unjustifiable | 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆

[ James holds Igarak's gaze. The dim light turns his hazel eyes dark, like two chips of obsidian set into his skull. Other than the rise and fall of his chest, he's perfectly still. That odd sensation of vertigo remains. He feels like he's back at the top of the bridge, working up the nerve to jump. ]

Yes. I do. I want to know.

[ Igarak's toes curl in his boots, tension coiling throughout his body. There's danger in this conversation. He can feel it. But he meant when he said he'd answer anything. He doesn't want his past poisoning the trust they've built, even if it means losing their friendship. His unblinking gaze remains fixed on the fire as he speaks. ]

If I'd come across you drowning, you'd never have met me. I would have made certain you never surfaced. And if I'd come across you in passing, I--

[ He breaks off as a memory abruptly surfaces: an empty alley bathed in darkness, a man writhing beneath him as he chokes the life from him. The sensation is vivid--his claws digging into a collapsing throat; the desperate kicking; lips turning blue. When his memory self looks down at the man's dying face, it's inexplicably that of James.

He slams his eyes shut, banishing the image from his mind. When he continues, he speaks quickly. ]

I- I don't know. I don't know how I chose who to kill. Eventually, everyone would die, but I know I didn't kill indiscriminately.

[ Something must have broken loose in James' skull when he hit his head on the cobblestones. He's sick, incurably sick. He leans in as Igarak speaks, hanging on every word. He tries imagine himself struggling under the water as an anonymous, impersonal pair of hands hold him down, but then the fantasy changes of its own accord: the hands are around his throat, and there's nothing impersonal about them anymore. ]

Oh.

[ James can barely breathe. The room is far too hot all of a sudden. The hand on Igarak's shoulder moves down to rest against his bicep, to feel the muscles that have snuffed out so many lives. This is wrong. Igarak speaks like each word causes him pain. If James were good friend, he would stop. But he can't stop. ]

What about now? Tonight? How would you do it?

[ He is safe with Igarak. Igarak would never hurt him. He knows that, or at least he thinks he knows it, but what he saw in the alley speaks for itself. That side of his friend will always be there, hidden beneath the surface. James can't stop thinking about it. Maybe he wants to see it again. ]

[ James is far too close, the heat from the fire far too hot. As his friend's hand slides down to his bicep, Igarak understands what's happening on an instinctive level. His body reacts accordingly.

His thoughts, on the other hand, are a storm of alarm and confusion, every warning going off at once. This is dangerous. This is a trick. James is trying to coax him into killing him, just as he'd wanted Igarak to do weeks ago when he'd dragged him from the water.

He hears himself swallow. Prying his eyes open, he turns toward James and closes a hand firmly around his wrist, but he doesn't move the hand from his arm. ]

James.

[ His voice is firm, yet there's a noticeable undercurrent of conflict lurking beneath. He's not sure whether what he's about to say is meant to reassure James or warn him. ]

I won't hurt you. I won't. What you saw tonight wasn't a lapse in control. I knew exactly what I was doing.

You won't hurt me.

[ James speaks the words slowly and carefully, like he's trying to make himself believe them. He can't quite pull it off. He glances down at the hand around his wrist, then back up at Igarak's face. His own face is pale and wan underneath the dried blood, but heat in his gaze leaves little room for misinterpretation.

Does he still want to die? Is that what this is all about? No, he decides. Drowning himself was an act of desperation. He wanted an escape. He wanted the pain to end. This feels different. He wants to stand on the precipice, but he doesn't want to jump. It seems monstrously selfish to think of Igarak as some kind of instrument of punishment, but part of James can't help but wonder whether the man wants the same thing he does. Maybe they're the same kind of sick. ]

Not even if I want you to?

[ The heat in James' gaze is unmistakable. It stokes an answering fire in Igarak, one he'd tried to smother deep beneath denial and duty. A ravenous hunger for violence and cruelty, but not only the acts themselves: for the unspeakable pleasure derived from them. His eyes, already like embers in the low firelight, burn with it. James wants that cruelty from him--and, gods, Igarak wants to give it to him.

His gaze passes over the blood on James' face again, then drops to his lips. He tries not to imagine them turning blue. Then he looks lower still, to where James has left the top of his doublet undone. His heart lies below that. Igarak imagines he can hear it beating, fast and eager and echoing his own. He could hurt James. Drag a claw or a dagger down the line of his throat to his sternum, pressing just enough to draw a thin ribbon of blood, which would pool in his clavicle, begging to be tasted. Igarak yearns to put his mouth on him, to sink his teeth in, to taste blood and flesh and sinew and--

He cuts the thought off sharply.

Very little frightens him, but his own darkness has been his worst fear for as long as his ruined mind remembers.

With effort, he lifts his gaze back to James, regret plain in his expression. Gently, he pulls James' hand from his arm and looks away. His voice is thick with lingering want. ]

You should wash up.

[ James doesn't know what's happening to him. He feels like he's missed a step going down the stairs. Where solid ground ought to be, there's only empty air. It's exhilarating. Igarak's gaze is so laden with unspoken desire that it seems to have physical weight and form, like the blade of a knife bearing down on him. James lets it flay him open. He follows the other man's eyes downwards, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. The point of no return draws near. If he crosses it, if he keeps pulling on this thread -

But he won't. Igarak looks away, and the moment is over. The charged atmosphere dissipates so abruptly that it may as well have never been there at all. But it was. James felt it. He knows he did. ]

Yes. Of course.

[ The words come out awkward and stilted, as though he were speaking to a perfect stranger. He does not trust himself to look at Igarak as he rises from the sofa and walks stiffly over to the washbasin. He's appalled to find that he's hard. He has never humiliated himself so thoroughly and completely in front of a friend before, but far worse than the sting of shame is the certainty that he's failed Igarak in some irrevocable way. He knows what it's like to distrust himself, to live in fear of hurting other people. A good friend wouldn't do what he did. A good friend wouldn't want what he wants.

He pulls off his doublet and flings the filthy garment onto the floor with a bit more force than necessary. The water in the basin is ice-cold, but maybe that's just what he needs. He runs the wet cloth over his face, then down over his throat and chest. It comes away red. When he washes the blood off his hands, his eyes linger on the deep scratches in his forearm. Four parallel lines, angry red against his pale skin. Some of the blood under Igarak's claws must be his. The pang of hunger he feels at the thought is startling. With great effort, he turns his mind to other matters. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns around to face Igarak. ]

We don't have to -

[ - acknowledge this, he's about to say, but he thinks better of it. James knows with absolute certainty that what happened to tonight changed things. Even if they pretend that it never happened, their relationship won't go back to the way it was. The thought saddens him. ]

Never mind. I, uh - [ He winces at his own awkwardness, then shoves a clean cloth at Igarak. ] Here. You're getting blood on the upholstery.

[ James' stilted tone hurts to hear, but Igarak knows this is for the best. He doesn't want to hurt James--even while he very much does. Although he hasn't lost control of himself since his father's influence left him, the fear that he could still haunts him. The things he wants sometimes... He tells himself they're only thoughts, but in the throes of pleasure, when letting go is the whole purpose, who is to say thought won't become action?

Besides, James has been through a lot tonight. He's likely in shock. Fear clouds his judgement. He doesn't truly want what he thinks he wants.

Igarak keeps his gaze fixed on the floor while James washes, and doesn't lift it until a cloth is shoved towards him. ]

Sorry.

[ His own voice is flat. He takes the cloth and stands, still refusing to look at James. He's bathed in the presence of friends countless times. They've seen his naked body, and he's seen theirs; he is not shy. But any state of undress right now feels like risking temptation. He's hard to the point of discomfort, a state he hasn't found himself in for quite some time.

He stands at the basin without doing anything at first, considering just leaving. It wouldn't be the first time he's walked through the city covered in blood. He's still considering it even as he dunks the cloth into the cold water and then presses it to his face, allowing the chill to cool his fevered skin. ]

[ James tries to keep his eyes away from Igarak's groin and fails catastrophically at it. His mouth is dry. His own body, somewhat subdued by the cold water, responds with gusto. His trousers are nearly as filthy as his doublet, but he doesn't dare finish undressing in the state he's in.

He doesn't know what to make of Igarak's apology. As far as James is concerned, he's the one who ought to be begging for forgiveness. He follows the man's gaze to the floor, as though he might find answers there. All he finds is dust and a few bloody boot-prints. He glances up at Igarak, his brow furrowed in confusion. ]

For what?

[ Igarak keeps the cloth pressed to his face until it warms. When he finally feels a little more clear-headed, he draws in a steadying breath and then lowers the cloth on exhale. He makes the mistake of looking at James then, unable to stop himself from giving him a brief once-over. Heat floods his body all over again. ]

For the blood.

[ He forces himself to focus on James' face, and only his face. ]

On the upholstery.

[ The khol around his eyes is already smudged from sweat and the damp cloth; the black on his lips becomes similarly smeared as he bites at them, worrying the skin back and forth. His gaze darts to the scratches on James' forearm, then back again. ]

Do you want me to...

[ He lifts a hand, indicating the healing granted to him by his oath. ]

Oh.

[ James flushes crimson. He's too absorbed in the task of not humiliating himself to harbor any lingering concern for the upholstery. ]

Right. It's, uh...

[ He trails off, staring at Igarak's mouth as the man bites his lip. Those teeth look sharp. They look like they'd draw blood. He can't help but wonder what they'd feel like buried in his throat. A methodical killer like Igarak must know the body well; James imagines that he'd know how to inflict pain without causing any permanent damage. How much could he take, he wonders, before he begged for relief? ]

...It's fine.

[ But of course it isn't fine. Whatever the hells this might be, it's very far from fine. What does it say about him, then, that he doesn't want it to stop?

At Igarak's question, he glances down at his forearm. The scratches are crusted over with dried blood, but they still sting. James runs a finger over one of them, wincing slightly as he touches the torn skin. A bit of magic, and they'd be gone. No scars, no pain, nothing. ]

No.

[ His answer comes far too hastily. He looks away, afraid to see Igarak's reaction. ]

I wouldn't mind keeping them for a little while longer. But, uh, you could clean them. If you like.

[ As James blushes, Igarak can't help but think that red is a good color on him.

This isn't fine at all.

He looks at the scratch marks again, frowning. James wants to keep them? As some kind of horrid memento of Igarak hurting him? They'll scar eventually, cleaned or not; they're too deep not to leave lasting marks. How will James feel when he sees them later? He might think he wants this now, but how could he possibly want a reminder of something so frightening? A reminder of the monster Igarak is capable of being. And Igarak himself...

How will he feel, knowing he left them?

He stares at the torn skin... and is dismayed by the jolt that runs through him, something he can't quite discern but that is certainly not repulsion.

This truly isn't fine. He should leave. Immediately.

Instead, he finds himself taking a step closer, fingers curling gently around James' wrist and pulling his arm forward between them. The conflict is plain on his face as he dips the cloth back into the water and begins to carefully clean the wound. He glances at James' face. ]

...Why do you want this?

[ No one has touched James with this kind of gentleness and care in a quite a while. He closes his eyes and lets himself focus on the warmth of Igarak's fingers around his wrist, the slight sting as the wet cloth touches the wound. He shouldn't be enjoying this, but he's too weak to stop himself. ]

I don't know.

[ He opens his eyes and meets Igarak's gaze. The uncertainty he sees there is mirrored in his own expression. ]

Maybe I just want someone to punish me. But I don't think that's all there is to it.

[ He pauses, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he tries to make sense of his thoughts. Guilt and desire tangle together in a confused snare, so tightly intertwined that he can't separate one from the other. The only thing he can be sure of is that he wants. Desperately. ]

...For the longest time, I wanted it all to end. Before Mary died, even. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I just wanted to get away. That's why I threw myself off the bridge. But this is different. I don't want to run anymore. I want...

[ A realization strikes him. It feels like an epiphany. ]

To live. And I want to feel alive. I want to stand on the edge again, but this time I won't jump.

[ And this will make him feel alive.

Igarak drops his gaze back to James' arm. It makes sense, in some twisted way. Or perhaps he only wants it to make sense, because he craves it so badly. Or maybe it makes sense because whatever is wrong with James is the same thing that's wrong with him.

He runs his thumb lightly along the wounds, tracing the path his claws had taken, before covering them with the cloth again. ]

A lot has happened tonight. I don't know if you're thinking clearly.

[ He shakes his head, bemused. ]

I don't know if I'm thinking clearly.

[ With a final swipe of the cloth, he releases James' arm and steps back, meeting his eyes again. ]

Rest. Think with a clear head in the morning. Will you do that?

[ Something tender and dangerous unfurls in James' chest as he watches Igarak's ministrations. He's never felt this way about a friend before. As a matter of fact, he's never felt this way about anyone before. He doesn't know whether he wants Igarak as a friend or lover or something else entirely. For now, friendship will have to be enough. Anything beyond that will be for them to decide together.

A lot has happened tonight. Despite the tension that still lingers thickly in the air, James can't help but bark out a raspy laugh. ]

You think so? Seemed pretty uneventful to me. [ He shakes his head, wondering if that tumble onto the cobblestones really did knock something loose. ] Maybe we've both lost it.

[ His skin feels hot where Igarak touched him. He holds the cloth to his arm as though he were concealing some shameful secret. Igarak is right - they both need to clear their heads - but James suspects that sleep won't come easy for him tonight. He has too much to reckon with. ]

I'll try. Why don't you take the bed? I don't mind sleeping out here. You, uh, don't have to stay. But I'd like it if you did.

[ James' laugh cuts through some of the tension, and while Igarak doesn't laugh with him, a small smile does manage to surface. Perhaps they have both lost it.

When James suggests he takes the bed, though, his smile fades to uncertainty again. He shouldn't stay. He knows he shouldn't. There's no chance he can remain here and have a clear head, certainly not if he's in James' bed. He worries his lip once more. ]

I'll stay out here.

[ That much, he thinks, he can manage. He doubts he'll sleep, anyway. This way, he can slip outside for air if needed, or pace the room without causing a disturbance. He manages another faint smile. ]

There's no way I can get all of the blood out of my hair with only a washbasin. No sense ruining your bedsheets when the sofa will do fine.

All right.

[ James has half a mind to argue that a few bloodstains on his bedsheets are the least of his worries, but he doesn't want to press his luck. Igarak hasn't bolted, and that, at least, is a small victory. Still, it feels wrong to let a guest sleep on his ratty old sofa. ]

Hold on a moment.

[ He disappears into the back room, then re-emerges a few moments later holding a pillow and a folded quilt. The quilt came out of the rickety old cupboard that passes for his linen closet, but the pillow is from his bed. He glances down at it, then self-consciously brushes a blond hair off the pillow case. ]

Sorry. This is all I've got by way of bedclothes. Not exactly a suite at the Elfsong, I know.

[ The tension seems to have returned all at once. James hurriedly places the pillow and blanket on the sofa, then retreats. He makes it halfway to his bedroom before he stops and glances back over his shoulder at Igarak. ]

I, uh, hope you sleep well. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.

[ A protest is on the tip of Igarak's tongue when James reappears with a quilt and pillow. There's no need. He doubts he'll sleep, and his hair will stain everything it touches, anyway.

But he swallows the protest at the last moment and nods his thanks. James seems insistent, and Igarak doesn't want to offend. Anything he ruins can be replaced.

He nods again at James' well wishes. ]

You too. And James...

[ He hesitates, unsure if the sentiment will come off as strange or be unwelcome or simply uncomfortable. Then again, he's said stranger, more uncomfortable things tonight. This is hardly the worst risk to take. ]

I'm glad... that you want to live.

[ James hesitates. The half his face that's visible in the firelight wears an expression of mute surprise. Then, slowly, he smiles. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't have to force it. ]

So am I.

[ With that, he disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. As he lies awake waiting for sleep to come, he finds himself glancing at the patch of darkness where he knows the door to be. He thinks of Igarak, what he might be feeling, whether he might be keeping the same vigil. ]

[ Igarak's soul feels lighter at the sight. He's not sure he's ever seen James give a genuine smile before. He answers with one of his own, small but sincere, and then watches until James disappears into the bedroom and shuts the door softly behind him. Only then does Igarak exhale, slow and shaky, as if he's breathing freely for the first time since the ambush.

He turns back to the washbasin and finally sheds his bloodstained clothes, stripping down to his underwear. He bathes as quickly and thoroughly as he can, though the sight of the water in the basin turning red gives him pause. In that moment, it's impossible not to think about everything he's trying to avoid: the blood on James' face; on his arm; the imagined blood pooling in the hollow of his collarbone, waiting to be tasted. His pulse thunders in his ears. With a sharp breath, he quickly empties and refills the basin, forcing his focus back to the present.

He's careful not to wet his hair. He knows better than to try cleaning it properly with so little water; it would only rehydrate the blood, make it run, stain James' furniture even worse. Like so many things tonight, he'll deal with it in the morning.

When he's finished, it dawns on him that he never got any clean clothes from James. His eyes dart to the bedroom door, considering, before his vivid imagination supplies a dozen ways in which knocking would end in the precise scenario he's trying to avoid. He dismisses the thought. He'll be fine. He'll sleep as he is.

Another problem soon presents itself when he goes to lie down: his horns make finding a comfortable position impossible. No matter which way he shifts, the tips snag on the upholstery or catch on a loose thread.

In the end, he retreats to the floor by the hearth. It's not the worst place he's slept--far from it. Not that he expects sleep to claim him tonight. As he lays his head upon the pillow, he realizes, belatedly, that it smells like James.

Igarak freezes, breath catching as his senses latch onto the scent before his mind can stop them. His body responds instantly, traitorous and eager, heat pooling low in his gut. Had James given him the pillow from his own bed?

His jaw clenches, frustration flaring inward. With a groan, he yanks the pillow out from under his head and throws it onto the sofa with more force than necessary, then settles upon the hard floor. Wrapped in the quilt like a cocoon, he scowls up at the ceiling.

When the shadows cast by the dying fire begin to resemble shadows cast by the Bhaalists in the alleyway, he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters his oath under his breath. ]

[ James awakens in the same empty bedroom as always. The street outside the window is quiet in the pre-dawn twilight, and its peacefulness contrasts jarringly with the tumult in his head. His dreams won't leave him be. He can only remember flashes - hands around his throat, claws like needles digging into his flesh, the crushing weight of a body on top of him - but those brief glimpses leave him feeling unsettled and aroused. He grimaces, waiting for the tightness in his drawers to subside so he can get up and go put the kettle on. He wonders idly why his neck is so sore, then turns over to find a wadded-up shirt where his pillow should be. The sight of it drives away the last vestiges of his uneasy sleep. Everything comes rushing back.

Gods, what has he gotten himself into?

He's out of the bedroom in the span of time it takes for him to scramble out of bed and pull on a clean pair of trousers. The fire is long dead, leaving the room bathed in shadow. The sofa is empty. The sight leaves James feeling as though he's been doused in ice water. Igarak is gone, and it's his fault. If only he hadn't been so godsdamned selfish.

He's trying to decide whether he or not he ought to go out and search for the man when he notices the huddled shape on the floor. He rushes over to the hearth, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. ]

Igarak? Are you all right?

[ Igarak's eyes snap open. His body reacts before his mind can catch up, bolting upright at the concern in James' voice. He must have fallen in battle. ]

What--

[ Something is tangled around him, earning a sharp curse as he struggles, far slower than his instincts demand. When his arms are free, he raises one hand in preparation of casting a spell. His eyes sweep the shadows frantically. ]

Where-- What is it--?

[ James flinches back, eyeing Igarak's raised hand cautiously. He knows that his friend doesn't need a weapon to kill. He doesn't even need to be fully awake. All takes it is one spell, fired off on impulse, and James can kiss his sorry hide goodbye.

He forces himself to stay calm. The last thing he wants to do is agitate Igarak any further. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. ]

It's me. It's James. You're in my house, remember? There's nothing to be afraid of. You're safe here.

[ Igarak continues to search the darkness a moment more, evident in the glow of his eyes darting back and forth. At last his gaze comes to rest on James--and memory clicks into place. The sofa. The pillow. The quilt. He looks at each in turn, tension draining from him as he rubs his face with the hand that had been poised to attack. ]

...Mm. Right. Sorry. Force of habit. Or instinct. Not sure.

[ He hadn't expected to sleep at all, yet he must have, if only briefly. It's still dark.

He looks back at James, confused. ]

You asked if I'm all right?

[ When it becomes apparent that Igarak isn't going to fling a fireball at his face, James allows himself to relax slightly. As the tension dissipates, last night's awkwardness returns. He realizes, to his great horror, that he's still hard. It's too late to go fleeing back to the bedroom now. He gingerly lowers himself onto the sofa, hoping against hope that Igarak hasn't noticed his condition. ]

Uh. Yeah. You were on the floor. I thought you might have collapsed. Or something.

[ It's cold. James shivers, wishing he'd put on a shirt. He should probably re-light the fire, but he's too embarrassed to get up and expose himself further. ]

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