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 Posted: Mon Oct 10, 2016 3:44 pm
& I WANNA SING--
I WANNA SHOUT
i wanna scream 'til the words dry out.
│CREATED BY nowSERENITY
│· In and around the home of Krish D'Juan.
│· A nebulous timeframe, but definitely after this.
│· Closed thread.
│· Julian & Krish.
│· All the feels. All of them. Forever.
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Posted: Tue Oct 11, 2016 12:00 am
![User Image]() ![User Image]()
He was, to the best of his ability, a fastidious house guest.
His work wardrobe stayed at work, part of the Narcissus costume closet shared amongst the lesser staff, nothing to Julian but a uniform to be donned at the start of a shift and then removed before the walk home. His other things, the objects he owned-- thrift store jeans and tees that clung to his slightly-healthier shape, worn to softness in a thousand washings before the azurette ever came across them-- were always cleaned, folded, tucked inside the duffel bag that had, of necessity, replaced his old backpack as a catch-all form of storage. With the letters and the other odds and ends. Some were, admittedly, more odd than others. A sealed jar of some chocolate spread that, despite preservatives, was beginning to approach expiration. A particularly clear chunk of quartz almost the length of Julian's thumb. A set of pink headphones he'd rescued from a tag sale somewhere down the street. Steinbeck's East of Eden and T.H. White's The Once and Future King. Both thumbed to the point of having their covers taped in place. All these and more made their home in the duffel, and the duffel-- except for the times when Julian needed to add or remove something from it--made its home behind Krish's couch, so that unless someone was really looking, it was almost like the ink mage didn't live there at all. He was a ghost in the walls, leaving for long stretches of time, ducking in again to leave little offerings on the counter of the kitchen whenever there was money in his pocket. Always working or looking for work or traipsing across town for the mandatory visits to the vicious little caim who'd been assigned as his parole officer. Then across town in a different direction, the next day, to sit in Marie's tiny office with the paint peeling on the walls, listening to her say that it's good he's making so much of an effort, but. It's very responsible that he wants to be employed, and he's showing a good work ethic, but.. She's glad that he's put on some weight, because it's important for him to take care of his body, but..
But he can't keep running.
From what? And the smile. Because Marie, for all her good intentions, wasn't anyone he could open up to. Looking at her, anyone could see that the woman cared about her job, but maybe she didn't understand that all her pushing was pointless. She kept talking about bottled emotions and dams breaking and self-imposed isolation, and Julian would nod and wait for her to go on, because what was he supposed to do? Give her the tearful list of all the big bad things that went bump in the night? Say how, sometimes, he'd wake up on the couch he refused to abandon and, in the dark, bite down on his own wrist to make sure he didn't make any panic-sick noises that might wake the man in the other room? Say how, far up on his forearm, near the inner bend of his elbow, he kept a tiny shape inked into his skin so that he wouldn't lose track of how many days until things got really, really bad? Say how he knew that he was living out of what looked like a bug-out bag, and that maybe that was the truth of it, because with how much attention he pays to Krish, Julian could see the pain he was causing, like ripples in an otherwise placid pond? Better to be ready to go. Better to take up as little space as possible, and never talk about how he came back that first night and spilled all his mess over his best friend's life, and try to be some facsimile of the person he'd been Before, because even the azurette wasn't sure what to make of the one he was becoming. Show that he cared, that he was grateful, by causing as little fuss as he could, cleaning along after himself like some genetically inferior Ethan Hawke trying desperately to get to space. Gattaca. That was a Gattaca reference, so clearly he was still Julian. Somewhere, on some level. Some things were still the same. He could focus on those. Push the rest down. Forget. It couldn't be changed, so what did Marie expect? What did she want?
To give him a composition notebook and the same line the group counselor had given everyone in their fold-out aluminum chairs, scooted up in a circle like they knew and supported one another. It can be hard, saying things out loud when they're painful. Even if you don't feel comfortable sharing with someone else, it might be cathartic to write it down. Let it out. Let it go. Be your very own princess Elsa, Julian. The cold never bothered you, anyway.
Marie meant well, so he told her he'd think about it. Took the mottled black-and-white book, tucked it in the backpack he wore around town, to show that she hadn't been wasting her effort. Once upon a time, he'd have felt guilty under the weight of even that little white lie, like letting down someone who was mostly a stranger was unforgivable. Once upon a time, he'd been an elephant faithful, one hundred percent. See? Fine. Referencing Horton Hears a ******** Who. But he'd learned a lot of things in the last year, and one of those things was that sometimes you just told outsiders what they wanted to hear, so that you could get on with what you had to do. They felt better that way. Stopped pushing once they believed they would get what they wanted. And maybe Marie would ask the next week if the journaling had helped him at all, and he would say, Oh, yes. I really do write like I'm running out of time. And she wouldn't get the joke-- Krish would-- but maybe she'd assume he was making progress and his meetings could decrease to every other week. Eventually, they'd all say he was fine and stop nudging him for words, for information, for breakdowns that were supposed to precede healing.
In the hall outside Marie's office, he checked the calendar on the wall. Confirmed what he already knew from the gnawing anxiety at the back of his throat, the added irritation. Under his sleeve, the mark on his arm changed. No more than freckle-sized. So easy to miss. Just a little waxing gibbous, tying his stomach in knots. Making it harder to smile and hold the door for the strangers walking into the building. Harder to walk away from them, too, once he was outside on the street, because that put his back to them, meant he couldn't see where they were, what they were doing. On one hand, Julian felt pitiful, glancing back over his shoulder, trying for nonchalant, just to make sure the people walking into his assault counselor's office weren't going to, you know, assault him. On the other, rational impulse or not, the azurette felt safer once he did it and found no one there behind him. Just paranoia, creeping up. That was all. Some kind of post-traumatic fear response because someday soon the moon would be in the sky, all big and round, and this time the inkwell would be able to look up and see it, and--
No.
It took a second, but he moved down the sidewalk, and made it another five blocks before he had to stop for traffic when the road narrowed down a bit. Convenience store across the way, gas station on its opposite corner, and there was a stairwell down to the subway a ways off, but that would be worse than walking. The press of unknown people in a rank, confined space would be more than Julian could take, especially now. If he'd had half a clue how close he really was, maybe the azurette would have felt a fraction more at ease. Better by proximity. As it was, he just kept moving, as had become his primary tactic from the second he set foot outside on the day he'd been released. Marie said he was trying to shark his way through recovery, never slowing down, never stopping, and Julian couldn't exactly argue. But sharing wouldn't do any good. It was a catch twenty-two. He could open up to strangers who didn't care, who looked at him without seeing him, and lay himself bare only to find that how he felt hadn't changed. Or he could lay those burdens on people he trusted-- people like Krish and Maluk and Leon-- and watch them hurt because he was hurting. The azurette had seen his best friend's face, had seen the tears on his sleeve, the night Julian arrived with the bursting need to say out loud what had happened. To acknowledge it outside of the context of the prison infirmary and more time in solitary confinement "for his protection." If he could take the knowledge back, if he could soothe it away so that there had been no transference of suffering, he would do it in an instant. But he couldn't.
All he could do was walk the forty-five minutes across town, and climb the stairs Krish had chased him down in the dark to bring him back when he ran. Stand on the doorstep, and knock like a guest, even though the other man had been kind-- and practical-- enough to copy a key for him. It was a courtesy, a consideration, the least he could do in an effort to respect his friend's privacy after he'd ruined the only date he'd ever heard of Krish going on. And he waited that way for half a minute, finally interpreting the silence on the other side of the door as an indication that the other man wasn't yet home. So Julian let himself in, slipping through the smallest gap he could make in the entryway, as though opening the passage any wider might allow for something threatening to sneak in behind him. The inkwell felt better once he thumbed the lock. More secure. The reason why was absurd, one he couldn't even articulate in his own head without an accompanying sense of confused discomfort.
It took all his willpower not to go from room to room, making sure each one was empty. There were times-- always when Krish was away-- that he lost that particular struggle, and the only thing that kept the azurette from the edge of panic was checking behind every door, leaving each one open-- all but the one to the outside-- so that he could be certain. It was embarrassing, even though he'd managed never to succumb to the impulse when the other man was present. He always worried that Krish knew somehow. That any added evidence that Julian wasn't as he'd once been would be another source of unhappiness. So he forced himself to toe out of his shoes, tucking them neatly off to the side. Made himself shrug the backpack from his shoulders so that he could retrieve the contents, distract himself momentarily by placing his little thank-yous on the counter. A mango, red and yellow, fragrant even through the skin of it, which he handled gingerly. Two peaches, softly fuzzed. And then, of course, into the refrigerator, a boxed package of Rainier cherries, golden, but with a flush to them.
And each time he retrieved an item, his knuckles brushed the notebook.
Flimsy, bendable, the kind of thing kids took to school to write their class notes in, and Marie wanted him to fill it with word vomit.
"Dear diary..Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy.." Musing idly, flipping through the blank pages. College ruled. How much did she really think there was to say? Standing there at the counter, the book splayed open in front of him, Julian let his elbows rest on the surface. One hand curled into his own hair, cradling his skull at the temple, but the other seemed to almost pet across the pages. Considering. Really thinking about it for a long moment. Finally reaching for a pen.
These are the things I know, he spelled out. Simple, flawless script of a good note taker. Good penmanship, of course. It would be shameful otherwise, considering the vein of his magic. I'm not like I was, and that scares me. Me not being alright hurts the people that care about me, and that scares me, too. A lot of things do. I'm just getting better at lying about it. After everything, I'm not sure what version of me this is, and most of all I think.. I'm going to disappoint people. I'm going to let them down. I'm not going to be what they want. I won't be able to function. Maybe that's just something I do. Maybe that explains everything. Maybe, deep down, I already know. So even if I could find him--
And there he halted. Staring at the pen against the paper. Finally reaching out with his other hand. Covering the ink on the page. Drawing it out, pulling it in, leeching his own fears down under his skin. It didn't matter if the pigment gave him a headache once it finally started to mix with his own supply. That was incidental. That was to be expected. That, he could take.
It was better than finishing the sentence.
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Posted: Sun Oct 23, 2016 7:25 am
 
Incredibly, he ended up not being confronted by his former friend. Because he was pretty former. There was a hostility that Krish found unwarranted and tiring, and looks on his back that didn’t warrant coffee shop study sessions the best anymore.
With the new silences of an empty corner and chair, Krish was allowed more time to reflect without the company of others. He’d gotten himself a pair of earphones after his last ones had broke under the force of a clenching and relaxing grip another night, which was alright. It wasn’t something to cry over. Actually, Julian’s presence in the house was more positive for the slave than he’d thought. He found himself to be back on his toes. The others job took him away to the streets, searches and office visits out to the towns. If time slotted together, there were ample hours to clean and spasm on his lonesome. Nerves sensitive, he found himself aware of so much that had been left alone living by himself. The signs of stress in coffee rings on the table and stale bread left quiet on counters. To busy his hands, he flew around the house to slide pill bottles into this compartment and order books this way and make these dishes were clean but not- to- cl e a n because that would mean he’s acting on compulsions, and he’s normal, a normal man living a good life. A lucky life.
Sometimes, things would get a little quiet and the man would stay curled on the couch with a cup of energy. Strange without Julian. He was away in his own place of existence and progress, talking to some whats-it whoever. Krish was supportive of the mandated visits. Not just because the thought of his closest friend going to jail or being admonished for lack of progress was physically suffocating, but because the change in Julian was nice to see. Integrating himself into the society they inhabited, talking to others beside the residents of the apartment, which was really just the two of them… The sight of his friend blossoming on his own was generally pleasing. Not blossoming yet. Maybe reaching the peaks of the evenings where the petals folded out to curiously taste the air; the moments of beauty where the fear and restraint, the learned behavior that Julian had built up in prison finally took a backseat to the importance of living again. Krish, too, lived.
He went far out from the towns to curl his car awkwardly around cones and parking lots. His shoulders were always tense and he yelled as much as he would allow himself in the dusty spaces of abandoned malls or construction sites. Then, after a quick wash, he maintained the illusion of normal grown adult male living person who did, in fact, know how to operate a vehicle and did, in fact, have a valid driver’s license. Thankfully, whenever he took Julian out it was on bike or on foot. No reason to risk both of their lives. And it wasn’t even about the potential threat of being pulled over but the fact that Krish’s tendency to spit curses and whimper at every new threat on the road, like left turns, wouldn’t be healthy for either of them. Calm air, good vibes.
An art studio fifty minutes away closed down by the park. He found its halls refurbishable with the strong and tidy walls that held him in his wailing spirit. His fondness for creeping was heightened by avoiding any negativity besides work headaches around his dearest friend. The emptiness allowed him to zone in peace, bore the weight of his assaults before he petted and went tender towards the shot put punches that were like punctures in the still carcass of the building. Pangs of emotion rippled in him sometimes. That Julian shared so much of himself in all his strengths and fragile moments. Why withhold? Well, that’s a stupid question. To help Julian, he himself had to be a block in life- steady, sure, growing and weathered down by natural forces. He was the provider, the helper, the calmer; he spent many nights with the man draped over him, comfortable silences mingling with sleep-addled slurs. Sometimes Julian would permit him to strokes his hair but Krish would never chance more than two sweeps or lightly toying with the ends before resuming regular behavior. That, that was the Krish that needed to be in the home. That was him.
In these walls, he had no name.
A slave again, ripping and tearing at targets that meant only a means to an end. The pleasure of his master or reward for good behavior. They’d never taught him how to read but he was given a book of pictures to learn from, each drawing out the details of how to murder someone in all sorts of fashions. Without learning, he would go without food. Without learning, he would go without warmth. Even the mat of the hard floor would be nothing for him and the pleasures of sheets and cushions would he be denied. They made him kill rabbits and dogs. The world had all been roses to prune. He clipped their heads, their perfume extinguished, nothing to tempt the wolf from his tracking mission.
As his nails ripped at plaster and feet pulled slow, the undersides and remnants of metal sticking to his soles, Krish slurred languages he knew no one knew. Pounded codes into walls. Made his mark. Someone that didn't exist, only ink, and he made his blood the signature, its too dark dribble sticking to inflamed knuckles through the metal and magic that made it hum. The sight and smell of it only fueled the banal actions. After time passed, Krish would lie with a cigarette and smoke idly, sweating, wounds already healing as he let his spent body catch up to the world. His axis slowly angled again and realigned.
Krish changed into some sweats and went to do some yoga. He rode his bike home after and ran errands, picking up doubles on the way from the local café. As he bounded up the stairs, excitement settled into a content and happiness to see Julian home again. He was back around this time. “As they say in the Nihongese, tadima!” Keys, counter. Shoes, off. His hair was catching greys and he knew his moustache was going to start feeling it, too. He peeled off the thin sweatshirt he wore to take it to the hamper, making his presence aware before he kissed the back of Julian’s head and went to pull on a t-shirt. “How was your day? Everything going well?”
The notebook sat blank again; it made his heart sink, but again, he could empathize. It wasn’t easy coming. That’s why confession was so quiet and closed and the headiness of churches provided that pressure to spill over. That’s why it was so dark and each side faced opposite ways. When he put himself in Julian’s shoes, Freaky Friday took over. The whiplash was instantaneous but there was abundance in similarities. Niggling thoughts plagued him. Would he have been better if he attended a therapist, got actual help?
what kind of psychiatrist was he when he couldn't even help the person that mattered
What did he expect when he couldn't even help himself.
The modest income the small practice made was enough for food, for rent. As often as Krish was outside of his home, he didn't shop for clothes or new products. The only thing outside of necessities he bought were in the form of trinkets and helpful beliefs, like crystals and succulents for his windowsill and the little patio. He bought old movies and raggedy books for Julian, and today was pressed to present a gift from his bag.
“So… You're no intern or anything. You don't have to do anything fancy. But I thought, with what you can do and all, a little more magic wouldn't hurt? Cheesy,”
he chided himself, an afterthought mumbled, as he presented the two little ink bottles- gold and turquoise- and a nibbed pen. A feather came with it for extra flourish. Krish set both next to the empty notebook and began with words and steps before Julian could even shoot off at the sound of whatever gun happened to stay cocked and loaded in his head.
“I don't really get you anything and think of this as a housewarming present or celebration of our long lasting friendship, which was in large part, due to our way with amorous words and penned puns so I got it for its symbolism and because when you're not using it, I can use it. And if you try to not take it then I'll just leave it around the house and make it so you have no choice but to use it.” He rattled this off as he traveled from bedroom and back, tying the drawstrings of sweatpants with a fresh scrub on his face and closed eyes. Back to the bedroom to finish, the ensuing silence including the sound of a running faucet. Voice projected to bounce from the ducked position of his head in the sink, he continued:
“And you know how I love to give you freedom of choice and decision and I’m not pushy but my love is just something you’re gonna have to deal with, bucko, because it’s displayed by material endeavors and motifs, and if that’s not the most precious thing you’ve ever felt, then we’re going to marathon all of the Bratz movies plus the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and only THEN will you s e e e eeeeeeee.”
ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆ ℳ i s s ed ▆▆▆▆▆▆
xxxxxxxxxnow you've got to kiss me...
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Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2016 10:04 pm
![User Image]() ![User Image]()
Nothing could ever just be one thing. That was the difficulty. Like ogres and onions, cakes and parfaits, Julian St Jude was a thing with layers. The problem lay in trying to navigate them, pin them down, because they were constantly in the process of shifting. The azurette understood implicitly the person he'd been Before, just like he was aware that he wasn't precisely that person Now. Or possibly Ever Again. Sediment and sentiment piled up, and it was probably impossible to dig back down to the start, drag the old Julian up to the surface and try to make him live there. That was then. This was now. The space in between those two points was hazy, and part of that was something Marie talked about a lot. How the mind tried to protect itself by making uncomfortable memories into grainy VHS instead of glaring high-definition. Another part of it was the sheer number of head injuries he'd accrued when he was behind bars. And yet another was the magnitude of all the things he didn't know. The things he'd judged incorrectly. The things he still didn't understand. Never would, because the only person who could shed any actual light on the subject was gone, out of reach. Had never been someone Julian could reach out to in the first place. Maybe.
I thought and I believed and but maybe and why. Around and around again, in the night when he was meant to sleep, curled on the couch. There were moths behind his eyelids and moths in his throat, and battering his ribcage from the inside, muffling the heavy, hectic beat of his heart. And down in the dark, down in the Ink where the light didn't so much as flicker anymore, he thought, sold and given and abandoned and discarded. And that was worse than his face against the tiles, because the bruising healed, didn't it, so what was there to cry over? It was worse than the pressure and then the burn and the way something inside him tore deep and went bloodwet. The scream in his throat and the thumbs over his closed eyes, pushing, warning, keeping his sobs silent under the threat of more violent invasion. Red and then dark and the quiet of being unconscious. Gone away. Not a person, just a body. Not the first time, just the worst time. And then, infirmary. And then, hospital. And then, fluorescent lights on the unpainted canvas of his too-beaten body while they fit the parts back together again. Some poor caim, somewhere, probably. Shame, putting someone through that. Anyone. Guilt, that they felt any of it, instead of putting him down like an animal too far beyond help.
The thing that was worse was how reality shifted so often that he couldn't pin down how anything really had been. Sometimes it was kept and held and protected and cared for and he clung to those moments, shrouded himself in them until the tide turned and left the beach bare. Left him feeling childish and naive and so ******** stupid, because why would any of those things be true? What was there in him to inspire any of those things in anyone else? He'd been owned, really. Had felt secure in that knowledge, after a while. Safe, in the understanding that he was Odin's. Other people weren't allowed to touch him. Until they were. Because that was what it was, wasn't it? He'd told himself otherwise, staring at the ceiling tiles, arms strapped down to a hospital bed because even a non-violent offender was still a convict and it turned out being restrained after repeated sexual assault wasn't comforting, but that was just too bad.
He didn't know. But he'd been there one minute, gone the next. They hurt him. Made him not help me. And how he'd agonized over that, terrified that he'd caused the werewolf harm in some roundabout way. Cried in the dark, restrained to the hospital cot, between doses of sedative, not just because he'd been raped and beaten and left for dead, but because Odin never would have let that happen, and that meant he was hurt or he'd been killed. Julian's fault. He'd been trapped with that belief for a handful of days. And then prison again, and he'd seen the blonde in passing, before being put back into isolation, where he would be safe, at least until he tried to kill himself a second time. At first, there was the absurd relief, the heartbroken gratitude that somehow, despite everything, Odin had seemed alright. Seemed fine. Seemed untouched. But then.. Why? Doubt. Worry. Anxiety. Guilt that he didn't trust implicitly, didn't unwaveringly believe, even after all Odin's kindnesses. All the restraint he'd shown. All the times he'd protected the azurette. Shame, because Julian hadn't always been this way-- hadn't always been unable to accept something good without turning it every which way to look for the sharp edges. Odin was safe, and he should have been happy. Would have been happy, Before. But now things were cold and they were quiet and they were still, and in the stillness the light flickered and went dark, and he could taste a thousand tiny wings on his tongue, soft-bodied moths between his teeth. And all there was then was, He knew. He let them. Why?
Even if he somehow brought himself to open his mouth, what would he say? Who would he say it to? Why say anything at all when how he felt about things shifted so drastically from one second to the next?
The inkwell had thought long and hard about going to the Steps. Maluk was his friend. He owed the caim an explanation for how long he'd been gone, without a word, without any notice. But he also knew that if he went there before he was ready, he'd fall on Maluk's mercy and submit the older man to the things that crawled around inside his skull, the memory of things that went deeper than bruises and blood. The price of that relief would be the caim's suffering, and Julian knew that, too. But if Maluk offered to help him, he wouldn't be strong enough to decline. Not yet. Take this away. Take this out of me. Make me like I was. Make me something else. Make me anything, but don't let me stay like this. Caring and missing and hating and fearing and wondering and-- Except that wasn't how it worked. The azurette knew that. It might lessen, but it would never leave, and that wasn't worth hurting Maluk. Wasn't worth the chance that, in seeing what he'd become, in feeling it, the caim might look at him differently. It was hard to picture judgment on the older man's face, but it wasn't hard to be afraid of it anyway.
Julian had learned to be afraid of a lot of things.
And even if the particulars eluded him-- left blank like the notebook on the counter, details fuzzed down to generalities-- Krish knew. It hung between them in the moments between quip and laughter, and on the nights when the azurette crawled tearful and embarrassed into the bed to fold against the metalmancer's chest, unspeaking. Tucked there, arms folded in around his own slim frame, he remained in the circle of Krish's warmth for hours at a time, only to return to the couch before sleep took him. Moments like those were evidence. Moments like those made it clear that however much more often Julian had learned to smile, there was something fractured underneath, trapped in a loop, unable to escape. So he tried to stay in the dark, on his own, until things were at their worst. Krish didn't need to babysit him. Krish didn't need to feel like he'd been handed a burden. More than anything, Krish didn't need to be under the impression that he had to soldier on once that burden inevitably became too much.
Julian worried often that it was already happening. That it had begun the moment he opened his mouth and acknowledged what had probably been all too obvious the night he arrived. The spoken word was treacherous that way. Couldn't be taken back, the way he absorbed the written ones and felt the low pulse of the headache behind his left eye. And Krish tried so hard, showed such compassion, made so many efforts to humor all of the azurette's broken pieces and seam them back together again with gold. It was there in how he announced his presence even after the turn of the key in the lock. His own home, but he made sure Julian could tell it was a friend returning, so that the younger mage didn't tense or startle the way he'd been prone to at the beginning. And the way the inkwell didn't turn from his place at the counter was a compliment, a display of trust, a sign that here, with this person, he felt safe. It was the willful suspense of instincts he'd learned to rely on. It was one of the ways Julian tried to give the impression of recovery and functionality.
"Huānyíng huí jiā." Good pronunciation, that, good tone, but still Americanized, and certainly not an accompaniment to the metal mage's take on Japanese. It was the remnant of a second generation immigrant trying to impart some of her culture to a child that had already allowed his brothers to anglicize his name. Of course, that was the even more distant past, and Julian didn't really talk about that either. Still, it came with a smile-- one that grew into a little chop of laughter when he felt the other man dropping a kiss into his mane. A familiarity, this kind of affection. A reflexive action, a kindness, but meaningful for the ink mage. Reassuring, and a cornerstone of Julian's slow-growing ability to accept contact from a select few. Krish was known and safe and trusted. Krish brought the sun into the room, and when the azurette turned to follow his progress it was for normal, everyday reasons. The comfort of seeing a well-liked face, rather than a driving paranoia or fear. When the man was gone, it was easy to experience everything sharply, agonizingly. Those things were, from the moment the metalmancer opened the door, a little further away, blessedly distant. Krish carried with him a loop of time in which it was hard for the ghosts to keep their haunting. As though, with his brightness, with the beauty that shone out of him, Julian's friend could sometimes burn the shadows away. Those were the moments that made something twist in his chest, because they were like candied almonds at a wedding: for the bitter and the sweet. Maybe, Before, things could have been different. Maybe if he'd ever turned, a long time ago, to catch one of the kisses aimed at his crown. But no, even then there'd been complications, issues of propriety, the fear of losing someone precious by trying to hold them too tight. And now? On top of everything else, the confusing sense that those kinds of what ifs were somehow disloyal.
Nothing could ever just be one thing. Lauryn Hill had said it best: Everything is everything.
"Regular John Watson. Nothing happens to me." There was humor in it, the kind of in-joke that passed for regular communication between them. Indecipherable to most others. Pleasant smile, casual as the metalmancer breezed past into the other room, searching for comfortable clothing, the sweatshirt discarded earlier. Krish didn't like to be stared at, though, and the azurette was familiar enough with averting his gaze to avoid causing others discomfort. A lingering remnant of habits learned somewhere else, but better than the beginning, when Julian had pendulumed back and forth between complete silence and long spools of language that went nowhere. Everything was context and tone now, reference and inference, precision of language taken to a level that sometimes made things into a message only one person would really get. Seven words, and he used them to speak volumes. I'm working through it. I'm still adjusting. I'm lying to my counselors, and I'm pretty sure they know it. I'm not ready to process. I'm rejecting their methods. I only show up because I have to. Maybe we should just go out and solve a bunch of murders or something. But, of course, the Pritchard woman would probably have something to say about that, none of it positive. So. "Still, not a total loss. Rainier cherries are back in season. Which is to say that I bought some and they're in the fridge."
It was his way of showing gratitude. Of apologizing. Of trying to lighten, in some small way, the burden of himself in this place. But he turned just slightly, coming to face the other man as he approached the counter, and the click of the glass bottles against one another drew his attention. Made him pause for a second, lips parted and then pressing back together, to let his eyes fall on the ink Krish had brought, and the pen. Gifts, like compliments, had come to be things that made the mage nervous. Skittish. Giving was something Julian was used to, felt comforted by, but it unsettled him anymore to receive. The placement of each item, so conspicuous there, beside the blank pages that he'd blotted clean, was a gentle nudge. A well-meant pressure. And the other man, seeming to sense the hesitation, eased things by stepping away. By explaining the pigments as something shared-- when you're not using it, I can use it.
They were his own colors, hair and eyes, but how many times had he likened Krish to gold? With his friend away, speaking in echoes that bounced from the bathroom sink, the azurette allowed himself a moment of honest expression. Let his features relax into soft sadness as he grazed the glass of one bottle with his thumb. Krish had chosen them. Had thought about Julian enough to consider a gift like this and bring it to him. Not just the ink, or the pen, but the message behind and inside them. Marie'd said the same thing almost a dozen times, to be ignored again and again and again, because she was a stranger and she looked at Julian without seeing him. She meant well, but it was in a generalized sense, the overarching desire to do good, which the azurette respected and valued and even identified with because of his own long-ago endeavors. But this.
This had been for him.
Padding into the bedroom on bare feet, he took up space in the doorway adjoining the bath, leaning one shoulder against the jamb. The side of his head-- temple, cheekbone, the fall of his hair-- rested against the trim there, so that he was looking more at Krish's reflection than at the man himself. Artful riot of dark hair, bowed toward the basin, the aum at his nape just visible. Talking about the virtues of his love. And threatening films of bobble-headed CGI dolls, no less.
Yes, this is his best friend in all the world.
"Anything but the Pants. I still maintain one of those girls enchanted them to fit." As though this was a thing that happened, rather than the plot to a movie. And then, eyes sliding across the room, back to the beducked shower curtain. "And I will, you know. Use the ink. Hamilton will write the other fifty-one. You don't have to hold me at Bratz-point. And if you do, just be prepared for a return volley of Beautician and the Beast."
Just like that. So easily, compared to all Marie's lecturing and reasoning, trying to convince him that keeping some kind of journal would be a benefit to him. As it turned out, she was the one who should've been taking notes.
All it took was for Krish to ask.
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