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[byanyname]

***

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.

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[ultimatenegative]

[ The breathless moment of suspension - of hope. Sen knows it, has lived his adult life quietly starving hope. Has within him that lightning rod constructed of the knowledge that Rin Renault doesn't want him.

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.

[withoutrhetoric]

[ They don’t—

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. ]