Log :: Complete :: Part Two

[ishiah.livejournal.com]

When; July 12 (night)
Rating; PG
Characters; Robin Goodfellow tehpuck, Ishiah ishiah
Summary; The curse ends, but things don't become clearer..
PART TWO OF TWO. PART ONE IS HERE.
Log;



It takes Robin a moment to regain his senses, and it's a slow process. The kisses are automatic for him, not thinking of who, and when he does, they only become more persistent. It's alright, it's alright, this is Ishiah.

This is Ishiah. Robin remembers the artificial wrongness inherent in the scenario, and pulls away, though his fingers are still knotted in the prince-- the Peri's-- hair. His breathing is erratic, his skin is clammy. If he was blushing before, he certainly is, now. Eyes fluttering and wide, they stare directly into the other's eyes, mocking when he couldn't even make eye-contact with Ishiah.

But, no, none of that was real. Was it? How many of the words were true, or false? And what of what he said? And agreeing? Robin scrambles, ready to leave, hands leaving Ishiah's hair. Embarrassed and shamed, the only words he can manage to mutter are, "I'm sorry."



As Ishiah recovers himself, Robin is already leaving. This can't be any surprise, it's what he does, after all. No matter whether it's here or Manhattan, Paris, London, Babylon or Arcadia, the last thing he sees is always that same view; Robin, departing the scene. Taking with him his fear, and his loneliness, his fatalism and all the prophecies he's determined to self-fulfil. When has Ishiah ever been able to stop him? No words will ever be enough.

Except hasn't he just spent a night talking him round, and won? Been heard for once instead of drowned out with vitriol. But that was just a curse. The impossibility of it only goes to prove the fiction. Doesn't it? Ishiah presses the heel of his palm hard to his temple. His kingdom for a coherent thought.

Robin is leaving. His hair no longer chimes with his movement as he looks up. "Please don't?"



Robin's fingers linger on the doorknob. He could disappear, he could go.

And do what? Brood for hours, or drink it away, or make someone else chase the thoughts out of his head, and he can't stand that, not tonight, no. Robin's head is placed on the door frame, taking a moment to sigh, pained and airy in his throat, before he turns Ishiah to look him in the eye once more.

He doesn't look like a deer in the headlights, his eyes have more the shape of a lamb before the perceived slaughter. His breath is caught in his throat, and he pauses, shoulders hunching. Every bit of his silence feeds the begging in his posture, pleading, please, please, don't make me regret this.



Ishiah knows that look, it's been levelled at him before, and as always he feels unfairly accused under the weight of it. Between them, he has seldom been the one who sets out to hurt, although he knows where to hit each one of Robin's nerves, all of them painfully close to the surface. Yet it isn't Ishiah who structures each word as a blow, or plans his retorts according to how deep they might cut.

Furniture melting back around them from palatial to practical, the smell of spice and incense fading out to last week's furniture polish with a trace of wet-dog, Ishiah gets up from his knees. Unconsciously, one hand traces the raised line across his jaw. He's been the one to bleed over this. He never asked to be given the role of executioner. He doesn't know what to say.

Another midnight. Another awkward, angry silence. Another reason for Robin to spend the next week or more in avoidance and denial. He's so tired of the way this pattern plays out, but if he's to change it, the first step has to be breaking it altogether.

Closing the distance between them, he reaches to rest a hand on Robin's shoulder, fingertips brushing close to the column of his throat. "Thank you. Now will you stay?"



Robin backs up, legs twitching to smack his head and shoulders against the door. He still has that look on his face, though Ishiah's is worse. Ishiah's is always worse. He remembers being a sultan and wanting that look, and that hasn't changed. The feeling has just mixed with fear and regret where there was only cautiousness and allure.

And Robin can't look away, but nor can he keep Ishiah's gaze. He already seems to be disappointed, and all Robin wants to do is escape the weight of that. He knows it. It's coming for him, Ishiah's sigh and angry, blank stare. Why did you do this? Why did you do it wrong?

He removes Ishiah's hand slowly, feeling himself swallow his own spite like bile, and takes yet another shaky breath.

"For a while. I'll stay."

But he'll leave, too. They'll do nothing that will make it impossible for him to leave.



From there it's easy for Ishiah to compose himself, though he can't help but mark the irony in the role reversal. Robin with his hand on the door, him the one making the plea for company. Ishiah who's not allowed to touch, even in comfort. He accepts it, the burden Robin saddled him with a long time ago-- no, the burden he gave himself upon his decision not to let the puck entirely kick away the last, oldest, only friend he had.

"Do you want a drink?" The palace was only his own apartment, after all. He has the faint, vague hope that none of the building's other residents were around to watch the costume drama unfold, and wonders how, exactly, Robin got in in the first place.

He moves back, giving Robin space and going to the small drinks cabinet that he keeps stocked only for guests. There are half-empty bottles that found their way into it during the mirror city curse and haven't yet been removed; it's one of these he reaches for, automatically.



"No," Is Robin's automatic answer. Drinks are wrong, drinks are for later, when he's pondering what he did wrong, here, curled at the foot of his bed. He doesn't want to loose any of his sense for this.

But seeing Ishiah reach into that cabinet, Robin remembers the curse, and the happiness that brought. The shame and anger and embarrassment came later, and he remembers that, too, but the thought of it, Ishiah getting him drinks, makes it difficult to resist. This whole place is full of memories, the sofa where they ate dinner, the bed they slept in. He can't quite decide if everything is mocking or inviting him



Space duly given, and Robin still pressed up against the door like an oversized fridge magnet. Ishiah sighs too softly for it to be noticed, making a point of putting Robin's drink down on the table in front of the couch. He chooses the accompanying chair for himself, but doesn't sit, yet.

"The wall is unlikely to fall down without your support, Robin. You can risk moving away from it."

The dry humour in his tone masks a softer voice, the one asking what he's done. How he's become someone to be afraid of. He looks away, to his windows with their view across the city, and asks, "Why do you think this keeps happening?"





Robin unsticks himself from the door, his first moves stumbling and embarrassed. All of him is sheepish, but he regains some of his usual confidence when Ishiah turns away, and those judging eyes are off of him. He wants so badly to be right, in those eyes, and good. Robin presumes it's just aftertaste, from when Ishiah was younger, for that day, and Robin was reminded of all the reasons why he...

Why he liked him, so long ago. Why he wanted him, why he would've done anything to have those eyes smiling upon him, again. Why he had to have Ishiah. Why he needed Ishiah.

Why he still does.

Robin sits, and nurses the drink in his hand. "I honestly have no idea. I'm still undecided on the issue of whether I appreciate it or not."

Again, there, he said it. Robin feels freer for the saying, and realigns his shoulders (he notices they were hunched up until now) and smiles. It's a sad smile cool and vague, but it's there. He remembers this feeling, too, however faintly and dimly in the back of his mind. The feeling-- no, the memory of it-- seems buried in dust and time. But it's still there. He was happier when he told the truth.



After a moment's pause, waiting for the barb in the comment that never comes, Ishiah glances back toward Robin. Replies quietly, almost sheepish himself, "You seemed appreciative, ten minutes ago."

And how Ishiah feels about that depends on whether it was indicative of promise yet to come, or of promises made long ago, every one of which he has broken since coming to the city. Promises regarding distance - never too far, never too close - promises to maintain his own self respect and self control. He'd promised not to be with Robin until Robin could be what Ishiah knew he had the potential for. To wait until Robin chose to be different from his otherwise identical race, to outperform his own expectations. Until neither of them could be hurt, again.

So he'd held everything back, all this time. His only strategy, and look what it had achieved.

Suddenly the chair feels too constricting. Ishiah stands and paces, no direction specified. The burst of motion brings him to a halt behind the couch, behind Robin. It takes everything he has left not to reach out and run his fingers through those tangled curls.



Through all the pacing, Robin is left with those words echoing in his skull. The curse with Ishiah and his wings taught Robin to really listen, or at least try to listen, when Ishiah talks to him. That it's important. But sometimes, times like now, he still can't make sense of the Peri's words.

Could he mean that mockingly? It's possible. That Robin can never, ever control himself. That he always falls for his desires. It would be true, then, and Ishiah likes telling the truth.

Or it could be hopeful? And what was that look in the other's eyes? Robin hasn't seen it in years, if he's ever even saw it at all (he doubts) but it makes him yearn and twist. It hurts.

Or it could just be idle chitchat.

Regardless of why Ishiah's said that, and what it means, Robin lets go of the mumble, careless and loud enough for them both to hear, "I believe I was."

And then turns around to see Ishiah's disappeared behind him in the time Robin had taken to ponder the words. He still looks wary. He still looks afraid. Perhaps it's because he still is. The other shoe is coming, he can feel it, though he can't quite do what he knows he should. Robin can't quite leave.



Ishiah meant exactly what he said. Robin had seemed appreciative. Robin had said things Ishiah hadn't expected to hear from him this side of the next millennium. Robin... was cursed, of course. They both were. He steeples his fingers together and leans over the back of the couch, not quite looking at Robin, but keeping him within his frame of vision.

"I'm beginning to think that we influence the curses as much as they influence us. I've tried to have that conversation with you... so many times, Robin. Strange that I can accomplish more in one night as someone else that in the last... how long has it been."

He doesn't expect an answer. If his memory can't recall exact numbers in terms of years and dates, the sieve that Robin likes to call his mind will never hold them. It's hard to explain how much he'd like to smile over old times, now and then. An occasional break from the strain and tension of the present would be a welcome respite, but all Robin's recollections are stories, exaggerated in the telling, and told about anyone but him.

There are occasions Ishiah wonders if Robin remembers anything at all from the times when they were happy, or else for how long he has been fighting a lost cause.

If he'd only remember, he might understand. "Is it a selfish wish?"



Robin sucks in breath. He isn't ready for this. He wants to go, run, leave, bury himself in quiet until he can think and walk without regretting.

But Ishiah wants him to stay. And Robin isn't sure if it's guilt or remorse or mourning or lust that keeps him there, staring into Ishiah's perfect eyes while his couldn't be wider. He blinks, then, furiously, because if they start watering now, he'll never forgive himself.

"You h-... You meant that. All of that." It sounds like it could be a question, but Robin is just stating it to himself. If he says it aloud, maybe it'll seem more real. He can't quite understand the words Ishiah means behind it, except the obvious facts. Robin blinks, and meets Ishiah's eyes, squinting at nonexsistant brightness. "I'm... Then, I should have..." But he lacks the words.

All he can say is useless. Words spill out of his mouth, though they mean nothing, because it's a state he's comfortable with.

"I don't... know. I don't like to think of you as the selfish one." His smile is weak and terrified and desperate, "Then I don't know who I would be."



Ishiah raises an eyebrow, leaning more heavily into the sofa's cushioned backing. Like this, they're just about level. "I thought that was precisely what you liked to think. How many bottles of vintage whiskey have you walked out of the bar with, claiming that it was 'only your due'? You've told me I'm pushing you, and I've backed away as much as I can without leaving you alone. Why the vitriol, if I'm not the selfish one?"

He can feel his temper rising, as hot as the blush he'd been fighting when they knelt together on the floor, but he doesn't know what he's angry at. The absurdity of all of this? The waste? It isn't the watery smile on Robin's face, the one that should (that does) only make him want to reassure. "Of course I didn't mean everything I said, we both know what a parody of a harem system that was, and Suliamen ben Daoud was neither of my line, nor a hebrew. But the things I said about you were a fair echo of the truth, spoken as two people new to each other. You and I have a history."

Perhaps it's because, behind that smile, there's something that still feels like a lie. "When did you become afraid of me? And why?"



That was too much. Robin can't feel Ishiah getting angry, he doesn't know, but the words, and the feelings behind them are too much for him to handle, and he flounders. The smile, if it wasn't already gone, disappears completely, and Robin stands up. Thanks Zeus there's a whole sofa between them.

"I was always..." afraid of you. He shakes his head with vigor, "I have to go."

He needs to. He's tired (valiantly? Charitably?) and he can't handle this. Robin heads for the door.



"No you weren't." That thought, more than anything, hurts. It makes Ishiah realise that he's angry because it's the only emotion left between him and sad. "Even after..." what happened between them. When Ishiah left Robin, given no choice, "Now, you weren't. You were afraid of disappointing me."

The silent 'again' splits the air like a yell.

And he stalks across the room after Robin, never more than a pace behind and marking off each statement with a raised finger unfurled from the fist his hands have clenched themselves into. "You expect me to judge you as you judge yourself. You expect me to discredit you as you discredit yourself. Be disgusted as you disgust yourself. Fear you as you fear yourself. Not to believe, because you can't."

By the time he's done he had a palm splayed out toward Robin, catching his shoulder long enough for Ishiah to lean down and murmur in lowered tones against his ear. "This has never been about my problems with you. Only about your perception of yourself. If you're afraid of me it's because I won't agree that you're the mess you think you are."

A breath, jagged and desperate. "Stop judging me by your standards, Robin. I can't do one thing. I can't love you enough for both of us."



Throat seizing up, Robin isn't even sure why that scares him as much as it surely does, his heart still and breath caught in his chest. It hurts, and yet he doesn't even know what it really means. And suddenly he's blinking back tears that shouldn't be there and his shoulders are shaking and he doesn't know why. Something refuses to connect within him, his heart beating like an animal caged within his chest, and he can't make sense of why he's suddenly so, so, sorry.

Again.

Why he's sorry again.

Going back to the door is a familiar pattern, so Robin repeats it. This time, the front of him is magnitized to its unforgiving surface, namely his head leaned into the frame. Anything to hide his face, heating up, trying to avoid tears and shaking.

"You're wrong..." Robin tries to inject some hate into his words, and for a second he almost succeeds in making this about Ishiah and damn him, he's trying to ruin everything again, but in the attempt to turn to face the other and deal with his eyes the truth he'd just angrily spit out... he can't do it. It hurts to much. He remembers how much he hates seeing Ishiah like this, and how he'd used his own hate to protect himself. But he can't summon it. Not with the dreams and the fear and knowing and being told and trying to listen even if he can't quite make out the meaning of the words. It's because he's wrong, that's what it is. Robin is wrong, not Ishiah.

"No, no, I..." A jagged breath of his own and all he can think to say is, "I'm sorry."

Another and he's finally, finally got the door open. "I shouldn't've stayed. I'm sorry." It feels good to say, even if he isn't quite sure if he means it. It doesn't matter. He should not have stayed.



Ishiah takes a few steps out into the hall in pursuit, but goes no farther, jerking one shoulder into the wall and leaning there, arms crossed over his chest. He tries to convince himself that if he lets Robin go now then this can be continued later with less of the towering melodrama. Perhaps whatever insight there is to be gleaned from this will seem clearer in daylight. He's watched Robin cry very rarely in the past and found the lack of comfort he'd accept hard to bear. Being the cause of tears is harder still.

If he lets Robin go, he knows, by morning he'll have frozen over again. The crystalline armour will be back, gleaming and sharp to the touch, and they'll have another century's wait before he's permitted to talk to him at all. Another century. "Wait."

He starts forward again, rubbing at his temples, twisting a hand into his hair until it hurts. "I shouldn't have left." The one time he did. Once, compared to the thousand times he's watched Robin walk away. "Stay. I'm sorry, too."



At being asked to wait, Robin runs faster, but stops himself, slowing into a jog that eventually becomes Robin walking just to keep the inertia from knocking him over, at Ishiah's words. Those were obvious, he doesn't have to ponder the meaning. Sucking in more breath, wiping red eyes, Robin turns around. He looks still, because it's a good disguise for bravery. The truth is, he's just as scared to leave as he is to stay.

But mostly he looks a bit confused, "Ishiah, you're..." But Ishiah conceding, or at least not being so angry at him again, gives him some confidence. Putting on a smug smile, a bit worn at the edges, but there still, he stands with his hands to his sides. The purpose is to look okay, to tell Ishiah that he doesn't have to be sorry, Robin's alright.

That's why Ishiah's in the hall, isn't he?

"You can't be sorry, I was sorry first. Find something else to be; I called it." It's a joke, or an olive branch, or a handshake. It's desperate.



Ishiah sees no need to hurry, he will always have the advantage of being naturally faster than Robin. As he catches up, his wings aren't even unfurled.

The burst of movement has taken them down into the next hallway, where the next door along opens out onto the balcony overlooking what should by now be the empty bar below. Ishiah pulls himself up to face Robin, the hall narrow between them. His lips quirk in a slight, mirthless smile at Robin's possessiveness of apology. "I thought by now you might have begun to learn how to share."

He exhales slowly, and the dip of his shoulders as he sighs reveals just a little of the weariness he's holding back, day to day. Robin's smug grin is almost a challenge. Ishiah only wants to say that he doesn't have to be brave, for him. "But, if you say so. I accept."



Robin's own grin, a smug counter to Ishiah's mirthlessness, grows. He's playing a game, and for once it doesn't matter, for the moment, if he's winning or loosing; the important fact to remember is that Ishiah's playing along with him. And that means the rules will, for once, be abide to. Robin can know, with some level of certainty, what's coming.

For the first time tonight, he feels alright.

The name of tonight's game-- if the memo hadn't yet been received-- is to not talk about and attempt to forget, what has just transpired. Walking towards and swinging himself up on that balcony (he plans to scale it, down and eventually to his apartment) he winks,smiling triumphant, "As you should, of any gift given upon someone to so worthy-- or unworthy-- as yourself. The debate remains out on that issue. But, no, keep it, and never let it be said I'm ungenerous."



"Idiot." Ishiah reaches cooly to catch Robin by the collar and scupper whatever escape plans he might have been harbouring. No, no, this is a different game, the rules as yet unwritten. Ishiah isn't even certain what move he's about to make, but it has to be decisive. "I accepted your apology. Do you understand what that means? You don't have to be sorry, anymore."

He holds him there on the edge of the balcony, with no intent of letting go until he's done. The situation might look precarious but, if nothing else, Ishiah has never let him fall yet. "Though if I'm writing off this one regret, I'd like to ask that you not go out of your way to create more."




Robin's face drops for a moment, but he doesn't let it stay down long.

"Thank you, but as my heart yet beats, I'd like it to remain so? And as the two-- living and regretting-- are irrevocably intermingled for one such as myself, I will have to turn down this lovely request." Robin attempts to pull away, but as he finds himself still entrapped by the collar (and this is a nice shirt, he will not be ripping the collar up for anything less than a swift removal for a passing fancy) he continues, supplying more words.

"Actually, yes, but then I'd have to break it, and as I am rather skilled with the breaking of promises, yes, of course, Ishiah, no more regrets."



No, he's never let him fall. But Ishiah is damned if he's never wanted to drop the bastard. With a flare of temper evinced by a tightening of his grip at Robin's throat, the flicker and glow of wings ruffling into visibility behind him, he presses the Puck back against the barrier. This time he's not blushing from the closeness.

"You made me a promise tonight." he reminds, low and dangerous, "Your memory can't be that short. You promised me before you kissed me, Robin."



No, see, he's changed the rules again. Robin doesn't know why he trusts- no, why he puts up with this holier-than-thou bastard, sometimes.

"Yes, under a curse." He bites back, hiding the hurt look of moments ago, flashed between the suave grin and the angry thing he wears now, "Even I don't hold you to what's said under curses. Should I start?"

Robin doesn't want to tarnish what good memories he has left of them together in such a way, but he will. He always will.



Carefully, without losing his hold, Ishiah extricates one hand from it's grip on Robin's shirt. Pushing up his shirtsleeve, he twists the arm so both of them can read the silver display of his wristwatch. One-thirty am. Past the time for curses, and lies. "We aren't cursed now. I forgive you."

As he presses the kiss, Ishiah abruptly leaves go of any other means of keeping Robin where he is. He can - and Ishiah expects him to - pull away and leave if he wants to. He tells himself that it doesn't matter if he's forgiven in return.



And Robin hates to disappoint. If he acknowledged that fact, maybe it'd clear up why it's so painful, talking with Ishiah, sometimes.

Alright, all of the time.

Still, meeting expectations, however low, Robin pulls away. He doesn't understand why his mouth is dry or why his breath is catching, when he does, but he does. Confused and panting, Robin narrows perfect green eyes. "Wh-" But, no, catching himself, he looks down. When he's regathered his thoughts, he manages to squeak out, "Damn you."

But he still can't manage to make himself leave. An angry, confused countenance melts into a resigned one, as he asks in a voice of only demand, switching their roles yet again to grasp Ishiah's collar. In a tone not of wonder but mock-rage, he hisses, "What was the point of that?"



And now he's leaning back against the narrow balcony railing, wings instinctively flexed wide, blocking Robin's view of the bar below with a curtain of white and gold. Breath coming quick and uneven, he tilts his head down the slight degree it takes to meet Robin's gaze. "Perhaps I wanted something real between us."

It's not just the curses and the tricks they play. Every word between them for years longer than even Ishiah can count have been lies on one side, concealments on the other. Something, a shudder or a laugh jolts through him and he reaches to clasp his hands over Robin's. "One thing that might succeed where words continually fail me. I don't think I... express myself very well."

He used to talk more. It's been so long he's almost forgotten the reasons for falling out of the habit.



The resignation on Robin's face turns to something else, and even he isn't sure what it is. Maybe pity, or worry, or empathy. Robin doesn't express himself very well, either, he just expresses himself loudly and at great, great length. Really, all should hear him; it's hardly his fault.

But, anyway.

"I... I'm sorry." This is his fault. Eyes downcast, he admits it. Robin still can't look Ishiah in the eyes as he presses a quick, sheepish kiss to the other's lips, whispering, "Thank you."

And then runs away from Ishiah, scaling down that building as if his life depends upon it.



Ishiah watches until he’s gone -- how much of his life spent watching Robin walk away from him? -- and then sits down where he is, his back to the open space over the bar. He won’t, can’t follow him, not tonight.

He won’t go back to his apartment, either. There’s nothing to occupy him there, it as empty as he is. So he sits, face turned up to the high arched windows that lend this level of Lux its only natural light, and he watches the stars fade into morning.