you’re talking to?

Well. I say I slept in their bed. That is precisely what I mean: I think it might be my own bed, now. It turns out I sleep on the left side, and am in fact capable of being both the large and the little spoon.

I've never shared a bed for sleeping, beyond the infrequencies of passing out in yours or theirs. It's novel.

Exciting.

[...]

They do bring talents to the table, by the bye. And if I have no talent to afford them in return, I believe well and truly I've atoned with earnest effort.

They are fucking ethereal unclothed. A work of art.

Ungentlemanly of me to speak of intimacies, but I will draw the line here and not comment further on their endowments for the sake of their privacy. For the sake of their self, and sanctity, and sacredness.

But.

Lucky Sen, indeed.

[...]

All right. TMI. But I must tell someone or I'll start shouting it to the rafters; I would tell Rin, themself, but they're busy.

And I did tell them. At length. In eight languages. Do you know what it's like to hear someone shout their pleasure in eight different languages?

No one lets me talk mid-coitus. You didn't let me talk.

Christ, I think we spoke as much as we went about the business of it, Rin and I.

[...]

Darius, they have the most unparalleled ankles. Consummately flawless.

And I love them. I love every inch of them, with every thought I possess - so many more than ever may reach speaking, so there you have a measure of my adoration for Rin!

Fucking hell, they looked this way, and the light caught just so on their smile. I love them with every piece of my wretched heart.

~~I'll die happy, Darius. I swear it.~~

[...]

You're a menace at Waverly's wedding. I doubt we'll have a flower girl that you can besmirch.

I want you there. They'll want you there, no matter this mysterious animosity you two are propagating. They may not like you just now, but we both love you. You know that.

Cunt.

[...]

Assuming there is a marriage. I haven't asked yet. It has to be romantically grand or grandly romantic or, at the outset, memorable. The proposal.

Or I'll race up to them and start begging. Begging is equally acceptable, I feel, when the one you want to wed is possessed of such incomparable transcendence, and you yourself are a bona fide piece of shit, a dick, and a stubborn asshole.

(The things you say to an ailing man. You're going to hell.)

Edited 2021-04-08 17:44 (UTC)

Joking aside.

It strikes me, Darius, that it may not merely be my own deliriously happy hue cast upon the world as I observe it: you seem damnably affable. As a matter of fact, I would hazard my health, wellbeing, and sanity, and suggest you've been overtly friendly.

What's gotten in to you, I wonder.

Lucky Sen, lucky Rin. Lucky Darius, as well?

More directly:

May one attribute your sudden conviviality to the company you've been keeping?

Oh, I'll find somebody to besmirch. You can rest assured on that count. I take no half-measures on my road to hell.

Just as YOU'VE spared precious little expense with your TMI. We don't all of us need Rin Renault's flawless ankles dancing through our heads, Sen. ~~Not to mention the rest of what you~~ ~~Fuck's sake. Have your enjoyment if you must. Whatever. Christ.~~ Can't say I'm surprised to hear the two of you managed to ~~fuck~~ [ ... ] [ ... ] ~~fuck?~~ [ ... ] do your business in an octet of languages. I find it stranger that either of you managed to reel in the bullshit long enough to take care of said business.

Well. Guess they're into you, after all. Guess you're into them, too.

[ ... ]

Name the date when you know it. Could be I'll make an appearance.

[ ... ]

...Are you over there flat-out ogling them across the room? Creep. And here I thought you were gainfully employed.

Imagine me rolling my eyes here. Because that is in fact MY current employment.

Edited 2021-04-09 04:51 (UTC)

[ ... ]

Maybe you shouldn't wonder too much.

~~Maybe keep your nose in your own business~~

[ ... ]

If. If I'm more 'convivial,' as you say [ ... ] it certainly isn't a product of this heinous excuse for a wedding.

[ ... ]

~~I'll allow that I've been keeping rather pleasing company~~

[ ... ]

One may hazard the guess you've given.

One would not, I expect, be mistaken.

~~Don't FUCKING start with me, Wilkes, I don't want to hear it~~

I am not ogling them from across the room.

Ogling suggests some sort of nefariously sexual intent, and doing so now pursuant to satiation would be indecent. No, Darius. I am gazing. Staring, even. Wondering at them.

I am admiring them.

How the light strikes them like some divine glow. How they possess the room, no matter where they happen to be. How they smile at me.

At me.

My god, at me.

Do you remember the first time I met them? No, it must have been mundane to you, and perhaps has passed from your memory: just another night when 'Renault' was in your flat. But me. Darius, the world heaved beneath me. I was twenty; I had no fucking idea what I wanted - men, women, nothing, neither. I'd never taken interest in anyone for more than a moment or two. I thought I was too clever for that nonsense. Above it.

Hubris.

There was Rin in your doorway, looking like a crime of fashion (and possibly capable of other crimes, spawned of that godforsaken attitude of theirs), and the world stood absolutely still before it quaked. Shuddered me. Took all I knew and did nothing with it, only vanished it, as though Rin was an eclipse across my mind.

Upheaval and a midday nightfall. An apocalypse of the soul.

The ancients who wrote of angelic heralds - beautiful, terrifying, magnificent - must have known Rins of their own. That perfect creature.

I don't dare ogle them.

My Rin.

Christ. Darius. "My Rin".

[...]

And also. I am not technically employed by Rin. 'Gainful' is a misnomer. But were I gainfully employed, it would be included in the terms of said employment that I am to spend no less than ten minutes of every hour giving them my admiration, my appreciation, my attention - and, were I so inclined, my 'ogling'.

It is Rin, after all. :)

My Rin.

Edited 2021-04-09 21:32 (UTC)

You know, one can engage in the refined act of fucking and/or lovemaking and/or screwing and/or etc (feel free to apply your own euphemism at will) while still talking to one's partner.

We are all of us capable of multitasking.

[...]

Their wrists are lovely, too, if talk of their ankles so repulses you. (How dare you hint at revulsion about my Rin.)

[...]

(MY Rin!)

You seem reluctant to expound on the subject of Enri.

That isn't like you.

[...]

I won't pry, of course. I only mean to suggest you have historically been prone to speaking at length about your conquests.

Well. Perhaps there is not, at present, a conquest about which you might speak.

I am, I confess, terribly curious about your company, and your reticence on the matter isn't helping in the least. Enri [...] ~~('your' Enri?)~~ is an interesting development.

[...]

'Your' Enri ?

Edited 2021-04-09 21:36 (UTC)

Gross.

Keep 'your Rin' all you like. Ogled or unogled, ankles and wrists and fuck knows what else you've set poetic-erotic sights on. (Don't explicate on that point; I don't want to know.

I'll hurl my fucking phone into the Atlantic. Again. Don't try me.)

Never cared for free-wheeling conversation while fucking, myself. Then again, I find most conversation tedious, and rather beside the goddamn point.

Christ. The two of you are intolerable when you get at it, aren't you? Not that you were ever anything other. Can't imagine this revelation you've shared'll make things any less nauseating.

[ ... ]

Lucky thing you have each other. I guess.

Not that I'd be caught dead suggesting as much.

'The refined act of fucking,' I swear to shit.

I'm rolling my eyes all over again. Christ.

Careful, Sen. Ask too many questions, you might lose a fucking finger.

[ ... ]

[ ... ]

For the week. 'Mine.' ~~Yes.~~ ~~Sure.~~ Yes.

Don't read into it.

~~Like that's going to fucking stop you.~~

You don't know a thing about him, as it happens.

Enri is in fact perfectly sane. And lacks the exasperating qualities his kin show in spades.

He is not disagreeable company.

[ He's typing, so much about Rin. Their hair, their eyes, their shoulders, an entire series of paragraphs in bloom, a daft smile on his face.

Which fades. Which -

Wait. What.

He scrolls back to read again (and yes, read into it.)

He deletes everything he was typing. (It's all right. He remembers it all. Open season on speaking Rin's qualities from the bottom of Sen's heart. He can come back to that.)

This is worrying.

Darius is talking this way about a boy he's...what, only engaging with for the duration of his trip? ]

For the week.

[ He doesn't need to ask. He knows Darius. He knows what fucking happened, or is happening here.

Darius found a toy to entertain him for a week.

And wasn't careful.

And got attached. ]

~~Darius. Read your texts back to yourself and tell me if this is the speech of a man who'll give his doggy back to the pound in a week.~~

[...]

High praise.

[...]

[...]

[ Hold the fucking phone. ]

Oh for fuck's sake, you're going about it right now, aren't you?

You've got some fucking nerve, Darius, telling me I'm "gross" for lauding my Rin, and you're texting while playing with your doggy.

Obscene.

Shame on you.

Don't you dare say I'm gross, you sanctimonious pervert. As a matter of fact, as penance, I believe I'm owed one more overtly saccharine sentiment, which you will receive with grace and approval:

Darius. I have my own pillow on Rin's bed. Which is also my bed, now, too.

And it smells like them.

[...]

Yes, why not. I'm owed, for whatever you're doing to that poor, perfectly sane boy while talking to me:

It smells like them because their head was on it all through French and German.

It is, decidedly, my favorite pillow. My prized pillow. Slept like a fucking innocent, me.

Edited 2021-04-12 03:53 (UTC)

[ Those first two texts are suspiciously concise. Vexingly brief, from a man who so much as breathes and two or three dozen words fall out.

There's something Sen isn't saying.

(Something Darius could guess at.

Something Darius isn't going to touch.

...It means something, doesn't it, that Sen kept mum. Something that isn't, likely, an attempt at prodding Darius toward speech. Something that isn't only Wilkes being a snarky goddamn shit.)

Thank fuck for that shit-eating final text. (Thank fuck for the diversion.) (...Sen knows what the fuck he's doing. He always goddamn does. (...Fuck.)) ]

As I understand, I'm entitled to my interpretation of what is and isn't 'gross.'

Pillows, Sen?

~~I hate to think where it was~~ [ ... ] I hate to think where they might possibly have been over the course of the six remaining languages, and what manner of sniffing that led to.

Yes, yes, of course, ~~you have ALWAYS been the most innocen~~ [ ... ] ~~...fucking damnit, Wilkes~~ [ ... ] you are Sen Wilkes, eternally and completely free of any infamy of gross. Of course.

Don't be dull, Senan.

I don't recall suggesting I've ever been anything but obscene. Are you surprised, truly? Be glad, Sen - be grateful! (give thanks to me? but you never would) - that I've spared you the details, and you've no idea what my Puppy and I are 'getting up to' just now.

Suggesting that yes, we are indeed getting up to something. There you have it: There's no fooling you, is there? No use even attempting.

[ ... ]

Would you like me to pass your well-wishes along to Enri?

Edited 2021-04-12 05:18 (UTC)

I'd wager myself and Null Set, too, that you, Darius Scarlett, are up to your eyeballs in thanks, gratitude, and all manner of seemingly-innocent perversion right at this very moment.

If I'm not mistaken, someone bearing your phone number stated only moments ago that they saw no point in the tedium of conversation while fucking.

You want to converse with Enri on my behalf, do you.

Enri, I'm delighted to know you are sane, and are enjoying committing yourself to the capable hands of the most obscene creature on the planet.

Please bear in mind that he bites, and has the filthiest fucking mouth (does he swear in front of you? I'll bet he does), so wash those wounds well lest you find yourself infected with something.

Rabies. Hepatitis A through C. Tetanus. Affection.

~~We wouldn't want that, now, would we?~~

Darius is allergic to humanity, impoverishment, and shellfish.

(I'm serious about the shellfish. Don't let him. You're in the fucking Bahamas, and he'll try, because he is an absolute dickhead who thinks himself invincible, and can't keep his grubby paws off a good lobster.)

Beyond that, I wish you a most lovely time doing whatever it is you do, and hope that you, too, have a prized pillow. For your knees, you know.

One more thing, Darius:

"Me". That's the answer. Where they might possibly have been over the course of six languages, eight languages, silence, shouts, ease and delightful tension. Through rapture and sleep.

My shirt smells like them. I smell like them.

And with that, I believe I will adjourn from this conversation. You're mid-something, and I'm mid-not touching that with a ten foot pole.

And the love of my life is looking this way again.

Enjoy your gettings and up tos and your perfectly sane Pendleton.

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