victory_road | I trust that this is worth it, but (closed)

Entry tags:

I trust that this is worth it, but (closed)

Who: Dirk Strider and Emet-Selch
Where: Dirk's suite at the rocket base
When: Forward dated 9/11
Summary: Dirk and Emet are returning from going to the theater together, Emet has some bad news...
Rating: pg-13 cuz Dirk's got a dirty mouth and there's bound to be cussing.

It had been a perfect evening. At least, on the surface it would seem that way. Certainly, Dirk had been gracious enough to agree to go to the theater, to watch a play with Hades, to indulge one of his greatest passions. The play in question had been this universe's version of Hippolytus, comically named Hipponytas. Besides the universe specific touches, it otherwise played out pretty damn accurately to that which had been familiar to Hades himself (though of course names were different, and certain contexts changed), as well as the play that Dirk might have read about in his high-rise oceanic prison back on Earth. If he ever did.

If the play didn't pull Dirk in, then Hades' own reactions would likely do the job. Truly, it was like he was transported to another reality as he watched it, as he beheld the spectacle. So attuned to it with his emotions, so captured by the performance which was surprisingly good. Throughout it there were times his gloved hand would find Dirk's own, holding it silently as his gaze stayed transfixed on the drama.

Small gestures that seem to show that while he is utterly enraptured in what's before him, he has not forgotten Dirk. In fact, if anything at all, his company makes the experience all the better. All the more meaningful, and the freedom to express that while appeasing Dirk's need for privacy is why he shelled out the dough to get them box seats.

By the end of the performance, it's rather clear that Hades has enjoyed it—even if he has some criticisms that was less with the actors, and more with the cultural changes done to the performance he knows so well, but...there's little to be done about it. That, and its importance paled in comparison to the emotions swirling inside of him as they made their way back to Dirk's. He could have suggested his place, it would have been a little less weird going to the radio tower at this time of time, dressed how he is, with knee high leather boots, and form-fitting black pants to match, but...

The fact Dirk had joined him as he did, paired with the honesty and trust that Dirk has repeatedly placed in him, is what pushed him to decide that Dirk's own residence would be best. He wants him to be comfortable, somewhere that might bring him more ease when he speaks to him about what he must. What's been eating at him for a while now, pushed to the back of his mind, but with each continued act of loyalty by his lover, it ever pushes itself forward. But mostly, it would give Dirk somewhere he could stay, instead of being forced to leave should this go poorly, which it likely would.

'You know you can tell me anything'

A phrase that has been stuck in his head for...far too long. The guilt it inspired has stayed just as long. It does not lessen even now, as they stand in Dirk's den, decorated with his passions, his quirks, his love. Pale eyes scanning the area, taking in the details of it as he looks anywhere but at Dirk, the guilt starting to permeate his expression, and he knows it. A sharp twinge in his chest manifesting the moment his eyes fall to the Amaurotine puppet, and perhaps that's what finally bids him to speak of the matter.

Gaze fixing on Dirk, he offers him a soft and solemn smile as he does not move from his place at the door.

"I cannot thank you enough for joining me this evening, truly it means more to me than you may imagine," he begins, and while he does sound as grateful as he's implying, there's tinge of sorrow to his tone. The telling slight quaver to his voice that his expression does a poor job of combating.

"However, it would be remiss of me to pretend there has not been something troubling me. Something you should be made aware of, and as you told me once before, I know well I can tell you anything, yes?"

He's not...trying to be manipulative here, and he's certainly not trying to imply that Dirk has no right to be angry with what he's about to say. In fact, he hopes he is, he hopes he feels...something. Shows something, anything. Dirk hides so much, but he shouldn't hide this.

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The play was pretty fascinating, as an experience. He wouldn't have complained (much) regardless (at least, he'd have kept his criticisms as minimal as he ever does), but theatre was one of those interests shared by Dirk and Hades both--and since Hades paid up for MVP status, it was almost homey, in a fucked-up kind of way.

As the play went on, though, Dirk found himself less fixed on the action than Hades. Maybe it was because Dirk found this form of theatre somewhat slower than he usually liked. Or maybe it was because he knew the play as it existed on old Earth, and so already knew what was going to happen, generally and specifically. While Hippolytus, now Hipponytus, was rich in both drama and pathos, the loss of suspense was still felt.

Dirk also had expected going in that there would be some... changes. He wasn't wrong, but even though he'd predicted them, they could be somewhat distracting. At least they also added element of excitement--not just in the knowing, but the added thrill of the occasional shared glance with Hades (as much as any glance could be shared through a pair of polarised shades), that synchronised moment of mutual awareness, the connection between them forged by an instant of joint recognition.

What he did not anticipate out of all of this was how utterly rapt Hades' attention would be, how devoted he would be to his love--

No, really. Dirk would have sympathised with a predilection for getting 'sucked in' to any media or activity that really spoke to his passions, and there's really no mistaking the intensity of Hades' concentration. But instead of forgetting Dirk in the thrill, Hades' hand keeps finding his at the oddest times--gratifying him, surprising him, warming him.

And by the end, he was watching Hades' face as much as the stage. There is something innately magnetic to him, a view riveting both in profile and in contrast with the stage lights, maybe just something about the sight of the man truly focused. It must be in the way Hades' august features change, detail by picoscopic detail, for an effect both minute and somehow simultaneously wholistic--

So, you know, that was more than all right with Dirk.

Dirk's assumption is that Hades chose his "place" for a reason, and that's all right with him, too. Walking back in the sticky summer air, with Hades in those tight pants and a perfectly tailored suit coat that does little to hide the shape and movement of his finer features.... there are layers to it, the way any really good time is never just about one sentence, or even all of them, not the ones you write down.

And just like all moments--

Just like any other good memory--

This one doesn't last.

Dirk grows aware, gradually and then less gradually, over the course of a short minute or two, of a gradual and then less gradual difference. The way Hades doesn't follow him in, not all the way, not the way he has been. The way his face is set, the expression suggestive of enjoyments neither past, present, nor future. The tone he takes, even before his words form an entire sentence, let alone an entire thought.

It's something Dirk senses, literally--his every sense alerting him to the mood, the simple 'fear' grown from 'dread,' the fear that grabs hus rogans in a violent fist and yanks them down into the bottom of his guts, the burning, all-encompasing heat that he becomes aware of retroactively, suffusing his body like a memory and a prediction. The breath he realises he never took--

Scenarios, answers, roar through his head, slamming into each other, piling up, stacking, a catastrophe of catastrophising, he doesn't love you, he doesn't love you enough, he's figured out how to leave and he's doing it alone, Hythlodaeus is just too much of a dealbreaker after all, you fucked it up, you fucked it up and you didn't even know, you fucked it up and you do know when and how, you do--

Dirk is prescient enough to know that the seconds as he feels them are not as many nor as long as the seconds as they truly pass.

"... yeah, I did say that." He breathes. He swallows nothing, his mouth and throat dry.

"This is sounding pretty serious, so let me sit down. Wouldn't want to treat this with anything less than the gravity it deserves."

What the fuck is he saying? Who cares if he's sitting. What's he going to do, have a fainting spell and swoon onto the goddamn mattress? Too late now. He's said it so now he has to pick a spot--if he takes the chair, it'll be less weird probably. But that also means Hades is trapped standing, unless he has some kind of breakdown... fuck it, bed it is. Who cares how big the height difference gets. Maybe Hades will sit down too and they can talk about this like actual adults. Wouldn't that be incredible.

He's stalling. His own brain is stalling him. Except he already ran himself out of stall.

"Now that I'm nice and comfy, let's get the proceedings in progress. What's on your mind?"

Edited 2020-09-02 07:42 (UTC)

This is utterly dreadful. Hardly the way he wished to end the evening. No, he had much rathered the idea of returning home (either his or Dirk's), and finishing an evening full of shared love and passion with, well, much the same. Merely less dressed, and decidedly less public.

Yet, here they are after a wonderful evening, one that had left him feeling...lighter than he had in a long, long time. Always did he enjoy himself at the theater, and sharing it with Dirk--like he had shared his own loves with him--had truly been a delight. It also was a grim reminder of the dishonesty he's been harboring for nearly as long as they have been together.

A dirty secret that he otherwise would not mind keeping, if not for...

The shifts in Dirk are as obvious to him as his own were to Dirk, and how he responds is in his usual calm and collected manner. As if nothing in the world could crack his resolve, but well did Hades know otherwise. That there were emotions, raw and sensitive, fiery and fragile, beneath that mask of stone. Behind those sharp shades that concealed more than his eyes, but the turbulent emotion within them.

As Dirk settles on the bed, for a moment he considers taking the chair, weighs the merits between it and staying where he is, and ultimately decides to take the chair. It is not for his own comfort, much rather for Dirk's. The tension is already palpable, and he can only imagine it would get worse if he continued to keep such distance between them.

He will...merely be ready to vacate it should it become necessary. Perhaps when it does.

"Indeed, it is a grim topic." As he speaks, he keeps an even tone, trained over the eons, yet there's still that genuine distress that's heard should someone pay close enough attention. Dirk probably is.

Being not a coward, he keeps his eyes on Dirk as he continues, as he formulates how to deliver this betrayal. One that has been on his mind for moons, but especially so when he read Dirk's tome. Of the warning Dirk had given him, the one he had not taken as seriously as he should.

"I wish to apologize to you. Ere I knew the true legitimacy of your claim to Godhood, of truly being my equal--the first I have encountered beyond Elidibus and Lahabrea in eons... Ere I knew that I would find myself so..." he cannot help but trail off there, his gaze faltering--not in shame, but in anguish, "enamored with you, I fear I made a grave error."

Here, he clasps his hands together, fingers laced as he leans on his knees, hands in front of him as his gaze lowers.

"Like so many times before, to achieve my goals I have manipulated mortals, used them as needs be, played the role they wished for me to fill--so they could unwittingly fill the role I likewise desired of them. This I had sought to do with you, though I had every intention of fulfilling my end of the bargain. Assisting you in your escape by no means would hamper mine by all logical stand points, however..."

Closing his eyes, his expression pulls into a disdained grimace. Shameful, remorseful, painful. After a moment, his jaw tight and clenched, he opens his pale eyes, looking at Dirk once more. Trying to get a read on his expression, on anything at all.

He doesn't wait long. He cannot. After all, he needs to fess up.

"Admittedly, when I sought to court you, it was under the assumption you were not truly the immortal you claimed to be. I indeed had interest in you, this I will not deny, but I had not taken such claims to loyalty as earnestly as I would have, had I been truly aware of the truth. 'Twas my hubris that lead me astray, but this is no excuse."

His chest hurts. It's all rather ridiculous, isn't it? Is he not too old for this? He has suffered enough heart break to last a thousand lifetimes, maybe more! Yet, his heart aches. Bleeds as if it were new to such hurts, and the worst part is that this is all self-afflicted.

He did this. No one but he is to blame.

"Soon after you and I had lied together, Hythlodaeus had arrived in Goldenrod. He and I--we acted without true thought, and so we had likewise slept together. After eons without him, and under the assumption you were just another mortal, I had seen no fault in this. But I was quickly remedied of such ill-conceived notions, made aware of my folly." His gaze lowers, his brows knitting together, causing deep creases in it.

"I have since rejected any and all advances, told him that I would not betray you again, that my loyalties are with you--for I truly and deeply wish not to entertain such treachery to one I have grown to cherish so."

The truly fucked up thing is, the higher order of Dirk's thoughts 'understands' it. Hades is barely halfway through his explanation, has only just begun to speak of mortals and manipulation, and Dirk 'understands,' knows exactly where the rest of this excruciating and drawn-out ouroboros of a confession is going, because Hades has already said it, he's said it a hundred painless times before. Not in words, not to Dirk, but to his face nonetheless. And he gets it. He gets it, as the 'understanding' rips through his skull; he gets it and already he feels sick, nauseous in the most literal of ways.

A thin, cold current of thought almost forgives him. Says 'you understand' and 'you're the same,' and he almost says that, really almost does. He remembers Hades standing over him as he straddles a chair, his pale eyes too bright, chiseled face too close, white-gloved hands too free. He remembers how easily Hades took him at his every fucked up word on that rooftop, before they ever exchanged a single blow. He remembers his doubts, his pride, the mutual game of pursuit. Every emotional high, every desperate effort. His thoughts grow to a roar, his heart beating louder and louder with steady, relentless rhythm of the ocean. The inside of his head is deafening and he presses his jaw back firmly, swallowing the knot.

It lodges in his chest, splitting into two--one above his clavicle and again below his sternum. He's hollow. He's full of rigid spheres and angular protusions. The sound of his own machinery drowns itself out, endless and without echo. He opens his mouth, thinking he's going to throw up, or stop breathing. But he has too much control over himself for that.

"It must have been so hard for you, waiting three whole months before you smashed me into the dirt." There's a bite in his voice, a venomous serpent he knows intimately, but there's no reason to hold it back now.

"I can't decide who's stupider. Me, for convincing myself otherwise every single god damn day for ninety-two consecutive days? Or you, for telling me on the ninety-second day of all days?" What he feels is his breath shaky in his body, his muscles taut; his blood is rushing everywhere and nowhere through a hollow shell he barely inhabits, his the sense of sight is experienced through a film of liminal white.

He licks his lips, all attempt to control his expression forgotten--leaving his face tight and stiff and closed off, like a noose around the throat.

"Why?" His voice cracks, but the rawness of his throat isn't from grief. That's what he tells himself now, what he's fulfilling as prophesied.

He's mad. He knows he's mad, knows that's his anger, all right.

Knows that anger doesn't matter.

"That's what I really don't understand. Why the fuck now? Why tell me at all? I don't know whether I should even be asking why you waited so long, or why you didn't wait longer. So which is it?"

This anger, the venom in his tone, the subtle shifts his body exudes that maybe one other than he might pick up. He expects it all, yet it still cuts like a dagger to see it, to hear it, to feel it. Jaw clenched, he watches him, dares not to look away, he owes Dirk that much. And more, but at the moment, this is all he can give.

Ordinarily, insults to his intelligence agitate him, rare though they are. Rarer yet from those whom have any right to make the comment. Yet, he does not take offense to it, hard to when even he knows this came about because of his own arrogance, his own foolishness. It is not often that such happens, that he makes an error like this...but then again, this was an error he could not make before.

It was literally impossible.

As Dirk continues, he feels his chest tighten with each word, each syllable, the cracking of his voice likewise cracks his fragile heart and the guilt weighs all the more heavily upon him. His expression is not exaggerated for once, it is solemn, full of disappointment—not for Dirk, but for himself— and there is sorrow in his eyes.

Finally, at Dirk's bidding, he lets out a slow and steady breath. The question is...interesting. Less so is it a question of why he would betray him, but rather, why would he tell him of this betrayal. Why would he give the lie to their fraudulent fairytale. Why would he make him aware of the painful truth, when the lie was so much sweeter.

The answer is simple. So simple, he speaks it without hesitation.

"Love," he says simply enough, but his tone, his expression, everything about him is absolutely genuine. "When we had entered this partnership, you wished for mutual honesty, and you had indeed played your part—marvelously. Without hesitation did you open yourself up to me—and for my part I did you, save this one, catastrophic transgression."

Unlacing his fingers, he rests his hands on his thighs as he sits back in the chair. Sitting up straight as he keeps his eyes on Dirk, his expression still the picture of dignified remorse.

"As our bond continued to strengthen, so too did my guilt. To selfishly enjoy your company as I have, while hiding such a betrayal right under your nose—it is unconscionable. The last thing I wish to do is to hurt you, but well do I know that it must needs be done if I am to right this. You deserve respect and dignity, and to continue to hide this and play you like a fool scant affords you either."

Love..

"Fuck you," Dirk says plainly.

No venom, no anger; just two flat, unadorned syllables, spoken rather than spat.

"Do you ever listen to yourself? I have to assume the answer is 'no,' because otherwise the hot load of steaming horseshit you just shot wouldn't have left the loading chamber." Did Dirk just mix an unsanitary barnyard analogy with a comparison between Emet and a revolver pistol? Yes. Does he give a fuck? No. Has he noticed? Also no. He's not so much barely hearing himself as he is hearing himself with hi def clarity, an audio broadcast transmitted from another time and place, a splinter's memory experienced in real time. It's him, and he's there, but he's not. But he is.

He is and it hurts. It hurts like it's his own, not because it is (but it is, it is and it hurts like it) but because--where was this thought even going. There is no thought there any more, no thought remaining that fits that narrative.

Even his face hurts. Why the fuck does his face hurt.

"I didn't ask you to... to love me," it's ripped out and dropped into the sentence, dripping with disgust. Out comes frustration, disbelief, anger... for all of two syllables before it's caught and reeled back in sharply. "You call this respect and dignity? You don't even have the guts to pull the plug. To take this farcical two-person horse costume act out behind the theatre and blow its liquefying brains out yourself. You're just pulling the hood off in front of me... and, and waving it around while playing Dirk Strider for the exact fucking fool you claim to believe he's not."

He can't sit here any more. Not when it's like this, with his shoulders hunched, angry and pained, his back ramrod straight. He stands up and starts moving--not towards Hades but parallel to him, like he's circling.

Maybe he is. Maybe he will be.

~~Circling the drain? Or like a predator? Can it be both?~~

"I commanded you obey one term to a common goal, and you decided against it. You wanted to make it about love instead. Fuck you. Why did you think I wanted--why would you ever, would you ever fucking think I wanted any part of it? Don't answer that. I'll answer it. You didn't, and I don't. And you knew. You knew it. You knew, and you knew you couldn't do that and be fucking honest at the same time. So you chose--"

He stops at his own door, which is (thankfully) closed, and spreads his arms wide.

You chose this.

With his own intact dignity, he stays put. He does not lower his head, he does not shy away from the verbal assault that Dirk lays upon him. Merely watches and accepts that anger, there's no judgment in his eyes, and the hurt that might be there is not truly caused by Dirk. Everything that is inspiring this anger within him, the lashing out, this was brought on by Hades, and he knows that.

The tightness of his chest is excruciating, but the reflection of it is only displayed in his sorrowful, tired eyes. That Dirk would be upset at the claim of love for him does hurt, but the rejection is expected. All of it is expected, but like a blade does not dull because one expects it, it cuts and pierces just as deeply whether or not you see it coming.

Finally, as Dirk makes his point, arms spread out as he hovers by the door, Hades finds his voice again. His tone low and measured, lacking the usual airy and nasally tone.

"One does not choose whom they love, this I know you are aware. I did not choose this anymore than you did, but I suppose it is quite easy to find affection for those whom you share such deep understanding with. That likewise harbors your ideals, philosophies, and values." Though, at this moment he realizes that's a landmine, but he doesn't care. Instead, he continues on before Dirk can try to get in some quip about it.

"The reason I call this dignity and respect is because I am offering you the honesty you asked of me from the first. That which I had denied you, yet you did not deny me. You deserve better than that, and while this is not ideal, I would not have you suffer to be mislead by myself—or any other for that matter. This is my duty to you, my duty to our cause, that which I still have every intention to pursue."

Slowly, he stands from his seat, but he does not approach Dirk, rather he stays where he is. Watching him with a despondent but affectionate expression.

"If I could correct my mistake, I most assuredly would—for your sake, not mine. I do not fear your anger, Dirk. You are well within your rights to be angry—furious even—to be hurt at what I've committed, you did not deserve this egregious betrayal."

One might assume there would be a 'but' after that statement, yet there isn't. There's no argument, no trying to justify what he's done. He's already explained it, and that was merely the facts, there's no swaying Dirk's judgment, because his judgment is fair. His pain is fair. His anger is fair. And Hades will not shy away from what is justly deserved.

Edited 2020-09-05 02:35 (UTC)

"You're not afraid of my anger because you think I can't hurt you."

It's not an epiphany. It was, once.

Once upon a time, Jake broke his heart. And then he broke it again. And again. And again.

So Dirk started breaking Jake's.

Now Hades turns him down the same path, but he's much too familiar with the pain; he doesn't flinch any more.
"As far as you know, you have every advantage here. You've had months to think about it, to know it and--and prepare yourself for it. To twist this knife as deep as you can. Does it hurt you less to think you're not the only one stupid enough to fall for it? That I'm like you in any way? Well, you're wrong."

Stomping, mincing, and dragging himself over hot coals and broken glass in turns. He takes a step towards Hades.

"You're so fucking wrong."

Then he sidesteps, taking up the Amaurotine puppet from the desk. He studies it, and notices his hands are shaking.

Why are they shaking?

Adrenaline.

Probably adrenaline.

It has to be.

.....

With concentration, the trembling stops.

Only then does he speak up, although 'up' is a bit misleading--it's quieter than before, but less hoarse.

"I have the power to destroy you and your little domestic fantasy, and I've had it since practically the beginning."

Ruefully he watches and listens, taking in every movement, every shake, every...stifled action. He is not surprised that Dirk misunderstands what he means, his emotions are quite clearly running rampant. He's suffering, understandably so, and to weather such pain would render anyone irrational in the moment. Grasping at anything worse than what it is.

He abstains from correcting him. Allows him to say his piece. Stays still in his spot.

As Dirk grabs the Amaurotine puppet, his heart feels as though it freezes. Ice coursing through his veins as he worries for it, worries for what Dirk might do with it. The threat, of course, helps nothing. With Dirk's admission to having such a means, being privy to information that he has purposefully withheld, his brown creases with apprehension.

"So then...you too have withheld a truth from me?" It doesn't make him feel any better knowing this. "Regardless, I do not wish to harm you, and neither did I plan to cause you any pain from the first. I wished for the opposite, and even now I wish not to cause further harm than what is unavoidable. My absence of fear is not because I believe myself invincible to what you may say or do—it is because such anger and what it fuels is just in the face of what I have committed. Nothing more. Nothing less."

His eyes fall to the puppet for a moment, before returning to Dirk properly.

"If you believe destroying my perceived domestic fantasy is proper repentance, then so be it."

"Don't," he starts, cold and short. "Compare us."

His grip on the puppet tightens, though he does nothing to it either toward or untoward. Not yet.

"You and I are nothing alike."

He doesn't want Hades to just... to just accept this. He wants Hades to show him... show more than that.

Pain. Grief. Fear. Anger.

Something.

Anything.

It's cruel. It's cruelty on his part, but he's always been cruel. At his highest peak and his lowest point both, his cresting waves and his abyssal trenches. Each one of the million, billion grains of sand on his shores and beneath his benthic zones, lives and selves simultaneously distinct and indistinguishable, timeline after timeline doomed and forgotten as memory after memory comes crashing into him, through him until he is the memory, he is the ocean, he is the sand and surf. He is his Ultimate Self.

And the Self is cruel.

"You'd do well to remember nothing here is real."

He's pulling further from him, and he hates it.

There's no fear or anger in his expression, but there is grief. There is remorse. There has been from the start, but without the others, perhaps it does not satisfy, but neither would groveling, he's sure. Not that he would anyway.

Yet, that lie he says...he knows it comes from the pain in his bosom. A raging tempest, he's sure. The way he's closing himself off is not unlike how Hades has done before. How he did to those heroes he had grown fond of, though instead of mere cold indifference, he played up the part of maniacal villain.

"What is real is relative." He says softly. "While this world may be fake, and its inhabitants share the selfsame distinction—we are not. What we share is not."

Finally, he begins to move. Slow. Calculative. Gentle. He approaches Dirk, stopping only a small distance from him so as to not loom over him, but to close that painful distance just enough. When he speaks, he continues to keep a level tone, but it is not cold by any stretch, a thread of affection and guilt within it.

"We are alike, there is no sense in denying it, this we have bonded over time and again. But I had not meant to compare us in such a way. Rather, your secret kept from me is not the same as what I have done. Mere reflection on the myriad secrets denied me by both those I hold dear, and those I hold in contempt." He breathes out a controlled breath, which does nothing to control his heart which is thrumming madly within his chest.

"Nevertheless, I wish not to deny you. I accept your anger, your animosity, your contempt. Your judgment. For I understand the pain I have caused, and the atonement you are due. I should be glad to pay it and more, if that would serve you."

"Fucking finally."

Dirk doesn't dig in his heels; he raises himself up, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders back instead of simply even. It may be that were he still capable of flight, he would be placing himself at Hades' true eye level.

"And there's my answer."

Fearless cruelty and contempt are communicated instead in his posture and his voice. In the one-second-long uptick of one corner of his mouth before it drops back down into that unforgiving line.

"You really are that stupid."

It's so easy to say.

Sure, his heart may feel like it's on literal fire. It burns with an intensity that's physically painful. His ribcage contains a fucking inferno, and it's burning him alive from the inside. But his mind is icy, cold. A vast monolith.

Then he realises--no. It's the opposite. His brain is on fire, burning everything down, razing his thoughts and himself and the people around him, the 'person' 'in front' of 'him,' and it's going to reduce it all to ash. It's his heart that's cold. A solitary sphere of absolute zero.

But no. That's not it either.

There's a lot of to-do about ice and fire, and your head ruling your heart, or vice versa. Untold lines of poetry and prose, verse and voice, think not with your heart but with your head and whatnot.

That's wrong.

Maybe not for everyone.

But for him, he just has to think with whichever one is colder.

And right now--

He has no problem with that at all.

"Atonement? Don't make me laugh. You couldn't possibly. There is no 'it and more.' There's nothing. Absolutely jack shit. I will take your 'assistance' with my escape, but if I leave you behind, it won't be because you deserve it. If I tell you what I know, it won't be because you deserve it. If I withold what I know from you, it won't be because you deserve it."

What Dirk deserves, what Hades deserves is his suffering. Equal or greater--but circumstances, he is starting to understand, demand that it wait, to be paid with interest.

There's no satisfaction to be had in telling him now. Not when he's ready for it. When he's waiting to be hung from a rope he measured out himself, tied off himself. Sure, it might 'hurt.'

But 'hurt' isn't enough. Not when it's this.

"You deserve nothing. Because that's all this is. Absolutely fucking nothing."

He glances at the Amaurotine puppet one final time, then thrusts it pointedly into Hades' chest--where the 'immortal' had better catch it.

"Don't say anything. Just let yourself out. Close the door behind you."

Is he stupid enough to argue?

"Crawl home. Cry. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

Edited 2020-09-06 07:03 (UTC)

The irony is, that while what Dirk says conveys the truth of his emotions, the hurt that grips him so utterly, displays the wound he has rent into his soft heart, it likewise tells a lie. His words, what articulation he makes with that cold voice of his, are not what he truly wants, nor what he truly thinks.

Dirk might be under such impression, but he is lashing out, like an animal frightened and injured. The gnashing of fang and claw meant more to defend, than to truly harm. To ward off further injury, even to a hand meant for helping. Friend and foe look the same, and to the wounded and bleeding, they may as well be.

So, he discounts not the message he conveys, but rather the words he chooses. Even if the words make his heart twist painfully--both from what he hears and the hurt Dirk is succumbing to. The clear display of emotion in those otherwise stoic and coldly presented sentiments. To a fool they may take him at face value, but well does Hades know to look beneath the mask.

Indeed, he does take the puppet, holds it between his hands as Dirk finishes with what he has to say. No. Commands to Hades what he wants. But it isn't really that, is it?

To love Dirk is to obey--which is patently false. This he knows, and while he had planned to make good on what Dirk requested of him, he knows the truth lies not in the words he speaks. But what his pain demands, what the ache in his heart needs that Dirk denies himself.

"Nay." He says simply, quietly. His eyes on Dirk as he looks down at him with mournful affection. "It is not I who has tears to shed. And I will not abandon my duty to you so easily. To leave you now would be tantamount to a second betrayal, and you deserve not such chilling indifference."

With one hand holding the puppet still, the other rises and reaches out. A gentle gesture to cup his cheek like he has so many times before. A simple, genuine show of affection shared between them, though he won't be surprised if it is rebuked.

It matters not. This is his responsibility, and he will not abandon his course. He will not abandon Dirk.

Hades' hand barely gets close before Dirk smacks it away, backhanding it out of his face. His jaw is pressed tightly enough that the unyielding line of his mouth extends as far back as his face physically allows.

To his credit, he doesn't apply nearly as much force as he could have.

"Did I fucking stutter?"

Jake used to do the exact same thing--to try again, to reach over the lines Dirk drew, to Hope his way to a better resolution.

There was a time when Dirk could count on that, a time he depended on it, a time when Jake's brilliant light was the only light he could see in the darkness. And Dirk--stupid, simple moth that he was--would fly to it again and again, burning himself each time. No stop to rest, to heal, to treat his wounds. If he could just hit it right, he wouldn't need to.

He'd like to say that he's not sure what he wanted, if he ever wanted to be part of the light or if he thought it would be different next time or if he simply counted on the possibility that that this time it would kill him. He'd like to say it was any of those things.

The truth is a little sicker, but addiction does run in the family.

"That's strike one. You have until three."

The look of disappointment in his eyes is less at Dirk's rejection of his touch, and more that he's caused that level of rejection. He isn't surprised, it's still fresh, and like the earlier analogy, Dirk is in no position to take an offered hand.

Not yet.

His continued aggression and posturing for control is expected, but part of why they work so well together is because they are an unstoppable force and an immovable object, and when together there's little that can get in their way. However, now they are in opposition, and so it's a mere matter of seeing which one is fraudulently named.

"You may as well save us both time and energy, for I will not be leaving you. You know as well as I that suffering in solitude right now is not what you desire, and even if I am poor company, 'tis better than none at all."

His voice is calm and steady, a low rumble to the tension in the air, but he stays. Making no move to leave.

"Regardless of what you tell me, my decision will not change. I have committed myself to you, and an egregious error on my end changes that not."

Edited 2020-09-07 20:12 (UTC)

"You're going to squat in my fucking bedroom?"

Dirk squints. The complete absurdity of Hades' plan briefly dislodges Dirk from his immovable place of control--which is impressive, because Hades' competition for sheer asininity is Jake English, who could lose a battle of wits with the literally brain dead.

"That's your plan? Never mind how fucking creepy that is--which it is, you goddamn reprobate--you think you're going to mitigate my 'suffering' by forcing me to suffer your presence?"

He shakes his head, though not so much in denial and more as though to dislodge something--or perhaps just 'reset' his face so he can wear an actual scowl.

"Do you not get it? This isn't your place any more. It never was. It stopped being 'yours' the instant you fucked your... oh. This is only strike two, huh? Now's your chance. Leave, and it doesn't have to get bad."

His tone alternates between coldly threatening and some kind of sick enjoyment, but there's no mistaking the synergistic menace driping from what he calls Hades next.

"Solus."

Edited 2020-09-08 04:41 (UTC)

So it is about Hythlodaeus. That much he had wondered, but that confirmed it. Well, whether Dirk realizes it or not, he certainly afforded him some armor towards what—

Ah. No. He gets it. With all this talk of things not being real, with what Hythlodaeus has been hiding from him, what he might be ashamed of, or fearful to tell to Hades, and that once he had awoken Hythlodaeus was...disappointed he had not figured it out.

How had he been so blind? It's honestly hard to believe, but he supposes it's not the strangest thing to have happen. Yet, the thought grips him like a vice, and his throat feels as though there is a ball of lead lodged within it. That he had been played for a fool, that he had believed him to be the real Hythlodaeus, the one he had lost, that he would err as he did, compromise what he had with Dirk for what amounted to...nothing.

Yet, his expression is unchanging, the only sign Dirk might notice is the emotion behind his eyes, the slight quiver to his gaze as the connections are made. When he speaks, there is a tightness to his voice that wasn't quite there before, but it could very well be from anything that Dirk just said to him, scathing as it all was.

"Hades." He corrects. The purpose behind that is not lost on him, nor is he untouched by the tone; but he seems fit to be stubborn. As is his wont. Likewise, he does get now the true severity, that Dirk is truly rejecting him, and breaking this off...without so much as saying it directly, but he hears it loud and clear. That does hurt, this all hurts and it's...absurd, isn't it? That he would find pain in something like this.

After so long, he would find himself wrapped up in more heartbreak. Did he ever learn? Or, he supposes he does, yet he cannot help but continue to love. Continue to seek it out, to give it, to inspire it.

Even now, even as he gazes down at Dirk, as he beholds him, his anger, his resentment, his pain...he cannot help but feel that painful warmth of affection. Though his heart seems to pump ice through his veins, there's still a burning fire within, one that scorches and thaws. Yet that does nothing to speak of the stabbing pain of regret, the sting of his folly.

"Whether you wish to keep me as your lover or no... Whether you wish to take your fury out upon me or simply deny the legitimacy of what we've shared, what we've felt—it matters little. I will not abandon you in your time of need, and if what must needs be done is to strike me with what means you are able, then so be it. But here I will stay. I admitted to my foolish mistake, one that has hurt you most grievously, but the moment I became aware that you were speaking the truth, that you were indeed not spinning tales of your complete existence, but more than that—I came to understand you, see you—my loyalty has been unwavering."

With a moment to swallow that lump in his throat, he continues, his voice keeping firm and steady, yet genuine and affectionate.

"And so, it will continue to be so. You might hate me for it, you may lash out at me, you may even hurt me, for I am not invincible, not when it comes to you. However, I am not one to buckle under the burden of my duty to those I love, for those I respect, for those I cherish, and you are no different."

For a moment, he considers touching Dirk, to make some measure of connection with him, when it otherwise feels so fleeting. They are standing before one another, so close, yet the divide is a yawning chasm, and Dirk seems fit to allow it to grow, but Hades is not so content.

"I believe this will be strike three, so come. Tell me what it is you have to say, I will hear it."

Edited 2020-09-08 05:45 (UTC)

Dirk is filled with the sudden and intense desire to punch that smug sympathy out of Hades, starting with his face.

It wouldn't accomplish anything. It wouldn't even be satisfying. He knows that, and he knows he's better than that anyway. He'd be pretty justified in cold-clocking Hades, he thinks, dragging the body out in the hall and leaving it there. The gall is literally sickening. The false alarm of reactionary nausea is feeling pretty goddamn real now.

"It seems you want me to feel bad for you."

Here he is, seconds away from puking his guts up with his heart in bloody, acid-soaked chunks, and Hades is just bimbling around his bedroom, draping himself in shameless but oh-so-contrite passivity and superficial penitence.

This martyrism La Croix has got to go.

"This whole thing has been a farce from the start. A fucked-up play, and this is curtains closed. There never was any other story--no B-cut, no secret twist to unlock or alternate endings on the cutting room floor. Sure, the sex was phenomenal, but you got that and better waiting at home, I bet. So what's the problem? It's not my fault you fucked up. It's not my fault you fell for a hoax, and it's not my fault that you mistook me for a counterfeit when the actual lie was pounding you into the mattress. Frankly, none of this sounds like my problem at all, except that you made it my problem by being so goddamn stupid that even I didn't notice when the whole thing reeked."

Self-loathing? Or just plain loathing? Is there a difference? Was there ever?

"Did you notice? Or did you forget to ask because it was too good to ever want to? Think about it. About him. What's the real Hythlodaeus like? Supportive in all the right ways, aiding and abetting you as much as you want, but never more? Questions or challenges only when you're already asking, or else given up on too early? Annoying you just enough to feel like he's the bona fide yin to your yang? Were you always the gravitational centre of his weird little world? Do you remember his opinions only ever mattering when it came to you? Do you remember him only ever digging in his bare feet when it came to you and your happiness, your wants and needs? Is that your fantasy of Hythlodaeus and you? Or is this how you always are? Always were?"

Has Dirk ever hated anyone or anything as much as,

Has Dirk ever loved anyone or anything as much as,

Has Dirk ever been anyone or anything as much as,

"Who cares if he's real? Nothing here is real.... or should I say, 'almost nothing.' And that's where you fucked up. Here you had your ultimate man, your perfect partner, and you were just holding him in the wings while you fucked around with the guy who was suddenly way too real for your conscience."

Now, finally, Dirk's lip curls in disgust--at the same time, the side of his mouth curls up in a perverse half-smile, although it's unclear at whose expense this bizarre expression is meant to be.

"You ought to be thrilled. He talks like Hythlodaeus, walks like Hythlodaeus, fucks like Hythlodaeus, and in every way you personally could conceive of, he is Hythlodaeus. He's the perfect constructed model of your memory, perception, and understanding of anything and everything Hythlodaeus. Your very own 'Brain Ghost Hythlodaeus,' as we in the business call it. Do you understand what that means? He's your emotional-support tulpa, now in the not-so-ghosty flesh. He's just what you always wanted."

"Do not presume what I want."

The words spill from his lips quick and sharp. He had not meant to remark like that, to show any anger that was bubbling in his chest at all that Dirk had to say. The confirmation of his realization mere moments prior. All the pieces clicked into place, perfectly fitting together like a complete puzzle, but instead of a beautiful image as a reward for a job well done, it was a ghoulish and nightmarish reality. Dirk merely served to confirm that the horror made apparent was indeed as it seemed.

As it was.

As it had always been.

Yet he was fool enough to think, to believe, to hope otherwise.

Dirk's treatement of the topic, of the belittling way he speaks to Hades does little to help. Little to make this any easier to swallow. On top of everything else that he now knows. Hades' expression eases from the tense near-glower it held, his patience and emotional resolve for a second threatening to give from the consecutive jabs he's received, but he is able to recover.

At least for the moment.

"Had I noticed, had I known at all, had there been some glaring imperfection to set him apart from the real Hythlodaeus, I would not have done it at all. As you say, he is fake. He is but a construct, a prop to the stage I had made for a purpose utterly unrelated to any of--this. He was to add flavor to the city, to add life to that I had erected to serve as my final resting place--nothing more, nothing less."

A pause. A measured breath. A furrow of his brow.

"His existence is naught but a novelty. His self-awareness a mistake. His actions--inexcusable. But tell me, if he is the perfect fantasy you claim him to be, does it not seem passing strange that I wish to stay with you? If he is indeed exactly what I want, then why do I choose you?"

Before Dirk can speak up, he adds another question, a quirk of his brow as the corner of his mouth--the right side--likewise twists into a smirk. Humorless, though it is.

"And, if everything is fake, if everything betwixt us was naught more than a hoax, and it meant nothing to you, then why is it your heart aches so? Why do you look upon me with such fury, such anguish in your eyes--hidden they may be, but I know the subtle cues, for I have beheld you time and again, I have learned all I can of you, I have adored you like none other has."

Perhaps it's unfair to know this. To say this. But it's true, and while he has made a mistake, while he betrayed the man before he loved him, he knows he has given Dirk far more than he's gotten from anyone else. He has given him support, understanding, comfort, and love. He has given him an equal, a man who could behold him, flaws and all, and stayed by his side.

And so he plans to continue to do the same.

"If none of this matters, if none of it ever did from the first, then why would my loyalty in such an intimate fashion affect you so? It shouldn't. But it does. Your anger is not of a man ambivalent to love. And we both know it, we both are well aware that this does not mean curtain closed--if aught at all, this will be an intermission. Deny it all you wish, but you cannot defy that which is real, and this is exactly that."

Edited 2020-09-09 04:37 (UTC)

There it is. The snap. The flash of temper that marks, to Dirk, the first moment of real, genuine emotion out of his newly-minted ex. The fact that he had to work so damn hard for it isn't a good feeling, but it stands to reason when he just doesn't know him the way he knows Jake. And in most ways, Solus isn't like Jake. He's sharper, more calculated. He doesn't bumble around, adding one more thing and one more thing and one more thing like he hasn't a clue in the world.

But for all Jake doesn't know, he does know what he thinks he's doing. As too Solus.

Now that Dirk's drawn blood, though, the rules change.

Intimations and inferences--those feeble maybes and ifs--become certainty, become 'intermissions.'

There exists one episode early in Rumble In Da Pumpkin Patch's history which features a stunt wherein Jake insisted on replicating the 'human cannonball' act--this despite weeks of heated argument, and the fact that he could already quite literally fly. The fact that the cannon was being operated by one of those vacant-eyed turtles was no problem to him, but it became Dirk's problem very quickly, to the tune of every ounce of muscle, ass, and wasted brain matter that made up Jake English's corporeal form making impact with the masculine angles of Dirk Strider's exquisitely sculpted face at a velocity that would have been lethal to any mere human.

It is with similar violence that the never-silent, ever-absent presence of Jake English is invoked aloud.

I have adored you like none other has.

Solus could hardly have struck harder, or further below the belt, than he did with those seven words.

Dirk goes completely silent, and he goes very still.

Then he laughs, low and hollow and bitter.

"If you're the only one who can love and understand me, then I guess I really am fucked."

With how raw his throat is getting, even an empty little chuckle actually hurts, so he stops that pretty quickly.

"You really think you're something special. You know what I want. You know what I'll do. What I'll think. What I feel. You love that. You love me. Or you want me to think you do, anyway. How fucked up would it be if you actually did?"

His own voice doesn't break, but it pitches up a little at the end, which he clamps back down on immediately. Gritting his teeth and biting his tongue even as he starts to spiral.

"No one knows more about Brain Ghost Selves than I do, not even him. You know why? You know whose brain I've lived in, grown from, in every timeline and every universe and every reality? You adore me like none other? I can't believe you. Literally. I can't believe a word you say. Either you're stupid, and you're not that stupid, or you really think I am. What do you want? What did I do to--to deserve this? Not the loyalty horseshit you want me to swoon for, the real thing? This... fucking joke?"

More rejection, but he can't say that he's surprised.

None of this is surprising—how could it be, when not only has he done all he can to learn about Dirk through interaction, but Dirk had given him insight to himself through his own writing. Insight on the struggle he's had with that ex of his, the bumbling fool of a man who could not appreciate what he had. What was his.

Hades, for his part, only messed up before he could know, not after. And yet...

"You may as well cease with naming me stupid—first of all, it is beyond repetitive at this point, and second, it will not make it any more of a reality than it already isn't. Neither do I think you stupid, nor are you, as you put it, 'fucked' because of my love for you." He says all of this with that practiced calmness. The fleeting break of temper gone as quickly as it had arose.

Or so it seems, anyways. There's still a thread of irritation under it all, but he's doubling the effort to keep it hidden and contained. After all, this isn't about him, this is about Dirk. The way Dirk's voice pitches, higher than he's heard it, but that clamp down on it is almost more telling of the struggle within him.

His heart hurts.

"But, if you would listen for a moment, truly hear me, you would learn that this is no joke, nor jest, nor mockery. If it were, I would not have opened up to you as I have. If I thought this naught more than some mummer's farce, then I would not have broke character to admit my wrongs to you. What would I have to gain from that?"

He shakes his head, his expression utterly dropping any signs of that smirk from before. Shifting back to that disarming look of regret, of sorrow.

"You do not deserve to be deceived, you do not deserve to be harmed—and I am utterly regretful that I have done either. But the answer is not for us to part ways, it is not for you to deny yourself the care and attention you deserve—for that is what you deserve."

Finally, he attempts once more to reach him—literally—bringing one hand up to slowly attempt to touch his bicep, to gently hold it with affection.

"If I did not care for you, I would not be here now, I would not be trying to reach you, to stay by your side. That I should take the time I have to know you, to care for you as I do, this does not make me special. This merely makes me your equal, that others could not see your worth is their failing, but it need not be ours."

His expression furrows, the space between his thick, arched brows not so much creasing as collapsing under the weight of it.

"Our failing... our? Failing? This is our doing now?"

The corners of his mouth pull down.

"Which is it? Are you taking responsibility? Or are you in it because of me, like it or not? Do I deserve.... deserve 'better,' deserve 'love' and 'attention' and 'care' that I'm denying me, or is it your doing and Jake's doing and everyone else's but mine? If you really know and love and adore me better than anyone else ever could, then how is it not inevitable I'll be cheated on?"

Dirk doesn't pull away from Solus' hand. Instead, he reaches out with his opposite arm, weirdly mirroring the gesture--though he noticeably grips Solus' upper arm with more force then Solus does his own.

And he stands there a moment, unmoving, his head bowed in thought while he turns that one over in his mind. Turns it over again and again until its taut string in the perfect, infinitely complex machine of his ordered mind snaps.

"It was an inspiring speech, though. Coming from someone who let me down."

He lets go, steps back--pulling out of Solus' hold just as abruptly.

"What am I even supposed to do with that? Like I'll really just drop everything I've ever fucking stood for and throw up my hands, lean extra hard on my drawl when I say that sounds just dandy? Fuck!"

He shakes his head, at first aggressively but then more sadly. Tiredly. In disappointment.

"You know what? I deserve this. I one hundred percent do. For failing to make the basic-ass choice that would have prevented all of this from happening to begin with."

He watches him, pleasantly surprised by the returned gesture, yet not surprised by the grip. Though, he's unsure if it's anger behind it, or the need to ground himself by grabbing onto someone else--someone outside of his head. Even if that someone else is merely Hades. He probably wishes it were someone else--but then comes the sobering thought of who else would it be? Who else could it be? Had that loneliness not served to forge some measure of solidarity between them?

The questions he voices are fair, he thinks, and he isn't blaming Dirk for his mistakes. Rather, encouraging him to not make the same--to not jeopardize what love and care he could still enjoy. He wants to impress upon him that the man Hades cheated on was but a stranger to him, and at the time he was incorrectly not of equal worth to him, not the Dirk he came to know.

Not the Dirk he would not dare to betray now. Funny thing about the past, how one can always see the best decisions to make well after they have been made. Ever is the past humbling in that way.

This does not exonerate him, this does not change the hurt that is there, he does not expect him to forgive him so easily. Yet, there is a clear difference between the act born of ignorance and the one far more damning when committed after such knowing. The circumstance restructured, redefined by the understanding of reality they both share. Of their status as complete beings, known and confirmed both.

This does not remove the error he's made, but Dirk's conclusion that he's merely fated to be cheated on...this was far more an unfortunate coincidence, than a promise made to him should he dare to love.

His thoughts are interrupted when Dirk suddenly pulls away from him before he can give word to his answer. Once more his temper flares, understandably so. But, as he goes on, Hades' brow furrows, watching him with despondence.

"Which would be refusing me from the first, I wager?" He finally says, finding his voice again. "The sting of betrayal is sharp, this I will not deny, and I fully intend to take responsibility. But it was not an inevitability that you would suffer infidelity--this is not some curse branded upon your soul. Had I known better, had I not been foolish, had I not been...weak, you would not be made to suffer so."

The hand that held Dirk is now softly closed, drawn back to him, nearly resting against his chest as his gaze falls downcast.

"But I know well the joy our togetherness has brought you, I know the passion we have shared, but I would not deny your pain, your anger, nor your disappointment in me, either. I am not asking you to forsake your principles, your morals, none of that. My mere request is to think on this, to grieve this pain that thrives in your bosom, but to not forsake yourself as well, all because of mistakes made under misapprehensions."

Edited 2020-09-11 01:29 (UTC)

Solus is a broken record. He's repeating himself. Dirk feels like he's been repeating himself, like everything is repeating again and he can't catch the moment to make this one stick, running himself through again and again on the point he was making--

"You don't know as much about my soul as you think you do. You keep kowtowing and dragging yourself facefirst through the mud for me, talking about how sorry you are, but you don't have the first fucking clue--you have no fucking idea how much better it is this way. You haven't seen what happens when I'm the one fucking shit up." He pauses, bitterness and exhaustion suddenly surging over the hysteria in a fresh wave.

"It's just about the only thing you don't understand." He's hyperaware of his own respiration--the deep breaths, heavy and shaking. Are his hands still shaking?

No. He feels shaky, though--not his hands, but all of him. Not trembling, there's no fear involved, just... just unsteady. Unstable. No, he is stable. It's everything else that isn't. Everything else--his body, not him. Fuck.

He manages a laugh, almost chokes on the bitterness and his hoarse throat. His eyes burn, his lungs burn, his chest burns and tightens and he starts to pace around the room, gathering--pointlessly--smuppets in his arms as he talks.

"But it's my fault you didn't know any better. And we could have been... could have been dragging the bloating corpse of this thing along for miles, for months, propping up the sad remains..."

He feels like he's struggling for breath. Like he should be gasping. He's drowning on nothing, though. Or on anger? Is this anger?

"It was unethical of me, letting you think you talked me into this, making sure I could still say I'd 'warned' you instead of waiting for a chance to show you. I pretty much set you up to fail. I do that."

It's not easy to watch Dirk in this state. To see how he's slipping, how he's getting a grip, only to slip down a little further. All the while, he seems keen to ignore Hades' extended hand, or bat it away completely. It's a sickening feeling of helplessness that comes with seeing someone you love escape you. Leaving you behind, when there is little else you can do to convince them to stay, convince them to take your hand and to trust in you. Not when they are determined to walk a different path, one you know isn't the right one.

One that will likely ensure their doom, yet all you can do is reach out, watch, and hope...

As Dirk explains and collects Smuppets, Hades watches him with sympathetic scrutiny. He does not agree with Dirk's assessment, but he does not argue with it. Not yet. Instead he listens. He seems fit to talk, and he knows he needs to. Dirk needs to release those feelings, in whatever means his body and brain allows, and if this is it, then so be it.

He can always try to spur him in a new or better direction, one that might prove more productive, more helpful, than this downward spiral that seems to be him grasping for control over the situation still. To blame himself removes the agency of Hades, removes the fact that Hades was the one who affected him, that instead it was Dirk all along.

That the pain he feels was self-inflicted. By his careless design. That, ultimately, the only one who controls anything is he, and no one else. The need for control is a coping mechanism, it is a survival tactic, it is...mourning the control he's likely never had.

As Dirk gets to the end, instead of refuting him, instead of arguing, Hades decides a different approach. Not that he approaches at all, he stays where Dirk left him, but rather...

"And why do you believe you do this? To what purpose would it ultimately serve?" His voice is gentle, measured, but not piteous. He does not want Dirk to think he pities him, no more than he might already suspect with his admission and self admonishment.

"To what end would such deception afford you?"

Edited 2020-09-11 23:12 (UTC)

To Dirk, this doesn't feel liike slipping. It feels like purchase. Like his nail catching a patch of rust, a rivet, his thumb hooking onto a strut just before the drop.

He turns around, his arms overflowing with kiwi green, lemon yellow, ~~blood~~ ~~cherry~~ candy red, and deeply offensive purple noodle-like arms, daintily-toed feet, impudently-jutting buttocks, and provocatively wobbling proboscides.

"That's a damn good question." He sounds tired, frustrated even--but his affected drawl has sharp corners.

He strides back towards Solus in three, four quick steps, but stops at the 'head' of his frameless mattress bed, where he opens his arms unceremoniously to dump the whole jumble of wall-eyed, tuft-haired homunculike puppets on the floor.

A lone orange smuppet tumbles away down the sloping pillow pile and lies with its limbs arrayed towards the ceiling, like a lewd inversion of Kafka's doomed arthropodiform salesman.

Dirk sits down on the edge of the mattress, his heart not so much racing as buzzing on some subatomic level. His thoughts are--not heavy, but dense. Impossibly crowded and full, dense and swelling and splitting his paper skull open like a blown eggshell. He feels like... if he could just shed this body, if it could fizzle into electricity and ozone and particulate, he would feel better. His head and throat and neck wouldn't hurt, anyway.

He pauses to pick a tuft of fleecy red from under his thumbnail and shakes it onto the puppet pile, then lifts his head to regard Emet with a face carved from stone.

"Sorry, is this not what you expected? It should have been. But sure. Let's make a discourse of it. What do you fucking think? Personally, I see it as justifying itself in one of two ways. In the short term, of course, I had plausible deniability for a 'relationship' that I knew would be defined by a clear imbalance of power--in my favour. Why I wanted it that way shouldn't take too much imagination on your end. And when you inevitably backed out or faltered or crumpled under the weight--the pressure of reality. Or... you know, otherwise went belly-up, poisoned by overexposure to yours truly--I would have the moral high ground. After all, I did warn you."

A trap set by a morally destitute monster, indifferent to the grief or suffering inflicted by his hand. A machinist can't afford to waste time on the feelings of each machine or its parts.

"That's the first 'end' to which your ignorance was my means. Do you want me to continue? I can. I don't think you'll like it, but I don't like what you're saying, so we're even."

The whole thing is heartbreaking.

Watching him dump the smuppets, even the stray orange one that tumbled free from the rest—to lay not only prone, but alone. The irony is not lost on him, the color and the separation from the rest would almost be poetic, if the smuppet didn't look as it does. Or maybe that's what makes it poetic, he doesn't know.

As this persists, he feels as if he knows far less than he is aware he does. He feels lost, tired, and sad.

With a flick of his golden gaze, he shifts his focus from it, to Dirk. And even as he talks, as he sits down and looks at him with that stone mask of his, Hades' own expression does not change. He does not move, does not back down. As Dirk continues to explain, implying there was some sort of imbalance (there wasn't), but outright stating his lack of faith (he doesn't believe him), his expression yet still stays the same.

Conflicted though it may be, there is no anger behind it.

"Pray, indulge me. After all, this may be the last time you do so. I shall be glad to know the depths in which you expected failure from me, yet chose to engage regardless. How you believed yourself somehow capable of being the burden to break me, when even the weight of my duty could not." As he speaks, his voice holds no animosity, no resentment, rather soft and genuine curiosity.

"I have not enjoyed most I have been made to endure, but I have learned that turning away from that which displeases you, particularly when it's truth, avails you not. So, come. Tell me that which you think will displease me, I will listen."

The last time he may do so.

Yeah.

He wishes--no, he doesn't. He wouldn't wish this on anyone. Except maybe himself. That'd teach him a fucking lesson.

If only it didn't drag out like this. He wishes he could say that it wasn't needed. That it's done. He's learned his lesson. This--the worst part--it can be over any time now. That's all he wants now. For it to be over with.

But he knows himself, knows his hubris and his pride and his stubborn inability to ever really learn, let alone change. That's why this is necessary.

Here's the part where he spills his guts, where he reaches into himself and yanks it out--yanks it all out, undoes the knot clenched tight and pours his heart out with all the blood and bile and bitterness that's built up. Clean house. Purge it all. And then go through the cumulative mess, dissecting and describing until there's nothing left.

The only problem is that every time he tries to steer his thoughts directly 'onto' the topic of Solus, they end up someplace else. He can't tell if it's sudden, like teleportation, an instantaneous shifting of his mind around him, or if he's just got terrible control--?

Or maybe he's not allowed to. The heart comes last. That's right. It's a surprise. He has to dig for it, hold up the chunks and ribbons of his gruesome mistakes until discovery.

Is there a heart? Or isn't there?

"False equivalent." His voice goes cold, and he feels that.

He knows he has--or had--feelings about this man. He knows he has--or had--what he thought was an understanding of him. Now he feels like he's looking at a stranger. Like he doesn't understand him at all.

Or he felt like that, anyway. This whole sick and sickening time, until just now.

Now he sees it again. One piece of it. A sameness, a glimpse in the mirror.

"When it comes to duty, you can't break. You do that, and you're not the one who suffers. You can suffer infinitely, will suffer infinitely, if you have to. And you do, when your suffering is the price of that happy ending. Which it is."

Who's controlling his thoughts? Is it him? Who is thinking them? Is he the one thinking, or is he simply the one experiencing those thoughts? Does the mind ever truly control the mind?

Does it ever even matter?

"Friends. Family. Love. These are ideals. Aspirational in the human sense. You can't afford to give them more weight. That's not fair. Sacrifices must be made. It's not you sacrificing, though. You are what you sacrifice, for the sake of what needs to happen. What needs to get done. Your comfort doesn't matter. Your pain doesn't matter either. They're not required, but they kinda are."

These are his thoughts. He knows them well.

How is it they're Solus' too? How can they be? How can these be facts that Solus knows, that they both know--

"You know this already, though."

He thought Solus understood. That he knew this. At least this. Didn't he just see it? Or was that just himself again?

"I figured, who cares? Jake? Not likely."

He can almost hear it. Jake's too-eager, oh-so-sincere 'congratulations,' the clap on the back that he'll be feeling well after his hand is gone, as aggressively enthusiastic as Jake's willingness to embrace any development that would absolve himself of any connection that could tie him down.

"I figured you were flattering me, but your 'respect' was part of the game. Your 'lure' to reel me in. Maybe that shit works on other guys, but me? I knew it. You knew it. It was all above board. I didn't have to care. What's the harm in soaking up some of your obvious adoration, having a little quote-end-quote 'fun?' We both knew what was going to happen."

Does anyone in this whole supposed universe besides him exist, or is it just him? Is he seeing other people at all, or are they still just more of him--??

"People like us don't get happy endings."

No wonder Solus was so easy to love.

Now, where's the part that's easy to hate?

The turbulent and tumultuous thoughts that are running through Dirk display not on his features, but often they do not, yet Hades' gut tells him they are there. They must be. If he had learned anything in his time with Dirk, from reading his tome about his world and experiences, it is that while Dirk may be silent to all else, his mind never is.

As such, he watches him, listens, regards that which he expresses, what he chooses to share and explain. He does get it, and in a sense he did the same—he planned to use Dirk, that he would be one more tool, one more cog into the machina that made up his duty. That would eventually get him to the finish line.

That would make all the pain and suffering...

The lies and deceit...

The fighting and death...

Worth it.

Regardless of the price he has to pay, regardless of what else he has to lose or take, at duty's end it will all be worth it. The ends justify the means.

So, when Dirk finishes with that closing statement, he nods solemnly. They did not do this so they could be happy, this was not about them, this was about all else but them. Yet, well does he know that if one does not stop for a moment, does not indulge in some manner, allow themselves to love and be loved—even for sparse moments—they will crumble. He has seen it, he has seen minds brilliant and beautiful burnt to a cinder.

Where once was a roaring and seemingly endless flame of inspiration and intrigue now became the weak flickering candle of impending death.

"You have the right of it. Though, my respect and admiration was not fully false—I had meant what I said before, still do. Yours is a mind worthy of my attention, a mind brilliant and beautiful—ultimately useful. One that would assist me in that which I needed to escape this world, and you were to serve as a means to that end. This I likewise assumed you felt about me, this was our spoken agreement, yet it did not convey the unspoken."

His eyes finally pull from Dirk, falling to the puppet in his hand, looking it over with a pained sorrow, his brow creasing painfully together, furrowing. A slight waver to his voice as he continues.

"In what I sought as a tool, instead I found a companion—a true companion. One of equal worth, the first I had in eons beyond the two that had escaped the same fate I had. But more than that, I found a man who could understand the burden I have carried, understood my mind, and I came to understand him and his."

Slowly his gaze pulls from the Amaurotine puppet, steadying itself upon Dirk as he beholds the sight of him. How he sits there, how he holds himself, how he knows there's a maelstrom of misery within his breast, begging to be let free, yet he holds it so tightly inside.

"Yet, while we both know our ending is ill-fit for a fairy-tale, this does not mean the journey must needs be equally unhappy. We are fate's sufferers, not because we choose, but because we can weather it. That, when the call of duty rings, we do not ignore it. All the same, we should seek respite when we can afford it."

Finally, he moves from his spot, taking a tentative and careful step forward, to draw nearer to Dirk.

"Seeking shelter from the storm does not stop the rain, yet there is little reason to be chilled to the bone when there is another way. When not doing so may yet beget worse results than proceeding through recklessly and without heeding the consequences. Though there is much to be said about stubborn determination, I have seen the false promises it never fulfills. I have seen it rob men of their potential, of their completed duty."

And he would hate to see this befall Dirk, because of his stupid mistake. At the end of what he says, he is before him, but not near enough to crowd him, yet not so far that he cannot reach him.

"You cannot in earnest deny this has afflicted you terribly, and so, I beseech that you allow yourself, at the very least, to grieve. Poor company I may be, you should not be made to do so alone. Should you need to pretend me someone else, then so be it."

And with that, he offers him his hand.

Edited 2020-09-12 19:47 (UTC)

What is he supposed to say to that?

What in the goddamn is he supposed to say?

Every other word is a lancet, a 20 gauge needle in his heart, cold and piercing where he leaves it jutting out of Dirk's torso. If this were more real and less metaphor, the resulting sight would earn Dirk the sympathy of even one of Kanaya's much-abused pincushions. It would also make a tremendous mess.

All that blood.

Not as much mess as he could make, though. Don't pull the needles out and it's practically manageable, he thinks to himself. The mess and the pain both.

We are fate's sufferers, not because we choose, but because we can weather it. That, when the call of duty rings, we do not ignore it. No. Because the world comes first. Everyone.... they all come first, but they too were never meant to be normal. Never were, never would be. Their relationships and emotions were never going to matter. What mattered required sacrifices, and he would be the one ensuring those were made.

I found a man who could understand the burden I have carried, understood my mind, and I came to understand him and his.

But he's wrong. The closest Dirk ever came to abandoning duty, of failing to live up to his own potentials, was when he tried not to. When he tried to be human, to love and care and grow like an actual person with wishes and needs that could actually be met. He understands now his mistake. Mistakes. Plural. Here he is again. For the same mistake(s). It would be so much easier if Solus only loved him. If he didn't understand. If he, Dirk, didn't understand. If he didn't want to hear one more joke, quipped from his sharp observational humour. Hear one more story, hold one more passionate, sleepless night of discourse. If only he were not such a fervent and animated audience and co-conspirator, this tirelessly devoted servant to his God.

He doesn't move from where he's seated, shoulders hunched, peering wearily at his ex- through his dark shades. At the offered hand. An invitation.

If only his warm hands on Dirk's weren't so firm and gentle at the same time, they could be anyone's. They're strong enough.

But should Dirk need him pretend to be someone else--

It wells up so fast, so suddenly, a torrent of it, he barely chokes it off before it reaches his face.

It hurts. The whole ocean in him, that he could pour out of his heart, drown himself and Hades and the whole room, the whole world if he let it. An endless, gushing deluge, cascading between his ribs, out of his eyes and his mouth. Flooding. Devouring.

It's too much. He's the only barrier, and he contains it the way he contains himself. Barely.

He knows what Solus wants. He wishes he could give it to him.

He really, really does.

But that would be a mistake.

He shakes his head stiffly.

"You know I can't take that."

Just... go.

Take the hint.

Before this becomes a(nother) fight.

They say that people have a type, and one could suppose such a saying is true about Hades. Somehow, he always finds himself drawn to those of low affect, those who do not so greatly display their heart on their sleeves. Those that leave people wondering what they might be feeling—if anything at all. If they can at all. Those who confound and befuddle, those who repel others because of their distance from the emotional realm, or one would be left to believe, anyway.

To those who make others feel as if they cannot affect them in any meaningful way, as if they exist on another plane altogether.

So, it is no small wonder that Hades finds himself so beholden to Dirk, just as he is with Hythlodaeus, and even Azem. Perhaps it is the allure of mystery to their emotions that draws him in. Like a puzzle begging to be solved. Perhaps it is the muted expression that does not overwhelm his empathy, which allows him to navigate interactions with them better, allows him to think, to feel them, without being overloaded. Perhaps they are but his complement, just as he is theirs.

Which is why, as Dirk agonizes over what Hades has said to him, as he feels every sharp prick of that needle gouging into his heart over and over again, Hades is not crumpled to pieces by his emotional turmoil. However, this does not mean he is not picking up on it, that he does not sense the pain within him.

But it also means, that when Dirk does show some sign of it, that tenseness that comes with the choke off of emotion that nearly makes it to his face...Hades is abundantly aware. The stiffness of the shake of his head, the tone of his voice.

The fact that all he says is what he can't do, and no further remark.

Without judgment, without any callousness, he speaks, "then allow me to do what you cannot. Romantic or no, is that not the point of a partnership?"

He does not hesitate, for he has done so far too long. A simple inward curse to himself as he realizes this has been dragged out far longer than it should have been. That, had he acted sooner, Dirk would not have been made to suffer the extreme pressure of his confined emotions. That what Dirk needed was not simply words—he had said that he did not believe them, after all—but rather action.

Which is why that hand moves to the side, as does his other (even if that puppet is still in his grasp), and before Dirk can truly resist, or fight him, his arms are about him, Dirk tucked against his chest. Hades' head resting above Dirk's own, waiting to nestle against him properly. He expects resistance, but he will not budge. He will not falter, because he knows this is what Dirk needs.

He needs this boundary pushed, he needs to feel, not hear, Hades' love. And so he will provide it.

Edited 2020-09-13 06:16 (UTC)

The element of surprise is fully on his side; short of ~~Emet~~ ~~Solus~~ ~~Hades~~ explicitly stating his intended action, Dirk would not and could not have anticipated a stunt like this. Even as it physically happens, his response is more shock and confusion than distress or temper. Struggling doesn't work for him--not with his arms pinned and his lungs out of breath and his shades knocked crooked where he snagged them on the breast after his face smacked into the soft, dark velvet over Emet's breast.

There are a few seconds where it's a fight, though, albeit a truly pathetic one. Dirk wriggling and straining to pull out of the warm satin embrace, jaw pressed and teeth gritted, eyes screwed shut with the effort--not just the physical effort of trying to break free, but of self-control, containment of a maelstrom, a catastrophic event of hurricane force threatening to overtake him and rip him apart right here in front of Emet and

He's struggling to breathe

And

He's choking on his breath

And

And it's a good thing Emet can't see his face from this angle, because it's doing something he can just about feel,

Or he could if it wasn't all coming down on him now, crashing down like another tritely oceanic metaphor, a tidal wave or tsunami probably, filling his mouth and nose with salt water, burning his eyes--yes, just like that, just like now, right now.

Oh. Oh no. No, no, fuck. Fuck this. Fuck me. Not now. Not like this. Please, for one fucking second more, just hold it the fuck in, I swear to fuck--

He can't process this. Any of it, let alone all of it. There's just too damn much. It's cumulative, it's exponential, it's a thousand discrete specifics that he can't reconcile or solve or even absorb any more. He doesn't want it to stop but he wants it to--to just--

Fuck.

"You know this is fucking weird," he manages to gasp out, trying not to sound weepy, trying not to sound wet and raw and muscous filled and failing entirely. It's followed by a hard sniff, the sound of a grief inchoate--or maybe just of Dirk trying to retain control of something in the face of an ongoingly disgusting and humiliating display.

Edited 2020-09-14 04:38 (UTC)

Finally...

Despite the struggle, not to mention the discomfort of those glasses of his pressing against him, Hades does not release his hold. Fortunately, Dirk doesn't struggle for long, and he can feel him give in. Feel the way his body tenses, how his breath hitches, and how he is overtaken by emotion.

He needs it, needs this release, and even if it costs Hades to be a little uncomfortably jabbed by the corner of those glasses, he doesn't mind as much as he could, merely shifting his head to avoid that corner threatening to jab at his chin. Though, for a moment he considers pulling back enough to properly remove them, and maybe he will, but for now he merely holds him.

Allows him the privacy of this embrace, so that he would not have to suffer being seen as he lets his built up pain and anguish pour from his eyes.

There is no shame in this, Hades knows, but he is also aware of the fact that Dirk knows this not. Or, at the very least, refuses to acknowledge it. When he speaks, a small apologetic smile crosses Hades' face, not that Dirk can see it. It's sad in it's own way, that Dirk would find this weird, but he does suppose it kind of is. After all, Dirk had made it plain and obvious that he wishes not to be involved with Hades in a romantic way, yet here he is offering him the comfort that a lover would.

It's what he needs, and Hades is set on giving him exactly that.

"Never you mind the oddity, it is inconsequential. Instead, let free your emotions, you will feel better for it." His voice is soft, soothing even, and he does aim to draw back just a touch—he would remove those glasses if Dirk would let him, if only so he may hold him against his chest better.

However, the first sign of Dirk's resistance to him pulling away, he will cease it at once. He will resume holding him tightly against him, a gloved hand gently stroking his hair comfortingly, lovingly, his other hand rubbing over his back as well. In either case, his heart aches for him, and he cannot help but wonder when last he cried. When last he opened his heart so, and let free the pressure of his anguish, of his grief...

That he would cause more is inexcusable, this he knows, and this is why he will stay. As long as Dirk needs him. As long as Dirk wants him—truly wants him.

Nothing makes sense right now. Dirk can feel the tears, the way his stomach clenches, his lips dry, parting as he gasps for breath like a caught fish, fighting his own body to stop this before it gets out of control.

Emet's strength works against him; the pressure and warmth of embrace, the incomprehensibility of him--a real body, a tangible and whole person he's hardly known and barely tested, who he knows in the full picture doesn't matter at all.

Why?

How?

It doesn't make sense. None of it does.

What Emet wants, what he loves is implacable and infinite, unstoppable and irredeemable. Emet wants a God, aspires to partnership with something powerful and real. That, Dirk can understand. What he doesn't understand--he doesn't understand this. This tight hold, this petting him like a dog, these infantilising, soothing murmurs to free his 'emotions.' To feel better.

No. This isn't right. This isn't real. It isn't him, who he is. What he is. He's trapped in this body, heaving and weeping and choking on its own meat and materiality. Synapses knit together by electrochemical impulse, popping and cracking at nanoscopic scale inside three pounds of wet and wrinkled fat. This is not where he belongs.

His ultimate self is the tipping point, the equation that solves for nothing but hate or animosity, the difference between love and antipathy, ending inevitably in silence and weeks or months of no contact from anyone. Like Roxy. Fuck, he fucked that one up so bad. He knows Dave would have done the same and worse, is already on his way and would be so twice if really knowing didn't come with ascension, wasn't part of his elevation to the state they both deserved. Not Jane, though, at least not Jane. If only because he didn't tell Jane.

Why and how Emet could turn his back on his own brain ghost, his own perfect man, his peerless lover, his singleminded, soul-deep partner? How, if even Jake could turn his back on him--his own and only hope, always letting him down one last time--

How could the full depth and breadth of his vast and uncounted selfhood be so quickly flattened into something so pathetic and stupid and helpless and shallow?

He hates to think about Jake at all, but he can't not; not when he would have done anything, did everything, carried the load for both of them. He remembers how it felt, being thirteen and too needy and too insecure, desperate for anything he could get. Jake's enthusiasm, his insensitivity and blind encouragement and the sincerity of both. He remembers being sixteen, too aggressive and too afraid of fucking it up, consumed by the need to have something for himself. Someone. Jake's silver tongue and his willing complicity, his seemingly mutual return of those affections, the whole thing--

He tried to help. He tried to guide him. To fix things. To fix him. Jake could be that for him, if he'd just let Dirk fix it. All Dirk needed was Jake, and Jake didn't want him. Not all of him. Or any of him.

Destroying himself, again and again. Reconciliation, compromise, "forgetting" or "slipping up" or just hurting each other, providing the ammunition. Bullets in a pistol, loading them and cocking it and putting it back in Jake's hand.

Learning what it means to want something more than you want to want it. The high of attaining it, of really having it, or thinking you do. Of immersing yourself in the best feelings of your entire short (all too long) life. The terror and agony of losing it all, of grasping for it again and again. Of seeing and feeling it not so much slip through his fingers as discovering that he had never had it, the betrayal and anger and shame. Learning that his happiness (like all happinesses) was a lie, someone else's escape clause--and once he was free of his original pursuer, he too became something unwanted and unwelcome, another 'bad' from which to escape. How much it hurt. How much it still hurts, layer after layer of bandage applied retroactively and ripped off again, bloody and raw and still beating against his calloused palms, his own fingers dug deep into the bloody tissue.

And then the fighting.

Fighting, fighting, fighting, fighting. That's all they had left. All that either had in them. Because of Dirk, of course.

He can't remember a fight he's gotten into with Emet. It's only been a couple of months. There's time. There's so much time, nothing but time, an infinite stretch of infinite seconds and all they have to do is break it--

It's not fair, it's not fair at all and he feels so fucking disingenuous, comparing them at all, comparing either of them, any part of this or that. How could he? How could he not? When all Emet wants is to embrace him and offer him sweet seductive murmurs of vulnerability like that isn't sabotage of the worst kind. He knows it, and he knows Emet knows it, and he gave Jake months to know it, too. To approach him like this, to approach God. To test and be tested, to take what was offered and rise up and take him in his arms and it doesn't matter because Jake never worshipped him, never worshipped the way Dirk worshipped, loved the way Dirk knew he was meant to love. Jake turned his back on God, worshipping instead the bottle, the party hookup, his own blameless bubble of ego.

Dirk would have given him everything, and he refused. He refused to even try, even just one last time, one more, please, Jake I'm begging you here, and Dirk knows what he doesn't know, knows that he knew nothing good could come from what Dirk had to offer, from what he was becoming, nevermind what he had already been and already was and already done. He could have had everything, but he didn't want to be responsible for all that. Not even Dirk. Especially not Dirk.

Every memory piling up in his head. His memories. Even the ones that weren't his memories were, they were his and that was him he was, is, there and here. Losing his mind. Going insane in a miserable paradise. A fleeting moment of almost-happiness, soured by the lie. His first kiss, experienced without lips or skin or a body, the decapitated head of the 'real thing' a messy necessity. Feeling nothing. Knowing why, knowing jealousy and resentment and hate. Hate for himself and hate for Dirk and hate for the hate. Hours and hours of secret, locked logs. Desperately begging the boy he wanted to acknowledge him as a person, to let him be real. Just for a second. Hours and hours ERP and more with a girl, a girl who isn't even a girl any more, who maybe never was. Who Dirk should have loved but never could, not the way he should have, not the way she deserved. Knowing he was her escapist fantasy, an unloved substitute for an unlovable man. Inescapable pasts and presents.

It hurts. It hurts and it only makes sense because people like him don't get happy endings, because the pain is inevitable and his suffering serves a purpose, and he knows on whose neck the sword of a Just death will come down and that's fine, that's fine, that's all he needs to keep going and he will, he will fight like hell for his right to that end, so why does he even care? Why does this still fucking hurt?

He's actually sobbing, he realises, from about a thousand layers of himself away. He's sobbing and he's absolutely ruining Emet's expensive suit, velvet isn't meant for weeping. There is snot in his throat and in his nose which is crushed against Emet's chest and in his mouth which is full of spit and tears, still so dry it makes his raw throat feel swollen and tender in an unpleasant way. It's not really clear whether he starts coughing or choking first, but Emet's hand is rubbing up and down his back, his glasses pressing painful lines into his damp and swollen face as he tries again to pull back, to regain some fucking control of himself as he comes up for air--physically, mentally, and beyond even that.

"Fuck you." It's paired with a rough gasp and it's followed by a hiccough, a sharp pain across his chest as his sore and strained diaphragm convulses over his ribs. He hiccoughs again. And then again.

He wants to fucking die. He hiccoughs again.

The worst possible involuntary physiological response for the moment.

Second worst.

The worst is either an erection or vomiting.

And right now he can't rule out either; he's a fucking mess and he hates it, hates Emet, hates everything about this and most of all himself, the self he was leaving behind, whose hand closed over his ankle and yanked him back to land on his fucking face. A real slapstick comedy, a Grade A pratfall. Boom-down, instantly, like a bag of fucking cement. He needs space--to breathe--to get a drink (of water)--something, anything to fucking collect himself.

Edited 2020-09-15 02:12 (UTC)

It's raw.

The emotions. The genuine anguish. The soul tearing agony of his sobs. The sheer mass of it all, the sorrow behind it...he is far from invulnerable to it, and it grips. His heart but a rodent in the coils of an infinitely more powerful constrictor, and he feels himself nearly robbed of his breath for it. The sting at his own eyes as he endures and holds him.

Dirk's heart laid bear before him, so utterly vulnerable, but it always has been, hasn't it? That is why he's so guarded, so aloof and distant. His heart fragile like freshly blown glass, likewise beautiful, but so easy to crack and fracture, and Hades was exceedingly careless.

He knows better than most how needed this is, how much Dirk has likely denied himself this very crucial part of healing. Hades was far from the first to mishandle his heart, this he knows for certain, but the cracks were never given time to heal. Time to set and mend. Not that he has much room to talk, with his own bastion full of unaddressed feelings and traumas that have left his own heart likewise fractured. But this isn't about his hypocrisy, nor him at all, this was about the man weeping against his suit-clad bosom.

The grieving man painfully sobbing out more than a decade's worth of grief against him. So much strife, so much burden and hardship for one so young. Such a short and tragic existence, and he was not even given much of a fighting chance from the first. A life born into tragedy, only to endure more, and likely end in it.

A regrettable existence that would not exist in the world that Hades knew, loved, and fights—no, fought for, but no longer. All the same, had Dirk been one of them, had he merely been born into their world, he would have known the love and support he should have all along. He would not have had to be burdened so terribly...well, that actually isn't entirely true, but at the very least his beginnings would not have been so utterly wretched.

With Elidibus' surprising arrival, and the news of his and Elidibus' own demise, he was now aware that their part would be coming to an end, the final chapter of their terrible burden over. Finally, after eons, they would have their earned rest. After so many painful, exhausting, and grueling centuries... Even so, it's a bittersweet thought, and another source of guilt—that he brought about his own and Elidibus' end as he did.

A necessary scheme, a necessary act of mercy, but still it did not feel great. It did not afford him comfort. But it did earn him rest, or would, once he's returned...

No better does he feel knowing he added to Dirk's emotion-filled wailing. Another necessary mercy, but it still did not give him comfort hearing the heart wrenching cries of a man he's grown so fond of over a matter of moons. Truly, it feels longer, which is an odd feeling in and of itself. Especially when time is so immaterial at times when you've lived as long as Hades has.

But how long has it been since he's felt this way? How long has it been since he's genuinely enjoyed himself? Loved and was loved—was understood? Far too long, by his measure.

As Dirk finally collects himself, at least seems to enough to finally pull back, sniffing and hiccoughing, speaking up finally, though it's generous to call the breathy curse that. And, while Hades does allow him some space (holding back any recoiled disgust at the sight of the mess his suit has become), he does not let him stray too far. Instead, he brings one hand from Dirk, while the other stays firm in its cupping of the back of his head, only to reach into a suit pocket to retrieve a delicately woven handkerchief.

After all, his face is a mess, and he's certain that Dirk would like something to clean his face on that isn't Hades' suit, nor his own.

The sight of him, the pitiful little hybrids of both hiccup and cough, the pure show of emotion—utterly exposed and unguarded...it makes Hades' own heart swell painfully. The warmth and adoration making itself agonizingly obvious in his breast. He wants for nothing more than to comfort him, to soothe his wounded heart...

With the handkerchief offered, he looks to him with an expression of pure affection.

"My dear boy, this was so terribly long overdue. Please, take this, dry your tears—though more may replace them."

His voice is low and soft, likewise filled with adoration and love. Even being insulted, even being treated as he has been, he chooses not to rise to it. Instead, he leans down and plants a kiss on the top of Dirk's head. Oh, how he yearns for more, how he wishes to express the love he still holds for him, even as this sobbed-out mess, more tears and snot than man, it matters little.

To see his heart laid so bare, to see the emotions that he has only glimpsed here and there over these past handful of moons...it stirs him in ways far deeper than he'd like to admit. That loving passion and desire within him as Dirk is so close to him, so aching for love and affection that is rightly due. That Hades is more than happy to give, if he would but show him a sign.

If Emet had let him, Dirk would have walked clear across the room. He's prevented from doing that much, though, at least not without a fight, so he stands in place, the corners of his mouth still pulled down into an uncharacteristically dramatic frown, and considers adjusting his shades--now badly askew--but his hands pause midair; the frames are barely on his face, and the lenses are an ungodly mess inside and out. He tips his head down instead, sniffing loudly and unattractively as they drop off his face and into his waiting hands.

Then he sniffs again, coughing, hiccoughs again mid-cough--there is no question of it now. He definitely has the hiccups.

"It was so terribly unnecessary, you mean." There is no love, no kindness or appreciation at all in Dirk's tone. It's coarse and rough, ugly in a raw way--a way that is not entirely about the state of his vocal cords. He gives the handkerchief an unfriendly glance. Which is accompanied by a hiccup, and another cough.

"I hope you're happy with it. It never happened, and it's--" Hiccup. "--not happening again." Hiccup.

Holy shit. He doesn't want this. He definitely didn't need it.

"There won't be tears to 'replace' anything that did or not happen tonight. And I'm not your 'dear boy,' I'm not a 'boy' or dear, and I'm especially not yours. I don't know what you thought would happen, actually," his voice is so hoarse and speaking is so physically painful that the hiccoughs are almost secondary to the rest of his miserable experience and he's not done, not by a long nautical mile. "I take it this was your plan. What was the next step? Is this that 'trauma bonding' thing I hear so much about? I soak your suit with facial fluids at the rate of, what a solid 2 microlitres of fluid a minute, then I melt into your arms and I'm so grateful you oiled the rusted gears of my broken-up mechanical heart and everything is forgiven? Well, you're wrong. I don't appreciate it and I don't fucking forgive you. I definitely don't feel better, either. Frankly, I might as well have just died instead. That would have spared both of us, and especially me. From you. From me. From this. Everything."

The whole time he's talking, he's still got the hiccoughs, and every few seconds or syllables, his shoulders jerk and his throat closes as his diaphragm spasms painfully, but he doesn't pause to acknowledge it, not once.

His thoughts are spinning, gears turning so fast they slip--producing exactly nothing. It's the most overproductive, overclocked Nothing he's ever had. He feels swollen and sensitive, snotty and shrivelled dry. Not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically, he's like a weird, gross balloon. He can feel his meninges and the throbbing headache of dehydration and whatever the hell else was lost with the tears and the dignity and the self-control. In all ways but literally, he's wandering around the room, picking up parts of himself, carrying them around while he looks for the first piece that would let him put it all back together.

He stops talking only after the bitterness piles up so deep that it grinds it all back down to a halt, the resentment and hollow, empty resonating shell of inchoate monstrosity and the want for a reprieve, a reward in the rest he has yet to receive.

There's a beat. He's eyeing Emet. Silence, save for the hiccups. A look of such severe unhappiness that it really transforms his entire face. Wet eyes, wet cheeks, runny nose. Hiccough.

He caves to discomfort and dishevelment, taking the handkerchief and applying it to his shades in a pointedly unhurried way. He hiccups again, and makes a low, wet sound of restrained misery in the back of his throat.

Edited 2020-09-15 05:06 (UTC)

The aggressive way he's reacting after collecting some measure of himself is expected, oft does one overcompensate for vulnerabilities, particularly when one who is privy to such is not the one you want to be. Yet, Hades does not falter under the scrutiny, nor less the remarks. Not that the comments and deflection, continued rejection, and scathing way he goes about it does not hurt in its own way. It does, but he otherwise looks unmarked by any of it. If anything, it makes him feel more for him, returns him to that earlier comparison he held of the wounded animal, flashing its fangs at anything that draws too near. It's...sad, really.

A pitiful sight, really.

As he looks at Dirk's tear-drenched face, flushed from the exertion of weeping, and the general mess it created, he feels nothing but sympathy and affection for the man. Well does he know what it's like to spit acid at those you care for, trying to create some distance, fearful of the affection they have to offer, fearful of how easily they can affect your tender heart...

Watching him though, taking in the sight of him, the little hiccups that utterly demolish any semblance of intimidation or aggression he might be vying for, he feels the want—the need, really—to reach out to him. To comfort him further. He doesn't, instead he restrains himself. For now.

"Do you mark all bodily functions as such, or merely those under the misapprehension they are a sign of weakness? Dying instead of crying is hardly a worthy exchange, and you are far too important to perish for it, but give yourself time. You will feel the relief from it—much like any build up and consequential release." Hades replies as Dirk finally takes the handkerchief, but instead of blowing his nose, or wiping his face, he instead goes for his glasses.

Somehow, Hades does not find himself surprised.

"Honestly, do you think me so nefarious? As I said, I was merely doing what you couldn't, and I will continue to do so, as long as you need it. Besides, there is no shame in releasing such anguish, in taking comfort when it is offered. And I would have you realize that I am not seeking forgiveness—though I regret my actions, I am not seeking to appease you for my own exoneration. Your anger is warranted, and I will not contest that."

Catching his gaze with his own as he finishes, taking in those bright orange eyes—that amber-like hue that reminds him so deeply of Azem—he feels his breath catch in his throat for a moment. But only a moment, because in the next, he breathes it out. Slow and measured, through his nose which is decidedly less stuffy than Dirk's.

Boldly, he reaches out with his hand once more, cupping Dirk's cheek to wipe at the tears still staining his cheeks with his gloved thumb, his brow slanting and furrowing with sincere concern, though he smiles at him softly. The hand at the base of his neck shifts to trail his fingers through the hair there. Comforting strokes and gentle rubs at they lightly work.

"But, there is no reason to deny yourself what you want or need, even in anger. If you need—desire—company, then take it. If you find comfort in my arms, then they are yours, even if you are no longer mine."

Edited 2020-09-15 20:55 (UTC)

Dirk narrows his eyes just a hair when Solus characterises his accusation of a plan as 'nefarious.' Not just because protesting his iniquity is hypocritical to the extreme, but because the reason Dirk connected those dots to begin with is based in firsthand experience; Jake is a ready crier, and Dirk's reaped the benefits of that specific gambit more than once in his life.

He doesn't move when Solus reaches out for him again--partially it's a loss of ways to respond, and partially it's a refusal to gratify him. He stands there stiff and still, unmoving like a stone. (Okay, a stone with the hiccups. Fuck off.) In a way, that's what makes it possible, what gives him the opportunity to process.

Solus has, for quite a lot of this conversation, been a real broken record. No, he doesn't want to be forgiven. No, he doesn't expect to be forgiven. No, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Oh, he cares so much about how Dirk is feeling. Oh, he wants so much to comfort Dirk through his feelings. Oh, he is just so sorry, anything he can possibly do is not enough, etc. It's hard to deal with for a lot of reasons, and it was giving Dirk problems even before thinking felt less like a failed attempt at breathing a solid object.

But something about the last few minutes (has it only been a few minutes? how long was he slipping, how much time did he spend on this before he pulled himself together?) has been... off. Not in any clearly identifiable way, nothing he could point an intellectual finger at and declare eureka!

Or maybe he was just too distracted internally to see it.

"Is this..." he says slowly, like he’s putting the pieces together in his head--though now it's more like he's watching a highlighted replay of the pieces' assembly inside his own head. His eyes wander, but in a way that leaves them fixed squarely on Solus' face.

“Is this--" Hiccup. "--a fetish thing? You're a dacryphiliac?”

He stares at Solus with an intensity that has bypassed reading and more approaches 'penetration.' Any one of the details previous might have been dismissable. Even the smaller, less damning combinations were--if not excusable or unnoticed--simply not enough of a picture. That breathless pause. The besotted look on his face. The tender, loving way he cups Dirk's head and the gently competent and confidently firm way he wipes Dirk's literal tears from his face--

"I'm right, aren't I? You're not--" Hiccup. "--just horny for this. You're down--" Hiccup. "--downright infatuated."

He wipes his nose and mouth--not very gently, and making no attempt to spare Solus' handkerchief the worst of his slick, sweaty, spit-and-snot smeared face. Then he pauses, placing his shades back on his face; the glass touches his tear-damp cheeks in a way that feels slightly sticky, the nosepads sitting not quite right against his swollen eyes.

"Is it the crying in general, or is it my crying specifically that's getting you hard?" Are the hiccups done? Please, for the love of fuck, let them be done. (In)dignity aside (what dignity), his sternum's going to split like a twig if they don't.

"Do you have to be the one to make a guy cry?"

He keeps a much cooler tone, for all his throat is hot and swollen like Jake's face in anaphylaxis. Like Solus' fat fucking cock in those trousers of his.

"Don't deny it. It's all over your face."

His accompanying downward glance is hidden behind his shades.

Edited 2020-09-17 14:29 (UTC)

Well, whether Dirk wishes to admit that such deeds are indeed nefarious, it does not change that they are. Sometimes they are necessary, and that can negate such a damning distinction, but to pursue such without an exonerating intent does not excuse the moral reprehension of the tactic.

When Dirk speaks up, Hades' expression takes on something more curious—before jolting into a look closer to stunned than anything else. Blindsided by the question—the accusation, really. He isn't upset by it, just baffled. But really, it comes across more like Dirk trying to twist what this is into something far worse, perhaps as a means to deflect the affection? To further paint Hades as a villain in this situation?

He does suppose he's being rather forward with his affection, and maybe he's given certain...airs with what he's done and said, but...

Not that Hades really notices his downward glance, but Dirk might or might not notice something that could confirm his speculation—though viewing any defining shapes in black clothing through shades might prove a little difficult. All the same, Hades can't deny the sort of state this entire situation has put him in to some degree...

"...I do suppose I have found myself moved by your emotional vulnerability, there is little point in denying it. Yet, I would not name it a fetish. I take no joy in your weeping, and even less arousal from it alone." He offers simply enough, making no move to pull his hands away from him, nor break that gaze full of fondness he burdens Dirk with.

"I am a man affected by sincerity and earnest displays of emotions, furthermore for those I have found worthy of my affection—that this might inspire aught within me is only natural. That I am gladdened to see you release such an emotional backlog is not of sexual gratification—though, I cannot help but notice that despite your accusations, you draw not away from me. Here you remain within my tender grasp."

That hand which served to wipe some few tears away from his cheek now gently glides down to cup Dirk's chin, angling his head up so that they might gaze into one another's eyes—or would, if not for the shades. Cursed things, endearing in most contexts, but not this one.

"Are you perhaps hopeful that I am riled in such a way? Do you wish for more intimate comforts? If so, I will not deny you..."

Privately, he is glad that Dirk wiped his nose and mouth because it saves him from taking that handkerchief and doing it himself, seeing as he takes the next moment to lean in. The hand at the base of his hairline shifts downward, pressing firm between his shoulder blades to draw him closer—chest to chest—then he descends to claim those soft lips of Dirk's with his own.

There are a lot of reasons Dirk hasn't moved.

Some of it is simply exhaustion. It's the choice between energy expended or conserved for the point he's making--not to mention the clarity or efficacy of that point. Resistance or retreat of any kind, he calculates through the headache that throbs steadily across the parched membranes inside his skull, will be assessed as vulnerability. Either weakness or fodder for what now appears to be a sexually depraved complex of empathy-derivative eroticism. No matter what Solus says about it, he hasn't yet disproved or really even denied that's the case.

But also: he's exhausted. Not yet running on empty, but close enough. He feels empty. A wrung-out husk, drained and scoured and crispy in the sun. He can't commit to that image, though, because that's not it, because he also feels heavy and worn, barren and bereft and dead in a very literal way. Yeah. Dead. That's it exactly. He's been dead before. It's like that. But this isn't yet over, and more is coming all the time--a nonstop barrage. Developments and happenings, twists and feints and acts and words.

So he doesn't push Solus away. Because not doing so is worse than the pain, the tightening clench of his heart mixed up with the false reassurance of the hand solid against on his back. And when Solus tries to push them together, he doesn't dig in his heels.

Except:

The heel of Dirk's hand intercepts Solus' mouth before he lands that hoped-for kiss, leather-covered palm and thickly calloused fingers forming a flat surface into which Solus' face collides. There's no special force behind it--there could have been, obviously, Dirk is more than capable of breaking a man's nose and knocking some incisors loose as a BOGO take-an-additional-25%-off blue light special in the process.

Solus knows this, and he knows Solus knows it.

That's part of why he didn't.

The other reason is made apparent when the hand that was full of handkerchief just a second ago instead closes over the groin of Solus' fancy brushed-cotton pants, seizing an expert handful of the full package with--again--a minimal amount of force, but more than enough to feel the familiar shape of Solus' half-hard cock against his gloved palm.

"That's what I thought."

Hiccups or no, his voice is still thick with cotton and mucous.

Edited 2020-09-18 05:09 (UTC)

Certainly Hades wasn't fool enough to think that nothing would happen. That Dirk wouldn't react in some way. He knew there was a good chance that he would be stopped before he could kiss him, but there was also the chance that he would be allowed to as well.

It was a gamble, and tonight he's proven to be a betting man.

With this said, however, he would not have taken the bet that Dirk would not only stop him with his palm—the feel of that leather against his lips both surprising and thrilling in its own right—but then he follows up with his other hand. Grabbing his half stiffened member which certainly makes his face heat up for a handful of reasons. His breath hitching against Dirk's palm, while he can feel himself throb against the other.

How embarrassing.

It takes him a beat too long to catch what Dirk says, but then he turns his head from Dirk's palm to free his mouth so that he might try to defend himself.

"Please—as I told you, this has naught to do with your crying. Much rather the heighten emotions and vulnerability between us. I have naught to gain by lying, and such a physiological response proves naught."

Edited 2020-09-18 05:34 (UTC)

There.

Finally.

Right there.

The exact conditions he needed. Does he want them? Is this what he was looking for? Or just what he's used to, what he's good at, what he knows?

It doesn't matter.

This is what happens next:

"In that case, it should be no problem when I tell you to get out."

He hasn't let go of Solus' prize and jewels; he lets one hand drop to his side, but it isn't the one holding Solus' package. If anything, his grip tightens a little, purposefully curling his fingers to better cup his testis.

"Turn around and walk. You keep saying how sorry you are, so prove it. You don't deserve gratification from this, katharos or orgasmos. You want my release? Then release me yourself."

Dirk's mouth has lost all trace of that all-too-revealing downturn and is simply a line. His own fully-function, all-natural 'mask.' His voice is taut, though, strained to its limit by fatigue he wants Solus to derive as purely physical.

"Take your ill-favoured remnant of your world with you."

Well, this is certainly not the turn he had hoped for, but there's an in there that Dirk has left, whether he realizes it or not. Or, perhaps he's still baiting him, hoping he'll go for it despite framing it otherwise. Either way, it's a little difficult to form coherent speculation when Dirk is gripping him as he is—not quite painful, but certainly uncomfortable.

It shows on his face, whether he wants it to or not. There's only so much he can wear his own mask against, and having his semi-arousal and stones held hostage like this is not one of those things.

Well, at least not right away, since he's able to give him an antagonizing, albeit a little strained, grin. Dirk wants to go this route? Then so be it.

"I shall be glad to do so, but we both know if I were to turn and leave, then no release would transpire at all." His voice is sly, regaining that slight nasally airy tone it has when he's not letting his guard down. Just as Dirk has donned his own mask, Hades seems fit to put his back on. Stuffing down his emotions, painful as it is, but he won't give up so easily. Even with the comment about the Amaurotine puppet, he ignores it for now, ignores the painful jab to his heart it serves.

His eyebrows raise as he stares down at him, his smirk forming into that lopsided presentation that favors the right side.

"After all, you could have made your point without fondling me, yet here you are. So, what'll it be, Narrator? Do you wish me to go on my way, or shall I, as you put it, release you myself?"

Edited 2020-09-18 20:45 (UTC)

Once upon a time, that might have worked on him. The knowledge of that is a kick in the gut, really; a reminder of everything he knows about Solus, every intimate detail, every little tell to his thoughts and insight to his motives. It's an unexpected throb of hurt, an infection swelling a wound he thought was clean.

He stands there for the duration of one additional breath, one beat of pause to make Solus sweat. Enough time for the abrupt, bitter swell of ~~grief~~ ~~anger~~ resentment to ebb even a little.

Then he lets go, his eyes locked on Solus' as he steps back with dismissive briskness.

"I just don't think your heart is in it any more."

In other words: if Solus wanted that gambit to work, he shouldn't have tried that 'smile.'

Ah.

In a way, that's reassuring that Dirk's denial or dismissal of feelings towards Hades, or that he cared at all, is proven false. That he would be keen to that detail, of how he smiles, the subtleties of his cues. That Dirk cared enough to learn to read him—to know him.

At the same time, it's served to work against him in another way. There's another sense of relief when Dirk releases him, more physical than anything else. As he talks, he tilts his head a little curiously, his grin holding, though going to something a little more neutral and even.

"Is that not what you want? When I offered my love, you rebuked it. Admonished me for it—so which is it? Because I well know you want this," to emphasize his point, his own gaze flicks down towards Dirk's groin, before returning to meet Dirk's gaze. Or would, if not for the glasses, "but by your words your disapproval was my lack of heart—and if that is all you require..."

Now it's his turn, for Dirk's step back, Hades steps forward. And then, without much warning, he firmly places his hands on Dirk's chest. What seems like an attempt to grope him, soon turns into a sudden shove. Only hard enough to offset his balance so the mattress behind him can do the rest of the work once the back of his legs catch it.

Fortunately, while the Amaurotine puppet is on the bed (having been laid there to hold Dirk), it isn't in danger of Dirk's ass falling on it. Hades certainly made sure of that before deciding this more aggressive approach.

Edited 2020-09-18 22:55 (UTC)

Desire can, in the right circumstances, come down to the desire to put it off just a few more minutes, to forestall a miserable inevitability--and Dirk has never been good at letting go. That alone would be impetus enough.

Nevermind the look Solus gives his crotch--though under any other circumstance, that would have given him more than a twinge of arousal. Now, however, he feels only that, an uncertain flush of heat at the blatant attention, affection marred by doubt and desperation. A dubious turn-on. But he is desperate. And he knows that he is. At this point, there's not much else to say between them. 'Get out' was the last of it, and the worst part comes after--once Solus obeys and the door closes, leaving Dirk completely alone.

Again.

He doesn't like having his nose rubbed in it.

Because it's not rocket science, seriously.

That what Dirk wants is both physical and emotional takes barely even a surface-level reading. So the fact that he wants to be loved and feel loved, be wanted and feel wanted, and incorporates that into his sexuality should not come as any kind of surprise.

More surprising, perhaps, is that without that emotional connection, or even a desire for it, he finds the prospect not only unattractive but actively pretty repellent. But maybe it's not so unexpected--Dirk's logic is wound up tightly in his emotions, and vice versa.

But this and about a thousand, million other things are already spinning through his head as his ass hits the mattress, connecting gears in his ultimate machine--and though he had plenty of time to take Solus with him, he made the conscious choice not to. It's a choice that would not only be obvious to Solus--his having experienced firsthand how quickly and easily Dirk leverages his weight and centre of gravity against a bigger man--but which makes for a sure tell that Dirk's conflicted.

Why he didn't is... complicated, like everything else happening right now.

It's not like sex here and now would be a new low. He's done it before, time and time again--sometimes before the final slam of the door, sometimes waiting minutes, hours, days, weeks, or months before cracking under the weight of that post-schism silence or carefully-performed professional peace. Or in reverse, as Jake sat brokenly upon the couch or stood pathetically in the hall or collapsed in tearful repose on the bed. But.

It's the pattern. It feels bad. Raw. Pathetic and disgusting. But this time it's not his moral bankruptcy or his perverse nature or his moral deficit on display. At worst, he's holding up a mirror; the same mirror Solus claims to have held up to him.

Is this really just a fetish to him (Solus)?

Does he (Dirk) care?

No. He doesn't. He sits back on the mattress, resting his hands behind him to spread his legs a bit wider, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a short-lived mockery of Solus' own mien.

"Okay, okay. You made your point. You want one for the road? Fine. I got what you want right here."

Edited 2020-09-22 21:55 (UTC)

He almost doesn't hear the words, more he parses them by the movement of his lips, the way they form the words that are doubtlessly spoken. But his heart beat is far too loud, and drowns out the majority of it. Fortunately, the message is received all the same, and with Dirk's spread of his legs, resting upon his hands... let us just say Hades is not wont to hesitate when given such an offer.

Swiftly he unbuttons his tailcoat, and with similar practiced ease he shrugs it off, tossing it to the chair he had sat in minutes ago. An hour ago? How much time has truly passed since he broke the news, since both their hearts were burdened with the heaviness of the truth? He supposes it matters little, but he cannot help but notice his complete loss of time since this started. It's felt like it's taken an eternity to get to this point, yet at the same time it's gone so quickly.

They are moving so quickly. Especially now.

Perhaps he should feel ashamed of this. Of this egregiously needy display, of how he throws himself at Dirk in such a manner, how he's pushed both of them to this point. Not that he's forcing Dirk into this, it's very clear that Dirk is interested to some extent, that Dirk wants this for likely the same reasons Hades does—but Hades knows this. He's taking advantage of it, but at the same time he's blatantly aware of the necessity of it. Hoping, even if in futility, that it will be enough to convince Dirk of his love.

Of his intentions. Of...their need for one another.

Logically he knows it's a pipe dream, rationally he knows this will not end how he wants it to, and emotionally he's prepared for the disappointment. It is justly deserved—for him, but not for Dirk. Through careless actions has he nearly doomed Dirk to solitude. Nearly, because he will not give up, and he will not allow solitude to take hold of Dirk within its icy and depressing grasp.

As he moves forward, kneeling down onto the bed between Dirk's legs, he takes in the visual of him. Everything about it is inviting, everything about him makes his chest both feel as though it's heavy, yet so light. Fit to burst with the surge of passion that courses through him with every beat of his tired and fragile heart. He knows this does not disprove Dirk's earlier wild claim, how that he seems to erroneously believe this a fetish, instead of the mark of passion that it is.

But he can't not do this. They both need it. Want it. Regardless of how pathetic it makes either of them.

Every fiber of him is urging him forward, urging him to unbutton his shirt, to unbuckle his belt, to work down Dirk's pants, to straddle his hips, to kiss him deeply and passionately. Anything and everything that could make them feel connected as they should be, as they have been, to rekindle that fire before it goes out completely, never to be lit again...

Well, fortunately Hades knows a thing about restarting old flames.

"A final one ere we part, is that it? How very generous of you." He says with glib ease, his response not quite as delayed in reality as his struggling thoughts firing off at lightning speed may make one think. Mere moments passing, yet each feeling like their own singular eternity. Betraying the conflict within himself as he follows those internal demands in short order—whether or not this ends how he wishes for it to, he will be certain that Dirk does not doubt his feelings for him, his passion—his desire—his love.

He will make this one hell of a ride for the both of them. And, if nothing else, he will leave Dirk with an alluring memory of what is his, not to mention how foolish it would be to make this their last.

And then both were consumed by darkness of a modest and PG nature. Obviously.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I trust that this is worth it, but (closed)

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nsfw stuff

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