Make you a sword of me?

[jackrackham]

Jack flips through the few shirts lying in his dresser, feeling full of nervous energy. There's something exciting about the prospect of being able to fight again, even if only played with an aim to practice. It feels like something that really truly belongs to him and who he is, even in this place.

Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.

He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.

When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.

He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.

Comments

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot had assumed there’d be a certain amount of awkwardness at the end, but he never anticipated a kiss. He returns it after a moment’s hesitation—his thoughts are sluggish and he can’t quite understand why this is happening. Something about the way Jack’s looking at him makes his smile falter. Eliot gives a shaky nod and wonders at how Jack is so hard to read now, when just a little while ago they were so in sync.

“Sure,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Get home safe.” He says it like this is any other evening coming to a close, and he’s horrified at himself.

A lightheadedness suffuses him even before Jack is gone, but the sound of the door closing knocks something loose in him, and Eliot sits up and draws his knees to his chest and the little lights wink out as he starts shaking.

Jack’s hand on his chest was so warm, and now Eliot just feels so cold, like he’ll never be warm again.

He tugs the duvet loose and wraps it around his shoulders; he surely cuts a pathetic figure just huddled in the dark so he reaches to turn on the lamp. The light doesn’t improve his mood as much as he’d thought, revealing only the food and water still mostly untouched. It seems such a meager offering now.

A glint of silver catches Eliot’s attention and he stares at the two rings sitting on the nightstand where Jack had left them. For a long moment he doesn’t know what to think. See you later, he’d said, but in Jack’s absence it’s impossible to take his words to heart. The rings seem less like a reason to return and more like they’d been abandoned as Jack cut and run.

He reaches out to touch them but draws his hand back. He’s trembling, and for a moment he has the wild irrational thought that he cannot touch these things or else he will sully them somehow, as surely as sullied Jack in this whole endeavor.

He tries to take a breath to steady himself but only manages a sob. Dimly, Eliot knows he ought to eat, but he glances at the tray of fruit and cheese and feels a little ill. He’s spoiled everything, and Jack must be regretting it by now.

Eliot’s up and staggering out of the bedroom before he realizes it, taking the duvet with him. The weight of it is like a mantle and it helps the shaking enough that he can walk, but he feels wobbly and wild-eyed as he looks around the apartment like it’s a crime scene.

The dagger, too, was left behind. It feels like an indictment. Eliot frowns at it, and the bottle of wine in the kitchen. It’s far better than he deserves, but he needs something to chase the chill and the tremors away.

He pours himself two fingers of whiskey instead. The first swallow burns his throat as he takes the glass back to the bedroom. Eliot laughs to himself, thinking that the sting is the least he deserves. He only realizes he’s crying once he’s back in bed, curled up in a pile.

If there’s a silver lining to be found, at least Jack left before seeing what a pathetic mess he really is.

“Fuck,” Eliot whispers, trying to concentrate on keeping his hands from shaking and spilling the drink. “Fuck.”

[jackrackham]

Jack doesn't pause once he's outside Eliot's door, and instead of going into the familiar metal prison of the elevator, he follows the bright green exit sign and pushes his way into a set of stairs. They're concrete and cold and not much better than the elevator, but at least he can keep moving. Jack knows that he's running away, that he's not being rational, but as his boots his the steps he feels propelled away as surely as if Eliot had firmly asked him to leave.

He makes it down five flights before he slows down and another before he stops completely and drops to sit on the landing of the stairs, hastily wiping tears away from his eyes. It's only then, with his palm pressed against his face, that he realizes he left his rings behind. He left his dagger behind, too.

He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, trying to slow down his breathing. He leans over, letting his hands slide back into his hair and fists his hands there, pulling just tight enough to feel pain.

What is he supposed to do now? He can't just walk back up there, sweaty and crying, and ask for his things back. Eliot's already had enough of him for one evening, if his silence was anything to go by.

For a while there, he thought at least they'd had an understanding. He'd though that Eliot had enjoyed himself, but Eliot's silence calls into question all of his assumptions. What a fucking farce this has all been, he thinks. He feels even more confused and upset than he had this morning.

Could it be that Eliot was regretting his decision? Had he done something wrong that hurt Eliot? Was it just bad sex and he didn't know any better?

"Fuck," he says, bringing his hands down to scrub over his face. He thought it had been good. Not just the sex, but being close to Eliot in that way had felt far more comfortable than he'd expected, far more like he belonged in that bed. It had seemed for a little while like their friendship could extend to sex without any hiccups at all. He'd felt safe with him.

He dwells for a moment on what didn't happen after- Eliot rolling to him and putting a warm hand on his chest, smiling his crooked smile, asking him to stay and sleep next to him, going for breakfast in the morning.

He sighs. He shouldn't have expected it, but part of him did.

"Jack Rackham, you are a fool."

He sits there for a few minutes more, coming to rest his head against the side of the stairwell. He feels exhausted. Only when he hears someone opening the stairwell door above does he push himself back to his feet and walk down the remaining flights of stairs. He has no interest in interacting with some random stranger right now.

His apartment is cold and stark and strange. Once in the door he locks it and gravitates to his desk- the one piece of furniture that he'd added since he moved into this place, and now the most familiar. A blank notebook offers him the chance to write any of this down, but he finds he can't order his thoughts enough to write a word. For a while he pulls over his algebra textbook and distracts himself with a different sort of frustration.

He should try to sleep, he knows, but it would hurt to confront his cold bed knowing that Eliot is in his own, sleeping soundly. He digs out his phone and opens up his texts with Eliot, scrolling back a little bit to look at their texts from today and the last few days. It's past midnight, now. Calling now to leave a message would wake him, but he could leave a note for him to read in the morning.

What, though? He can't let on that he'd been hurt by Eliot's quiet dismissal, or that he would have liked to stay. Leaving immediately is probably just what Eliot expects from his partners and he'd been wrong to hope for anything more. He definitely can't let on how much he cares for him. There's no guarantee that Eliot even wants to sleep with him again.

At the same time- he has been wrong about Eliot's intentions and desires before. There must be a diplomatic way to ask if Eliot ever wants him again.

After a couple of false starts, he texts Thank you for the transformative experience. Hardly the swordplay I'd intended to have when I awoke this morning, but a welcome lesson nonetheless. If you are still a willing teacher, I would enjoy trying something else, some other time.

Then, he adds, Do you think that I should accept Jacobs offer? The date this Saturday? If he's no longer interested, Eliot deserves a simple way to let him down an Jacob is an simple alternative. It would be much easier for Eliot to suggest that Jacob might be a better match for him than it would be to turn him down outright. He presses send, then tuns his phone face down on the desk. His hand rests there a moment, as if he might read Eliot's mind across the distance, then he returns to his studies.