abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

"It was my mistake," Ronan says. Let there be no doubt about that. "I should have asked him."

It would be so much easier to explain if Rhy shared any of his cultural touchstones. Every comparison he can think to make is one that will probably confuse Rhy further. Why did he bother?

"It doesn't matter. That part's done. I just wanted you to know I'm not turning you down because of anything you did."

"I... appreciate you telling me," Rhy says slowly, clearly still processing. What exactly is the magic binding them, he wonders. The pact. There is a discomfort that prickles inside his throat, and Rhy swallows it down, taking a purposeful breath.

"And you get no choice in this matter?"

Ronan puffs out a breath. He's not sure where he's losing Rhy on this. Maybe it's one of those things that's impossible to understand until it happens firsthand.

"I made my choice," he corrects. "Seven months ago, when I offered him the deal."

"I think it would help me to understand if you explain the deal," Rhy suggests carefully. He's not sure if Ronan is willing to do that.

"I don't want to do anything that would hurt you. Even accidentally. I need to understand the rules."

"You won't hurt me," Ronan assures him, reaching out to lay a soothing hand on Rhy's thigh. "Listen, none of this is anything to worry about. But if you really want to know what you are or aren't allowed to do with me, Kylo's the one you gotta ask."

Rhy's hand rests on top of Ronan's. He holds that electric blue gaze, beseeching.

"Ronan. I am asking what you want."

Ronan holds Rhy's gaze, unwavering. He doesn't know how many more ways to say it. He doesn't think he's being unclear at all.

"I want to keep my promise," he answers slowly. "And I want you."

Incompatible desires, he understands, and he's really very glad to not be left with the final judgment on resolving them.

"If you don't want to beg him for me, I totally get it. I don't think I'm worth it, either."

"Ronan, that's not--"

Rhy's fingers curl around his on his knee, which jumps a little, agitated. He shakes his head with a frustrated noise, struggling to keep his temper because it isn't Ronan he is angry with, and it isn't fair to make him feel worse than he probably already does.

The last thing Rhy wants is for Ronan to avoid him again. Although, in context, it suddenly makes a lot more sense why he had in the first place. Even if he didn't know, hadn't asked, maybe he'd been doing it to protect himself in some instinctive way. Rhy doesn't know; he doesn't dare to bring it up because he doesn't want to know.

He takes another breath, bringing his other hand to Ronan's, taking it gently between his palms.

"I will talk to him," he promises. "If that is what you want. The blame is not entirely yours, either. I too could have asked. I knew-- I saw."

How Kylo looked at him, handled him. How possessive he'd been. How Ronan reacted. Of course Rhy had noticed, but he'd thought them lovers, and non-exclusive ones at that. He could have checked in. He could have done with less assumptions, but he had been greedy, and he'd wanted Ronan without the potentiality of pesky things like boyfriends getting in the way.

Of course it had felt too good to be without complications, after all.

"Will you tell me one thing? Why did you ask to be his?"

There is no simple answer to that question. It wasn't even really Ronan — not this Ronan — who asked. There are so many of him, watching him from the other side of the mirror, slipping in and out of sight, pointing him in certain directions and whispering in his ear. Ronan asked because the Greywaren asked.

No. Didn't even ask. The Greywaren set a trap and Kylo Ren walked into it.

Ronan shuts his eyes and thinks. Before that. Before any of that. When he'd first set foot in this room and decided Kylo would be the one. What made him choose?

"He's the same as me," Ronan says. He looks at Rhy again, an apology knitted into the wrinkle of his brow. "He was alone for a long time. I knew I could give him what he wanted and he would give me what I needed."

Rhy doesn't really understand, but he thinks perhaps he understands enough. Ronan doesn't seem keen on sharing the details, so he doesn't ask again what the deal actually is. What it entails. What kind of magic is involved. He wants to know, but none of it matters as much as just this one thing.

"And you are happy?"

Is that what Rhy's been fretting over this whole time? His fucking happiness?

The corner of Ronan's mouth twitches in wry amusement. It's not really ha-ha funny but it's kind of funny anyway. This is the last damn thing Rhy needs to be worried about. It's sweet of him, though.

"The happiest I've ever been," Ronan says, confident.

Ronan's unhesitating answer seems to be exactly what Rhy was looking for. It reassures him visibly, the tension easing out of his shoulders, jaw loosening and the furrow between his brow smoothing out.

He leans over, letting go of Ronan's hand to wrap his arms around his shoulders instead, pulling him into a heartfelt embrace. There is no heat in it, no move to kiss him even. Rhy simply holds him for a few moments, chin against Ronan's shoulder, eyes closed.

"I care about you," he says suddenly. At least, it feels sudden. Like it had sneaked up on him somehow when he wasn't paying attention, sometime between spending all morning fucking themselves exhausted and trying to catch up to Ronan again at every damned mealtime with increasing desperation. Rhy barely knows anything about him, but he doesn't have to.

In truth, he'd have cared deeply about Ronan's happiness even if he was a complete stranger. But he's already something more.

Oh. Rhy had been really worried about his fucking happiness.

Ronan doesn't quite know what to do with a gesture so warm and earnest. He feels a little bit like he ought to be reassuring Rhy out of reassuring him. But he also doesn't actually want Rhy to stop what he's doing, so he returns the embrace, drawing him closer and running a soothing hand over his back.

What a mistake Rhy's making, caring about him. There's no point in talking him out of it, of course. They always find out on their own, with enough time, and Ronan doesn't want to hurry past this part. His favorite part. Where it feels sort of like someone really wants to be there for him. He just can't help feeling like Rhy missed the most important part of his confession.

"Sorry this is so fucked up," Ronan says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Rhy makes a small, scoff-laugh of a noise in the back of his throat. He kisses Ronan's cheek before he sits up again, hands lingering on his shoulders just a moment too long before dropping away.

"Isn't it all?"

He grabs the brandy again, handing it to Ronan. Not the sort of thing most people drink straight from the bottle, but the occasion calls for it. And besides, who fucking cares?

"There is something I want to talk to you about, as well. If 'fucked up' is the theme of the day, I may as well not put it off any longer."

Ronan will drink anything straight from a bottle. Brandy is no exception, even if it's a bit too sweet for his taste, and he knocks it back gracelessly before returning the bottle to Rhy. He could have used a little more alcohol before they'd begun the discussion, honestly, but it's never too late to get wasted.

"What's up?" he asks. He's pretty sure Rhy's not going to bring up anything worse than the bomb Ronan just dropped on him.

No, neither of them are drunk enough for any of these discussions. Rhy is trying valiantly to remedy that. He doesn't answer right away, taking a deep drink of his own.

"Sanct," he mutters when he comes up for air, shaking his head. "Where do I begin?"

The truth is, he hadn't really wanted to say anything. But after talking with Stephen, and with the tensions growing in rumors from the other countries, and what had happened at the Singularity during the Dimming ceremony--

Ronan should also understand some things about him.

"I do not fully understand it, but I should admit... I was perhaps not in my right mind that night in the baths."

Hurriedly, he adds, "I regret none of it, and you were breathtaking. But I should have been more honest with you last time. You asked me what I am. The truth is... I'm not certain."

Another drink, lips twisting. He swallows, feeling it burn.

"I shouldn't be alive."

Turns out he is equally shit at explaining his own secrets.

Edited 2022-02-13 23:15 (UTC)

Ronan doesn't look terribly surprised by any of that, however. He'd asked whether Rhy was human because he'd suspected the answer was no, and the fact that the question had upset Rhy so deeply just cemented the assumption in Ronan's mind. It wasn't really his business, though, and he hadn't had a right to ask in the first place, so following up wasn't part of his plans.

He would say so, but he's pretty sure the only reason Rhy's talking about it now is because he'll feel better once he does.

Ronan slips an arm around him, drawing him up close. He'd suspected something else about that night in the baths, and now that he's paying attention — really paying attention — he thinks he might have been right. Because every time he has Rhy against his body like this, something settles deep inside him.

He says, "It's the Singularity."

Rhy rests the bottle on his outside knee, leaning sideways into Ronan gratefully. He settles there, curved into the crook of his arm against his ribs and shoulder, staring down at his knees. He assumes Ronan means what Stephen had first assumed and shakes his head.

"I know. Someone told me there are others who were dead in their worlds and brought here anyway, restored by its magic. But this is... different."

It is an unsettling miracle that the Singularity was able to bring those people back. Rhy hasn't had a chance to talk to any of them, but he's asked around a little, tried to get more information from Stephen at least, and he knows his situation is not theirs. Whatever magic is contained in the Singularity and the process of pulling people's bodies and souls into this world, they are (as far as he's aware) whole. He is not.

"I'm not dead. I just should be."

Rhy turns his face into Ronan, closing his eyes briefly. This is always terribly difficult to talk about. With Stephen, his relationship is professional more than anything; the magician seems a practical man, a problem-solver, and his questions had been posed with a logical and clinical approach that made it a little easier to simply focus and explain what they'd both been trying to understand. With Ronan it feels-- personal in a way it had not then. It feels, for some wretched and inexplicable reason, like Rhy has wronged him somehow by keeping this from him.

Maybe it's because he knows, deep down, that he'd latched onto Ronan that first time because he'd been desperately starved-- and that a taste is all he's been chasing ever since, an echo of a feeling of being made whole again that will never be truly real. He wasn't lying when he said he cares about Ronan. But it isn't the only reason he's here.

Lifting his free hand between them, Rhy touches his chest, the place over his heart that Ronan knows the strange, circular scar is etched into his skin.

"It was months before I first came here. On my twentieth birthday. I died."

He says it too simply, voice too steady.

"My brother brought me back. He shared his life to do so. He bound us together, my soul a part of his and his of mine, tethering what should have gone back to the world into himself instead. I could feel him here, every day, in good humor or foul. His pain. His pleasure. Everything. But now--" Rhy chokes, and suddenly realizes he is crying.

Edited 2022-02-14 08:36 (UTC)

Ronan has been desperately trying not to think about about his own brother, whose entire survival depends on his existence. He's been trying not to think about his best friend or his psychopomp or his pet raven or any of the others who rely on him. His dreams. He knows exactly what Rhy is talking about because he's describing a kind of magic Ronan knows too well, only from the other side.

Pulling him into a real embrace, Ronan cradles Rhy against his chest and lays kisses into his hair. He's not angry with Rhy for keeping this from him. It's a surprise, really, that Rhy trusts him enough to even tell him now.

"I think I know what you're feeling," Ronan murmurs.

Rhy crumples against him. He clutches the bottle just upright enough not to spill it all over Ronan's bed, the fingers of his other hand clawed against his chest as though if he were able to just dig hard enough, he might find Kell in there somewhere, after all.

It's been weeks since he let himself cry. Since those first few days, when he'd done nothing but lie in bed and weep, wander the halls and drink. Now, he only does one of these things.

Until Ronan Lynch decided to embrace him, and it's like all the carefully rebuilt walls he'd cobbled together around his heart come crumbling down all at once, dragging his flimsy façade of being okay down with them.

"You don't," Rhy sobs, shaking his head and smearing tears and spit into Ronan's collar. "You can't."

Maybe not. Grief and isolation manifest in all sorts of ways. Maybe the fact that Rhy's crying in his arms instead of destroying everything in sight is proof of how incapable Ronan is at understanding anything.

It's alright. He'll hold on and let Rhy cry as much as he needs to cry, until he's exorcised as much pain as he can and he goes looking for words again. Ronan's arms are strong and steady, a surprisingly good place for someone to pour out their sadness, and he is patient.

He doesn't bother to say the things everyone else always says, like: It'll be okay or You'll see him again. Ronan doesn't make promises like that. Usually, things aren't okay. Most of the time, people are gone for good.

It is for the best that Ronan isn't the sort to try to assuage Rhy's pain with platitudes; Rhy might have simply punched him in the nose.

In the silence, Rhy simply cries. Sometimes, the crying is cathartic. Sometimes, it simply leaves him exhausted and aching, eyes swollen and throat raw, wanting to scream himself into oblivion and leaving him seeking another bottle to drown in instead. Usually, he is alone.

With Ronan's arms around him, Rhy sinks into the warmth, lets the support of a solid body beneath him carry him like a life raft through the storm. After a minute or two of wracking, horrible sobbing, he seems to calm just enough to breathe. His hand loosens from his chemise with shaky effort; it settles instead on Ronan's chest. His face tips up, nudging underneath Ronan's jaw, pressing his mouth against his pulse not to kiss but simply to feel. He had become so used to another heartbeat alongside his own in those months since Kell had done the unforgivable.

For a long time, Rhy lets the tears dry in silence, his body matching the rhythm of Ronan's until he feels spent and sad, but more or less like a person again instead of a heaving creature of unfettered grief.

Ronan envies him a little. It must feel good to cry. Not good like enjoyable, but like lancing an infected wound. Getting everything out with tears and screaming so it doesn't come back later, when you least expect it, to kill you in the dark. Ronan can never manage to cry like this. All his pain gets buried deep, hardening into something radioactive, until eventually it explodes.

Now that Rhy's all wrung out and easing back into a kind of calm, it feels safe to move. Ronan gingerly pries the bottle from him and sets it aside, then takes that hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses Rhy's knuckles, his palm, his wrist. He can't stop feeling it now — the Singularity's energy coursing through Rhy like the blood in his veins.

"What do you feel?" Ronan asks him.

There is no protest or resistance from Rhy. He only leans more heavily on Ronan, and turns all the focus he can muster on memorizing the sensation of every point of contact between them. Throat against his lips. Lips against his hand. His hand on Ronan's chest.

Rhy answers the question honestly. It is nothing against Ronan or the comfort he's doing his best to provide.

"Like someone scooped out spoonfuls of me and tried to replace those parts with sand that's constantly sliding out of place."

Ronan gives the slightest nod of agreement. Yes. That is precisely the feeling.

He didn't really think there was anything he could do to ease it. How could he? When he's in the waking world, he's as helpless as anyone else. Even more helpless, actually, because he's rapidly eroding with every passing moment.

"I can't give you your brother," Ronan begins slowly, though it would be more accurate to say won't. Ronan won't make another human as long as he can help it. "But I might be able to help with that feeling."

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