[On the other end of the line, Myr freezes--a faun's instinctive response to horror. Just rough sex.
Like what he'd felt over the Bond was the ordinary, unremarkable accompaniment to an overenthusiastic bout between the sheets.
His mental shorthand of thinking of L as part-Tranquil does him absolutely no good and much harm here, knowing what was done to those wearing the brand in Kirkwall. Tranquil couldn't object any more than they could consent, couldn't tell anyone why or how they'd been hurt if they were ordered otherwise--
No, no, no, Maker in Your mercy, not that-- ]
Rough sex. With whom?
[His voice is attenuated; he's set the watch down on his workbench so he can more efficiently pack up his potting. He needs to be where L is soonest.]
[L presses through the aches that are slowing down his movement and his thought alike, realizes that the way he answers is important. If it wasn't a big deal (and it wasn't, and that is important), he should be forthcoming about this information. It's kinky at worst, but... yes, ordinarily and unremarkable. With someone he... trusts? Can he say that anymore, about Mello? Of course... it would bode poorly, if there was any doubt, and so there isn't.]
My other Bonded... to improve our connection with one another.
[Jealous thing that Mello is, he had been demanding closeness for so long.]
What are you doing?
[Vague panic, through a hangover that has him curled up in the brothel's old bed after just several hours of very fitful sleep. If Myr wants to find him (or Mello), there would be a much better time in a distant future where he's cleaned himself up a bit. He sits up, realizing it was a mistake at the sting that arches through his lower back, and winces as he stands. No good... he drops to his knees, gathering his clothes, working stiff limbs through them.]
[The earlier horror has nothing, nothing on the flash of absolute incandescent fury in Myr's heart at hearing Mello had been L's partner, had manhandled him, had--
Rape might not be the word for it and it is only, barely, the combination of Myr's devotion to the truth and years of self-control that drags him back from that assumption.
Not before he's shattered the pot he's holding, though, the crunch of earthenware giving way audible over the watch.
Breathe. Breathe, mage, breathe, don't let the emotion rule you.]
Coming to meet you. Where can I?
[Now there's bloodied shards of pottery that need cleaning up, too. Maker damn it.]
[Unseen, on the other end of the communication, L flinches at the sound of something shattering. Dried clay? He thinks to the time spent in Myr's home, wondering which piece. Mending isn't his magical strong suit, in the same way that healing is an inconvenient area of ineptness for him.
He stiffens, knowing that Myr coming to meet him probably isn't a good idea, but... it's better than going to get Mello, isn't it? Mello, doubtless in a hell of his own making, wrapped in self-loathing, does not need a fight today.
There's time; he can shower, assess what damage exists, deal with it, and leave this place. He'll give Myr a different address, somewhere neutral, safer, gentler.]
I'm having breakfast at...
[His mind races, thinking of the businesses close enough to hobble to quickly.]
...The Canary's Omelette. Can you meet me there?
[He carries the rest of his clothes to the room's bathroom, catches his reflection, and as he often does, he gives silent thanks that Myr is blind. There's a slight welt on his cheek from where he was slapped, his eyes are blood-red, and his throat sports a distinctive pattern of finger-shaped bruises.
Illusion magic; he can't fix this, but he can cover up the visual tells so no one sighted bothers him about any of it. He turns on the shower, looks for a good vein, uses the fogging mirror to trace a few experimental runes.
It's a lot, before he's even managed to get some coffee.]
[Crisply efficient, that response, and crisply efficient is Myr's disposal of the bloodied potsherds and bandaging of his hand. He is punctilious in his clean-up, made precise by all the sharp energy of his anger needing somewhere to go that's not violent fantasies.
Another confrontation with Mello wouldn't be wise.
Even needing guidance to the restaurant he's there in short order, asks after L--and finding his Bonded not there, takes his own table for two. At this early hour there's ample space, which also means he's not pressured much to order when he demurs that until his Bonded's arrived.
He wasn't hungry, anyway, no matter how long it had been since he'd last eaten.]
[L usually has an accurate sense of time, but so much is off this morning. He rather underestimates the amount of time it will take for him to get cleaned up, cast a reasonable glamour and vacate the brothel as a shambling, sore specter. Even teleporting the last bit of distance doesn't prevent him from arriving significantly after Myr has been seated, and on spotting his Bonded, L picks up his ginger shuffle to shave at least a few seconds off of the time he's stolen.]
I'm so sorry. I hadn't meant to keep you waiting.
[He raises his voice to be heard, and it's a mistake. He still sounds like he's speaking past tender bruises, unmistakably. He pulls aside the chair across from Myr, finding the most comfortable possible way to sit on it that he possibly can.]
[The wait's both a blessing and a curse. Knowing L's at least well enough to respond to a watch, dress himself without help, and get out to breakfast (presumably, keeping ever in mind the detective's penchant for riding his own limits) takes a weight of anxieties off Myr's mind. Which makes space for others, of course, but with the initial flush of adrenaline past those are easier to relegate to the future where they belong.
He's even got time to parse through his own fury and try to make sense of it. Time to commit what he can of it to the Maker, to refactor and plan and play out scenarios of what might come of confronting Mello a second time (a dead faun, in most of them).
Time to worry about what's taking so long, and whether he should have gone hunting for L instead.
Time, at last, to rest his face against his folded hands and pray that should his Bonded have tumbled into a gutter somewhere, he'd be able to find him--]
It's, [Myr's muffled voice hitches as L's discomforts, large and small, become that much more obvious for closeness. He clears his throat, straightening and flattening his hands before him on the table.] It's forgiven.
[He's not used to being rendered utterly inarticulate by circumstances but there's a very, very long pause after that where he cannot find words to express the resurgent emotion in him (horror/fury/grief/guilt) as it's woken by these tangible evidences of the previous night. The only question he can lay hands on is,]
Why?
[There'd be more to it but they're interrupted nearly on the instant by a solicitous waiter, now that the table's filled. Did the gentlemen require menus, drinks, a list of the morning's specials?]
[L studies his Bonded, head canted to the side, his eyes lingering on every quirk in Myr's posture and expression that blares restraint. The faun's furious, as he likely should be, given the palpable shift in overall wellness L's brought with him like an overcast sky.
He murmurs thanks for Myr's forgiveness, hardly audible, perhaps not even comprehensible given his throat's condition. At the very least, the tone and intent probably come through... and then there's a question that could mean any number of things, somehow manages to touch on every part of the overwhelming scope. Why, indeed? L's shoulders curl, his eyes fixed to the edge of the table as the waiter drops by. He requests coffee, to start, just coffee for now, in the hopes that he can be dismissed promptly.]
I misjudged...
[An answer that, like Myr's single-word question, could refer to quite a lot of things L's done in the last 24 hours.]
[Myr orders tea with a brusque impatience--some strongly flavored thing that's a pale mimicry of Ardric's Warmth. The natives are trying to follow the trend Everett's set but not quite getting it, Maker love them.
Dwelling briefly on that should be an opportunity for Myr to break from the morass of his own feelings, to put them away so he can function.
It doesn't help.]
Misjudged, [he echoes, tasting the word.] Him, [did you put yourself in his hands, trustingly? Did you expect he'd be gentle if you gave him the chance to?] or yourself? [Was this something you thought you could handle?
More troubled, hesitant,] Did you--want this?
[That desire in himself is something he can understand; he's trained to fight, used to physicality to the point he'd gotten and given bruises before out of haste or sheer excitement.
But this hadn't been that. Not from the feeling of it through the Bond. And if L did want such things, could it even be for the same reasons?]
[The waiter's smile wavers as he tries not to be put-off by the way this odd pair orders their drinks. He senses he's not wanted, at least, and tries to make a hasty and discreet departure so as to still earn a decent tip.
He keeps his eyes on the table. It's always a relief to know that he doesn't have to worry about his expression with Myr, holding eye contact for the correct amount of time, moderating his body language. Because of Myr's blindness, L's physical honesty is in rare and even unique form when they're together.]
Both. I misjudged both.
[Whatever L expected, it wasn't for things to go as far and as rough as they did. It was the gift of trust flung back in his face, his security and his dignity torn to pieces for momentary gratification. At least, it had felt that way... he still refuses to believe that any of it had been Mello's intent.
[The fury's back in Myr's chest, bright and painful as a live coal--
And worse than the feeling that he's out of control of his own emotions is that he has nothing to direct it at. There are no valid targets here, not even (for once) himself. He aches to lay this all at Mello's feet, draw the line between ally and enemy to neatly exclude the younger man and recast him as scapegoat for all of this.
But there are L's tangled feelings, standing in the way of that. For once, Myr is the less-charitable one, and he can't get a damned ounce of use from it because he cannot push the situation into a shape that would let him simply act, directly and decisively and without guilt.
Even if he could, he suspects it would end between him and L much as things had when they'd gone after the SQUIP.
And Mello is no healer.
(Myr would sooner kill himself than let it come to that again.)]
You thought you knew. [It's oddly hard to breathe, when he feels like screaming instead.] But you were drunk. Drugged. Was that your choice?
[L feels that heat and fury secondhand. Even though he's cold, and slightly immaterial-feeling as a result of his electrolytes being woefully unbalanced after a night of rampant overindulgence, it's more startling and painful than warming and grounding.
He swallows it down, because that's something he's gotten very good at, ultimately. Nods, though Myr can't see, preparing himself for what he has to say.]
It was my choice. I thought it would make things easier. Whatever you may think... I don't always wish for them to be difficult.
[A prayer, more than anything. Surely L had need of it.
The ache in Myr's chest isn't all or mostly anger now.]
If you thought it would be so difficult you had to numb yourself beforehand--
[Maker's breath and overwhelming grace, they can't have this conversation in public. Can't. Myr has gotten far more casual in speaking of sex and courtship in step with Aefenglom's attitude toward them, but this is not meant for other ears. His voice drops to a near-whisper.]
You shouldn't have done it. You don't owe him that. You don't owe anyone that.
[Coming to Aefenglom and finding himself in situations where he can speak a bit more freely about his former life has had some interesting and uncomfortable results. It's become clear, at least, that what L has long considered normal isn't, far beyond his projected margin, and no one's reaction has been as sobering as Myr's. Not just because the former Circle Mage is shocked by his outlooks and philosophies and the decisions they lead him to, but because Myr relates on a level that few can approach.]
It's easy to claim that.
[L had, in fact, claimed it himself just hours before his rendezvous with Mello.]
However... every misfortune that's ever befallen him has been on my account. Surely I have some responsibility toward him, even here.
[He sucks in a breath, shaking his head in adamant denial.
Who would give you that idea, intimus? And why?]
No. Not that. Responsibility doesn't include offering yourself up to him to abuse.
[Whether it was his intention or not, the results are the same.]
Even if you'd personally caused his every grief, rather than simply being the [unintended,] catalyst for them.
[Perhaps here his own overactive sense of responsibility might come as a benefit here: He knows whereof he speaks, on the hard boundaries of the duty owed to another.]
You do not owe him that. Whatever his expectations, [because hadn't that nearly gotten L killed before, accepting a second Witch Bond?] you don't exist to fulfill them. You are for yourself and those you'd willingly share with. No one else.
[The iron edge of command to the words plays strangely with the anguish underlying them.]
Edited (how did i insert a space in the MIDDLE of a word?) 2020-03-05 03:37 (UTC)
[Their Bond is clouded over, at least on L's end, with ambivalence. There's a keening desire to accept what Myr is saying, even as there's the dull certainty that it just can't be true, that no one who wasn't in his and Mello's situation back home could fully understand the pressures and debts that came with all of it.]
For the record... I offered nothing of that nature specifically.
[A blank check, to be filled out (or not) as Mello desired. That was the test, and the results are dismally clear. It hurt their Bond more than it helped, without question.]
He was a child when this all started. He was a child when I died.
[He's hardly mature, now. Neither of them are.]
When an orphan gives all of himself to something... a person, or an idea, or a cause... he's changed for it. Of course he would expect someone to answer for his sacrifice; it was important that he had full control over what he would choose to be given.
[Even now, L pities Mello, deeply. More than he did before. Passion has a way of destroying what it holds the most dear, and Mello will never cease to be a casualty of the vicious tendency.]
[There is a feeling gnawing at Myr's spine, at the base of his brain, that there are two people here he needs to save and not one alone.
But he doesn't have the tools, the understanding, the language, the reach to rescue one of them, and they are tangled up in each other so inextricably that if one drowns the other will.
O Creating Glory, o Lady of Mercy, please, I am not the instrument for this. Don't ask this of me.
Maybe They weren't; this isn't Their world, after all. Yet--having found the problem, it's his to fix (or deliver into the hands of someone more capable--but who?). The habits of faith are so deeply, dearly graven into him he can't give them up.
But he can look away from them internally and not make a choice, yet, except to take step by dragging step through the current crisis.]
You didn't offer. But you knew what he'd ask enough to be ready for it. Isn't that good-as?
[(What he would make of that note L had started and abandoned, did he but know.)
The rest of L's reasoning, while perfectly logical from a certain slant, gets a huff of frustration and upset out of Myr.]
He's still a child, [stating the obvious,] and there are reasons we don't,
[let children choose for themselves, he'd been about to say, when the approach of footsteps cuts him short. The waiter's back, stepping into the awkward lacuna Myr's left in the conversation.
He waits until he hears his teacup set in front of him, breathing, breathing to leash his own emotions, before turning a wan smile up in the waiter's direction. He's made a snap decision.]
--D'you know, I think I will order something--to go, if you'd be so kind. The one with all the vegetables...?
["Off the Garden Path?"] --That, and a sweet roll.
Linden? My treat. [And at least half his omelette is going to his Bonded as it is, if he can help it. Once they're somewhere that's a better venue for what this is turning into.] They've got one with fruit and syrup.
[L's silence might speak more than any words possibly could; he knows his former successor, after all. He knows the tendency toward entitlement and excess. He knew that he could come out of it in pieces, should he say the wrong thing and incite Mello toward truly getting carried away. Ultimately, he might actually have gotten off easily, at least from his bleakly informed perspective.
Therefore, being prepared was the only option. Truly, he'd been backed into a corner, playing his best strategy under those circumstances even when the win alone wasn't enough to satisfy Mello. There was a trophy to be had, and he wasn't going to leave that room without claiming it.
He prepares to respond, but he's spared for the moment from the pain and difficulty of it. He nods, blinking, confirming that a sweet roll is precisely what he would have ordered, and it remains to be seen if he can swallow without too much pain to actually consume it. Even if he isn't able to, Myr's blindness make it easy to pretend... but increasingly, L's started to feel that he doesn't have to with the faun.
The waiter takes down the order, promising that it'll be prepared promptly, as he still wants to salvage the possibility of a tip. When he's departed to put the order in, L speaks more softly than necessity dictates.]
Myr? I'm living with Mello at this time. Do you think I could stay with you for a few days? Just until I figure something else out.
[There are volumes in that silence, and it puts Myr's heart in his throat to listen to them.
He had wanted to believe Mello's madness could not go so far as immolating his own idol from pique. That was why he had confronted him, after all, believing that knowledge would serve as a corrective to someone who followed in L's brilliant footsteps.
But he had been awfully, horribly wrong then. And he was not awfully, horribly wrong last night to have feared for L's life.
I should have gone to him. I will, next time. This won't go on.
That L adopts an undertone to ask for a place to stay only hammers that nail home.]
You can stay as long as you like, intimus. Caster's been spending nights in his new shop, so we're hardly crowded. [He can make himself sound calm even when he's back to dearly wanting to scream, or sob.
L did not deserve this.
Though it'll be a while yet before the waiter returns, Myr's already digging out his coin purse, already counting out double the cost of their drinks and meals to lay on the table. The faster they can depart, the better.]
And if we're better off avoiding going to get your things, I'm sure we can make do with what I've got. [Buying new doesn't occur to him as an option.]
[Imposing isn't the issue. L just knows that he can be a taxing presence to live with, and that, like a favor of blood, it's too much to ask even of a Bonded. The fact that he hasn't been able to successfully live alone at any point in his life somewhat complicates this conviction.
He fidgets as they wait, swallowing experimentally. He thinks that with small bites he can manage; it'll just take longer.]
For now... the things I brought with me to the inn we stayed at last night are probably fine. It's just a few blocks from here.
[A change of clothes, his means to self-medicate. What else does he actually need?]
Mm. There first, then, once we've our food. Then home.
[Then--he isn't sure. There's a very great deal more they need to discuss--as ever--and he isn't sure at all where to begin anew with it once they've got privacy. Though perhaps--]
Or--no, a healer first. Then home. [His imagination, ever-vivid, can make a great deal of what the aches from L's side of the Bond imply. Things that...Myr does not have much experience with, himself, beyond knowing it was possible to take permanent hurts from them.
If he could not have prevented L's being injured, he can at least make sure there are no lasting physical ramifications. The emotional ones and spiritual ones...
More softly,] Will he come looking for you?
[Mello. Though there's an undercurrent to the question about L's other shadow, who Myr is all-too-aware might be watching them even now.]
[L nods with a hum, accepting the plan even though he hesitates and nearly balks at the thought of a healer. What Myr senses secondhand will be just as obvious to someone sighted, and there's no way to explain without cheeks that burn and the unshakable cast of weakness. Unwilling or willing, sex shouldn't come so close to physically breaking a human body, even one as slender-boned as L's.]
If... you think it would be for the best.
[He realizes that the prospect is less profoundly gutting so long as Myr remains with him, though asking feels too difficult.]
He'll...
[Mello, or Niles? L sighs, listening to the distant sounds of the kitchen puts together their orders. Myr's omelette is cooking, judging by the fragrance drifting out to meet them, and L's stomach chews itself. He'd forgotten how hungry he was, as he often does.]
I think that he'll keep his distance, for now.
[Both of them. Thankfully, because distance is what L needs, at least long enough to mend.]
I do. [If I still had my magic, if I'd ever been much of a healer myself, we wouldn't need to.] I--wouldn't know what to do, [in more than one sense,] if something happened to you.
I'll stay by your side throughout, if you'll have me there. [Some instinct makes him reach across the table, bumping fingers against L's coffee cup with a wince before holding his hand out to his Bonded. Touch may be good for both of them right now...but he does not wish to force it. The last thing he wishes to do is force it, after what Mello had done.]
That's as well, then. [A pause stretches out as he, too, turns his attention to the world around them, sounds and scents and the feel of the morning breeze running fingers through his fur. There's a moment of disconnection in his head: Things shouldn't be so peaceful, so ordinary, when his Bonded has been so hideously violated and left hurting and ashamed.
Yet the world goes on, neither knowing nor caring of their individual struggles, and there's a certain solace in that.]
I've half a mind, [he picks up, voice quiet and a little distant,] to put you under guard.
[L speaks in soft, clipped tones. It sounds more like a plea and less like something he's just permitting. He actually hasn't been to many doctors in his life, for largely the same reason someone who bathed his teeth daily in sugar was also not in the habit of seeing a dentist. If one's life wasn't expected to last the decade, were cancer risks, heart disease and tooth decay really of much concern? And it was very difficult to break a bone or get a concussion in a padded room, after all.
Gingerly, he takes Myr's hand, twining his fingers against the faun's with intentional care. He actually also finds solace in the notion that the world continues, as it always has, and others are all but oblivious to his very difficult previous day.]
It seems that danger finds me more often than it used to. The chase exhausts me...
[To the point where any ending at all would be a relief.]
[Myr's fingers tighten on L's, a spasm as involuntary as the painful way his heart contracts to hear that. It's another constant of their Bond to know why and how often his Witch flirts with oblivion; it is knowledge he shoulders, not gladly, but with patience and compassion.
It is also something he can never, ever let himself become inured to, and so every reference to it still wakes a little frisson of grief--even if he's getting better at working around it.]
Then let's buy you time to rest from it, intimus. Stay the whole week with me. Everett won't begrudge me the time off to stand watch over you.
[It is a pittance, really, held against the months--the lifetime--L had lived burning as brilliantly as he could, ever-frantic in pursuit (and then, with Niles around, escape). But it is what Myr can offer right now, while he struggles to find a better solution.]
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Like what he'd felt over the Bond was the ordinary, unremarkable accompaniment to an overenthusiastic bout between the sheets.
His mental shorthand of thinking of L as part-Tranquil does him absolutely no good and much harm here, knowing what was done to those wearing the brand in Kirkwall. Tranquil couldn't object any more than they could consent, couldn't tell anyone why or how they'd been hurt if they were ordered otherwise--
No, no, no, Maker in Your mercy, not that-- ]
Rough sex. With whom?
[His voice is attenuated; he's set the watch down on his workbench so he can more efficiently pack up his potting. He needs to be where L is soonest.]
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My other Bonded... to improve our connection with one another.
[Jealous thing that Mello is, he had been demanding closeness for so long.]
What are you doing?
[Vague panic, through a hangover that has him curled up in the brothel's old bed after just several hours of very fitful sleep. If Myr wants to find him (or Mello), there would be a much better time in a distant future where he's cleaned himself up a bit. He sits up, realizing it was a mistake at the sting that arches through his lower back, and winces as he stands. No good... he drops to his knees, gathering his clothes, working stiff limbs through them.]
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Rape might not be the word for it and it is only, barely, the combination of Myr's devotion to the truth and years of self-control that drags him back from that assumption.
Not before he's shattered the pot he's holding, though, the crunch of earthenware giving way audible over the watch.
Breathe. Breathe, mage, breathe, don't let the emotion rule you.]
Coming to meet you. Where can I?
[Now there's bloodied shards of pottery that need cleaning up, too. Maker damn it.]
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He stiffens, knowing that Myr coming to meet him probably isn't a good idea, but... it's better than going to get Mello, isn't it? Mello, doubtless in a hell of his own making, wrapped in self-loathing, does not need a fight today.
There's time; he can shower, assess what damage exists, deal with it, and leave this place. He'll give Myr a different address, somewhere neutral, safer, gentler.]
I'm having breakfast at...
[His mind races, thinking of the businesses close enough to hobble to quickly.]
...The Canary's Omelette. Can you meet me there?
[He carries the rest of his clothes to the room's bathroom, catches his reflection, and as he often does, he gives silent thanks that Myr is blind. There's a slight welt on his cheek from where he was slapped, his eyes are blood-red, and his throat sports a distinctive pattern of finger-shaped bruises.
Illusion magic; he can't fix this, but he can cover up the visual tells so no one sighted bothers him about any of it. He turns on the shower, looks for a good vein, uses the fogging mirror to trace a few experimental runes.
It's a lot, before he's even managed to get some coffee.]
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[Crisply efficient, that response, and crisply efficient is Myr's disposal of the bloodied potsherds and bandaging of his hand. He is punctilious in his clean-up, made precise by all the sharp energy of his anger needing somewhere to go that's not violent fantasies.
Another confrontation with Mello wouldn't be wise.
Even needing guidance to the restaurant he's there in short order, asks after L--and finding his Bonded not there, takes his own table for two. At this early hour there's ample space, which also means he's not pressured much to order when he demurs that until his Bonded's arrived.
He wasn't hungry, anyway, no matter how long it had been since he'd last eaten.]
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I'm so sorry. I hadn't meant to keep you waiting.
[He raises his voice to be heard, and it's a mistake. He still sounds like he's speaking past tender bruises, unmistakably. He pulls aside the chair across from Myr, finding the most comfortable possible way to sit on it that he possibly can.]
I made it as quickly as I could.
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He's even got time to parse through his own fury and try to make sense of it. Time to commit what he can of it to the Maker, to refactor and plan and play out scenarios of what might come of confronting Mello a second time (a dead faun, in most of them).
Time to worry about what's taking so long, and whether he should have gone hunting for L instead.
Time, at last, to rest his face against his folded hands and pray that should his Bonded have tumbled into a gutter somewhere, he'd be able to find him--]
It's, [Myr's muffled voice hitches as L's discomforts, large and small, become that much more obvious for closeness. He clears his throat, straightening and flattening his hands before him on the table.] It's forgiven.
[He's not used to being rendered utterly inarticulate by circumstances but there's a very, very long pause after that where he cannot find words to express the resurgent emotion in him (horror/fury/grief/guilt) as it's woken by these tangible evidences of the previous night. The only question he can lay hands on is,]
Why?
[There'd be more to it but they're interrupted nearly on the instant by a solicitous waiter, now that the table's filled. Did the gentlemen require menus, drinks, a list of the morning's specials?]
no subject
He murmurs thanks for Myr's forgiveness, hardly audible, perhaps not even comprehensible given his throat's condition. At the very least, the tone and intent probably come through... and then there's a question that could mean any number of things, somehow manages to touch on every part of the overwhelming scope. Why, indeed? L's shoulders curl, his eyes fixed to the edge of the table as the waiter drops by. He requests coffee, to start, just coffee for now, in the hopes that he can be dismissed promptly.]
I misjudged...
[An answer that, like Myr's single-word question, could refer to quite a lot of things L's done in the last 24 hours.]
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Dwelling briefly on that should be an opportunity for Myr to break from the morass of his own feelings, to put them away so he can function.
It doesn't help.]
Misjudged, [he echoes, tasting the word.] Him, [did you put yourself in his hands, trustingly? Did you expect he'd be gentle if you gave him the chance to?] or yourself? [Was this something you thought you could handle?
More troubled, hesitant,] Did you--want this?
[That desire in himself is something he can understand; he's trained to fight, used to physicality to the point he'd gotten and given bruises before out of haste or sheer excitement.
But this hadn't been that. Not from the feeling of it through the Bond. And if L did want such things, could it even be for the same reasons?]
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He keeps his eyes on the table. It's always a relief to know that he doesn't have to worry about his expression with Myr, holding eye contact for the correct amount of time, moderating his body language. Because of Myr's blindness, L's physical honesty is in rare and even unique form when they're together.]
Both. I misjudged both.
[Whatever L expected, it wasn't for things to go as far and as rough as they did. It was the gift of trust flung back in his face, his security and his dignity torn to pieces for momentary gratification. At least, it had felt that way... he still refuses to believe that any of it had been Mello's intent.
A deep breath.]
I don't know what I wanted.
[I don't think it was this.]
I thought I knew what he wanted, but...
[I, also, don't think it was this.]
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And worse than the feeling that he's out of control of his own emotions is that he has nothing to direct it at. There are no valid targets here, not even (for once) himself. He aches to lay this all at Mello's feet, draw the line between ally and enemy to neatly exclude the younger man and recast him as scapegoat for all of this.
But there are L's tangled feelings, standing in the way of that. For once, Myr is the less-charitable one, and he can't get a damned ounce of use from it because he cannot push the situation into a shape that would let him simply act, directly and decisively and without guilt.
Even if he could, he suspects it would end between him and L much as things had when they'd gone after the SQUIP.
And Mello is no healer.
(Myr would sooner kill himself than let it come to that again.)]
You thought you knew. [It's oddly hard to breathe, when he feels like screaming instead.] But you were drunk. Drugged. Was that your choice?
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He swallows it down, because that's something he's gotten very good at, ultimately. Nods, though Myr can't see, preparing himself for what he has to say.]
It was my choice. I thought it would make things easier. Whatever you may think... I don't always wish for them to be difficult.
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[A prayer, more than anything. Surely L had need of it.
The ache in Myr's chest isn't all or mostly anger now.]
If you thought it would be so difficult you had to numb yourself beforehand--
[Maker's breath and overwhelming grace, they can't have this conversation in public. Can't. Myr has gotten far more casual in speaking of sex and courtship in step with Aefenglom's attitude toward them, but this is not meant for other ears. His voice drops to a near-whisper.]
You shouldn't have done it. You don't owe him that. You don't owe anyone that.
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It's easy to claim that.
[L had, in fact, claimed it himself just hours before his rendezvous with Mello.]
However... every misfortune that's ever befallen him has been on my account. Surely I have some responsibility toward him, even here.
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Who would give you that idea, intimus? And why?]
No. Not that. Responsibility doesn't include offering yourself up to him to abuse.
[Whether it was his intention or not, the results are the same.]
Even if you'd personally caused his every grief, rather than simply being the [unintended,] catalyst for them.
[Perhaps here his own overactive sense of responsibility might come as a benefit here: He knows whereof he speaks, on the hard boundaries of the duty owed to another.]
You do not owe him that. Whatever his expectations, [because hadn't that nearly gotten L killed before, accepting a second Witch Bond?] you don't exist to fulfill them. You are for yourself and those you'd willingly share with. No one else.
[The iron edge of command to the words plays strangely with the anguish underlying them.]
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For the record... I offered nothing of that nature specifically.
[A blank check, to be filled out (or not) as Mello desired. That was the test, and the results are dismally clear. It hurt their Bond more than it helped, without question.]
He was a child when this all started. He was a child when I died.
[He's hardly mature, now. Neither of them are.]
When an orphan gives all of himself to something... a person, or an idea, or a cause... he's changed for it. Of course he would expect someone to answer for his sacrifice; it was important that he had full control over what he would choose to be given.
[Even now, L pities Mello, deeply. More than he did before. Passion has a way of destroying what it holds the most dear, and Mello will never cease to be a casualty of the vicious tendency.]
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But he doesn't have the tools, the understanding, the language, the reach to rescue one of them, and they are tangled up in each other so inextricably that if one drowns the other will.
O Creating Glory, o Lady of Mercy, please, I am not the instrument for this. Don't ask this of me.
Maybe They weren't; this isn't Their world, after all. Yet--having found the problem, it's his to fix (or deliver into the hands of someone more capable--but who?). The habits of faith are so deeply, dearly graven into him he can't give them up.
But he can look away from them internally and not make a choice, yet, except to take step by dragging step through the current crisis.]
You didn't offer. But you knew what he'd ask enough to be ready for it. Isn't that good-as?
[(What he would make of that note L had started and abandoned, did he but know.)
The rest of L's reasoning, while perfectly logical from a certain slant, gets a huff of frustration and upset out of Myr.]
He's still a child, [stating the obvious,] and there are reasons we don't,
[let children choose for themselves, he'd been about to say, when the approach of footsteps cuts him short. The waiter's back, stepping into the awkward lacuna Myr's left in the conversation.
He waits until he hears his teacup set in front of him, breathing, breathing to leash his own emotions, before turning a wan smile up in the waiter's direction. He's made a snap decision.]
--D'you know, I think I will order something--to go, if you'd be so kind. The one with all the vegetables...?
["Off the Garden Path?"] --That, and a sweet roll.
Linden? My treat. [And at least half his omelette is going to his Bonded as it is, if he can help it. Once they're somewhere that's a better venue for what this is turning into.] They've got one with fruit and syrup.
[He'd inquired.]
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Therefore, being prepared was the only option. Truly, he'd been backed into a corner, playing his best strategy under those circumstances even when the win alone wasn't enough to satisfy Mello. There was a trophy to be had, and he wasn't going to leave that room without claiming it.
He prepares to respond, but he's spared for the moment from the pain and difficulty of it. He nods, blinking, confirming that a sweet roll is precisely what he would have ordered, and it remains to be seen if he can swallow without too much pain to actually consume it. Even if he isn't able to, Myr's blindness make it easy to pretend... but increasingly, L's started to feel that he doesn't have to with the faun.
The waiter takes down the order, promising that it'll be prepared promptly, as he still wants to salvage the possibility of a tip. When he's departed to put the order in, L speaks more softly than necessity dictates.]
Myr? I'm living with Mello at this time. Do you think I could stay with you for a few days? Just until I figure something else out.
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He had wanted to believe Mello's madness could not go so far as immolating his own idol from pique. That was why he had confronted him, after all, believing that knowledge would serve as a corrective to someone who followed in L's brilliant footsteps.
But he had been awfully, horribly wrong then. And he was not awfully, horribly wrong last night to have feared for L's life.
I should have gone to him. I will, next time. This won't go on.
That L adopts an undertone to ask for a place to stay only hammers that nail home.]
You can stay as long as you like, intimus. Caster's been spending nights in his new shop, so we're hardly crowded. [He can make himself sound calm even when he's back to dearly wanting to scream, or sob.
L did not deserve this.
Though it'll be a while yet before the waiter returns, Myr's already digging out his coin purse, already counting out double the cost of their drinks and meals to lay on the table. The faster they can depart, the better.]
And if we're better off avoiding going to get your things, I'm sure we can make do with what I've got. [Buying new doesn't occur to him as an option.]
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He fidgets as they wait, swallowing experimentally. He thinks that with small bites he can manage; it'll just take longer.]
For now... the things I brought with me to the inn we stayed at last night are probably fine. It's just a few blocks from here.
[A change of clothes, his means to self-medicate. What else does he actually need?]
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[Then--he isn't sure. There's a very great deal more they need to discuss--as ever--and he isn't sure at all where to begin anew with it once they've got privacy. Though perhaps--]
Or--no, a healer first. Then home. [His imagination, ever-vivid, can make a great deal of what the aches from L's side of the Bond imply. Things that...Myr does not have much experience with, himself, beyond knowing it was possible to take permanent hurts from them.
If he could not have prevented L's being injured, he can at least make sure there are no lasting physical ramifications. The emotional ones and spiritual ones...
More softly,] Will he come looking for you?
[Mello. Though there's an undercurrent to the question about L's other shadow, who Myr is all-too-aware might be watching them even now.]
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If... you think it would be for the best.
[He realizes that the prospect is less profoundly gutting so long as Myr remains with him, though asking feels too difficult.]
He'll...
[Mello, or Niles? L sighs, listening to the distant sounds of the kitchen puts together their orders. Myr's omelette is cooking, judging by the fragrance drifting out to meet them, and L's stomach chews itself. He'd forgotten how hungry he was, as he often does.]
I think that he'll keep his distance, for now.
[Both of them. Thankfully, because distance is what L needs, at least long enough to mend.]
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I'll stay by your side throughout, if you'll have me there. [Some instinct makes him reach across the table, bumping fingers against L's coffee cup with a wince before holding his hand out to his Bonded. Touch may be good for both of them right now...but he does not wish to force it. The last thing he wishes to do is force it, after what Mello had done.]
That's as well, then. [A pause stretches out as he, too, turns his attention to the world around them, sounds and scents and the feel of the morning breeze running fingers through his fur. There's a moment of disconnection in his head: Things shouldn't be so peaceful, so ordinary, when his Bonded has been so hideously violated and left hurting and ashamed.
Yet the world goes on, neither knowing nor caring of their individual struggles, and there's a certain solace in that.]
I've half a mind, [he picks up, voice quiet and a little distant,] to put you under guard.
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[L speaks in soft, clipped tones. It sounds more like a plea and less like something he's just permitting. He actually hasn't been to many doctors in his life, for largely the same reason someone who bathed his teeth daily in sugar was also not in the habit of seeing a dentist. If one's life wasn't expected to last the decade, were cancer risks, heart disease and tooth decay really of much concern? And it was very difficult to break a bone or get a concussion in a padded room, after all.
Gingerly, he takes Myr's hand, twining his fingers against the faun's with intentional care. He actually also finds solace in the notion that the world continues, as it always has, and others are all but oblivious to his very difficult previous day.]
It seems that danger finds me more often than it used to. The chase exhausts me...
[To the point where any ending at all would be a relief.]
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It is also something he can never, ever let himself become inured to, and so every reference to it still wakes a little frisson of grief--even if he's getting better at working around it.]
Then let's buy you time to rest from it, intimus. Stay the whole week with me. Everett won't begrudge me the time off to stand watch over you.
[It is a pittance, really, held against the months--the lifetime--L had lived burning as brilliantly as he could, ever-frantic in pursuit (and then, with Niles around, escape). But it is what Myr can offer right now, while he struggles to find a better solution.]
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