oneinfive | THEM FANCY LADS, CONT. (Nikolas/Winter)

. . . And I am not sure how I could make it any more clear.

[Oh, what a liar. He could start by actually saying it. That would be more clear, wouldn't it! Of course he knows it, but no, he's going to be like this instead.

At least for the moment. The truth is, the longer he dances around the issue this way, the more he wonders why he doesn't simply come out with it after all. All that stands in their way . . .

Well, it's that Nikolas doesn't deserve him, and that's quite a serious barrier.]

I could think of several!

[ He says it more sharply than he might normally, and once he does he rocks back a little in his own seat, wide-eyed at himself. Certainly Nikolas could be more clear, but Winter himself could be more polite...!

But the very idea seems utterly ridiculous. Of all options Nikolas could have, Winter has to certainly be at the bottom of the list; even ignoring Nikolas's well-known fondness for women, there just isn't terribly much Winter could think of to advocate for himself.

And yet, there's the silence stretching out between them, long and nervous, and Winter is at a loss for what else to even say. ]

Y-- you must understand, the very idea of it seems rather incredible to me.

My dear, I can't imagine why. Ah, no. That isn't true.

[With that he smiles; it's not the happiest of smiles. There's some deep, wounded ache in it, so powerful that it entirely overwhelms the fact that the expression is a smile at all. It would be difficult to look at that curve of his lips and come away with an impression of Nikolas having been smiling. But it is, if nothing else, soft, and turned entirely on himself besides.]

I do know why. I am the one who's led you to believe it. Myself and Ophelia, perhaps, but I will take the lion's share of the blame.

[ The impulse rises and dies to ask about Ophelia -- what does she have to do with all of this? -- but Winter finds himself unable to, just looking at the expression on Nikolas's face. The sight makes his own chest ache in ways he's tried to ignore for years; he has to force himself not to reach out to Nikolas. Not now, not yet, and maybe not ever, depending on how this situation spins itself out.

He bites the inside of his cheek and takes a breath. ]

I fail to see what sort of blame there is for you to have... it's hardly as if you are the only person in the whole of the royal court, and you are far from the only person who's courted others at the Fetes.

[ He's the only one Winter's ever wanted to look his way, but it's still a true thing. No one's ever courted his attention at those seasonal celebrations except for simple business interests. ]

[It's such a calm, quiet conversation, and Nikolas is holding him together quite admirably, if he does say so himself! And yet there's something deep in him that feels like it's spiraling out of control in a way he hasn't felt in some time. Like all such spirals, it's both compelling and maddening. He feels the way he did the last time he had a dalliance with Winter, in fact. It's all too easy to imagine it happening again tonight, not just that way, but better, because he's a better man, isn't he—

Not better enough. No, not even close. He has to remember that before he goes too far.

Still. He leans in closer, with an intentness in his gaze that he isn't hiding.]

No, no. I do know that! And that is where our Ophelia comes in, and it isn't my place to go into all of that here and tonight. But myself, I can speak for. And I have led your thinking astray, at least insofar as you may think about how I see you.

How I think you see me...

[ He wants to say something more in response to that. How else was he supposed to think? After the disaster of Winter's fourteenth summer, and the awkward road to actual friendship since then, he's always kept the thought very clear: Nikolas Avis might be willing to be his friend, and to treat him fondly, but never to the degree that Winter himself has always wanted. He'd like very much to deny understanding what Nikolas is skirting around now.

But as much as he's given to self-deprecation, and as much as he finds himself terribly lacking, he can hear very well the implication in Nikolas's words. He's just not sure he yet believes it. ]

If I've been mistaken, then I invite you to illuminate me.

. . . Well. To start with, don't go saying it like that. "If I've been mistaken." You're entirely too polite; you make it sound as if it might have been a misunderstanding that you were. I don't deserve the kindness of you thinking so, my dear.

[Protesting that is both stalling for time and, in some way Nikolas hopes he isn't wrong about, important; it does pain him to think that Winter might really believe he was just "mistaken" about Nikolas's feelings. Not when Nikolas mislead him, and quite deliberately at that. He folds his hands in his lap, demure in a way he rarely is.]

The fault is mine there.

[ He's quiet for a long moment at that, working his way through that revelation. A part of him -- a far larger part than he would like to admit, in all honesty -- is in a tizzy of excitement over what this could mean. The way Nikolas speaks, it sounds very much like he might feel the same way Winter has, that he still does, like every ridiculous romantic fantasy he's read about and adapted in his own imagination might actually be true.

But how often has he gotten what he's wanted? Not for his family, or his people, his country or his district, but for himself? And it wouldn't do to plow thoughtlessly into this. What if he's wrong? They'd both be too embarrassed to ever speak to each other again. He has to stay calm, and he mostly manages it but for the nervous hope he can't quite suppress. ]

My invitation still stands. Never mind who is at fault; please tell me what you truly think.

—I don't see why you are demanding it in so many words!

[He finally blurts that out with a pout, which is at least mostly affected. The atmosphere is so tense it feels like the room might shatter like glass, and Nikolas is quickly coming to realize that if this is happening, and right now, he doesn't much like the feeling of it being like that. It feels like starting things off very much on the wrong foot to begin with this kind of brittle awkwardness. He has to break the mood somehow, damn it all.

The easiest way would be by deflecting the topic entirely, but he doesn't want to, and that, too, terrifies him.

For a long moment he only pouts at Winter, his lip quivering in the corner in a way that could mean he's about to cry or could mean he's about to laugh. He's not sure himself which it is.]

You're a tyrant. Ah, no. Perhaps not. I oughtn't tease so very much as that; you might go on thinking you don't deserve to hear that I care very much for you, more deeply than you could know, entirely the fault of my own failures. And that I want you no less now than I did that night. —Yes, even sober! Moreso sober, there's the truth of the matter at last. The crux of it all, that is.

—I am entirely too sober right now, in fact.

You're--

[ He's too sober?! Winter himself isn't sure if he's somehow gotten himself drunk enough to hallucinate, or if this is all just some strange elaborate dream. Any moment now, surely, he'll wake up to the sound of a knock, and there will be Nikolas for real, for their promised nighttime conversation.

Except that's not true, is it? That's not what's going on, here. Even as part of his mind tries frantically to convince himself that this is only a lovely illusion, he's also too certain that this is real. This is happening. Nikolas Avis is -- not confessing, precisely, but skirting around the issue so closely that it cannot be anything but. Winter swallows, and the sound is deafening in his own ears. ]

You're... a-are you certain? Me?

[ He can't tell what his voice must sound like to Nikolas. His old dead childish hopes have come to sudden roaring life, but the practical part of him, the larger part, can't quite make the connection to belief just yet. ]

Oh, quite!

[His voice raises despite himself—not mockingly, not aggressively, but nervously, as if all of this emotion needs to go somewhere and it can't find anywhere but sheer volume to leak out. His eyes widen, too, in his helpless earnestness. How is he supposed to react to this sheet level of disbelief? It's strange; something about the situation puts them on even footing, for the first time, Nikolas feels, in a very long time. They're both floundering here. They're acting silly and awkward and childish, and that, somehow, helps matters.]

I promise you I've not mistaken you for anyone else, my dear! There is no one else your equal I could possibly take you for! Don't be silly!

I hardly think I am being at all silly...

[ Why wouldn't he be confused? After everything! With their whole convoluted history, how could he not question what he's hearing, and what he's being told? For a few seconds all he can do is keep staring at Nikolas, trying to parse his comments. ]

Do you... you really do mean that, don't you...?

You only want me to say it again! You are forcing my hand, you tyrant.

[He says that poutily—and then he lets out a long, dramatic sigh, only half for show. It's relaxing, too, an attempt to calm his stupid nerves that works a bit. That's better than he might have expected. Nikolas is very good at letting himself get worked up and emotional, running away with it and not looking back. That isn't what he wants here and now.]

. . . Well. If I complained about saying it, I would hardly be worth listening to; your breath would be wasted on me. I already fear you've wasted your time on a man such as myself. And yet here you sit with me! The least I can do is tell you the truth, and as many times as you want to hear it. Yes, Winter, I do mean it. You deserve to hear that every day of your life, not only in a moment of ill-advised passion such as that one I just went and had. I do.

I...

[ What does one even say to something like that? It's a confession like something straight out of the books he guiltily smuggles now and then, even now -- but it's never been something that Winter has ever expected to be directed at him. And especially not from this man, of all people! But here they are, in quiet privacy, and for a long moment all Winter can do is stare. He's never prepared for anything like this! And even if he'd suspected, this isn't the sort of thing one can write a speech for--! ]

Oh. That's rather -- that is to say, I'm very -- I'm --

--I'm honored that you'd feel that way about me--!

[Nikolas hardly knows what he's supposed to be hoping to hear in this moment. This all happened very suddenly! It doesn't seem possible that Winter will simply return the sentiment and fall into his arms; the adult Nikolas knows better. But the teenage boy in Nikolas is still disappointed by a reaction that sounds like a rejection . . . is it? Is it or isn't it? Holy Mother's tits, why at this age does he still need to worry about such a thing? Why does it send his heart into wild palpitations?!

He stares back, wide-eyed expression frozen simply because he doesn't know what to do with it.]

Are you! Are you now. Well. Well. I don't know that I can approve of that sentiment, Winter, it seems . . . it seems so terribly ill-advised, finding honor in a thing like that. In one such as myself! You know how I am.

...And you also know how I am.

[ His voice is small, shyly hesitant. There's a part of him that still can't believe he's hearing this -- this is happening! For real! He is actually sitting here as Nikolas Avis confesses to him. If his teenaged self could see him now, he'd be dead of sheer jealousy. He wants to ask for a repeated confirmation, again and again until he can actually believe it.

But he also knows that he could hear it a thousand times and wouldn't, and he doesn't want Nikolas to have to suffer that. ]

I am not used to being given anything that I actually want for myself, Nikolas; you cannot expect me to know what to do but be honored.

. . . What's that you say? You buried it in there, Winter, I may need to hear it again. That bit about you wanting it for yourself. I am most interested in you elaborating on that part in specific.

[Because that part, there, sounds less like a rejection than Nikolas had feared he was hearing until it came out. He stares back. The two of them, here like silly awkward teenagers, staring at one another in disbelief.]

I am not certain that there truly is anything to elaborate on! Rather, I think it's the most straightforward thing I've said in quite some time!

[ His face feels hot enough to burn, but while Winter's very used to the sensation of a fever, this is an entirely different sort of thing. If anything, he feels better than -- well, in quite some time. At least since his mother's death, and possibly longer.

Still, he forces himself to take a couple of deep breaths, the same way he'd been taught to do in the wake of an attack, and then he smiles at Nikolas, tentative but oh, his heart is pounding in his chest like a fist against the door. ]

I have wanted to hear you say something like that since I was fourteen, Nikolas. Even when I gave up hope for it, I still wanted.

I—well. Then I am sorry I kept you waiting, and that the dark truth of it is, I meant to keep you waiting for quite a bit longer, though I have known I would say it for some time now—

[The truth comes tumbling out the way he usually won't let it, all at once and barely controlled. It wouldn't do to let Winter begin thinking Nikolas wasn't a terrible person, after all! He must have out with the whole of it and let Winter make his own, informed decision to have him taken out with the rest of the trash!

But perhaps the most honest part is the way Nikolas's hand darts over to grope for Winter's, as if looking to hold it for just a few moments before he's forced to give up on all of this forever. As he surely should be!]

I-- what? Really?

[ Since when have you known?! though Winter can't quite bring himself to actually ask that question. For one, he's distracted by the movement of Nikolas's hand, staring for a second before he very daringly takes it. Look at that! Look at him! He's initiated hand-holding with a boy. And not just any boy, but one who's haunted him for so many years.

Once he has it, though, he's not entirely sure what to do with it. The only person he's used to hand-holding with is his sister, and her hands are significantly smaller than Nikolas's. Ultimately, Winter just folds both of his around Nikolas, studying them for a long moment and then looking up again. His face hurts from how hard he's blushing. ]

Well. Whether you meant to say it now or not, it has been said, and so... now what?

Oh. I. Well.

[Smooth. He's entirely taken aback by the sudden happenstance that he's sitting here alone with Winter, holding his hand and looking him right in the eyes. What's truly ridiculous is that now that it's happened, he can barely remember why he spend so very long not letting it. So much of his life has been an endless parade of reasons for this not to happen, and yet here they are now, and it's so very easy! It's done. It's truly gone and happened at last; why did it take so damned long?!

Nikolas blinks, his own cheeks nearly as pink as Winter's, though less visibly on his dark skin.]

. . . I rather think that is up to you, above all else.

I... I mean.

[ Why is it up to him? Why does this have to be his decision?! He's not ready! He's never even considered this within arm's reach of possibility before!! And now he's here having to make the decision for the both of them--! This isn't like matters of state, where he can rely on logic or the comfort of rational problem-solving; this is more like when he asked the King for mercy on Nikolas's behalf, only more.

This is trying to make a decision about what he, Winter Quertis, might want, and for a few long seconds he just clutches Nikolas's hand as tightly as possible. His own fingers are chilled. ]

I... I would rather like it if...

[ He can say it. He can do this! He can get the words out. ]

I'd like to have what I want for once, Nikolas.

Then. Then! You will have to come and take it now, won't you, my dear! My—dear, dearest Winter. My very dearest, you can't know how—no, as I said, it is up to you to seize what you want with your own hands.

[He can hardly hear his own words anymore; they spill out in a mess onto the floor over the pounding of Nikolas's own heart in his ears. He can't be the one to assume that what Winter wants is all or any of that. His shoulders shake with the desire to lean in and take, but despite however things may look right now, he cannot allow himself to think he deserves to make a move on someone he's wronged so deeply . . . !

But here he is, not paying terribly close attention to how very hopeful his own face looks.]

With my own hands, is it...

[ That's not terribly helpful either. Every time they'd had an encounter like this before, Nikolas had taken the lead -- whether he'd only been bluffing his courage or not, he'd at least known what to do. Should Winter kiss him? Take his hands? What is there even for him to try except for gaping in sheer dumbfounded amazement?

Perhaps in a different world, under different circumstances, Winter would have allowed himself the courage to do one, or the confidence to believe he could do so gracefully. Instead, he does the latter, reaching out with trembling hands to take Nikolas's in his own. ]

I suppose this is entirely too literal, but I hope you will forgive me that.

[Nikolas stares down at their hands, briefly surprised—and then he wonders why he's surprised, and begins to laugh.

He hates the sound of it, not because it's cruel or mocking, but because he remembers a time when it would have been. This laugh is fraught with nerves, but under that, genuinely joyful and fond . . . and yet he can't help but fear that Winter won't know that. How could he, after all? Nikolas has raised him to expect torment, not fondness. He convinces himself that Winter is already pulling back, whether or not that's the case, and grabs both of Winter's hands in his own in turn, squeezing them tightly.]

Oh, forgive me. It's more than I deserve, dear, but forgive me. I am not laughing at you! I'm only so . . . so very happy. I can't think of any other way to express it. I've always been awful at that, you see. You should well know by now what a wretch I am! And yet—here you are.

[He squeezes those cold hands again, more pointedly this time.]

Entirely too literal, as always, but . . . I would not have you any other way.

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