Quiet as a fox the other man came through the door, and stole across the floor: soft socks instead of soft paws, no click-click of dull nails across the floorboards to give him away. Rory heard it but—selfishly, though he was too pragmatic to rarely give in to that—did not raise his head.
For once, he wanted every insecurity laid bare.
He wanted every flaw in the stark and pallid light.
He wanted Jigano to see every scar. He wanted Jigano to know that he was wounded and weak. He wanted Jigano to see him and wanted (cruelly) for his heart to skip a beat as his mind mayhaps asked the question that Rory had asked himself when he kissed him goodbye: would he be tempted to open the door that night?
He didn't want Jigano to feel guilt, for Rory had chosen to stay alone in the dark. He had given his partner his blessings to go elsewhere, after all, but he wanted Jigano to know that he was hurting for so many other reasons—
His strong body was easily coaxed and manipulated, his side falling against Jigano's, his head rolling onto that familiar shoulder as he stared at the opposite wall. For a moment the question hung in the air, answered only by the crackle and spit of the fire, and Rory wondered how he could possibly put what was in his heart into words. How does one explain the combination of regret, relief, fear, hope, and utter, complete despair? How does one phrase that strong desire to run away, into a different life, a different body, as he had seen them do time and again?
The feeling of not being enough?
He wished Karlia was a fox in the night, pale gray in the moonlight, yellow-eyed and sharp; he wished she was in a better, happier place, where she did not have to feel any of this.
"Karlia was at the door," he finally said. His sister was a subject he had routinely avoided even with Jigano—she had been an ending chapter by the time he came around anyway, and there had been little reason to bring her up. And any time she had been brought up, Rory had (not ungently, but firmly) shut down the conversation. Karlia was a wound too fresh, and one he had not wanted to share before he knew. (He still didn't.) "There's a blanket in the barn. An indent in the straw. Tack's polished."
His voice was clipped. His heart was heavy. What he didn't need to say was this: but had it really been her?
Jigano had survived two nights. He would know it was implied.
For once, he wanted every insecurity laid bare.
He wanted every flaw in the stark and pallid light.
He wanted Jigano to see every scar. He wanted Jigano to know that he was wounded and weak. He wanted Jigano to see him and wanted (cruelly) for his heart to skip a beat as his mind mayhaps asked the question that Rory had asked himself when he kissed him goodbye: would he be tempted to open the door that night?
He didn't want Jigano to feel guilt, for Rory had chosen to stay alone in the dark. He had given his partner his blessings to go elsewhere, after all, but he wanted Jigano to know that he was hurting for so many other reasons—
His strong body was easily coaxed and manipulated, his side falling against Jigano's, his head rolling onto that familiar shoulder as he stared at the opposite wall. For a moment the question hung in the air, answered only by the crackle and spit of the fire, and Rory wondered how he could possibly put what was in his heart into words. How does one explain the combination of regret, relief, fear, hope, and utter, complete despair? How does one phrase that strong desire to run away, into a different life, a different body, as he had seen them do time and again?
The feeling of not being enough?
He wished Karlia was a fox in the night, pale gray in the moonlight, yellow-eyed and sharp; he wished she was in a better, happier place, where she did not have to feel any of this.
"Karlia was at the door," he finally said. His sister was a subject he had routinely avoided even with Jigano—she had been an ending chapter by the time he came around anyway, and there had been little reason to bring her up. And any time she had been brought up, Rory had (not ungently, but firmly) shut down the conversation. Karlia was a wound too fresh, and one he had not wanted to share before he knew. (He still didn't.) "There's a blanket in the barn. An indent in the straw. Tack's polished."
His voice was clipped. His heart was heavy. What he didn't need to say was this: but had it really been her?
Jigano had survived two nights. He would know it was implied.
