#muriel week

Asra wants him to make nice, for you to be friends. But how can he, with what he remembers, what he knows, and what you don’t?

And you... you might be able to remember him now, but you do not understand. You haven’t remembered enough to be able to guess at why... and you won’t forget and stop wondering, like you used to.

That’s what makes it difficult. Anyone else would forget and go about their business. You don’t forget any more, and you still don’t understand.

It makes you try harder. Smile more gently. Speak more softly - as if there’s something you could do to prove yourself and your intentions. It only makes things worse.

And the way you stand there, trying to look pleasant, trying to make yourself smaller in his presence, trying not to look like a threat... the way you look, hope lingering in the corner of your eyes amidst flashes of anxiousness and fear.  He’s seen that look too many times before. He doesn’t trust it. He can’t. He won’t. He won’t allow himself to be put in that position again.

But it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, either. (It’s a little bit that.) But still, he can’t trust anyone like you. Anyone that might ever hurt them, anyone that had ever hurt them... and that’s everyone outside of him and Asra, including you.

Your earnest expression makes it all the more difficult. Kindness. Pity. Incomprehension.

You do not understand.

There’s an intimate proximity, a specific sort of vulnerability paired with a physical distance, which exists only between two groups: friends and mortal enemies.

He can’t think of one without remembering the other. Too many people who might have been friends, who didn’t want to fight him, either... but the circumstances never allowed it. Asra’s the only person who would never... He would never hurt Asra.

It’s easier to make categories. There’s Asra, and there’s everyone else. He trusts Asra. He would never hurt Asra. Asra would never be on the other end of a blade. He can’t be certain of that for anyone else. He can’t trust anyone else.

... But he had hurt Asra... he let Asra get hurt and- No. That wasn’t his doing, and that wasn’t his fault. And it’s done. He won’t do it again. He knows he won’t do it again.

He doesn’t know that for you. It might not have been your fault, either, when it happened... but he can’t be certain it won’t happen again.

He doesn’t want enemies, he doesn’t want quarrels, he doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to have to hurt anyone. He loves Asra; he doesn’t want to hurt you - to have to hurt you - because that would hurt Asra, too.

The only way he can be sure he won’t hurt you, that he won’t have to hurt you, that Asra won’t get hurt, is if you stay where you belong.

He wishes Asra wouldn’t bring you. It’s not you... except when it is.

He and Asra would never argue... even about this. So he lets you sit there, with your nervous smile and your sad eyes, and lets Asra try to talk betwen you, or go off on his errands and leave you here. He does it for Asra, because he trusts him.

But all the same, he can’t stand to look at you.

You think it’s sad, what he’s been through, and you think there must be some way you can help. Maybe you think it’s by being nonthreatening. (He doesn’t trust that.) Maybe you think it’s helping him with this or that. (He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t want you to expect anything in return, least of all gratitude.)

Maybe you think, because of the way he relaxes around Asra, that it’s comfort he’s lacking, that he just needs a little more gentleness from the people around him.

He doesn’t want more people around them. He doesn’t want anything they have. Asra’s his friend. He knew Asra before. Asra came first. Asra’s the only one he can think of from a time before; the only one he can remember without thinking about... what he’s had to think about.  What he wishes he could forget.

And if you want to try to...get closer... to help, to comfort...

That is the thought he finds most repulsive.  He hopes it’s not the thought you’re having.  You think no one’s ever treated him gently, offered comfort, tried not to offend - as if that would fix anything...

You would be wrong.

Comfort has a twin in terror.

It’s a mirror, a reversal.  There’s an intimate proximity - and whispered words and gentle touches aren’t exclusive to friends. There’s Asra, and there’s everyone else. He doesn’t want to be reminded. There have been entirely too many moments with “everyone else”.

You can’t imagine the things he’s heard. The pleas, the confessions, the apologies. You don’t know what he’s seen, what he’s felt. You don’t know what it’s like to feel the paradigm shift as an enemy’s last desperate attempt falls flat.

He’s held hands - caught raised fists and crushed knuckles; pulled people close enough to crack them in the skull and let them drop. He’s seen the sudden shock-shrink of pupils, so much closer than the whites of their eyes...

...And the slow dilation when they reach the uneasy precipice of oblivion.

He’s been subjected to countless searching glances - eyes locked, looking for reason, for meaning - as if there was anything else to be found than what they knew already.  Soundless whispers, “Why?”; stutters and spluttered apologies that coat their lips red.

Desperate lunges -when they connect, when they don’t swing wide and drop first- almost always end as if they were meant to be embraces, edging ever closer even after he’s run a blade through them, clinging to him, as if he could hold them back from death.

Scared as they are, enemies though they might have been, no one wants to die alone.

Hands reaching, grasping, desperate to push away, to claw closer... hands that meant to choke, to lash out, to fight back... landing whisper-soft against his cheek, draping around his neck, tangling in his hair.  (He keeps it shorter now.)

The last caress as control slips away, as muscles fail, hands slipping down his shoulders, falling out of his grasp... the final blush before exsanguination.

In the end, they all go gentle.

And if violent intentions can end gently... gentle intentions can inflict violence.

Death is an intimate moment.  He’s had enough of both.

You can’t understand the revulsion.  He doesn’t want to be touched.  Your welcoming arms, your helping hand... he doesn’t want them.  He doesn’t want to be comforted. He doesn’t want to hear you apologize, he doesn’t want to be reasoned with. He’s heard too many words - “Please” and “I’m sorry” chief among them.

He doesn’t want to look you in the eye and see that earnest incomprehension, wondering what you did wrong.  He has seen far too many expressions frozen in “Why?”

You do not understand. You might not, even if he explained it. And explaining it requires being within that intimate proximity. Explaining why you make him uncomfortable requires being together, and it requires vulnerability. On your part, and his.

And as soon as that happens... then you’ll have to be in one category or the other: enemies or friends. And one side, he’ll have to hurt... and the other, he can’t be certain that he won’t.

He’s only ever had Asra. He knows he won’t hurt Asra. He knows he can’t hurt Asra, and that he won’t have to. He knows Asra will understand, because Asra remembers, and Asra came first. You can’t remember. You don’t understand.  He can’t be sure of that for you.

You didn’t mean anything by it. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard not to give any mixed signals, not to convey anything you don’t mean to, not to be anything you shouldn’t be.

He knows. That’s why he isn’t fighting you. He’s giving you a chance to walk away - and you should take it. Why can’t you just take it? You’re the only one that’s ever had that choice. Before the bargain, before his gift, no one had that chance. He made them forget, so they wouldn’t have to choose, so they wouldn’t choose wrong. So he wouldn’t have to bet on the unlikely goodness of others. So he wouldn’t have to fight any more.

But you... you are making this difficult. You don’t see him as a threat, you don’t understand that he is one, even when he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to have to explain that to you. He doesn’t want to be in the position of having to make you understand.

Making you understand will hurt you. It’s a difficult subject... and the most basic premise is still, “I don’t want to be friends.” Even if that idea doesn’t hurt you... once you know, you’ll wind up being one kind of person or the other. And even then, even if you don’t want to be enemies, someday you might end up as one.  Someday, under some circumstance. You might not... but is that really worth the worry, the risk?

There are two categories of people: enemies and friends - simplified to people he’s had to hurt, and Asra. Asra, and everyone else. That’s everyone he’s ever known. You aren’t Asra. That automatically makes you like everyone else.

How can he know he won’t have to hurt you? That you would never be a threat? That you won’t end up on the other end of a blade? You could give him your word, and it wouldn’t change anything. How could he ever explain that? 

What can he say that wouldn’t hurt you?

If he told you that, at any given moment, he was aware of at least a half-dozen ways to kill you? If he told you the truth - said that he couldn’t promise he’d never hurt you, even if you promised him the same? How can he tell you he can’t stand to look at your sad face? That the thought of having to be this close to anyone - especially you - sets his skin crawling? You’re too close already.

And beyond that, how can he tell you that it isn’t even you, but everything you represent, that makes him uncomfortable? Sincerity that might be false, even if it isn’t? A person that never meant to do him any harm? He’s killed plenty of people who had nothing against him, and whom he had nothing against. Someone that might have been a friend, under different circumstances... and that’s a problem, too.

You offer an uncertain possibility - and that terrifies him. There’s a chance things will get better, that you will mean what you say, that you won’t have to fight -that he won’t have to be reminded- that he won’t have to hurt you, that you won’t get hurt, that you might understand, that you might keep a courteous distance and he might actually feel better for talking about it, instead of having to keep it all to himself...

But Muriel knows better than to leave anything to luck or uncertain possibility.  It’s never worked before. Why should it now? You shouldn’t get your hopes up. God knows he won’t.

Asra is his friend. You aren’t Asra. He doesn’t want to have another, and blur the lines between people that might be friends and people that might be enemies. He doesn’t want reminders of things he’s tried to leave behind. He doesn’t want to let himself become vulnerable by talking about it... he doesn’t want to hurt you (to have to hurt you) by trying to explain himself.

He doesn’t want to fight any more.

And here you are... dumped on his doorstep again, as if he can’t see through Asra’s well-meaning false pretenses. Asra still gets his hopes up, despite everything. That’s Asra for you. Things hadn’t worked out for him, either... but they worked just enough to keep him hoping.

And you... you’re the same way, aren’t you?

“Um.  Can I... can I help you with anything?”

You should be able to guess the answer by now, but you keep asking.

“Please... don’t.”

It’s kind of you to ask, but it would be kinder if you didn’t.

“Oh.  Um.  Alright.”  You cross the room to the furthest corner - away from him, away from his things. 

You’re trying so hard to do this right... but there’s nothing you can do that will convince him. It’s his choice, and it always will be.

Inanna gives him a look, trudges over to you near the fire, and puts her head in your lap. It soothes you. It helps you relax. She can judge him all she likes, it’s not going to change his mind.

But, all the same, he’s glad that she provides a distraction. It’s... good. 

It’s not like he wants you to be unhappy... Just to understand your attention is best directed elsewhere. It’s better if you don’t talk. How can he tell you he doesn’t want your kindness, or your gifts, or your help? That he doesn’t trust it, and that might not change? How can he tell you he doesn’t want another friend, and have you believe him? How can he make you understand, without hurting you?

How can he tell Asra, his only friend, the only friend he ever wanted, that it was a mistake to bring you? That, even though none of this is your fault, and he knows it - that you are partially responsible, and you don’t know it... and he doesn’t want to be the one to have to tell you?

You don’t understand. You don’t know, and that should be a blessing. You should leave it at that. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t want to have to.

How can he be sure he won’t have to?

He takes solace in the thought that each time he leaves the city, he never has to see anyone again. (Oh, eventually he’ll need something again. But he doesn’t have to see the same people, and they won’t remember, so every impression is a first impression, one of infinite chances, easily forgotten.) It eases his mind.

He checks up on you, when Asra asks, because you won’t remember he had ever been there. You won’t stop, you won’t think to ask. You won’t even see him.

That was the plan, at least, but now that needs changing.  Some things are best forgotten, some need to be remembered. 

Shadows move, but something casts them.  The shadows you cast are much, much larger than you.

You forgot everything - the threats, the circumstances, the people that loved you- and you keep forgetting. Asra has to keep leaving, and Muriel has to keep seeing you, keep checking up on you.

Muriel remembers. He remembers what Asra went through, and he sees it again and again, each time you forget, each time Asra leaves - and every time he’s roped into checking on you again.

There are too many reminders, for you and for him. Asra should have asked for something else. He should have forgotten, too. He should have wanted to.

Shadows are temporary circumstances: something to be, something to move through. Not something to lose yourself in.

Asra lost himself in you.  Nothing else matters, and nothing’s gone right.

You came back. (They’re not supposed to come back.) You came back wrong.  (That wasn’t what Asra wanted.) It’s what Asra asked for. (He should have asked for something else.)

He still wants to protect Asra, which makes this difficult. He can’t protect him from you. You didn’t mean to hurt Asra, you might not even know that you had.

You came back, and you keep trying, but you keep breaking. You’re so fragile. And it always hurts Asra, picking up the pieces, cutting his hands on the shards. And it makes Muriel uncomfortable, being so close to something that causes such pain.

He knows what you don’t, remembers what you can’t... and he can’t tell you. It’s not his place to say, and he won’t let it be his fault if you can’t handle it. And he can’t say anything to Asra.

What could he say to Asra now? Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t. Asra should have forgotten, but he didn’t want to. He never wants to, even though he should have. You’re the only thing they’ve ever really argued about. But that’s done.

Asra loves you - who you were, who you are. He won’t blame Asra for that.

Muriel doesn’t trust you. You don’t even know who you are - how is he supposed to guess who you’ll turn out to be? Asra won’t blame him for that, either.

But you’re so fragile. And you keep forgetting. And you don’t understand. And you won’t, because it’s all because of you... but it’s not your fault.

You cast the shadows, but you can’t control where they go.

Inanna snuffles intently at him, and Asra laughs at her insistence, producing a well-boiled soup bone from a paper package, which Inanna happily takes and trots over to her spot near the fireplace.

“They’re not coming. They’re watching the shop.”

“Oh.”  He’s... surprised, somewhat relieved, more than a little confused. He pushes the door most of the way closed, then pauses again. “And Faust?”

“Faust is staying with them. In case we need to get in touch. So... you and I have the day off, and I can stay as long as you like.”

“Oh.” Muriel stands still for another awkward moment, trying to process without asking. He nods slowly, then closes the door.

Asra chews his lip. He carries his words gently. The thought is delicate, but sharp... much like the person he’s thinking of. “They know you don’t like them.”  He coughs. “... hanging around.” He doesn’t let the thought linger for long. No use dwelling on it. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and the resulting smile is soft, either forgiving or apologetic. Somewhat sad, either way.

Muriel flounders, in his own way. His words still come steadily, but he can’t complete the thought. “It’s not... I don’t...” He can never find the right words out loud. It’s not something he can explain.

Asra understands. 

“I know.” Asra smiles again, and nods determinedly. “Anyway... I have gifts!”

“Gifts?” Muriel shuffles over, and Asra ushers him into a seat. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

“Yes, ‘gifts’. It’s your birthday. Of course I’m going to bring you things. You’re getting gifts.” Asra pushes an envelope into his hands. “Here, open this one first. They made you a card.”

Muriel gives him a suspicious look, then opens the envelope. Pressed flowers on the paper, wildflowers sealed with wax. The texture invites touch, to make sure they’re real, but it’s delicate, and pretty... and kind of sweet. It’s... nice.

Asra understands.  Do they?

He opens the card, and something falls out onto the table.  He gives it a sideways glance before reading the message.

“Dear Muriel.  Happy Birthday.” ... It’s simple enough. He reaches over and picks up the object that had fallen from it, a thin band of leather, fringed on one short end. “... What is this?”

“It’s a bookmark,” Asra explains, reaching into his bag.

“A bookmark?”

“Yup! For the books! Here... we got you an almanac, and a book of stories.  They weren’t sure if we should get you a cookbook, too, because we don’t know if you’d be able to find the ingredients. We don’t know what you’d have.  ... We can always bring you groceries, though, if you don’t want to come into town.”

“You would?”

“Yeah... of course.  Both of us.”

Muriel stares down at his hands, worrying the bookmark between his fingers. Asra sits in the chair beside him, watching.

Muriel swallows thickly, fists clenching before they relax. “You know I...” His voice trails off.

“I know. ...They know, too. They said they could still bring you things; they don’t have to stay.”

Silence. Asra scooches closer, and reaches for Muriel’s hand. Muriel lets him take it, and turns to face him.

“You know they’d never hurt you. Or me. And you wouldn’t hurt them.”

For a brief moment, Muriel’s gaze drops, before he meets Asra’s eyes again. “You don’t know that.  And neither do I.”

“Which part?”

There’s no answer.

“They wouldn’t hurt us. I do know that. They don’t want to, and they wouldn’t. And I don’t think you would want to hurt them, either.”

“I don’t... want to...” He trails off again, and Asra carefully watches his eyes.

“... But you can’t say you wouldn’t if you had to?”

The silence is telling.

“Do you think you’ll have to?”

“I don’t... know...”

“Then I’m telling you. Believe me. You’re not going to have to. ...They’re... they’re good. I promise you. You can let them in. They’ll understand.”

Another silence, though not as distressing.

“But. Um. I guess you don’t have to. They, um. There’s more gifts. They sent more things along. I... we. We hope that’s alright.”

“... That’s alright. It’s nice of you... both.”

“Of course!  Well.  Nadia helped us find some nice towels, and I made you some more firestarters, and we made you dinner, and-”

“You made dinner?”

“Of course. I’m not going to show up empty-handed, not knowing if you’d eaten. We both cooked. ...They made the pie, though. They hope you like it.”

“... It smells nice.”

Asra takes a deep sniff and sighs. Cinnamon and hearty and sweet... it smells like home. “It does, doesn’t it?  And Ilya got... do you remember Ilya?”

Muriel rolls his eyes. “I remember him.”

“-And Ilya helped us pick out a new carving knife for you. They noticed yours was looking a little dull, but they don’t know much about how to sharpen them, so we got you a new one. And I got you a writing set.”

“... Why?” 

It’s been years since he’d last written... anything.

“So you can write things.”

“What would I write?”

Asra smiles sheepishly.  “I dunno... notes.. a note, maybe?”

“A note?  ...Oh.” 

A thank-you note.

“... You don’t have to.”

“It’s... okay.”

It... it was nice of them. The gifts were thoughtful, and things he needed... and he knows they’re trying... and maybe they do understand. It’s been ages since he and Asra had a chance to just... be together. Do little. Do nothing, and not worry.  And they let him do that, and gave him his space.  It was much better than he could have expected.

He takes the set from Asra’s hands, looking it over before unpacking it onto the table.

“Oh!  You don’t, I mean.  You don’t have to do it now... You don’t have to, in any case... I just thought...”

“I know. But it was... um.”  He clears his throat. There’s a hint of blush to his cheeks, but Asra pretends not to notice, thank God. “Thoughtful.  So I’ll write it now.  So I don’t forget.”

Asra beams at him. “I’ll get things set up for dinner, then.”

While Asra sets the table, Muriel scribbles a bit on the back of the card, checking his penmanship.  He’s fallen a bit out of practice. ...In a lot of things.  Certainly with trusting people.  Maybe he could... try.

“Dear Friend,”

That feels... weird.  Should he use their name?  Is it too friendly, too formal, will it give them the wrong impression?

He pauses and makes to tear off the salutation... then smooths the paper back against the table as Asra leans over to look.  His hopeful expression catches Muriel’s eye. ... Maybe “friend” will do.

“Thank you for the gifts, and for dinner.  It was kind...” He looks up at Asra before committing the words to paper.  “Kind?,” he asks.  Too much, too little?  Asra nods him on.  “... kind of you.  It was a nice birthday.”

It’s brief, but it feels like he’s reached the natural conclusion of the sentiment; there’s not much else to say without listing out the things they’d sent him, or without resorting to empty platitudes.  But still... he draws a sudden blank.  How do I end this?

‘Sincerely’ feels flat and... insincere... he could have written more sincerely if he’d tried.  That was... maybe for another day.  ‘Yours’ or ‘your x’ or anything of the sort feels... wrong.  He doesn’t belong to anyone, in any capacity.  He’s not ‘thinking of’ them... in fact, if he’s honest, a lot of the time he still tries not to.  ‘Kind regards’ sounds nice, but maybe a bit too nice again... ‘Regards’, perhaps?

In his befuddlement, he turns to look up at Asra again.

“How should I... how would you end this?”

Asra glances over and laughs brightly, a smile playing on his lips.  “I’d write, ‘Love’.”

“... Regards, Muriel.”

Asra leans over to inspect his work and gently takes the quill from his hand, adding a small smiley face at the bottom corner.

Muriel blinks at him.  “What’s that for?”

Asra’s smile is endearingly infectious.  “It needed a little something extra.”

Muriel finds himself smiling faintly, too.