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sredniy

CALL — TEXT — ACTION/PROMPT

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From:

sredniy

bear with me

From:

vesperal

[ when jens arrives in madrid, the first thing he notices is the dark. it's pitch dark, middle of the night dark, and he has to smile to himself, at the way he'll never learn to schedule his pulls in a way that isn't terribly inconvenient for everyone involved. the second is the rain, rare for this season, but still coming down in determined sheets.

he doesn't stand in the alleyway for long, what with the unexpected chill and the thinness of his navy hoodie. just long enough to adjust his watch to his best guess - one a.m.? two? - and conduct a quick feel-up of the bag slung over his shoulder, sloppily ensuring that everything that's supposed to be in it is still tucked inside: clothes, a book, a toothbrush, and most importantly, a collection of stolen necklaces he's going to pawn off to the next link in the chain tomorrow. once he's convinced that nothing's been left behind, he sets off, pushing wet hair back from his forehead as he emerges on the street and searches for signs, something to give him a better sense of where exactly he's landed. his trips to spain have been infrequent, though, and the only names offered on poles and surrounding buildings are generic and do little to spark anything in his brain. of course, this is not what he'd hoped for, but not knowing rather than knowing is slowly becoming standard procedure. in most cases, he hasn't been to the destination enough times to really connect with it, to find its feeling in the pit of his stomach or the center of his chest right before he lets the pull take him. usually he takes a guess and lets himself go, and so there's no real worry gripping him at the unfamiliarity of the street in front of him. instead of fretting - how long has it been since he actually fretted? - he turns, sets his sights on an apartment building across from him, and thinks that'll do.

jens takes the front steps two at a time, water splashing under his skinny, brown boots as he lands on the cement porch and huddles under the small overhang. he scratches his chin and taps a finger against his lips as he contemplates what number to bother, but in the end he picks one at random and gives the button a firm press with only a wisp of lingering guilt. if he isn't buzzed in or if an angry, tired voice comes over the intercom to tell him to fuck off, well. he'll just try another number.

and so he waits, shoulder leaned against the stone wall of the building, blinking away raindrops.

rise and shine. ]

From:

sredniy

[ sleep is a funny thing, for sasha. sometimes it eludes him, taken over by too much thinking and lingering demons — actual spirits, that is, not deep, dark personal hang ups, though he has a light smattering of those too. tonight, though, he sleeps like the dead. travelling does that. he was at the airport this morning before the sun was even up to fly to malaga, and by the evening, back again. more slightly uncomfortable feeling accounting gigs with a "friend of the family". sasha disliked that phrase. these oil slick characters with their savage smiles were no friends of his, but he has no good reason to refuse his father's requests ("i don't want to" would cut the mustard, as the saying goes).

the buzzing wakes him slowly, sluggishly. his eyes blur at the ceiling, hearing the rain before he can really see anything. the sound filters softly through his slightly ajar window, coupled with a pleasant breeze. it is mercifully cool tonight, not heavy and muggy with moisture in the air.

there aren't many people that sasha knows who would be ringing his apartment this late. stealing a glance at the time on his phone, he groans slightly as he hoists himself upwards and stumbles through the dark, not even bothering to switch on any lights. he wonders if he simply has very good depth perception, even in the dark, or if it's a demonic magic thing, the fact that he never trips or stumbles, even when he can barely see.

at he intercom, his voice is sleep heavy and rough, the sweetly american notes of his voice drifting a little bit more to russian, for once. ]

Hola?

[ instinctively; they are, after all, in madrid, and sasha is too polite to do anything other than open with a hello. ]

From:

vesperal

[ the overhang is doing very little to keep him dry, the wind making the rain slant in to soak his back, and so jens perks up with relief when sasha's voice crackles over the line. whoever's on the other side was most definitely asleep - he can tell that much over the buzzing connection - but he isn't offered profanities, so he takes that as a good sign. not that he would mind the profanities. he has gently and not so gently disrupted the peace and quiet of others enough times to be mostly immune to their typical frustrations. he's got no problem throwing up his hands and offering a thanks before he turns to his next option, always finding himself curious about the differences in people even if he's inconvenienced, seeing how things make some pissed as all hell and awaken interest in others. but that isn't to say that he doesn't appreciate when people are willing to humor him right off the bat. sometimes he's running on a schedule that clients take very seriously - so seriously that weapons get involved if it isn't adhered to - but tonight he's in no rush. no life and death rush, anyway. he'd like to hurry up and get out of the weather.

he leans his face close to the intercom, cupping his mouth to shield from the sound of the rain. ]

Hola, man. Uh, necesito direcciones? [ he pauses a moment, trying to collect up the words. they don't come - he was never good at languages, unfortunately - and so he decides to take his chances with english. ] I'm looking for the nearest hostel. Somewhere to sleep. Dormir? [ of course, he isn't really in need of sleep. he'd indulged in a five hour nap before leaving florida, just so he wouldn't be running on fumes, but he figures the word will help get his point across. ]

[ he laughs quietly, an attempt to soften these strange circumstances. ] Sorry to wake you.

From:

sredniy

[ somewhat involuntarily, sasha utters a sleepy laugh at "hola, man". maybe it's the lack of sleep, or just his sense of humour surprising him again. it peters off into a slightly baffled noise, though, even if his mouth remains in a faint, dazed smile. ]

Uh...

[ that's not at all what he was expecting to hear. he slips easily enough into english, accented but otherwise spotless. ]

Don't worry, I speak English. I, er, don't really know of anywhere nearby, though. This area's pretty residential.

[ and he's unwilling to admit that for all the years he has now lived in madrid, his sense of direction remains quite terrible and dependent almost entirely on the repetition of routes, normally not very far outside the radius of the csta, and the fact that his friends normally know everywhere that they're going. ]

Well, uh. Huh. [ he can't help it, he feels terrible keeping a stranger out in the rain without any reasonable advice to give him. he wouldn't be able to sleep again if he said "sorry, goodnight". as such, the next suggestion is blurted out a little suddenly, and he isn't sure if it's a sensible idea. ] I have a computer and internet. Up here. If you wanted to — to look something up, maybe...

[ yeah sasha, invite the stranger up to your apartment in the middle of the night. that's fine. ]

From:

vesperal

[ well, the guy's laughing, not making disgruntled noises and hanging up, so jens figures he made a good choice with the number. he's smiling a little himself, squinting at the intercom as he waits patiently for sasha to say a little more than uh. he assumes it's the language barrier slowing things down, but he brightens when he's offered words he can actually understand.

he definitely made a good choice with the number. ]

Oh, thank God. [ he'd rather not have to butcher anymore spanish if he doesn't have to. he laughs again, then: ] Okay, then I'll, uh...

[ of course, jens would have no problem wandering the streets until he came across a lonely taxi or a night-owl sober enough to give him some directions. he could probably find someone to charm into giving him a lift to a hotel or - if worse came to worst - he could just hole up on someone's step for the night, go over the semblance of a plan he has for the meet-up tomorrow. he's done it before. but when sasha offers the possibility of a warm apartment and some free wi-fi to get his bearings, he isn't going to turn it down. he can tell the suggestion is a little impulsive and yeah, taking in strangers may not be advisable in a lot of situations, but he doesn't feel terrible jumping on the offer as soon as it's handed to him. ]

Yeah? That'd be great, I appreciate it. Swear I won't take long. [ another smile, not that sasha can see it. ]

From:

sredniy

[ there is a slightly hesitant pause as sasha tries to weigh up the possibilities of whether he will be murdered/robbed, and tries to settle the sudden onset of nerves with the reassurance that he is probably physically fit enough to hold his own in a fight, though his experience in this area has been minimal.

either way, the key point here is that it's too late for take backs. wondering about potential murder is too late down the line. ]

Hold on, let me — let me buzz you up. I'm on the sixth floor.

[ his fingers skitter nervously over the appropriate button, but he presses it all the same, and once he's sure that the intercom stranger is in the building, he dashes away to flick on a couple of lights. he's never been so thankful for energy saving light bulbs and the slow build of brightness. on a similar note, he is pleased that he does not own much outside of books (most of them in russian or spanish) and a smattering of clothes. at least there's not much here to steal.

he needs to stop thinking that that's what is going to happen. it's making him more anxious than he already is, and he has always been a fairly anxious person to start with. there is no clutter to straighten up; he's a frightfully tidy person.

the wait seems endless. sasha tries to consider how long a pause he will allow between the doorbell being rung and answering it, to try and give off the illusion that he has not been staring at the door for the entire time that the stranger has been making his way upstairs. he reminds himself to ask for a name; it's no good just calling him "the stranger" all the time. ]

From:

vesperal

[ jens is... without any kind of nerves, though perhaps that's simply because he's not the one inviting an unfamiliar man - an unfamiliar man that he hasn't even seen - into the security of his home. it may also have to do with the fact that, if for some reason this kind stranger decided to do something less kind, jens could take him. he's currently weaponless as he knows the people he'll be dealing with on this trip fairly well and they aren't really the kind to whip out guns at any sign of trouble, but jens is fairly good with his fists, confident enough to accept this generosity without a hitch. ]

Thanks. Thanks so much. [ jens moves to the door and waits a moment, wondering if maybe the stranger will second guess himself, but then the latch lifts and he pushes into the dry warmth of the building. heavenly. he wipes his boots on the mat at the door and rubs some of the water from his face with a sleeve, then moves to the elevator. inside, he hits the button for the sixth floor, and busies himself with looking somewhat presentable on the ride up. he pushes his hair back from his forehead and into the relative position it would usually hold when not drenched, then tries to resituate his hoodie where it clings uncomfortably. he's not overly concerned with his appearance at the moment, but looking completely rumpled does not usually do much for a first impression. and first impressions are important to him. he straightens his bag and then watches the little number five switch to a six.

the elevator dings and he exits, following the door numbers to sasha's. it's the only door with light peeking out from the bottom, and that's somehow... encouraging. he puts one hand on the doorframe and raises the other to knock, then notices the doorbell and goes for that instead. it seems the polite thing to do.

a few moments of waiting and the handle jiggles. ]

From:

sredniy

[ well, at least they have both weighed up their options if this goes south.

it's probably a good thing that, as it stands, nothing is actually destined going to go south. as far as we know.

nervous energy twists and fidgets beneath the surface of sasha's fingertips; although the time between speaking to the man on the intercom and his arriving upstairs isn't actually very long, it stretches and pulls itself taut, and sasha keeps finding more and more room for doubt and regret in his head. however, the doubt is quite all encompassing, in as much as he also doubts himself. if anything, the fact that the voice was very much not local and stumbled around spanish added credence to the fact that this was just someone lost (very lost) looking for a hostel. and this weather is the kind that's only fun when you're inside.

the doorbell goes, and sasha is lost enough to his thoughts to startle at the sound, instantly forgetting all considerations of pause. he lunges forward, pulling and twisting the locks, opening the door to reveal the man on the other side. sasha swallows down a lump in his throat. ]

Hi. [ excellent opener. his eyes widen a little as he steps back, making room for him to get inside. after a brief moment spent taking him in, sasha's brow furrows. ] Oh, wow — you're soaked... Would you, er, like a towel? Or something?

From:

vesperal

[ for what it's worth, while he's prepared to deal with a threat, jens would much rather this little meeting not go south. there's something very fulfilling about interactions with strangers that are polite and warm and don't involve the instinct to watch your back. he's going to assume that this will be fine, simply because that's much less of a mood killer.

when the door opens, jens straightens and smiles, mouth quirking up more on one side than the other. there's a moment's pause where his host just stands there, looking at him like a thousand thoughts are filtering behind those blue eyes, but then he offers his hi and jens smiles wider. first impression: slightly skittish, but definitely kind. he might be a little too trusting seeing as jens is invited in before he can even offer a name, but he's got no complaints. ]

Hey. Thanks again. [ he lets his hand drop from the doorframe and he slips into the apartment, stopping just inside the door. he knows he's dripping, and it probably wouldn't be considered good manners to make a mess of the place mere seconds after being welcomed in. he slips his bag from his shoulder and sets it down on top of his feet. when he looks up again, sasha's staring at him, brows drawn together. jens' brow, in contrast, lifts in curiosity. ]

A towel would be great. [ but before sasha can scamper off, he offers a hand. ] I'm Jens. Nice to meet you.

From:

sredniy

[ too kind is definitely the right description of sasha. it's a wonder that he's never been terribly hurt by anyone in his life — no disastrous, awful relationships leaving lasting scars, nothing that has taught him to be more careful. his parents are perhaps the only exception. he'll do just about anything for them, never questioning their motives or decisions. let them push him into all sorts, but just about dodging the corners they try to shove him into. just. it always feels like their patience is starting to wear terribly thin these days.

there is quite a clear distance that sasha keeps to between them, a distance that he has to bridge a little in order to politely accept the outstretched hand. he stares at it a moment, like it might bite him, and then takes it and makes sure his grip isn't too ... whatever the opposite of firm is. (he doesn't want to think of it as being floppy, that would be terrible.) ]

It's not a problem... you must think I'm a bit strange for, er, all of this. I mean, it's probably not the worst option for you, just — [ he stops, releases jens' hand abruptly, realising he's still holding it. ] I'm Sasha. Uh, Alexander, really, but no one calls me that. I don't know why that matters.

[ a pause. ]

Towel. Let me get a towel.

[ and he scampers away to dig around his airing cupboard for a clean, warm towel, relieved that he does indeed have one to offer. he scampers back with it, holding it out. belatedly, ]

Oh! It's nice to meet you too.

From:

vesperal

[ jens notes the hesitance before sasha accepts the handshake, but he just keeps smiling carefully, not wanting to scare sasha off. his grip is firm enough; perhaps not as firm as jens, but it gets the job done. he's hand is warm where jens is cold and still damp. ]

No, no, I'm just grateful. Not a lotta people'd do this. [ he knows from experience. most people'd rather not be bothered, whether or not it means leaving someone to fend for themselves. jens takes his hand back, unable to not be slightly endeared by sasha's nervousness. he slips his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and fixes his eyes on sasha's face.

he's going to say more, but then the towel becomes priority, and jens is left to glance around the apartment. you can tell a lot from what a person surrounds themselves with, and while sasha's apartment is nowhere near teeming with possessions, it has things to say. the books for one thing suggest an interest in knowledge or a standard of intelligence, maybe even a penchant for solitude. maybe he's interested in the world but would rather keep to the safety of his apartment. the clothes are more typical - who doesn't have clothes hanging around in strange places? - but it might be a symptom of living alone. jens' is pretty sure there's no one else in the apartment, and so they're back to the idea of solitude. he's slowly getting better and better at this: reading everything possible in order to read people themselves. you could say it's something of a helpful hobby.

sasha returns and jens accepts the towel, dabbing at his face first. as he rubs at his hair, he says: ] Thanks, Sasha. That's a pretty name. It suits you. [ and this is maybe not ideal circumstances to be flirting in, but it's harmless, isn't it? mostly harmless? also, it's just the truth.

his hair is left standing at odd angles, but he focuses on wiping water from the back of his neck before patting it back down. he sighs happily. ] That's much better. [ he presses the towel to his sweater in a few places in the hopes of drawing out some of the moisture, then graciously hands it back. ]

From:

sredniy

[ sasha holds himself back a lot. he likes solitude as much as the next person, in measured quantities, but so much of him is a product of shyness. too shy to let people too close, to give too much of himself away (even though he would, he would give all of himself away if given half the chance). he's quick to feel, a constant bundle of thoughts and emotions that he firmly buries beneath a quiet, gentle surface.

he blushes. as it happens, he blushes almost constantly. if he isn't sunburnt, then he's blushing. there's always a reason to. his cheeks are perpetually rosy. these are the things he can give away, the surface details. that he is timid and easily flustered. harder to pick out are things like his love for holding hands, his general tactility. things he does not allow to be the forefront of his character, things that need to be dug out and discovered. not that any of these finer details matter, right now, though the cool of jens' palm is still a lingering presence against his own. he remembers touch like he remembers smells, colours, with perfect clarity. ]

You're more or less the only person who's ever said that. Most people just ask what kind of a name "Sasha" is for a man. [ he pauses, breathing in a little quickly. ] But — thank you.

[ for a moment, he's quite lost to the thought of a handsome stranger telling him that his name is pretty, before his brain kicks back into gear. ]

Uh, my computer. Just... here. [ and he flits away to a nearby coffee table, pulling his laptop open and punching in his password with the kind of speed that suggests his life depends on it. within moments he's by the window, a safe distance, gesturing limply at the laptop. ] All yours.

From:

vesperal

[ jens, on the other hand, doesn't hold much back at all. or at least he makes it seem like he's got nothing to hold back. of course, there are things he chooses to keep to himself in order to avoid complications (like yes, he has killed people before), other things that he's obligated to keep to himself (like what he is and what he does for a slightly less than honest living), but what he has to share is shared openly and fully. it works well for him, most of the time. it means people are drawn to him, want to trust him. and, hell, he's not denying that that's a good feeling, even if it's not completely warranted. he's never actually gotten himself into a serious relationship, but he's had a good number of mutually beneficial encounters, so he can't really complain.

the blush on sasha's cheeks feels like a success, and even if he knew that blushing is just second-nature for sasha, he'd probably still be patting himself on his back. it means he's done something right, and that's all he can hope for in a situation like this. the flirtation might have been a bit of a risk, but it seems to have gone over well. he'd hate to think he was getting under sasha's skin in a bad way. he's sweet, cautious, and jens has probably caused enough difficulty for him tonight.

still, he's not in a terrible rush to leave. ]

You're welcome. [ he laughs. ] What is it with people and getting bent out of shape about names? Everyone hates how mine is spelled. J-e-n-s. [ he offers a shrug, lips puckered in exaggerated frustration.

jens watches as sasha fiddles with the laptop, obviously hurried, then decides that he shouldn't be going anywhere in these boots. he bends and unties them, toeing them off and dropping them along with his bag next to the door. then he invites himself further into the apartment in socked feet that won't leave treads on the floor. he can't help but notice the way sasha retreats, and smiles to himself as he perches on the edge of the couch in front of the laptop. ]

Thanks. [ he pulls up the browser and googles a map. his eyes lift from the screen and find sasha again after a moment or two, sorry he feels he has to isolate himself, standing awkwardly in his own apartment. ] I'm terrible at accents, but you're not from Spain, are you?

From:

sredniy

[ sasha is like a book with a lock on it. his cover says a lot, the blurb gives away half the plot but you still won't get the whole story. not until you pick the lock — or become the key. ]

I like interesting names, [ he breathes out softly, honestly and unthinkingly. ] Jens has a handsome sound to it.

[ well, it does. that nordic, european feeling of y sounds that are in fact spelt with a j. sasha is immediately glad for the low lighting of his apartment, because his blush deepens somewhat fiercely. he stands quite still, all his nervous energy locked up in his stuttering heart and his darting eyes, none of it translating to fidgets and squirms. he's the deer in headlights type; the kind that hopes his stillness will allow him to go unnoticed.

he tries not think about how his friends would kill him if they knew what he was doing right now, letting unknown people into his apartment and use his computer. he tries not to think about how his parents would kill him five times over for it, like he isn't an adult, like he isn't to be trusted with his own decisions. which, admittedly, perhaps he shouldn't be, all things considered. (his parents would kill him for a lot of things, really; like the way he can't stop looking at a stray strand of jens' hair and wishes he could reach out and tuck it away.) ]

The accent still gives it away. [ a soft, faraway laugh. his international school english always gives him away a bit, soft intonations of european mixed with american vowels. ] I've lived in Spain most of my life, but my family's Russian.

[ cautiously, but not without a ghost of a smile, ] What about you? I mean, Spanish wasn't quite your strong point over the intercom, if you don't mind my saying.

[ that and the name; jens. yens, with a j. ]

From:

vesperal

[ a handsome sound to it. he'll take that, especially if it means that light flirting was not put to waste. jens can tell that sasha may not be feeling particularly confident about the conversation but, fortunately for sasha, the full flush of his cheeks goes mostly unnoticed. ]

Glad someone likes it. Besides me. [ he flashes a white-toothed grin, pleased. he supposes his parents must have been fond of the name when they'd given it to him, but they'd scarcely been around to even call him by it. his grandfather was always grumbling it, its shape lost in his gummy mouth, and his brother was always dragging it out, long and high-pitched when he whined about teasing or sleep-talked. still, and perhaps a little surprisingly, jens likes it.

he's gotten the map to pinpoint their location, but his gaze is drawn from the screen again when sasha laughs, eyes going soft. he almost sounds disenchanted by the realization. ] Russian. Right. [ he taps a finger against his temple. he probably should have known that. ]

Ha! You can just say it; my Spanish is shit. [ as are most of his attempts at anything other than english. ] I'm from Birmingham originally, but I've kind of been... all over.

[ all over quite literally meaning all over, but there are still lots of places he hasn't had the pleasure of touching down in yet. he's put down the occasional roots here and there, but only in the places he frequents. his apartments are even more empty than sasha's, half-filled with only essentials mostly. his personal possessions are divided between the apartments and clay's house and even the old family home, which is not always conventient, but it's how he's used to living. not only that, but it seems appropriate for the way he conducts his life, moving so quickly that sometimes it feels like he's in two places at once. ]

From:

sredniy

[ if the blush isn't noticed now, it will be noticed later; sasha is forever in a state of pinkness, varying in degrees between mildly pink and full on beetroot. his face is quick to flood with colour at the slightest shift in emotions. it suits anger, sadness, happiness, and all because somehow sasha wanders into his emotions with at least the slightest bit of embarrassment. it's just the way he is, deeply ingrained in his being.

either way, it remains, particularly in the wake of jens' smile.

sasha's name, comparatively, is childish. no one has ever called him alexander, not even his teachers. his family have always been too close to resort to anything but his sweet, soft sounding diminutive. it makes him feel like he's forever stuck as a little boy of twelve, not a man of twenty eight, and it shows, sometimes. his shyness is boyish, mercifully erring on the side of charming than frustrating, for the most part — he tries so hard not to let it hold him back. ]

I'm sure mine would be if I hadn't had to learn out of necessity. [ it's funny, because he's been told that in his spanish is where his accent becomes decidedly more russian, where is oddly transatlantic over his english. tongues are bizarre like that. all the same, his spanish is perfectly fluent, and instances of his accent being at all obvious usually only emerge when he's been drinking. ] All over sounds nice, though.

[ he means that. his voice softens again, tellingly, as he says it. sasha has been all over, but never for the sake of it. he remembers little of the many places he's been; his attention is always demanded between random work and his vast, shimmering family, their endless circles of friends. ]

From:

vesperal

[ jens' may notice the color of sasha's cheeks after he stares for a few long moments at his face, quietly puzzling out necessity. his first instinct is work because so many of people's decisions all come back to that universal obligation, but he's more inclined to think family. maybe he'd wanted to get away from the family home in russia, settle down somewhere else, alone. jens can understand that. less the settling down part, but more the spreading your wings part. his relationship with his parents isn't necessary bad, it's just... not particularly special, so the decision to get out and see the world wasn't really a decision at all. he'd started ditching birmingham for places like new york and mexico city at seventeen, and he wasn't about to revert back to dependent son when he was old enough to go and not come back. ]

I think I get it. [ which is either an invitation to explain or a reassurance that he doesn't have to say anything else; whatever sasha would prefer. the fond smile jens offers - because of the blush or because of the assumed similarities between them or both - is meant to make him feel more comfortable, but maybe the whole smiling thing only makes the tension worse. he can't really stop, though. ]

It is. [ and he means that, wholeheartedly. in fact, he momentarially forgets his soggy self and leans back into the cushions of the couch, eyes shifting from sasha and fixing on an indefinite point in the room, sifting through memories. sure, constantly moving has its inconveniences, especially when you don't bother with the kind of planning ahead that avoids situations like these, but he loves it. and he can't help but love these odd circumstances he lands himself in. they keep things interesting, keep him meeting interesting people. it's definitely not the kind of existence for everyone, but its suits him just fine.

his attention wanders back to sasha, and he nods his head slowly, appraising his own idea. ] You should try it. Maybe I could show you around London sometime. Or Moncton. Or Osaka?

[ honestly, sasha, take your pick. if... you'd be up for vacationing with a complete stranger, that is. ]

From:

sredniy

[ sasha's whole family always dreamed of being anywhere else but russia. ostensibly, that is why his parents moved him and his sisters to spain when he was so young. his youngest sister doesn't even have any recollections of russia; she was barely a few months old at the time. sasha and svetlana have a smattering of memories between them. most of them have something to do with snow and abominable cold, a window that creaked when assaulted by winter winds no matter how many times someone was called around to fix it. almost breaking his grandma's prized samovar in his excitement to see the flowers painted on it.

that said, they moved to a part of spain that heaved with russians already. it made very little difference, in the grand scheme of things, and even though sasha burns like paper in a fireplace when he's out in the sun, he doesn't miss the cold at all.

he loves his parents, sasha does. he loves his sisters, more so because they struggle so much to love each other. but every relationship is skewed and twisted into attempted shapes of what love should be like in families, not how it actually is. they're an imbalanced, strange bunch, with no concept amongst them of how to change or improve these things.

it doesn't matter what jens does or says now, sasha's blush is going nowhere. he would have been just as rosy faced if he wasn't bizarrely enjoying this late night, unexpected meeting, because blushing suits so many of his primary emotions. but the smile is appreciated, in the sense that it is one more handsome thing to add to the mental list that sasha doesn't even know he's keeping (yet). he laughs, softly and nervously, but his slightly suppressed smile gives away that he rather likes this suggestion. ]

Maybe you could. Do you consider yourself a good tour guide? I'm prone to something of a short attention span, you see. That's why I could probably still get lost on all my usual routes here.

[ his gaze flicks around the contours of jens' face. ]

Easily distracted.

From:

vesperal

[ jens spends a month after his first meeting with sasha wondering how long it will be until he can go back. jens has spent many a night pestering strangers into offering directions or calling him a taxi, but there's something about their encounter in particular that doesn't seem keen to leave him. it settles somewhere in his chest instead, and almost sparks with urgency whenever his brain slips back into the memory. jens fritters away a week negotiating a job, has a weekend to consider calling sasha without occasion or explanation, spends some time working in toronto, and even wanders through france and over into switzerland for a good friend and client of his, but his presence isn't immediately required in madrid.

three and a half weeks later when it is, when he finally pulls himself to an alley not unlike the one he'd found himself in before and hurriedly handles a quick and clean weapons exchange, he calls sasha, happily and unapologetically. and maybe it's a little awkward at first, the fact that that stranger who'd dragged his dripping self through sasha's apartment and casually asked him if he'd like to do some vacationing together sometime has unceremoniously reached out in a way that is only slightly less weird than the first time, but in the end, it's good. very good, in jens' opinion; good to hear sasha's voice and better still to hear sasha's voice agree to see him again.

the late afternoon had held such things as uncertain handshakes that didn't quite convey whatever emotions thrummed under their skins, a restaurant jens was entirely underdressed for in a grey t-shirt and his canvas backpack, jens grinning over a plate of rigatoni at the way sasha's eyes hung too long on some sharp edge to jens' face, and quiet, easy conversation that both explained very little and spoke volumes about the odd and incredible circumstances that had lead them both to be there, jens' knee bumping against sasha's beneath the table. all good things.

the evening is balmy rather than rain-heavy when they leave the restaurant, and while jens doesn't place much faith in superstition, in this calm and comfortable state he doesn't have any reservations about taking that as a good sign. before sasha has a chance to begin good-byes (not that jens thinks he's particularly impatient for that kind of exchange), jens offers to walk him home, smiling a warm, pleasant smile to match the night around them. sasha seems unsurprisingly flustered at first (god, jens is fond of him), but he doesn't hesitate long. so that's what they do.

now, after walking a block or two in amiable silence with their shoulders close enough to brush with every second step, jens turns to look at him, mouth quirking at the flush high on sasha's cheeks, a sight that he's quite quickly becoming a huge fan of. he's becoming a huge fan of all of this, actually. ]

You seem happy. [ not quite a question, but more of a pleased observation, said with this undisguised softness that should convey just how happy jens himself is. ]

From:

sredniy

[ oh, how long sasha had been waiting for him to call.

the first week and a half, he couldn't stop staring at his phone. it occurred to him, more than once, that perhaps it wouldn't hurt to be the one to make the first move, but as hard as he tries not to let shyness get the best of him, sometimes it wins. it's easy for sasha to consider himself a burden, or bothersome, a homey and self-contained creature to the bright, vivid personality of jens, a wanderer, someone always on the move. without him there, right in front of him, sasha finds it a lot easier to pick over his perceived flaws rather than give into impulses. the same impulse that barely hesitated to agree to swap numbers, the impulse that kept his cheeks pink for hours even after jens left.

it was ridiculous. the situation had been crazy from the get go, and a very reasonable, sensible part of sasha says it's lucky he didn't get murdered, while another giddy part says he got something much better.

by the time two weeks slide by, sasha checks his phone less. he tells himself he missed his opportunity to be proactive and call jens himself. he still bristles with excitement whenever he gets a call; that it's never jens' name on the screen bothers him more than it should. or, he tells himself that at least, just to try and make himself feel less daft about the whole thing.

all through the dinner, he wonders how this is real. how could have such bizarre circumstances have led to this? (the call had had him stumbling and slipping like a baby deer on thin ice, to start with. he'd been so overjoyed to receive it that he briefly forgot how to speak at all, and somehow by the time he found his tongue they were going on what sounded suspiciously like a date.) every time jens' knee bumps against his, it's like an electric jolt that reminds him how tangible this is. it seems silly to feel so doubtful that it would be, but in the month since they first met, sasha has had plenty of time to convince himself that their meeting had been a dream. but it wasn't, and neither is this.

when jens offers to walk him home, sasha is relieved beyond belief, though the pink flooding his cheeks might suggest otherwise. he'd been thinking of what possible excuses he could make so that this didn't have to end, but this is far better than anything he was cooking up. he smiles, nods wordlessly at first before he remembers his words and confirms, softly, that yes, he'd like that. ]

I've been told I give myself away quite easily, [ sasha murmurs, the corners of his mouth turned up as he sneaks a quick glance in jens' direction. ] I am, though, yes.

[ he lets their shoulders brush again, each touch lighting something far warmer than the air around him beneath his skin. ]

What about you?

[ he thinks that jens looks happy, too. sounds it. ]

From:

vesperal

[ this is undoubtedly a date. they might not have called it that over the phone, simply to avoid the uncertainty that such a title might inspire for two people who know very little of each other and only know that small bit because of a bizarre coincidence, but it's most certainly a date. jens hopes that his endless smiling over dinner and the closeness he's cautiously offered sasha all night have been obvious clues, but he's quite convinced sasha's caught on if his endearing nervousness and endless blushing is any evidence. though, jens quite clearly remembers that sasha's cheeks are often pink, no matter the situation.

still, sasha has let jens knock their knees together all evening, didn't show any signs of discomfort when jens touched his wrist to get his attention as they'd left, and now he's leaning into jens as they walk, clearly unafraid to let jens into his small, warm world. given the opportunity, jens won't hesitate to press into that warmth, eyes bright and pale at once as he looks at sasha, that fond and boyish quirk ever-present at the corner of his mouth. ]

Heart on your sleeve and all that. [ jens has always liked the expression, though much of sasha's heart makes itself obvious in his face, in the way he lets his happiness show in careful ways. the smile tugging at his mouth just so is a perfect example.

when he's asked the question, he pretends to consider the answer closely, lips pursed but still smiling as he glances away from sasha and down the street instead, idly adjusting the straps of his backpack. really, he doesn't need even a second to think about it. is he happy? he's extremely happy. happy and awake and quiet inside, which is not always an easy feat. of course, he is almost buzzing with thoughts of sasha and this date and the apartment waiting - for them? - not far away, but there's nothing to weigh him down at the moment. it's just this and that absolutely makes him happy. when he decides he's held them both in suspense long enough, his gaze returns to sasha, hovering over his mouth a moment. he smiles wider now, laughing lightly. he leans into sasha's shoulder a little more, a playful nudge. ]

Yeah, I'm happy. I hope you can tell.

[ jens is not sure he could make it any more obvious without taking sasha's hand in his or tugging him to a stop and kissing him.

he may have already considered the possibilities of both. ]

From:

sredniy

[ if it sounds like a date and knocks knees like a date, then it's definitely a date.

although it nagged at him to tell someone, sasha never mentioned to his friends about that middle of the night encounter. they were practical, reasonable folk; they'd tell him he was mad for letting a stranger waltz into his home without the slightest thought, not revel in the bizarre, unusual romance of it all. that, and sasha wasn't sure it had been real, as mentioned. he could have recounted it as if it were a dream, but funnily enough, he expects the reaction would have been much the same. perhaps as much as sasha is relieved that he hadn't imagined any of it, he's also relieved that the tangible spark of attraction remains. jens gave a little, and sasha gave back enough that they established interest so simply, so easily. no fuss, just careful, unashamed honesty.

the smile that's ever present on jens' face begs to be kissed. ]

On all sleeves imaginable, [ he confirms, with a soft laugh.

when jens pretends to think, sasha sneaks another glance at him, lips pulled in slightly as he tries to subdue the childishly pleased smile that keeps threatening to burst onto his face. not that he thinks jens would mind if he started grinning goofily at him, but sasha would like to think he's capable of holding at least one card to his chest. he knows that jens is teasing, pretending, but it suitably builds the tension well enough, and the nudge is received with another laugh and a suitable nudge in return. ]

I might have picked up on it. You don't have a very telling smile, after all.

[ except it's been wonderfully telling all evening, and it makes sasha's stomach twist into knots.

a brief pause passes between them as sasha fidget very slightly, swinging both his arms behind him and clasping his hands together to stop them from fiddling with the hem of his shirt or flapping too wildly as he talks. he's perfectly aware that the admission on the tip of his tongue might make him seem a little daft, but frankly, their circumstances should allow for daftness. besides, jens doesn't strike sasha as the type that would brush off his sillier considerations as nothing. ]

I'm really glad you called, you know. I'd honestly been wondering if maybe it had all been a dream, the way we met.

From:

vesperal

[ jens, too, has kept their bizarre meeting to himself, but moreso because he doesn't really have anyone to tell. if he were to tell anyone, it would be clay, but he's entirely used to jens running into strangers at seemingly inopportune times all over the world and making these short, intense connections. jens has struck up conversations in bus stops while taking shelter from hail storms and hitch-hiked for the sheer amusement of it many times over, and so a new story about a new man and his warm apartment would not inspire much of a reaction. though, of course, this time is different; this time jens came back. yet, his brother knows him and the oddities of his life too well, and jens had no real desire to remind clay once again just how different they are.

so sasha has been jens' little secret, and he's quite liked it that way. he's used to keeping secrets, many of which he might entertain thoughts of offering up to others, but sasha is one he doesn't mind keeping. this secret, unlike that of his family, is for jens and jens only, and it's special in that way.

sasha himself is special, too. it's a fact that he constantly seems to remind jens of, especially now when he laughs softly, his delight almost tangible. jens honestly feels giddy with it - god, how old is he again? - and his smile is not going anywhere. it can't, not when sasha is nudging him back like that, the press of his arm warm. ]

I'll have to be more obvious about it then. [ his smile transforms into a grin. he'll let his cheeks ache and ache if that will get the message across.

they walk in silence for a moment or two, and jens observes the admittedly endearing way that sasha keeps himself small, holding parts of himself in. his intertwined fingers hint at shyness and a reluctance to let himself become too engrossed in a moment of nervous energy, and jens thinks about holding sasha's hands for him, stilling him with thumbs brushed against the backs of his hands.

sasha's words catch him off guard, and for a moment, he's not sure how to respond to that. a dream, strange and hazy and yet entirely memorable, the smallest details recalled with startling clarity when one least expected it. his expression softens, brows lifting in the quiet question of really? because... because the admission sounds very innocent and wholly genuine. jens wets his lip as some part of his heart melts just a little, and he laughs airily, but not because he thinks this silly. quite the opposite. ]

Well, [ he stops and tries to find the words. he's not sure how to explain what he's thinking. it's possible he can't eventually: ] I'll admit, I am pretty dreamy.

Edited Date: 2016-05-08 03:45 am (UTC)

From:

sredniy

[ all his life, sasha has operated in small circles. handfuls of friends that rarely changed in configuration, careful, cautious steps taken in directions only when he knows that certain people aren't looking. it's not that he doesn't have anyone to tell about jens; now that this evening has happened, he can tell friends at the university that he's been on a date, that he's met someone he really likes, and turn bright pink at their inevitable enthusiasm for such a development. but his family?

he remembers with stunning clarity how terrified he'd been the first time he'd kissed another boy, the way it set a thrill through him the same way that kissing a girl had, how he'd agonised over that thrill and wondered if it was wrong, because his parents had insinuated as much in idle, throwaway conversations. his sisters — there's a possibility he could chance it with them, but he's not brave enough to dare. maybe he doesn't give them enough credit. in the end, madrid is far enough away from his family that he feels less suffocated by the fear of what they'd think of him, if they knew that men and women both alike could set his pulse fluttering, if they looked at him right, brushed his shoulder just so.

the way jens does.

sasha falls into like very easily. he attaches very firmly to others whilst trying his hardest not to let it show too much. the thought of becoming bothersome or irritating frightens him awfully, but is constantly in battle with his natural inclination to express every emotion that flickers into his mind. years of practice have made him something of an expert at managing it, but not at changing the fact that it happens. that he's only met jens twice, and yet he'd be perfectly happy to let this man step into his personal space and kiss him senseless. or to be the one doing that, in fact. for all that he worries about how he comes across to others, sasha isn't terribly oblivious; quite the opposite. the fact that whatever is felt here is reciprocated doesn't require a rocket scientist to figure it out. ]

And I'll have to start paying more attention.

[ somewhat abruptly, sasha bursts into laughter. as much as he tries to dilute certain outward emotions, it's sometimes unexpected when his restraints start falling away, or when he can't catch himself in time. it's a bright, young sound, slightly muffled by the way sasha slaps his hand over his mouth, ducking his head with faint embarrassment, though he doesn't apologise for it. ]

That — I don't know what I was expecting you to say, but it wasn't that. [ the sentence peters out into more soft, huffing laughs as he shakes his head, pulling in his lips slightly as he stares at jens with incredulous brightness. ] That was terrible.

From:

perishes

Come home with me next vacation coming up.

I'll steal you from your relatives and take you sailing.

From:

sredniy

What

Really?

From:

sredniy

I don't know why I asked that

Please don't answer

I obviously would love to! Obviously

From:

perishes

pleaes dont hate me

i fucked up

From:

sredniy

What happened???! Are you okay?? Please tell me you're okay

From:

perishes

Yes really.

It's too late, I'm answering now. Sorry.

Good, though. Great. I mean I wasn't sure if you already had plans or if your parents had plans for you and I'd have to just break you out or something. Somehow.

From:

sredniy

If they have plans, they tend to spring them on me last minute

But I don't care. If there are plans, I'll change them. I want to go with you.

From:

perishes

We'll just have to make sure we're gone before that, then. We won't even give them the chance.

Where do you want to go? I'll take you anywhere.

Almost anywhere. You know. Anywhere that's... within reason.

From:

perishes

[ they say that in life, you transform three times.

the first is the most difficult.

the second, you never expect.

when the third comes to claim you at last you can see rising like the sun and can do nothing but embrace it with your entire being.

only then, can you inherit your happiness.

-

the night prior, coralene walks over to where he sits on the overcropping stone that looks out to the sea. she places something thin and card-like into his hands and on the horizon a tempest rumbles. he doesn't look down until she leaves. judgement sits in his palms like an old companion, one he's been waiting for.

he asks no one in particular: "is it time already?"

it rains heavily on the coast that night. old sand washes anew. old stones. older bones that are colder, thinner, more brittle. he cries, and he doesn't remember how longer he stays there, perched on the cliff face, but it's long enough that his fingertips go number and his crying has turned into a long, wild wail that the wind carries away so that no one else will hear. it rains, pounding, thick drops that sluice down the sides of cottage rooftops and batter sails and in the distance a stripe of lightning paints the sky to the cacophony of its brother thunder riding her tails.

"it hurts, doesn't it?" someone whispers on the air, hands warm, lips soft. "an ache you can't balm away, you can't hide it."

the storm swells.

the storm calms.

konstantin blinks through his rain-heavy eyelashes and wipes his nose with his palm roughly, enough to sting.

"there. better?" it asks.

-

he leaves judgement on the kitchen table in the morning and walks out to the beach in bare feet, fingers caught in the thin chain about his neck, slipping through the slender, silver ring he keeps there. ("i'm married," he tells someone one night when offered a warm bed, warmer company. "i'm married," he repeats when she asks what he's doing here then, by himself. he doesn't respond with the first thing that comes to mind: "i ask myself the same thing every night.")

-

looking at sasha is...

terrifying.

konstantin doesn't remember the last time his body reacted in this way, tight skin and tighter muscles, nerves pinching him in every which way until all he wants to do is tumble to the ground. but he's stronger now, he doesn't give into the prickling desire and instead stands, ankles deep in the sand, watching sasha from where he stands, framed by the waves, entire body thrumming with the slow beat of the waves against stone and sand.

hello.

hi.

i've missed you.

i've missed you.

you don't have to forgive me.

you don't even have to look at me.

konstantin's body breaks into a full ache, throbbing from his chest down to his toes and he knows he doesn't have the right to hurt. not right now, not looking at sasha who looks just as equally haunted, a man possessed of too much awful and too little good, especially so now, konstantin can taste it on the air. the thrum of his loss the ache of his heart, the taste of his name on his tongue stale somewhere on the air like remnants. there's been a fight, he can feel that too, still humming in the air, the sound of an expensive car's motor leaving the pavement that fades into sand, the sound of a woman telling him you know better now.

but do you really?

konstantin opens his mouth and for once, he chokes. ]

Sasha-- [ too soft, that won't do ] Sasha!

[ he prays in this instant that the Sea will decide to swallow him whole. instead, She pushes him forward with an enormous wave--the kind that's wet and foam-riddled and powerful, an over-sized palm that forces him four steps forward and douses him adequately.

you'll be afforded no dignity today, she tells him. ]

From:

sredniy

[ too often he has long, winding conversations with himself about what this means. the art of over-thinking was one sasha had always been particularly skilled in, a fact that he recognised woefully without having quite enough will to change or temper this about himself, but in recent months it seems to have spiralled to his singular talent. too often his mother tries to drill into him the pathetic finality of all this, to try and shock him out of his misery, violently and ineffectually shoving with all her misguided love. she does it out of love, he knows this. he understands it, sometimes. but it will never work, because love is the very thing that anchors him in the darkest depths of his sadness.

his sisters are no better. their love is gentler, kinder, but still not what he needs. there is a rational part of sasha that reasons he needs to move on, to pick himself up. he can't.

it's very difficult to practically imagine a conclusion, closure, when even if he wanted to, he'd not know where to send divorce papers.

each time the thought crosses his mind, he feels dizzy and sick.

the strangest thing is looking at it all in retrospect. sasha is no longer surprised by his being in this position, because he and konstantin fashioned this outcome together. they belonged to each other. possessed and possessing, continually intoxicated on each other. somehow, they blossomed and functioned beautifully together whilst heavily dependent on the other, and yet — sasha can't tell if he had been honestly oblivious to the need they had for each other, or simply blotted it out of his mind entirely, of his own choosing, his own resistance to accept the fact that they had become each to the other a lifeblood. he hates himself for never imagining a possibility where one might be able to live without the other; he hates himself for giving in to the illusion of "forever".

once again, his mother spits with anger at the sight of the ring on his finger.

-

you should come out, larissa offers, taking not-so-subtle care in her tone. we'd have fun! you might meet someone.

he raises his brows, looks to her without mirth, and the pity in his eyes is not directed at her attempts to rouse him from his stupors but for himself, the shameful but inevitable self-pity a person experiences when they know they are the makers of their misfortunes. sasha never thought about the concept of soul mates. he never had reason to. but these days he feels too hollow for anyone else. no other soul could be rich enough, beautiful enough, familiar enough, to fill the void inside him. only the one that left.

i don't want to, he says, simply. it's one of the truest answers he could ever give.

-

he overthinks, yes, but rarely does he plan ahead.

the panic is always reserved for the here and now, or the immediate future. he doesn't think about a week down the line, a month, a year. he exists in an insistent tunnel vision, and as time continues to pass, the absence ticks onward and adds longer to its count, it stings with fresh pain each time. each new month brings the realisation that he is still alone, and the whispers of a beautiful, soft voice in his ear, a soothing song to guide him to sleep, grow dimmer in his memories.

-

not for the first time, he finds himself staring out at the sea and hating it. hating it for being a constant reminder of what he has lost and more so for having a power over him, keeping him rooted to a home so near it. he should go back to madrid, back to his dusty apartment that he gave up so long ago in favour of staying wrapped up in strong, warm arms and sheets that smelt of both of them, of salt and citrus and the cheap body wash they shared.

as ever, his hands fidget and squirm. he was never a very still man, nor a very still boy. anxious thoughts always kept him moving, shuffling from foot to foot, nervous energy threatening to spill over. that's why he loved to dance; it took all that ugly energy and made it into something beautiful. but the man standing on the shore is changed, weathered. he looks thin, deflated, with hollows in his cheeks that were never there before. the thought of dancing is far away. he hasn't the heart for it. aside from his hands, fingers insistently twisting his wedding band around, around, around, he barely moves, swaying only slightly from the push of the unfriendly wind.

he's been here so many times, trying to find some kind of strength in himself to throw the damned thing into the waves. return this love to where it came from, let it sink to the bottom and be lost in the sand forever. to renounce the name that once set his heart skipping and his lips into the most radiant of smiles. but he can't. he won't. he only took it off that one time, the first time. held it so tightly in his palm it left indents, but never so much as raised his arm to throw it. jammed it back on so tightly that it hurt.

once more, he tries to look into the very darkest corners of himself to find that will, to do this one thing and see if it will have some effect on him. so intent is his focus that for a moment, he think the sound is a cruel trick of his imagination.

he doesn't plan ahead.

never once did sasha think to himself what he would do if faced with konstantin again. there is a pained part of his mind that thought it would never happen again, and it clouded the opportunity to think of something to say, something to do, if their paths crossed once again. not that it matters, really. sasha supposes that if he had thought of what he'd say, he'd never have managed to say it. when he turns, he has half a mind to throw up.

impulse (instinct) carries him forward two paces, stumbling in the sand. ]

K — Konstantin?

[ his knees threaten to buckle, and sharp pains shoot through his chest, white hot and blinding. eyes blur almost immediately; god, how he hates his inability to control his emotions. he wishes all the time that he was not so turbulent, but it is a wish that has never been heard by anyone with the power to do anything about it, least of all himself. for the two steps forward, he takes three, then four back. tries to continue until he loses his footing in the sand and sinks, inelegantly, trying to scramble back to his feet.

it's what he wanted more than anything. for konstantin to come back. to see his endless eyes and his bewitching smile, feel his hands in his hair. and now that the possibility presents itself, so suddenly, without preamble or ceremony, he feels very much like it is the last thing he is equipped to handle. ]

From:

perishes

Wait — [ Sasha moves forward for two heartbeats, and then back pedals and Konstantin's boyish heart sinks.

His animal heart impatiently beats forward.

Go.

Konstantin watches Sasha go down and impulsively surges forward, digging into the damp sand at his heels and striding forward, quick and long paces at first that turn into a sprint that sends him forward onto his knees in the sand. No, he doesn't catch Sasha, but he's sinks into the grains and sliding an arm around his shoulders, the other arm going around his waist before he can fumble too far, like some dream gone by.

I don't deserve this.

I don't deserve you.

Only good men. Good men.

He's heaving breaths, hunched over Sasha's somewhat fallen form, the two of them caught up in the sand and Konstantin's fingers already clutching at his shirt as he looks down at him. ]

Please wait...

[ His voice is small, but low, private as the water overtakes the sand and hisses once, twice, three times, before quieting. The rumble of something low and impending comes from the distance, crackling to the beat of Konstantin's throbbing heart. Sasha feels too light in his arms, his magic warm against his skin, bleeding between his flesh and bone and his own sending out a soft and pitching, mournful cry. It weaves forward in a way that words can't, like a hand outstretched, an offer.

Please.

Strong, but easy, finding every familiar crevice (and unfamiliar ones now) buried in Sasha's own magic. ] Are you...

[ Alright? Probably not. Don't be fucking stupid. His fingers loosen just slightly, eyes looking down at Sasha's own, too-sharp teeth catching on his lower lip forgetfully, but the pinprick of pain keeps him steady, keeps him here as he leans over further, weight of the chain about his throat pulling itself free from the collar of his damp shirt, allowing skin-warmed metal to dangle between them slowly.

This is real.

It's too real.

He may as well leave again, right? ]

I fucked up, [ he croaks finally. ] I fucked this up.

From:

sredniy

No — [ broken, unintelligible, even for such a short and simple word. ] — no, no, no.

[ he struggles.

to fight his way out of konstantin's touch is an alien thing to sasha, something only ever done when his longer, roaming fingers found themselves bothering the more sensitive parts of sasha's body, with the intention of making him giggle like a child. of making him beg for mercy, to say "no", over and over, much like he does now. oh, how the tides turn and the sweetest memories become tangled up in painful realities. he barely allows himself to listen that anything konstantin tries to say, barely allows him to say it with all the thrashing he insists on doing, but konstantin has always been strong and god if he doesn't feel — stronger.

tears start to spill from sasha's eyes, fat and heavy. ]

No. I can't — I can't do this, I can't, I don't want, I — [ if he sounds hysterical, that's because he is. for every dream he had that konstantin would return, he ignored the niggling consideration of his own response to this. the numbness that clutched at his very heart for all this time has suddenly been set alight, like a match abruptly dropped in petrol. suddenly, there is so much anger. so much distress. a thousand things he wants to say, but he can't choose where to start, and it's already driving him insane. ] You — fucking fucked up, you utter — God, I cannot do this!

[ konstantin's teeth are sharp. incredibly sharp. sharp as sasha has ever known them, the kind of teeth that left behind a few ridges and the remnants of konstantin's shame. sasha stares, breathing unevenly, loudly, with difficulty. wants to reach out and touch them, drag his finger over his lips like he used to —

his hand smacks against metal.

suddenly, the thrashing and the flailing stops as sasha inelegantly grabs hold of the ring, unforgiving in the way that he yanks it (and the wearer) closer to look at it with the eyes of a complete madman. a ring. their ring. around his neck, tepid from the heat of his chest. many things suddenly swirl and circle in sasha's mind, things that are true, things that aren't true, things that set him further alight with something that feels mindless, unfair, but uncontrollable.

with renewed vigour, he slams his palms into konstantin's chest and rolls away from him, a guttural, pained sound exploding from his throat, bordering almost on an aborted scream. he hopes it hurt. it was intended to hurt, not that a measure of physical pain can ever make up for all the hurt he's felt on the inside. ]

You... you —

[ he can't say it. he can't say anything. his tongue tries to form phrases like "piece of shit", but it can't cooperate with his brain or his mouth, and not even the flames of his miserable rage can coax it from him. he can barely see beyond the tears, and all he wants to do is scream, forget about trying to use his words and just scream. ]

From:

perishes

[ It hurts.

It should hurt.

Perhaps a million times more than it does, but it's enough for now, the way the chain digs into the back of his neck, the pressure of Sasha's hand shoving him backwards from him, the way they scramble apart like they're hot iron and cool water, afraid to touch in the forge. For a moment, Konstantin doesn't lift himself up, laying where he's been shoved, sprawled onto the sand deservingly.

You fucking fucked up

He did.

He really did.

He's fucked it all up and he's laying in the sand, cold and wet and Sasha's body is still a warm imprint on his palms, a failed attempted to catch him when he ought to have (and how many other times has he failed to do this? He won't even know, will he?) Konstantin listens, he bears the sound, the wail in his direction. It's a lamentation, a beast that Sasha has been holding for him, he can tell. His name is all over it, his essence, the pain he's brought him, and he sits up slowly to take it, body rigid with shame.

He leaves without word.

No note. No text. He leaves everything behind and shouldn't expect anything but this. ]

I'm sorry.

[ He says it softly, barely above a whisper. It sounds poisonous past his tongue, like he has no right . ] Sasha I'm... I'm sorry... I've...

[ His tongue trips, the clumsiest it's been in months. ]

I have no excuse. I have nothing. I'm not...

[ He thinks about blood, rewinds through a half-hearted kiss, through a small and beautiful wedding, through a romp in the early morning at a seaside motel, to soft, stolen kisses in the library, to a phone number bleeding through a napkin, fingers touching around a coffee cup when he smiles at who might be the sweetest man Konstantin has ever had the pleasure of writing a name on a cup for in marker.

Too good.

Nothing will be this good again and he's cocked it up.

The impulse to duck his head down and grab his hair is heavy, but he remains as he is, open-shouldered and ready for the brunt of more. You don't deserve to cower for this, you don't deserve forgiveness.

Is this judgement, then?

He opens his mouth, closes it.

Opens it again. ]

I've been selfish.

From:

sredniy

[ there is a roar in sasha's ears that sounds like the sea, his heartbeat and konstantin's voice all clamouring over each other, fighting for dominance. he used to think it so breath-taking, so magical, the fact that konstantin made him feel things that he didn't so much never expect to feel, as things he never realised were possible to feel. dizzying excitement at receiving a cup of coffee. a sickening thrill of waiting to meet outside a shady cafe. fireworks, butterflies and a thousand twisting, tumbling circus acrobats in his stomach the first, second, third and hundredth time that they kissed. love that never faltered, near waned, a constant sphere of warmth in his chest that lit him from within. desire, starved and desperate, willing to take all chances and do anything to give and receive pleasure. colourful, unmatched emotions that a quiet, mild boy never thought he was capable of.

konstantin had brought so much to his life. as such, he had also taken so much away when he left.

he expects that the ungainly mixture of despair, elation and fury paint an altogether ugly picture on his face. his mouth is open, his browns knitted and eyes immeasurably wide. for a moment, he chooses not to interrupt konstantin's murmurs, perhaps only because he needs to catch his breath. this is not a natural state of being, for sasha. these emotions do not fit well together, and they fit even less with him. but reason has flung itself into the waves and promptly drowned himself; reason is not what suddenly propels sasha forward again to slam his palms into konstantin's chest once more. ]

Selfish? You call this selfish? This is beyond... [ his movements jerk and twitch, not for a moment resembling sasha, a human that is by all measures, fidgety but naturally graceful, something increased over time with the regular dancing in his life. he scratches and grabs at the ring, tugs on its chain again, suddenly so close to konstantin that their faces almost touch, their breath mingling in the air between them. ] You... this ring, you kept it. You took this with you, you disappeared, you — you allowed my entire world to disintegrate into nothing. Why? No ‐ no, don't. Don't say it. Don't explain. [ he grits his teeth, his choked voice struggling to form the words, but trying so hard. ] You kept it. A piece of me — a tiny bit of comfort, while I... I sat around, thinking I... thinking that this, us, that you didn't —

[ he could never bring himself to put any of his thoughts about konstantin's disappearance into words. to confide in his sisters or, god forbid, his mother, was something he simply could not do, and now it is not easier. sasha's entire body shakes, and his words are suddenly broken by a number of noisy sobs as he visibly begins to shrink, ducking down, still clutching the ring for dear life. ]

God, why couldn't you... just say. Just talk to me, tell me you... you needed time, something, anything. Why would you let me think that you were done with me. [ somewhat involuntarily, he sinks just a little further, until his forehead smacks heavily against konstantin's chest, like all the energy is draining from his body. ] After all this time, how could you dare to think that I wouldn't try to understand, that I didn't love you regardless of anything. How could you be so fucking stupid?

[ his voice keeps thinning, reedy and pitching up and down uncomfortably as his tears start to soak into konstantin's clothes. his head is already pounding, aching like all of his pain suddenly physically manifest. ]

Edited Date: 2016-10-26 02:00 am (UTC)

From:

perishes

[ Konstantin feels it, the heaviness from Sasha's body as he lets go, sinking into his body. The way his shoulders tremble, how his fingers clutch still in the chain around his neck. Konstantin doesn't know what to do at first, a stranger to someone who shouldn't be strange. His hands hover a moment, over his shoulders, the length of his body, feeling the pitch of his voice down to his breastbone. ]

Sasha...

[ His hands come down softly, tenderly, and he lays them against his shoulder blades, ducking his head down slowly until he can feel the tickle of Sasha's hair, soft against his nose.

How could you be so fucking stupid? ]

I don't know. I don't know and I'm sorry.

[ He tightens his embrace now, not just hands, arms. ]

I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I should never have left. I should never have just... fucked off like I did, it wasn't right. I...

[ His shoulders tremble now, and in this moment Konstantin has never felt so small, so weak. Sasha is a brilliant and blinding light and he can barely look at him straight, not without tears starting to prick at his eyes, voice pitching as he buries his face into his hair and clutches him.

Konstantin's voice wavers, lowers into a whispers as he breathes in, short and quick, keeping himself from a full sob.

(Sasha smells so familiar to him, consumes him. He clutches his hair.) ]

I wasn't thinking. I didn't think and I hurt you... I hurt you and I'm so--I'm so sorry.

[ I hurt you, and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to you, to anyone, but most of all to you. ]

From:

sredniy

[ how can it possibly be such comfort and such hurt to feel konstantin's arms tighten around him? he's never felt so safe as he does right now. it's an echo of a well known and near forgotten feeling, but magnified to something that reaches absurd new heights from being absent so long. absence may make the heart grow fonder, but sasha can't help to wonder if it doesn't leave behind deeper and more jagged scars, too. he wonders if it would have been easier had his heart not been stretched so thin, to this point. less time to set spikes beneath the feet of his own thoughts that painted so many possibilities, each of them as awful as the next. that konstantin was dead somewhere, sad somewhere, happy somewhere. (happy without him, and sasha does not balk from the consideration that such a scenario would utterly destroy him.)

he folds, tucks, shrinks. he could swear his body is growing smaller, muscle and bones retreating into themselves, making him as small as he could possibly be, but maybe that's because he always found himself so comforted in the embrace of konstantin's broad shoulders. another sob, and then one more, trembling and crashing through his body. ]

You shouldn't have.

[ said with pain, high pitched desperation.

with some degree of difficulty, he shifts his hands and winds them into konstantin's shirt, not caring how he tugs at the threads and fibres as he uses it to heave himself back upwards. the thought of looking konstantin straight in the eye makes him want to be sick (again), but he swallows the notion and lifts his blotchy, tear-stained face. slides his fingers up (oh, that skin, that neck) until his palms cup konstantin's face and hold it, perhaps more tightly than necessary.

don't you dare look away from me, say his hands. ]

I never thought pain like this existed. Same way I never... I never thought happiness like what I knew with you existed, s-so I suppose we've come full circle. You hurt me so much, Konstantin. [ his name is a stumble on his lips; he hasn't been able to say it aloud in a long time. ] But you hurt yourself, too, didn't you?

[ his thumb brushes against konstantin's cheek — instinct that he can't help. half involuntarily, owing to lost balance, and half because the magnetic pull he always had to konstantin has been hard to fight at the best of times, let alone the worst of them, he tips forward until their foreheads touch. ]

I wanted to hate you so much. I longed to despise you and excise you from my head. But I couldn't. Not for a second. [ a strangled sound, helpless and mortified. his voice grows smaller, a choked whisper. ] I just wanted you back. Every minute, every day, it's all I've wanted.

From:

perishes

Doesn't matter what I did to myself. [ He can feel the heat under Sasha's palms, a warning to not move, to remain in place. The monster in him buckles, an emotional thing that knows this heat, wants to turn to openly mouth the palm that's soothed him too many times. And what has he done but flooded what they had and let it rot in the aftermath. Ruined it, he says to the monster. We've ruined it.

Konstantin bows his head to the words, even further when a thumb smoothes over his cheek, touches skin and soft, feathery scale high on his cheekbone, luminescent only in the right light, rough to fingers that wander and touch thin, fine skin that isn't quite skin anymore. He makes words with his lips, but the words never leave truly.

He reaches up hands slowly, climbs the fabric of his shirt to clutch at the base of his neck, to dig fingers in possessively. ]

I made you a promise... and I broke it. I broke everything about us...

[ He's not yours, says a voice. You ruined that. You destroyed that. But he clutches anyways, he clings desperately as Sasha chokes the words out in the smallest space between them. Konstantin could kiss him here, could hold his face close and kiss him softly like they used to. But he's well enough aware that he doesn't deserve this, that he doesn't even deserve their bodies uncomfortably tangled on the beach, knowing nothing more than each other after so long.

Sorry doesn't fix the time he's ruined.

Apologies don't stitch back together gashes he's made, long, bloody furrows in the space between them.

He tips his head up softly, pressing their temples together as he closes his eyes and hums softly. He remembers warm, balmy nights early on, before the idea of forever, maybe when he'd lay his fingers on the smooth sides of his temples and soothe away the heat and the fever, the teeth and the fire for the night. He hums, and it's a song that is old, but just for Sasha, a lullaby crafted out of love, from notes that Konstantin had chosen night after night until they were perfect. ]

From:

sredniy

Yes, it does. [ it comes out forceful and ragged, and his hands very nearly claw at konstantin's cheeks, as if he's trying to drag him closer when there's no more closer to gain. their lips are so close, but just far enough away not to touch. not yet. he can't, not yet. ] It matters to me. It'll always matter to me. Your well-being matters to meet, your happiness, your —

[ the words end abruptly as a fresh sob fights its way up sasha's throat, and simultaneously spills from his mouth and his eyes. the pressure of konstantin's fingers on his neck makes him shiver and shudder, an old fire is set ablaze once again in his stomach but almost as quickly extinguished by all the tears that not only drip down his face, but down the outline of his soul. the battle between familiarity and pain is unusual, unstoppable, because both sides are fuelled by something that is bigger than both the two men tangled together in the sand.

he almost wants to laugh when konstantin starts to hum. a tune he knows so well, one that has always been their own. as comforting as a warm palm against his own, a kiss to the temple and fingers carding through his hair when he's gone a little too long between cuts, mussed and made amusingly taller. different sides of the emotional spectrum continue to claw at each other, but sasha is comforted. he can't help that, that all the burning thoughts simmer down upon hearing that beautiful little song.

when sasha speaks again, his voice is a hoarse whisper. calmer, but no less charged with jolts of sadness. ]

Why is it still so hard to make you understand? [ konstantin is wrong. apologies do start to mend the wounds that were made. they certainly won't heal them all — oh, the wounds are far too numerous for that — but it's foolish, in sasha's mind, to discount the help that a single stitch can do. one wound closed, many more to be seen to. but they can be seen to. ] Maybe... maybe I'm the one that doesn't understand. Do you not want my forgiveness? At all, ever? Do you want me to tell you, yes, you broke everything and ruined it. And then what?

[ the ragged trembles of his shoulders start to slow. although his vision remains blurred from the steady stream of water running from his eyes, the initial storm of feeling is starting to clear. ]

You did break the promise. You did. You had a reason, I'm sure of it, but that doesn't excuse it. It doesn't... fix anything, the reason. But you do. You're here. You wouldn't be here if you weren't at least hoping for something good to come out of this. I mean —

[ he makes a frustrated noise. ]

You're here to give me closure, to explain and lessen some of the hurt you caused me — but you keep talking like you've not picked up some of the broken pieces by coming here. You hold me like you have. Your hands beg for me to take back those pieces and start putting them together again. And I will, [ he breathes, barely audible but inescapably determined, ] if you stop talking like that.

From:

ex_revise122

[ he's barely more than a child.

his cheeks and jaw still rounded with youth, limbs beginning to lengthen into something frightfully spindly. and deceptively agile. a bright splash of blood, smeared along the side of his face and nose hides the spread of dark freckles - heavy across a straight nose, the long length of his throat, the angles of his collarbones. he's absurdly ginger, doe-eyed, with a smile that tries for beatific and falls abruptly short. he simply doesn't know HOW to smile, where it reassures and comforts. and there's blood on his hands, on the knife spinning between his fingers. too skilled. too well-practiced.

he's barely more than a child.

it's unfair.

this is not a kindness, to be seeing, he tells sasha, a foot on the throat of the crying man. the rude man. the villainous man, who had laid wicked eyes upon a beautiful store. a beautiful couple - happy, vibrant, in love. and the child, as wicked as the man who had thought to rob them, thought to hurt them! - had felt his heart become soft and flutter whenever he'd seen the couple. the kind couple. the gentle couple. the beautiful couple. the couple who would have been hurt, had the child not stepped in. this was fortuitous. this was what he was made for.

go away, he instructs sasha, voice bright but empty. eyes empty. hands full: of blood, of scars, of a knife taken from the kitchens. a knife made to slice meat. this is wicked business. ]

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alexander "sasha" yelisarov.

August 2016

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perishes - bc i want quick and dirty (tags)
sredniy - o-oh (1/2)
sredniy - (no subject)
perishes - and 4 variety i'm giving u another txt: ur bf is a monster edition
sredniy - omg just stick a knife in my heart why don't you
perishes - (no subject)
sredniy - (no subject)
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perishes - we'll be the broken lovers, with the poison cup.
sredniy - this was written from beyond the grave, r.i.p me and my endless tears
perishes - drowns in the salt
sredniy - stuffs sand down my own throat bye
perishes - wow i'm not done with you yet, u sand eating ho
sredniy - RELEASE ME FROM YOUR CLUTCHES, YOU MONSTER she says, furiously typing more
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ex_revise122 - #smol for u & justine.

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