[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

[faithlikeaseed]

(( Need to get a hold of Myr? Drop him a line. Notes, in-person visits, sending crystals, spooky Fade dream shenanigans, you name it. Just specify the type of contact in the first comment of the thread and away we go.

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Comments

[paladingus]

Simon doesn't have a comprehensive knowledge of the kind of sounds most people tend to make in the throes of passion, when he's always needed to keep safely quiet and ensure that his partner can do the same--but anyone can tell that a noise like that is not something you want to prompt from a lover, nor the sudden deathly stillness. He pulls back, instantly concerned and already contrite, taking in Myr's face with only a momentary stomach-lurch at the clear view of the empty sockets again.

"Myr? What's happened? I didn't mean to--I ought to have asked, shouldn't I, I'm sorry, I just thought--"

You're welcome to look is not you're welcome to touch, after all, not in so bold or forward a capacity, but he had thought Myr was angling them both in that direction. Surely it's got to be something Simon's done, some mistake he's unwittingly made, for things to go from warm laughing kisses to frozen horror in so brief a split second.

[faithlikeaseed]

He freezes, Simon pulls away, and for a brief horrifying irrational second Myr thinks there it is, it’s over—, whatever temporary madness blinded Simon to his obvious defect has run its course and now he won’t want me either.

There are few things he’s heard sweeter than the way Simon says his name then, worry clear enough to cut right through the fog of anxious terror. It wasn’t that—oh, Maker, thank You that it wasn’t that. Simon still wants him every bit as much as he wants Simon—

But that awful unintended interruption of desire’s sweet upward spiral left room for sobering reality to creep in. Whatever their mutual lapse of self-control had led them to (wonderful and necessary as it felt), nothing about the outside world has changed. Nothing has changed about the factions that would frame them as natural enemies—or charge and guardian, never peers, to be kept apart by law and ethical custom.

“Shh. You thought right.” He dares enough still to lean up and kiss the curve of Simon’s jaw—but it’s gentle, conciliatory. It can’t be more than that. “If it were up to me alone I’d have you right here however you wanted.

“But—“ we can’t, he doesn’t say, knowing by grim instinct that might be the death of this. Whether or not they should, he can’t bear the idea of giving up. “If we’re found out—they’ll blame you for it. They’ll think you abused or seduced me, or you ought to be drummed out of the Order—and I won’t bear them treating you so ill. I won’t.”

The words are intense for all they’re quiet; the thought of Simon traduced that way for something done out of love and mutual loyalty makes him furious to think of it. (And it’s an explanation that neatly elides the initial reason for his terror—but if there’s no way on Thedas for them to be together the way they belong, the way they both need, what’s the point of tearing open that old wound?) The thought chokes him; he swallows against his own grief and helpless anger, continues in a voice low and fervent, "We ought to put this to the Maker. It's His will we found each other."

And what they do with that next might be best left up to Him, though Myr cannot put it to voice. What if He decrees a life of straitened chastity for them, loving friendship permitted but touch impossible? Or what if they're supposed to be found out—if it's for the ultimate good of the Maker's works, any personal shame, any peril should be acceptable. There's no higher glory than martyrdom.

Myr makes a small unhappy noise for the last thought, rests his head against Simon’s chest in a mute request for comfort—for guidance.

What do they do?