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 Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 5:39 pm
He had thought about his (small) victory for several days following the encounter with Harland.
Not so much about the cowboy himself (though his inability to figure out Harland Leander Belle ate away at him, just like it ate away at him that he could not decipher Maebe's mind either), but about the feel of his hand beneath his own, the touch of skin against skin, however brief it had been.
It felt strange. And sick and triumphant and nervewracking and pleasant all at once.
He hated this sort of indecision; this sort of wishy washy, unhelpful nonsense that usually made people do stupid things. Alistaire had tried taking his gloves off and doing things around the room without them on, had tried touching Ian's hand while he had slept (rudely taking the bed without permission yet again; the idiot needed to go back to his own room), but it hadn't worked, and he'd drawn back before ever following through.
Alistaire tried not to dwell on what Harland had said, either.
"If someone's hurt you..."
He sat now in his room, the door locked. Ian was out (thankfully), doing heaven knew what. Alistaire ground his teeth together, clenched his fingers, and then pulled out the phone, absently twisting it in his (gloved) hands. After a few moments, Alistaire tapped on the screen, flipping through his - admittedly very short list - of contacts until he found the name he was looking for.Face your demons Text to Harland Leander Belle:My room. Ten minutes.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 5:47 pm
Harland was always in the middle of doing something. This time, he was in the middle of getting dressed again after he'd just worked out and then showered. Flipping his phone open, he was immensely grateful the text hadn't arrived a mere twenty minutes ago, when he was still enjoying the hell out of some hot water and those billion bars of soap he owned.
He towel-dried his hair one last time, and fished under his desk into the wooden cupboards he'd built that fit snugly on either side and beneath it. Good for storing his files and other objects, especially since his room was pretty small and very sparsely decorated. He had spent way more time fixing Lilac's room up than he ever would on his own.
He grabbed a bottle and a couple of glasses, and put them inside a cardboard box that was leaning beside the door. He'd used to to transport all his reading material around, but had meant to recycle it tonight or tomorrow or sometime in the near future. It would do. At least this time Harland was well-rested and it wasn't the middle of the night and he had some notion of what Alistaire'd ask for.
It seemed like, for someone obsessed with good manners, it was a strange habit not to reply to his text messages... and yet he had developed it nonetheless. Harland threw on a clean shirt, buttoned it up, and headed over to Alistaire's without his bandanna or hat. Things he'd previously never be caught dead without. He leaned against the frame, one leg balanced behind the other and bent, and knocked against the door gently.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 6:26 pm
It took a moment for Alistaire to actually answer the door, preoccupied with his own inner musings. It was only when Grimshaw made a low growl of curiosity that he realized that someone was outside of the door. Pushing himself to his feet slowly, Alistaire rounded the bed and crossed the room to the door, pulling it open.
"Good evening," he said, stepping aside to let Harland in, and though it was evening, Alistaire was still fully dressed, minus his coat. A pair of dark slacks, an emerald green vest over a white dress shirt and a black tie, as well as his customary black gloves tugged on over his fingers.
Alistaire's room was not exactly warm and cheerful, though it wasn't terrible. It consisted of a single bed pushed against the far wall, beneath the window (which was closed, the curtains drawn shut); a small and sturdy desk kitty corner to it, with books and papers stacked neatly atop of it, a simple wheeled chair in front of it; and other than those two pieces of furniture, the room was relatively sparse. The closet door was open, revealing all of Alistaire's clothes hanging (color coordinated), though there were a few miscellaneous items on the floor: a black teeshirt, a pair of torn jeans.
Alistaire's face reddened slightly with annoyance. He left the doorway to move to the closet, snatching up his brother's discarded clothes and tossing them into the laundry basket, his fingers itching to be washed, though he suppressed the urge.
"Have a seat anywhere you'd like," he said quietly, as he turned back to Harland. He felt oddly ill at ease.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 7:28 pm
Harland wasn't off to the best start. "Good evenin to ye," Harland greeted him in return, with a tip of an invisible hat. He wasn't off to the best start, because as soon as he got into the room he couldn't help but spot the clothing as Alistaire tossed it into the laundry basket and wondering: Those look like... why would they be here? He didn't know that Ian stayed there sometimes. It was good that he didn't know.
Harland felt something sad nest inside him. It had begun as soon as he picked up the bottle of whiskey from underneath his desk. Bringing a drink to the brother of the last person with whom he'd shared a drink stirred up way too much of the dormant sting.
It would go away, he reminded himself. It would get easier.
Harland nodded, thanked Alistaire, and actually sat on the floor. He didn't feel comfortable sitting on Alistaire's bed, and he didn't want to take the one chair, so this was what happened. "Back to business?" he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he tried to smile. He took the small bottle out of the cardboard box, handing it to Alistaire. "A gift, like I promised," he said.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 7:48 pm
There was no hat for him to tip, which was vaguely weird, though Alistaire made no mention of it. He shut the door firmly behind Harland and locked it (just in case Ian decided to come back earlier than usual; at the very least, he still did not have a key to the room), and then moved around Harland to busy himself with the papers on the desk, carefully sliding them into the top drawer.
When he turned around again, Harland was sitting on the floor.
"...What are you doing down there," Alistaire asked, half irritated, half confused. "I have a chair, or you can sit on the bed, I suppose, though it's as hard as a rock. Deus Ex Machina does not do well in terms of providing good mattresses for sleeping."
He shook his head and decided not to press it, instead sitting on the edge of the bed himself. This put him at a slightly higher position than Harland, which was unnerving, but Alistaire forced himself to relax - or rather, relax as much as he could.
"I suppose if that's what you want to call it," he said, in terms of the business comment; but Alistaire stretched out his hands to the bottle, smoothing a gloved thumb over the glass.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually follow through, but I suppose that's not surprising," Alistaire said dryly, and set the bottle on the desk for the time being, turning back to Harland. His cheeks were slightly flushed, red creeping up his neck.
He said nothing for several awkward seconds, unsure of where to start, until he finally began tugging at his gloves, pulling one of them off.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 7:58 pm
Harland shrugged a shoulder when he asked. "Seemed rude t' sit on your bed, an' I didn't know if you'd want the chair," he explained. There was, after all, method to his madness. He didn't actually like sitting on the floor, as much as it might seem like that lately. He would have sat next to Alistaire on the bed, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was in someone's personal space. It was foreign to him.
Honestly, Harland didn't know what to call it. He just smiled at Alistaire, shrugging one of his shoulders again.
"Would be rude of me not to follow through," he said, with a more sincere smile. He gently slid his hand under Alistaire's bare one, and brushed his own square fingertips against Alistaire's wrist like Alistaire had done to him, once. It took a bit more effort; Harland's hands were not as slender and long, it was true. Nevertheless, the nails were meticulously trimmed, and his callous wasn't too rough.
Still, not nearly as nice as Alistaire's hands.
"Still progressin'?" he asked, softly, watching for Alistaire's reaction. He also didn't know how to help Alistaire progress. He wondered if the key to it would be to show Alistaire things that he, himself, hid from the light-- maybe if Alistaire got used to the way Harland opened up, he could get Alistaire to mimic it in his own way.
He had no idea. He was trying not to feel nauseous, thinking about Ian.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 8:18 pm
He gave Harland a strange look. "It's a bed, not a marriage certificate," said Alistaire in exasperation. "Sitting on the floor is uncomfortable, not to mention rather unorthodox. Though I suppose I did say to sit wherever you wanted," he added, a little grudgingly.
It took him a moment or two to actually extend his hand, Alistaire stalling for time out of a sense of embarrassment and annoyance; but eventually he laid his arm on his knee and stretched his hand out towards Harland, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable. Gentle fingers touched his palm first and then slid forward towards his wrist, Alistaire flinching involuntarily, gritting his teeth together to stop the flood of nausea that roiled in his stomach automatically.
Breathe. Breathe. Relax. Focus on something else, something else, something else, something, anything -
His eyes had found Harland's left shoe, Alistaire determinedly not making eye contact. He lasted for about three seconds before pulling his hand away, fingers shaking, and he gripped his knee, exhaling a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Progressing," Alistaire muttered, his cheeks flushed. "Not...particularly, no."
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 8:26 pm
Harland's gunmetal green eyes slid towards the floor as he let his hand fall from Alistaire's skin. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, perching there next to Alistaire, quietly. He ran a hand through his wavy hair. "Would be a little uncomfortable t' sleep on a marriage certificate," he said, finally, with an affirmative nod.
"Did ye give any thought to what I'd mentioned?" Harland asked, quietly, his voice low and soft. He was looking at the floor, hands at his sides gripping the edge of the bed. He was referring to addressing the root of the problem, instead of the symptoms themselves.
Harland shut his eyes, and tried to explain as much. "Like... When Ian stopped texting, stopped talkin' to me," Harland began, his face tilted up at the ceiling like whatever light there was was totally sunlight and it would totally warm him up. "I knew somethin' was wrong, but had no power t' change it. Gettin' close to someone just to have 'em ... well, y' know. I kind of hid away," Harland admitted.
He meant every word of what he said. And it hurt to admit it.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 8:59 pm
The bed shifted a little as Harland sat down beside him, and Alistaire kept himself resolutely in the same place, careful not to move in case he came into contact with him; a deliberate space left between them so that Alistaire could breathe properly without worry.
Or at least, not much worry. Alistaire gripped the discarded glove tightly, his fingers twisting the fabric.
"...a little," he muttered. "Not..."
But he trailed off, because this was mostly a lie. He hadn't wanted to think of what Harland had said because thinking about what Harland had said would mean opening doors he wasn't quite sure he was ready to open yet. Then again, he never wanted to open those doors, so perhaps they had come to a wall.
He hadn't expected Harland to be so open about his feelings for Ian; but then again, this was Harland, and from what Alistaire had seen, he tended to wear his heart on his sleeve.
"So," he said flatly, "You want me to...not hide away, is that it? You want me to get close to you?"
Alistaire wasn't entirely certain what Harland was getting at.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 9:05 pm
Harland thought carefully about what Alistaire had replied. He took some time, mulling over the words, and the concept, before he finally came to as close to a conclusion as he'd probably ever get.
"No," he said. "I want you to consider what's behind door number three." Well, that made less sense than he had hoped. It wasn't a goat, it wasn't a car; it wasn't shutting himself away, it wasn't opening up all his secrets.
What did Harland want him to do? The cowboy was silent again, something on the tip of his tongue. Or so he hoped. Maybe it was just a bitterness eating up at him. It was strange for Harland to tell Alistaire how he'd felt about the man's own brother, but it was all Harland could offer; the truly terrible memories of his past with Auberon were sealed away and whitewashed by Protection. He was occasionally in pain, without even knowing why.
"It doesn't have to be me," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I'm hopin' the concept might become more familiar to you. The idea that... instead of thinking about it like hiding and being safe, or revealin' yourself and bein' exposed... Maybe it's more complex than that. Maybe it's the idea that there's nothin' worth hidin'," he tried, again.
Nope. Not so good with words, Cowboy.
Harland exhaled heavily. "Maybe I should just stick to the hands thing for a decade or so," he joked, a wry smile on his face. He turned to actually look at Alistaire.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 9:26 pm
He gave Harland a bemused look, eyebrows drawing together in vague annoyance.
"Okay, fine," said Alistaire flatly. "What's door number three?"
He couldn't figure out what the other man was getting at, Alistaire's fingers absently toying with the glove in his lap. Some of the tension had eased from his shoulders, however, just a little bit, and he'd stopped gritting his teeth, which had become a rather unpleasant habit he needed to break.
"So..." said Alistaire. He struggled to understand this. "Your suggestion is, rather than hide, I should just...be open? Is that it?"
He wasn't sure he could do that. In fact, he could feel the panic welling in his chest at the mere thought of exposing what he'd long buried, his breathing coming out slightly more rapid than before, Alistaire's face paling. He forced himself to stay calm, but the trembling in his hands had increased back to how they'd been before. He gripped his own fingers in an effort to make them stop.
His eyes met Harland's.
"I don't...know if I can..." his voice was thick. He felt dizzy.
"I haven't ever..."
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 9:38 pm
Harland flopped back on the bed, exasperated with his own inability to communicate, exhaling as he scrubbed at his face with his palms. He sat up again, his palms up and out as if saying I've got nothing. He made a sound in the back of his throat to punctuate that.
Except he stopped joking around when Alistaire looked genuinely upset, and he started to reach a hand out only to curl his fingers back in against his palm and rest his hand on his knee. "I want to comfort you, and I can't; don't know how, if I can't touch you," he said, softly.
"But I know you can," he encouraged Alistaire. "If it's me, I won't ever move a hand against you," Harland offered. It was true. He'd die before he'd try to hurt Alistaire.
"Start small, just like with the gloves?"
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 9:46 pm
He'd tried once to say something.
It had been to a therapist that his parents had all but blackmailed him into going to (they had no idea, of course; they were just curious about if OCD was curable or not in spite of Alistaire's constant reminders that he didn't have OCD, he just didn't like messes). Alistaire had gone early in the morning and had sat in the chair and had even almost opened his mouth to say something -
- but nothing had come out. The therapist was quiet and mousey, and seemed very unjudgmental, but Alistaire had been unable to bring himself to even say a single word, sitting there in silence the whole time.
He'd never gone back.
But he'd never gotten better either.
His eyes watched Alistaire's hand come towards him and then stop, drawing back again; and Alistaire's chest tight with the effort of controlling himself, of keeping the panic and the nausea at bay. "Is that what comfort is?" he asked tightly. "Touching?"
But in his head, he knew it to at least be partly true. Ian was a toucher, always leaning on people, always hugging them, wrapping his hands around their fingers or pressing kisses to their cheeks. Alistaire had secretly envied his easy ability, the natural way he seemed to be drawn to people.
They were as polar opposite as it could get, he and his brother.
Alistaire looked down at his own hands, his face burning with shame and anger, both at himself and at Ian, but also partly at Harland, for somehow managing to expose the raw parts of him he had tried for years to keep buried beneath layers of calm and careful building.
"Guide me," he said quietly. "Tell me what to do next."
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 10:07 pm
Harland remembered therapists. Harland remembered hospitals, and small rooms; cots, and pills; antiseptic, and isolation. Not because he'd been through them, but because he'd led Auberon through the maze that was mental illness as best he could. He didn't remember Auberon had ended it.
He thought Auberon had recovered, and grown distant from him. Somewhere living a miscellaneous happy life. So if he'd known that Alistaire had been sent to a therapist like that, he would have understood even better where Alistaire was coming from. Opening up to people like that was nearly impossible.
"It's comfort to me," he replied, nodding his head.
And that was one reason Ian had gotten to him so easily; the casual touching, how he occupied the space so close to the Irish cowboy that Harland could practically feel his blood heat up. Harland pushed those thoughts out of his head. It wasn't decent to have them about someone who was taken.
Alistaire's voice slipped through the fog and the confusion in his memories, and Harland was startled by Alistaire's request. He thought very carefully about it, and finally asked: "Would you lean against me, and tell me what your favourite colour is?"
A little bit of both. A piece of him as he was inside, and being physically close to Harland. Just for a second; colour words were short, weren't they? An easy request.
In a relative sense.
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Posted: Fri May 09, 2014 10:20 pm
It was a comfort to a lot of people, Alistaire knew, and maybe once upon a time he had known what that meant; the casual brush of a hand over his hair, a gentle touch of fingers against his shoulder, someone pressing a kiss to his cheek. He had known, a long time ago, that these were gestures of affection and comfort.
But he had long since forgotten them, or at least how they felt anymore. Now he just felt a terrible ache, a sense of panic and nausea at every touch, every look that lingered too long. It was a horrible way to live, being afraid of every thing - and that's what it was, though he tried very hard to deny it.
He was afraid.
Alistaire pushed it back, swallowed the old feelings up and replaced them with new ones, cold and calculating and careful. He turned his head to look at Harland sitting next to him and the request startled him, Alistaire jerking a little.
He tugged his glove back on and tried to focus on that instead of the impending connection; but he wouldn't get anywhere, anywhere if he could not surpass this one obstacle that loomed in front of him as tall as a mountain.
He gritted his teeth.
Carefully, slowly, Alistaire shifted on the bed. His shoulder brushed against Harland's once, twice, and then he pressed closer, turning his head so that his hair fell into his face and covered his eyes, blocked the red flush of angry humiliation that had spread across his cheeks.
It was at least easier to do this while still wearing layers over his skin, though it still sent pinpricks of discomfort throughout him, like pins and needles on steroids.
"Green," Alistaire mumbled. "I like green."
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