#stvampyr

⠀ already, frank has begun to acclimate to having tom in his home.

⠀ his home—the frame of reference is quite deliberate. claire may live here in name, her clothing hung neatly in the wardrobe and her perfume laid out on the vanity, but the woman that frank loved no longer resides in any corner of any of their rooms. sometimes, he believes he glimpses her, the way one's peripheral attention might capture a glimmer of movement in the dark. a flicker of familiarity, and the ill-advised swell of hope. frank is not yet strong enough to resist pursuing it, though his efforts have thus far always ended in naught.

⠀ the sound of footsteps begins to rouse him from his thoughts, drawing him up from the depths of his contemplation like the steady raising of a bucket from a well. as he breaks the surface, he twists to glance behind him and sees tom approaching with an afghan, his tall, strong form leaning forward over the low back of the leather sofa so he can wrap it about frank's shoulders. frank hums appreciatively—a low, throaty noise—and his muscles relax beneath the weight and sudden warmth; he'd not even realized he was cold.

⠀ that is the way of it, it seems, with them. he hadn't expected tom to become such a large part of his life; tom had been a distant colleague, and then a research partner, and then a simple release of bodily tension. he had swollen to fill each space that frank had carved out for him and then some, cracking open the constraints of their relationship and forcing himself into the gaps.

⠀ claire doesn't know about him. no one does.

⠀ frank lifts his brandy from the coffee table and sips at it as tom comes around the sofa. as he swallows, he gestures to the sideboard and its waiting decanter with his glass. "pour yourself a few fingers," he says, unsure whether tom will do so without his explicit permission. this is only the third time frank has invited him into his home, and their dynamic is different here than it is in his university office, or in the dark, cramped library stacks.

⠀ "i should light a fire," frank says, as tom settles himself on the sofa beside him. he unwinds one side of the blanket and shifts closer, wrapping both his arm and the afghan around tom's shoulder. with a contented smile, he noses into the space beside tom's ear and presses a gentle kiss to his jaw, which is clean-shaven and mouthwateringly fragrant. "but i find myself reluctant to move at the moment."

[ SMS: @stvampyr ] I was trying to sleep since it's my night off. Don't feel guilty... if you were going to. Would've thrown in the towel and made some coffee in ten minutes anyway.

Defiance. His first reaction is resistance. Of course he can listen, that is not the point really, the point is whether he wants to or not. A part of him is aware that Flint is right, but the other is butting heads and refusing for this to be an option. Why should he listen? Surely whatever outcome this has is going to be a painful one, doesn't matter who is right or wrong, so why not cut to the chase? Why not just let every ounce of misery, that will inevitably reach them, just unleash. Or perhaps this is just the cries and pleas of his broken self. The part that sees nothing but devastation and pain. The thing that has taken over whatever carefree freedom that once held on to him. He can barely look at his own reflection these days without seeing a stranger staring back at him.

So why should he listen? Even with the gentle plea in Flint's question, Silver reacts with defiance.

"And why should I?"

It is a simple question spoken with a voice he hardly recognises. A voice that belongs to a body that is too tired to care these days. There is fight in him yet, but the fire is slowly diminishing. With every pull, with every step towards whatever future that might come, Silver loses more of himself.

How ironic.

The sun beats down on them, the sand feels uneven and horrible under his weight, but what is new? He looks at Flint with eyes that hold no real fight, but rather a plea for him to say something. Something that might change his mind, anything to put a stop to whatever downward spiral that courses through his mind. Can he not see what this is doing to him?

"Convince me, James, please, why I should listen to you"

For old times sake would be too easy, he suspects. What is it between them anyway that can hold enough power to make him listen? Can it be a blindness that has found him rather, something that makes him unable to see any light at the end of their story? He cannot be sure, but even so he turns to fully face Flint, to meet his eyes with a fire that is not quite there anymore.

No reaction. Barely even the tug of a smirk. No Silver watches him from his seat, eyes dark with exhaustion. With anger. With the same hatred that has started pouring into him ever since he abandoned the gold and whatever freedom he might have had in mind. Ever since he lost that freedom to a choice he both regrets and doesn't at the same time.

Silver stares at him, then the slightest tilt of his head.

"You heard me"

Fingers tap against the armrest, the only sound in the eerie silence. Even the water is calm outside the cabin window. He looks away then, rests his eyes on nothing in particular. The ship rocks with the sea, and Silver finds the hatred only crawl further up his chest.

It is a bad night. Restlessness and pain coming together in an unrest that settles in his bones. Makes him irritated, makes him want to tear a man apart from the insides. Flint is unlucky enough to meet him on this night, but there is also a necessity behind their conversation. Silver has waited, has tried to be as diplomatic as possible, but there are limits to his patience when the pain drowns out all else.

"If you refuse to work with me so that we might find a middle ground that we both can agree on, then this is a pointless conversation. You might as well leave"

His eyes hold a certain chill. Long gone are the mischief and easy smiles, it's been months but to Silver it feels like years.

"You asked for my opinion, you got it. If you do not like it, leave. And we'll see whose side will be more favourable on the 'morrow, won't we?"

his lips are parted; a dull, thin line of oxygen, the only thing a stunned airway could manage to scrape up alongside its surprise. rarely had he known robby as rash— direct, sure, in the line of obligation. the type of hardened delivery that only comes with years of both calloused hands and calloused heart. speaking out of turn was human, for some more than others, and abbot, surely. but dr. michael robinavitch? daylight, in his personification, unrelenting, at times, but careful where he shined. until now. until he got the hand-off debrief, far more personal than usual; tainted with the scorched-earth left by the attending.

admittedly, his approach was jaded by his own combativeness— latent, for years. discarded for breathing exercises and pep talks, both of which hardly worked for a stubborn man such as @stvampyr. jack's known to keep his nose out of what doesn't concern him; office sociopolitics were no man's land, littered with inescapable landmines with a guarantee to come out on the other side burned.

there's a novelty to dr. mohan's candor. few and far between, usually the marker of the beginning or end of a long, drawn out day. when the pretense of a new start washes away with the reality of tragedy, of work and the exhaustion that comes with choosing to do what you love, despite the way it gnaws at your bone marrow. today, it was the latter, with his own early start ending bruised and battered even when donning a shell of protection. now, he was the intruder— a bystander in a room that should not have been vacant, but alas. c'est la vie, another day in the pitt.

he gestures a shrug, one paired with a lower lip nudged against the upper in its downward curl, only momentarily muffled by a newly-shed undershirt. there's a hiss that pushes through, sharp at the sting of a wound with blood dried against cotton fibers. clotted, luckily, enough to once-adhere, now ichor dribbles down the length of exposed trapezius. even so, it wasn't enough to warrant panic, with an unhurried, steady gesture, reaching for a roll of gauze... as if a grazed bullet wound was nothing more than a paper cut.

delicate water droplets cling to freshly washed hair, the sweater hugging his torso lightly darkened here and there around the collar from traces of dampness. a sigh escapes emil's as he falls back against the headboard of his bed ( he is careful not to shake to mattress too much for fear he disturb tom's nap ). exhaustion and exhilaration go hand in hand after a long weekend of performances. his body aches. emil closes his eyes as he lifts a half-forgotten towel in his hand to his head, mussing his hair as he tries to soak up lingering shower water.

one eye pops open when he feels tom stirring. the other man lay with his head at the other end of the bed, right where he had left him hours ago. he didn't dare wake him. he likes having him in his home, likes having him in his bed, seeing how safe he feels to fall asleep so easily. emil arches one of his knees and prepares to pull the other up out of the way when his movement is arrested by tom's hand descending on his ankle. his thumb rubs gentle circles into the worn tendons. he can't help but sigh again, this time in some kind of contentment at the way the soreness eases from the little muscles.