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He thinks I was having a nightmare, Tomas realizes. He is right, Tomas decides. Tomas had prayed to God for guidance out from the desert, and God had replied that Jesus resisted the devil for forty days and Moses had kept the faith for forty years. Tomas will just have to wander a little longer. Nightmares don't have to be nightmares in the moment to be nightmares. They just have to feel like nightmares when you wake up, and realize what you will never have.

Except they are together now, in a hotel, any hotel, on the road together in a location that matters only insomuch as they are together, and Marcus is in Tomas's bed, and Tomas is in Marcus' arms, and as long as Tomas is hurting, Marcus will hold him, and Tomas is hurting because Marcus will stop holding him.

Tomas gathers the scraps of his strength in the face of Marcus' heat, his arms, his gentle murmurs in Tomas' ears that it's alright, it's alright, he's safe; Tomas imagines tying them together into some sad shawl, and slipping that shawl over his skin, so that Marcus did not touch Tomas but the shawl of rags of Tomas' vow, Tomas' discipline, Tomas' repentance, Tomas' friendship, Tomas' love. And when Tomas imagines that, imagines Marcus no longer presses directly against him but that his touch comes through the buffer of the man Tomas tries to be, Tomas manages to push away.

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Marcus, who never met a chair he couldn’t abuse, sprawls with his legs out on the bench.

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“I thought I disgusted you,” Tomas says softly against Marcus’ cheek, and Marcus, so eager to comfort the broken who aren’t himself, swears, “Never. Tomas, never.”

“I thought you thought I was weak.”

“Never, never.”

“I wanted so badly for you to touch me.”

Marcus takes a shuddering breath. His ragged exhale tickles Tomas’ cheek. “The demon made you—”

“No.” Tomas kisses his cheek again, just because he can, because his cheek is there and his lips are willing and Marcus’ head falls as if it weighs too much to hold, so Tomas kisses his cheekbones as well, kisses his temples and the bridge of his nose and the impossibly soft skin of his eyelids. He holds Marcus’ face between his hands and rains kisses upon him like the sprinkle of holy water. “The demon was a lie. My desire wasn’t. It isn’t.”

(no subject)

Дропнула два макси после "put to death..." - в другое время я бы, может, дала им шанс, тем более что список нечитаных макси неумолимо сокращается - но после пирожного черный хлеб как-то не.
Когда читаешь по-английски, очень чувствуется словарный запас автора - в "put to death..." мне приходилось каждые пять минут гуглить значение какого-нибудь слова, даже удивительно, что фик меня восхитил, а не задолбал)) По-русски это не воспринимается так остро, потому что в любом случае всё понятно и не спотыкаешься - вот даже припомнить не могу, хотя наверняка же что-нибудь такое читала... А вы знаете фикрайтеров с особенно богатым русским языком?
Как бы там ни было, теперь я начала A Mind to Know You - и это совершенно удивительный фик, в котором автора реально волнует кейс! едва ли не больше, чем нюансы отношений Томаса и Маркуса!
Не то чтобы я возражала, конечно. Текст ровный, хоть и заметно уступает "put to death...", но ему три четверти фиков заметно уступают)), кейс интересный - ну, я не то чтобы тонкий ценитель, но мне ок - Маркус крутой профессионал, а Томас очаровательно влюблен и томится. Кое на что я могла бы поворчать, но пока не буду)