hell is empty.

indie multifandom multimuse feat. william james moriarty from yuukoku no moriarty.

[ostiinati]

PINNED.

// heya! welcome to my iconless selective multimuse. this blog is mainly for interacting with friends, but i'm open to meeting and writing with new people here, too. written by eska (he/him, 30). you're welcome to follow if you're interested in writing with me, but please check out my rules and muse list first.

carrd.

mobile-friendly muse list under the cut.

ANIMATED.

teru minamoto ( toilet-bound hanako-kun )

william james moriarty ( moriarty the patriot )

albert james moriarty ( moriarty the patriot )

mycroft holmes ( moriarty the patriot )

fred porlock ( moriarty the patriot )

george lestrade ( moriarty the patriot )

sha gojyo ( saiyuki )

konzen douji ( saiyuki )

gat ( saiyuki )

nicholas d. wolfwood ( trigun )

erik / the phantom of the opera ( undead girl murder farce)

tsugaru shinuchi ( undead girl murder farce )

kyousuke hyoubu ( the unlimited hyoubu kyousuke )

nicolas brown ( gangsta. )

lu guang ( link click )

vein ( link click )

khun aguero agnes ( tower of god )

shogo makishima ( psycho-pass )

baby saja ( k-pop demon hunters )

vanitas ( the case study of vanitas )

jae-ha ( yona of the dawn )

adashino ( mushishi )

mikado momodera ( tougen anki )

jin kougasaki ( tougen anki )

masumi yodogawa ( tougen anki )

kyoya oiranzaka ( tougen anki )

ousuke momokado ( tougen anki )

iori suiseki ( paradox live )

kenta mikoshiba ( paradox live )

shion kaida ( paradox live )

LITERATURE.

emiel regis rohellec terzieff-godefroy ( the witcher )

dandelion ( the witcher )

geralt of rivia ( the witcher )

eskel ( the witcher )

jiang cheng ( mo dao zu shi )

nie huaisang ( mo dao zu shi )

liu qingge ( scum villain's self-saving system )

qi rong ( tian guan ci fu )

VIDEO GAMES.

iorveth ( the witcher )

carlotta montelli ( wuthering waves )

viago de riva ( dragon age )

blade ( honkai: star rail )

ORIGINAL.

huan minyue ( xianxia )

lainn ( the witcher )

kadir monroe ( modern fantasy )

yun lin ( modern fantasy )

velkyn kilana ( d&d )

ozwin "amsel" falkenrath ( d&d )

kashyra vayne ( d&d )

renata forzano ( d&d )

yukio hazuki ( d&d )

navrinn shadevein ( d&d )

avelin levasseur ( d&d )

esfaan ( d&d )

kaeli leannan ( d&d )

hauk leannan ( d&d )

luta amyrri ( d&d )

ragna vinbrandr ( d&d )

iseri kouya ( d&d )

kalgrim ( d&d )

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati said → " i meant to leave the house this morning. " (Albert for Sherlock) ( src. / accepting. )

He probably had thought about it.

Albert's shambles are only slightly less put-together than Sherlock's best effort, but that only serves to make the little things more apparent. For one thing, although his clothes crease in a way that suggests he'd spent a large sum of time sitting recently, he's bothered to put on the sort of style reserved largely for casual, mid-day outings. What's more, he'd clearly been sitting near enough the front door to get there within a few seconds when Sherlock had first knocked, although Sherlock's been over enough to know that he favors seats with an easier view of the outside, and which are deliberately placed farther away from the door.

And Albert is easier to read than both of his brothers, these days; analysis of body language isn't one of his favored tools to use because of the personal biases attached to it, but it's a useful thing when one is personally familiar with the subject's usual body language. Albert wears lies easily, and more often than not his truths are the ones that end up looking strained.

It's the early beginnings of a tepid afternoon now—which Sherlock only knows because he'd spent the morning pacing about the dreadfully empty sitting room of his flat, twitchy and testy at the lack of anything interesting to latch onto. At the very least, there'd been William and Billy both in America who Sherlock couldn't avoid seeing every day, and before that there'd been John. And Sherlock couldn't truly live alone while Miss Hudson is still alive, but the fact remains that she's far less willing to be a cobnstant source of entertainment, and besides that she doesn't share his space in the same way.

It doesn't help that he's behind on rent again.

In any case, seeing Albert had been the preferable alternative to taking anything else, since the day's wake-up call had been a line of powder he'd thought about not taking, but that five minutes of absolutely nothing had changed his mind about.

"Ah. Caught you on the way out the door, did I?" he teases, glancing back at the sky for half a second, where the sun sits nearly directly above the manor like a spotlight.

Sherlock had been anticipating Albert's presence, of course; even given free reign now to leave as he pleases, he very rarely goes out on his own, and that's usually only if neither of his brothers drop by to take care of all the necessary errands for him—which they usually do. It's a really sickeningly sweet family dynamic, and Sherlock steadfastly chooses to ignore that nagging voice in his head that says he should probably drop in on Mycroft at some point during the week like he'd fumbled his way through promising to do at some point. Maybe that was a month ago. Mycroft is usually busy, anyway.

"You're all dressed up for it," he comments, pretending a single glance hadn't already given him all the information he needs so he has an excuse for a quick up-and-down glance at Albert. "Day clothes and everything! Handsome devil. What's the time—noon, one? Your clock on the mantle's going slow, by the way, I can hear it from here."

If Albert were someone else, Sherlock would have kept the rhythm of conversation going by slinging an arm around his shoulders, or something to that effect. But that hadn't gone well the last time he'd tried it.

"Come on," he says abruptly, "I'm going out. I've just realized I forgot to have breakfast, and you haven't started on lunch, otherwise the impression where you've been sitting wouldn't be so deep. And you're already standing up now anyway."

That hadn't really been the plan from the beginning, but it's as good an excuse as any. Now that Sherlock gives it some good thought, his stomach really is aching with its emptiness. It's easy to not notice that sort of thing—though he gets the impression it's not quite the same for Albert.

[ostiinati]

As it always does— as it always has— Sherlock’s presence shifts the balance in Albert’s life.

He tears his way, undaunted, into the solitude Albert imposes upon himself— a solitude that hangs heavy over him even now, after leaving the tower. His brothers visit him here regularly now, and the warmth it brings to his heart each time he sees their faces is only challenged by the chill he feels when they take their leave and he still finds himself hesitating to follow. Louis and William spend their free time reaching out their hands for him, and it drives a sickness into his heart each time he fails to take them. But when Sherlock reaches, he leaves no room for Albert to recoil; pushing and pulling, rummaging through and rearranging his life— or whatever pieces are left of it.

There have been days where it’s frustrated him, where it’s made something anxious and bitter crawl under his skin until he can’t keep it down; one of Sherlock’s most well-established habits is provocation, and usually, Albert would prove himself fairly adept at responding gracefully. But there are far more cracks in Albert’s being now than there were before the fall, and precious little grace left in the wake of grief. He fears that despite the joy of his beloved little brother’s return, as well as their great detective’s, he, himself, lacks their strength to rise from the dead.

But if he wanted Sherlock gone— if he only wished for him to stop trying and to leave him behind— Albert wouldn’t keep opening the door for him. He wouldn’t have days like this, where he gets himself dressed to go out only to freeze at the door way, suddenly choking on ashes of his own making as he looks out upon the world beyond. He would stop trying to drag himself out of his grave to join everyone he loves most on the other side of his tomb’s doors.

And knowing this, he opens those doors for him yet again.

“Very funny, though I’ll thank you not to mock me, Sherlock.” Albert manages the barest flicker of a smirk in return for the other man’s observations, his first name falling softly from his lips despite his half-hearted chastisement.

(The first time he used it had also been the last time— or so he’d thought before the return. The pair of them, standing face to face before the manor in flames... Back then, the syllables tasted like smoke, something painful that Albert had to cough up lest he never have another chance to do so, but now… Well. Let us just say that it feels odd to return to calling him ‘Mr. Holmes’.)

Handsome devil, the man calls him, and Albert actually manages to laugh somewhere under his breath.

He’s aware of how he must look— Clothes hanging too loosely on his frame, overgrown hair falling in unruly waves around his face, skin pale after three years without proper sunlight. It’s been a few weeks now— perhaps a month, if he’s kept track properly— but the few times he has convinced himself to go to the shops for himself since their reunion have not been nearly enough to return him to anything resembling who he was before. Not to his own eyes, at least.

He catches himself in the mirror and sees something wilted, something ghostly— not whatever Sherlock seems to see when he casts his eyes over him like this.

It’s Sherlock who suits the kind of phrases he levels at him. The years have been kind to him— so much so that he’s difficult to look away from. Or perhaps Albert is still frightened, somewhere in the irrational corners of his mind, that looking away for too long will see the man disappear once again.

Not that Albert has a mind to tell him any of that.

He pauses a moment, sending a hesitant look towards the threshold that the detective has only just crossed. In the ensuing silence, Albert thinks he can hear the slightly-too-slow tick of the aforementioned clock on the mantle, awaiting his decision along with the man in front of him. His first instinct is to refuse, to insist that he isn’t hungry, that he can put something together here from what his brothers have left him, that Sherlock should go without him—

The one who doesn’t belong in this world is me.

…But he wasn’t lying when he’d said he meant to leave the house that morning, and as difficult as it may be to adjust once again to companionship— to living— Albert does not want to be left alone any more than Sherlock seems to. Much like in years prior, it takes only the barest of efforts and the most basic understanding of Sherlock to deduce why he’s sought him out.

Sherlock suffers without someone to bounce that brilliant mind off of. He suffers when he’s alone and the boredom creeps in. Albert knew from the start— when coincidental meeting became regular social calling— that he is a cure for that boredom… just as Sherlock is a balm to his rawest nerves, chafed red and bloody by the world around him.

Albert doesn’t wish to leave him— Albert doesn’t wish to be left by him.

“…I presume I’ll be buying?” The former Earl Moriarty swallows down the churning feeling that threatens to tighten around his throat and takes a step towards Sherlock and the door, averting his eyes from the other man’s face as he reaches for his coat. Though he bothers with smoothing out his clothes and straightening his tie, he forgoes his hat entirely, opting to simply flick a stray curl from his eyes and adjust the ribbon that binds his hair back at the nape of his neck. “Some things never change, although I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it up to you to decide where we go this time. I do hope you won’t make me regret that.”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i know what my weaknesses are. probably better than you do!" ( kou for teru ) ( src. // accepting )

Each time they clash like this, Teru hates himself more than ever for being the one to bring the burden of this lesson down upon Kou.

He’s well-aquatinted with Kou’s boisterous passion and the overwhelming goodness of his heart. Being two of the traits that shine the brightest in his brother’s soul, they’re no surprise to Teru— and so, the path Kou is sticking himself to now shouldn’t be either. Teru has known for a long time now that the kindness that warms Kou’s heart would be his greatest weakness when facing their purpose. He wouldn’t be able to reconcile the true ruthlessness of their existence. He’d look for ways around it, struggling for dear life against a cold he is ill-equipped to accept the way Teru has.

He’d seen it all coming from the start, and yet it scares him anyway.

His little brother wants to change things. He sees the duty of their blood as an opportunity, rather than a burden— a chance to carve a better way where every generation before him failed— and in a world kinder than this one, Teru thinks he could have supported him in that, if for no reason other than breaking the chains he’s lived in all his life before they can be latched around his siblings in turn.

But the world isn’t kind— and Kou, as stubborn as he may be and as much as Teru loves him, isn’t strong enough to change it.

To judge good from bad— to decide when to raise his weapon and when to set it aside— Kou would have to be able to guarantee that he would never choose wrong, and failing that, would have to be strong enough to ensure that he could mitigate the consequences of doing so. It’s a task that seems impossible from where Teru stands. Inherently, the supernatural is a danger to the living— there is no apparition that can truly be trusted among them, for the moment something goes wrong, most humans will be helpless in the face of it.

There’s no such thing as a good apparition, Teru tells him, when what he means is Telling good from bad is worthless when compared to the risks of being wrong.

All beings are corruptible. All things are capable of rotting.

This sticking point of Kou’s could get any number of people killed— and worse than all of that, it could get Kou killed. At this point, Teru can see that changing Kou’s mind is unlikely— just as unlikely as convincing him to give up being an exorcist altogether… but Teru can’t back down from where he stands either. Not with that in mind.

In the end, Teru’s greatest weakness will always be Kou.

Kou, who he’s known since his little brother took his first breath. Kou, who he’s watched grow up all this time, still genuine and loving throughout every last one of their hardships. Kou, who wants to be strong enough to save the living and the dead alike.

He says he knows his weaknesses even better than Teru does, but those weaknesses haunt him like a second shadow, threatening to snuff out that all-important light.

These days, Teru finds himself incapable of fearing much— but all of what he does fear revolves around those weaknesses; Kou’s, as well as his own.

“I know you believe that,” His words feel heavy on his tongue. His gaze never leaves his brother’s, locked as they are at their impasse. Last night’s lack of sleep burns uncomfortably at the edges of his eyes. “And I know that you believe this is what’s right— no matter what I say. But it isn’t so easy.”

Teru’s hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out— to pat messy golden hair, to comfort, to be there, as he’s always tried to be. But he holds back. His hands remain at his sides and he and his brother remain at odds, both unwilling to be the one that bends.

“If you know your weaknesses so well, you should know that. What are you going to do if you misjudge one of them? If someone dies because of an apparition you spare? How are you going to protect them— protect yourself— when you can’t even beat me?”

The harshness of the words makes Teru wish he could bite clean through his own tongue. It’s for the best, he tells himself, it’s for his own good.

“…I don’t mean to hurt you, Kou— I wish you had something better to look up to. This life doesn’t suit you. You’ve always been too kind for it. If you can’t abide by the way things are done, you should just leave it to me— all that’s waiting for you down this road is pain, and I don’t want you to have to meet it.”

[parismemes]

sentence starters from the mountain goats - protein source of the future... now!

"baseball season will be starting soon."

"i've got a house right on the river."

"the dogs are gathered and the birds are chattering."

"i'm glad i'm alive."

"your skin is warming up."

"my skin is warming up."

"i can see you now."

"i am the dry meat that fills the mouth."

"i am the fire that burns without wood."

"i did not come to play hand ball."

"my mouth wouldn't let me speak."

"i know you. you're the one i spent three seasons trying to pretend that i never knew."

"i could've walked on eggs right then and not broken one of them."

"here comes a new genuine disaster."

"here come the new kings."

"i can't believe how good you look."

"the thoughts that race around my mind fill a long unreadable book."

"i can sense the continent eroding."

"you say you know why i called you here, but you couldn't have any way of knowing."

"that's a mean thing to say."

"that's a damnable lie."

"i know you're changing."

"i see a ship off the shore."

"you say that you know what it is that i'm thinking."

"they're gonna hang me out to dry."

"i got special shoes."

"they're gonna fill me full of holes."

"i don't give a rat's ass, you rat bastards!"

"the world's overrun with new shades of green."

"i know you're only watching out for yourself."

"i know you only want what's best for everybody."

"i can feel the time coming."

"though it's very true that i love everyone, with every ounce of energy left in me, i love you especially."

"let the years come and take my memory."

"that's a whole lot of water."

"the planets in the heavens are perfectly aligned."

"there's a monkey in the basement."

"how did the monkey get there?"

"where did the monkey come from?"

"i count my blessings, but you can only be expected to count so high."

"i recognized you, though i'm not sure how."

"i count my blessings, but i don't even know what the word blessing means."

"i had a thousand good questions i was gonna ask you when you finally came by."

"i'd had just about enough losing things."

"the rain didn't come for one calendar year."

"we sent him away."

"i know you're waiting for the ironic ending."

"i know you're waiting for the punchline."

"i know you're waiting for the train to come by."

"i am leaving you, and i am sorry."

"i've got something i need to tell you."

"i will make them pay."

"they haven't brought my yams back yet."

"i don't know where you've gone."

"i hear your voice droning on."

"the last imbecile that dreams such dreams is dead."

"i could not stomach their acumen."

"i felt sick in a good way."

"the air was humid and the sky was grey."

"i had boiled peanuts for breakfast."

[parismemes]

sentence starters from the mountain goats - full force galesburg

"you've had it up to here with my west country talk."

"you can hardly understand a word i say."

"the shortest tree around here is a hundred feet tall."

"it's gonna rain today."

"i am not getting through to you."

"this morning i know who you are."

"the things you try to say to me make my blood run cold."

"i've learned to read your movements."

"i'm learning how to read your mind."

"i can feel you in my arms but you're hardly even with me."

"the dice were loaded against us ever seeing eachother."

"one of us had nowhere else to go."

"i know who i am."

"i know who you are. or who you were just an hour ago."

"static interference on the radio tonight."

"i know what i know."

"it's too hot out there tonight."

"why'd you tell me this?"

"were you looking for my reaction?"

"most of the air has got to choke you."

"most of june i spent in jail again."

"i am losing control of the language again."

"you were looking down at me, and you sure looked good."

"i wanna follow you all the way down this time."

"i want to see what it is you're going down for."

"i want you more than i want anything."

"i want you the way you were."

"just then, the gleam in your eye made my blood freeze."

"i used to love you so much that i was sure it would kill me."

"i know what my weaknesses are. probably better than you do."

"i thought i knew what my weaknesses were, anyway."

"there was nothing in it but pain for me."

"i know what can hurt me real bad, and what can't hurt me anymore."

"i know how to rise up with the sun."

"i am learning what sleep's good for."

"i thought i'd figured out the world in its circular way."

"i feel like i'm gonna drown down here."

"i don't speak the language down here."

"heaven is my resting place; god is my salvation."

"i will burn all the calendars that counted the years down to such a worthless day."

"on the day that i forget you, i hope my heart explodes."

"we've got an unquenchable thirst in our throats."

"we are, for some reason, all the time bleeding."

"we are friendless."

"they seem to know something nobody else knows."

"we are burning up all of our choices up here."

"the sky's opening up like an old wound."

"we can taste fresh blood in our mouths again."

"we tally up all our possessions, we're going under."

"some of our promises were binding."

"we had our ears to the ground."

"it was ringing as clear as crystal."

"it was shining as bright as gold."

"i tasted chocolate on my tongue."

"i heard firecrackers popping next door."

"let me be your witness."

"let me walk out on the edge."

"the sun refused to shine on my backyard today."

"i felt the shock when you were knocking."

"thought a little while about you."

"this is an empty country."

"i picked myself up off the ground."

"i should not be allowed to touch anything."

"we boxed with our shadows like a couple of kangaroos."

"your eyes were glacial and your promises all rang true."

"things are happening here while we sleep."

"i can feel it in my boiling brain."

"i am dreaming in blood-red color."

"they'll have to carry me out on my back."

"they'll have to tear me to pieces."

"we are warm in our hidden room down here."

"we've got stars in our eyes tonight."

"let the water sink down into the soil."

"god, the humidity is something."

"i recognize the song."

"we may throw the windows open later."

"we are not as far west as you suppose we are."

"while we stay here we imagine we're alive."

"there's something waiting for us in the hot, wet air."

"i can barely draw breath."

"i am not afraid of death."

"the sun up above us is trying to kill himself."

"i was sure my heart would break."

"i wanted to warn you."

"it's all coming apart again."

[mnemoniics]

Now there's a thought—William, hiding that far-too-obvious blush of his behind the cover of a book while Moran had sat in the room entirely unaware, busying himself by idly looking out the window or sipping from a glass of whatever he could've gotten his hands on. The thought of him struggling to even read the books he loved so much due to his wandering imagination is a dangerous one.

It's almost a shame he's set this one to the side. Moran would have loved, more than anything, to see just how easy it would've been for him at any time to pull Will's focus away from his second-favorite distraction.

But having Will's full attention suits him just fine, too. It's suited him just fine, he thinks, since before he could have ever put a name to the possessiveness that often consumed him when he'd gotten the chance to lay claim to even a sliver of Will's focus. And it'll suit him even more to press further, to knock Will off-balance in the ways only he knows how to do.

"You must've been keeping yourself pretty entertained, then."

There's a wickedness to his tone and his grin, though he hasn't hit directly on anything incriminating just yet. Even that indirect accusation is spoken with overly deliberate suggestiveness, leading into a subject he's just barely beginning to speak aloud. If there was ever so much as an illusion that his speculation would remain innocent, he intends to shatter it.

It's not often, after all, that he can get Will so worked up just by talking. He wants to push it as far as it can go before he gets his hands on Will—and even then, it'd be a shame to take the initiative on his own terms when he now knows Will must have years and years worth of fantasies still waiting to be fulfilled.

"I always thought you must've been pretty clean in that regard," Moran admits, raking his eyes over Will's posture, tense and strung-up with anticipation, before settling back into the heated eye contact he's maintained all the while. "Never showed even the slightest interest in taking any lovers. Barely a passing mention of your preferences. Now, I can't help but wonder just how far your thoughts went when I had no way of being privy to them."

Moran does little to hide the hitching of his own breath at the image of Will struggling to maintain his composure while he himself was none-the-wiser. It makes him wonder just how much he'd missed—how many little signs might've been there all along. How crazy it might've driven Will every time Moran so much as leaned into his space.

If he'd ever looked down, would he have seen the evidence of Will's desire, or was he adept at hiding even that?

"I know you can be pretty damn insatiable when you're in the mood for it." Moran's teasing continues with a breathy husk, evidence of the way the heat of the moment has sunk its claws into him. There's a twitch to his good hand as he itches to move it—to lean forward and properly claim his victory. "That's a very nice image. You, trying to act as composed as ever while your mind was running wild. Probably got pretty lucky I'd have never noticed you getting all hot and bothered, yeah?"

The image flashes in his mind of Will, alone in his study with Moran, trying desperately to quell an erection that would have been safely hidden under the thick wood of his desk. If Moran had known back then, he'd have teased him relentlessly—but how satisfying could it have been, to have had the upper hand on him? To tease in a different way, playing like he didn't know exactly what was plaguing Will?

Although he imagines this is every bit as satiating and then some.

"How often did you head back to your room just so you were finally free to touch yourself?"

[ostiinati]

Knowing the depths of his own thoughts as well as he does, Will cannot help the breathless laugh that Moran’s words punch from his lungs. He only barely manages to subdue it at all, fingers fanning out over his lips as he thinks about the impression Moran has had of him, set against the reality. He had only ever had eyes for one man, it’s true, but the thoughts behind those eyes have never been what one might call clean.

As many times as he caught himself staring at Moran’s hands, wishing to hold them, he had spent equally enough time considering how easy it would be for the man to hold both of Will’s wrists beneath only one of his palms.

Each time he’d give into the need for release, he would think about the smell of cigarettes, the taste of Moran’s drink of choice against his lips, the heady rumble of Moran’s voice, speaking not unlike he is now and sending the heat gathered in Will’s face racing down, straight between his legs. He’d think of this man’s fingers pressing bruises into his thighs; his own hands tangled in dark hair, or finding all the scars on his back, or simply clutching onto him like his life depends on it. He’d think of dragging Moran closer to him by the undone collar of his shirt (or by the necktie, if he chose to dwell on one of the rare occasions he could convince him to dress nicely), and slotting himself into his lap. He’d think of Moran lifting him up onto the desk in his study, knocking anything unnecessary to the floor in favor of having him.

He’d think of Moran needing him like that.

And each time Moran would leave to the pub— and to another’s bed— Will would always think about what it must feel like; not to take a lover, but to be the sole center of all of Moran’s most heated attention.

Over the years, what had begun as simple attraction— a realization of a part of himself, never meant to be more— became this fixation. He was enraptured. Wretched. As much as he could not fathom wanting anyone else, in light of his circumstances, William wanted Moran— his love, his lust, his everything.

And at the time, he contented himself with the fantasy of it. As lost as he could get in thinking, he knew the reality perfectly well— or thought he did. He decided long ago that he would much rather keep all of this to himself before making Moran even slightly uncomfortable with his affections.

What mattered most was never his own secret desires— what meant the most to him has always been simply having Sebastian Moran in his life.

But now that they’re here, and Will knows perfectly well that Moran is far from out of reach the way he once believed him to be, there is no reason left to deny those desires. Particularly not with Moran making no attempt to hide his own.

With his field of attention as narrowed as it is, Will catches the twitch of Moran’s hand with ease. The hunger burning in his eyes where they meet Will’s, curling into the notes of his voice like tendrils of smoke, sends a rush through him. Despite Moran’s languid, easy posture, Will can see him holding himself back from reaching for him— seeking, touching, claiming.

The urge to increase the difficulty of maintaining that restraint, even at such a disadvantage as he is, has him on pins.

“More often than you can possibly imagine, I’m afraid. You left me quite hopeless…” Will’s lips part, flickering into a smirk that at least has the decency to appear slightly sheepish on his flushed face. “It was maddening, really— there I’d be at my desk, halfway through a page, then you’d pass just a bit too close to me, and suddenly all I would be able to imagine was you catching me looking and knowing exactly why. You taking hold of me and making sure I couldn’t look away— couldn’t think of anything else. I’d get stuck picturing you and I. The things you’d say, the way you’d feel; being able to touch you properly, instead of in just a fleeting brush of movement…”

Will shivers pleasantly as his lover’s eyes rake over him, his breath hitching as he simmers under the heat of the moment. Like many things, the idea of telling Moran about these thoughts has always been relegated to distant fantasy— and finally having the chance to, despite the fluttering embarrassment that roots itself in his chest as long-hidden words tumble past his lips, makes him wish desperately to tell Moran everything so long as he keeps looking at him like that.

“I was very lucky that you never took notice. It certainly wasn’t easy, keeping myself steady through all that. There were many times that I had to cut my reading short altogether to go and take care of myself where you couldn’t see. You were always so concerned with me, after all, I feared if I lingered you would certainly notice that I wasn’t quite right. And then you’d call my name in that way you do and that certainly wouldn’t help. 'Just how strained could I make his voice sound around my name, if I had the chance?' I’d end up wondering…”

Will’s eyes drift from Moran’s face, slowly down his form and back up, the curve of his lips taking on the barest spark of a cheekier grin. Lithe fingers tuck a lock of platinum hair from his face, lashes lowering to frame his eyes in a rush of intense warmth. He leans closer, but makes no move to touch, his face still flushed as scarlet as his good eye.

“I suppose you were correct about one thing…I had no desire to take a lover— or rather…I had no desire to take any man who wasn’t you as a lover. Every time I’ve touched myself, it was always you I thought about. How could anyone else compare?”

[mnemoniics]

The first thing he feels is sick satisfaction, and Moran hates himself for it.

Now you know, he thinks, what it was like. Now you know how I felt when you were ghosting across London, killing who and when only you decided. Now you know how I felt when you finally placed a gun in my hands again, only to tell me to aim it at you. Now you've got even a fraction of that hurt. How does it feel?

Control is maintained by the part of him that hasn't sunk to the darkest and most cruel recesses of his thoughts, but only barely—as William jerks the anchor of the bottle away from his grasp, Moran feels close to angry tears, and he can't remember the last time he'd even felt like crying, much less the last time he actually had.

Hurting William is the last thing he'd wanted to do. But it's also the first, in its own twisted way. It's the goal that's been stringing up his words and actions for the past however long the two of them have been stuck like this in a stilted dance that feels like it must be Purgatory. This is William's necessary recompense for having left him behind in the first place, and for having come back only to ask, over and over, for things Moran is fundamentally incapable of giving him.

It feels like a long time ago that service had been his only reprieve. Now, it's a reminder that the world has moved on, and the man known as Sebastian Moran has been thoroughly outmatched by the people around him who still live and breathe.

Sebastian, after all, had long been left behind along with the corpses of his first friends in India. Moran had painstakingly strangled the life out of that part of himself in the field hospital after the fact, and had stepped over his own bruised corpse with gunpowder clouding his senses.

The dead never come back the same. Every writer whose prose William gushes over is more than familiar with that fact, so it's a wonder William himself can't seem to grasp it.

"You're the one who keeps looking for it," Moran accuses. "You say you don't deserve this, but you never shut up about this idea that you're going to save me. You put me here. You wanted a soldier and now that you're done fighting your damn war, you're—you don't know what you're supposed to do with him."

He lifts his head off the window again, feeling a false sense of cold sobriety wash over him as he properly looks at William, rather than just his reflection. He's closer now—right, he'd stepped closer to take the bottle—and Moran is unprepared to see the open expression of pain on his face, plain like William had never let himself be.

Living and breathing. And changing, like corpses can't. This whole affair had been fucked from the start, and any hope otherwise had been fueled by the sort of delusions sober thinking always brought on. William doesn't deserve this—what he deserves is someone who's undoubtedly and wholly alive.

"You should've left me be," Moran spits, words still coming out slurred. "Or had someone kill me while they had an excuse."

There's no vindication in voicing that truth. But Moran doesn't need vindication to feel conviction all the same. Meeting William's eyes, too, is hardly a challenge now that he's let that little confession spill forth. It's easily the most hateful thing he's said all night—he follows it up with a quieter yet far more pointed shot.

"Anything but this."

[ostiinati]

William’s breath catches sharp as he feels his throat constrict around raw sorrow; frustration; pain— too tight for any exhale to slip through. He’s struck with the fear, as the corners of his eyes begin to sting, that if he releases the breath he’s holding, it might spill out in sobs.

The hazards of resolving to be more open about his feelings, it seems. It was a necessary change— Will’s many years of keeping everything inside was the cause of all this, in the first place— but now that he’s made it, he feels far too vulnerable to the shots Moran takes. Something has already started to crack here, and choosing not to hide it behind an impeccable performance leaves it open for Moran to shatter it at its weakest points.

Moran has always had unrivaled skill in firing with precision.

And with his final shot, Will can feel that fragile something crumble. Any hope he may have had to offer going into this— the same tattered, brittle hope that Sherlock had convinced him to dust off and hold tight— lies broken at his feet from where Moran has thrown it back at him, over and over again. Will can feel his hands start to shake where he twists his fingers around the neck of Moran’s bottle.

Anything but this.

“…I couldn’t. You—” I love you, his heart urges, pleading words that it will never do him any good to say. “You were never just a soldier to me. You were my friend— a part of my family— the person I trusted most…So forgive me for believing that I’d have some worth to you outside of being your mastermind.”

His voice trembles horribly on his lips. He can feel warmth streak down over his cheek beneath his good eye as the tears he’d been fighting back win their battle. The anguish in Moran's face digs itself under his skin, mixing caustically with his own and driving a hot knife of grief between his ribs.

“I did put you here— I put us all here, including myself, and that is something I am still coming to terms with— still trying to make right— because there is nothing more important to me, as selfish as that may be. And yet, you speak as if I have no idea what you’re going through— as if it didn’t take me three years, with constant assistance, to even decide that I could live. That I was even worth that.”

Will’s gaze breaks from Moran’s and casts itself downward. He recoils from his space, backing towards the door he’d come through only moments before. “Returning here, deciding to go on— I never expected it to be easy to convince you of, considering what it was like for me, but I’m trying. You mean the world to me and the fact that I couldn’t do anything for you before haunts me, but I’m trying—”

William’s next words crack and falter before he can get them out. The awful realization sinks its way into his bones and drags his shoulders down. He slowly lifts his head, eyes sticking back on Moran for only a moment before moving instead to the door. Something in his jaw tightens and Will lifts a hand to rub away the evidence of his hurt from his cheeks, casting away spilled tears with his knuckles.

There is nothing I can do.

“…I’m trying everything I can, but you won’t. Which I suppose I do deserve, for all I’ve put you through. You’re right, I don’t know what to do. It seems there’s nothing I can do, or say, or plead that will make you hear me. As much as I want it, I can’t make you try.”

I love you, His treacherous heart begs once more. Will swallows it down and turns his back, striding towards the door. If he doesn’t go now— if he doesn’t reach his room soon— he thinks he may shatter to pieces here and now.

“I cannot bring back who I was before I fell. I cannot supply you that same purpose. And if you do not wish to so much as try to find a new one alongside me, you can go and do as you like. I no longer have any right to claim over your life.”

[mnemoniics]

The surprise must be evident on Louis's face to a man so observant as Mycroft Holmes, though there is no parting of his lips or a raise of the brow. It's only recently that Louis had learned to keep his emotions under lock and key—but as with most things, he'd been an exceptionally quick study.

He hadn't been expecting Mycroft to pose a question at all, and that had brought about a far more visible sort of surprise. But still, Louis had only skipped a single beat before delivering his answer. It hadn't been practised; the response he'd let slip had actually been far too honest for his tastes.

I mean to learn what it's like to be free.

He knows full well that his appointment doesn't allow him to stray particularly far from its demanding post, but Louis has never wanted anything other than to act. A captive bird is still freer than a caged one—and William's intentions had always been noble and kind, but they'd kept Louis in a cage nonetheless, clipping his wings for fear he might fly too hastily into the wild. William had kept him safe from danger, but in doing so had left him pecking at the iron bars of his cage, desperate to meet the vast and endless sky.

MI6 is more akin to an aviary, but Louis has never wanted or needed to stray particularly far from its ambitions, and is grateful before anything else for the opportunity to fly. And when William returns, Louis will meet him as an equal. As a brother, rather than a caged bird.

But Mycroft must not be expecting an answer like that; even the greatest minds are not infallible, and he's sure that a position like Mycroft's must make this difficult to see as anything other than a cage. It's not a difference in perspective he intends to argue—and Mycroft doesn't seem keen to, either. He holds Louis's gaze for a long moment, even as he begins to take his leave for the day, undoubtedly set to work on something or other long into the night.

The stiffness with which Mycroft speaks is an unfamiliar quality from him. The stilted uncertainty is even more so.

Without meaning to, Louis lets out a quiet breath of air—the beginnings of a chuckle, accompanied by the polite smile he's been sporting for the entirety of their conversation. It's a terribly improper thing, to laugh at his direct superior in such a manner, but Louis makes no move to withdraw. Mycroft, he thinks, is hardly the sort of person who'd hold it against him.

He can imagine what someone bolder than him would say: How strong a statement, coming from someone so reserved. I do hope you'll like what you find.

But Louis is not that bolder person—and more importantly, he reserves such airs for people he's trying to fool. Having taken the time to learn the games people play with eachother, he maintains his general distaste for them. And Mycroft has made very plain his dislike of them, too, directed outward at people Louis hardly knows by name.

Most importantly, he'd taken an interest in Louis's honesty.

"Is that so?" Louis asks. He sounds more delighted than he'd thought he felt, though upon further reflection, there's no better way to describe the feeling that had swept through him. Not surprise or amusement, as he'd first assumed, but delight. "It pleases me that my candor has been so well-received."

And, really, there can be no word other than delight to describe what plays at the edge of Louis's smile and sets free some intangible wings inside his heart. It feels like some great accomplishment for so small an admission, to have caught the interest of Mycroft Holmes enough for what seems as good as an extended invitation closer, beyond the strict bounds of his position.

The prideful part of him aches for his brothers to see how far he's come in so short a time.

But their favor, Louis knows, would have been given to him freely even if he had done nothing. Mycroft's favor holds weight.

"I must return your sentiment, Director Holmes," he continues. There's a gleam in his eye just to the left of determination when he adds, "I would go so far as to say I'd enjoy it."

[ostiinati]

“…Would you, now?”

Enjoy.

Yes, Mycroft fears that ‘enjoy’ is a much more appropriate phrase to describe how he feels about the idea of a closer, more personal, association with Louis. After a reply like that, to say that he wouldn’t be opposed seems like a terrible understatement.

Conversing with Louis is quite unlike conversing with anyone else. Mycroft is more than capable of striding his way through the requisite social niceties of his position, however loathsome he finds them. For someone like him, so used to doing what must be done, it is no great feat to force a smile and grit his teeth through a conversation to ensure that a mission goes smoothly, or that a meeting works in his favor. As much as he detests the game, he learned long ago how to play it— which is precisely why continuing to do so beyond what is necessary for MI6 and the rest of his Department of Intelligence is something he categorically avoids in his precious few off-hours.

There was a time, shortly after he had separated himself from Sherlock, where he’d felt the solitude set in harsh enough to ache. The part of him that wished desperately to return to having someone near him— someone to speak to, to spend his time alongside, someone to understand and understand him in turn— was not nearly as small as one might think. But the quality of the people around him did nothing to assuage that loneliness. If anything, attempting to socialize with most others only ever managed to make it worse.

Mycroft was not like them— is not like them— no matter how he tried shaping himself to match their expectations and command their deference, if not their respect. Most people have always seemed dull to him— loud, constant collections of jumbled information with precious little to actually say, while still yet managing to carry on for far longer than even they truly wish to, usually. It takes Mycroft minimal time and effort to glean what others want from him without the constant flood of information, and given who he is most often approached by, he is usually disinclined to provide it. With no desire to extend his time with them beyond the obligatory, he makes use of his observational talents to incline them towards cutting the conversation short before hurriedly taking his leave.

He never found much enjoyment in interacting with the average individual before, outside of the relief of being done with it, and it seems that even loneliness could not help that. Thus, he convinced himself to set that feeling aside, useless as it was, and reserve himself to more distant connections— though professional rather than personal, he maintains excellent terms with his pair of household staff and MI6 is, at least, full of people he is quite tolerant of.

But in the wake of losing Sherlock; who, thanks to Mycroft’s own decisions (harm he will never get the opportunity to make up for), really had not been his brother to lose any longer— he feels the emptiness of being alone more starkly than he has allowed himself in years.

Yet this conversation with Louis— and, indeed, many of their conversations before, work-related as they were— soothes that emptiness in an unprecedented way. He takes up Mycroft’s painfully inelegant offer, as lacking in practice as he is at genuinely inviting someone closer, and seems not to mind the clumsiness. Oddly enough, Louis seems fond of it— and Mycroft finds that enjoyment is not so illusive a thing after all, with this man in the room with him.

I mean to learn what it’s like to be free.

Something like a smile tugs at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth, the first note of Louis’ subdued almost-laugh still hanging in the air as he tucks a number of files carefully away into his leather bag.

…I mean to do the same.

“Your candor is one among many things that interest me, M.” Mycroft replies with slightly more ease now, some semblance of his usual confidence reemerging in even the most unfamiliar of territories. There is a look in Louis’ eyes— entrancing in its newness— that sparks something similar in his own and Mycroft finds it difficult to look away. “I’m grateful that you saw fit to indulge me in answering such a sudden and personal question. I admit that it came to me rather abruptly, as well, but I am…thoroughly intrigued by your response.”

In more terms than simply the words he spoke.

A subtle exhale of breath passes Mycroft’s lips this time— a gentle huff, shaped by the ghost of an expression that he normally only wore in particularly dear company. It doesn’t bother him in the least, to be the object of this man’s delight— if anything, he discovers that he would quite like to inspire it again sometime.

Dexterous fingers— stricken with the slightest lingering tremble to them, even this substantial amount of time after the fall— snap shut the metal clasps of his bag, and Mycroft crosses the room towards his coat, hat, and scarf waiting on the rack near the door.

“I’m pleased as well, for my invitation to be received so well, in turn.” He continues, forgoing maintaining a wide physical distance in favor of walking a more direct route to his things. It takes him closer past Louis’ side than he would have likely gone before this moment— but there is something… curious here. A sign of some water that could possibly do well with a bit of testing, in so far as Louis sees fit to allow.

He meets his eyes again in passing, still slightly awkward and off-kilter from where the other man has knocked him, but silently reveling in the feeling of it. There is an openness in him that he has not felt in…too long, most likely.

“I find that I greatly enjoy your company already, myself—” Mycroft dons his outerwear in preparation for the London chill that no-doubt waits outside to greet him and moves towards his office door, intending to hold it open for his subordinate first. “So much, in fact, that it seems I have kept you for quite some time tonight. If you’re headed out as well, I’ll walk you. And, since you're amenable...perhaps tomorrow, you could join me for tea, if you like.”

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati said → "i saw you, and i knew you saw me too." (mycroft for louis) ( src. / accepting. )

It was only natural for Louis to have noticed Mycroft.

He remembers that moment very well, in fact—the less-than-a-second of eye contact as Mycroft scanned the faces of the three Moriarty brothers who stood before him. Even at the time, he'd been in awe of the imposing figure that Mycroft cut even despite the corner Albert and William had backed him into. There was England's most intelligent mind, and Louis had been content to hide behind the shadows of his brothers even then. He and Mycroft hadn't even spoken.

Louis knows better now than to offer some halfhearted protest about what must have happened; Mycroft isn't the sort of man to offer empty platitudes in a bid for favorable reactions, after all. But it still seems impossible that, back then, he'd looked at Louis and seen anything at all.

There's a sudden fluttering feeling in his chest, and he can't help but avert his eyes from Mycroft, as though trying to school the mortifying symptoms of his flustered delight. There had been no indication of Mycroft's attention back then beyond that brief meeting of eyes, but Louis finds he somehow believes the admission as easily as he's believed everything else delivered right from Mycroft's mouth.

"I hate to point out the obvious," he says, once he's sure he can speak without even a twitch in his voice, "but you were nearly impossible not to see."

And that much had remained true, though Louis had kept busy with matters of undeniably greater import, and hadn't spared much of a thought to Mycroft Holmes in the proceeding months. It was only after everything, when he'd already submitted himself to the appointment of "M", that Louis's mind had even wandered back to that first meeting—if it could even have been called that.

Had Mycroft thought, even then, that Louis would be more than suitable for the position he had doubted himself capable of filling? Had he known exactly what Louis would propose even before he stepped foot, alone, into Mycroft's office? It brings forth a strange concoction of feelings to realize that Mycroft might have seen through him so thoroughly from the very beginning.

No-one ever had, before. Not even William, who cared for him more than anyone but couldn't stand to face the reality that he wanted to bite, rather than bark. Nor Albert, who seemed content to place himself as a unique evil when the anger and thirst for violence towards the nobility had always been a shared trait between them.

"It's strange to think that you took particular notice of me even then, when I went out of my way to avoid it." Not to interfere, most importantly, with William and Albert's show. He'd been a director only in name, back then. "Your interest, I thought, belonged to the people who had actively earned it. I didn't have the right to take credit for the work of my brothers by speaking up."

It's surprising how easy it is now to separate those feelings from his current self. Having settled into his role, it feels far more natural than he ever imagined it could to sit across from Mycroft like this, speaking of matters several degrees more personal than Louis would dare bring into conversation with anyone else.

Not for the first time, he wonders what it might be like to put a voice to the stirring thoughts inside of him that preen under Mycroft's knowing gaze.

"You were an imposing presence," Louis recounts thoughtfully, as his eyes slide back into position to look properly at Mycroft. "I thought I'd be more afraid of you than I was, but I think I was too pleased to have been invited to the meeting. It certainly helped that the bulk of your attention was elsewhere, of course."

There is a single breath in—not nervous, but steadying—before Louis smiles. It's an easy expression to make when he genuinely means it. "But I quite like having your attention now. As you well know."

[ostiinati]

As Louis’ eyes flit away, Mycroft’s affix to him with an even more particular focus— for once again, nothing in the room is nearly as interesting as Louis James Moriarty.

He catches a glimpse of the subtle dilatation of pupils in scarlet eyes before they can flee his sight entirely, notices the way Louis’ words stall just a bit too long, the way his lips part to draw in a deliberate breath— every detail of him stands out in such sharpness in Mycroft’s view; a single focal point, capturing the entirety of his attention. Yet, he finds himself unable to take issue with it the way he would were he conversing with any other person.

Louis is not just any person, after all. Not to his eyes.

“A fair assumption, I suppose, given the situation.” He replies thoughtfully, raising his teacup to his lips (though he cannot bring himself to avert his eyes for long.) “I observe that which is in front of me, as anyone might. Your brothers were the most directly involved in our dealings, at the time, and so my attention was largely required to remain on them. But, my interest…”

Taking stock of that day where their paths first crossed, Mycroft knows well why that interest has lingered every day since. Though shrouded in the shadows of his brothers, there was something burning in Louis— a hesitance striking sparks against a desire for more— to be more, to do more— and a potential, built upon a subdued determination, that could very well see that desire into reality. At that time, Mycroft could tell that much— but what remained unknown to Louis himself, even he could not pinpoint, and that is where this interest began.

Mycroft’s eyes had caught on him for only a beat longer than either of his brothers during that introduction. The intensity of his acknowledgement remained imperceptible as he let it pass from the forefront of his awareness. He had not even addressed Louis directly throughout the negotiation process— but when it came time to address James Moriarty, Mycroft could not neglect to include him.

Their first encounter, brief and impersonal as it was, had hidden itself on the back burner after that, in favor of the Moriarty Plan itself and Mycroft’s surging fascination with it. That plan had dragged forth a buried ambition from the depths of his heart; to see beyond the cage bars he had spent all his life polishing and fashioning— never quite satisfied, despite their shine. He had never before given so much earnest thought to the key sitting within his grasp, his for the taking if he could just manage to reach for it.

For a time, that took precedence— but once he and Louis began working together in the aftermath, Mycroft slowly realized that his initial interest was still well and truly there, growing in strength with every exchange they shared. It waited in the back of his mind for the day it could spread its wings and properly consume his thoughts as it wished— and consume, it did.

Mycroft has never before felt the thrill that mystery gives— or, gave— Sherlock, but he fears that he understands it better than anyone, now.

“My interest is a much more difficult thing to capture, particularly when it comes to people. I mean your brothers no offense, of course; they both have no shortage of impressive qualities, but you were a singular presence to me in that room.” And Louis has only continued to grow as such an individual the longer Mycroft has known him— the closer they have become in both a professional context and in a decidedly more personal one. “You were someone I could not factor at a glance— I could tell that you had more to give than even you knew, but as for what it was? That was unknown to me. With your potential and that hidden drive you had to step into the light for yourself, I found that I…very much wanted to see what you would make of that light, once you stood in it.”

Mycroft sets his tea cup back into its saucer— entirely empty now, even after only a few short moments— and meets Louis’ eyes properly now that they’ve sought him out once again. Seeking personal eye contact still feels a bit unusual to him, as accustom as he is to avoiding it, but there is something pleasant about it in this moment that prickles like static somewhere at the nape of his neck.

Louis makes a solid point, Mycroft has spent many years cultivating a presence which commands the attention of others— one suitable enough to match the power at his fingertips— he is fairly used to being seen, in the simplest sense.

But the way Louis sees him is something else. He smiles at him and Mycroft has to draw in a soft breath of his own, clipped and shallow, barely audible in the comfortable air they share.

“Though the conversation back then did not allow me much time to dwell on that matter, when it came time to offer the position of ‘M’ to another, you were the first— and only— man I had in mind.” The admission feels more weighty on his tongue than one might expect of a work-related reminiscence, but nevertheless, Mycroft’s words do not falter in their frank sincerity. He returns the smile with one of his own, a reserved warmth shaping the curve of his lips, the softening of his brow.

“In other words, it is good to hear confirmation that you’re so fond of my attention. In more ways than one, all of it is reserved for you.”

[mnemoniics]

Moran's judgement comes with a sharp exhale of smoke. He'd expected William's pushing back against his arguments, but the ensuing attempt deal knocks him somewhat off-kilter. It's not entirely unusual for someone at his age to pick up a habit—but noble children are somewhat different in their upbringing, and in the first place aren't openly encouraged to smoke at all.

It's because of his surprise that he startles in the way he does, head jerking to stare sharply at Will for several silent seconds while he tries to eke out of this is another one of the odd jokes he's quickly learned of Will's fondness for.

It would be an irresponsible deal to agree too. But Moran, in avoidance of the tedium of chores, is already irresponsible.

"Yeah," he says, feeling somewhat struck-dumb as he takes another drag. "Alright, fine. But don't go telling anyone I've given you one."

He pushes himself off the wall he'd been leaning his weight on, the motion heavy with the weight of all the fatigue of living that's constantly holding him down. At the very least it's lighter now that Will's around to be a tangible reminder of what Moran is supposed to be living for the sake of; Moran probably would have acquiesced to anyone's request for a smoke and a light, but there's nothing he's been able to deny William from the moment they met, even when it comes to his own miserable existence.

He follows Will out the door with the same sort of near-casual stride he always employs, fishing the two boxes back out of his pocket. He offers the two of them in their entirety to Will between the first and second fingers of his good hand, because he trusts Will won't take it as an opportunity to confiscate them and avail the inside of the otherwise pristine house of Moran's smoking habit. Albert and Louis have already made their feelings about it clear.

"It doesn't matter to me how cross Louis is with me, or what he's cross with me for," Moran counters belatedly. The cigarette remains in his mouth this time, even as he exhales smoke—he doesn't want to bother trying it with his bad hand. Before, he'd fumbled and dropped the last one in a similar fashion to the way he'd fumbled and dropped half of the damn cleaning supplies he'd tried to keep hold of. "If doing the bloody chores as best I can isn't going to keep him off me, I'd rather he just make a fuss about how much I'm slacking."

Those things hadn't been all that difficult to do in the army.

Moran had been teased about living a pampered, noble life by the people who were doomed by their birth to end up ranking below him despite their greater experience, but he'd ultimately joined right in with them when it came to doing the necessary chores, laundry, and camp maintenance. There had been camaraderie in working together like that. The work itself had meant something, and Moran had been pretty damn good at doing it.

The heavy metal fitted neatly around his wrist feels like it's digging into his flesh, and the clunky fingers twitch slightly and audibly in response, though the sound is muffled by the glove he never removes.

That hand is only fit to hold a gun steady, now. It's far slower than flesh and blood, and doesn't move with the precision that finer and more delicate tasks demand. It's a thought Moran doesn't voice aloud as-it-is, because the morbid truth has never been something he's wanted to discuss with William when it's already a clear, silent acknowledgement that's been in place from the moment Moran gave him the remains of his life.

"I didn't sign up to do housekeeping, anyway," he says, then finally retracts his now-empty hand to remove the cigarette from his mouth so as to speak more clearly. "It's certainly not what you're keeping me around for."

[ostiinati]

“I can see I’ve surprised you. Not to worry— what good would it do me to tell anyone? I’ve been trying to keep this habit to myself, you see, so this will have to be our secret on both sides.”

It’s no easy feat, keeping things from Louis or Albert, but it pays that smoking is so common about the house now that Moran has settled in. It’s something Will knows would likely concern them, even as rarely as he partakes.

The fresh air of early evening greets them as the door leading back to the manor’s interior— and the responsibilities within— shuts quietly behind. Will turns with a smile to face the Colonel’s offering and delicately plucks the pack and matchbook from his fingers. He carries himself a few steps further into the garden, away from the manor so that the smoke will be less likely to reach his brothers’ noses should they pass nearby.

He’s just made a deal with Moran to keep this to himself, after all. It wouldn’t do to have it crumble on a circumstantial technicality.

A cool breeze rustles his hair, carrying the scent of impending rain along with it. As he taps a cigarette out and takes it between his lips, he can’t help but be reminded of the day he first met the man to which the pack belongs. The pattering of the downpour atop his umbrella; the way he’d gotten himself soaked through as he stopped to cover a man curled in on himself outside a pub; empty dark eyes seeing right through him until he spoke the words that would bring them together— that would grant them both a purpose in each other’s lives.

The smell of rain and smoke.

Will’s smile turns fond around the cigarette, despite the bitter taste. He doesn’t like smoking— doesn’t think he ever will— but lately, he's come to think that the smell isn’t as bad as he once considered it.

“That aside, Colonel Moran, I resent the implication that I am keeping you anywhere— for any singular purpose, at that.” Will quips, tone light as he strikes match against box. Unconsciously, he finds himself attempting to mimic the smooth, practiced motion of the older man’s hand from moments ago. It doesn’t look nearly as second-nature, but it burns the same. He could use a bit more rehearsal. “I merely presented you an option. Are you not here of your own volition, for reasons of your own?”

Will cups his fingers around the flickering match, feeling the heat against his palm as he guides the flame to his lips. The end of the cigarette catches alight and Will allows the lit match to linger long enough to slightly singe his fingertips, the brief pain chasing away a certain far-away look from his eyes, before he snuffs it out. He pockets the spent match to dispose of later and situates matchbook and pack into one hand to offer back to their owner.

With the other, he takes a shallow drag and exhales a breath of gray.

“…But, I don’t suppose housekeeping is among those reasons,” Will doesn’t have to think too hard on why it might be that Colonel Moran shirks these duties, but bringing it up directly feels a step too far for the time being. “A house can only function well when everyone within it does their part, though. If you’d prefer not to clean the interior, we can figure out something more suitable. Not today, though…”

Today, he’s already promised not to keep him, and Will finds that the Colonel is someone he rather dislikes the idea of breaking a promise to.

“Do you enjoy visiting the pub, Colonel? The young men at school often talk about it, but I usually have trouble seeing eye-to-eye with them during conversations on most social topics. You like playing cards there, am I right?”

[mnemoniics]

"Don't bring my brother up; this is meant to be a nice outing."

There's a playfulness to the demand, despite that Sherlock completely means it. Whatever professional relationship Albert has with his brother is something to be politely ignored, as much as it possibly can be; the less he has to think about Albert interacting with someone like his brother, the better. There's far too much opportunity for something unsavory to happen, there, at least in regards to his own mental wellbeing.

It's much easier to focus on settling into step with Albert, listening to the dulcet melody of the methodically-played instrument that is his words. He wields them in a sharper and more professional way than a practiced killer wields a weapon; nearly everything is steeped in intentionality with him, and Sherlock can't help but feel like he isn't any closer to deciphering what that means.

Obviously I knew he'd see through the lie, but—

"I wanted to see how you'd react," Sherlock admits shamelessly, falling into step with Albert sporting a grin that lacks even an ounce of sheepishness. "But I knew you'd end up paying regardless. For one thing, you've got more expensive taste than my earnings usually allow for, yeah? And you're conscious of how you're percieved, so you'd never frequent a place I could reasonably afford without diggin' into my rent money. And since you're goin' somewhere I'd have trouble with—no meal would ever end in me paying…"

A sweeping glance at Albert, accompanied with no small amount of cheek.

"… because at the end of the day you're the sort who'd cover it for me even if it were in my price range. Am I right?"

That's another curiosity he's carfefully observed about Albert. For all that the man plays the part of the perfect noble, there's always a strange undercurrent of consideration for the people below him that's a rare sight among the upper class. Sherlock has had enough experience with those sorts to know the difference between charity for the sake of appearances and actual care—and in all respects, Albert is anything but careless.

Sherlock knows he's a special case besides that, too.

"You don't mind if we continue our little talk?" he asks, though the question is entirely rhetorical; Sherlock intends on continuing to bring it up so long as it continues to interest him, and so long as Albert continues to entertain it. "I wasn't done throwin' ideas your way. Even if it doesn't take me any closer to a conclusion, your insight's invaluable to me."

There's a sudden seriousness and severity to his voice beyond the surface-level lightheartedness—though the statement itself isn't any sort of indictment, Sherlock is still far from being able to separate Albert from the tangled threads of the Lord of Crime's cases in his own mind.

It's far less of a problem than it should be. If anything, it only ever makes him more excited to see what Albert has to say.

"'Course, if you'd rather chat about the same old nothing you probably talk about with your other lunch partners, it's not like you'd have asked me to come along in the first place."

[ostiinati]

A laugh flutters past Albert’s lips— hardly as unrestrained or bombastic as his counterpart’s, but genuine nonetheless. Against all his better judgment, and against all the frustration the man seems intent on dragging out of him whenever he decides to rearrange his things, Holmes has a way of bringing forth an undeniable mirth in Albert’s mood— an enjoyment he rarely feels interacting with those outside of his chosen family.

He shoots the detective a look in turn, adjusting the way his hat sits atop his head as they make their way, side-by-side, out of the offices of ‘Universal Exports’. Albert thinks he must be going mad, acknowledging the charm in the shamelessness of the detective’s deductions, but there’s a boyishness to the grin on the man’s face that lights him up all the way to those sharp, staggeringly intelligent eyes.

He never looks like this in the papers, Albert notes to himself, and there’s a strange sense of satisfaction at that realization that tugs the corners of his smile just slightly too wide to be strictly polite. It gives away nothing to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking for, of course, but Albert himself is more conscious of its presence than anyone. In the absence of any guilt for his crimes, he feels only the building thrill of the game.

And what a game it is.

How did you find my reaction, then? Satisfied? He wants to ask— but refrains. Though there is something enticing in the idea of encouraging the man to further expose the intricate weave of threads that make up his thoughts, Albert can tell for himself, just by observing Sherlock’s behavior in return, that the man is far from displeased. He would have to be a fool not to recognize the potential hypothesis at play in the other man's method. It's all but impossible to overlook that he is the question that Holmes is attempting to unravel here— and in doing so, should he do so, he will inevitably uncover the answer to his greatest puzzle of all. The clues he's been gaining from their time spent together— his repeated experiments on the subject of Albert's reactions must entice him, as well, else he surely would have ceased fidgeting with his carefully arranged life by now.

And far from recoiling from the danger of being unraveled, Albert feels compelled to watch closer in turn.

“I wonder,” He replies instead, eyes catching Sherlock’s from their corners as he leads their stroll along the city street. There’s a gleam amidst the green that Albert ‘forgets’ to hide. “Just how well must I measure up to your precious mysteries to have earned such single-minded attention?”

He breaks the contact in the next breath, turning his attention ahead once more. They don’t have an especially far walk to reach the cafe, in the first place, and the familiar sign at the corner reminds him that it is drawing fast to a close. There’s a string of some unnamed intensity that winds itself around the undercurrent of their exchange— Albert hears it in Sherlock’s voice beneath the companionable banter.

Your insight's invaluable to me.

Not for the first time since meeting the man, Albert feels the heat licking at his fingertips as he makes the deliberate choice to play with fire.

“You are correct, of course, on both counts.” The doors are opened for them by the staff as Albert approaches the entrance— a gesture commonly expected by the upper class, which Albert acknowledges each time with the sincerity and gratitude that sets him apart. He removes his hat as they are shown to a seat Albert has come to prefer in his frequenting of the establishment— in the back, out of the way, somewhere he is unlikely to catch too many unwanted eyes.

He dips his head politely to their waiter as he leaves them with the menu and gestures with a gloved hand for Sherlock to sit opposite him. “I had no intention of making you pay, whether or not you were able— not any more intention than I had to carry on the sort of conversation I have in usual company, for that matter. Even if misery does love company, I think I’d quite dislike boring you to that extent.”

Albert laces his fingers atop the table between them and leans ever so slightly in towards his companion, perfectly poised in his display of interest as he settles into the familiar environment. “Not to mention, I would prefer your throwing of ideas, myself, any day. As such, consider my insight yours. Where shall we pick up, Mr. Holmes?”

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati said → " the lights are bright tonight. " ( kashyra for diotisalvi ) ( src. / accepting. )

Diotisalvi shrieks, jumping with a terror that has him spilling nearly half of his drink.

He settles down in a moment, though the relaxation from before never quite sets in. Kashyra is, after all, a person who Salvi is exceptionally wary of compared to the rest of his present company. His eyes seem to see past the thinly painted veneer of professionalism and directly into the truth, sparing him for some unknown reason. He thinks it's probably amusement, but there's really no way of knowing.

He takes another sip of his drink, feeling some miserable concoction of petrified and disheveled. It's an expensive thing, after all, and the sort of thing he might not be able to afford for much longer. He'd thought about saving it, but it would have only haunted him to think about on his shelf, and so he'd stashed it away in his bag—

—and now half of what little remains is on the floor. Oh, mercy.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," Salvi admonishes, trying to sound less like a whining child and more like the middle aged man he is. "Do you ever sleep, ah? How is it you're so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at a time like this?"

Salvi is also awake, of course, but that's different. It's a common thing to remain awake to drink away one's sorrows in the quiet solitude of night—he'd requisitioned the balcony for that express purpose, after all.

It's only after his initial reaction that he realizes he's been asked a question, rhetorical as it probably was. Kashyra had more than likely been angling to give him some sort of fright with it rather than expecting any sort of real answer. But Salvi realizes the tenuous thread that he balances on with this motley crew, and with the haste of a man outrunning death itself he rushes to take hold of the conversation to turn it into something he finds favorable.

He's better at that sort of game than the ones that prey on matters of the mind.

"The lights are bright every night," he says, turning back to the view of the city, though not without an extra glance (and then two) at Kashyra, like he's expecting the man to have moved in the space of the half-second he's spent looking away. "Progress never sleeps, so they say."

Progress and its progressors, anyway. Salvi remembers that well—when he'd first come to the city, he'd often be put to work from the early hours of sunrise until night had been well under way. All of that money, and no time or energy to use it; none of the people Salvi met had suspected city life would be like this, and those that knew already only laughed at them for their naivete.

And Salvi had abandoned them all, too, when a miracle had gotten him out.

"Aren't you from Oskolda?" A wary glance cast sidelong at Kashyra once again, like keeping his gaze turned away for too long might spring forth some manner of plague. "Glima is brighter, so I hear."

[ostiinati]

Dark-furred ears perk to attention as they receive the man’s undignified shriek with no small amount of satisfaction and Kashyra’s lips part to frame his wide, easy grin in response. It’s amusing, the effect that such a simple approach from him seems to have on the human— and he’s always had an awful habit of toying too much with the frayed edges of the people who interest him most. Needless to say, this is far from the first admonishment he’s taken for sneaking up on someone.

Damn it all, Shyra, I could’a shot’cha!

Age and experience have made him wiser since that time, but all the good that’s done is allow him to act this way with a more solid sense of timing and circumstance.

For example, Kashyra knows that Diotisalvi is already skittish when it comes to him— in a way that rises above his trepidation towards the others— and so there’s no need to push him too hard to get a reaction. Not that his wariness comes without good reason, that is. Kashyra has noticed already that Diotisalvi is not all he claims to be in his advertisements— a fraud, to put it bluntly. One who is a master of performance, certainly, but whose actual investigative abilities rely heavily upon the artifact that was taken from him shortly after their current group’s convergence in his office. Kashyra’s sharp eye is reliable even at the worst of times but even more than that, who better to see through a mask than someone used to wearing one?

His awareness of the truth is something the kitsune has silently indicated to the man himself, but not to any of the others in their impromptu cohort. He has no intention of exposing him either, though naturally Salvi has no way of knowing that for certain, or whether or not those fortunes will change. The truth is simple, though— Kashyra could not care less through what means the man finds his answers, what matters to him is that answers are found. In the technical sense of things, is not Diotisalvi delivering exactly what he is promising?

As far as Kashyra is concerned, the means are welcome to be hazy, provided that the results are clear. There is no step too far, nothing he will not endure, in order to put this to rest, once and for all.

Pearly fangs glint in the off-cast light of the city as he slinks his way onto the balcony alongside the ‘famed detective’, having at least enough decency to put an apologetic spin on his expression for the sake of Diotisalvi’s lost drink.

“Ahh, ‘scuse me, friend!” Kashyra’s ears turn down, brows raising and pinching together like a contrite accessory to his closed-eye smile. He raises his hands placatingly, palms forward, and the graveyard of gold and silver that decorate his fingers glimmers in the glow of ‘progress’, as Salvi puts it. “I’ll pay ya back for yer trouble— It smells like real fine stuff. Put it on my tab, a’right? Ain’t lookin’ to leave ya high n’ dry.”

Graciously, Kashyra allows the man to steer the conversation for the time being— curious to see where he’ll take it; in what places he’ll try to hide. He takes the few remaining steps that separate him from the railing of the balcony, meticulously groomed tail swishing behind him, relaxed as can be in the late night air. It makes it easier for Diotisalvi to steal those nervous scrutinizing glances at him, but Kashyra can’t be bothered to care. Between the two of them, he isn’t the one with something to hide.

At least nothing that he’s in danger of having exposed to anyone that matters.

Though he can feel Salvi glancing at him for a third time, his attention remains settled on the city lights that stretch out before him. One ear flicks at the brush of a passing breeze, earrings jingling faintly at the abrupt movement. His claws click in an idle untitled rhythm against the railing as he takes to leaning forward against it, heedless of the drop beyond. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that his eyes have begun to ache.

Do you ever sleep?

Less and less, these days.

Every moment in the aftermath of the massacre has been tirelessly dedicated to unraveling it. Standing here, after weeks of investigation, of inquiry, of travel— he finally feels like there is a path before him that will lead him towards the truth. At the end of that path is Salvi’s artifact, as well as the entity responsible for all of this group’s troubles, it seems.

“Mm, I take it ya’ve never been? Glima’s brighter, by far…but it’s a different kinda bright, y’see.” The curve of Kashyra’s mouth softens— affectionate, almost sweet, as it shapes the name of his city— his family’s city. “I’m used to leadin’ quite the night life back home, in fact, but ours don’t look like this. Glima’s bright ‘cause it’s alive, but here it’s like…a machine, almost. Always at work. But, well…maybe homesickness is makin’ me biased. I wonder if ya’ll know what I mean when ya see it for yerself~.”

It’s an educated hunch, after all, that sooner or later, this chase will lead them back home.

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati said → " you shouldn't forget what you mean to me. " (will for moran) ( src. / accepting. )

I don't know what that is.

Moran isn't a stranger to a jammed gun. It's something anyone can feel before the trigger is even pulled, if they're attentive enough, the bullet failing to reach the chamber. It's got that grating edge of two points not quite connecting. A sniper's gun is all he has, if he's a less capable one than Moran—and even Moran tends to feel practically naked when a gun jams on him.

This isn't an entirely dissimilar feeling. At the very least, William's quiet insistence leaves him feeling similarly exposed—wherein his own mind is the barrel, refusing to click properly into place. He knows there's something he isn't getting, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to know what exactly that 'something' is.

But it's always been like that. William has always dragged him along, twenty steps ahead. It's always been Moran's job to follow and only to follow.

"Sure," he says, and the word itself is mumbled, half-drunk. William had caught him in the middle of his fourth cup. "What I mean to you. Like I've ever known that. Can't read your bloody mind, you know."

And that's the uncomfortable thing about it. William is a master marksman when it comes to anyone's heads—he's never needed a clear casing or an unfired bullet to tell when something's gone awry. But here, he's holding an old reliable thing that's spent the last several years in disuse, fired off countless times without his say so, and he still thinks it'll fire the same for him.

Moran scowls, and though his face is turned away to be leaned against the clear glass of the window that's fogged over with his hot breath against it, he's sure William will know.

"Could've sworn…"

He trails off, stuck in the brow-furrowing memories of three years ago. Even now, they still play on repeat—the misfired shot, the one person Moran couldn't ever hit, the one order he couldn't ever obey. Maybe every other death he caused in the aftermath had been some sort of penance, as though the ended lives of all those remaining bastards in the world could make up for his refusal to kill the one person who had earnestly asked for it.

Or maybe it'd been because he'd felt like a person again, for just a little while, in disobeying William. Maybe he'd been chasing away the absence of that by being a weapon as much as he could.

Like it even matters.

"Could've sworn you didn't give a rat's ass about me," Moran manages on the second try, and the words are acrid as they leave his mouth—like he might retch any minute, either from the alcohol or from the conversation. It might even be both. "No, that's not right, aye?"

As he speaks, he lifts his head from the glass to level a bleary glare at William. William, who is still perfectly put-together at this time of night and still not dressed for bed even though it must be nearing the small hours of the morning.

"You loved having your loyal soldier to pull the trigger for you," he accuses. "You thought I'd just take any shot you asked me to. Nevermind that I'd have rather shot myself than been the one to do you in."

With a quiet thunk, his head hits the window again—Moran had barely been cognizant of it moving back in that direction. He looks out at the front gates in the eerie dead of night, then squeezes his eyes shut for a long second as though trying to force the tiredness from them. He can almost, at an angle, see William's reflection in the glass.

"You don't even need a gun anymore," he finishes, though he's barely aware those thoughts have made it out of his mind, "so give it up."

[ostiinati]

William had accepted from the start that, in learning to live, there will be bad days and there will be even worse days— he can reference as much first hand, after all. As such, in conjunction with the guilt that eats at him for having broken so badly in the first place— and, in doing so, failing to keep Moran from falling deeper and deeper into this state over all their years— Will has resolved to bear the brunt of all of Moran’s externalized pain. It is a personal penance, one that he never voices— how can he fault the man for thinking the worst of him, after everything fell down?

No matter what Moran thinks of him, Will cannot simply let go of him, anyway. Even if he did not owe him his best attempt at assuaging the misery he’s been drowning in all this time, William would give it to him anyway— even if he has to hurt for it. The well-being of those around him has always come first in the depths of William’s bleeding heart— even more-so when someone as dear to him as Sebastian Moran is involved.

And so, he has indeed given his best. He's been far from perfect, but he has extended olive branches, attempted to coax the man into doing something— anything— alongside him to keep him from merely wasting away. He has faced Moran’s anger, his despondency, and everything in-between. He has waited up for him night after night to see him safely returned from the pub. He has been understanding, he has lowered his head in contrition and admitted his faults— plentiful as they are— and he has insisted despite it all that he wishes, more than anything, for Moran to live.

It isn’t an easy request to rise to— no one knows that better than William, himself.

But this…

This goes beyond any of their previous arguments. What Moran spits at him now is vitriol— it is a hateful dismissal, used to cloak Moran's own deep-seated thoughts about himself and meant with singular purpose to wound and rend; to hurt him— and hurt it does. Worse than being struck, worse than switch or blade, worse than the ache that digs deep into the space surrounding his sightless eye— worse than anything.

Unbidden, William flinches back. It’s a subtle thing, a sudden sharp crack in his seemingly boundless acceptance, no bigger than a hairline fracture but enough to offset the space where a gentle response would usually follow with the severe ache of silence. Delicate brows furrow in reproach, his lips parting to draw in a wincing breath through his teeth.

The realization that he cannot accept this chills him to the bone. It winds its cold fingers into his ribs, constricting tight around his lungs, and— for once, without thinking— William speaks.

“…How dare you…” There is no determined insistence, no refusal to ‘give it up’— not this time. What flees his lips is a whisper, thick and raw with the sort of feeling seldom shown. His eyes briefly stick on Moran’s in their shared reflection, but fall to the floor as agony sets itself heavy into his heart. “How dare you— to talk about not being able to read my mind, and then to throw that in my face?”

Once the first words slip out, the rest tumble after, no matter how much Will might wish otherwise. It’s too late to stop, and he is too worn down by week after week of effort, only to end up here. “Tell me, then, in that moment, how was I to know how you felt? I— …I was at my worst— I could see nothing, save for the blood on my hands, and you— I asked you, because you were the one person who never gave any sign of wanting me to live, so long as you could follow after.”

In his right mind, in a perfect world, things would have gone differently. Will would have known better, they would have talked, maybe. They would have learned to live alongside each other, instead. But that wasn’t their stage to play. Instead, Will had spiraled down into the dark, determined to fall alone because even in the depths of hell, he could not bear the thought of taking anyone he loved with him.

Even in his new life, dedicated as it is to atonement, he cannot accept a world in which his dearest people are gone.

And yet, Moran is barely even looking at him as he hurls these accusations.

Emotions stringing tightly to wind William’s usually calm tone to the point of wavering, he crosses the room towards the window where Moran slumps and snatches the half-drunk bottle from his grasp. It’s impulsive, a bitter-tasting display of an anguish that William has been trying desperately to keep from building to this point. A flicker of desperation in a final attempt at…something.

“And you say I loved it. Loved it, did I…? You think I refused to let you take my place in the killings because you were just my soldier? You think I want you to live now because you’re nothing but my gun? That's the way you see yourself, not me—" Will swallows painfully, struggling to catch up with where his aching heart has run ahead of his mind. He tries, once again, to settle himself. To speak calmly. To do anything other than the only other option looming like an axe above their heads. give it up, Moran's voice rings in his ears, and he doesn't want to— never wants to.

But what can he do? If Moran will never choose to even try, William knows that no matter how much he may want to, he cannot make him.

"...Though it's not as if I have no fault in it. I have done you wrong, Sebastian, I’m aware of it. I know that I have hurt you and I am sorry. I never should have asked that of you— but how was I meant to be responsible for reading your feelings while I could not even live with my own? I don't— ...I don't deserve this from you.”

[ostiinati]

Focused as he is on the printed words before him, Will nearly misses the ones that Moran injects into the air. ‘Nearly’ being the operative word, of course— with the way he lies against him, there’s no chance for Will to truly miss the rumble of his lover’s voice in his chest, and from there it takes only an extra second of mental track-switching for him to catch up. As his mind unwinds itself from his book to settle properly upon what Moran has said, however, Will’s fingers twitch and stall against his spot on the page. Current paragraph all but forgotten, the only words that exist now are the ones his soldier has slipped slyly into the quiet aftermath of the evening’s gathering.

Suddenly, this single query has taken up residence quite solidly in Will’s thoughts and expanded itself to the point where there is no corner it fails to reach— no spare space that it does not greedily fill.

Your brother told me something interesting today, Moran’s voice rings through the halls of his mind, and William knows that he must mean Albert. He knows better than to believe his initial infatuation with Sebastian Moran had gone unnoticed by either of his incredibly intelligent and observant brothers, and it was certainly not possible, then, that they had overlooked the tragically helpless development of said infatuation into first love— into only love.

But Louis would never betray him like this, so it must have been Albert.

Many times over the last decade of his life, Will had looked at Moran and thought, ‘if only you knew.’— yet, now that he does know, Will finds himself scrambling to regain his balance. Moran is not the sort to squander an advantage, and thanks to Albert he has been handed one that the consultant is woefully unprepared to answer for.

The second hand of the sitting room’s grandfather clock ticks over and William’s briefly stalled processes resume with a heated bloom of color burning its way into his cheeks. His throat feels dry as he fumbles for something, anything, to say in response that might have even a semblance of grace, but he comes up short.

He cannot feign ignorance now, either, and he knows it. Moran is already well aware that he knows what’s being asked after. A faint laugh, awkward and far too breathless, flutters past his lips, followed by a primly deliberate clearing of his throat.

“Ah…That is— so very interesting. That he would tell you that…”

His eyes fix firmly onto the page he had previously been content to read, and yet now that this hangs between them, it’s as if Will has forgotten how to read entirely. The words crash, entirely futile, against the warm wall of flustered distress that has been raised between them and his consciousness and dissipate into nothing.

Deciding that attempting to continue to read is an altogether useless ploy at distraction, Will shifts from his resting place against Moran, instead. He sits up and turns towards him, reaching across him for the bookmark he’s left upon the arm of the sofa on Moran’s opposite side. Face feeling much like it might catch fire at any moment, William’s gaze remains resolutely fixed ahead of himself— hiding his own reactions is unlikely to be very effective, if at all, but catching sight of the look he knows must wait for him on Moran’s face would make things undeniably worse.

Half-leaning over him, Will’s fingers find purchase on the scrap of fabric that he’s looking for and he begins to retreat, moving to slip it in between the pages of that evening’s chosen tome. A frazzled attempt at normalcy, rendered ineffective by the way his fingers fidget— by the red beginning to climb from his cheeks into the tips of his ears.

“You— well…— I fear it would be pointless for me to attempt to refute that…I have been—” Brows furrowing delicately, Will’s eyes flit— against their better judgment— so that his good one can sneak a glimpse at Moran’s face. It’s a mistake, of course. His lips part soundlessly around an intelligent response that flees him without making itself known, leaving him to swallow and trip over whatever words he has left instead.

It is exceedingly rare for William to find himself at such a loss. Indeed, Moran is the sole person to have ever achieved it to such a degree— a fact that struck Will like a train, originally, as Moran grew more forward with his charm the more confident he became within the earlier stages of their relationship.

Just when I thought I was finally getting used to you.

Truly, this evening is one of myriad betrayals.

“You have…occupied my thoughts for… quite some time, yes.”

[mnemoniics]

Catching Will off guard has become one of Moran's favorite things. It's no easy feat at the best of times—though he's far from infallible in his judgement, the fact remains that Will is generally several steps ahead of most others in the room, nearly as difficult to ruffle as he is to surprise. Moran had already known the feelings between them to be a weak spot in those almost-accidental defenses, and had exploited it until his blows eventually fell softer for Will's adaptation to them.

This, however, is new territory. It's been a long time since something Moran said caused Will to fluster so badly he began to stumble over his speech.

Moran watches, equal parts amused, and fascinated, as a flush spreads outwards from Will's face, rising to the surface far easier than his words. Not for the first time today, he wonders how often he'd willfully turned his head away from every sign of this. Hearing it secondhand and having it confirmed from the man himself are two entirely different beasts, and Moran fights to keep the extent of his childish glee from showing on his face.

He's not the performer Will is, but he can put on a damn good show when he needs to.

"Yeah?" he asks, cool and casual, as though seeing Will like this doesn't send a warm wave of pleasure to all the right places. "What a nice way to put it. 'Occupied your thoughts.'"

There's a part of Moran that wants to jump on his lead already—there have been no shortage of moments, lately, where he's taken even a slight crack in Will's composure and jumped ahead a mile with it. Will makes it deliberately easy, sometimes, for Moran to slot himself into the service he'd never really stopped wanting to give. But Moran's aware he rarely makes it any harder for Will to return the favor, whenever and wherever he pleases.

So he could throw caution to the wind and do as he pleases right away. But Will's spent all this time coaxing patience into the recesses of Moran's mind; he'd surely appreciate knowing his hard work has paid off.

Moran doesn't move to draw Will back in, keeping the distance Will himself has imposed. Instead, he lets his head tilt downward slightly, maintaining the lounging position that had first allowed for Will to slot comfortably against his side not even an hour ago.

"Almost a shame I never cottoned on." The facts of the situation don't really matter, here—the Moran of the past probably never would have put two and two together, nor would he have reacted well to that sort of revelation. Being well past that point, though, there's no need to dwell on the time he'd missed with the sort of frustrated regret he'd already stewed in when he first realized the depths of his own feelings for Will. It's more fulfilling to toy with that idea than to curse himself out retroactively. "Think I'd have liked to catch you staring, sometime. You're not nearly embarrassed enough nowadays about being caught."

It really isn't just for the sake of embarrassing Will that he's dragging this out, though. Back then, Moran would have balked at the very idea that Will's feelings were so resolutely fixed on him—but now, today, Moran finds himself ravenously hungry for every little detail about Will's thoughts from back then. He thinks, if he plays his cards right, he could get Will to spill at least some parts of it.

He leans even further back, so his jaw rests on the knuckles of his bad hand, propped up itself on the arm of the sofa. His eyes don't leave Will; there's nothing else worth looking at.

"We weren't exactly starved for time alone," he points out, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I spent more hours than I could count in your study. I'd wager you were only pretending to get lost in your books, half the time. Knowing what I do now about your thoughts."

[ostiinati]

Will is far from ignorant of the fact that, had Moran caught on back in those days, Will’s feelings for him would have gone over exceedingly poorly. Truth be told, he had known that even from the start— back when adolescent infatuation with the idea of someone ‘like Moran’ had first given way to the yearning of a young man who’s heart had set itself completely upon someone entirely out of his reach.

At the time, Will had told himself in no uncertain terms that it was not to be, and for far more reasons than Moran’s most likely unfavorable reaction, at that. But looking, thinking, perhaps a touch of daydreaming— none of that would hurt, now would it? Well, no one but himself, anyway. It was a sacrifice that he was willing to make, at the time, and one he would never fully tear himself away from making again and again as the years passed.

It throws the reality of being here, together with him in ways that William used to believe would only ever occur in his mind, into skin-tingling sharpness. Faced with having to answer for the thoughts and feelings which had gripped him even all that time ago, face to face with the very man whom they always inevitably took the shape of— it’s more than enough to make him want to squirm under Moran’s gaze. Even aware, as he is, that Moran most certainly would not have liked anything of the sort, William’s heart races against his ribs with the knowledge that he is clearly more than happy to entertain such suggestions now.

The facts of the past mean very little in the face of the facts of the present.

And in the present, the look in Moran’s eyes pins him in place— not that he has any true desire to extricate himself from said place. Even if it comes at the expense of his own balance, Will loves the way this victory looks on Moran. He finds himself staring at the curve of his mouth, the languid settling of his posture, the way the dim light Will was reading by now plays across Moran a thousand times more enticing than it had looked while touching the pages of his book. The shade of satisfaction that gaining the upper hand paints him in leaves William breathless— and with Moran seemingly miraculously having learned the wonders of patience since their last entanglement, he is given plenty of time to savor it in the moment.

Will thinks that he might be all too happy to have his weak points exposed if it comes with seeing him like this— not to mention experiencing the soul-deep heat that rushes straight through his veins in response to the fact that Moran seems to have no interest at all in looking anywhere but at him.

In this moment, drawn out rather than surged into, Moran’s attention is entirely his, and it makes something inside Will dizzy with the want for more of that.

Of course, this realization doesn’t make navigating his own fumbling any easier— the more Moran implies, the more old fantasies Will’s memory drags to the surface, and suddenly focusing on maintaining any scrap of his dignity is an even greater challenge than before.

“Well…I was certainly lost in something—” Will manages, with no small amount of sheepishness in his attempted quip. The cheekiness does nothing for the warmth in his face, nor the warmth beneath his skin as his cursedly vivid thoughts begin to take their liberties. He shuts his book and sets it aside, settling into his chosen place on the couch, one leg crossing over the other.

His body remains turned towards Moran, engaged even as he does his part to maintain the distance— anticipation, tension; though he is far from having a grip strong enough for proper seduction with his mind in the tailspin Moran has thrown it into, he can certainly still take part in the dance— however clumsy he may feel in it.

“Trust me, Sebastian, I am well aware of the amount of time we spent in close proximity. You made it…infinitely difficult to focus— not that that’s changed…” Will’s teeth catch lightly at the flesh of his lower lip for only a brief moment, as if trying to keep himself from voicing the only coherent words that seem to want to find their way to the tip of his tongue. Alas, “I— spent far more time than I’d like to admit sneaking glances while you weren’t looking…the thought of you catching me did cross my mind— though it didn’t exactly inspire me to stop. As much as I love my books they didn’t exactly hold the same, ah…sort of appeal.”

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati ( will ) → ( closed starter - sebastian moran )

The manor's quiet when Moran and Will make their way back, as it usually is these days now that the two of them have more or less got it to themselves. Will still hosts his brothers and Moran still hosts pretty much exclusively Fred, but it's become the sort of environment that's largely only shared between the two of them. And the large, empty halls aren't so bad when neither of them are particularly inclined to wander them alone.

There'd usually be more light conversation between them at a time like this—and there certainly has been light conversation passed between them on the way back—but Moran's mind is stuck firmly elsewhere.

It had been something Albert said.

Moran still doesn't particularly like Albert, and he probably never will, but the accord they've come to in recent times allows for at least begrudgingly polite conversation; Moran doesn't find excuses to make himself scarce the moment Albert shows his mug at any given setting the way he used to, nor does he fill their conversations with drinks. For Albert's part, he's deigned to sometimes engage Moran in conversations that are seriously worth having, instead of giving him a relentlessly difficult time over just about everything.

It's not friendship, but Albert must have been in a particularly good mood on this particular visit—or his choice of usual target had just magnanimously shifted over to Will, who's almost definitely none-the-wiser to the way he's been betrayed.

Albert, swirling his wine idly in its glass, had offhandedly commented about their relationship, in that tone Moran knew well enough by now due to his time spent on the recieving end of it. Moran had actually expected some jab directed his way, but Albert's gaze had instead shifted over to Will, who had been happily engaged in conversation with Louis at the time, and he'd said—

—I'm very happy to see the two of you together like this. I'm aware William has been carrying quite a large torch for you for about a decade, now.

Moran hadn't asked Albert to elaborate any further, having been caught in his own little reckoning. Certainly, Moran knew Will had been quicker on the uptake of his own feelings than himself, but he'd assumed quite short-sightedly that those feelings had come to light after everything, when Moran had committed himself towalking the same path of quiet absolution Will had paved.

But there wouldn't have been any reason for Albert to lie. And when Will had returned to his side, later, offering his usual contented smile when Moran routinely and still somewhat-awkwardly offered an arm for him to take, the reasons to doubt Albert seemed even slimmer.

It made sense, really. It made a lot of sense.

It's only when they're well and truly settled into the gathering's aftermath in the slightly-dim sitting room, Will using the nearby lamplight to read a book and Moran as a glorified pillow, that Moran decides he's let the matter stew for long enough to ask Will his questions directly.

"Your brother told me something interesting today," Moran comments, watching Will's lithe fingers smoothly and dexterously turn a page in his book. He'd been deliberately vague—it's not often, after all, that he finds himself with the upper hand over Will in situations like these. Even a shoddy tactician knows to make the most of their every advantage. "'About a decade', was it?"

It's likely he'll know what Moran means even with only that little. Thankfully, continued secrecy wasn't ever going to be in the cards, here and now.

[ostiinati]

Focused as he is on the printed words before him, Will nearly misses the ones that Moran injects into the air. ‘Nearly’ being the operative word, of course— with the way he lies against him, there’s no chance for Will to truly miss the rumble of his lover’s voice in his chest, and from there it takes only an extra second of mental track-switching for him to catch up. As his mind unwinds itself from his book to settle properly upon what Moran has said, however, Will’s fingers twitch and stall against his spot on the page. Current paragraph all but forgotten, the only words that exist now are the ones his soldier has slipped slyly into the quiet aftermath of the evening’s gathering.

Suddenly, this single query has taken up residence quite solidly in Will’s thoughts and expanded itself to the point where there is no corner it fails to reach— no spare space that it does not greedily fill.

Your brother told me something interesting today, Moran’s voice rings through the halls of his mind, and William knows that he must mean Albert. He knows better than to believe his initial infatuation with Sebastian Moran had gone unnoticed by either of his incredibly intelligent and observant brothers, and it was certainly not possible, then, that they had overlooked the tragically helpless development of said infatuation into first love— into only love.

But Louis would never betray him like this, so it must have been Albert.

Many times over the last decade of his life, Will had looked at Moran and thought, ‘if only you knew.’— yet, now that he does know, Will finds himself scrambling to regain his balance. Moran is not the sort to squander an advantage, and thanks to Albert he has been handed one that the consultant is woefully unprepared to answer for.

The second hand of the sitting room’s grandfather clock ticks over and William’s briefly stalled processes resume with a heated bloom of color burning its way into his cheeks. His throat feels dry as he fumbles for something, anything, to say in response that might have even a semblance of grace, but he comes up short.

He cannot feign ignorance now, either, and he knows it. Moran is already well aware that he knows what’s being asked after. A faint laugh, awkward and far too breathless, flutters past his lips, followed by a primly deliberate clearing of his throat.

“Ah…That is— so very interesting. That he would tell you that…”

His eyes fix firmly onto the page he had previously been content to read, and yet now that this hangs between them, it’s as if Will has forgotten how to read entirely. The words crash, entirely futile, against the warm wall of flustered distress that has been raised between them and his consciousness and dissipate into nothing.

Deciding that attempting to continue to read is an altogether useless ploy at distraction, Will shifts from his resting place against Moran, instead. He sits up and turns towards him, reaching across him for the bookmark he’s left upon the arm of the sofa on Moran’s opposite side. Face feeling much like it might catch fire at any moment, William’s gaze remains resolutely fixed ahead of himself— hiding his own reactions is unlikely to be very effective, if at all, but catching sight of the look he knows must wait for him on Moran’s face would make things undeniably worse.

Half-leaning over him, Will’s fingers find purchase on the scrap of fabric that he’s looking for and he begins to retreat, moving to slip it in between the pages of that evening’s chosen tome. A frazzled attempt at normalcy, rendered ineffective by the way his fingers fidget— by the red beginning to climb from his cheeks into the tips of his ears.

“You— well…— I fear it would be pointless for me to attempt to refute that…I have been—” Brows furrowing delicately, Will’s eyes flit— against their better judgment— so that his good one can sneak a glimpse at Moran’s face. It’s a mistake, of course. His lips part soundlessly around an intelligent response that flees him without making itself known, leaving him to swallow and trip over whatever words he has left instead.

It is exceedingly rare for William to find himself at such a loss. Indeed, Moran is the sole person to have ever achieved it to such a degree— a fact that struck Will like a train, originally, as Moran grew more forward with his charm the more confident he became within the earlier stages of their relationship.

Just when I thought I was finally getting used to you.

Truly, this evening is one of myriad betrayals.

“You have…occupied my thoughts for… quite some time, yes.”

[mnemoniics]

@ostiinati said → " i know you're planning your escape. " (Will for Moran, probably relating to chores lmao) ( src. / accepting. )

"—Fuck!"

Will has an uncanny way of making silent entrances when he wants to, and Moran's not yet used to being able to be snuck up on at the best of times. There'd been a moment, however brief, where the stringent line of tension from the usually-dull horror of experience had jerked his head around like a puppeteer, hand twitching but not quite moving towards the ever-present pistol kept tucked safely away under his coat.

There's a certain degree of shame that comes with having been caught unawares, and a greater one that comes with his reactions. Sure, they'd have kept him alive if it were some ambushing attacker, but it's only Will. He knows it's only Will.

He settles back down into an irritated scowl like a cat lowering its hackles—the moment of agitation, having been present, doesn't leave him entirely. There's an edge to his posture where there hadn't been before as he resolutely avoids looking at the estate's side door, through which Moran had intended to cut and run.

"You can be an eerie little fucker when you want," Moran mutters, instinctively and unconsciously reaching for the other reprieve he keeps under his coat—his cigarettes, and the half-empty matchbox stashed away with them. Smoking usually helps him let go of his agitation. "I was just going out for a drink."

Regardless of the fact that he had planned to get a drink, the fact remains that he's running away from the chores Jack and the brothers intend on making him do. Will might be young, but he's far from stupid; Moran knows he'll see right through it, and is only banking on the thought that Will might let him get away with a bit of mild slacking anyway.

He lights up a match and a cigarette with the sort of fluid motion of someone who no longer needs to think about what they're doing.

"I'm no good for chores anyway. Louis was cross with me just last week about my shoddy work with the sitting room—do we really want a repeat of that?"

[ostiinati]

Jack has taught him well in matters of maximizing the effect of his already light steps. Moving quietly through a space has always been a necessity, after all— in the streets of Whitechapel, in the original Moriarty estate, and once he and his brothers began their first round of training under the deadly veteran-turned-butler. It has been several years since that introduction, now, and their Maestro has spent the those years polishing that foundation in all of them until it gleams as it does now, like the knives he started them all out with.

William’s time at university never calls much upon the talent, however, and nor does the above-table day to day life of the younger brother of Earl Moriarty. As such, he gets most of his practice while at home, even outside of his dedicated training hours. A rusted blade is one that will fail when needed most, and the opportunity to turn it to the purpose of interrupting Moran’s retreat from their more mundane daily tasks is too tempting to pass up.

Still, though, it hadn’t been Will’s intention to startle Moran quite so badly— only to catch him red-handed and off-guard in his attempt to flee the scene. It is impossible for him to overlook the tension that shoots through the man the instant that Will announces his presence, though. For a moment, it’s etched into every line of him— in the sharpness of his turn, in the flex of his hand— and Will understands immediately that he’s done wrong.

Rather than flinching back, as perhaps most others might, Will’s own expression softens easily without a hint of reproach for the man’s sharp response, but no small amount of guilt. He lifts his eyes up to face the scowl on the soldier’s face, even as Moran’s frustrated chagrin seeps into the simmering aftermath of that initial strain, and offers him an apologetic smile— A peace offering, as well as a declaration of fault.

“I’m sorry, Colonel Moran,” He takes the harshness of the man’s language and overall comment in stride— Will understands now that he’s earned it. “I do hope you’ll forgive the carelessness in my approach, I shall endeavor not to sneak up on you like that in the future.”

Scarlet eyes flick towards the side door— no doubt the route Moran had been planning to take originally, where his gaze now resolutely avoids. It leads out into the…West garden? And then from there, there’s certainly a gate that leads into the front exterior…somewhere? It’s a bit roundabout, but thanks to that he stands less of a risk of being seen and stopped. Will supposes that was the part of the plan he threw a wrench into.

“Louis will be cross with you this week for your lack of work in general, shoddy or otherwise, and one type of crossness is certain to be worse than the other. I believe you know as much, too, so if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that you’re only attempting to appeal to me with that sort of reasoning. I’m afraid that, if you intend to stay, you’ll have to help us around the estate sometimes…” Will’s attention catches upon the movement of Moran striking his match against its pack and lingers upon the red-orange flame that hisses and flares into life at its end. His eyes track its flickering shape as the man lights up his cigarette, casting his face in the warm glow only briefly before the moment passes, replaced shortly by an extinguished match and the first light gray wisps of smoke.

(Will thinks it must steady him, with the way he reaches for it. Funny, ever since Will had picked up his own habit for them, cigarettes had always felt like a punishment. Like burning from the inside out.)

“…How about we make a deal?” William makes his own way towards the side door, issuing an invitation to follow with a tilt of his head, his smile taking on a conspiratorial playfulness to brighten his previous contrition. “I prefer to smoke outside. If you’ll grant me a cigarette and match from your supply, I would be content to consider your obligations met for the day— with no need for me to mention your early departure to anyone, of course.”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i mean to learn what it's like to be free." ( louis to mycroft ) ( src. // accepting )

Not for the first time, Louis James Moriarty surprises him. Mycroft does not consider himself an easy man to surprise— not by any means. Indeed, it has long been the source of his disillusionment with social interaction. Is anything worth conversing about when he can glean the answer himself without nearly as much ado?

Yet, this man— the current ‘M’, as Mycroft declared him in the aftermath— has never fallen into the painfully predictable lines. Since the moment they met, though no introduction was made by the youngest of the three Moriarty brothers, Louis has stood out like a beacon in Mycroft’s mind. It was plain to see, even then, that there was much more to him than the shadows in which he stood, yet what that ‘more’ was lay obscured from even Mycroft’s scrutiny. It was more than likely that even Louis himself did not know the extent of his own potential. It was…intriguing. And even now, he still retains that intrigue in a way other people so seldom do.

Mycroft is not an emotionally driven person— at least, he has trained himself to avoid such things when possible. He does not offer Louis the head position of MI6 out of courtesy. It has nothing to do with the fact that they both now shoulder the sins of their family lines, nor the fact that both of their greatest wishes have fallen like stones into the Thames. (Unwilling as he is to think on that in any circumstance other than the cold isolation of his own home, with nowhere left to put those thoughts but at the forefront of his mind.)

Mycroft offered him this place because he believes in the unknown he has glimpsed lurking in this man. He believes that Louis will not let it go to waste— a belief that has not, thus far, been disappointed. There is a determination in the man, despite his inexperience in the spotlight, and in spite of everything, Mycroft is looking forward to seeing where that determination will lead.

It’s today, as the recent debriefing comes to a close that Mycroft surprises himself. Instead of the usual ‘Well done, M. You are free to take your leave.’, he reaches for further conversation. He asks a question that he doesn’t already know the answer to.

What is it that you mean to do in this life, if I may ask?

There is nothing more unexpected to him than Louis’ answer.

I mean to learn what it's like to be free.

When he considers it from the perspective of all he has seen of Louis, the declaration suits him— yet it was an unfathomable response to Mycroft all the same. After all, he had never associated the life he lives— the life he is inviting Louis to live— with freedom. No matter the eventual benefits that came along with every scrap of power common-born Mycroft Holmes was able to sink his claws into until he held it all, it was always a cage— a chain he had fashioned to suit himself, rather than the life he would have chosen, had he been granted any other option.

Even now, he is not free. He never truly will be.

However, it is thanks to that first proper meeting with the Moriarty brothers all that time ago that he was ever even given a taste. For the first time, a choice had been presented to him— a choice only he could make. In that moment, he decided what he would do— on no one’s decree but his own.

Perhaps that is what this is to Louis, now. Perhaps here, he sees a way forward into the beginnings of a change— one that lies entirely in his hands. Perhaps he does not yet know what it will look like, but perhaps the ‘freedom’ is in the finding out.

“I see…” For the first time since the fall, Mycroft’s voice lacks the subtle despondency that often (more and more often these days) takes root within it. There is a life that sparks into being, understated and sharply controlled as it may be, in the deep notes that give shape to his interest. He sits straighter behind his desk, hands folding on its surface, as his eyes sweep over Louis’ face— not searching, not scrutinizing, but something… else. Wondering, perhaps— as unfamiliar as it feels, it must be.

The clock ticks over the hour silently in the corner of Mycroft’s office, its chime having long been disabled to preserve the sanctity of his own peace, and with a soft exhale, the embodiment of the government rises to his feet to begin gathering his things. It’s late— it is always late by the time he takes his leave, and there is no doubt in his mind that he’ll be working on something at the manor for many more hours to come.

And yet his eyes linger, unbidden, on where Louis stands, and still he doesn’t dismiss him.

“…Such a thing would suit you.” He states instead, matter-of-factly, as if any words of conversation from him are not exceedingly rare— let alone those of such a personal nature. “I must confess that I look forward to seeing what answers you are able to find. I would… not be opposed to further discussion with you.”