MOVED BLOGS

           “ oh. ”  dimi spreads his hands peaceably,  an incongruously warm gesture to the note of insult in his voice.  “ to be converted,  obviously.  a cause is purpose,  religion is purpose,  can’t do without purpose  —  but you’re assuming i have a people,  fah-ther.  not everyone has a place.  some things just are. ”  some things.  ( he drums his fingers,  since the low level noises seem to be needling the good padre so much. )

           the sound -- so normal and mundane -- drives chills down his spine. it’s grating and too much and not quite right. this man is and isn’t; all teeth and the right dose of otherworldly. there’s that something behind his grin just as unsettling as the sounds he makes and the conversation they’re having. tomas doesn’t move. ( stupid, foolish, andy with a gunshot wound in the head and marcus leaving him behind without so much as a glance back. ) pride, pride, pride, and his eyebrow lifts curiously.

          there’s this constant push and pull between him and marcus. it builds in the back of tomas’ throat and when he opens his mouth to say something that he swears isn’t meant to be a lashing, marcus cuts him off at the pass and they spend hours silent and swollen with words they refuse to say. ( his ego is needy and wounded and knows well the underside of marcus’ boot by now. ) five months from when they left the shadows of the chicago skyline. five months and case to case and now, in the heart of lands that look at him like he’s some sort of criminal, the only familiar face he has to focus on is marcus. 

        marcus, who doesn’t seem to trust him.         marcus, who looks at him like he’s an incompetent altar boy.         marcus, who presses together the two ends of sliced skin on the back of tomas’ shoulder.

        the younger man hisses between his teeth, ratty hotel sheets caught in a white-knuckled grip whilst he tries to ride through the wave of pain. it hurts, but marcus is gentle in ways he pretends not to be. he’s gentle as he tapes both ends together and wraps his shoulder. he’s gentle even when he’s covered in exhaustion and tomas’ blood.

       before he moves further, tomas reaches back to rest his hand over marcus’, causing him to still completely. ( not pull away ; he doesn’t pull away. ) the light in their room flickers with a hum and tomas chooses to focus on that instead of the way marcus moves his thumb across the bare skin just beside his makeshift bandage.

       “gracias,” he murmurs after a bit, knowing he’s breaking what ever sort of solace they’ve found in that moment. marcus grins – something tomas can’t see, but he can hear in his voice – when he replies in a spanish too flawless for a man so european. 

       breathing becomes easier.