( private log | oxford&cambridge )

[romanticism]

He doesn't know how long he's been pacing, but he can see a little light starting to filter in through the thin curtains in the living room. It's bright, harsh light, the sort that heralds a cloudless and clear day, the sort he used to appreciate, but today he would much rather retreat to the darkness. His lips purse into a thin line, jaw clenching in a customary, habitual display of emotion, and he turns very smartly, very sharply, on his heel, away from the morning, back into the colourless void that is his hallway. Oxford is a big man, both tall and broad, but his footsteps are silent, gentle pads across the smooth wooden floor despite the anger and frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He doesn't want to cause any disturbances, he doesn't want to wake the other man upstairs- disturbances. Everything has been about disturbances lately, hasn't it? An unfortunate, violent disturbances in otherwise peaceful lives, relatively speaking. His thoughts immediately drift back to blinding hospital lights and the smell of linoleum floods his senses, fingers clenching into fists at the very reminder. There have been few times that Oxford has had to travel the corridors of hospitals, but in these past few months there have been far too many instances for his liking. My liking, he thinks, a soft huff of mirthless laughter escaping him. What a magnificent understatement. There never seem to be enough words to describe how he has felt, recently. It's strange that for a man of literature, someone who has poured over every Shakespearean display of outrage, near to every classic scene of sheer despair, his very own moment for emotional outburst cannot be truly described, not by himself. His anguish eludes him except for in his own mind. The brutality of his feelings cannot slip from his lips as an explanation to anyone else, they twist and swirl like a vicious hurricane in his mind, refusing to untangle for long enough, so that he cannot catch their essence. Oxford's eyes, very briefly, look upon the stairs, in the direction of the bedroom. Not even Cambridge has had the uncomfortable pleasure of seeing the very extent of Oxford's... of what? Of his rage? His loathing for a certain monstrous creature roaming the streets? His sadness, for the colleagues and friends either lost or injured? His disappointment in the weight of apathy and ancient bitterness that is no longer deserved or valid? He doesn't know. He simply cannot say what it is that blisters his heart and reduces him to stalking his very own halls, like a trapped animal waiting for some chance to escape. He has been holding a handgun for a long while, now, carefully and quietly removed earlier from the bottom drawer of his dresser. It's a simple model, compact and small, designed to do the job and nothing more. Stopping, for a moment, he looks down at it, laying it flat across his palm, weighing it in one hand. He has never quite grown accustomed to the feeling of a gun in his hands, though he's a fairly decent shot, but when given half a choice between a knife and a gun he would certainly choose the latter in all circumstances. He supposes it's something a little cowardly in him; he hardly enjoys the prospect of killing someone, but God knows he would prefer to do it from a distance rather than feel flesh fall away beneath your hand and be close enough to see the light drift away from someone's eyes. He wonders if that's the allure of stabbings to Cerbos; the power one feels, the actual sensation of having won this battle. Discomfort prickles the back of his neck, making his hairs stand on end. His fingers curl around the gun and his eyes close, scrunching up tightly. He hasn't had a great many occasions to cry in his life, though he feels that he has done a reasonable job of holding in his emotions since Cambridge practically started living with him (the strange and improbable things that happen in times of duress), but he isn't quite sure how much longer he can manage. Oxford doesn't remember the last time that anything in his life had quite such an effect on him. His memories don't really allow him to much time to dwell on the matter, either. Whenever he tries, he can almost feel the coldness of Jules' skin under his fingertips, the limpness of her hand when he first curled his own around hers. It's enough to set a weakness in his knees, a heaviness upon his shoulder and an emptiness in his heart.

Comments

[sexting]

[ As Oxford drops his head Cambridge's grip slackens if only to free up his hands to pull Oxford closer. He wraps his arms around the older man's neck - the height difference of one stair being just enough to make it comfortable - and folds him towards Cambridge's bare chest. Cambridge has never ordinarily been one for many public displays of affection but this is hardly public - nor is it really a particularly ordinary situation. There have been times - brief, infrequent times - when Cambridge has allowed himself to mellow in Oxford's company, to become a softer, more affectionate version of himself. This isn't quite the same as that - this isn't an affectionate embrace of someone trying to prove the point that they can, this is something more sad and pliant and compassionate than that. He merely rests his cheek quietly against Oxford's hair, unwilling to say anything just yet. ]

[romanticism]

[ The sensation of being pulled closer and enveloped by Cambridge makes Oxford feel strangely safe for the first time in what seems like an eternity. The hands on Cambridge's hips move to let him curl his arms around him, splaying a warm hand across the still cool expanse of Cambridge's back. He presses his face to the crook of Cambridge's neck, lightly at first, then with a little less restraint, though still a little conscious of his bristly jaw potentially being a somewhat tickly irritant. The temporary quiet is something of a blessing, for the moment; it isn't weighed down by the heaviness of the discomfort they have been experiencing in each other's company recently, it feels more like it used to, albeit under very different circumstances. He remains quiet, eyes still tightly shut lest a little too much feeling starts to trickle down his cheeks. ]

[sexting]

[ They stand together for a while in silence but before long a little flame of awkwardness begins to take light somewhere in the depths of Cambridge's mind. A frown forms, quiet and barely perceptible against the strands of Oxford's hair, and then - as quickly as he had pulled Oxford in to the hug in the first place - he slackened his arms. The frown is gone by the time Cambridge is holding Oxford by the shoulders at arm's length and is replaced instead by a pensive look of scrutiny as he inspects Oxford's features. ]

Go and make us some tea, won't you?

[ Pro-activity is clearly the key here; none of this skulking around the shadows wallowing in one's own survivor's guilt. ]

I'll get dressed and then we can plan something for the rest of the day.