[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.]
[It's always uncomfortable for L to feel vulnerable, but that's largely because he never takes safety for granted. With Myr, it's tempting; with Myr, he lets his guard down enough to feel that he could pretend, and then that it could become real with enough gentle, kind time to remain near the sincere glow of his Bond.]
A week?
[Seven whole days and nights. A lot of time to put up with L's particular peculiarities; a lot of time to grow to hate them. They'd certainly grated on Mello, and L was trying to tone himself down the whole time they'd lived together. Is that still the official arrangement? Does Mello expect him to come home later today? He pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the headache that comes with considering it too deeply.]
I wouldn't ask for that. But... if you're really offering...
[Bags rustle as the kitchen packs up their boxed-up meals.]
I am really offering. [Even or especially in the face of the concerns he feels nibbling about the edge of their Bond, insistent and demanding.
He lifts his other hand to lay over L's, briefly, in reassurance. Let what comes of this, come. He'd adapted to any number of roommates with any variety of habits in his time in the Circle; it is always, always easier to overlook idiosyncrasies and grow around the strains of shared space with those he loves.
They will work this out. He has absolute confidence in that.]
You need this and I can give it.
[Now that he has a plan for action, he's suspended between itching to move and loathing the moment he's got to let go of his Bonded's hand, even if it's only temporary. The sounds of their waiter's return are a relief, ending the conflict; Myr gives L's fingers a final squeeze and rises to take up his staff, holding out an arm for the bags.] Thank you--I'll take those, if you'd be so kind...
[Hopefully the inn--and whatever healer they might find--aren't so far their food will get entirely cold before they're back to the cottage.]
[L stares at their overlapping hands, swallowing painfully past the bruising in his throat that no amount of glamour can hide from his own knowledge. He doesn't have Myr's faith, or even his confidence; Mello loves (loved?) him too, after all, and it hadn't stopped him from handling L like someone he's grown to despise. L's emotionally resilient, but can he really handle that from Myr, should it come to that?
Trusting that Myr won't change his mind with further closeness is so much to ask of L. He'd rather see a distant light than lose its presence entirely in his life, and though he's rather known for taking risks to get closer to his goal, this feels too risky. But the waiter has returned and brought those boxes and their aromas, and it's a reminder of L's hunger and the many things that are affecting the way he's thinking at present.
Myr's Bonded to this fucked-up mess, and hasn't walked yet. If there's a time to trust absolutely, maybe it's now, out of necessity if nothing else.
He stands, breathing through his body's protests. Myr was right about this, too; a healer will be necessary at some point, and they had better be discreet. He gingerly reaches for the crook of the Faun's elbow once the boxes are in hand, and he asks]
Have you teleported with a witch before? It can be disorienting, but... it's probably the quickest way back to the inn.
[A.K.A., the brothel, and L would rather not limp the distance even if it tests the limits of his magic to get there in one trip.]
[Though Myr and L are--by any objective determination--leagues apart in how well they get on with others, there's yet something in Myr that well-recognizes that expectation of sudden rejection. His is a shallower wound than his Bonded's, scabbed over and healing with steady surety, but it's wound enough that he can still flinch when it's touched--or in empathy, to see the same injury pressed on in one so-beloved.
To say nothing of the physical injuries that make his own breath and pulse quicken in time with L's own.
That bastard, he cannot help but think.]
Once, [to L's question,] and under worse circumstances. [In Dorchacht, in the midst of their uprising, fleeing from a family he'd stolen an enslaved Monster from. Though the worse in this case is sheerly from the view of his own disorientation with the process; that had been exciting and necessary and he'd hardly been afraid the way he is now.]
[L straightens slightly, avoids leaning on Myr though the faun's sturdiness is a tempting crutch. This is a spell he has to center himself for, that might be a strain even at his very best. There's a fresh cut on the underside of his arm that hasn't closed, and he raises it discreetly to his mouth as though scratching an itch, agitating it so there's at least a bit of a flow.
There's a headrush, but he has the magic for this. That's what it ultimately means; it's a good thing, in the end.
He voices a soft warning, followed by an incantation, and the world drops away as their forms are forced through space at dizzying speed, felt wholly only when they land, somewhat abruptly and roughly, on the dingy carpet of the brothel's room with the sheets still undone, a crusted washcloth on the floor with remnants of semen and blood, and...
...a paper L hadn't noticed when he'd woken or left, but had certainly disposed of the night before. He steadies himself, swallows, sees what he expects to when he peers closer even if the explanations for it are sobering. Mello might have found it; so might Niles. Neither really bodes well, and Myr has to sense the sick chill that shudders down L's spine at the sight.]
It'll... only be a moment.
[He's tight in the chest. Out of breath from transporting them? Or is this a panic response too real to hide from his Bonded? His fingers reach past the paper that still bears signs of being crumpled up, reaching for a bottle of pills. The alcohol can stay, but these, he would rather have. ]
[Teleportation is one magic that's flatly impossible on Thedas (so far as any Circle mage knew, or was trained). If the circumstances Myr had experienced it under were any better, he'd be wildly curious about how it's enacted and how the casting felt. As it is, he's begun to think of the whole practice as a necessary inconvenience, disorienting and unpleasant.
He'd been bracing for the landing before they even departed, and his preparation's not wasted when they land; his hooves dig into the carpet but he doesn't drop the boxes, isn't sick or dizzy as reality reasserts itself along with his senses. Smell's foremost in a room so small and echo-damped; the layer on layer of unwholesome scents suggest to a faun's instinct this isn't just an inn.
A disgusted remark to that effect--not a judgment of L, simply an unhappy observation--had been on his lips when the panic hits him. His tail flags, fur bristling; he goes instantly for his staff with the hand not burdened with their meals, mind as torn as his body between flee! and attack!] L--
--Linden, [but it isn't that sort of danger, is it? Take a breath.] Linden, what is it? What did you see?
[L's focus is on his breathing, longer and slower. It means something invasive and upsetting, after a long stretch of invasive and upsetting things, but it is not inherently threatening. It's a piece of crumpled-up paper that was seen by someone whose eyes it was never meant for, a few words scrawled in his spidery hand that trail off after still managing to say far too much.
He should have burned it. He's grown far too comfortable with the relative anonymity he's afforded in Aefenglom, but he was careless in this case. And lying to Myr will only prolong this discomfort. His blindness is a disadvantage to the faun, but what he feels through the Bond more than compensates for his ability to suss out a lie.]
Just... a note. I began writing it last night before Mello arrived. I wanted there to be no mistake about what I expected and agreed to, in case...
[In case I was in no shape to consent.]
I didn't like the way it read and realized it was a bad idea. I disposed of it, but... someone's taken it upon themselves to reverse my decision.
[And he doesn't think it was Mello. As thorough as L knows his former successor to be, he also knows he would have been in a rush to leave the night before, in spite of taking the time to clean L's body and ensure he was propped on his side with pillows. Searching the room's rubbish bins for an item he hadn't even witnessed the creation of wouldn't have been on his agenda.
But L has a stalker, as they both know. He brushes past Myr, dropping to his knees to look for fibers in the carpet.]
It's the season for it. If he was here, there would be traces...
[At some point it was all bound to be too much, the shocks of the morning overwhelming Myr's too-soft heart in spite of his conviction to endure this for L's sake.
He had not anticipated the crippling blows to come so quietly, be delivered--if not casually, then with so little moment behind them.
I wanted there to be no mistake about what I expected and agreed to, as if he'd been writing a last will and testament, not taking one of his Bonded to bed.
And Niles had witnessed it, the faithful executor come back to remind L of what he'd signed away.
The bag slips from nerveless fingers and it's only Myr's death-grip on his staff that keeps him from joining it on the wretched carpet. He sinks to sit on his heels, free hand over his face and lower lip caught between his teeth. The turbulent churn of emotions girding his side of the Bond seizes and grinds, caught in that deceptive heart-squeezing stillness that shock brings on. Which way it will go when it breaks loose--]
Linden, [Myr says, voice so quiet the trembling in it might be missed,] intimus.
You cannot be around him, [Mello,] anything but sober. Not ever again.
[You can't sacrifice yourself on this altar. You are worth so much more than what he thinks to buy you for. You deserve so much better.]
[L's fingers come away from the carpet with a tuft of soft, white hair between them. It's more or less what he expected to find, just confirmation of a suspicion, a feeling he's experienced many thousands of times during his career.
What he doesn't expect is the muffled impact of their food hitting the floor, followed by Myr's overcome crumpling. His eyes widen in alarm, and he moves hastily toward his Bonded, remaining in a shuffling kneel to keep their faces more-or-less level. He can feel, secondhand, Myr's deluge of outrage and emotion and grief, but no matter how much he studies Myr's body language and anguished features... no, he doesn't understand it. Not really. His eyes scan back and forth for a few moments, lost, before he gingerly prods at Myr's shoulder with his fingertips in an infant attempt at comfort.]
It was just sex... it lasted for a finite amount of time and then it was over.
[A pause, and a comparison slots together.]
It's considered rare, and even cruel, to undergo a surgery without an anesthetic.. but the patient still consents. Can you not try to think of it that way?
[Invasive and dangerous as it was, L is convinced that it was necessary to save their Bond. And he and Mello have long grown accustomed to numbing themselves in certain ways when they interact at all.]
[He shakes his head in abject denial of the analogy, only his hard-won instinct to be mindful of his antlers keeping him from the vehement violence he'd otherwise put in the gesture. He reaches for L's hand with his own, catching at his Bonded's fingers. Touch is an anchor to the present moment and the needs of it, a way not to be swept up in emotions that could swamp them both.
But oh, Maker...]
I can't. I cannot think of it that way. [The words want an explanation and he's fumbling to give one, to come up with something suitably dispassionate that can put this logical monstrosity to rest--that cannot be dismissed as merely (merely!) a product of his overactive concern for his Bonded.]
A surgeon cuts believing he'll heal his patient, and the patient suffers in hopes of healing. You knew, [his voice nearly breaks,] you knew this would mend nothing in you. You numbed yourself, knowing what it would cost.
Consent means nothing if there's no world where you could've said no.
[Touch is complicated, especially in vulnerable wild-eyed moments where L wants nothing more than to withdraw, but as usual, Myr's touch is a soothing and stabilizing presence, whether or not it's an immediately wanted one. Slowly, L's fingers curl against his Bonded's, but in an awkward way, as the tuft of chimera fur is still loosely held in a pincer-grasp.
Myr's refusal sets a sinking sensation in motion in the pit of his gut. His fingers tighten around Myr's hand as a bruised and restless brain formulates a determined rebuttal that he only half-wishes to argue. But he does, because if Myr cannot think of it that way? L, himself, must. There's a rigid strength to such resolve that is prone to shattering, if it's stricken in just the right manner... and Myr's proven to have a way with striking the barriers L creates in just the right manner. For a moment, that surge of deeper pain surfaces for a gasping breath, before something huge and hungry drags it below the still water once more.]
Mello practices the Catholic religion. The figurehead and effigy is Jesus Christ, the son of God, sacrificed for the many sins of humans. He's present in all branches of Christianity, of which Catholicism is just one... but Catholics in particular place great and somber importance on the manner of his death. Where you have a candle in your shrine... a Catholic would have a crucifix displayed with Christ's likeness nailed to it. The worshiper is meant to reflect on what it meant for his savior to suffer and die, with gratitude and love... but at the heart of it is the fact that Christ wouldn't be the figurehead of this religion without the sacrifice. No Catholic really wants to see Christ separated from the cross.
I don't think that separating love from pain is possible for someone like Mello. Not when he's given everything, to love some version of me, so... it makes sense to pay a price for some kind of peace.
[His voice has faded again to a near-whisper.]
I know that you understand what it is to make a sacrifice in peace's name.
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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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A week?
[Seven whole days and nights. A lot of time to put up with L's particular peculiarities; a lot of time to grow to hate them. They'd certainly grated on Mello, and L was trying to tone himself down the whole time they'd lived together. Is that still the official arrangement? Does Mello expect him to come home later today? He pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the headache that comes with considering it too deeply.]
I wouldn't ask for that. But... if you're really offering...
[Bags rustle as the kitchen packs up their boxed-up meals.]
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He lifts his other hand to lay over L's, briefly, in reassurance. Let what comes of this, come. He'd adapted to any number of roommates with any variety of habits in his time in the Circle; it is always, always easier to overlook idiosyncrasies and grow around the strains of shared space with those he loves.
They will work this out. He has absolute confidence in that.]
You need this and I can give it.
[Now that he has a plan for action, he's suspended between itching to move and loathing the moment he's got to let go of his Bonded's hand, even if it's only temporary. The sounds of their waiter's return are a relief, ending the conflict; Myr gives L's fingers a final squeeze and rises to take up his staff, holding out an arm for the bags.] Thank you--I'll take those, if you'd be so kind...
[Hopefully the inn--and whatever healer they might find--aren't so far their food will get entirely cold before they're back to the cottage.]
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Trusting that Myr won't change his mind with further closeness is so much to ask of L. He'd rather see a distant light than lose its presence entirely in his life, and though he's rather known for taking risks to get closer to his goal, this feels too risky. But the waiter has returned and brought those boxes and their aromas, and it's a reminder of L's hunger and the many things that are affecting the way he's thinking at present.
Myr's Bonded to this fucked-up mess, and hasn't walked yet. If there's a time to trust absolutely, maybe it's now, out of necessity if nothing else.
He stands, breathing through his body's protests. Myr was right about this, too; a healer will be necessary at some point, and they had better be discreet. He gingerly reaches for the crook of the Faun's elbow once the boxes are in hand, and he asks]
Have you teleported with a witch before? It can be disorienting, but... it's probably the quickest way back to the inn.
[A.K.A., the brothel, and L would rather not limp the distance even if it tests the limits of his magic to get there in one trip.]
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To say nothing of the physical injuries that make his own breath and pulse quicken in time with L's own.
That bastard, he cannot help but think.]
Once, [to L's question,] and under worse circumstances. [In Dorchacht, in the midst of their uprising, fleeing from a family he'd stolen an enslaved Monster from. Though the worse in this case is sheerly from the view of his own disorientation with the process; that had been exciting and necessary and he'd hardly been afraid the way he is now.]
I'll be fine. [Better you not walk.]
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There's a headrush, but he has the magic for this. That's what it ultimately means; it's a good thing, in the end.
He voices a soft warning, followed by an incantation, and the world drops away as their forms are forced through space at dizzying speed, felt wholly only when they land, somewhat abruptly and roughly, on the dingy carpet of the brothel's room with the sheets still undone, a crusted washcloth on the floor with remnants of semen and blood, and...
...a paper L hadn't noticed when he'd woken or left, but had certainly disposed of the night before. He steadies himself, swallows, sees what he expects to when he peers closer even if the explanations for it are sobering. Mello might have found it; so might Niles. Neither really bodes well, and Myr has to sense the sick chill that shudders down L's spine at the sight.]
It'll... only be a moment.
[He's tight in the chest. Out of breath from transporting them? Or is this a panic response too real to hide from his Bonded? His fingers reach past the paper that still bears signs of being crumpled up, reaching for a bottle of pills. The alcohol can stay, but these, he would rather have. ]
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He'd been bracing for the landing before they even departed, and his preparation's not wasted when they land; his hooves dig into the carpet but he doesn't drop the boxes, isn't sick or dizzy as reality reasserts itself along with his senses. Smell's foremost in a room so small and echo-damped; the layer on layer of unwholesome scents suggest to a faun's instinct this isn't just an inn.
A disgusted remark to that effect--not a judgment of L, simply an unhappy observation--had been on his lips when the panic hits him. His tail flags, fur bristling; he goes instantly for his staff with the hand not burdened with their meals, mind as torn as his body between flee! and attack!] L--
--Linden, [but it isn't that sort of danger, is it? Take a breath.] Linden, what is it? What did you see?
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He should have burned it. He's grown far too comfortable with the relative anonymity he's afforded in Aefenglom, but he was careless in this case. And lying to Myr will only prolong this discomfort. His blindness is a disadvantage to the faun, but what he feels through the Bond more than compensates for his ability to suss out a lie.]
Just... a note. I began writing it last night before Mello arrived. I wanted there to be no mistake about what I expected and agreed to, in case...
[In case I was in no shape to consent.]
I didn't like the way it read and realized it was a bad idea. I disposed of it, but... someone's taken it upon themselves to reverse my decision.
[And he doesn't think it was Mello. As thorough as L knows his former successor to be, he also knows he would have been in a rush to leave the night before, in spite of taking the time to clean L's body and ensure he was propped on his side with pillows. Searching the room's rubbish bins for an item he hadn't even witnessed the creation of wouldn't have been on his agenda.
But L has a stalker, as they both know. He brushes past Myr, dropping to his knees to look for fibers in the carpet.]
It's the season for it. If he was here, there would be traces...
[And the carpet is truly disgusting.]
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He had not anticipated the crippling blows to come so quietly, be delivered--if not casually, then with so little moment behind them.
I wanted there to be no mistake about what I expected and agreed to, as if he'd been writing a last will and testament, not taking one of his Bonded to bed.
And Niles had witnessed it, the faithful executor come back to remind L of what he'd signed away.
The bag slips from nerveless fingers and it's only Myr's death-grip on his staff that keeps him from joining it on the wretched carpet. He sinks to sit on his heels, free hand over his face and lower lip caught between his teeth. The turbulent churn of emotions girding his side of the Bond seizes and grinds, caught in that deceptive heart-squeezing stillness that shock brings on. Which way it will go when it breaks loose--]
Linden, [Myr says, voice so quiet the trembling in it might be missed,] intimus.
You cannot be around him, [Mello,] anything but sober. Not ever again.
[You can't sacrifice yourself on this altar. You are worth so much more than what he thinks to buy you for. You deserve so much better.]
Promise me?
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What he doesn't expect is the muffled impact of their food hitting the floor, followed by Myr's overcome crumpling. His eyes widen in alarm, and he moves hastily toward his Bonded, remaining in a shuffling kneel to keep their faces more-or-less level. He can feel, secondhand, Myr's deluge of outrage and emotion and grief, but no matter how much he studies Myr's body language and anguished features... no, he doesn't understand it. Not really. His eyes scan back and forth for a few moments, lost, before he gingerly prods at Myr's shoulder with his fingertips in an infant attempt at comfort.]
It was just sex... it lasted for a finite amount of time and then it was over.
[A pause, and a comparison slots together.]
It's considered rare, and even cruel, to undergo a surgery without an anesthetic.. but the patient still consents. Can you not try to think of it that way?
[Invasive and dangerous as it was, L is convinced that it was necessary to save their Bond. And he and Mello have long grown accustomed to numbing themselves in certain ways when they interact at all.]
I'm alright, Myr.
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[He shakes his head in abject denial of the analogy, only his hard-won instinct to be mindful of his antlers keeping him from the vehement violence he'd otherwise put in the gesture. He reaches for L's hand with his own, catching at his Bonded's fingers. Touch is an anchor to the present moment and the needs of it, a way not to be swept up in emotions that could swamp them both.
But oh, Maker...]
I can't. I cannot think of it that way. [The words want an explanation and he's fumbling to give one, to come up with something suitably dispassionate that can put this logical monstrosity to rest--that cannot be dismissed as merely (merely!) a product of his overactive concern for his Bonded.]
A surgeon cuts believing he'll heal his patient, and the patient suffers in hopes of healing. You knew, [his voice nearly breaks,] you knew this would mend nothing in you. You numbed yourself, knowing what it would cost.
Consent means nothing if there's no world where you could've said no.
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Myr's refusal sets a sinking sensation in motion in the pit of his gut. His fingers tighten around Myr's hand as a bruised and restless brain formulates a determined rebuttal that he only half-wishes to argue. But he does, because if Myr cannot think of it that way? L, himself, must. There's a rigid strength to such resolve that is prone to shattering, if it's stricken in just the right manner... and Myr's proven to have a way with striking the barriers L creates in just the right manner. For a moment, that surge of deeper pain surfaces for a gasping breath, before something huge and hungry drags it below the still water once more.]
Mello practices the Catholic religion. The figurehead and effigy is Jesus Christ, the son of God, sacrificed for the many sins of humans. He's present in all branches of Christianity, of which Catholicism is just one... but Catholics in particular place great and somber importance on the manner of his death. Where you have a candle in your shrine... a Catholic would have a crucifix displayed with Christ's likeness nailed to it. The worshiper is meant to reflect on what it meant for his savior to suffer and die, with gratitude and love... but at the heart of it is the fact that Christ wouldn't be the figurehead of this religion without the sacrifice. No Catholic really wants to see Christ separated from the cross.
I don't think that separating love from pain is possible for someone like Mello. Not when he's given everything, to love some version of me, so... it makes sense to pay a price for some kind of peace.
[His voice has faded again to a near-whisper.]
I know that you understand what it is to make a sacrifice in peace's name.
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