there is excitement in his small smile. fingertips brush over the stamp pressed to the back of his hand, and linger for a moment before he drops that hand to grasp his friend’s. he cannot remember the last time he had come to see the countless underwater creatures in the aquarium, and only on thinking that luke might enjoy it has he considered returning. it is, besides this, a distraction against the still pressing absence of his beloved, effective enough that in the moment, he can allow himself not to think of him.

IT WAS  A  GENTLE SUGGESTION  FROM  A  VOICE  WEAKENED WITH  TEARS  AND  MUFFLED  CRIES  INTO  FABRIC THAT  HAD  WRACKED HIS  THROAT  FOR  HOW  LONG?  somehow  time  is  much  more  difficult to  interpret  now,  as  if  life  has  become  mere  static. he  had  believed he  knew  what  living  in  a  haze  meant  before,  but that  is  nothing compared  to  now.

he  hadn’t meant  to wake  his  friend, but  his  intentions are  worthless  when  weeping breaking  the  quiet  of  night  has  become as  common  as  the  blackness itself.  and  when  sleep  is  so  scarce for  his  friend! how  awful  is he  to  deny  andrei  precious rest  and  perhaps peace  in that  rest  when  none will  grace  him  in  wakefulness? guilt  burns  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach (  what  a  useless, volatile  boy ),  and  of  course he  cannot  blame  andrei  for  not  wanting to  shut  his  eyes  again.

lucian  had  tried to  muffle  the  raging  panic  against  a  pillow,  but  those  noises are  still  far  too  similar  to  what  had  filled  cell  walls  so  terrifyingly  recently.  what  are  months compared to  lifetimes  of agony  endured?  he  had  once  claimed  time  heals but  will  distance ever  be enough  when  he  continues to  drag  them both  back??  

even  now  long  after  the  storm  has  calmed, streaking  tears  paint  cheeks  tinged pink.  hands  reach  protectively  around himself,  pulling  at  long  sleeves that  mask  each  scar  that  lies  beneath. clothes  cling  to  a  trembling  body  covered in  cold  sweat.

      “ alright,  ”  he swallows  against  a  sore  throat, exhaling  a  shaky  breath.  “  I  can  make  you  some  tea  if  you  want  it.  ”  

andrei has woken into a world he does not know : seconds past before he can place himself in their meager shelter. rain thuds against walls, and dim light sits in the window to illuminate little more than figures, and he has to remember where he is ---- has to replace in his head concrete with bedding and shackles with mere shirtsleeves. has to tear himself into the present, even if it leaves him aching and unsure.

lucian’s cries have spared him his nightmares ---- but he returns to an existence that is only marginally better. all they have gained since rescue and release is freedom for two bodies pushed to brokenness. and what use is freedom destroyed by fits of agony ---- by the wretched sound of his friend weeping in the middle of the night?

( be grateful that these are not the cries of the past, reason promises as heart rate fails to descend and breath is suppressed by cultivated hardness, they are only the effect. it is over. you are not there. he is not there. )

however far they go, distance will not spare them : andrei has always known that this would be true. oceans could be crossed, and agony suffered at the hands of their former government will always cling to their souls ---- their departure had been for security. the hope that if the world forgot them, they would forget it as well. andrei should have known better. should have been good enough to know detachment would not be a real remedy.

when they had been there, it had been easy to blame the pain on their torturers. now that they are alone, andrei cannot help the sickening sense of responsibility that pulses through him. has he failed lucian just as he has everyone else?

“ no, no it’s alright. ” it will be cold outside their blankets, and even the shine of sweat on the other’s skin does not stop andrei from trying to shield him in a sheet. he must say something ---- must find words that heal. but he has never been hopeful or good, and so he cannot separate himself from the only consolation he knows : they will both be dead soon.

( when had the thought of that ---- their death, which surely they must endure together ---- stopped hurting? )

KNEES ARE  TUCKED  UP  AGAINST  THE  COUCH  CUSHIONS,  head  lulled back.  he’s  not  yet  lapsed into  sleep,  though eyes  are  resting, feeling  heavy.  they  flutter  open  at  the  press  of  a  familiar body,  arms  wrapping around  his  middle, and  a  tired  smile will  draw  onto  features.  such  lovely  warmth will  kiss  his  heart—he  feels  it  breathing  in  his  chest, like  sunlight has  graced his  lungs.  body  shifts  to  embrace the  other.  luke’s hand  will  reach  and  smooth back  black  locks, head  lifting  to  press  a  freckled  cheek  to  andrei’s forehead.  he  is  quiet  for  a  moment, merely  drinking  in the  love  he  feels,  the  love  he  gives, delicate  fingers  stroking  his  hair. and  then  a  weary  murmur, voice  deepened  slightly from  rest.

      “  are  you  tired? can  you  try  to  sleep  here,  with  me?  ”  

languid movement draws bodies close as andrei settles himself in a familiar posture ; fading light is banished as eyes close and comfort directs instead of sight. this is softness spared only for the confines of their home ---- while outside, work overtakes a mind otherwise haunted in fruitless worry, when sun has set and everything has been finished, he gives himself to affection to ease the strain from his body and mind alike. lips press lightly to the most accessible place ( where luke’s shoulder meets his neck ) before head settles to rest against the other’s chest. frigidity has motivated closeness more so than exhaustion, yet when faced with warmth, the latter is undeniable and strong in its effect.

he’s just thinkin abt how lucky he is and he definitely cries sometimes because he has So Much Love for andrei and at this point he can’t imagine Not having this demiboy who did not leave wants to stay w him and loves him (2)

make andrei feel loved // @willfcrgive

the world wakes, and from their place on the porch, andrei listens to its early sounds. pale sunlight mounts the horizon and casts long shadows that reach up and paint intricate patterns across pressed bodies and richly colored wood. hands fold around warm tea —- earthy scent settles over him. against luke’s shoulder he leans —- blankets wrapped still around shoulders, and knees drawn up to preserve heat, and head rested against his friend. it is too early for movement. stillness instead surrounds them.

eyes will blink open only to close again, and breath is even in his throat : the soft strum of music shrouds him in peace, and he keeps his silence to ensure it undisturbed.

music’s affect comes only when adoration is held for its creator —- andrei knows not the song nor cares for its title, but loves it because luke has made it. tears must be withheld —- they will expose his happiness. and even so, in this there is comfort : for in knowing himself so happy, andrei knows that he loves luke, and in soft touch and gentle comfort, trusts that luke loves him in return.

give andrei a kiss // @willfcrgive

lips like spring breeze brush against a stretched neck : softness warms him and he is drawn away from rest. eyes closed against hazy afternoon light drift open, and hands rub gently over luke’s back, and andrei tilts his head back further still, so lips might again press to that quiet heartbeat. limbs are tangled and bodies close upon the sofa on their porch, and beyond their shaded spot, sunlight pours down on the open fields and distant trees.

none of it is within his reach at present —- he needs not reach any further than his friend to find happiness at present. between luke’s body and the back of the sofa he finds himself wrapped securely in warmth and love —- how could he ever want to move? to leave this safe place? when thoughts quiet themselves, and when he finds calm within that troubled soul, andrei call allow slowness : he can accept and reciprocate gentleness in a way that has always been hard for him. they will lie here until sunset, and watch the light fade from the sky, and he will find in himself no desire to rise and put distance between them.

IT’S  AS  IF  FOG  IS  COATING THE  EDGES  OF  HIS  VISION LEAVING  SURROUNDINGS  UNFOCUSED,  though  he  knows  whose  couch  on  which  he  lays,  is  painfully aware  who  he  is  imposing upon.  behind  his  eyes  is  an  awful  pounding,  heavy  daze lingering  from  the  hit  to  the  head  that  had  left  his  ears  ringing, a  violet  hue  dusted  across his  face.  it  hurts, and  curled  toes  are  pushing against  the  cushions below  him,  unable to  retain  stillness. it  takes  a  moment  for  his  friend’s words  to  register, and  he  responds in  a  soft  voice,  subtle strain  beneath  each  word.

      “  no,  of  course  not.  I  know  you  wouldn’t. but  you  should  have. I’m  so  grateful  for  your  generosity, but  there’s  no  reason  you  should  have  to  deal  with  the  consequences  for  my  mistakes, patroclus.  it  isn’t  fair to  you.  ”

after  all,  it  was  his  own  decision that  thrust  trouble upon  him,  his  own  misstep  that  resulted  in  the  hit.  he  cannot expect  to  fall  into  the  arms  of  another  when  life  has  kicked  him  off  balance. he  is  to  clean  up  his  own  mistakes, pick  himself  off  the  ground  lest  he  abuse  the  kindness of  his  friends.

generosity : the result of his action, not the cause of it. patroclus knows well his intolerance for uselessness ---- knows well that he cannot deny the impulse to raise worn fists against harshness. and so there is no imposition here, because patroclus knows that he could not leave his friend to suffer the consequences of his actions by himself. that even considering such neglect would send him spirally into listless self - loathing.

his pain had always come when he had no one to whom he might turn for assistance, and he knows how frightening it feels. his inaction will not cause his friend to feel something similar. ( not again. )

“ it isn’t fair for you to deal with those consequences alone either, luke. ” an indisputable argument in his mind : his heart will not let him become so cold that he might imagine a retort. is he not determined to become better than those who have caused himself and his friend harm ---- terrified of stagnancy becoming harmful in itself?

give andrei a kiss // @willfcrgive

no kiss will heal the swollen mark on his thigh or end its whining ache when pressure sits against it. it seems insignificant in a history of hash injury : an mere fall in the trees, when compared to weeks of torture or the pierce of a spear in his chest, should be painless. in a way, it is —- it holds no meaning and cannot cause him to same enduring pain presented by other injuries. no wound attained in a misstep in the woods will make his hands tremor and his stomach revolt. nothing will ever be that bad again —- nothing but memory itself.

he does not know why he has bothered his friend with it —- andrei supposes it is because lucian would discover it regardless, and it is easier to tell him not than to attempt to brush it off later. ( he is beginning to think he has made a mistake. )

atop their counter he sits —- leg extended before him for investigation, and the other curled to his chest and encircled in loose arms. his chin rests absently upon his knee, and when brown eyes shift downward, they are dull with apathy —- an emptiness that grows in him daily, no matter how long it has been.

he wants to reach a hand forward and assure his friend that he is fine —- that no treatment if necessary, and there is nothing that can be done, so they waste time even thinking about it. he wants to cover the bruise, and the countless other scars that surround it. ( a little piece of him wants to take this broken body and disappear completely : bury himself in the dirt, where his shame can devour him, and leave him in dead peace. )

and then lips press onto it —- until muscles seize beneath them at contact, and shoulders tense uncomfortably, and breath wavers for a moment. and he does not know if it is the wound or touch itself that causes it, but he hopes that lucian does not see his reaction. hopes to have concealed it so he might not frighten his friend. a hand does reach out —- brushes a shoulder lightly before retracting. don’t mind it, this hand wants to say.

don’t mind it. and more. don’t touch me.

because skin crawls at contact, and because the sight of himself at the moment brings anguished memories to the front of his mind, and because he wants to be isolated. alone, where even the most gentle and well - meaning touches are denied, because they are too much for him. but how can he say it —- how can he be so harsh to luke? andrei doesn’t have it in him.