[It's hardly the first time Takeshi's had a dead man speaking to him again within twenty-four hours. He shouldn't be shocked, set off balance by it, but clearly a part of him had absorbed the routine of resurrection here. Understood and accepted the long weeks he would have between seeing Stephen's life fade and meeting him again.
The relief isn't enough to wash away the guilt, the tangled knot of it that Stephen's death has wrenched to the surface. But pragmatism can drown both, to look at the anomaly of this occurrence and ask:]
[Does he want to see Stephen so soon after watching him die, holding his heart in his hands? Maybe not, but putting it off will only make that feeling worse, exacerbate apprehension and add guilt for the avoidance into the mix. Better to rip the bandaid. If Stephen's mood is anything to go by, maybe even fuck it out of his system.]
[ That's the last he'll say. With permission granted, Stephen makes a beeline once he's back in town. Goes by foot, unsure really if more time is cruel or kind but giving it to him anyway. It means that when he arrives, he knocks but doesn't wait before letting himself in - then stands in the doorway, almost a different man. No sign of shrinking, back straight, flawlessly presented, face clear of all the little tensions that had spoken to pain even when he'd tried to hide it.
He's fine. Or at least he's fine for now, which is close enough to the same thing that his body believes it too.
He watches Takeshi levelly. Asks firmly enough to make clear he wants a real answer: ]
Are you alright?
[ They don't have to do this now. Prolonged visitation. He won't mind. But he does need to see the cost of his own recovery, so he knows what work there is to do to compensate for hurt he can't uncause. ]
[Takeshi, sat comfortably on his preferred loveseat, one ankle propped on the other knee, working in his journal, raises an eyebrow.]
Funny question to hear from a man whose heart I ripped out only a day ago.
[The journal is flipped closed, slid onto the coffee table, attention fully on Stephen. He looks good. Refreshed. Like he's had an all-expenses paid spa trip rather than a painful death and resurrection. Were Takeshi a different man, he might even believe that it had worked the way Stephen had outlined. But he isn't, and he knows, all this did was give Stephen a nice black period at the end of a sentence, set a hinge to swing a door shut. Nothing behind it was gone. And the unfortunate thing about doors was that they could always be opened again.
He doesn't say any of this. He also doesn't tell Stephen whether he is or isn't alright. He's both. The killer, who barely blinks at one more death - not even a real death - on his hands. And the brother, who saw the life drain out of the eyes of yet another person he cared about and split open again, ghosts spilling out into his sleep and his wakefulness, the smell of blood and smoke and ash.
But it's barely been a day, and he's a better chameleon than anyone here knows. When he stands, takes the few steps over to Stephen, it's a lazy prowl, confident and calm.]
Where I'm from, first time fresh off resurrection is something else. [Stephen hasn't been resleeved, fitted into a body that hasn't stopped making hormones the entire time it's been slabbed, but Takeshi's certain there are still some similarities.] All the sensory overload of the virgin experience, all the veteran benefits of knowing what you're doing, what you want.
[Close, now. Close enough to kiss. To look at Stephen's eyes and feel the instinctual, animal clench of relief and elation at the light in them, the need to clutch him close and feel the warmth and life in his skin. The seduction in Takeshi's movements and words and the slight tilt of his head may be evasion, omission, but none of it is dishonest.]
[ Stephen's not new. He's spent enough years avoiding conversations to know what that looks like when it's playing out right in front of him. But knowledge doesn't do anything to offset the thrill down his spine at Takeshi's words, the ticking of his pulse with his advance.
He wants him. It's too late for that to be anything other than true. But in that wanting is more than just the desire to touch, and Takeshi's close now. Close enough to look into his eyes and remember the warm pressure of the cradle of his hand, the reassuring murmur of his voice. Remember how those eyes had looked as he'd pushed the knife in. Gaze holding him. Keep your eyes on me.
It's the kindest death he's ever had. The kindest amongst millions.
It must have cost Takeshi dearly.
A shadow passes across Stephen's face only briefly. It tips into the early twist of a fond, wry smile, all breath, all life— and then he's bridging the barely-there gap. One hand makes a home of Takeshi's neck, his jaw, the curve of his skull, the other pressing firm against his belly to slide up the line of his torso, curl around his side, summon him closer. The kiss he means to saturate with all the sharp want that Takeshi's conjured in him burns a little different when lips meet, an urgency too personal for simple lust catching light. The man whose hands had held his heart barely a day before stands under Stephen's palms now. And they are alive. They are alive.
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The relief isn't enough to wash away the guilt, the tangled knot of it that Stephen's death has wrenched to the surface. But pragmatism can drown both, to look at the anomaly of this occurrence and ask:]
Special treatment?
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Gratitude, I guess. I'll share the spoils with you later.
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I'd have thought you'd had enough of that particular organ. But it would make for an interesting statement piece, if you want it.
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I'm open to organ recommendations.
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[ Too soon to be lewd for sport? Maybe. But it's certainly one way to illustrate the shift in his mood and mindset between yesterday and today. ]
If you aren't in, let me know when you're free for a visit. I'll be around.
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I'm free.
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[ That's the last he'll say. With permission granted, Stephen makes a beeline once he's back in town. Goes by foot, unsure really if more time is cruel or kind but giving it to him anyway. It means that when he arrives, he knocks but doesn't wait before letting himself in - then stands in the doorway, almost a different man. No sign of shrinking, back straight, flawlessly presented, face clear of all the little tensions that had spoken to pain even when he'd tried to hide it.
He's fine. Or at least he's fine for now, which is close enough to the same thing that his body believes it too.
He watches Takeshi levelly. Asks firmly enough to make clear he wants a real answer: ]
Are you alright?
[ They don't have to do this now. Prolonged visitation. He won't mind. But he does need to see the cost of his own recovery, so he knows what work there is to do to compensate for hurt he can't uncause. ]
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Funny question to hear from a man whose heart I ripped out only a day ago.
[The journal is flipped closed, slid onto the coffee table, attention fully on Stephen. He looks good. Refreshed. Like he's had an all-expenses paid spa trip rather than a painful death and resurrection. Were Takeshi a different man, he might even believe that it had worked the way Stephen had outlined. But he isn't, and he knows, all this did was give Stephen a nice black period at the end of a sentence, set a hinge to swing a door shut. Nothing behind it was gone. And the unfortunate thing about doors was that they could always be opened again.
He doesn't say any of this. He also doesn't tell Stephen whether he is or isn't alright. He's both. The killer, who barely blinks at one more death - not even a real death - on his hands. And the brother, who saw the life drain out of the eyes of yet another person he cared about and split open again, ghosts spilling out into his sleep and his wakefulness, the smell of blood and smoke and ash.
But it's barely been a day, and he's a better chameleon than anyone here knows. When he stands, takes the few steps over to Stephen, it's a lazy prowl, confident and calm.]
Where I'm from, first time fresh off resurrection is something else. [Stephen hasn't been resleeved, fitted into a body that hasn't stopped making hormones the entire time it's been slabbed, but Takeshi's certain there are still some similarities.] All the sensory overload of the virgin experience, all the veteran benefits of knowing what you're doing, what you want.
[Close, now. Close enough to kiss. To look at Stephen's eyes and feel the instinctual, animal clench of relief and elation at the light in them, the need to clutch him close and feel the warmth and life in his skin. The seduction in Takeshi's movements and words and the slight tilt of his head may be evasion, omission, but none of it is dishonest.]
The stamina of both.
pay no mind to the date, we do not see it,
He wants him. It's too late for that to be anything other than true. But in that wanting is more than just the desire to touch, and Takeshi's close now. Close enough to look into his eyes and remember the warm pressure of the cradle of his hand, the reassuring murmur of his voice. Remember how those eyes had looked as he'd pushed the knife in. Gaze holding him. Keep your eyes on me.
It's the kindest death he's ever had. The kindest amongst millions.
It must have cost Takeshi dearly.
A shadow passes across Stephen's face only briefly. It tips into the early twist of a fond, wry smile, all breath, all life— and then he's bridging the barely-there gap. One hand makes a home of Takeshi's neck, his jaw, the curve of his skull, the other pressing firm against his belly to slide up the line of his torso, curl around his side, summon him closer. The kiss he means to saturate with all the sharp want that Takeshi's conjured in him burns a little different when lips meet, an urgency too personal for simple lust catching light. The man whose hands had held his heart barely a day before stands under Stephen's palms now. And they are alive. They are alive.
He is so grateful. ]