wolf

[ruinaa]

it is difficult to say whether phil helped her or not. she would like to think that he did, but it feels complicated, unclear. they spent a great deal of time together, but they kept so many secrets from one another that it feels as though they hardly knew one another at all. she was a different person. and phil –– she doesn't know what happened to him. where he'd gone. it hardly feels worth bringing up, now.

"roman."

it wasn't like that, she wants to say again, but what was it like?

"i'm sorry." she steps closer, a hand circling his wrist. "i wouldn't lie to you. about any of it."

[illwriteatragedy]

these complications were things that did not come up in a typical relationship; but nothing about them was typical. not their circumstances, not their pasts, not their families or even their friends. if they needed to allow some grace to themselves they should have it.

" i know you wouldn't. " he presses his fingers into her wrist. " -- i know. "

[ruinaa]

she realizes, after she's said it, that it's the wrong thing. she is lashing out at the wrong person, being cruel for the sake of it, when she does not need to be. shame warms her face, sours her stomach.

"i'm not ––"

she is not surprised, either. she doesn't know why she's said it in the first places, other than with the intent to hurt him.

"i'm sorry."

she feels the urge to explain all of it, to make him understand, but there is a part of her that feels so protective of it, too. she is afraid of allowing it to encroach on all she has with roman. (and still –– still, there is a part of her that burns at the thought of a list, of others. an ugly, complicated tangle, one she'd like very much to undo entirely.)

"it wasn't a good time in my life," she says, more evenly. "is what i mean. i'm sorry."

[illwriteatragedy]

" i get it. " it was only a few years ago that he was turning eighteen. maybe he had been carrying out missions for far longer than that, but there was a heavy expectation that came with that age. there were always eyes looking at him, to push him forward, to see what more he could do and give -- it did not matter that he was confused with his thoughts and his feelings and his life. what mattered was his performance.

" if he helped you, i'm glad he did. " it's all he can offer. something he just has to let go of; whatever happened had happened.

[ruinaa]

"if you don't believe me, roman," she says, mistaking the look on his face, the way he looks away, "then you can just say so. i'd really rather you just say so."

she hadn't expected him to, really. she knows how it looks, that her explanation seems feeble, more of an excuse than anything else. it's why she hadn't wanted to tell him in the first place, and phil obviously hadn't, and the doubt makes her feel vulnerable, rubbed raw. it makes her mean.

"it's not like i knew about you." a couple of photos, a much younger boy. he'd never told her his name, and she hadn't asked, had assumed a tragedy or some other fracture in his life, something he wouldn't want to talk about. "he didn't talk to me about you."

[illwriteatragedy]

of course phil had not wanted to talk to a girl about his son; his son, who was only a year behind, not the lanky baseball boy clad in the pictures. there was never much phil could touch upon, anyway; he was a ghost as his son, alias after alias keeping him out of harms way. it should not sting in the way that it does.

" i'm telling you that i believe you, josephine. " he says it firmly, but not harshly. " i'm not surprised he didn't say anything. "

[ruinaa]

there –– as she thought, what she expected. roman might think that she's pulling things out of thin air, but she isn't. she knows the implication behind what he's saying, the storm cloud that hangs over histories and lists.

she laughs, a sharp ha!, and wants, very suddenly, to crawl out of her own skin.

"i wasn't part of any list." she'd kissed him once, after a panicked phone call from the back of patsy's, she and daphne huddled together, stealing glances at some creep who wouldn't leave. she'd kissed him again when she was drunk and upset about something she hardly remembers now, some shitty date, feeling sorry for herself. it wasn't like that, she tells herself. whatever roman thinks it was like –– it wasn't that. "we were friends."

she feels, strangely, as defensive of phil as she does of herself. some old loyalty rising up, a need to explain. she doesn't know where it comes from.

"i didn't really know anybody else here." nineteen. twenty. that lonely time, before shilah, before she and luz made up, before elliot really started coming and going. "we were just friends."

[illwriteatragedy]

friends, he thinks to himself and only himself, with someone half his age. friends, he thinks, because it is odd and strange as to why a man would be seeking out a friendship with a woman like that. i didn't know anyone else meant that she was lonely and that meant she was vulnerable and that meant a million things. before him, there had been a different side to her, someone fresh out of those labs she had spoken of, someone who would find it easy to cling to the first person that held out their hand.

( maybe he was making too many assumptions now. but he couldn't help it either; the doubt that had already been cast in his head, the strenuous tide that had already been going on with him and phil. this was just another wave to rock it. )

roman searches her face for a long moment before he looks away. " okay. " he says, finally. " you were just friends. "

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

febuwhump 2022 - day 9      ↳ kidnapped

Sakari Nurmi, Karppi/Deadwind 1x11

[ruinaa]

for a moment, she tells herself it isn't worth bringing up at all. roman doesn't seem eager to, and so why should she be? maybe it won't affect things half as much as she believes it will. she is leaping to conclusions, looking for problems where there might be none. it might be better to leave it be.

but then roman turns away, and her temper flares, and she has never been good at biting her tongue. she can't.

"when did you figure it out." she says to roman's back, arms crossed, defensive already, bracing for a fight. "because whatever you think –– it wasn't like that. i wasn't like that."

[illwriteatragedy]

she has taken his bait. he is still determined not to turn this into a fight, to make it into a conversation, but when he turns back around to face her he can see the steam already pouring out of her ears. ( he knows her head is running a million miles an hour, making things up as she goes, creating scenarios that aren't true. it's why they get into these fights in the first place. )

" explain to me what it was, then. " he takes a few steps towards her. " i'm not naive. i'm aware of my father's history with younger woman, and how you would fit right into his list. " he can't say that there isn't some anger in him, too, but he needs to brush it aside for the moment. it was not her -- it would fall on phil, taking advantage of someone so young.

[ruinaa]

she gets spiteful, feels back into a corner, cagey. she wants to be the one to admit it as much as she doesn't, wants to be the one to tell him her side of things before he can slot together a story in his head that may or may not be true. but she is wary of going down that rabbit hole, afraid of the conclusions he might have already jumped to, what he might find more believable.

(maybe she should've told him before, after that first dinner, when she'd pretended they'd never seen one another before, meeting for the first time. maybe she should've cut it off at the head, put an end to it before it could start. as much as she'd like to think herself capable of telling a lie and sticking to it, she knows that roman is perceptive, that there are things she can't hide, especially from him.)

"i don't have anything to talk to you about." she says, shrugging, an itching under her skin. "so."

[illwriteatragedy]

he doesn't know how it should make him feel, what place it should put him at. this was all circumstantial, a wild coincidence and nothing more. ( phil had joked, asked if she was blonde and roman had said yes. they had a moment, there, because weren't they just alike in that for a moment? but thinking of it now, it felt slightly bitter. )

" alright. " he turns back. " i guess there's nothing to say, then. " either they would go to bed, and she would stew over the things she needed to say, or she would be frustrated enough to say what she wanted to now. what she wanted to ask. and he was patient, and he was stubborn, and he could manage until then.

[ruinaa]

@illwriteatragedy

there's an argument brewing the moment they leave phil and the restaurant and slide into the back of a cab. josephine can feel it, ignores it, pushes it away. they ride back to roman's in silence. she scrubs her face clean in the bathroom, waits him out. but roman is stubborn, and josephine is restless, and if the confrontation isn't coming, she will force it.

"if you have something you want to say to me," she says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, "then i would rather you just go ahead and say it."

[illwriteatragedy]

he does not want to think it. as much as he loved his father, there were faults about him that he turned his eyes away from. the string of young woman, sometimes his own age; it was not until he was in a relationship himself that those things felt more in focus. and josephine -- josephine, not barely twenty years old -- josephine, on her own and even before meeting shilah, that fresh anger that he knew so well. it would be easy, he knew, to rely on someone like his father.

" it seems more like you want to say something to me. " he does not take her bait, eager as she was to swing it at him. he would not make this a fight. " talk to me, then. "

[llovelymoonn]

derek walcott the antilles: fragments of epic memory

kofi

[illwriteatragedy]

that’s because i’m scared.

the man from uncle.

he wanted to keep this locked up in the bathroom, quiet, these sometimes sick parts of him far away from her. when the text had come up, he should have said no. when the next one with the smiles and the hearts had been right after his yes, he should have said he changed his mind. but he had already cooked for her once; he had already let her in in more ways than he ever anticipated, and how long could he manage this?

you don't seem like you, she had said, pressing her palm to his cheek. he had flinched. gone to the bathroom, where he had locked the door and thrown up, still lost in something he could not shake quite yet; the touch of her hand burning him in the wrong way. he could hear her moving at the door and her quiet ask of his name, the tap of her fingers.

there are ten seconds he gives himself. another to clean himself up. he listens, and hears her sniffling, and he sighs. " why are you crying? " he asks, opening the door.

that's -- she looks at him, at his eyes, and she bites her lip. that's because i'm scared.

" i'm fine. it's fine. " it's all he can assure her. ( he didn't want to talk about it. she didn't want to bring it up again. )

[illwriteatragedy]

im doing a little bit of rework on the boy

[ruinaa]

everything about roman is deliberate, she's noticed, careful. the way he holds himself when they are out together, how he angles his body, the way he scans a room the moment he steps into it. there is no clutter in his apartment; there is, instead, a place for everything, half of it tucked away to the point where, if she didn't know. better, she would assume that he'd just moved in. even the way he touches her –– a hand curled around her chin to tilt her face up when he kisses her, the grip at her waist to nudge her where he wants her to go –– seems planned, thought of beforehand. there is nothing spontaneous about him.

which is to say: the fact that he enjoys cooking surprises her, a little. it does not seem like the sort of thing he would spend his time doing, though maybe the process behind it appeals to him.

"i'd like that." it guarantees a next time they will see each other, at least, which is something she still finds herself clinging to, anticipating. "–– next weekend, maybe?"

[illwriteatragedy]

even though he could figure out more about her, he has made his assumptions. she has a brother, younger, who she very much cares for. he calls and he texts and they seem to remain in constant communication. there is another man that she seems closely associated with and she has mentioned briefly that he is her best friend. her hobbies and interests -- her apartment didn't seem to hold answers to that, besides books. there were callouses on her hand that spoke of something else; he was still putting together those pieces.

" if you'd like. " he would. " i can see you saturday. "

[illwriteatragedy]

there are other things. he doesn't feel like he can talk about this with phil, who moves from person to person with little attachment. phil had never once pressured or asked about his relationships, but roman was aware phil felt a gap there. now, knowing what he did, if josephine were to simply be gone, he might feel that gap too.

" okay. " he presses a kiss back to her temple. if he wanted, he could have her looked up, laid on in front of him in facts and details. he had chosen to let everything flow as it should. " do you... like to cook? "

[ruinaa]

"no. not at all." hates it, in fact, though she knows that's coming off too strong, though maybe she should be more up front about it. she can manage a few basic things, has tried a couple of recipes that claim to be easy. cooking for one, she's found, is a little too depressing for her. elliot does not come over often enough for her to justify it and shilah prefers take-out or dinners out. if that's what roman's looking for, then she isn't it. "i'm not very good, either. when i do it."

[illwriteatragedy]

at her apartment, the kitchen was full of signs that it was hardly used besides a few snacks and storage. there were some of her favorite grab and go items in the fridge, a couple bottles of wine. a few snacks sitting on the counter with some fruit. there were no spices, no flours, no oils that could justify any kind of throw together dinner with flavor. he's unsure why he's bothered with the question at all.

" i like to cook. " he has fond memories of it. there was no motive other than taste, putting health and heart forward. " when you come over again, i'd like to cook for you. "

[ruinaa]

they're different, she knows. attached to different things –– his steady answer of government is vague enough that she hesitates to ask anything further, assumes from his sparse apartment that he must spend a great deal of time traveling and when he isn't, a great deal of time in a cubicle –– and figuring themselves out as much as they are each other. they don't talk about family very much, but she's created a story in her head, imagines a father driving him toward success, distant but well-meaning. this is new, but she understands where she fits in in the grand scheme of things. she doesn't, at this point, want anything more than that.

"i'd hope not." he wants to soften the moment, so she makes it easier, leans in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "it's okay. really. we don't have to make it something it's not yet."

[illwriteatragedy]

there are other things. he doesn't feel like he can talk about this with phil, who moves from person to person with little attachment. phil had never once pressured or asked about his relationships, but roman was aware phil felt a gap there. now, knowing what he did, if josephine were to simply be gone, he might feel that gap too.

" okay. " he presses a kiss back to her temple. if he wanted, he could have her looked up, laid on in front of him in facts and details. he had chosen to let everything flow as it should. " do you... like to cook? "

[ruinaa]

they keep playing this game –– pulling each other closer and pushing each other away, acting as though they don't want to share anything and doing so anyway, without meaning to. she tries to put some distance between them and then roman holds out a hand and she is taking it, stepping back to him.

"okay." she's not going to make him promise; that seems trite, unnecessary. they are not so deep into this that it requires it. she drops back into the empty space she'd just left behind, tucks her knees close.

"i'm not –– trying to push you into anything you don't want, you know." he'd said this was new to him; she doesn't know how to explain that it is for her, too, feels so self-conscious of the fact that she can't bring herself to. "but just –– you don't have to act a certain way with me. you don't have to be anything other than yourself."

[illwriteatragedy]

he doesn't know how to explain to her that there is a heaviness to that statement that is difficult to put words into; the he who he thought he was and the person that he wanted to be only a couple years ago had been shattered underneath him. the trajectory of his path had always seemed to be a clear one; to follow in phil's own footsteps, moving himself up in shields ladder, to excel beyond. never once had he focused on the outside of that.

" i understand. " it seems too much to go into at this point. instead, he brushes his fingers over hers, consoling. " i'm not doing anything i don't want. "

[ruinaa]

it feels like she's getting ahead of herself, trying to set rules that they don't have a place for yet. she can't be the only one who calls the shots, and especially not now, when this is new and unformed and still easily questioned. she tells herself that she should go back to how she felt before, when she talked herself into this being temporary, some momentary fun. it doesn't need to be anything more than that, does it?

(except –– she wants it to be. very much so, perhaps more than she's even willing to admit to him. she doesn't know how to address it yet, if she should, when the right time might be.)

he leans back and she slides away from him, stands, searches for her sweater on the floor. she finds it folded –– of course –– across the back of a chair, tugs it over her head, shakes out her hair.

"if it ever was," she decides to be bullish, blunt in the face of his evasiveness, "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

[illwriteatragedy]

he thinks of the first time that they slept together; when he dove past all the awkwardness and uncertainties with just a couple shots and a couple glasses of wine, when he was intoxicated with both that and the way that she felt moving against him. he thinks of her scars, clean cut and sharp, and the way she cried when he had kissed her there, how completely open and exposed she had been in that moment.

" i would. " he reaches a hand out to her; a peace offering. he had no intention to hurt her and he hoped she had no intentions either. that day, that expression, all he could remember was how badly he had ached too.

[illwriteatragedy]

idk how to trim posts i dont know how to do it i hate change