Mickey Doyle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byanyname) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
byanyname) wrote in kingdomsofrain2016-12-01 03:31 am
tfln open post
***
either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.
for Sen (shortly after his return)
Sen, where are you?
Where have you gotten yourself off to
Sen I can't seem to find you
[ ... ]
Tsk, I can't find Sen anywhere. Have you seen him? If so, or if you chance to come across him, could you let him know that he is sought after, in quite high demand?
no subject
Sen is, I believe, haunting your bar.
[...]
Quite literally, as a matter of fact. I've found a lovely seclusion here at your barmaid's feet. (Is 'Andi' short for Andretti? I hope so. Or Andromeda!) (I asked and she threw an ice cube at me.)
In any case. If Sen is in such high demand -
We could hold a séance (a Senance?) and summon him forth.
no subject
No, rather, one might suggest these lines of yours serve only to enhance a certain roguishness. Taken with your field of unkempt scruff and the devil-may-give-no-fucks attitude that wreathes you, it suggests all the intrigue of a life-long knave.
A knave I intend to summon straight away! Yes, it seems I must manufacture a Senance to make a knave will pay senance for incurring Andi's wrath.
(You've met Andi! I'm pleased. Try not to vex her too terribly; she fits very well here. And I like her.
Well. I expect she'll like you, once she's learned that there's no bite behind your roguish ways.
You're a good man, Senan; don't forget that.)
[ Rin's sending the message and moving toward the bar when a patron calls their name, an unfamiliar voice speaking with familiarity. (It sounds like an invitation. Rin can guess where this is heading, and while they'd usually be at least a little pleased, just now they feel a flickered irritation. They're in the middle of something, after all!)
Pausing, they look over, meet eyes with a man who— Mm. They remember him, vaguely. From last week's readings? Yes, and from karaoke the week before. A not-unattractive man, silver-haired and brightly dressed. His hands wrapped around a drink, his smile a little too assuming. (Not too assuming usually, perhaps. But now. Just now. Rin has better things to do.) ]
Can I help you?
no subject
(Fuck 'em. He's talking to Rin.) (And ignoring Andi, who's been watching him rather curiously, and looking off across the bar at something that may or may not be Rin.) (It's nothing. They're talking.)
He starts to type a reply when the voice of the null in question floats down from not so far away at all. (That's wonderful. Hearing them not far at all. Never far, oh. (Oh, Rin.))
What's not wonderful is hearing the reason they're not talking to Sen.
Something that sounds like a pickup line from a male voice.
Sen has several false starts at sending a text, but (the sinking in his chest) (the sudden fucking drop) he really can't think of anything witty to say. He lets his hands dangle from his knees and rests his head back against the icebox, his eyes flickering to Andi and then sightlessly away.
(He shouldn't eavesdrop.) (Rin can do what they please. With whomever they please.) (If he'd wanted it to be himself, he could have said something.) (Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK.) (He's happy for them.) (Fuck whoever that guy is.)
(Rin deserves happiness. Sen wants them to enjoy this sanctuary, this life, this place. And the attention. And affection. They deserve it. They're worth all of it.)
(But.)
(Fuck.) ]
no subject
'I certainly hope I didn't come all this way for nothing.' There's nothing particularly jarring in his tone. There's honey in his voice, a deftly cocked brow. And it could, in most cases it would be just a little flattering, to hear someone claim they've come looking for Rin.
Rin isn't drawn in just now. Rin's annoyed, slightly, that this guy thinks he's got a right to claim any piece of Rin's time. And Rin realizes they've been watching the man in silence for a moment too long, and they offer a sound, a kind of noncommittal hum.
The guy isn't put off. Takes a drink, smiles: 'We met last week.'
And Rin blinks. Offers a polite smile, nodding slightly, voice. ]
Did we? Yes.
The lounge.
[ On another day, they might have offered this man the near-fullness of their attention. Might have fallen into flirting readily, pleased by the game of it and the attentions garnered. Drawn to the prospect of a one-off fuck, of brief pleasure to punctuate the day.
Now, their focus is divided, and largely pointed elsewhere. They glance at their phone; there's nothing. To be expected, perhaps; Sen might be composing another of his novellas. Or, yes, of course, sending messages elsewhere, or simply sitting, or perhaps conversing with Andi. There are all manner of reasons he might be a bit in responding.
(Still. There's a glancing disappointment. A glance thrown toward the bar. Sen'd laughed, and Rin doesn't need to guess why. Perhaps the message will arrive shortly. And in any case, Rin'll be at the bar soon enough.)
Meanwhile, the man is nodding, stretching back in his chair, arm slung easy. 'I saw you perform. You moved me.'
Again, Rin thinks of the phone in their hand. Again, Rin's response echos dimly with distraction— ]
Did I?
[ The man shifting further back, one finger curling a casual beckoning, and intones, voice just a little lower, a little more hushed: 'I'd like to know more about you.' ]
no subject
(It's nothing new. It was always like this. They have always had one-night stands. It's never bothered him (much) before.) (But.) (But after their reunion. And how close Rin has kept to him. And after two years' absence.
He'd thought nothing, really. But clearly, he's had some sentiment formed, some nebulous hope that maybe it wouldn't happen again.
For a while.
Ever.)
(Fuck. Couldn't they just wait until he was in his grave before -)
(Not fair. He knows that's not fair. They don't know what they don't know. And they've always been clear about how they mean to live. And Sen has always been supportive of it.)
(Fuck, though. Fuck.)
He listens to the asshole speaking (call that 'flirting', does he?) and his lip curls with disgust. It's clear the guy's only here for a novelty fuck. Here to solve for himself the mystery under Rin Renault's clothes and scratch 'fucked an enby' off his shitty little bucket list.
I saw you perform. You moved me.
Sen rolls his eyes and lets his head loll to the side with a scowl. Thinks, if you were moved, truly moved, by the person standing before you, you'd be on your fucking knees. You'd be begging. There would be awe in your voice. You'd speak in tongues. You're sticking a toe inside the fucking fairy ring and daring them to carry you off, and you don't know your own good fortune just to have seen them. Just to be in their presence.
'You moved me.'
What a fucking wally.
The conversation seems to drop in tone, turning intimate, and he doesn't want to hear anymore of this. Doesn't really want to be conscious, truth be told. He reaches out to tap the backs of his fingers against Andi's leg, but finds himself preempted: she's reaching down a double, letting it dangle just at his eyeline.
His hand hovers beside the glass and his eyes flicker up to hers (what do you know, my girl?), but she is very studiously not looking at him.
Well.
Softly, as he accepts the very thing he'd been predisposed to ask for, he speaks to no one in particular. ]
A fine girl, that Andi.
[ He doesn't knock the whole of it back, but he drinks enough to convince himself the burn in his eyes is from bourbon. And then looks up to find she's no longer pretending he's invisible; he offers a wan smile. A lift of one shoulder. ]
I'm happy for them. I am.
[ Andi raises both brows; the corner of her mouth drags sideways and down as she turns away. She's clearly unvoicing what he can only interpret as okay, dude. Or, in the meme culture of post-millennial America: sure, Jan. He exhales a laugh and tilts his glass back and forth, watching the liquid swish.
And lets his head fall back again with a soft thump. ]
no subject
The man's still talking. Gave a name that Rin missed; gave a name that doesn't really matter. And there's something about ‘linguistic prowess,’ something about soft skin and stunning eyes, something about a heavenly glow; preliminary compliments strewn, with the promise of exaltation to follow. Rin blinks, shakes their head once, a subtle gesture. ]
I’m not interested.
[ A simple statement, gently laid and landing on a blunt ending. A statement that ought to signal silence, but there’s a faux huff, and the stranger leans forward, brushes a fall of hair back from his eyes. Grinning; coaxing.
’So tense. Let me take care of you, beautiful, and I’ll melt all your troubles away.’
It’s not the worst attempt Rin’s heard. It also isn’t anything they want, and they feel their shoulders tense, their jaw setting slightly. ’Breathe,’ they think, and do. Breathe. There's no need to turn this confrontational. No need to embroil themself in this conversation any longer. When they speak, their voice is clipped, but gracious enough. ]
Charmed, but as I said: no.
[ And, when the man begins to protest, opens his (fucking) (’breathe, Rin, breathe') mouth to speak, Rin raises a forefinger, tilted slightly toward the man. ]
Have your drink, soak in the atmosphere. Try your luck elsewhere if you like, but our interaction ends here.
no subject
A knife.
Like the clouds parting, like the shaft of pure sunlight piercing through.
Like the final horn blown on judgement day.
He's not breathing. He thinks he felt or saw or sensed Andi falter (does she know, too) (does she know Rin is always interested in compliments?) (Rin is always interested in the stroking of their vanity. Is she wondering what could be more diverting for Rin than a compliment, a standing fucking ovation from an admirer?) (Sen's not wondering at all.)
Swallowing reflexively, he lowers his glass and strains to hear (he doesn't have to strain to hear; Rin's voice carries across the bar and across time and space, a clear and distant-polite dismissal. A delivery of lines and the decisive ending of a scene.)
Sen darts a look at Andi (did you fucking hear that?) and then scrambles to his knees to peer - eyes and forehead and flash of unkept hair - over the bar, startling a patron into a sharp What the FUCK -.
Sen pulls a consternated face at them (shhh!) and peers around them to see that Mr. I'll melt all your troubles away (gross) (how utterly trite) (he'd like to make loud retching sounds and might just, next time) is not bad-looking, as exploitative, cheaply complimentary fuckwits go.
Rin isn't having it today. Rin is -
Looking around at the bar quite a lot?
He ducks back down quickly and slumps against the icebox.
They're looking for him. He told them where he was and they're looking for him, and they're not going to be deterred by a pretty face with pretty words, and Sen is grinning at nothing.
He's not wondering why. He thinks there's a reason he can't quite bring himself to touch, to examine, something that had to do with how they smiled at him the day he came home. (His heart crawls into his throat and settles there, pounding out its demand.) How close they've kept to him, how much focus they've fixed on him. (Those fucking - flutters in his stomach are back.)
Sen rests a hand on his midsection and huffs a breath. ]
Andi, Andi, Andi - what on earth did you put in that drink?
[ Andi stops again and glances his way, brows raised, waiting. Okay, what's the punchline. He rolls his head against the cool metal, turning daft eyes and a dafter grin on her. ]
Got fucking butterflies, me.
[ Andi rolls her eyes, but he thinks he catches sight of a smile shadowing her mouth. "I'm working, Mr. Wilkes." ]
And fine work you do. The paragon of bartending: observant and ever-ready with a drink - the right drink for the right occasion, no less. Bourbon for the broken-hearted, Manhattans for the startled and suspicious. An untold catalogue of cocktails for every conceivable circumstance. What would one such as yourself recommend, I wonder, to a man who has succumbed to a case of effervescent delight?
[ She's trying to ignore him, trying to reassure Manhattan on the other side of the bar that he's just a friend of the owner, it's really all right - but the question proves intrusive enough for her to stagger in her comments and laugh a little.
And then clamp her mouth shut against the laugh and raise her eyes heavenward.
"I think I'd cut you off." ]
Ooh - interesting tactic. Most would say 'champagne'. That's what Manhattan thinks, isn't it, Manhattan? Don't say anything, I hear the wheels turning in your beautiful head. Me, personally? Something mellow. Amaretto. A smooth Malbec. Are they looking this way, Andi?
[ "Mr. Wilkes, I swear to god."
His grin broadens and he draws his knees in. Some of the effervescence escapes as a low near-giggle. ]
Me, too. Me, too. Whichever god you like.
[ And, raising his voice a little: ]
Sorry for the startle, Manhattan. This is where they keep the ladders and men they use for reaching things on the top shelf.
[ An ice cube pings the side of his head. Stop talking to the customers, freak.
He's laughing too blithely to mind at all. ]
no subject
As if Rin couldn’t guess. As if there weren’t a likely culprit causing the startled shout from the bar, never mind that Rin, glancing over, can see no sight of Sen. Not the first, or third, or fourth time they dart a look.
Well. If Sen is going to play hide-and-peek-and-hide-again, Rin will simply have to find the man. Which isn’t so difficult, now that the stranger’s fallen silent. Now that nothing stands between Rin and the man who still - still! - owes them a message.
Approaching the bar - at last - they offer a sideways nod and a smile to Andi, identifying the recently startled patron as a semi-regular, an RN with a talent with the double bass and tastes tending toward the tall and soft-spoken.
Still no sight of Sen. But he’s close. Must be close, and there’s an anticipatory grin crooking Rin’s lip. ]
Afternoon Kaleo. Andi.
[ One hand settles light at the edge of the bar, hand rocking slightly one way, then the other. For the moment, they divide their sight between Kaleo and Andi, though they’re listening for signs of someone else. ]
Have either of you spotted any pernicious, devil-may-fuck bar trolls lurking about?
[ Andi’s exasperated hint of a grin and Kaleo’s glance barward only verify Rin’s supposition, and they make a show of rolling their eyes, shaking their had. As if to suggest, ’Oh, the trials we endure.’ ]
It’s the warm weather; brings them out of the woodwork.
[ Then, tapping the bar gently beside Kaleo’s arm, Rin lifts an arch eyebrow and flicks a glance at Andi. ]
Consider that drink on the house. For psychic wounds sustained from sensationalizing vagabonds.
[ And, leaning over the bar, lifting onto their toes with both hands flat against the counter— ]
Senan.
I beg your pardon, is there a Senan Wilkes available?
no subject
Maybe they'll wait until he's in his grave, after all. Maybe his remaining time on this earth will be ever-sought by Rin, just for the pleasure of his company. (The pleasure of their company.) While he's at this dream-driven hypothesizing, these maybes - maybe he'll live another fifty, sixty years, and they'll still wait until he's in his grave.
(It's a lot to ask. But it's his fucking daydream to construct as he pleases.)
Fucking bliss, to be near them again, whatever they do with their time. Whoever they do with it. He missed them. (Even if they are calling him a bar troll - which is apt enough, he's man enough to admit. He did come here seeking respite from the noise and lights, while still maintaining a nearness to Rin.)
Their voice is over him, paging him like the voice of god, and his tilts his chin, turning his face up in beatific pleasure. One more moment of this: Rin, like sunlight. Rin, warming Sen, whose eyes are closed yet and whose smile lingers softer, who emanates contentment. (Who is still swarming with butterflies, matter of fact.) ]
Which sort of troll do you suppose I am? The one that falls for the trickery of goats, or the one that swaps riddles until dawn?
[ He opens his eyes to see them upside-down over him and grins. ]
It's not morning sunlight that can turn me to stone. But suppose I call you a goat - an old goat, at that! - and you ban me from my hidey-hole? Ah, another exile from Rin's sphere could end me.
[ And. Softly, all the ill-hidden happiness in the world lingering around his eyes: ]
Hello, Pookie.
no subject
A moment shifts past, its passage unnoticed in the hold of Sen's eyes. (The bar around shimmering slightly to a distance; Andi and Kaleo noted but beyond immediate recognition. The sounds around have dulled, the lights seem focused on one huddled gangle - most picturesque gangle; the charmingest gangle - of a man.)
A moment, Rin just barely curbing a would-be-smile.
The absolute rogue. No one else could evade retribution for such appellations!
Another moment, Rin tapping one finger sharp against the counter. The resolve of their faux-irritation cracking; slight tick of a smile creeping through.
Look at that dope of a man gazing up at them. (That constant, that selfless brute of a man.) How at ease he appears. How very nearly well, in this moment. Grinning, fluttered, and content? There's little more that Rin could ask than this. Nothing they'd want half so much as Sen's comfort.
And it flutters their heart, to see him grinning so. Sen always did have a contagious smile, alongside a talent for banishing the dark from Rin's days.
Still, there is the matter of those words! ]
Now Senan.
Clever, riddle-mongering Senan. Troll and rogue and pleasant knave.
Why ever would you call me that?
[ A click of their tongue, tension easing as they lean a little further over the bar, and— ]
Count your cards carefully before you play, hm?
no subject
Sen's heart is, he thinks, slowly eating itself. This gnashing bite, this wonderful sensation of clenching, nevermind the experience of touching Rin: just to see his hand in the same glance that he sees them. After two years of seeing his hand apart from them. (Not seeing Rin at all, oh, the hell that had been. Not to catch even a glimpse of their shadow.) ]
Why would I call you that? And what is 'that', one asks. 'Pookie'? To be sure, I called you nothing else. And you need no explanation for that term of endearment; it was a situation just like the one from which you so masterfully extricated yourself a moment ago!
[ His fingertips trace as he speaks, until they rest below their chin. And then his hand drops abruptly, catching on the bar and offering leverage such that he can turn around with a comprehending "Ah!" ]
Did you think I was calling you a goat? Or, worse: old!
[ Settling into a crouch that brings him nearly eye-level (and more than nearly near) to Rin, he points, index finger almost tapping their nose. ]
No, look at this lovely visage. Andi, do you know I have known this null some twenty-five years, and they haven't aged a day? They possess the secret to eternal youth. They keep the memory of my own youth, sacred and lovely.
[ Propping his elbow on his knee, he bounces a little, shifting to retain balance on his toes, and rests his chin in his hand. ]
Mystery solved. Clearly, I am not that sort of troll, as Rin is neither old nor a goat. And what I am has ever been informed by that which is Rin Renault - they, themself, a riddle I can't answer.
[ He lowers his voice and nods solemnly, feigning sorrow. ]
Perhaps I'll turn to stone, after all. Ever chasing your mystery through the night, unaware that dawn - and with it, deadly sunlight - approaches.
[ A faint look of pensiveness overcomes his expression, and softly, he muses: ]
What would it be like, I wonder. For your beauty to be the last impression to cloud my mind? My final comprehension before all is granite and everlasting dark: that I am haunted by perfection. That Rin is, was ever, gloriously transcendent.
I think it would be a death I would welcome with deepest satisfaction, in knowing I have encountered an incontrovertible truth. That I need no further living. No more seeking. There is an answer, a meaning in life, and some taste of immortality through finding it. What else is there in all the world that could capture my imagination?
[ He's caught up in regarding them, hungry for the face he hasn't seen in two years. Their eyes, the curve of their cheek, the fall of their hair. (And all the rest - Andi, the patron, the bar - has passed from his thought and memory.) ]
Not old. No - Ageless. Eternal.
no subject
[ How they love to speak his name. To feel its sound tumbled in their mouth, to feel its breath pass through their lips. An incantation and a balm. The surest sound they know.
What else could they manage just now? When this man knocks their breath away. When this man spins his art of adulation, leaving Rin dizzy and puffed pleased, their eyelids slipping slightly shut, as if to taste the compliments, as if to relish in the very sounding of Sen’s voice. How could they speak coherence, when Sen leaves them feeling dazed?
Impossible. Impossible! But when all other words fail, still Sen’s name remains. Sen, and Senan, and— ]
Sen Ben Benice.
[ It’s a languorous expression, accompanied by an easy smile and a brief but careful brush alone Sen’s cheek. (Brush for brush; it’s only fair. Only right that Rin should be able to trace Sen’s warmth, and speak some slight measure of their own joy through touch.
It has been so long since they could linger aimlessly with this man. Exchanging caresses, offering and receiving caresses that have never felt wholly welcome from any other hand.) (The past years rang so empty, without him here. Without a scrap of voice or touch. And how much emptier for Sen, without nothing to distract from his confinement? Sen, with his galloping mind and vibratory energy. Sen, a man and a force requiring space to stray and reforge bounds at will. Sen, who’s endured more than any man should have to.
And yet here he is, alive and kicking and… well. (Ish. Well-ish. Because there’s the raggedness that dogs him. The too-thinness, the wariness, the something in his mien that looks… Affected. Afflicted. Ill-suiting for Sen. And there’s the sleeping. Sen never used to drop so quickly or for so long. All pieces that might amount to nothing. That might only be a passing aftermath.
Rin hopes, could almost pray it’s only that.)
Sen is a marvel, is the point.)
And Sen remains the crux of Rin’s focus. The world without fading further still as Rin leans with their weight on their elbows, toes barely touching the floor. As Rin rests as near to Sen as they can, and never mind the intervening counter, never mind any onlookers at all. ]
Do you know, I believe all the buoyancy in the world may be contained within your smile. Certainly, I merely glance your way, and I feel its effect, a fine-toothed pleasure like waves, unrelenting.
Could your smile soothe me to sleep?
Oh, but it has! A question answered in the days that have composed us.
Homme merveilleux, tonto sagrado. You who are more gentleman than troll; who light more brilliance in a single word than most find in a million.
You do send me weak to my knees.
I will grant clemency for the ‘goat’ that never was, and for the other inapt term, as well.
For the moniker, however! For that ‘P,’ for that reminder of situations past! I believe I am owed some restitution.
[ There’s a soft huff, a pretty, rapid blinking of Rin’s eyes. A tilt of their head, just so. And that, dear Sen, is a very charming wink just for you! ]
no subject
Rin.
(Who isn't his Rin.) (How they are the axis of his world, though. How they are the gravitational center, the wheel of stars, the spiral of galaxies and burn of suns. How they are the impetus of magic and marvel.) (What would he ever have been without them? What lonely, bitter, ignorant thing? Dead twenty years ahead of schedule from a gunshot wound or a burst appendix or a drug overdose. Dead of soul far sooner, having never known them.)
Their hand leaves his cheek and his head falls forward, hair following to fall loose and frame his face, his breath a huff of delight passing across a brilliant, exultant smile.
Sen lifts his face again (ever turning it towards them.) (Ever, and ever again, until the end.) (Christ, he missed them.)
How he wishes his smile could, truly, soothe Rin to sleep. Every night, for as many nights as he has. It's true, he has sent them to their rest with a gentle smile and a careful stroke of fingertips through their hair, but what he wishes is for the reason to vary from a requirement of a fleeting moment to-
(Oh, couldn't they just -)
(Of course they can't. He can't bring that on them.) (But it's his daydream. No one needs to know he fantasizes not about twining rapturously with Rin as their lover, but of the afterward. Of the speaking, and smiling, and drifting to sleep content in their place together. Of waking to them, and knowing it was no accident he was in their bed.)
Their demand of restitution for the not-so-loathed 'P' garners raised brows from Sen; he leans back and cocks his head in faux-challenge, then edges nearer - a slight unfolding and re-folding of his legs (beginning to burn from this crouch, as a matter of fact; how easily he tires now.) ]
Now, Rin. I'm of the opinion that one situation, long past, is far outweighed now by the countless times you've heard that moniker applied lavishly. Affectionately. Dare I say: adoringly. Without any expectation or malevolence.
[ If they keep up this charming coquettish act of theirs, he thinks (privately) he could be convinced to abandon any word they want. To take a vow of silence, in fact.
It occurs to him, Rin must be standing on their toes, slung over the bar to see him as they are, and he is - well, also on his toes. And has drawn near enough that he could straighten, could tilt his head and press his cheek to theirs. Could kiss them if he had the nerve. And so put a stop to any call for the abandonment of the nickname he loves to employ.
Instead, he shakes his head minutely - no - and gives them an impish grin. ]
I will go to the ends of the earth for you. I'll cross through fire and every imaginable hell. I'll leap over this bar and contend with every admirer that afflicts you.
[ He extends that finger again, emphatic and firm. ]
But I will never pay you restitution for that endearment. That stolen thing I've kept all for me, that signifies you? No.
Shan't, and can't be coerced, not even by the loveliest flutter of lashes.
[ As he has done so often before - much to his chagrin and self-deprecating amusement, to find each batted aside or dodged - he kisses the air, this time mere inches from their face. ]
Pookie.
no subject
They can almost, they think, feel it; a kiss light as fallen snow, warm with sunlit affection. A kiss like the scent of hyacinth.
Rin could drift on this sensation for hours, for days. (Could take Sen’s hands and keep hold, if they could spare both hands to do so, if this counter didn’t hold between them.) And they favor Sen with a soft smile, pleased smile. Then offer one more fluttering of lashes, for good measure.
(They don’t think into what they’ve done; how it differs from past years and would-be-kisses. How they’ve never once permitted a kiss to land, or caught it without batting it aside. The game has always been evasion. The game has always been a bit of fun. One way of playing along with Sen, they’d thought. One way of flitting through the world, uncaught and uncatchable, as they were ever wont to do, as they most often needed to do.
Sen was different, though. Sen has always been apart from the gnashing world and its demanding machinations; Sen has always been a force against the forms that the world imposes, a hand helping to bat off artifices that crept too close. A hand that welcomed and permitted and accepted; that encouraged.
A quiet wondering, swimming briefly, barely up from deepest waters: what might Rin have missed, discarding all those kisses?
And, on its tail, appearing and disappearing just as swiftly: What had Sen thought of that game? (And had it been, for him, a game?)
All of this plays out beneath Rin’s present knowing. Spells pieces that begin to tick their way toward coming into place; pieces that will make themselves more present over days to come. When Rin’s had space to let this moment settle. When Rin is less caught up luxuriating in the moment.) ]
Why speak of hellfire when you herald spring with such simplicity of eloquence?
[ A breath, almost a sigh, and their smile brightens. ]
You make your point, rugged philosopher.
For you and you alone, I will be… That term. That name. A word uttered only by my Sen; not to be borne from any other, never to touch even these lips.
[ They purse their lips lightly - these lips, right here! - a gesture that shifts into another tilt of their head, as if distracted by the air-born kiss that they’ve ben granted. Now they let their eyes slip shut, lingering in a moment’s lull, their thought become little more than a pleasant hum, their self mostly wrapped, rapt, in this moment gifted by and shared with Sen.
To have both Sen and this place, the home, this haven; there can be nothing better.
How terrifically fortunate they are.
Adjusting carefully, they open their eyes and lilt a hand to their cheek, a light tap where the kiss landed, a tap that turns into a settled, drifted touch, as if to marvel at and seal the kiss in place. ]
I think I’ll keep it, hm?
no subject
Anything.
Breathe. Think. Emote. God forbid he should try to find words; what capacity does he have any longer for speech in monosyllabic English, much less his usual forays into lectures, diatribes, multilingual odes?
He can't even move; if he moves, it might not be real.
(It's real. He knows it's real. He can't accept that it is, because accepting that Rin, after a quarter of a fucking century, caught a kiss on their cheek means Sen can't avoid asking why.)
He can't avoid accepting that it happened. He can't stave off the slow crawl of confusion, wariness, bafflement (destruction) in his expression. Sen blinks up at them, in the sunlight of their smile, at the corner of which is the kiss he gave that they didn't dodge, or bat aside, or avoid with laughter he loved and loathed.
With his heart in his throat, he thinks, Rin, you ruined the game.
And he thinks, A curtain's been pulled aside, and a comfortable lie's been called out. The illusion's been shattered.
And he thinks, Rin. What the fuck have you done? What the fuck have I done?
This is what it is to be devastated. To have wanted, and then not wanted, and then learned that there's a way to lie to oneself about not wanting and pretend to not want anyway, for so fucking long. And with a turn of their head, they undo him. They jerk the lifeline away.
(They accepted it.) (They turned aside an admirer, stood leaning over him, and accepted the hundredth or thousandth kiss he's sent their way in jest.) (It was never in jest.) (Neither was the refusal of all previous kisses.)
(If he and Rin weren't playing before with all those uncaught, neatly sidestepped kisses, are they playing now with this one caught?)
It's what they say that drives home a final blow: that the endearment is his alone, untouched even by them. (Fuck, he doesn't know what to make of that. Whether it's a joke, or a bone tossed his way, a scrap of never-was for him to die on. Or whether it means something, and if he should think about it too hard.)
By the time they open their eyes and speak that final pronouncement, Sen has covered his mouth with one hand, horrified or pensive (as though, perhaps, to prevent further kisses, or further utterances of the word that is all his own.) (He will, he knows, beat the living shit out of anyone who encroaches on it. Anyone who tries to call them what they are only to him.) (It's all Rin will ever be to him. Sen's one square inch of heaven.)
I think I'll keep it, they say, and he nods faintly, his eyes a little distant. Please. Please keep it.
He should say something. Lowering his hand a fraction, he manages: ]
Do. Imagine -
[ Faltering, he clears his throat and offers them a rueful smile that dims quickly as he speaks. His words come soft and wondering, the same almost-musing tone from a moment ago (before the world changed kaleidoscopic.) (Before it heaved beneath him yet again.) (Before they let a kiss fall, and gave him one word all his own.) ]
Better that it should have been dodged again - than caught and discarded, unwanted. Imagine the wreckage of me, to see it deemed unfit for even that glancing landing.
[ He breathes out a unharsh snort and looks away. At Andi. At the patron he startled. Down. Finds himself resentful of the audience that is valiantly pretending not to be an audience.
Well. He can't run. He can't hide. He can't retreat. And isn't he, Senan Wilkes, a master of radical acceptance when it comes to Rin Renault?
So he smiles. So he shifts, nevermind the ache in his thighs, nevermind the ache in his chest; he draws his cheek beside theirs - this nearness to afford them both even the simplest privacy, and his hand laid gently at the back of their neck, his arm a shield between him and onlookers. His voice drops to a low murmur (if he gave it thought: a seduction, a coaxing, far more intimate than any flirtation.) ]
Your Sen - your philosopher, your knave, your rogue - speaks of hellfire because he has grown accustomed to being scathed. He knows the agony of every flame - a thousand, thousand uncaught kisses over a quarter century's run. And now he has learned a warmth more scorching than any other: this kiss caught and kept, upon the loveliest cheek he has ever known.
How expertly I've learned the art of burning. How exquisite it all has been at your deft avoidance.
How perilous now.
[ His eyes half-close, and Sen brushes the rough of his jaw against theirs and wishes for the first time that he had thought to shave. Drifts his lips without purpose (without kiss) near their ear. ]
Do you feel springtime in my words, Rin? Truly? No, that's nonsense.
You perpetual youth, you eternal beauty - you fucking fool.
You are springtime. You are dawn, the bright rays of a rising sun on the horizon after unendurable night. You are all beginnings, renewals, and dreaming days. You are resurrection. A man may burn to blistering again and again with a lifetime of uncaught kisses and still stick his own foolish hand back in the flames - and you are both the reason why he does so, and the how of his survival.
My words are just kisses uncaught, cast out in hope that one of those multitudes will chance to be liked, and kept.
[ He stills, then draws back just enough to turn his head and regard them softly, fondly. With faux pensiveness, he draws his hand down so the backs of his fingers trace the very spot where they caught his kiss. ]
Which words do you suppose might fall beside this kiss, and remain? What promise, or thrall, or poetry? Assume that none fall short; assume that there is in all the world even one combination of sounds that could ever do you justice. What would it be? That my fingertips are blackened and my heart singed, but I've forgotten yet again what it means to be burnt?
Or - Rin. Rin, let it be that I've missed you. I've missed you terribly, having been not in any sort of hellfire, but frozen in distance from you - oh, longing to be burned by you. Such a long winter it's been. Such a cold night, aching for springtime and sunrise.
[ (Should he be speaking to them like this. Intimately, intensely, in a tone wrapped in unspoken temptation. Promising.
He wonders it distantly, without alarm or unquiet.)
(They're just words.) (Loaded as any gun ever was.) (Laced like a poisoned drink.) (He's never done this to Rin. He's never done this to anyone; it never took more than a half measure to coax people wherever it was that he wanted to take them. (Where is he trying to take Rin, now?) (Doesn't matter.) (They're just words.) Fucking wonderful, isn't it? To turn the full force of himself on them. To show them how brightly he burns.)
(...Well. It's not smart.
But they started it.) (Probably.)
With a soft tsk, he presses his thumb against their cheek, as though to confirm that it has, indeed, been sealed forever against their skin. ]
How dare you catch that kiss now, and take away the fire I hold so dear. What unfamiliar warmth is it you've given me instead, and what relief is there for 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.
no subject
They are, both of them, in vast and uncharted waters.
He could ease back from Rin - who is staring at him in a way Rin has never stared at him, as though seeing him for the first time. As though, in seeing him, has realized Sen is nothing they have ever seen before. (It would be gratifying, if it wasn't the way a deer stares at an oncoming car.) He could ease back from them, true, and steer them back to safe, known harbors - or leave Rin stranded.
Would they be? Would they, now that their eyes are fixed on him, now that they see him not only as their Sen, but as someone other, someone they had no idea he could be - would they fall, or drown, or shatter if he turned away?
(He doesn't know the conclusion of these questions. He doesn't know the alternative to walking off and pretending this never occurred, save that staying means clinging to them. Save that staying means something about perilousness of not clinging. The potential, the likelihood, of wreckage.)
Look at them, staring. Barely breathing. White-knuckled and struggling for thought. Was that all he ever had to do to reach them?
(What has he done.) (He doesn't want this. To reach them only for a moment. For a night.) (He wants -) (He wanted. Would have liked. To set them ablaze for a lifetime. That chance is - Fuck, what was he playing at? To turn their head when he'll be gone soon?) (Granted. With that in mind, he might only have a night, so that does rather solve the problem of -)
(He's not going to fucking think about that. Any of that.)
He keeps close. He drowns in their eyes, with his fingers caressing (soothing, reassuring) their cheek (would they stare like this -) (don't think about it) (he hopes not, though; he hopes Rin, in the hypothetical twining, the infrequently imagined coupling, would be the bold, courageous, confident null he's known.)
His hand falls still under theirs, and he registers dimly that they're shaking. (He struck deep this time.) (But they have untold depths; how could he know where his words would land, and that they would prove seismic?) (He knew. Of course he knew.) Sen rests his forehead against theirs, briefly, lightly, offering comfort and hush.
But no apology.
He'll never apologize for this. (They caught his kiss. Oh, it's still there on their cheek, an his heart swells again. His smile flickers soft, devoted - happy. One kiss for a lifetime.)
They've found their voice but lost their English, and that - oh, that is gratifying, enough that he catches his lip between his teeth to stave off a laugh. And he listens.
And his brows raise in gentle dispute. Or acknowledgement, perhaps, that what they said is already terribly true. His hand remains motionless beneath theirs, save for a sweep of his thumb along their cheek. ]
The only cold I've known has been in the absence of you. Whatever we have been to one another - near-friends, or friends, or lifelong companions - I have always been happily - happily - warm in your sphere. Of course there will be no more winter - I promised to remain for all my days. For good, with you - Rin. My Far-From-Nothing. Antithesis, opposite of nothing. Embodiment, soul, thought of all that is.
[ He's so damned near, and they've caught him again with a touch and a glance. They've fixed him to this spot, where he can do nothing but gaze at them, and offer words.
They are everything he has.
'They'. His words.
'They'. Rin. ]
Rin, whose name ought to have been 'Tous'. In 'everything', there is a fire in the dark. A blanket. A blazing sun rising. Rin once spoke my own name on a cold night in Germany - do you recall? Three times, and a touch of their hand like a charm, and so brought warmth into my world. So long as you are near, of course. So I have kept near.
Never touching springtime, true. But the winter is a dim recollection, fading ever faster before my delight in you. There is my own vow, 'Pas Rien':
In your company, no matter its form, I am warm to my most hidden heart.
no subject
It will linger.
All of this.
What Sen has said and every resonance it carries. How the air within Null Set altered, turned supernal and rare, flickering their lungs with tickled chill, with speechless knowing. How they - Rin Renault, 47 and proprietor of a flourishing nightclub, life-long thief and former scam artist, well-traveled and self-taught and deft with survival - clung to this counter for dear life, or for understanding, or for the sake of retaining some nearness to this impossible man.
This man who sets his forehead against theirs; a port of respite and an anchor. A promise, perhaps. (Of what?) (Toward what longing?) (They can suppose. Or could suppose, if thoughts would stick to knowing; if thoughts didn’t form themselves only to disperse without a trace.) (Later. Later, all of this will circle back around.) This man whose touch draws gratitude from Rin, drawing appreciation through their stagger of expression.
There is - luckily, luckily - something they can follow in words. A point requiring response, impelling enough to drag their words from humming numbness. And their forefinger brushes Sen’s hand, gently, briefly. (It feels not brief at all. Feels like an era of its own, the soothing rough of that skin, the map of bone and veins beneath, the potential in that hand to hold, to reach, to gesture with such wild grace.) ]
Of course I remember.
I have—
[ They blink; they swallow. Perception flickers; they lose the thought, though the impulse remains. They seek certainty in Sen’s eyes. ]
When light first dawned in the form of a man. When a person presented himself as invitation. As welcome. Of course I took your hand. To find that you were real. To—
[ A slight tilt of their head; a slight, distracted smirk. ]
To reach the instrument capable of such absurd gesticulation.
To find what you were; improbable man.
Your name. Your hand. Your spontaneity in speaking; your proficiency with what can be put to voice. You have ever held my notice, Sen. The fullness of my attention.
[ What attention they possessed. What attentiveness they knew to give.
Which didn’t account for or perceive the fullness of Sen. Which missed much, because.
Because there were signs Rin knew to look for, and then there were signs Rin never let themself consider. Signs that - they thought, they felt certain - couldn’t amount. Signs toward ends that held no place with them. Signs spelling long-term relationships wanted, or sought, or wishing.
How often has Rin said, and felt, and known that they held no intention of seeking partnership, or commitment, or anything beyond a one-night fuck or two?
Nothing else would have been sustainable. And, they’d thought, nothing else could ever be sustained. Not with their existence; not among the pieces they were chasing.
But.
And.
But. Sen has always been there. Present and expected. His place never questioned; his place never, by Rin, put to any particular term. Sen has ever been instinctive and compulsory, harmonious and accustomed. And Rin had never ventured much beyond that understanding.
But Sen said, ’Whatever we have been to one another.’
But Sen speaks of friendship, of companions, and so conjures other words, potentials, relations.
And what if. What if.
(‘What if,’ a long-unthought question. A realm of suppositions Rin never gave themself the luxury to consider. What use in looking back, in regretting or revising what couldn’t be changed, when there was so much to be done, and managed, and effected?
‘What if,’ a question that arose only once Sen was taken, a question rising in pervasive and recurrent forms: ’What if Sen had never confessed,’ and ’What if Sen were here now,’ and ’What if the court hadn’t believed Sen, what if he’d been tossed out without retalation?’ And. ’What if the gun was never fired. What if all of this had been avoided.’
Queries that vanished with Sen’s return. Because what need could Rin have now for ‘what if,’ when Sen is here, and will remain? What more could they possibly ask?)
Sen moves the world with every word, with every breath.
And known facts can be altered with a single fall of words. And known facts can shine brilliant, variant, with a burning light shone sudden.
Sen is compulsory. And. And.
What else, in what words?
Hard to say. Impossible to tell just now. Thinking—
Or. No. Speaking, not precisely intended. ]
I would like to see your hidden heart.
[ It’s true they know Sen’s heart better than any other; nearly as well as their own. It’s true Rin understands their heart and Sen’s as sharing resonance, beating in consonant existence. But it occurs to Rin that sharing isn’t knowing, that there are realms of Sen haven’t glimpsed.
Rin thinks… Yes. Yes, hey would like to glimpse, to venture toward, to know and tend that unguessed heart.
If they could speak their meaning. If they could know their meaning. If they could do more than hold desperate to this moment.
What they can manage for now is another press of Sen’s hand, and a breath. And, voice hushed but steady— ]
I have always been reaching toward you.
no subject
But how to turn the fucking thing on and attract all that hope to ground, when they're staring at him like he's a revelation. When they're breathless. When their finger shifts across his hand and the air crackles around him, and his blood remembers that it knew how to boil for someone.
They speak of that night when they took his hand and spoke him into some new form of existence, and he realizes he's never asked them why they did it. He never knew. It never seemed important to try and comprehend Rin; he only ever wanted to allow their existence. Whatever they wanted him to understand, they told him.
(Unbidden, a question of comprehending Rin: why do they want him to understand this, now?) They say You have ever had the fullness of my attention and he feels his knees go weak - already precarious, his stance, and he has to adjust again to keep from sinking to the floor. Away from them.
Have I? he thinks. (Not like this. Not like right here. Not like now. But yes, in a way, he supposes he has always felt terribly present, and known, and real in their eyes.)
The moment of suspension: when they speak of his heart, and everything stops. Sound, and sight, and his own breath in the base of his throat with a helpless sound. (He's betraying himself. (He can't do this to them.) (He's going to hurt them.) They're watching him so closely now, they're going to see every desperate flash of longing he ever tried to disguise as something other behind a smirk or a laugh or a roll of eyes. They're going to see love fierce and unabashed and unabating if he doesn't get control of himself but they said -
Oh, they fucking - said -)
(He'll hurt them.) (He can't jump at this.)
But they said -
Wait.
Wait, what?
I have always been reaching toward you. He could laugh and catch hold of them and spill every word he has inside himself for them, for the paltry remainder of his days. He could sink to the floor -
He does. He huffs a soft, winded sound and settles to his knees, still near, still touching their cheek in wonder. He could sob, and might.
Because he wants it.
Because - he can't have it.
And none of that matters,, he realizes.
His thoughts taper off and his expression grows uncertain. For a moment outside of time, the world turned golden. For a moment, hope ran rampant, and every part of Senan Wilkes believed he'd just been mistaken and blind and a fool all this time. (He still - might have been.) But as the moment passes, and another spins itself out between himself and Rin, he thinks -
Twenty-five years.
You'd think he'd have noticed them reaching back. Badly as he wanted it.
It's not true at all. Or - it's not true in the way he thought it was. The way he wanted it to be. They've always been honest with him, or mostly honest; it's a shame to suggest they aren't being so now.
They mean something else, something other than "I've wanted you all along", and he's too drunk on loving them to sort it out with any kind of grace but bad.
His eyes drift, settle pensively on nothing as he considers his next words (counts his cards) carefully.
Well. He's an expert at radical acceptance, when it comes to Rin, not wanting him. And the right thing to do is reassure them. (And then. And then get the fuck out of here for a few hours. Go lick his wounds somewhere.)
So he offers them a tired smile that threatens to desert his expression the moment he meets their eyes again. And he shakes his head minutely - No. Not so. - before turning his hand to catch theirs, and drawing it to his lips.
One more kiss they can keep, if they like.
(Maybe he ought to stop with that game. It's old. He's old.)
A sigh follows, and he replies gently. ]
No. You haven't, Pookie.
[ Aware suddenly of the sounds of the bar around him, and aware he had slipped from French, he hums and continues: ]
I would have noticed. Content - happy - as I have been beyond your reach, and you forever beyond mine, and grateful for the times you did grant me your attention. My Not-Nothing, don't you know I learned to read your every line, and between all of them if I could? You tell me what you want me to know, and always have.
I would have noticed you reaching toward me. I would have known.
[ He releases their hand, both of his spread as though it's some sort of dreadful magic trick, and his smirk is settled, even if it's a ghost of itself, and his eyes don't quite seek theirs.
Sen places a hand on the counter and pulls himself a little unsteadily to his feet. Maybe he won't slip out, after all. Maybe he'll go collapse in bed for a while, truth be told. He feels -
Well.
Normal. This is normal, or familiar, this dull-edged melancholy.
If they haven't drawn away, or gone far, he leans in to press a kiss to their head. Friendly. And when ended, he remains to add softly: ]
It's all right.
I'm happy, Rin. My Not-Nothing. My All.
And I have been, all along. I've known you, you see. I've been your friend. I would do anything to protect that, and you from any wreckage. Your friendship is sacred. It's precious to me.
Nothing needs to break. Nothing needs to change.
Rin, I never reached for you. Not on any of thousands of days. I never looked upon you and wished you could, somehow, be moved. I never ached. I never wanted more than you gave, though I was happy with what was given.
Not from the first moment I met you. Not today, either.
[ He pauses there, purses his lips, and then nods. With that, Sen draws back, straightens - turns away and raps his knuckles on the bar as he goes. ]
I've an appointment to keep with my pillow. One never should take for granted the creature comforts that simply don't exist in a federal penitentiary. Lots of catching up to do with my bedding.
Thanks for the drink, Barkeep.
[ And. ]
Good girl, that Andi.
no subject
Understand.
Understand? Or understanding doesn’t have a thing to do with this. Or their understanding’s slipped awry, or Sen’s misunderstood them, or—
It’s a lie, what Sen is saying. A pleasant story of acceptance, of ‘we’ll forget this happened.’ Rin wants to speak, to protest. Rin wants to fucking leap after Sen, but.
But Rin can’t fucking move, or speak. That kiss seals - those kisses seal - them into place. Along with - oh - that devastating smirk, untrue, ill-fitting, manufactured. Along with Sen’s coolness, and the distance avalanched between them. Along with certainty that they themself have misspoken. Or erred in—
In.
They’ve done Sen wrong.
Which part spelled the worst sin? Their lie— Or, no, they didn’t lie. Their words were earnest, their words held truth of meaning, but they muddled it, or the words they chose weren’t right. The impulse was true, but the words settled ill, tripped a fault that marred intention.
And there have been all those years. Of… What? Of Sen watching. Reaching or not reaching. Never wanting, never… missing. ’I don’t miss you’ he wrote, again, again.
The liar.
The wretched man with his noble gestures. His mistaken would-be-good intent: he’s tried to sacrifice himself again.
(They won’t allow it.)
(They won’t allow it. Would reach for Sen, would take his wrist and pull, only—)
Sen’s gone. Sen’s vanished (not for good) (but it feels, it feels as if he’s banished himself; as if it could be final), and Rin scarcely registers the others at the bar. Doesn’t try to look at them. Doesn’t scan the room. Only registers the not-presence of Sen. Where a man was and now is not.
It’s empty. It’s hollowing and harrowing, and they feel as if they’re falling, have fallen, could fall for the rest of their days and find no landing.
(It won’t be that way. They won’t let it be that way.)
(If they didn’t know before. If they didn’t know Sen’s mind or their own tendings. They know now.)
They blink, or try to.
Their eyes ache; their nerves burn cold at every end. (They’re going to need a drink, a smoke. Several. Smokes. Fuck it, they can break their rule this once.
When they move. If they can ever fucking move.)
They blink, and flex their hand. One; the other. Slow and shaking.
Piece by piece they’ll pull themself together, well enough to move from the bar, out into the alley. Well enough to begin slowly, slowly recovering themself. And later. Tonight, tomorrow; when they’re able. There is much to consider.
This isn’t over.
And they won’t forget. ]