dean had always been in love with sammy, his sweet baby brother who always doted on him and put him up on a pedestal. of course it felt nice, who wouldnt appreciate that kind of thing? especially with how starved he was of anything even close with john.
he was obviously disappointed when sam grew out of it, when he grew up. but dean knew that it wasnt fair to feel any kind of way about that, and did his best to move on by staring at girls whenever his brain wanted to run twenty different tracks of ‘sammysamsamuelsamantha’ which ended up being all the time.
he could tell sam was fed up with it, thought he was just being a gross teenager who wanted to fuck anything that moved. dean felt bile burn at his esophagus as he’d chuckle, playing it off as he kicked sam under the table and stole a fry from his barely twelve year old brother, making some dumb comment thats just a variant on how sam would get it when he was older.
he hoped sam would never understand it, the bitter aftertaste of shame from the jealousy from somebody sams own age looking at him with more than a base interest. it was sick, he’d been the one to feed the kid applesauce and off brand goldfish and wipe his spit up with not much worse than a grimace at the sticky feeling.
now sam is fifteen, and all dean can wonder is if his skin is still as soft as it was a decade ago when john still let them sleep in the same bed and sit too close together
On the evening of the Nein's return to Xhorhas, Essek finds himself wandering past their door again, searching for... well, if he knew the answer to that question, this would all be so much simpler.
Basically, Essek and the M9 hang out, because this poor boy deserves a break. Also on Ao3.
-----
With all likelihood, they won’t even be there.
The Mighty Nein are just as likely to have returned to the Empire by now as to have stayed the night in Rosohna, Essek reasons, even as the inescapably logical portion of his mind soundly rejects the hypothesis.
(They said they were for us, for the Dynasty, and even if most of them are from the Empire…
And even if…)
It’s just a walk, is his second justification. A chance to clear my mind. He has work to do – reports piling up on his desk, people to message before the day is done – but he can spare fifteen minutes, surely, to breath in the night air and recenter himself. It might make him more productive when he returns to his study, and at the same time he can check for watchers-on in the vicinity of the house, or any sign of illicit activity. While he does not think anyone would openly accost sanctioned guests of the Bright Queen, these are strange times, and it does not hurt to be cautious.
Excuses continue to float through his mind as Essek approaches the halo of luminescent light that radiates from the guardian tree upon the house’s apex. The sound of caterwauling – in every sense of the word - meets his ears.
Home, then, Essek thinks, then corrects himself. Still here. The Mighty Nein have not yet returned to Rexxentrum, and any would-be lurkers have doubtless been chased off by the awful din emanating from the house. No reason to stay any longer.
At his own home, the work is waiting. It is always waiting: an inescapable, immovable mountain of tasks, no matter how much he chips away at the foundation. One night of neglect, and it will all come crashing down on his head – or, at least, it often feels that way.
Five minutes more. He’ll walk past the door, and then return. By this point, the path to the house is practically on the way. A justifiable excuse to continue walking.
Five minutes more.
The cobblestone reflects the faint daylight that drifts from the tree to the street below. It burns faintly against Essek’s skin – not quite strong enough to damage the tissue, but enough to be a constant aggravation. He’d thought at first the magic was a deterrent, meant to keep unwanted drow from snooping about. But now, he suspects the Mighty Nein were simply ignorant of the effect it would have on their neighbours, as they are ignorant of most everything that lives within Xhorhas.
That willful lack of prudence should be frustrating – after all, he is tasked with ensuring the group assimilates, to some degree– but their carelessness seems only to add to his hopeless endearment with each passing day.
And after all, some of the dens in the area could stand to experience a little discomfort now and then.
He’s by the door now, close enough to look through one of the windows if he so chose. Close enough to knock. Which is a foolish idea. An utterly foolish idea.
He has so much work to do.
Almost anything else would be preferable.
His hand finds the doorframe almost of its own will, and he can scarcely believe what he’s done as he draws back, the echo of his rapping knuckles against the wood fading away.
He stares at his traitorous hand. Surely, the sound was drowned out in the rest of the noise, he thinks wildly. The instruments haven’t ceased their wailing, at least. Surely, he still has time to-
Ting-a-ling-a-ling.
The door cracks open, revealing a sliver of green skin near waist level. Yellow eyes blink up at him. He blinks back.
“Guys?” Nott calls over her shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Essek’s here!”
The music finally stops, and Essek has no rational explanation why his heart feels suddenly too weighty for his ribs to contain.
A flurry of footsteps, and then the door is swinging fully open, and there are four of the Nein staring out at him. Beau, and Fjord, and hovering in the background, Caduceus, with a flute of bone and pearl still dangling in his fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Beau asks, already pressing forward past the others. “Did something happen?”
Right, he thinks. Right, that would be the assumption, as he tries to come up with some excuse, any excuse for his presence that isn’t in the shape of ‘it seemed less agonizing than heading home’.
“My apologies,” he says, bowing his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was only hoping to borrow Caleb for an hour or so?” Beau’s eyes narrow, and Essek searches for his next words, the right ones to justify himself. To de-escalate the mess he created. “Since your group might not be back in Rosohna for some time, I thought we might take the opportunity to squeeze in one more lesson. Assuming Caleb is interested, of course.”
Good. Plausible. And knowing Caleb, an undeniable lure. The correct thing to say, even if Essek’s heart clenches in his chest all the more to know he’s drawing the man away from his friends for the evening, all to bolster his own pointless deception. He’s seen the bags under Caleb’s eyes. He deserves to relax for a night, as much as any man. And still, Essek is selfish, and he cannot take back the words now he’s said them.
Beau considers for a moment, then glances down at Nott, who looks back at Essek with unveiled suspicion, and he is suddenly and violently reminded that however much he has observed this group, they have been observing him in turn.
The thought is… not pleasant.
“Nah,” says Beau. “Fuck that shit.” Then she grabs Essek by the arm and pulls him through the door. “Caleb’s spent the last two days stuck in the library with me. Your little lesson can wait until the band’s finished, at least.” Fjord jabs her in the ribs as they pass him by, and a smile materializes on Beau’s face, one that more closely resembles a pained grimace. “Oh yeah, come on in, welcome to our home, whatever.” Beau glares at Fjord. “Do I have to do this every time?”
“No formalities are necessary,” Essek assures her, and takes his arm back before she can feel the escalating rate of his pulse through his sleeve. Which is, again, a foolish reaction. He has no reason to feel anxious. The Dynasty granted the Nein this house, it’s as much his right to be there as theirs, but he still isn’t sure how he ended up in this position. How all his individual actions could have led to this moment, to him being pulled into an open space of haphazard pillows and mismatched furniture arranged in a semi-circle around a still-seated Yasha and Jester. Caduceus rejoins the pair, and Beau directs him to the spot on the floor next to where Caleb sits cross-legged with his cat in his lap. He balances a closed book on one knee, like he meant to open it and got distracted somewhere in the effort.
Caleb looks up, taking in Essek’s presence with a little surprised oh that becomes a welcoming nod, and that too is endearing, and Essek should not be here. He is meant to be at home, finishing his work, ensuring all is ready for the days to come.
“I’m sorry,” he begins to say, readying the next excuse on his lips, when Caleb’s hand finds his sleeve and pulls him down to the floor. And, light guide him, he goes.
He allows himself to be manoeuvred onto a cushion, seated with legs bowed slightly to the left as the trio resumes their playing. Nott still shoots him the occasional suspicious look from Caleb’s other side, but the rest of the Nein seem… strangely comfortable with his alien presence in their midst. He is considerably less comfortable to find himself there.
This whole circumstance is beneath him. If someone from the Bright Queen’s council were to see him here, in such an undignified position as this, he’d be laughed out of the throne room. To be taken seriously has been a decades-long endeavour, in light of his age and his as-of-yet unconsecuted status. He knows there are still those who would jump at the chance to embarrass him for less than this, if it meant elevating their own status.
And yet, he accepts a lukewarm cocktail from Beau when offered, and listens all the way to the end of the ‘song’, if it can be called that. Caleb’s presence at his side is an ever-nagging thought, prodding at him from all angles, and that too is an impropriety he should not indulge. Has not indulged. Has been very careful not to indulge, for many, many weeks.
(There are many things he knows, that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. He does not intend to make his own feelings one of them.)
The music ends, and he is immediately smothered in attention. Jester’s voice rings the loudest, pressing over the others with adulation and excitement that makes his (recently, near-constant) headache start to surge.
And it’s Caleb, of all people, who takes his sleeve again and draws him away from the clamour.
“We will be back,” he assures the rest, “but I believe you had something to show me?”
He leads Essek down the stairs, towards the basement library where they’ve spent the majority of their time together. His mouth runs drier with every step.
He made a promise of more, when he arrived, and now he must honour it, but there haven’t been the proper preparations this time. Essek is walking himself out on a narrow limb at an already precarious time, and if he teaches Caleb yet another unapproved spell tonight, he may find himself tipping the balance. The Bright Queen still doesn’t trust the Nein, after all they’ve done.
And he, so, so foolishly, does.
They stop just inside the door. Caleb closes it, and Essek swallows down the tightness in his throat. With his back ramrod straight, he has a good few inches over Caleb, and his posture is always pristine. He still looks the part of the confident tutor, and that is all that matters.
“So,” says Caleb, “what are we going to study tonight?”
The brightness is still there in his expression, the eagerness mixed with no small hint of fear, as Caleb makes himself vulnerable before Essek’s eyes. He makes himself vulnerable, as much as Essek makes himself imposing, and he wonders if Caleb has realized the same thing about him yet – whether only Essek has been watching closely for the tricks of the trade. They understand each other too well. They have known the same sort of training, have lived very different but somehow parallel lives.
They are complicit in their dishonesty, and Essek is abruptly tired of it, so very tired of everything that is involved in this dance of mutual manipulation. He is tired.
“Nothing,” says Essek. “My apologies, yet again. I should not have come.”
Caleb’s hand is on his arm once more, and the touch burns right through his cloak, through his skin, all the more painful for how much he wants to let it linger. It feels different than the tension that courses through his limbs, and he has wanted nothing else, through the last few weeks of escalating demands and endless worry and impossible tasks, to feel different. It’s comforting, and awful, and he doesn’t want to remove the hand, and hates himself for not having the same willpower he did in the forest – the last time Caleb attempted the same.
He wants to think that the touch is genuine, but wanting is not the same as believing. This – this thing between the two of them – is still work, of a sort, and pretending it is anything else would be a betrayal. It would be a betrayal of his queen, of himself, and even of Caleb, who is working as hard as him, though towards an end Essek has never been able to fully pin down.
“Should we sit?” Caleb offers, and Essek finally removes his eyes from the lingering hand, the one he has not yet managed to shrug off. They find Caleb’s, and there’s a different sort of vulnerability living behind them now – uncertainty, yes, but also understanding, and no small measure of determination. “It was too loud up there for my tastes. Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.”
Still, Caleb looks at Essek, and squeezes his arm gently as a small, self-deprecating smile ghosts his lips. He saw my discomfort, Essek thinks. He noticed, and offered me an escape.
What does he expect in return?
Essek does his best to mirror Caleb’s expression, to keep the dance going, but can’t quite make the same light appear in his own eyes. There have been too many sleepless nights to fake another expression of certainty he doesn’t feel, and he doesn’t know what Caleb hopes to see anyway, so really, what’s the point, of any of it?
His inner voice is petulant to his own ears, and he chides himself even as he surrenders to it. One does not remain the Shadowhand by dropping their guard at a whim. It’s his duty to maintain his own composure, regardless of any feelings he might hold. It’s his responsibility. It’s-
“-alright,” Caleb is calling up the stairs. “We’ll be up soon, Nott!” He looks back at Essek. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says more quietly. When did Caleb become this confident? When did their roles reverse?
And Essek still can’t spot where the manipulation hides.
It scares him, more than the thought that he might have missed a tell, the notion that this might not be a game after all. That Caleb might be honest – at least here, at least now – in his intentions.
After all, the Mighty Nein – to a fault, admittedly – seem to land within the realm of overbearing honesty. When Jester asked about his mother’s name earlier in the evening, he forgot to be suspicious of her reason for asking. When Beau offered him a glass, he did not think to check for poison lacing the rim. If Caleb touches his arm in a comforting manner, can he believe that too?
If there is a proper manner to forming… honest relationships, he is sorely out of practice. But the alternative is to remain on guard for the rest of eternity, and more and more, he’s beginning to suspect he won’t survive to his first consecution, if he doesn’t find a way to relieve the constant pressure in his chest, the kind that reminds him that every word must be carefully considered. That anything less than perfection could mean the end of his career, his status, the very future of his soul.
(There are times, when he sits at his desk and puts his head in his hands, and tastes the sourness on his own quickening breath, that he wonders if this body is already falling apart from the inside.)
“Thank you,” he says at last, and puts his hand over Caleb’s – not to draw it away, but to press his own fingers down. To squeeze back.
He’s not wearing gloves. It has been an age since he’s felt another’s skin against his own. He’s almost not sure what to make of the sensation, at first. But Essek finds he doesn’t want to let go, and Caleb doesn’t force him to. No expectations. No exchange. Just a small moment of comfort, the first he’s allowed himself in a long while.
Essek almost lets himself believe, as he chances one more glance into Caleb’s eyes before pulling away, that it was a comfort for them both.
They return upstairs, in the end, and Essek stays for another hour of socialization more. He dances around the edge of Jester’s more personal questions, but answers a few of the less intrusive ones. He compliments the unnerving beauty of Yasha’s new harp, and receives a soft smile in return. He finds himself laughing at Fjord’s dry humour, and the sound catches him off-guard, for being the second time he’s heard it leave his mouth today.
He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed – at least, not without flattery as the main objective. Perhaps a little too much honesty has seeped into his blood now, because it feels worryingly natural to be easy in their company.
That’s another thing he’s scarcely remembered – that some things could be easy.
At last, he begs off to return home, and they all bid him farewell at the door. Even Nott gives him a little wave, and he waves back before heading off into the night.
When he opens the door to his home, his servants greet him immediately, take his coat, beckon him towards his study. The world grows narrow again as the new words filter in amidst the resumed rushing in his ears, -needs a response by the morrow- and he agrees without fully hearing the request.
If it must be done by tomorrow, he will get it done. There is no other option. And he does, along with every other task that cannot wait. Then he looks at the stack of scrolls on his desk.
It will continue to grow if he leaves it, and there are still a few hours yet till morning-
Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.
Essek shakes his head, and looks again at the stack.
They will still be here tomorrow.
…It can wait.
Though morning still comes too soon, Essek finds it easier to drift off to sleep tonight than usual.
He may be foolish, but he’s not so naïve that he doesn’t realize the reason why.
I love the way your lips are shaped
And I adore your metallic hair which screams
Coolness, distance;
Your gestures, and vocals, it’s something to crave.
I love your more colloquial speech-
Natural, and soft, like you.
Although you come across aloof,
But it’s so sweet, and I’m sure you don’t mean it.
Those eyes that stare so blankly-
So black, and dark.
Gosh,
Why have I fallen for somebody so unreachable?
I love the way you appear,
But do I really?
I love your temperament,
But do I really?
Sometimes when we cross gazes,
Perhaps it be in the hallway or in class,
I get a flutter-
A cynical flutter that cries for notice.
Perhaps in one of our last days
We will share wistful glances outside the exam hall
And silently speak to each other with our eyes
That it is sweet, but impossible.
