Faces going by, staring at him, and he stared back, wondering at the tears and the looks of pain and sympathy on the faces of strangers. Or maybe they weren't strangers, maybe he knew them and had forgotten. Maybe none of this was really happening, just another fever dream, more broken reality, and Caidi would wander in any second now to wake him from it and climb in next to him—Pleeeeeease, Jacin—and curl a warm swath against his chest with Malick at his back. Safe, safe, reality whole and unbroken, no dead sisters, no stolen mothers, no voices in his head throttling reason with madness, no dark, lying eyes or knives red with his beishin's blood, and, “Fuck,” he breathed. Hunched in, curling into the pain he couldn't feel that shattered all through him—inside and out—and those hands on him again, still, and he let them guide him, take him, show him.
Never loved me, never loved me, so blind, he'd been so blind, and, Shit, Fen, no wonder you're so easy to use. He shut his eyes and tried not to pretend the hands on him were long-fingered and demanding, and not callused and almost tender.
Didn't kill him soon enough, failed, refused the chance—twice—because I didn't want to see, didn't want to know
Hands, more hands, the same hands, they wouldn't go away, wouldn't leave him be. Peeling away layers and layers of blood, sayitsayitsayit, layers and layers of cloth, layers and layers of self, please just say it, like a snake sloughing skin, except nothing new grew back to take its place. Just raw, all over raw, and he wanted to roll in broken glass, grind it, because he could feel pain, but he couldn't feel pain, and surely it wasn't real punishment unless he could feel it, writhe inside it, scream in its extremity. Only numb and cold and nothing and more nothing. Voices riding over him, except they all sounded like his, screaming, and hands pushpulldragging him away from blissful ruination.
Malick's voice, overriding all the others—Damn it, Fen, don't let go now, not after all this—and he wished for a knife, because he knew what he was when he had a knife in his hand. Muscle and bone and sinew melding with steel and turning him into something other. Something that moved with almost-perfection, that didn't need any voice to drive it, any touch to silence it. And always, always the sweet potential of oblivion in the turn of the blade, rounding on him like a faithful dog turning on its master, except he was the dog, no one's master, not even his own. No reprieve, not even in that, no cool-metal-smooth-wood in his hand, someone had taken them all away, not your blood to spill, replaced his weapons—his last grasp at hope—with a ring shoved onto his finger that gave him silence he shouldn't have but couldn't refuse. Soft voices and soothing touches, blunting the sharp edges of his mind so he couldn't even turn that on himself, rip and tear and gnash and scream.
No, I'll take care of this, you see to the others. Get Ragi to help you with Joori and Morin, but stay close to Shig.
It echoed strangely, too resonant, like his skull had just opened up and everything was falling into his brain, everything. Too fucking loud, our boy, our boy, clinging to corpses. It wasn't there but he tried to listen anyway, he tried, but it all blurred together. Nothing, you're nothing, his father's voice, accusing—Abomination. He thought maybe he cried out at that one, but he couldn't hear through the pain and the echoes of pain. Thwip-thwip-thwip, and yet there was silence, hands on him, guiding him, so why could he still hear?
Jasmine, fucking everywhere jasmine, sage and sex leaking through it, drowning him.
Water against his skin, burning and prickling, searing little pinpricks at the lacework of stitches. It shocked him a little, throttled the numb agony in his head and chest and heart downward until he knew he was hunched on the bench of one of the shower-boxes. Water, heavy with the thick scent of minerals, sloughing over him, puddling at his bare feet in an ungodly cloud of pink as blood came loose from skin and hair. Hands on his scalp, the scent of pine soap in his nose, and Malick's voice a steady patter:
"...can't give up, all right? Not now, Fen, you're better than this.” A splash, and the soothing sluice of water runnelling over his head and down his shoulders, and Jacin reflexively shut his eyes against the sting of soap. “Fucking gods and their fucking cryptic fucking orders.” A soft growl this time, and the hands in his hair turned rougher. “I won't stand for it, Fen, y'hear? I don't give a shit anymore what Wolf wants, this all stops now."
...for you, he'll risk his soul. A mischievous grin beneath too-sharp jade eyes. Think you can live with that?
"I don't know,” he breathed, because he really didn't. He didn't know anything anymore, except he hurt, and he couldn't feel it, a great ball of agony locked inside his chest like a drop of Blood locked inside cut amethyst, and he wanted it but he feared it, because when it shattered....
"Fen?” Malick's hands had stopped tangling at Jacin's hair, and he took hold of Jacin's shoulders, turning him on the bench. Tea-smoky eyes peered sharply through the wavering lamplight. “Fen?"
And Jacin was naked, sitting on the bench and letting Malick tend him, clean him, wash his hair, and he should have been embarrassed or pissed or... something, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the heat of the water searing him to bone, but still setting shivers all through him, and a throng of emotions he couldn't name. He poked and nudged their periphery, distrustful, wary of setting them loose in a slurry of insanity, but they bunched in tight, curled in on themselves, and it was so new that he couldn't stop himself from worrying at it. Silence howled in his head, and he couldn't figure out why it hurt so much more than the noise, and yet it was numb, like a dead limb. He'd never not felt before, even when he'd wished he could dig the emotion out of his chest and kill it for good, and the lack of anything now, when it should all be killing him, rending him... it was too much, not enough.
You think I don't know why you stare so at the Gates? And maybe she did understand his horrified fascination, and maybe it mattered, he thought maybe it did, because it was reality now, his obsession with the near-dead. Watching them waiting to become ghosts, soul-hungry, watching the world around them pretend they weren't there, except he'd never really understood the emptiness of true hunger before. Strange and absurd, because he'd been a ghost for years—he really should have gotten it before now.
It wasn't right, it was all too wrong. She was gone and survival was his unforgivable sin, because he was the ghost, it should have been him, he was already halfway there, wrongwrongwrong—
"Stop it, Fen. You're not a ghost, damn it."
Say it, please, just say it, let me pretend I'm flying, unbreak this unbearable reality, wake me, kill me, help me, say it, only don't... don't just leave me here, not like this
All of it wrong, everything out of true.
It had to go away. It all had to go away.
Punishment without pain was meaningless; grief without heartache was... nothing at all. He owed Caidi more than that.
But this—whatever this agony-apathy was writhing through his every thought, his every sense, his every breath... it had to go away.
"I need....” He didn't know what he needed—he just.... “I need."
He latched onto Beishin's shirt and dragged himself up.
The kiss tasted metal-bitter, like blood, and even as Malick tried to wrench himself back and away, Jacin held on, pushed himself in. His patchwork leg bumped stone as he shoved them both into the wall, and it hurt, but he still couldn't feel it, so he drove himself into Beishin harder. Clamped his fingers to the hinges of Malick's jaw and squeezed until Beishin opened for him, gave in, let Jacin shove his tongue in his mouth, let him rock them together. Let him keep doing it until he dragged reaction from the both of them, until his breath ran out and he had to pull back.
"Fen.” A growl, and dark eyes narrowed with worry. “This isn't what you—"
"Fuck you,” Jacin grated, and he shoved himself in. “Always telling me what I need, what I am, what I'm made for, teaching me how to fail and nothing more, but you never really gave a shit, you only—"
"For fuck's sake—Fen!"
"—ever wanted som
eone to love you, worship you, but you wouldn't give any of it back, you never—"
"Fen!” A sharp shake this time, enough to rattle his teeth, then: “Who are you seeing, Fen?"
And Jacin blinked, shut his eyes tight, then opened them warily, and dark eyes had gone to old bronze again, so he looked away. “I....” Confused. Hovering on some kind of edge, and he had no idea if he should let himself go over it or not.
"Open your eyes, Fen.” Malick's hands—Malick's hands—slid up, fingers tangling in Jacin's hair. “Look at me, damn it."
The fingers tightened, held Jacin still when he would have pulled away. Instead, he opened his eyes, blinked, and squinted past the blur and distortion. Whispered, “Please,” and wished he knew what he was asking for.
"Who do you see, Fen?” Calm on the surface, but a little shaky beneath it. “Say my name."
Jacin swallowed, teeth clenched tight, because his chin wanted to quiver. Looked into light-brown eyes gone dark with concern and pain and compassion. Licked his lips and said, “Malick,” thin and reedy, “your name is Malick,” because he knew, no more blurring, no more mourning one who shouldn't be mourned, no more wishing for things he shouldn't want, and Malick's grip might have slipped, but he'd tried. Beishin's hand had swatted away that bright little life, Jacin's hand had failed to rise against his master—You did this, little Ghost—because he'd needed, and he shouldn't have, shouldn't now, but his mouth opened, breathed, “Malick,” again, because it felt necessary to make it clear. “I need to... I can't—” He sagged in Malick's grip, wilted against him, and whispered again, “Please."
Because it was Malick—Malick, not... him—and Malick had made it all go away once before.
Staring, drowning in silence, in nothing, the deadness inside him welling up into his throat and making it hard to breathe. He watched Malick watch him back, soft but measuring, trying to decide if Jacin's mind had finally snapped altogether.
Then, finally: “If this is what you need, then,” Malick whispered, and he let Jacin kiss him again, deep and heavy, as Jacin pushed in, in, in, trying to obliterate himself inside skin and bone and sinew.
Your emotions make you weak, little Ghost, and he knew it, knew it—they cut him down, turned him grasping and desperate, even when he couldn't feel them, and it wasn't fucking fair.
"No,” Malick breathed against Jacin's mouth. “Not a ghost, Fen, understand me?” Like Jacin had said it out loud—had he?—and latched on with his teeth, sank them into Jacin's bottom lip. “You're alive, and I know you don't want to be, but you're here."
Talk-talk-talking, he never just shut the fuck up, but his hands were moving, sliding over Jacin's back and pulling him in until their hips met with a heavy bump. A tingle of pain flared just a little in Jacin's leg as Beishin's erection slid against his hip through rough trousers, so Jacin let him keep talking.
"You can't be alive and a ghost at the same time, Fen. One or the other. Right now you're here, with me, and you're going to stay here—got it?"
Who are you going to see tonight while I'm fucking you?
Sick nausea curled in Jacin's gut, and he fisted his hands in hair that wasn't quite right between his fingers. “Why d'you care?” he nearly screamed, but he didn't have the breath for it.
Wrenched away, and forced to look into eyes that kept sliding from dark-dark-dark to light, smoky tea. “Why don't you?"
Make a fucking decision, Fen, so Jacin did. He angled himself away, backed up until he hit the other wall. Turned, propped himself up with his elbows, and bowed his head.
Submitted.
Waited.
"Fen,” Malick said—Malick, it's Malick—hesitant, and Jacin could tell he was going to balk, and he couldn't, because Jacin could still smell jasmine, and Malick's eyes wouldn't stop going dark and deep.
Malick had made it all go away once before. Malick had made it go away. Everything. And Jacin needed.
He didn't look back, he didn't move—he merely dipped his head ‘til his brow touched wet stone, said, “Trade me this,” and he didn't even care what he was bargaining for, desperate and pathetic, and he didn't care about that, either. Added, “Please,” again, because it was jammed up in his throat and he had to push it out.
Beishin picked her up and Malick dropped her. Joori killed her protection and Jacin killed Beishin too late. A perfect circle; perfect failure. So many ways reality could have remained whole, and yet it hadn't, it had shattered into a world where Caidi was dead and Jacin was alive and lost and drowning inside silence and not-pain, too much nothing, and, “Fucking son of a bitch, just give me this!"
Again, it rang far too loud, bounced around the damp stone, echoed in the blank spaces inside his head, and it was only vaguely and far too late that he realized he'd demanded it instead of bargaining for it.
"All right, then,” Malick said quietly, and Jacin wouldn't look, but he could swear he heard resignation inside that voice all at once tinged with husky seduction.
A solid line of hard muscle through damp linen at his back, and then he was shoved into the stone wall face-first, held there by a harsh grip on his nape, hot breath billowing over his ear and neck and shoulder. “You need it and you need it from me, Fen.” Almost a snarl, but it was low and sultry too. “You want to make it a trade, then here are my terms.” The grip on his neck tightened, and Malick pushed Jacin harder into the wall. “You'll see me and only me, Fen. You won't shut your eyes and pretend I'm him. You'll call my name. You'll stay here, with me."
Jacin tried to nod, but all he could do was twitch in the hard grip, shudder a little at the force of it. “Malick,” he wheezed. “You're Malick."
"What else, Fen?"
Jacin had to think about it for a moment, had to card back over the demand, before he ventured, “I'm here,” even though the words reeked of too much risk, but he didn't have it in him to panic.
A grunt was all he got this time, but the swath of heat at his back pulled away a little, let him suck in a great gasp, before slick fingers were on him, in him, twisting harshly, and he gasped again. Jasmine, choking him, and it wasn't right, it was supposed to be cherry blossoms, but pine-sage-sex kept leaking in and overwhelming all of it.
"Say it,” Malick growled, and when Jacin only clawed in a shaky breath, Malick twisted his hand again, ground himself hard into Jacin's hip. “Say it."
So, Jacin did, warbled, “Malick,” anything, just make it go away, and he was rewarded with a gentle curl of fingers that sparked shudders all up his backbone.
"More, Fen.” Malick's voice was dulcet and low this time, right next to Jacin's ear, and Malick's hand softened its grip on Jacin's neck, curled into his hair instead and stroked.
"I'm here,” Jacin repeated, the words unfurling into shapes inside him that took on sharp edges as he made them real, gave them power. Here, I'm here, except now that he'd said it, made the bargain, he didn't think he wanted to be.
Make it go away, it was all he wanted, but Malick wouldn't let up, he never let up, breathed, “You're here, with me,” in Jacin's ear, and Jacin shut his burning eyes, clenched his teeth.
The heat left him again, but the grip never did, and it was good, it held him up, anchored him, until Malick was there again. “Hair fucking everywhere,” he muttered, pushing in, taking Jacin's breath, and he felt it, felt a vague emptiness filling up, pushing him into the damp stone of the wall. Chill at his front, heat at his back, and raspy words spider-walking through senses that had been dead only a moment ago. “Here. You're here, Fen. Not a ghost, understand?"
"Not a ghost.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think about them, realize the danger implicit in the speaking, but he pushed it away, narrowed himself down to the seed of sensation, took hold, and gripped tight.
Rocking, rocking, slower than Jacin wanted it, stretched out on a sluggish ripple of time that morphed the seed into a coal, smoldering. Smoky tendrils striating all through him, waking things from which he shied, but Malick's voice k
ept wrenching him back. Say it—and Jacin had to answer, had to let it seep through him—I'm here—even though he had a vague, disturbing feeling he was betraying himself with every repetition. Huffing out a thin, wheezy breath as a languid sweep of fingertips curled down his thigh, up to his hip, and then inward. Took him. Held him. Blood-hot and firm. Pulled sensation from him, and pushed it back in.
Maddeningly slow, building pressure, and Jacin gritted his teeth, pressed his raw cheek into the stone.
Say it.
I'm here.
Blind and graceless, raking and breaking him, too much, not enough, sharp awareness—don't leave me here like this, it's all wrong, I can't, I won't, I need—and all the while smothering in thick, viscous nothing.
The urge to push back, snap his hips—harder, faster, please, I need—was overwhelming, but he couldn't move, could only sway with Malick's body, submit to his rhythm—in and out, back and forth—and let Malick keep pushpushpushing life into him, and he'd wanted it, he'd needed it, but it was so hard to remember now why. The sluggish burn at the bottom of his skin was scaring the shit out of him, and yet he couldn't tell Malick to stop, he'd made a mistake. He could only answer, “I'm here,” and “Malick,” every time the questions were put to him.
Long, driving strokes, slow and methodical, and it was sending him somewhere too deep inside himself, where sanity lived and reality threatened, and he had no choice but to let it enwind him, bind him. Hot, searing webs that wrapped about him, wound up from his thighs and into his chest. No control, closer and closer to that edge, and a soft lazy bite to his shoulder sent sparks beneath his skin that doused him in sensation, unlocked a groan from his throat that shattered out his mouth in ragged desperation.
"Please,” he breathed, his skin too tight, suffocating him with hazy flickers of veracity and a thin sheen of sweat. The chill that wouldn't leave him before had shape-shifted into driving heat when he hadn't been paying attention, clogged his throat.
Wolf's-own: Weregild Page 28
