parabritai | (no subject)

Jem had always felt a certain affinity to drawing runes; it felt more natural than he expected, the scrawling lines, the dark ink, as if his stele were dipped into a pot of calligraphy liquid, tracing words and symbols across Will's skin that had meaning only to those who knew of them, who had studied their art. He'd always enjoyed the wall length scrolls of characters from his childhood--he could remember them, vaguely, the way they seemed intimidating only as long as he didn't understand them. Understanding, he found, made the world more at ease, complications less stressful. It was something Will would probably appreciate, too, if he had the head to listen.

"You're fidgeting," Jem noted, good-natured and calm, as his one hand, the one holding Will's wrist, tightened, as if to keep his arm straight while he drew. The iratze came rather quickly once he'd focused on it, flicking the stele off Will's skin on a rather succinct, pointed note. "I told you it wasn't safe to come here," Jem reminded him; he knew that Will didn't need that particular reminder, and yet, it fell from his lips before he could stop it, mostly because he liked the way Will's face looked in that moment, twisted and playfully annoyed with him. They were 'too young' to go out alone, but with the rest of the adults at the Institute preoccupied, and Charlotte unable to completely stop them from doing anything, really, they had set out to get rid of the demon prowling the edges of Hyde Park, preying on the couples that came for a bit of stargazing.

They'd gotten rid of the demon--that part had been easy, but Will had charged in before completely prepared and Jem had lost both of his throwing knives in the battle, and Will's arm had been cut open when he thrust his sword in all the way. So they sat, parked up against a tree, comfortable Glamoured, while Jem painstakingly applied that iratze, and Will grumbled at him about this or that, and finally, with some effort, Jem sat back on the grass, pushing his bangs out of his face with one dirt-stained hand. He could feel his shoulders heaving, some, the effects of the Strength runes wearing off, leaving him more in the darkness of his body's inability to fight for long. Bearing a smile, he slid his stele back and forth between his fingers, watching Will in anticipation.

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Perhaps the runes weren't a permanent fix, but they would be enough to help Jem last for a while longer. That would give them some time to enjoy the night as well as actually make it home in one piece without either of them passing out. Will was just as happy to pretend they were just a couple of teenagers relaxing in a park rather than a pair of parabatai still covered in ichor from a demon hunt. He was reminded of their soiled state when Jem pulled away, and though he missed the warmth he made light of the situation as always. "I apologize for the stench, I must smell like a demonic sewer." He told himself that was the reason for Jem putting more distance between them, unable to stomach the thought that he was genuinely disliked in any way by his one shining silver star in the dark abyss that had swallowed his life whole.

Snorting softly as Jem rebuttoned his sleeve, the paramount of propriety, Will slouched down further against the tree. This time it was he who leaned against Jem, head on his shoulder as he listened to the subtle drumming of Jem's pulse. It was a reassuring sound for so many reasons, none of them to which he was willing to put words. Tilting his head back to look up at Jem, he studied him from the unusual angle, the way he could see each pale eyelash above his almond eyes. "Won't you come with me?" he asked, frowning at the thought of being separated. It wasn't possible, as far as he knew from parabatai lore, but that wasn't the only reason he disliked the notion. "I'll hire you as a translator and you can help me woo all the local women," he teased, fiddling with the edge of his shirt sleeve where it had been dissolved by acidic ichor. "And then we'll fall in love. Distance is difficult to overcome and very boring, but a translator falling in love with the poetry of his employer only to deliver it to another is appropriately angst-ridden."

Despite himself--and despite Will's clear teasing--Jem couldn't help but start to laugh, bright and loud, reaching up a hand to clamp it over his mouth as if it would stop the sound before Will realized it. His eyes shone, bright for a moment, before he squeezed them shut; he hadn't laughed that loud in ages, and to do it in front of Will felt refreshing, on one hand, and embarrassing, on the next. Not that he was necessarily the perfect picture of composure--but he was, a little, definitely moreso than his headstrong companion. Regaining some sort of somber appearance, he let his hand lower, slowly, before he pressed his lips together, willing the humor out of them. "Did you not just describe our sordid love story as unrequited?" he murmured, and angled his gaze down at Will; from where the other rested on his shoulder, it was difficult to see him. "I think it makes more sense for this thick headed poet to fall in love with his translator. There's something particularly enticing about a foreigner."

It felt a little strange, to joke about--not that Jem was keen on explaining any further. Teasing Will would perhaps drive the conversation to a different subject; Jem didn't want to let it linger there, on the potential of feelings, if there were feelings: his feelings, which grew like ivy, until the walls of his heart would certainly be crushed under the weight of them in short time. It was one of the times he considered his curse almost a blessing: would he live to have to endure such feelings of jealousy and regret? He realized, without his own consciousness, that his fingers had migrated to find Will's again, turning them over with his touch, smoothing up and down along his knuckles. It wasn't something particularly strange--Jem smiled, faintly, and hoped that would be enough to dissuade any discomfort Will might have with it. "And in the end, you will probably still smell like a sewer, I'm afraid."

Though Will always prided himself holding the ability to make Jem smile, even chuckle from time to time, it was so rare to hear his unadulterated laughter. Looking up at him, he caught the amused curve of his lips before they were covered and the mirth held in his grey eyes before his eyelids slid shut. Will could remember a time when those eyes had been a deep, rich black, but also so full of fresh pain that they had seemed like flat lakes of ichor. He wasn't entirely sure which shade of iris he preferred, and though both were beautiful in their own ways, they grey that looked at him now was, paradoxically, much more lively. Without thinking he reached up to wrap his hand around Jem's wrist and pull his hand away, a silent encouragement to laugh for any reason, especially at Will's expense.

"Then perhaps it would make more sense for the poet to fall in love with the translator if it must remain unrequited. He hopes that his poetry might woo the man of his affections, but in the end the love of another steals him away. Defeated, the poet returns to his dreary London to lose himself in the fog of the Thames." Closing his eyes, he shifts until his head is resting in Jem's lap, and he'd be staring straight up at him if he were brave enough to open his eyes. Instead he continues musing, perhaps of what their lives could have been if they had been born as Mundanes. If Will had been able to remain with his family. Then again, he doubted that he'd ever have met Jem in any other life, and it's a minor blessing amidst a sea of curses.

Blinking his eyes open, he stared up at Jem a moment before laughing. "Is that what does it, in the end? You can't stand the stench, and so you run off with a Chinese beauty and leave me in the dust?" Though it was meant in jest, it made his stomach twist painfully to remember that his time with Jem was limited in any capacity. He was the one person whom Will allowed himself to love, and even then he wouldn't have him for a lifetime.

The weight of Will's head was a comfort that Jem thought, perhaps, he shouldn't take such comfort in at all--the way it slid down from his shoulder, sinking into the curve of his lap, where, if he were a woman, he would feel more content, that Will's head would be pillowed in the comfortable rise of plush thighs and those sorts of feminine comforts that came from a position like the one they had settled into, but all he had to offer was the rumpled cotton of his trousers and the weak muscle underneath. His hands itched to touch him, to brush long fingers through his hair, sort out all the dust and muck and comfort him, and for a moment, he was unsure of what to do at all. Both hands hovered, a minute trembling, before one settled loosely atop Will's shoulder, and the other folded over the top of his head, fingertips touching briefly at the edges of Will's bangs that stuck together against his forehead.

"Well," Jem said at first, thoughtfully, and though he could feel Will's eyes peering up at him, surely warm with amusement, Jem instead cast his gaze out towards the water, as though looking at it would give him the answer to the playfully difficult love story they had concocted. His lips twitched, once, with the threat of a smile, but he swallowed it down, fingers idle now as they brushed along Will's forehead and then, further, across his temple. "You could always just...have a wash. That would solve the problem, wouldn't it?" Unable to keep himself from it, Jem started to smile, glancing down at Will as he tugged at the top of his closest ear. "I am sure that you are charming enough that it's only the smell that's keeping the poet and the translator apart."