[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.
[It is emblematic of their relationship that even knowing, even feeling that pain and being nearly overcome with the desire to break through all those barriers to repair it... Myr gives L space to make that rebuttal, to explain through argument why it is he has chosen this particular adaptation to last night's horror. Even if he must bite his own tongue to make himself listen, he listens, but he does not let go of his Bonded, metaphorically or physically.
What kind of demoniac god would sacrifice his own child for human sin? is Myr's instinctive first response--of course, he's dragged off into the theology of it--and before he can pass further judgment it strikes an echo that humbles him. What kind of Bridegroom would suffer to see His Bride betrayed and slain for mankind's jealousy?
This, oh--this is an analogy he understands much better, for all it throws Mello's own particular variation on the Original Sin into even starker relief. Small wonder, within that framework, why L must convince himself he'd stepped willingly onto the pyre for the protege who saw him as god. Small wonder he'd thought it the only way.
His grief and fury draw in on themselves, pushed back in the small space he keeps them when he hasn't the luxury to be so unrestrained.]
I do, [he answers, his own voice scarcely louder than L's.] I do know. But that, amatus, is better left to Those who know Their suffering redeems those who've martyred Them. They've the hearts and fortitude for it.
[For the rest of us, there are other ways.
It is, and is not, a rebuke; and it is very gently delivered. Truly healing what underlay this would require surgery, would require reopening breaks to mend what had set wrong... But now is not the time for that.
Myr dips his head, lifting L's hand to brush the knuckles with a kiss. (Seizes a moment to swallow a sneeze at the tickling bit of fur so close to his nose.) Then he's on his hooves again, the hand held turned to a hand up, if L would lean on him for it.]
[So much of Myr's uniquely potent strength is rooted in the faun's patience. L's words can be skillful in difficult places, or disastrous in those that rely on empathetic expression, but Myr's patience in particular has a way of guiding them back toward some grounded, sane place that seems natural for L himself to arrive at even if it's impossibly far from where he began his deeply unwell premise. It's a journey, at times, but always one that feels real and remembered. Every stone and tree passed and observed and considered, proof that the steps were taken and the mental miles traversed.
Just as importantly, Myr walks the path with him, observes the distance and the landmarks from his point of view. Being understood is a coveted and rare oasis for the detective, and one that Myr offers earnestly and often. It's almost normal, now; it's almost safe. L lets his guard down more and more frequently so that Myr can perceive through his mind and his senses, even if the lens is grimy or the angle off-putting.
He wants to argue that he has the heart and fortitude for it... but it's claiming the contents of a locked box be accepted on faith alone. His reaction to the situation as a whole feels spectacularly resilient to him, but in truth, it's just another distorting veil to hide the truth behind.
He accepts the hand, letting the tuft of fur flutter to the floor. He can mention its implications on the way, because "the way" will be longer and more difficult, and there will be time to talk about Niles. He doesn't have the stamina for another round of teleportation, and it's clear in the heaviness he leans with as he allows Myr to help him to his feet.]
Yes... let's. I'll finish gathering my things.
[A reluctant agreement to a necessary bit of unpleasantness. His mending would be slow and difficult, otherwise, leaving him prone to further complications or infection.
He pulls away so he can busy himself with assembling his simple away bag, but speaks over his shoulder.]
Myr?
[Spoken as if a thought had just popped into his head.]
I'm sorry I didn't think of how this would affect you, as my Bonded. If I'd believed for a second it would have caused you pain, as well..
[There are joy and sorrow--so, so much sorrow--both to be had in their journey together. There is also wonder in it, bright as the stars studding the midnight sky in L's internal world; it is this that first captured Myr, drawn him with inevitable force into a love he cannot easily compass in words. Painful as it often can be to inhabit their Bond, it is also utterly, wholly worth it.
Speaking of pain--]
It's forgiven, [before L had even tendered the apology, though that he would do so says volumes. It tightens the vice grip around Myr's heart the more; they are making progress, despite the difficulty of the road, and he is proud of every good inclination that sprouts in his Bonded's soul. But oh, how great the risk to those tender little plants, when L is surrounded by so many who would crush them without further thought.] It's all forgiven. I was more afraid for you than upset at the hurt.
[He leans down to retrieve their dropped meals; the boxes, thankfully, are none the worse for wear. The movement buys him a moment to formulate a question.]
Would you have denied him? [he asks of L's aposiopesis, gently. It could sound like coercion, he is aware only after he's asked it. Though it would be a velvet-coated sort, the thought lodges sharp and sudden in his throat.
Ordinarily, not something to worry over. In this context, with clear and aching evidence of the things L felt himself obliged to do out of duty...]
[L is grateful for the grace, although it's not wholly unexpected. It can never be, with Myr, who has already proven to be so generous and giving where such matters are concerned. How many have warned him, by this point, that L will always be the parasite who takes advantage, will leave him far more cynical and demolished than he found him? Perhaps, by the time L has run his course, Myr will be ruined for helping anyone ever again.
The impulse to part ways suddenly and insist on distance occurs to L. He doesn't want to demolish or ruin Myr, so wouldn't it be the better thing to do, of his bleak array of equally selfish options?
L finishes scooping his spare clothing into the bag. There is some vodka left, sitting vigil on the nightstand. He leaves it, but takes the bottle of pills, handling them carefully so as not to cause them to rattle. This is a decision he can arrive at later, in a moment that is less pressed and pinned.]
I want to tell you something comforting... reassuring.
[He thinks, perhaps vividly enough that Myr can catch notions and glimpses of it through their Bond, of the many times he had in some small way rejected Mello. The attempted kisses that he'd instinctively turned or flinched away from, the efforts at connection that he had rebuffed. Every single instance of spurned resentment in those piercing blue eyes.]
I'm familiar with the plight of the orphan. He's someone with everything to prove, who desires a place in the world that no one can take from him even if he has to fight every moment to defend it. It might have gone differently... but one more denial might have broken him. I suspect there was, in fact, no world where I could have said no.
[Including, unfortunately, a world in which he felt Myr's love and considered Myr's pain. He would still feel bound to choosing the unpleasant to avoid the worst.]
You may think me a coward, but there were others like him. He and I both know their histories... but there are parallels he intentionally blinds himself to. I know what he's capable of and where I can mitigate the inevitable, and I do have to, Myr.
[For all Myr sometimes lacks confidence in himself--in his capacity to achieve all he's set out to do, in his worth and goodness to those he loves--he has yet to be shaken in his conviction that he can hew to the course the Maker's words had set him. That he can maintain his hope and moral center in the face of the corroding effect of the world; that there is nothing anyone could do to him to change that. Though L may fear to darken and stain him, Myr is not--is never--afraid himself to walk into that darkness for his friend's sake.
Perhaps his is the confidence of the man who has not considered the worst of all possible futures, those that contain inevitable failure and ruin. Or perhaps it's simple faith in what he knows of L, at all odds from what he's been told; faith that whatever had warped and distorted his Bonded could in the end be requited, the damage put right, through unstinting love and earnest effort.
It may want discussion, in time. It is not an unreasonable concern, given the example to-hand of someone who'd sought to emulate L--
I want to tell you something comforting... reassuring. The words aren't enough to make Myr frown, but the impressions he garners through the Bond are. As clearly as he can feel L's tangled emotions concerning Mello--those same emotions that have enough of pity, of concern, to stay Myr's hand--he cannot but view these flashes of the younger man's behavior with dismay and disgust. No clearer evidence that L was an idol and an object, not someone but something expected to comply with the idolater's rules.
Yet he is too accustomed heeding L's analysis of a situation to discard it out of hand, even if a very large part of him wishes to say--simply and flatly--then let him break. It is a cruelty Myr can stomach...but they are not speaking simply of hurt feelings, with Mello. (Another form of coercion. More fuel for the fury.)]
I don't believe you a coward, amatus. [Never that.] But you've taken on more responsibility for him than is just to either of you. He isn't well-served by being indulged in this, and you--
[It makes his throat close to think of L enduring another round of Mello's attentions, out of fear of what would happen otherwise.] --This isn't part of your duty toward him.
Nor do you need bear it all alone. [We are in this together.]
[A side program of sorts is whirring in the back of L's mind, wondering what he's left here that he shouldn't, if he's managed to collect everything he needs to or if anything he leaves could be incriminating or used to hurt him later. The letter, he will take, and burn, and he'll wash his hands of the fur as soon as possible. An internal debate orbits itself like a binary star system, weighing whether or not he should tell Myr about Niles, or the fact that the chimera could be on his way here, now.
They could move on, they should move on. But L is a mass of pain; like anything wounded, his progress will be halting and difficult, in more ways than affect the visceral meat of his body.]
Thank you for being here. I know it's not easy.
[And there are other things Myr would rather be doing, other ways he would rather spend his morning, other sensations and emotions he would rather feel. No amount of care can turn someone into a true masochist.]
We... should go, shouldn't we?
[L reaches for the crook of Myr's arm, not alone, but resisting the urge to lean.]
[There it is: They've reached the bounds of this discussion, here and now. There are a multitude of reasons not to push it, not least among them L's battered state, yet there's a part of Myr still that aches to do it--that tendency in him to hunt a thought to its conclusion, push an argument to its end. That same tendency that brought them together, that means he's the one here for the morning-afters, to pick his Bonded up however L needed-- Oh, there are doubtless more pleasant ways Myr could be spending his morning, but it would not occur to wish for them now.]
You are welcome, [the faun says, a grave formality to his voice; one that does not hide the unstinting warmth in him, even so.] We're Bonded, after all; and I'm glad to.
[He would be glad to do worse and harder, if it could keep L from another such night.
He holds his arm out for L, inclining his head to the question.]
We should. And, I suspect, ask about healers on our way out. [All his understanding of things like brothels was book-knowledge, but surely the serials had gotten it right that the proprietors of such places would have healers with a sense of discretion among their contacts.]
[L's grip is anemic, his stance unsteady. It's difficult not to simply collapse into the stable presence that Myr represents, and even more difficult to think of what might be a taxing journey on foot. Hopefully, the healer is close; hopefully the road is smooth and the promise of feeling better will prove adequate anesthetic to soothe each sore step.
Downstairs, they're able to get a recommendation with little more than a shrug from the madam. Idiots hurt themselves all the time, after all, doing things that aren't meant to be dangerous, and she seems almost bored as she hands over the jotted-down address.
It's several blocks away. L reads it out to Myr, a flatness in his tone indicating that he's unhappy with the distance.]
The sooner we go... the sooner we'll get there, and then I'm sure we'll actually be able to enjoy breakfast...
[Steps on the stairs, and steps to find the madam, and more trudging, weary steps yet beyond that to find the healer, and then beyond to home--
Something in Myr snaps under the weight of L's suffering, under the insults his Bonded's endured through the last night and this awful morning, under that grim unhappiness with the distance yet before them. He listens to the address, setting a seal on it in his memory, then makes his decision.]
Here, [he says, handing over their breakfast.] Hold this. And-- [He slings his staff by its carry-strap across his back, arranging it with a few impatient, practiced flicks of his hands.] --forgive me, amatus.
[Because he isn't about to ask permission, though there is a warning that ripples through their Bond before he stoops to gather L bodily into his arms. Bird-boned as the detective is, it won't be any trouble at all to carry him like this--even for several blocks.]
You'll need to be my eyes for this, [he adds, almost as an afterthought. He hadn't come here himself, isn't familiar enough with the streets to walk without any kind of guidance.
[L fingers close around the meals that Myr pushes toward him, then tighten as the faun apologizes in advance. He realizes what for a few seconds before Myr lifts him with startling ease, and it's disquieting due to the reminder of a monster's inherent strength, and perhaps, also, the sobering reality that his habits have pared a slight build into something actually frail.]
No, ah...! Myr, it's actually...
[It's OK, I can walk, I want to be in control... except that he's not, and Myr's steadiness is a stark contrast to his own wavering, shuffling steps. Though he'd seized initially like a crushed spider when his Bonded had scooped him up, he goes softer and slacker in Myr's arms, accepting of the arrangement. Bruised pride is scarcely his sorest site.]
...of course. We need to take a right in roughly twenty meters, and the way is clear.
[Relatively, anyway. They're a spectacle enough that others are giving them a somewhat wide berth.]
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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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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What kind of demoniac god would sacrifice his own child for human sin? is Myr's instinctive first response--of course, he's dragged off into the theology of it--and before he can pass further judgment it strikes an echo that humbles him. What kind of Bridegroom would suffer to see His Bride betrayed and slain for mankind's jealousy?
This, oh--this is an analogy he understands much better, for all it throws Mello's own particular variation on the Original Sin into even starker relief. Small wonder, within that framework, why L must convince himself he'd stepped willingly onto the pyre for the protege who saw him as god. Small wonder he'd thought it the only way.
His grief and fury draw in on themselves, pushed back in the small space he keeps them when he hasn't the luxury to be so unrestrained.]
I do, [he answers, his own voice scarcely louder than L's.] I do know. But that, amatus, is better left to Those who know Their suffering redeems those who've martyred Them. They've the hearts and fortitude for it.
[For the rest of us, there are other ways.
It is, and is not, a rebuke; and it is very gently delivered. Truly healing what underlay this would require surgery, would require reopening breaks to mend what had set wrong... But now is not the time for that.
Myr dips his head, lifting L's hand to brush the knuckles with a kiss. (Seizes a moment to swallow a sneeze at the tickling bit of fur so close to his nose.) Then he's on his hooves again, the hand held turned to a hand up, if L would lean on him for it.]
Let's find you a healer.
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Just as importantly, Myr walks the path with him, observes the distance and the landmarks from his point of view. Being understood is a coveted and rare oasis for the detective, and one that Myr offers earnestly and often. It's almost normal, now; it's almost safe. L lets his guard down more and more frequently so that Myr can perceive through his mind and his senses, even if the lens is grimy or the angle off-putting.
He wants to argue that he has the heart and fortitude for it... but it's claiming the contents of a locked box be accepted on faith alone. His reaction to the situation as a whole feels spectacularly resilient to him, but in truth, it's just another distorting veil to hide the truth behind.
He accepts the hand, letting the tuft of fur flutter to the floor. He can mention its implications on the way, because "the way" will be longer and more difficult, and there will be time to talk about Niles. He doesn't have the stamina for another round of teleportation, and it's clear in the heaviness he leans with as he allows Myr to help him to his feet.]
Yes... let's. I'll finish gathering my things.
[A reluctant agreement to a necessary bit of unpleasantness. His mending would be slow and difficult, otherwise, leaving him prone to further complications or infection.
He pulls away so he can busy himself with assembling his simple away bag, but speaks over his shoulder.]
Myr?
[Spoken as if a thought had just popped into his head.]
I'm sorry I didn't think of how this would affect you, as my Bonded. If I'd believed for a second it would have caused you pain, as well..
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Speaking of pain--]
It's forgiven, [before L had even tendered the apology, though that he would do so says volumes. It tightens the vice grip around Myr's heart the more; they are making progress, despite the difficulty of the road, and he is proud of every good inclination that sprouts in his Bonded's soul. But oh, how great the risk to those tender little plants, when L is surrounded by so many who would crush them without further thought.] It's all forgiven. I was more afraid for you than upset at the hurt.
[He leans down to retrieve their dropped meals; the boxes, thankfully, are none the worse for wear. The movement buys him a moment to formulate a question.]
Would you have denied him? [he asks of L's aposiopesis, gently. It could sound like coercion, he is aware only after he's asked it. Though it would be a velvet-coated sort, the thought lodges sharp and sudden in his throat.
Ordinarily, not something to worry over. In this context, with clear and aching evidence of the things L felt himself obliged to do out of duty...]
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The impulse to part ways suddenly and insist on distance occurs to L. He doesn't want to demolish or ruin Myr, so wouldn't it be the better thing to do, of his bleak array of equally selfish options?
L finishes scooping his spare clothing into the bag. There is some vodka left, sitting vigil on the nightstand. He leaves it, but takes the bottle of pills, handling them carefully so as not to cause them to rattle. This is a decision he can arrive at later, in a moment that is less pressed and pinned.]
I want to tell you something comforting... reassuring.
[He thinks, perhaps vividly enough that Myr can catch notions and glimpses of it through their Bond, of the many times he had in some small way rejected Mello. The attempted kisses that he'd instinctively turned or flinched away from, the efforts at connection that he had rebuffed. Every single instance of spurned resentment in those piercing blue eyes.]
I'm familiar with the plight of the orphan. He's someone with everything to prove, who desires a place in the world that no one can take from him even if he has to fight every moment to defend it. It might have gone differently... but one more denial might have broken him. I suspect there was, in fact, no world where I could have said no.
[Including, unfortunately, a world in which he felt Myr's love and considered Myr's pain. He would still feel bound to choosing the unpleasant to avoid the worst.]
You may think me a coward, but there were others like him. He and I both know their histories... but there are parallels he intentionally blinds himself to. I know what he's capable of and where I can mitigate the inevitable, and I do have to, Myr.
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Perhaps his is the confidence of the man who has not considered the worst of all possible futures, those that contain inevitable failure and ruin. Or perhaps it's simple faith in what he knows of L, at all odds from what he's been told; faith that whatever had warped and distorted his Bonded could in the end be requited, the damage put right, through unstinting love and earnest effort.
It may want discussion, in time. It is not an unreasonable concern, given the example to-hand of someone who'd sought to emulate L--
I want to tell you something comforting... reassuring. The words aren't enough to make Myr frown, but the impressions he garners through the Bond are. As clearly as he can feel L's tangled emotions concerning Mello--those same emotions that have enough of pity, of concern, to stay Myr's hand--he cannot but view these flashes of the younger man's behavior with dismay and disgust. No clearer evidence that L was an idol and an object, not someone but something expected to comply with the idolater's rules.
Yet he is too accustomed heeding L's analysis of a situation to discard it out of hand, even if a very large part of him wishes to say--simply and flatly--then let him break. It is a cruelty Myr can stomach...but they are not speaking simply of hurt feelings, with Mello. (Another form of coercion. More fuel for the fury.)]
I don't believe you a coward, amatus. [Never that.] But you've taken on more responsibility for him than is just to either of you. He isn't well-served by being indulged in this, and you--
[It makes his throat close to think of L enduring another round of Mello's attentions, out of fear of what would happen otherwise.] --This isn't part of your duty toward him.
Nor do you need bear it all alone. [We are in this together.]
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They could move on, they should move on. But L is a mass of pain; like anything wounded, his progress will be halting and difficult, in more ways than affect the visceral meat of his body.]
Thank you for being here. I know it's not easy.
[And there are other things Myr would rather be doing, other ways he would rather spend his morning, other sensations and emotions he would rather feel. No amount of care can turn someone into a true masochist.]
We... should go, shouldn't we?
[L reaches for the crook of Myr's arm, not alone, but resisting the urge to lean.]
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You are welcome, [the faun says, a grave formality to his voice; one that does not hide the unstinting warmth in him, even so.] We're Bonded, after all; and I'm glad to.
[He would be glad to do worse and harder, if it could keep L from another such night.
He holds his arm out for L, inclining his head to the question.]
We should. And, I suspect, ask about healers on our way out. [All his understanding of things like brothels was book-knowledge, but surely the serials had gotten it right that the proprietors of such places would have healers with a sense of discretion among their contacts.]
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Downstairs, they're able to get a recommendation with little more than a shrug from the madam. Idiots hurt themselves all the time, after all, doing things that aren't meant to be dangerous, and she seems almost bored as she hands over the jotted-down address.
It's several blocks away. L reads it out to Myr, a flatness in his tone indicating that he's unhappy with the distance.]
The sooner we go... the sooner we'll get there, and then I'm sure we'll actually be able to enjoy breakfast...
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Something in Myr snaps under the weight of L's suffering, under the insults his Bonded's endured through the last night and this awful morning, under that grim unhappiness with the distance yet before them. He listens to the address, setting a seal on it in his memory, then makes his decision.]
Here, [he says, handing over their breakfast.] Hold this. And-- [He slings his staff by its carry-strap across his back, arranging it with a few impatient, practiced flicks of his hands.] --forgive me, amatus.
[Because he isn't about to ask permission, though there is a warning that ripples through their Bond before he stoops to gather L bodily into his arms. Bird-boned as the detective is, it won't be any trouble at all to carry him like this--even for several blocks.]
You'll need to be my eyes for this, [he adds, almost as an afterthought. He hadn't come here himself, isn't familiar enough with the streets to walk without any kind of guidance.
But they'd manage. They are Bonded, after all.]
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No, ah...! Myr, it's actually...
[It's OK, I can walk, I want to be in control... except that he's not, and Myr's steadiness is a stark contrast to his own wavering, shuffling steps. Though he'd seized initially like a crushed spider when his Bonded had scooped him up, he goes softer and slacker in Myr's arms, accepting of the arrangement. Bruised pride is scarcely his sorest site.]
...of course. We need to take a right in roughly twenty meters, and the way is clear.
[Relatively, anyway. They're a spectacle enough that others are giving them a somewhat wide berth.]