[While Myr's enthusiasm may too-often outrun his good sense, it's neither so dogged or fleet as a faun's sense for danger. From whence his sudden, growing feeling of discomfort comes--warning of a brewing storm, a leg-breaking hole, a predator-concealing meadow--he cannot immediately pin, and that worries him... But does not wholly check his momentum.
The steady, all's-well sway of his tail's ceased, though, as he circles round the table to pull a chair out for his Bonded. (More a gesture of chivalry than necessity; he bubbles over with gestures at this time of month.)]
They're a kind of great fox, I'm told, with more than one tail. They've got odd stories--different ones--than what they've got here in Aefenglom, about Talam and how the moons came to be.
[There's more, of course; there's always more, but that same feeling of unease slows his chattering and compels him to linger until L's seated, so he can rest a hand on his witch's back for the sheer comfort contact brings.]
They'll be too busy with the fair, I expect, to talk much--but I'd much like to speak to one still, if there's a chance.
[It's unclear where L's unease ends and Myr's begins, whether one came first or it's a dizzy cycle feeding into itself. The food is no longer appetizing; the potential dangers, both absurd and statistically likely, take the place of hunger, jostling and crowding out other survival instincts. He hovers beside the chair, the heel of his hand resting against its back, maybe some sort of unconscious resistance to Myr's eagerness though it doesn't reflect elsewhere in his manner, mood, or the tones of his mind.]
I see... there's a creature like that in the folklore of my world in some of the Eastern countries. I wonder how similar the stories are.
[He's expected to sit; he needs to sit. Sooner or later it'll be clear that something is wrong that L himself struggles to understand and define, and that notion being sussed out by his Bonded is almost as bad as whatever could happen, tonight. A public outing with someone eager enough for both of them, but... carrying a millstone, nevertheless, and doing it blind.
His back curls against Myr's touch; if there's any sort of shiver to accompany it, it's involuntary, but stifled quickly with resolute shoulder blades as determined as his smile.]
They'll have time for at least two questions, I think... so it might be a good idea to consider what you'd like to ask. Streamline and prioritize what you'd like most to know.
[There's a curious disconnect. It's a plan, but one that feels ungrounded in true intent... and though he's been trying to keep the realization at bay, L knows when his eyes stray toward the windows and the door that he's not going to make it beyond their threshold tonight.
It's at least a very certain way to disappoint Myr, and not one of the myriad terrifying ones that wait for him if he does go.]
[Myr's ears twitch forward, swiveled as if to catch a predator's footstep or a crackle of leaves. It makes the force and nexus of his attention obvious--as if there could be any doubt to where he'd turn it when he's in the same room with his Bonded and any hint of trouble. (Is there a hint of trouble? Maddeningly, despite what his instincts are telling him, he's still not sure. He trusts their Bond would alert him otherwise, though he knows L perfectly capable of muting himself should the need arise.)]
I'd like, [he says, tone light and conversational yet (feeling as if he must not, cannot show his unease without something vast and unnameable collapsing around their ears),] to hear those stories. Perhaps even before talking to them--
[...But in the end it is not something he can maintain, not when everything in him wants to act otherwise.] Amatus,can you do this tonight?
[It's the suggestion, the embedded idea it's Myr on his own to ask without even the littlest input from his Bonded. Though hardly as if he's incapable of doing such a thing on his own...it would be better with L there, and here is L implying otherwise.]
[L's smile begins to slip. Myr is perceptive; Myr could sense the cracks before L even thought to make hasty efforts to patch and conceal them, and now, something is so obviously broken that he must acknowledge it. It wouldn't be so, in a happier world... but in a way, it's a relief that the lightness of the conversation has been sacrificed, given what an exhausting facade it was to maintain.]
I'm sorry.
[It's the sentiment, anyway, somehow more dimensional than a longer explanation or rationalization. It's more a flicker of feelings than a pair of words, containing equal measures of regret and relief. Myr needed him to be strong, and honest, and he couldn't be both. It's left them here, exposing him, making the decision... but it's a decision that's still his, in spite of that, because if he forced himself to go, insisted on it, Myr wouldn't lock him in the cottage, or call on his other Bonds and beloveds to help keep the broken one at bay for his own good.]
If you go, and enjoy it to the fullest the way Fauns are able, I'll still be able to feel it. But I don't think I'm ready.
[He knows he isn't, that every gentle moment would be poisoned by the shards of ice Niles left in his veins. Sources of uncertainty would be reasons for panic, and not curiosity. Separation from Myr, for even a moment, would shake something else loose and set him walking in any direction with every appearance of purpose, but nothing concrete. Every festive mask could be a murderer, every laughing child an enemy informant, every false fluffy tail or pair of cat ears could be Niles returning in disguise to finish him off now that he's scraping together his life and talents and reshaping them into what he must to survive.
He repeats himself, the sentiment surer this time, fully honest and not merely implicitly.]
[There is--as L predicted--disappointment in Myr to hear this; he had built up his hopes for this, wanted so dearly that his Witch be ready to take this (large, frightening) step on the path of healing. It is a disappointment he cannot simply crush out of existence in the moment of its realization, when L's silent I'm sorry puts paid to the idea of a night out. He does not even scramble to try, knowing by now that the time for controlling his emotions is before they've made it to the level of his consciousness, before they're manifest in the Bond--and even then, L might still pluck them from him, easy as breathing.
Instead, Myr draws in a measured breath, examining the dimensions of that disappointment, considers the flickering wreckage of that small squashed hope as he would a crushed bee. Memorizing, examining...and then opening his hands to let the shards sift from them.
It is what it is. Better that this silly little hope be dashed than L find himself in a situation all-but-designed to tear open his still-healing wounds.
The little jolt of adrenaline that comes with realizing that near-brush puts paid to any lingering cottony-headed moon-madness, too. (Replaces it with a sudden, crippling guilt for a split-second; because hadn't that been exactly the opening Niles had exploited to maim L in the first place? That emotion Myr suppresses with instant ruthlessness.)]
Then we'll not go, amatus, [he murmurs, bending to press lips to his Bonded's mussed black hair.] And I'm sorry I hadn't thought to ask sooner if it's something you could do yet.
[He has not realized--consciously--what this means yet, that L can say no to him. But there's a lightening in his breast even so, a relief of a fear he'd held in his heart since he'd recognized his own potential to fetter the detective exactly as Mello had.]
[It's true; once the emotion is there and exists, it can catch like kindling for the comprehension of the other member of the Bond. He's crushed to realize that Myr is disappointed, but he knew that he would be; he knew that it would hurt. And he shot Myr's hopes down in spite of that, and the guilt creeps in the way cold water creeps into a damp and slowly flooding basement.
He pushes it back, patches some of the leaks. People hate him the most when he's honest, but it's not a harmless, pretty lie to pretend that he'll be alright. This could have been worse if he'd left it untended until evening, and now he doesn't need to. They're both free from that.]
I still want you to go. Please. That's how we can enjoy it together.
[There'll be at least some vicarious pleasure in it, even if it means understanding all too clearly where Myr's other friends are adequate and he is not.]
You've been looking forward to this. It'll be fun, and you can still tell me about all the best parts. It'd be enough.
[For a moment--longer, a minute--the too-familiar pain that echoes in their Bond renders Myr speechless. He knows, too well, the interior contours of realizing he'd let someone down through his own incapacity; it has struck him from ambush too many times in the past three years. How can he respond to it adequately when he doesn't even know how to handle his own--let alone when he's caused that crushed-heart feeling?
Where words won't suffice, instinct moves him to action. He slips his arms around his Bonded in a silent embrace and simply holds L to his chest.
(The memory comes unbidden of how Everett had held him when he'd floundered, failed, couldn't follow where their initial flirting had led them. Had the older man been disappointed in him then and flawlessly concealed it? They hadn't been Bonded; if they had, could Myr have survived even an instant of knowing that, however kind Everett had been to him after?
There were wonders and cruelties both to the Bonds.)]
Will you, [he murmurs at length,] sit here the night hating yourself for not being well enough to come with me?
[L was born and raised neglected in so many crucial ways. Even later, when he was fed, and clothed, and put up in the best hotels money could buy, he was touch and contact-starved to the point where it still takes his breath away to feel firm and gentle arms around him. It makes him aware of his angular bones as they're pushed toward each other, the way his lanky body contrasts with Myr's sturdier and stronger one even before taking the acquired Faun features into consideration. He's always a little anxious in such embraces, while wishing they'd last a little longer every single time... but he's aware of the danger, too, knowing that actually getting as much of his Bond as he wants would keep him hungry every moment Myr wasn't there, make him grow to resent absence instead of feeling grateful for the hours he's graced with.
If he had whole hands, he might offer a returning caress, thread fingers through Myr's hair, clasp them behind his neck or at the small of his back. As it is, he just turns so that the side of his face can rest against Myr's chest, and he can listen to his Bond's heart beating.
He's not well, and it's not Myr's fault. He wants to lie so badly to let him leave tonight with a clear conscience and a festive mood to match bright and cheery surroundings. He could; he's at peace with the decision, and to a gentle heart, vicarious peace can feel like a lot of good things.
He surprises himself, again, with actual honesty.]
I don't know.
I'm sure if you revel enthusiastically enough, I'll have enough on my mind not to navel-gaze too self-indulgently.
Mm, [Myr breathes, and no more for a moment, instead slipping a hand up to find and cradle the curve of his Witch's jaw.
Strange as a Circle upbringing had been, he had not himself ever been neglected--though the prohibitions on certain kinds of contact between mages had left him with more than enough affection to lavish on those in need of it. (Illicitly or not.) Which is the seductive danger for him in being Bonded to someone so in need--to demonstrate his own unreserved, unguarded love in excessive action, to burn himself through by being whatever and whoever L needed in the moment.
Except he at least knows himself, and the world, well enough to know that would do no good for either of them. If only just, and it is head-knowledge only and not the heart-knowledge that could stand proof against Myr's own abiding sense he is not doing enough for his beloved.
As now. There is not, the faun is sure, a storybook solution to this situation--because there is no tidy storybook solution to any of what they've gotten themselves into. There is only the way the Maker's left available to all mortals: To carry on through this step by plodding, agonizing step with each other to lean on.
He buries his face a moment against L's hair, marshaling his ideas for that next step.]
And if I go out by day instead, while you've ought to occupy you, and bring my stories home tonight? [A quiet, hair-ruffling huff of breath; a not-laugh.] With whatever amount of revelry you'd enjoy.
[It's difficult not to simply curl and nuzzle into that tender touch; the temptation exists to do so, and then hold the Faun here even longer. It would be impractical and selfish; L might even succeed at what he hasn't managed so far, and finally make Myr frustrated enough to want to leave him. It probably helps that he couldn't cling now, as he is; his blunted, maimed hands remain in his lap, hidden beneath the edge of the table.]
By day?
[A different environment, surely. Parties by day and night just aren't the same, and L suspects that fauns in particular will prefer the unique pleasures evening brings with it.
He opts to leave that open-ended, to keep his desire for Myr's company as chaste and unpresuming as possible.]
If you choose to come back to this particular cottage, tonight, I'll be here, and happy to see you and hear stories. If someone else invites you back to a different one, though, don't disappoint them on my account. I'll keep; so will the stories.
[Well, and. That is so gracious an acknowledgment of the vicissitudes of a faun's nature that Myr cannot protest L's phrasing, even if there's a part of him that aches to promise he would be back tonight, without doubt.
It's too near the full moons, and L too dear to him, to make promises he cannot be utterly certain he'll keep.
(Though he's fairly confident in this one; going out by day to take in the side of the carnival meant for all ages would be the perfect hedge on any overt faunishness, from long experience.)
He rubs his thumb over one of L's too-fine cheekbones and at last lets his Witch go with a final brush of lips to shaggy hair.]
Then I'll plan for that, [he says, finding warmth to color his voice again,] though we've breakfast to eat before I go anywhere.
[It's something he intends to linger about, from his tone.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The steady, all's-well sway of his tail's ceased, though, as he circles round the table to pull a chair out for his Bonded. (More a gesture of chivalry than necessity; he bubbles over with gestures at this time of month.)]
They're a kind of great fox, I'm told, with more than one tail. They've got odd stories--different ones--than what they've got here in Aefenglom, about Talam and how the moons came to be.
[There's more, of course; there's always more, but that same feeling of unease slows his chattering and compels him to linger until L's seated, so he can rest a hand on his witch's back for the sheer comfort contact brings.]
They'll be too busy with the fair, I expect, to talk much--but I'd much like to speak to one still, if there's a chance.
no subject
I see... there's a creature like that in the folklore of my world in some of the Eastern countries. I wonder how similar the stories are.
[He's expected to sit; he needs to sit. Sooner or later it'll be clear that something is wrong that L himself struggles to understand and define, and that notion being sussed out by his Bonded is almost as bad as whatever could happen, tonight. A public outing with someone eager enough for both of them, but... carrying a millstone, nevertheless, and doing it blind.
His back curls against Myr's touch; if there's any sort of shiver to accompany it, it's involuntary, but stifled quickly with resolute shoulder blades as determined as his smile.]
They'll have time for at least two questions, I think... so it might be a good idea to consider what you'd like to ask. Streamline and prioritize what you'd like most to know.
[There's a curious disconnect. It's a plan, but one that feels ungrounded in true intent... and though he's been trying to keep the realization at bay, L knows when his eyes stray toward the windows and the door that he's not going to make it beyond their threshold tonight.
It's at least a very certain way to disappoint Myr, and not one of the myriad terrifying ones that wait for him if he does go.]
no subject
I'd like, [he says, tone light and conversational yet (feeling as if he must not, cannot show his unease without something vast and unnameable collapsing around their ears),] to hear those stories. Perhaps even before talking to them--
[...But in the end it is not something he can maintain, not when everything in him wants to act otherwise.] Amatus, can you do this tonight?
[It's the suggestion, the embedded idea it's Myr on his own to ask without even the littlest input from his Bonded. Though hardly as if he's incapable of doing such a thing on his own...it would be better with L there, and here is L implying otherwise.]
no subject
I'm sorry.
[It's the sentiment, anyway, somehow more dimensional than a longer explanation or rationalization. It's more a flicker of feelings than a pair of words, containing equal measures of regret and relief. Myr needed him to be strong, and honest, and he couldn't be both. It's left them here, exposing him, making the decision... but it's a decision that's still his, in spite of that, because if he forced himself to go, insisted on it, Myr wouldn't lock him in the cottage, or call on his other Bonds and beloveds to help keep the broken one at bay for his own good.]
If you go, and enjoy it to the fullest the way Fauns are able, I'll still be able to feel it. But I don't think I'm ready.
[He knows he isn't, that every gentle moment would be poisoned by the shards of ice Niles left in his veins. Sources of uncertainty would be reasons for panic, and not curiosity. Separation from Myr, for even a moment, would shake something else loose and set him walking in any direction with every appearance of purpose, but nothing concrete. Every festive mask could be a murderer, every laughing child an enemy informant, every false fluffy tail or pair of cat ears could be Niles returning in disguise to finish him off now that he's scraping together his life and talents and reshaping them into what he must to survive.
He repeats himself, the sentiment surer this time, fully honest and not merely implicitly.]
I know I'm not ready, Myr.
no subject
Instead, Myr draws in a measured breath, examining the dimensions of that disappointment, considers the flickering wreckage of that small squashed hope as he would a crushed bee. Memorizing, examining...and then opening his hands to let the shards sift from them.
It is what it is. Better that this silly little hope be dashed than L find himself in a situation all-but-designed to tear open his still-healing wounds.
The little jolt of adrenaline that comes with realizing that near-brush puts paid to any lingering cottony-headed moon-madness, too. (Replaces it with a sudden, crippling guilt for a split-second; because hadn't that been exactly the opening Niles had exploited to maim L in the first place? That emotion Myr suppresses with instant ruthlessness.)]
Then we'll not go, amatus, [he murmurs, bending to press lips to his Bonded's mussed black hair.] And I'm sorry I hadn't thought to ask sooner if it's something you could do yet.
[He has not realized--consciously--what this means yet, that L can say no to him. But there's a lightening in his breast even so, a relief of a fear he'd held in his heart since he'd recognized his own potential to fetter the detective exactly as Mello had.]
no subject
He pushes it back, patches some of the leaks. People hate him the most when he's honest, but it's not a harmless, pretty lie to pretend that he'll be alright. This could have been worse if he'd left it untended until evening, and now he doesn't need to. They're both free from that.]
I still want you to go. Please. That's how we can enjoy it together.
[There'll be at least some vicarious pleasure in it, even if it means understanding all too clearly where Myr's other friends are adequate and he is not.]
You've been looking forward to this. It'll be fun, and you can still tell me about all the best parts. It'd be enough.
no subject
Where words won't suffice, instinct moves him to action. He slips his arms around his Bonded in a silent embrace and simply holds L to his chest.
(The memory comes unbidden of how Everett had held him when he'd floundered, failed, couldn't follow where their initial flirting had led them. Had the older man been disappointed in him then and flawlessly concealed it? They hadn't been Bonded; if they had, could Myr have survived even an instant of knowing that, however kind Everett had been to him after?
There were wonders and cruelties both to the Bonds.)]
Will you, [he murmurs at length,] sit here the night hating yourself for not being well enough to come with me?
no subject
If he had whole hands, he might offer a returning caress, thread fingers through Myr's hair, clasp them behind his neck or at the small of his back. As it is, he just turns so that the side of his face can rest against Myr's chest, and he can listen to his Bond's heart beating.
He's not well, and it's not Myr's fault. He wants to lie so badly to let him leave tonight with a clear conscience and a festive mood to match bright and cheery surroundings. He could; he's at peace with the decision, and to a gentle heart, vicarious peace can feel like a lot of good things.
He surprises himself, again, with actual honesty.]
I don't know.
I'm sure if you revel enthusiastically enough, I'll have enough on my mind not to navel-gaze too self-indulgently.
no subject
Strange as a Circle upbringing had been, he had not himself ever been neglected--though the prohibitions on certain kinds of contact between mages had left him with more than enough affection to lavish on those in need of it. (Illicitly or not.) Which is the seductive danger for him in being Bonded to someone so in need--to demonstrate his own unreserved, unguarded love in excessive action, to burn himself through by being whatever and whoever L needed in the moment.
Except he at least knows himself, and the world, well enough to know that would do no good for either of them. If only just, and it is head-knowledge only and not the heart-knowledge that could stand proof against Myr's own abiding sense he is not doing enough for his beloved.
As now. There is not, the faun is sure, a storybook solution to this situation--because there is no tidy storybook solution to any of what they've gotten themselves into. There is only the way the Maker's left available to all mortals: To carry on through this step by plodding, agonizing step with each other to lean on.
He buries his face a moment against L's hair, marshaling his ideas for that next step.]
And if I go out by day instead, while you've ought to occupy you, and bring my stories home tonight? [A quiet, hair-ruffling huff of breath; a not-laugh.] With whatever amount of revelry you'd enjoy.
no subject
By day?
[A different environment, surely. Parties by day and night just aren't the same, and L suspects that fauns in particular will prefer the unique pleasures evening brings with it.
He opts to leave that open-ended, to keep his desire for Myr's company as chaste and unpresuming as possible.]
If you choose to come back to this particular cottage, tonight, I'll be here, and happy to see you and hear stories. If someone else invites you back to a different one, though, don't disappoint them on my account. I'll keep; so will the stories.
no subject
It's too near the full moons, and L too dear to him, to make promises he cannot be utterly certain he'll keep.
(Though he's fairly confident in this one; going out by day to take in the side of the carnival meant for all ages would be the perfect hedge on any overt faunishness, from long experience.)
He rubs his thumb over one of L's too-fine cheekbones and at last lets his Witch go with a final brush of lips to shaggy hair.]
Then I'll plan for that, [he says, finding warmth to color his voice again,] though we've breakfast to eat before I go anywhere.
[It's something he intends to linger about, from his tone.]