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.
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. ]