again.
So fucking tragic. Such a waste.
It didn't stop—it never ended. An endless circle, the arc feeding into itself, eating itself, spiraling into infinity, because there was no such thing as a perfect circle.
You're losing it, lad , Vonshi said softly. Focus on the graze of ink on the paper
Careful brushstrokes, but he couldn't stop his hand from shaking, and it didn't matter, because he was losing himself in the ink drops, letting them suck him down into the pitch.
Hardly perfect, is it, Jacin-rei?
He tried not to weep, but the tears were searing his eyes, and they hurt, and no, it wasn't perfect.
Hardly .
Nothing, you're nothing.
Yes . I know.
He'd always known. He'd never thought otherwise.
Another squeeze of his hand, and, Fen, damn it, open your fucking eyes, stop being so bloody dramatic.
Rough, that voice, like fine liquor, and it brought the quiet with it, kept the shadows cowering in their corners, so he let himself hear it.
Can't , he wanted to say, but the petals crept down his throat, wedged in his chest, sprouted and took root, and it hurt, but he couldn't cough and dislodge them. He wondered if a sapling would shoot from his mouth if he tried to talk, so he didn't, and the silence—inside and out—made him wonder again if he was dead.
Is that what you want?
Malick had him shoved up against the door of the baths, and his hands were running over Jacin's bare shoulders, hot and callus-rough, thumbs settling first in the dual grooves of his collarbones then sliding up to rest—no, dig in —at the pulse points at his throat. Jacin let his head fall back, arched his neck, surrender, and there was no surrender without peril, so he risked it all.
You want this, Fen, is that it? The smile was flat, all teeth and contempt, and the gliding strokes of Malick's thumbs increased in pressure, cutting off air, and Jacin was mortified to realize it was making him hard. Hot breath gusted over his face as Malick dipped in, dragged his mouth up the line of Jacin's jaw, whispered, Did you think I wouldn't give it to you if you asked me to? He squeezed.
Jacin shook his head, shut his eyes, the shadows of moth's wings rippling through his lids— thwip-thwip-thwip in time to the flurry of his heart—so he opened them. Watched the petals settle in Malick's hair like snow, watched them reflect, white and empty, in the smoky tea of his eyes. The pressure knocked up, not just cutting off air this time but stealing it, Jacin's pulse thudding through the silence in his head. No . He pushed it out through the bracken in his throat. No, I—
You like it when you're outnumbered, don't you? You need the risk. You love all the gorgeous possibility.
Jacin's eyes slid shut, and he couldn't stop them. He didn't understand, and he couldn't think—all the blood was blocked from his brain and pooling in his groin. Possibility of what? but when he opened his mouth to ask, petals and moths came fluttering out, and something warm and garlicky went in, and he didn't have the energy to choke, so he swallowed it.
Sorry, I know it's disgusting, but Umeia will kill me if I don't make you drink it all.
I don't do this out of cruelty, Jacin-rei.
No, of course he didn't, he was Beishin, and Beishin had saved him, saved his family, and was going to save the Jin, so Jacin let him pour the brew down his throat and made himself not throw it back up. Except Beishin was maijin, and didn't love him at all. He opened his eyes and stared into the deep-dark of Asai's, furious and humiliated when his vision blurred and hot tears ran like water down his cheeks.
Hate you , he grated, fucking hate you, I loved you, I would have done anything for you, how could you do this to me? And yet still , he was reaching out, leaning in, desperate for everything that wasn't his—life and love that didn't hurt, and silence he didn't have to ask for—and he threw himself into Beishin's arms, begging, Please, please , just... just say you love me, just
So fucking tragic. Such a waste.
It didn't stop—it never ended. An endless circle, the arc feeding into itself, eating itself, spiraling into infinity, because there was no such thing as a perfect circle.
You're losing it, lad , Vonshi said softly. Focus on the graze of ink on the paper
Careful brushstrokes, but he couldn't stop his hand from shaking, and it didn't matter, because he was losing himself in the ink drops, letting them suck him down into the pitch.
Hardly perfect, is it, Jacin-rei?
He tried not to weep, but the tears were searing his eyes, and they hurt, and no, it wasn't perfect.
Hardly .
Nothing, you're nothing.
Yes . I know.
He'd always known. He'd never thought otherwise.
Another squeeze of his hand, and, Fen, damn it, open your fucking eyes, stop being so bloody dramatic.
Rough, that voice, like fine liquor, and it brought the quiet with it, kept the shadows cowering in their corners, so he let himself hear it.
Can't , he wanted to say, but the petals crept down his throat, wedged in his chest, sprouted and took root, and it hurt, but he couldn't cough and dislodge them. He wondered if a sapling would shoot from his mouth if he tried to talk, so he didn't, and the silence—inside and out—made him wonder again if he was dead.
Is that what you want?
Malick had him shoved up against the door of the baths, and his hands were running over Jacin's bare shoulders, hot and callus-rough, thumbs settling first in the dual grooves of his collarbones then sliding up to rest—no, dig in —at the pulse points at his throat. Jacin let his head fall back, arched his neck, surrender, and there was no surrender without peril, so he risked it all.
You want this, Fen, is that it? The smile was flat, all teeth and contempt, and the gliding strokes of Malick's thumbs increased in pressure, cutting off air, and Jacin was mortified to realize it was making him hard. Hot breath gusted over his face as Malick dipped in, dragged his mouth up the line of Jacin's jaw, whispered, Did you think I wouldn't give it to you if you asked me to? He squeezed.
Jacin shook his head, shut his eyes, the shadows of moth's wings rippling through his lids— thwip-thwip-thwip in time to the flurry of his heart—so he opened them. Watched the petals settle in Malick's hair like snow, watched them reflect, white and empty, in the smoky tea of his eyes. The pressure knocked up, not just cutting off air this time but stealing it, Jacin's pulse thudding through the silence in his head. No . He pushed it out through the bracken in his throat. No, I—
You like it when you're outnumbered, don't you? You need the risk. You love all the gorgeous possibility.
Jacin's eyes slid shut, and he couldn't stop them. He didn't understand, and he couldn't think—all the blood was blocked from his brain and pooling in his groin. Possibility of what? but when he opened his mouth to ask, petals and moths came fluttering out, and something warm and garlicky went in, and he didn't have the energy to choke, so he swallowed it.
Sorry, I know it's disgusting, but Umeia will kill me if I don't make you drink it all.
I don't do this out of cruelty, Jacin-rei.
No, of course he didn't, he was Beishin, and Beishin had saved him, saved his family, and was going to save the Jin, so Jacin let him pour the brew down his throat and made himself not throw it back up. Except Beishin was maijin, and didn't love him at all. He opened his eyes and stared into the deep-dark of Asai's, furious and humiliated when his vision blurred and hot tears ran like water down his cheeks.
Hate you , he grated, fucking hate you, I loved you, I would have done anything for you, how could you do this to me? And yet still , he was reaching out, leaning in, desperate for everything that wasn't his—life and love that didn't hurt, and silence he didn't have to ask for—and he threw himself into Beishin's arms, begging, Please, please , just... just say you love me, just
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