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 Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 1:47 pm
Harland leaned back, looking up at his ceiling, and thought: A new life. But it wasn't new, not really; all of the information, all of the things he had accumulated, they all slept inside his head. His memory was too good to just start over like that. No, he was still himself, just in a new place. A better place, where he could become stronger. "I don't mind bein' me," he said, quietly.
Still, he had listened, and the way he looked at Ian in that moment, for just a split second, was a lot more sincere: Harland was seeing the person Ian had admitted to being, indirectly, the desires that Ian must shelter inside himself. Harland smiled, gradually, as if to say: It's okay if you want to be someone else, though.
"Lookin' hard is half the fun part," he said, with a grimace that eased into a smile again as he shrugged, laughing. He stretched and got to his feet too, also in need of not-sitting. "Would be nice to take a walk," he said, "or anythin' that isn't sittin' down. I don't do the relaxing thing very well," he admitted.
He didn't answer Ian's comment about learning that he was interesting. He just didn't know what to say.
He did, on top of that, turn bright red again as Ian stood in front of him; he'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't been prepared to have him right there. He looped his thumbs through the beltloops of his pants, standing with his feet apart, grinning at Ian. "You'd do that for me, a diabhal?" he asked. Irish. He reached out to clasp Ian's shoulder firmly in one of his calloused hands, squeezing it. "Still owe you a real drink," Harland said, shaking his head.
Holding onto Ian's shoulder for a heartbeat too long, Harland blushed even harder and then took his hand back, looping it in his belt again. "You feelin' warm in here, too? Or is that just me."
Harland loved it when Ian called him cowboy and was afraid to tell him that, on the off chance it would make him stop.
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 2:37 pm
He saw Harland not as a friend, but as an idea.
There was a difference, he supposed, in being one thing when really everyone else saw you as something else. He was not a nice person; he had already told this to Shiloh, with mixed results, and to that girl Ariane, who had pretty much seen what he had wanted her to see. Namely the careless arrogance that he was so used to having, that had become ingrained into his mind.
The guard around his heart was so thick it was near impossible to believe it would ever come down.
Ian stood in front of Harland with a small, calculating smile on his face. His hand felt warm and heavy on his shoulder, and when it dropped away, the smile had grown just a fraction bigger, Ian running a thumb along the glass neck of the empty bottle still in his hand.
He took a step closer.
"I can make it cooler, if you'd like," he said lightly.
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 2:58 pm
It was easy enough for Harland to be whatever he wanted; mostly, he isolated himself with books and with learning. They were his shields, information and facts protected him from the sharp pain of the precise quality his memories maintained no matter the time that passed because so long as he was busy knowing he'd never have to feel.
Some things, it seemed, were more insistent than facts, however. Such as Harland's quickening pulse.
Body, yer a traitor, Harland complained internally.
☆≼Shall I sing you a song about the devil and the cowboy?≽ Coyote asked, amused, ☆≼or maybe you should just start saying your prayers, Harland Leander Belle.≽
"Times like this I wish I was a religious man-- Ní féidir leat guí an diabhal ar shiúl, a Choyote," Harland said, aloud to no one in particular at first, and then to Coyote. Coyote's laughter echoed within him. As Ian's smile widened and he took a step closer to Harland, Harland didn't move away. It was like playing chicken, or betting he'd never get drunk.
He was making bets he couldn't win.
"Ye can? By standin' closer?..." Harland asked, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard and refused to move, his eyes glinting with a sort of feverdream look. "I'm very sober," he said. He meant it, too. It was inaccurate.
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 3:25 pm
He didn't understand the Irish, but it was still pleasant to hear all the same. Ian tilted his head and gave Harland a scrutinizing look, a slow smile curving his lips upwards as he leaned closer, his face mere inches away. For a moment it seemed as though he might kiss him, and for a moment (or more than a moment) Ian had been planning to do just that because Harland was attractive and fun and he was curious what the reaction would be if he did.
But then he looked at the red flush to Harland's cheeks, the bright fervor in his eyes and knew that despite what Harland had said, he was most definitely not sober. And despite everything, despite the fact that Harland was attractive and the fact that this was very much an opportune moment, and contrary to all evidence, Ian was not the type to take advantage of someone drunk.
"Blow out the candles," he whispered, and then patted Harland's chest, laughing. He held up the empty bottle, dangling it between his fingers as he took several steps backwards, fingers slipping away. "I should get going," he said with a wink before turning around fully to face the door. "Gotta lot of sleeping off the booze to do after such a lovely evening, and so do you."
He waved a hand over his shoulder. "Hope you have lovely dreams, cowboy."
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Posted: Mon Sep 23, 2013 9:22 pm
Harland sucked in a breath, as Ian leaned so close to his face. He wished he didn't want that as much as he did, and he still didn't move. Looks like if he could do nothing else, standing still was something he could manage. He wasn't blackout drunk, but he definitely wasn't sober. It seemed like a shame, then, and he thought for a moment that Ian really did know how to make someone feel colder: make them warmer, then move. Harland laughed, startled, as Ian pulled away, and reached out quicker than he normally moved in an attempt to snag Ian's hand as the latter was nearly leaving.
"Just a moment," he protested, "It meant can't pray away the devil," he explained, before smiling in a lopsided way. He fully intended on listening to Ian, blowing out the candles, and going to sleep. "Ian--" he started, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Instead, he shook his head, and attempted to bring Ian's hand up to his lips so he could brush a soft kiss across the knuckles.
"I suppose you don't need me to escort you back t' your room," he said, "unless you think there'll be some trouble on the way back then good night, Ian, a diabhal."
Harland, if his attempt at the hand-grabbing was successful, relinquished his hold on Ian's hand and stepped back into the warmth of his room. He saved this memory, too: the image of Ian in his doorway. He smiled.
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