Argent is asleep in his room when Throne comes home, but only as much as he ever is. He never seems to need much sleep or to sleep very deeply so when he hears the shifting noises of someone drifting about in the hallway outside his door, he stirs and sits up in the air, going from asleep to almost fully awake in a matter of moments. With this sudden wakefulness, Argent is reminded of the conversation he oversaw in the journal that afternoon, and he feels a familiar rattle of concern at the back of his head.
He kicks over to his door and out into the hallway down to Throne's room. When he gets there, he floats for a moment or two, considering the wisdom of this as he and Throne and confrontation always make a rather explosive mix, and then knocks on the door. "Throne? Might I come in? Are you decent?"
Go away, is what Throne means to say, and almost does. Because Argent knocking on his door means Argent meaning to talk. And talking is not what Throne's in the mood for right now, though he knows very clearly that not talking is what got him in this mess in the first place.
Throwing himself back so that he's more laying than standing, Throne buries his face in the crook of his elbow and shouts into it, the words muffled by his own skin, "It's open," and he sighs. He doesn't bother for Argent to say anything, just raises his arm high enough so that he can peak out once towards his roommate. "I know," he says with tired exasperation. "Just say it, G. I'm a dick." The corner of his mouth twists in a self-loathing sneer and the arm drops down again, obscuring his face. "Total and utter dick."
Despite the reluctance in Throne's voice, Argent lets himself into Throne's room. He stays in the doorway for a while, hoping Throne's little burst of self-hatred will pass but when he covers his face up again, Argent sighs, feeling another rattle of concern, stronger than the first, and pushes into the room.
He draws up near Throne and settles into his habitual half-kneeling position in the air. When that's done, he looks ruefully down at the top of Throne's head and says, "Speaking as something of an expert on the subject, that's not exactly the word I would have chosen."
Pulling himself back upright, Throne folds his legs back underneath himself and finds himself eye-to-eye with Argent. He knows that he's not being helpful, though part of him is firmly resolved not to be in this situation, so he rubs at his face with the whole of his hand before looking at Argent ruefully. "Then what would you chose, G?" he asks, and then looks off, searching for an appropriate word from Argent's lexicon of British-isms, before eventually landing on a word. He offers it, begrudgingly. "Prat?"
Granted, Throne's not entirely sure what a prat is. But he's heard Argent say it enough times to sort of get the gist of it, and the tone of voice he usually uses when he does seems to strike the right note.
Want had spent most of the evening in a long simmer. It had been hours before he'd been able to actually look Drake in the eye and though his first impulse had been to go to see Throne so they could talk this out in private, a sticky, indignant irritation had set in pretty quickly as well, prompting Want to decide that this was not his fault in anyway and if Throne wanted to talk about it he could damn well come over
( ... )
Not even ten seconds out of the window and Throne's already having second thoughts, and not the type that flicker idly across the back of his mind. These are the heavy kind of second thoughts, the kind that pull at the pit of his stomach stubbornly despite the lack of gravity. And all Throne can do in response is tell himself not to lose his nerve -- don't back down -- and remind himself over and over that this is Want he's talking about, not just any little thing
( ... )
Want drifts in place for a moment, not going forward or backward or anywhere. Instead, he just watches Throne warily, trying to assess his mood. It's hard in the middle of the night, out on the path, away from most of the lights coming out of windows. Want would give a lot for a street lamp right now, so that he could actually see Throne's face properly. He pushes forward until he is close enough to do just that. Although there are still shadows all over Throne's face, Want can see him better now and for just a moment, he forgets that he's supposed to be annoyed with Throne at all and just smiles.
"Looking to you know?" he asks, teasing, but then it starts to filter in how uncomfortable Throne looks and Want eases off, backing away a bit as his smile loses some of its sharpness. When he speaks, his voice is sort of quiet and uncomfortable too. "...Actually, me too, I think. I was also looking to you know."
Throne's face is doing some kind of weird balancing act, like the performer at variety shows who spends five minutes spinning dinner plates on sticks. Or maybe the better metaphor here is juggling, because his features are kind of bouncing up and around, tensing and then quickly un-tensing like they can't make up their mind. Relieved, embarrassed, pretty upset, and then a roundabout collapse before back to embarrassed. But when Want speaks and says what he does and -- as is usually the case -- most of those bad emotions fall away, and Throne's left with mostly relieved
( ... )
Want just stares for a long time and while, from the outside it might look like another one of his episodes or freak outs or whatever the right term is, Want has never been more certain of the rightness of how he feels about Throne. Underneath Throne's words, and even underneath his improbable, wonderful mix of vulnerability and assurance, Want can just feel the truth of what he's saying. Like he knew it all along, his jigsaw pieces laid out before him since the beginning, but it's taken Throne laying all of his out too, side-by-side and face-up at last, for Want to finally see that they really have been working on the same one all along.
This doesn't fix everything, Want thinks. He still has questions buzzing around, insistent and impossible to avoid in the end. He still thinks this might leave them hurting more in the long run than anything else has. But Want's will -- or maybe just his stubbornness -- folds as he looks at Throne and realizes that he's right. Some things are variable, vacillating and changing with time: Want's
( ... )
Throne’s never been good at being able to tell how Want will react to things, other than the constant reservation he holds in the back of his mind that knows- come hook or by crook - somehow Want will find a way to pull back. He thinks that this moment will be no different, standing removed from him, his body posture slightly closed, even after offering up all that he could to Want with both of his hands. But then, something unexpected happens, and for once, Want is moving forward and not back. They’ve been here before, but to a much different tune, and it takes Throne a moment to catch up. There’s a touch, urgent, on the back of his neck, and then suddenly all he can see and feel and smell is Want - and Throne’s reeling and standing perfectly still all at the same time. He’s not quite sure what to do next when Want’s mouth finally finds his, and the places of himself that still feel raw, the parts of him that he’s just exposed, suddenly cool as if thrown into deep shadow
( ... )
When Throne's arm comes around his waist and presses them together, Want has a moment where he thinks he could maybe die of relief. Not certain how Throne was going to react until right this moment, he feels muscles he didn't know he was tensing relax and a flood of sensations and memories sweep in to fill the void, demanding that he do this or try that. It's making him dizzy because he can't sort out what's coming from now and what's coming from the past, although there is definitely a mix of both
( ... )
There are differences, Throne’s realizing, between imagining something, remembering something, and then actually doing it. Up until now, this has been something abstract, cobbled together from remnants of so many chance encounters - each incomplete and unformed and unsatisfying on their own, but each containing some truth, some moment of connection - tiny flashpoints upon which Throne’s longing would always catch. They’re the kinds of things that keep him up at night and restless - private things, sacred things. Want things. So far, he’s kept them stitched them together with the thread of his own desires, gaps filled in and shaded by his imagination But even still, despite the best of his efforts, that shivering mirage of his fantasies and dreams is nothing - absolutely nothing - compared to this. There’s a hesitation at first, which Throne expects, but still he winces inside at the prospect that this over before it’s begun. But then the moment passes, improbably so, and Throne isn’t exactly sure what he’s experiencing until
( ... )
Comments 54
He kicks over to his door and out into the hallway down to Throne's room. When he gets there, he floats for a moment or two, considering the wisdom of this as he and Throne and confrontation always make a rather explosive mix, and then knocks on the door. "Throne? Might I come in? Are you decent?"
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Throwing himself back so that he's more laying than standing, Throne buries his face in the crook of his elbow and shouts into it, the words muffled by his own skin, "It's open," and he sighs. He doesn't bother for Argent to say anything, just raises his arm high enough so that he can peak out once towards his roommate. "I know," he says with tired exasperation. "Just say it, G. I'm a dick." The corner of his mouth twists in a self-loathing sneer and the arm drops down again, obscuring his face. "Total and utter dick."
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He draws up near Throne and settles into his habitual half-kneeling position in the air. When that's done, he looks ruefully down at the top of Throne's head and says, "Speaking as something of an expert on the subject, that's not exactly the word I would have chosen."
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Granted, Throne's not entirely sure what a prat is. But he's heard Argent say it enough times to sort of get the gist of it, and the tone of voice he usually uses when he does seems to strike the right note.
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"Looking to you know?" he asks, teasing, but then it starts to filter in how uncomfortable Throne looks and Want eases off, backing away a bit as his smile loses some of its sharpness. When he speaks, his voice is sort of quiet and uncomfortable too. "...Actually, me too, I think. I was also looking to you know."
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This doesn't fix everything, Want thinks. He still has questions buzzing around, insistent and impossible to avoid in the end. He still thinks this might leave them hurting more in the long run than anything else has. But Want's will -- or maybe just his stubbornness -- folds as he looks at Throne and realizes that he's right. Some things are variable, vacillating and changing with time: Want's ( ... )
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