It matters that Jack speaks to compulsions of his own, his own responsiveness to Orev (and, and/or to the man Orev used to be).
It matters that Jack puts thought, puts care into responding.
It matters that he reveals the command he (perhaps?) seeks to erase. And if it’s true that Orev hear the command and for an instant blinks bafflement, it’s true as well that confusion is replaced immediately by surety. Because yes, of course he would. Yes, it only makes sense. (You are mine.) What’s his isn’t to be touch by any other. What’s his can’t be subjected to other, lesser hands.
(It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, to have left the boy like that, with nothing.)
(But gods. Can he say he wouldn’t be furious to think of any other being in attempted rapture with this man? Or even sustain the thought of Jack meeting pleasure in solitude? It’s a thought that bites, that speaks of wretched lack.)
These words, though. This certainty that Jack is something to be cast aside. That banishment, abandonment is inevitable. (Orev recalls that image, his own voice from Jack’s thoughts. Speaking ‘not enough.’ Speaking something missing.) (It doesn’t sit right. He doesn’t think the words were true, or complete.) (What in fuck’s name had he done, and why?) He wants to brush the tears from Jack’s face. He doesn’t know that it’s within his right—
And yet he reaches his free hand to catch, to brush. And voice low, voice soft, he speaks, “It wasn’t like that. It can’t have been.
“And if it’s true. If that’s the manner of man I was— Am.” A loss, here. For words, for thought. Because the notion strikes him only as impossible. Because if, if if if it was true, if he discarded this man—
Perhaps he forsook his own memory, to escape the wretch he was.
And. If it was true. (It isn’t. It wasn’t.) If it could become true again. (It won’t.) The risk to Jack is monumental.
…He needs to be careful. (He doesn’t want to be careful. He wants to name, wants to own what is his.) For Jack’s sake, at the least. If only he knew more, if only he knew what happened, and yes he does need more time, for gods’ sake he’s had a week.
It’s been nine months for Jack. Remember that. Remember.
A shaking of his head, slow, then sharp. “I don’t believe it. If I can’t recall what I was, I know my feelings now. I am not— Capricious. In that particular way.
“What I did, why I acted as I did— There was a reason, Jack.
“I know you’ve waited. I understand, I— Nine months rings like eternity. I think. But I…
“If nothing else, stay with me. Stay with us. In this village.
“I don’t know the shape of the questions or the answers standing before us. But I will find them. And I—
“I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t believe I could stand losing you.
“…Again.”
<.>
A pause follows, Jack feeling the afterburn of Orev's hand on his cheek and waiting, waiting for - something. Meaning behind what Orev is saying, maybe: what his feelings are, what he thinks will happen if Jack remains with him and Walter here in Wickermoor Village. What he thinks this will be, if the alternative is hurt and loss.
(It doesn't escape him that Orev didn't respond to the question of his command.
Not yet, anyway. Maybe he's only addressing the more serious subjects first.)
With a slow inhale, a slower exhale, he replies, "You'd have to have me first to lose me. I haven't agreed to that."
Not that he has a choice, really. Not if Orev tells him where to belong. It's a thought that singes through him, raising gooseflesh again and pinkening his cheeks. He looks down, away, ignoring the rising embarrassment to avoid the always-answering excitement.
Weakly, he continues, "I can't even feel justified in being angry at you because you don't know who you were. I can't ask you to be what you were to me - I don't know I'd want it now." He winces under the weight of the lie but continues ahead. "I don't know what to do."
<.>
The trouble is, there’s nothing he can promise.
Not honestly. Not with the void in his memory, the lack of anything beyond the certainty he holds now, feels now, and the wild scrawlings in a half-coherent journal.
He wants to promise this man— Anything. Everything. But there’s nothing to hold onto. (Nothing, apart from Jack, here and now.) (Nothing apart from this brilliant and sorrowing soul, who warms to Orev’s presence and praise, who reaches for Orev in spite of all he’s experienced, in spite of the wounds he’s been left to believe.) But everything’s a mire, cloudy and wrapped in questions, questions, always questions.
What he can do—
What he can say. Admit.
“No— There’s no clear answer here. It is… Jack. I regret that I have no clear path ahead to offer. Only the truth in my intentions: That I am going to find what happened. That I mean to mend anything, everything I can.
“…That I think I meant all along to mend it, however poorly I treated you.
“Be angry with me if you like. As you need. I may not remember what I did; this doesn’t alter what you’ve known. What I - whatever, however I was; whatever I thought that I was doing - brought onto you.
“What I did and didn’t tell you.”
A tic of his lip. A furrowed brow. “I don’t know that I have ever been particularly forthcoming. Or given to… Exposure of what I know as weakness. As faults within myself.
“I wronged you; you’re within your rights to rage against me.
“Be angry if you must. But don’t, please, take yourself away.” A flinch, a brief-darting glance away, because if he thinks of this man vanished, if he thinks of seeking life without this man, all threatens to become inferno.
He finds Jack’s eyes. Clutches his hand a little tighter, adamant. “You say that I don’t have you. I’m not… I think we both know that isn’t quite the truth. I don’t think either of us can help it.
“You are mine, Jack. I think that I am yours.”
He shakes his head, huffs a frustrated exhale. “I can’t say what that means, precisely. I don’t know how it fits against the… Questions. The damage and the hurt.”
…And. And, because he hasn’t forgotten. And because he suspects (he knows) the question hasn’t left Jack’s mind: “…I can’t agree to released my command. And I’m not certain I believe you want that.”
<.>
Jack stares, frowning and trying to decide what Orev means by his last comment (refusal). It's easier to be angry about that (is he angry?) than to consider the many implications of You are mine, Jack. I think that I am yours. After all, Draža never did say he was Gideon's, did he?
Only that Gideon belonged to him. Always.
He never asked Gideon not to take himself away. He never admitted that their connection was deeper than a contract.
Jack doesn't know what any of this means, or how to approach it. (He knows he can't quash the burn of anger, or the desire, or the faint pity for Orev. (And love. The love is always there like a disease.)) He doesn't know how to respond after nine months spent convincing himself Draža never loved him, only toyed with him. Planning to free himself from Calamus and Draža both and - and. Put an end to himself.
(And Orev is asking him not to take himself away. (But it's not a command, at least.) (Does that matter?))
He focuses on the last, instead, feeling impotent frustration boiling over; the only relief he's found has been accidental, sleep-struck or a byproduct of selling himself. Never enjoying release, never answering his own waking demand. (And true, he doesn't want to be released from that command. He wants Daddy, who is not Orev. Not exactly.) After a long silence, he answers darkly, "You can keep others' hands off me and forbid my own, but I won't come to you."
It's a petulant reply, and it's true his lower lip threatens towards a pout, but at the moment, he has nothing else. No other threat, no other leverage. (Orev doesn't need to know that he refused just this way when Draža first won him. Orev doesn't need to know how wrong Draža proved Jack, or how quickly. How thoroughly.) (...Nevermind that Jack wrote down some of those memories in Orev's journal. Fuck.)
<.>
[ perception: 2 (ffs orev) insight: 9 (:/)
If his journal is lying out somewhere, Jack's eyes flicker to it. Worriedly. Otherwise, Orev is aware Jack is pouting. ]
…Curious.
The way Jack doesn’t argue, precisely, or push (or plead) once more for the command’s removal. Jack isn’t pleased - clearly - but he seems to have accepted his fate.
(And it’s charming. The way a sulk writes itself across the boy’s face.)
Curious, as well, that Jack’s remark doesn’t ring with the finality of a vow. That Orev feels no particular warning in it. That he doesn’t believe it will hold.
And curious, that brief slip of Jack’s eyes toward the bedside table. Where there is, to Orev’s recollection, all of one item. (What did Jack find? What is it he’s thinking of— Worried about?) Orev cocks his head, tempted to cast Detect Thoughts, knowing it might be better saved for later. Instead searching Jack’s face for some further clue.
When he finds nothing, he turns and move for the journal.
<.>
Jack made a mistake in darting a look at the journal, but he couldn't help himself. When he stole it two nights ago, he wrote in it in a fit of pique and grief. If he remembers correctly, one of the things he wrote directly contradicts the very thing he just said.
Shit, shit, shit.
Orev moves toward it and so does Jack with a sudden burst of speed and a rough, "No!"
He'll try to reach it and snatch it up before Orev.
[ roll-off! orev: 10 jack: 11 ]
Jack reaches the journal first, snatching it up and holding it away from Orev with a panic-stricken expression.
<.>
It was Jack's outburst that jarred him. (Surely whatever the man read in Orev's journal can't have garnered such forcefulness. It isn't as if Orev hasn't read the thing over and again already.) He reaches the end table several moments too late, and can only draw himself up - and ignore the fact that yes he *was* scrambling for the thing - and fold his arms.
Watching Jack.
Watching Jack.
One talon tapping against his own arm.
He considers the Medallion.
He thinks he'll give Jack the chance to explain himself.
So, standing in stillness apart from the tap, tap, tap of his finger—
"Was it something you read?"
<.>
Jack takes a step back, journal held now behind his back with both hands. He looks hunted and perhaps a little wary of Orev's collectedness.
Slowly, he shakes his head.
Just as slowly, he takes another step backward, clearly making for the door.
<.>
...Well. He did try.
The talon stills.
Orev doesn't move.
He speaks again, voice now unyielding. Not harsh, not inflictive; only commanding—
"Stop."
And, slowly unfolding his arms, holding out one hand. Letting a moment hang, and hang, and pass. Then—
"Give me the journal, Jack."
<.>
Jack stops.
He stares, his grip tightening on the journal until his knuckles turn white.
He tries to resist the pull of command, his brow furrowing with the effort.
[ will-based roll-off! orev: 14 jack: 15]
With a little breath of exertion, he shakes his head again and takes another step back.
<.>
His expression clouds, eyes sharpening.
How.
Dare he??
(The little shit.) ((The little brat.))
Head canting, arms folded once more, Orev takes a step toward Jack.
A very long step. And another.
(He doesn’t like that the boy disobeyed.)
(…He doesn’t understand why Jack’s chosen to be obstinate about this, of all things. It’s only a journal. It’s Orev’s journal, it’s Orev’s own words, what in fuck’s name could Jack possibly be hiding?)
His voice is lower now, licked with a hiss. “Jack.
“This is a mistake.
“I am giving you one last chance.”
The next words lack the particularity of command. It’s a statement, simply, of a fact, a wish: “I’d like my journal back.”
He takes another step.
<.>
Rather than encouraging Jack to think of the error of his ways, it fills him with a thrill-sparked terror. He almost laughs, does let out a hysterical not-quite-giggle, humorless and panicked, when Orev strides toward him looking thunderous.
He shivers. Takes another step, angling for the door -
Then turns to run.
<.>
It's an instinctive reaction.
He doesn't have time to plan. This recalcitrance, that panicked sound (not displeasing, but he can't appreciate it now, or feel the way it crackles up his spine) warns of rash action, and it occurs to Orev that Jack might plan to do something to the journal, burn it, shred it, and Orev needs those words, for shit's sake it's all he has, and his hand's raising, conjuring a spectral chain, shifting black and deep red light.
He casts Chain of Conviction, and hurls the chain at Jack.
no subject
It matters that Jack speaks to compulsions of his own, his own responsiveness to Orev (and, and/or to the man Orev used to be).
It matters that Jack puts thought, puts care into responding.
It matters that he reveals the command he (perhaps?) seeks to erase. And if it’s true that Orev hear the command and for an instant blinks bafflement, it’s true as well that confusion is replaced immediately by surety. Because yes, of course he would. Yes, it only makes sense. (You are mine.) What’s his isn’t to be touch by any other. What’s his can’t be subjected to other, lesser hands.
(It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, to have left the boy like that, with nothing.)
(But gods. Can he say he wouldn’t be furious to think of any other being in attempted rapture with this man? Or even sustain the thought of Jack meeting pleasure in solitude? It’s a thought that bites, that speaks of wretched lack.)
These words, though. This certainty that Jack is something to be cast aside. That banishment, abandonment is inevitable. (Orev recalls that image, his own voice from Jack’s thoughts. Speaking ‘not enough.’ Speaking something missing.) (It doesn’t sit right. He doesn’t think the words were true, or complete.) (What in fuck’s name had he done, and why?) He wants to brush the tears from Jack’s face. He doesn’t know that it’s within his right—
And yet he reaches his free hand to catch, to brush. And voice low, voice soft, he speaks, “It wasn’t like that. It can’t have been.
“And if it’s true. If that’s the manner of man I was— Am.” A loss, here. For words, for thought. Because the notion strikes him only as impossible. Because if, if if if it was true, if he discarded this man—
Perhaps he forsook his own memory, to escape the wretch he was.
And. If it was true. (It isn’t. It wasn’t.) If it could become true again. (It won’t.) The risk to Jack is monumental.
…He needs to be careful. (He doesn’t want to be careful. He wants to name, wants to own what is his.) For Jack’s sake, at the least. If only he knew more, if only he knew what happened, and yes he does need more time, for gods’ sake he’s had a week.
It’s been nine months for Jack. Remember that. Remember.
A shaking of his head, slow, then sharp. “I don’t believe it. If I can’t recall what I was, I know my feelings now. I am not— Capricious. In that particular way.
“What I did, why I acted as I did— There was a reason, Jack.
“I know you’ve waited. I understand, I— Nine months rings like eternity. I think. But I…
“If nothing else, stay with me. Stay with us. In this village.
“I don’t know the shape of the questions or the answers standing before us. But I will find them. And I—
“I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t believe I could stand losing you.
“…Again.”
<.>
A pause follows, Jack feeling the afterburn of Orev's hand on his cheek and waiting, waiting for - something. Meaning behind what Orev is saying, maybe: what his feelings are, what he thinks will happen if Jack remains with him and Walter here in Wickermoor Village. What he thinks this will be, if the alternative is hurt and loss.
(It doesn't escape him that Orev didn't respond to the question of his command.
Not yet, anyway. Maybe he's only addressing the more serious subjects first.)
With a slow inhale, a slower exhale, he replies, "You'd have to have me first to lose me. I haven't agreed to that."
Not that he has a choice, really. Not if Orev tells him where to belong. It's a thought that singes through him, raising gooseflesh again and pinkening his cheeks. He looks down, away, ignoring the rising embarrassment to avoid the always-answering excitement.
Weakly, he continues, "I can't even feel justified in being angry at you because you don't know who you were. I can't ask you to be what you were to me - I don't know I'd want it now." He winces under the weight of the lie but continues ahead. "I don't know what to do."
<.>
The trouble is, there’s nothing he can promise.
Not honestly. Not with the void in his memory, the lack of anything beyond the certainty he holds now, feels now, and the wild scrawlings in a half-coherent journal.
He wants to promise this man— Anything. Everything. But there’s nothing to hold onto. (Nothing, apart from Jack, here and now.) (Nothing apart from this brilliant and sorrowing soul, who warms to Orev’s presence and praise, who reaches for Orev in spite of all he’s experienced, in spite of the wounds he’s been left to believe.) But everything’s a mire, cloudy and wrapped in questions, questions, always questions.
What he can do—
What he can say. Admit.
“No— There’s no clear answer here. It is… Jack. I regret that I have no clear path ahead to offer. Only the truth in my intentions: That I am going to find what happened. That I mean to mend anything, everything I can.
“…That I think I meant all along to mend it, however poorly I treated you.
“Be angry with me if you like. As you need. I may not remember what I did; this doesn’t alter what you’ve known. What I - whatever, however I was; whatever I thought that I was doing - brought onto you.
“What I did and didn’t tell you.”
A tic of his lip. A furrowed brow. “I don’t know that I have ever been particularly forthcoming. Or given to… Exposure of what I know as weakness. As faults within myself.
“I wronged you; you’re within your rights to rage against me.
“Be angry if you must. But don’t, please, take yourself away.” A flinch, a brief-darting glance away, because if he thinks of this man vanished, if he thinks of seeking life without this man, all threatens to become inferno.
He finds Jack’s eyes. Clutches his hand a little tighter, adamant. “You say that I don’t have you. I’m not… I think we both know that isn’t quite the truth. I don’t think either of us can help it.
“You are mine, Jack. I think that I am yours.”
He shakes his head, huffs a frustrated exhale. “I can’t say what that means, precisely. I don’t know how it fits against the… Questions. The damage and the hurt.”
…And. And, because he hasn’t forgotten. And because he suspects (he knows) the question hasn’t left Jack’s mind: “…I can’t agree to released my command. And I’m not certain I believe you want that.”
<.>
Jack stares, frowning and trying to decide what Orev means by his last comment (refusal). It's easier to be angry about that (is he angry?) than to consider the many implications of You are mine, Jack. I think that I am yours. After all, Draža never did say he was Gideon's, did he?
Only that Gideon belonged to him. Always.
He never asked Gideon not to take himself away. He never admitted that their connection was deeper than a contract.
Jack doesn't know what any of this means, or how to approach it. (He knows he can't quash the burn of anger, or the desire, or the faint pity for Orev. (And love. The love is always there like a disease.)) He doesn't know how to respond after nine months spent convincing himself Draža never loved him, only toyed with him. Planning to free himself from Calamus and Draža both and - and. Put an end to himself.
(And Orev is asking him not to take himself away. (But it's not a command, at least.) (Does that matter?))
He focuses on the last, instead, feeling impotent frustration boiling over; the only relief he's found has been accidental, sleep-struck or a byproduct of selling himself. Never enjoying release, never answering his own waking demand. (And true, he doesn't want to be released from that command. He wants Daddy, who is not Orev. Not exactly.) After a long silence, he answers darkly, "You can keep others' hands off me and forbid my own, but I won't come to you."
It's a petulant reply, and it's true his lower lip threatens towards a pout, but at the moment, he has nothing else. No other threat, no other leverage. (Orev doesn't need to know that he refused just this way when Draža first won him. Orev doesn't need to know how wrong Draža proved Jack, or how quickly. How thoroughly.) (...Nevermind that Jack wrote down some of those memories in Orev's journal. Fuck.)
<.>
[ perception: 2 (ffs orev)
insight: 9 (:/)
If his journal is lying out somewhere, Jack's eyes flicker to it. Worriedly. Otherwise, Orev is aware Jack is pouting. ]
…Curious.
The way Jack doesn’t argue, precisely, or push (or plead) once more for the command’s removal. Jack isn’t pleased - clearly - but he seems to have accepted his fate.
(And it’s charming. The way a sulk writes itself across the boy’s face.)
Curious, as well, that Jack’s remark doesn’t ring with the finality of a vow. That Orev feels no particular warning in it. That he doesn’t believe it will hold.
And curious, that brief slip of Jack’s eyes toward the bedside table. Where there is, to Orev’s recollection, all of one item. (What did Jack find? What is it he’s thinking of— Worried about?) Orev cocks his head, tempted to cast Detect Thoughts, knowing it might be better saved for later. Instead searching Jack’s face for some further clue.
When he finds nothing, he turns and move for the journal.
<.>
Jack made a mistake in darting a look at the journal, but he couldn't help himself. When he stole it two nights ago, he wrote in it in a fit of pique and grief. If he remembers correctly, one of the things he wrote directly contradicts the very thing he just said.
Shit, shit, shit.
Orev moves toward it and so does Jack with a sudden burst of speed and a rough, "No!"
He'll try to reach it and snatch it up before Orev.
[ roll-off!
orev: 10
jack: 11 ]
Jack reaches the journal first, snatching it up and holding it away from Orev with a panic-stricken expression.
<.>
It was Jack's outburst that jarred him. (Surely whatever the man read in Orev's journal can't have garnered such forcefulness. It isn't as if Orev hasn't read the thing over and again already.) He reaches the end table several moments too late, and can only draw himself up - and ignore the fact that yes he *was* scrambling for the thing - and fold his arms.
Watching Jack.
Watching Jack.
One talon tapping against his own arm.
He considers the Medallion.
He thinks he'll give Jack the chance to explain himself.
So, standing in stillness apart from the tap, tap, tap of his finger—
"Was it something you read?"
<.>
Jack takes a step back, journal held now behind his back with both hands. He looks hunted and perhaps a little wary of Orev's collectedness.
Slowly, he shakes his head.
Just as slowly, he takes another step backward, clearly making for the door.
<.>
...Well. He did try.
The talon stills.
Orev doesn't move.
He speaks again, voice now unyielding. Not harsh, not inflictive; only commanding—
"Stop."
And, slowly unfolding his arms, holding out one hand. Letting a moment hang, and hang, and pass. Then—
"Give me the journal, Jack."
<.>
Jack stops.
He stares, his grip tightening on the journal until his knuckles turn white.
He tries to resist the pull of command, his brow furrowing with the effort.
[ will-based roll-off!
orev: 14
jack: 15]
With a little breath of exertion, he shakes his head again and takes another step back.
<.>
His expression clouds, eyes sharpening.
How.
Dare he??
(The little shit.) ((The little brat.))
Head canting, arms folded once more, Orev takes a step toward Jack.
A very long step. And another.
(He doesn’t like that the boy disobeyed.)
(…He doesn’t understand why Jack’s chosen to be obstinate about this, of all things. It’s only a journal. It’s Orev’s journal, it’s Orev’s own words, what in fuck’s name could Jack possibly be hiding?)
His voice is lower now, licked with a hiss. “Jack.
“This is a mistake.
“I am giving you one last chance.”
The next words lack the particularity of command. It’s a statement, simply, of a fact, a wish: “I’d like my journal back.”
He takes another step.
<.>
Rather than encouraging Jack to think of the error of his ways, it fills him with a thrill-sparked terror. He almost laughs, does let out a hysterical not-quite-giggle, humorless and panicked, when Orev strides toward him looking thunderous.
He shivers. Takes another step, angling for the door -
Then turns to run.
<.>
It's an instinctive reaction.
He doesn't have time to plan. This recalcitrance, that panicked sound (not displeasing, but he can't appreciate it now, or feel the way it crackles up his spine) warns of rash action, and it occurs to Orev that Jack might plan to do something to the journal, burn it, shred it, and Orev needs those words, for shit's sake it's all he has, and his hand's raising, conjuring a spectral chain, shifting black and deep red light.
He casts Chain of Conviction, and hurls the chain at Jack.