I’ve got inspired by The Weeknd’s amazing new song Call Out My Name and this happened…
You gave me comfort, but falling for you was my mistake. I said I didn’t feel nothing baby, but I lied. I almost cut a piece of myself for your life.
Julian had given him everything last night. His body, his heart, his blood.
He expects to find a warm body curled against him when he woke, but when he reaches out the pillow is cold, empty. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, soft sheets falling away, pooling around his naked waist.
He raises his hand to study the angry cut upon his palm. It runs right through his lifeline, and Asra’s words echo in his mind.
“How much are you willing to give up, Ilya?”
Julian rises from the bed, sheet clutched in curled fingers around his waist. There’s a hum of dissonant emotion in the air, maybe remnants of that sickly, suffocating miasma that had brought him to his knees. Julian was no witch, but he swears he can feel him, his pain, his anguish.
He finds Asra in the kitchen sat at the table cradling a cup of his favorite black tea. Julian studies him intently, the defensive set of his shoulders, his cold eyes, and he knows him well enough by now to know that he’s hurting.
Julian clears his throat quietly, swallowing the lump that’s formed, dread swirling in the pit of his stomach. He breaks the deafening silence with a joke, teasing enough to raise the mood. “Uhm… was it really that bad?”
Asra continues to ignore him, but Julian can’t help but notice the way he flinches at his words, and that alone is like a knife to the gut. He’s always been a little paranoid, but he knows. He knows.
Asra turns to look up at him. “I’m sorry, Ilya,” he whispers, and there’s a note of finality to it, a sadness.
Julian’s heart pounds in his chest, bile rising in his throat. “You… what are you apologizing for?” It’s a stupid question, a question he knows the answer to.
Asra closes his eyes tight, as if he’s trying to shut out the sight of Julian falling apart before him, his fingers tightening around his mug, white-knuckling. “I can’t do this, I can’t…” he pauses, finally raising his gaze once more, white lashes wet with tears he won’t shed. “I’m sorry.”
Julian clutches the sheet closer, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable. He fights against the hot tears that form in his eyes, blinks them away until they fall freely down his cheeks. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to feel, to show him how much this hurts, but Julian is weak, especially when it comes to Asra.
Asra stands quickly, his chair protesting loudly as it scrapes back against the stone. He reaches out, hand shaking, before he retracts it, thinking better of touching him. There’s a look in those violet eyes, something desperate, beautiful, so, incredibly beautiful, but at the same time terrifying. Is he doing this because he wants to, or because he has to?
Julian struggles to keep a leash on his emotions, unashamedly heartbroken, longing for all of this to be a dream, but he wills his voice to be steady when he speaks. “It’s okay. It’s fine, really. I’ll… I’ll be going, then.”
He doesn’t look back as he turns and climbs the stairs, not even when Asra calls his name, his voice breaking. He slams the bedroom door, scrambling to gather his clothes from the floor where they’d been discarded in the heat of the moment last night.
He grips his shirt in his hand, then wraps his arms around his middle, as if he’s trying to hold himself together. He hears the front door slam downstairs, and that’s when he finally falls to pieces.
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