Alden, Ilad
Do not ask it of me. I cannot walk that shore again. To go briefly and only breathe the dry air and walk the old stone paths or drive the old swampy dirt roads or watch the sunlight on the salt sea-- well. It would hurt too much, cut too deep. I do not believe I am strong enough to be a tourist in my lost home. Not without a real cause to drive me there. No.
And to return, for true ... well, there is more than a career I left behind to die there in my people's land. I left death behind, and disfigurement, and dishonor. I cannot return. When Avi returned, I would have stayed behind, fragile excuses lost. I would have cowered in the shadows of my former life. I told myself I would return one day, when the secrets were all so old that everyone had forgotten them, but on some level I knew I lied to myself.
There is too much destruction that I failed to stop. That I seeded. No. I must make a new home in the here and now, and enshrine my homeland in my heart with my other lost secrets.
Yet ... it is not so bad, in the here and now.
With you.
The restaurant is small and quiet, warmly lit and underpopulated at this hour on Sunday afternoon, though not deserted. The fare is simple, advertised as 'classic', but good. Ilad has bacon-wrapped fish, smokily infused with flavor and flaking under his fork. This will prevent me from having to deal with the waitstaff. Lazy. Their booth is tucked up against the window, sunlight bright and cheery as it casts across them both, but it is a quiet street with few passersby, and anyway, Ilad has exhibited no paranoia whatsoever about the source of natural light. He is dressed in a soft dress shirt of burgundy hue, open at the collar to reveal the shadow of throat and collarbone, and dark pants, which are fastened in an ordinary way.
Grey wool accents Alden's long lines, his tie loosened and casual despite the fit of the suit, though he wears it as easy as a second skin. Hidden away in their booth, his foot hooks lightly against Ilad's though hands are occupied by the process of eating, his own steak plain but well seasoned and cooked, wine paired with. Quiet extends still, his attention focused on his plate.
The quiet is companionable enough; what conversation there has been, it has been fairly muted, but warm. Ilad eats his slow and measured way through fish, baacon and rice. He is drinking only water, though. The ice tinkles against the glass as he lifts it to his lips for a swallow. He shifts his foot a little against Alden's beneath the table, but it is not an energetic enough motion to really qualify as play.
Alden's gaze flickers up at the movement, though he sets his silverware down precisely despite hardly making any headway in his own red meat and mashed potatoes. Instead, his fingers fall to the base of his wine, fingertips flat against the glass. Softly, he breaks the silence with a simple "How is your fish, love?"
"Fine enough," Ilad assures him mildly, eyebrow quirked upward slightly with the turn of his smile at one corner of his mouth. Flaking away fish under his fork, he doesn't lift it for his next bite, but sets it down in idle mirror of Alden's. "Your steak?"
"They cooked it well. The restaurant was a good choice," Alden offers in answer, the soft touch of a smile on his expression briefly before his free hand slides across the table to capture Ilad's hand lightly when it frees itself.
Ilad turns his hand in Alden's, twining their fingers together in a loose clasp. His skin carries the touch of fever that is its custom, his system evidently well-recovered from its last long burn. "If you are ever in Israel," he says, all too lightly for all the inevitable breath of longing that traces his country's name, "I will find you better ones."
The draw of Alden's thumb against his knuckles is slow, firm. He leans forward with the longing, his own words lowering to a murmur of encouragement, humor and warmth of his own twined in one as he says, "We should go. Tomorrow. I could have the flight booked by tonight."
Ilad looks away and shakes his head. His clasp grows all the firmer, tightening on Alden's hand with a sudden pressure as of suppression. "No," he says very quietly.
"You'd feel differently, I think, actually being there. Even only a few days of being home," Alden counters, quietly. Figers tighten in turn, drawing Ilad's hand away and to his lips instead. "Or somewhere else, if you'd rather."
"I cannot go back, ahuvi," Ilad says softly, far more breath than voice in the words. He looks back up at Alden with hurt's entreaty in his dark eyes, inexplicable in its intensity, in its certainty.
"You could. We could make a place for you." Lips pressed to Ilad's knuckles, the murmur is firm against heated skin as Alden lifts grey-green eyes to find dark finally. He only frowns slightly in the face of it, but instead of backing away he offers instead in gentled Hebrew syllables, "{I love you.}"
Ilad's throat works in a swallow. He is silent for a long moment, watching the press of Alden's mouth to his skin. He squeezes tightly in the clasp of his hand, an underlying need grown stronger in these brief moments. His lashes shutter against his cheeks, and then lift again with a slight inclination of his head. "{As I you, beloved,}" he says, the oft-repeated word seeming more weighted and less of a name in conjunction with the fellows of its same tongue. He doesn't answer the rest. Perhaps it is too hard.
Pressing a light kiss to the back of Ilad's hand, lips brushing skin briefly, Alden exhales a breath before offering warmly, "We could go see Alden Castle instead, if it isn't crumbling at being abandoned." A smile lifts his lips into a crooked smile, the weight of his gaze lightening with humor.
It takes Ilad a false start at speaking again before he answers; his teeth set against his lip, and then he opens his mouth a second time on a slowly indrawn breath. He says, "Tell me about your ruined castle."
"It is pretty, complete with moat and great hall, a salon and kitchens with a fireplace big enough to crawl into," Alden reminisces, slow himself as he lowers their joined hands away from his lips and back to the table to replace it instead with a wine glass. "I hid in it enough times to the annoyance of the staff. It was an excellent place to play hide-and-go-seek."
"You know that I grew up on a communal farm, yes?" Ilad asks, light with the warmth of humor slowly seeping back into his voice. He draws his thumb in a slow glide over Alden's palm. "Fit only to be one of your lowly serfs?"
A soft laugh slips from Alden's lips, captured in a swallow of wine before he sets the glass down carefully. He answers with a tsk, "We have not been feudal lords for years, love." He pauses, a devilish smile playing at his lips before he adds, "But, I'm sure I would not be the first to take a farmer into the castle as a mistress."
"A mistress," Ilad repeats in incredulity. He withdraws his hand from the clasp of their fingers and picks up his fork as he arches his eyebrows across the table at him.
"A lover," Alden corrects of himself with a faint draw of regret in his tone. His own fingers wrap around the stem of his wine, twisting it under fingers as he watches Ilad, smile fading.
"Thank you," Ilad intones with a little irony weighting the words. He scrapes up a bite of fish and bacon and rice, eats it, and sets his fork down again. He contemplates Alden, head canted but slightly to one side.
He does not sit at ease under the study, adjusting his wine glass in front of him instead. Alden does not speak, however, though he finally curves his own brow upward in question.
"I would be honored to see it," Ilad says, for all the light tone of their play.
Smile softening his expression, Alden answers dismissively, "It is cold and uncomfortable, and all of the rooms are drafty, but one day." He wets his throat with wine again, the sweep of his glass to his lips one practiced motion.
"I can keep your fireplace lit," Ilad assures him with the shadow of a smile on his lips, lashes falling low over his dark eyes.
"Oh my, love. Was that an innuendo?" is questioned with a bright laugh, Alden's own lips twisting into a crooked smirk. "I'm sure you would keep me very warm."
"I can't imagine why you would think that," Ilad says, lifting his gaze to meet Alden's eyes with answering laughter restrained to the warm dark gleam in his own.
Laughter lightening tension that has lingered overnight, Alden leans forward to capture Ilad's hand between his own, wine glass ignored in favor of the warmth of contact. "I do love you, Ilad. I do," he exhales on a breath, the words lighter with almost relief.
Ilad smiles, the expression warm in the quiet that follows. It is a remarkably squishy look slanted across the table at him for someone ostensibly afraid of displays of affection in public. At length, he wets his lips with a flicker of his tongue, and exhales with a bare hint of laughter in the breath that follows: "I believe you."
"Good, you better," Alden replies dryly, his hands pressing tightly over Ilad's own briefly before he withdraws with slow, regretful necessity. He picks back up his utensils and cuts into his steak with renewed appetite.
Ilad watches him eat with a slight upquirk of his eyebrows for a beat or two before retrieving his own fork and eating a little more of his rice. He seems -- mildly puzzled.
Steak disappears with easy bites, Alden simply seeming pleased. What's so puzzling about that? He probably invites Ilad back to his place after lunch.
Ilad does not raise an objection to this plan. Whatever his boyfriend is happy about, it is OK with him.
Lunch date.
And to return, for true ... well, there is more than a career I left behind to die there in my people's land. I left death behind, and disfigurement, and dishonor. I cannot return. When Avi returned, I would have stayed behind, fragile excuses lost. I would have cowered in the shadows of my former life. I told myself I would return one day, when the secrets were all so old that everyone had forgotten them, but on some level I knew I lied to myself.
There is too much destruction that I failed to stop. That I seeded. No. I must make a new home in the here and now, and enshrine my homeland in my heart with my other lost secrets.
Yet ... it is not so bad, in the here and now.
With you.
The restaurant is small and quiet, warmly lit and underpopulated at this hour on Sunday afternoon, though not deserted. The fare is simple, advertised as 'classic', but good. Ilad has bacon-wrapped fish, smokily infused with flavor and flaking under his fork. This will prevent me from having to deal with the waitstaff. Lazy. Their booth is tucked up against the window, sunlight bright and cheery as it casts across them both, but it is a quiet street with few passersby, and anyway, Ilad has exhibited no paranoia whatsoever about the source of natural light. He is dressed in a soft dress shirt of burgundy hue, open at the collar to reveal the shadow of throat and collarbone, and dark pants, which are fastened in an ordinary way.
Grey wool accents Alden's long lines, his tie loosened and casual despite the fit of the suit, though he wears it as easy as a second skin. Hidden away in their booth, his foot hooks lightly against Ilad's though hands are occupied by the process of eating, his own steak plain but well seasoned and cooked, wine paired with. Quiet extends still, his attention focused on his plate.
The quiet is companionable enough; what conversation there has been, it has been fairly muted, but warm. Ilad eats his slow and measured way through fish, baacon and rice. He is drinking only water, though. The ice tinkles against the glass as he lifts it to his lips for a swallow. He shifts his foot a little against Alden's beneath the table, but it is not an energetic enough motion to really qualify as play.
Alden's gaze flickers up at the movement, though he sets his silverware down precisely despite hardly making any headway in his own red meat and mashed potatoes. Instead, his fingers fall to the base of his wine, fingertips flat against the glass. Softly, he breaks the silence with a simple "How is your fish, love?"
"Fine enough," Ilad assures him mildly, eyebrow quirked upward slightly with the turn of his smile at one corner of his mouth. Flaking away fish under his fork, he doesn't lift it for his next bite, but sets it down in idle mirror of Alden's. "Your steak?"
"They cooked it well. The restaurant was a good choice," Alden offers in answer, the soft touch of a smile on his expression briefly before his free hand slides across the table to capture Ilad's hand lightly when it frees itself.
Ilad turns his hand in Alden's, twining their fingers together in a loose clasp. His skin carries the touch of fever that is its custom, his system evidently well-recovered from its last long burn. "If you are ever in Israel," he says, all too lightly for all the inevitable breath of longing that traces his country's name, "I will find you better ones."
The draw of Alden's thumb against his knuckles is slow, firm. He leans forward with the longing, his own words lowering to a murmur of encouragement, humor and warmth of his own twined in one as he says, "We should go. Tomorrow. I could have the flight booked by tonight."
Ilad looks away and shakes his head. His clasp grows all the firmer, tightening on Alden's hand with a sudden pressure as of suppression. "No," he says very quietly.
"You'd feel differently, I think, actually being there. Even only a few days of being home," Alden counters, quietly. Figers tighten in turn, drawing Ilad's hand away and to his lips instead. "Or somewhere else, if you'd rather."
"I cannot go back, ahuvi," Ilad says softly, far more breath than voice in the words. He looks back up at Alden with hurt's entreaty in his dark eyes, inexplicable in its intensity, in its certainty.
"You could. We could make a place for you." Lips pressed to Ilad's knuckles, the murmur is firm against heated skin as Alden lifts grey-green eyes to find dark finally. He only frowns slightly in the face of it, but instead of backing away he offers instead in gentled Hebrew syllables, "{I love you.}"
Ilad's throat works in a swallow. He is silent for a long moment, watching the press of Alden's mouth to his skin. He squeezes tightly in the clasp of his hand, an underlying need grown stronger in these brief moments. His lashes shutter against his cheeks, and then lift again with a slight inclination of his head. "{As I you, beloved,}" he says, the oft-repeated word seeming more weighted and less of a name in conjunction with the fellows of its same tongue. He doesn't answer the rest. Perhaps it is too hard.
Pressing a light kiss to the back of Ilad's hand, lips brushing skin briefly, Alden exhales a breath before offering warmly, "We could go see Alden Castle instead, if it isn't crumbling at being abandoned." A smile lifts his lips into a crooked smile, the weight of his gaze lightening with humor.
It takes Ilad a false start at speaking again before he answers; his teeth set against his lip, and then he opens his mouth a second time on a slowly indrawn breath. He says, "Tell me about your ruined castle."
"It is pretty, complete with moat and great hall, a salon and kitchens with a fireplace big enough to crawl into," Alden reminisces, slow himself as he lowers their joined hands away from his lips and back to the table to replace it instead with a wine glass. "I hid in it enough times to the annoyance of the staff. It was an excellent place to play hide-and-go-seek."
"You know that I grew up on a communal farm, yes?" Ilad asks, light with the warmth of humor slowly seeping back into his voice. He draws his thumb in a slow glide over Alden's palm. "Fit only to be one of your lowly serfs?"
A soft laugh slips from Alden's lips, captured in a swallow of wine before he sets the glass down carefully. He answers with a tsk, "We have not been feudal lords for years, love." He pauses, a devilish smile playing at his lips before he adds, "But, I'm sure I would not be the first to take a farmer into the castle as a mistress."
"A mistress," Ilad repeats in incredulity. He withdraws his hand from the clasp of their fingers and picks up his fork as he arches his eyebrows across the table at him.
"A lover," Alden corrects of himself with a faint draw of regret in his tone. His own fingers wrap around the stem of his wine, twisting it under fingers as he watches Ilad, smile fading.
"Thank you," Ilad intones with a little irony weighting the words. He scrapes up a bite of fish and bacon and rice, eats it, and sets his fork down again. He contemplates Alden, head canted but slightly to one side.
He does not sit at ease under the study, adjusting his wine glass in front of him instead. Alden does not speak, however, though he finally curves his own brow upward in question.
"I would be honored to see it," Ilad says, for all the light tone of their play.
Smile softening his expression, Alden answers dismissively, "It is cold and uncomfortable, and all of the rooms are drafty, but one day." He wets his throat with wine again, the sweep of his glass to his lips one practiced motion.
"I can keep your fireplace lit," Ilad assures him with the shadow of a smile on his lips, lashes falling low over his dark eyes.
"Oh my, love. Was that an innuendo?" is questioned with a bright laugh, Alden's own lips twisting into a crooked smirk. "I'm sure you would keep me very warm."
"I can't imagine why you would think that," Ilad says, lifting his gaze to meet Alden's eyes with answering laughter restrained to the warm dark gleam in his own.
Laughter lightening tension that has lingered overnight, Alden leans forward to capture Ilad's hand between his own, wine glass ignored in favor of the warmth of contact. "I do love you, Ilad. I do," he exhales on a breath, the words lighter with almost relief.
Ilad smiles, the expression warm in the quiet that follows. It is a remarkably squishy look slanted across the table at him for someone ostensibly afraid of displays of affection in public. At length, he wets his lips with a flicker of his tongue, and exhales with a bare hint of laughter in the breath that follows: "I believe you."
"Good, you better," Alden replies dryly, his hands pressing tightly over Ilad's own briefly before he withdraws with slow, regretful necessity. He picks back up his utensils and cuts into his steak with renewed appetite.
Ilad watches him eat with a slight upquirk of his eyebrows for a beat or two before retrieving his own fork and eating a little more of his rice. He seems -- mildly puzzled.
Steak disappears with easy bites, Alden simply seeming pleased. What's so puzzling about that? He probably invites Ilad back to his place after lunch.
Ilad does not raise an objection to this plan. Whatever his boyfriend is happy about, it is OK with him.
Lunch date.