FIC: That Middle Road (6/?)
Aug. 18th, 2009 03:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: That Middle Road (6/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Pairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set inpoisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.
ETA 8/27/09: This story deals with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, and with slavery as used in the AKB 'verse. There's also mention of child abuse, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm.
Vincent's body overwhelms the metal slab. The last month has eaten away at him, but sheer height makes him dominate the chilly room. If Misha concentrates, he can imagine the rise and fall of Vincent's breathing.
A lifetime ago, Vincent signed several important papers to assure that Misha would be the one to prepare his body. It's meant to be a kindness, even if it means that Vincent is last touched by familiar hands. But it doesn't feel like kindness now, as Misha stands over him and tries to remember what to do.
The last day is an endless gray smear in his mind of phone calls and car rides and hasty fittings. He knows people have been generous to him, but he can't think of their names or what they've done. He only knows that he's standing here in a borrowed suit, that he ate an hour ago, and that Jeremy hasn't left him for a second until the mortuary doors swung closed between them.
From one master's hands to another's. It seems right. Misha can't even think of why he shouldn't accept it anymore.
He feels crumpled inside like a used paper cup. He can't say any words, not even when he'd slit his wrists if they'd just pour out. And Vincent is exposed, his naked body obscene against metal gurney, the injuries that killed him slow now livid and puckered dry. So Misha picks up the folded, crisply ironed clothes and begins.
"It made sense in the beginning, you know."
Misha looks up from turning the sheets down. It's that time of year, Vincent's mood thinning and waning like the moon until there's only darkness. Too much wine, too much bad poetry. Misha isn't stupid, he doesn't miss the date of Vincent's anniversary, and he knows better than to say anything about it. Vincent prefers to nurse his scotch and his wounds in quiet.
"What did, the poem? I hate it when that happens." Misha thumps the bed. "Come to bed, old man, you're getting sentimental."
The gentle prod doesn't make Vincent smile; Misha's stomach coils tight. He doesn't expect violence, he knows he's lucky in that, but watching Vincent retreat further into brooding is just as bad. That'd mean days of boredom as Vincent paced the library, refusing to go anywhere, requiring a damn three hour debate before he'd eat breakfast. And he loves Vincent, even if he wants to tear the veil of privilege down from around the old man's eyes. An anniversary, a grief that's old as decades? Fuck, there are slaves out there being trained and used and broken. Misha knows his brother and mother are dead. It makes it hard to sympathize.
"Slavery." Vincent doesn't turn from his study of the gardens below his window, turning and turning his wine glass. "It seemed so reasonable. So righteous. There are men who need to be guided in order to grow true; there were children, starving."
Misha finds his fingers gripping the comforter too tightly. He looks away from Vincent's silouhette, smoothing down the creases left by his fists. "Vincent, you don't have to explain--"
"It's hard to understand if you didn't live it. There were so many sick, so many, and we thought we knew what was best." Vincent huffs out a humorless laugh. "Well. I did. Bess, she never believed it. She was so principled. College educated, of course, and so... so very good. She fought with me for hours about it. Threw me out of my own bed. I told her, 'these people are starving, would you have them die for your principles?' And she told me, 'better that they die, then, if they die free.'"
Misha thinks of Sasha's small hand in his own, and he can't say anything.
"It killed her, in the end. Having slaves. Because of course we needed one, of course we grew used to being served. She would watch her young attendant work, and she would think. And one day, she requested a blade for shaving, and some privacy in the bath." Vincent's voice heaves once, a dry sob that he swallows. "She couldn't. She."
The hot stone burning in Misha's throat, the rage that never quiets down, doesn't stop him from going to Vincent. From embracing him, Vincent's body stiff against his own. It's wrong to see Vincent weep, an axis tilting between them to upset the whole world. It's wrong for him to comfort his master like this. And yet there's nothing else to do.
"It is unkind to us all," Vincent whispers finally. "I... I want you to know. And I am so very sorry."
"Shh," Misha whispers, and rests his forehead against Vincent's back. "Shh. Just come to bed."
Vincent is dressed like a doll, his long limbs dragged resisting into the funeral suit. His body is not ready to go, and his mind has moved on somewhere else. And Misha, Misha does what he always has. What has to be done. He straightens the lines of Vincent's jacket, arranges his tie to its sharpest angle, combs Vincent's thinning silver hair, fastens his cufflinks. When his mind drifts on the familiarity, he snaps it back with this will never come again. He takes his time and, before there is nothing left to do, he eases free the clunky ring from Vincent's finger. Vincent has been stripped of the expensive jewelry, and the ring... it's all Misha has.
There are no tears inside him, only a deepening silence.
****
Vincent would have hated the ceremony. It's poorly planned and full of prattling by people that Vincent couldn't stand. They all huddle under a tent hastily erected beside the open grave. The sky is morbid gray and threatens rain, wind snapping by to topple hats and ruin hairstyles. Misha sits very still on his chair and wonders if the errant wind is Vincent's last laugh.
Lord Burton came from his hermit's cave; he looks like he was slapped together from paper mache, and the hollows under his eyes have hollows. If he wasn't propped up on either side by his wife and his bodyslave, he'd fall into the grave. Honestly, he looks worse than Vincent's own kin, but then he probably took the news harder. Tim doesn't shed tears, which Misha thinks Vincent would demand. Not in front of these people, son. They'll eat you alive. It'd be funny on any other day to watch the beautiful and rich squirm uncomfortably around Lord Burton's entourage, trying not to stare at his bodyslave's half-ruined face or at the giant looming gauntly over Tim's shoulder like a chess knight over pawns.
Jeremy looks miserable, hunched up in his sloppy suit, trying to look like he's paying attention. His knee touches Misha's from time to time, nudging Misha out of his fugue.
Someone asks Lord Burton if he has anything to say. He gives them a withering look from under his wild hair and glances at Misha, like can you believe this bullshit?, but whatever he sees in Misha's expression makes him glance away.
Misha blinks, and time has slid by. People rise and toss flowers onto the closed coffin lid. The ceremony is over. He doesn't remember a word.
The tent empties except for the family and Lord Burton's people. It's Misha's time to get up and walk away. It's his duty as a slave to smooth over the rough edges of the moment before anyone becomes uncomfortable, or bleeds, or feels pain. He has to think of Jeremy, or the children; he is property, and property doesn't grieve.
He can't move. It hurts to breathe, a widening ache inside his chest that threatens to choke its way up his throat. He'll break his silence, he'll curl up on this damp ground and just keen until they take him away--
Jeremy grabs his arm before he can slide off the chair and steadies him. Spreading his hand on Misha's back, he rubs where the pain is, brisk like he wants to bring the blood to a numbed limb. He bends until his lips are by Misha's ear, his voice as rough and as necessary as his touch. "You need to get out of here, baby?"
Misha gulps air and puts his head down so he can't see them lower the casket. He hears it, though, the wheel spinning and the mechanical whine slowly muffled by the ground.
In a moment, silence.
Misha doesn't know how long he hangs there, Jeremy holding him up, until he sees worn boots step into his line of sight. Someone touches the back of his head, a halting affection like the person has to translate every action from his native tongue, and Jeremy tenses defensively.
"Misha," Lord Burton says. "Uh. We're here to bring you home."
Author:
nilchancePairing: Misha Collins/Jeremy Sisto
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
A/N: Set in
poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'verse.ETA 8/27/09: This story deals with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, and with slavery as used in the AKB 'verse. There's also mention of child abuse, suicide, institutionalization and self-harm.
Vincent's body overwhelms the metal slab. The last month has eaten away at him, but sheer height makes him dominate the chilly room. If Misha concentrates, he can imagine the rise and fall of Vincent's breathing.
A lifetime ago, Vincent signed several important papers to assure that Misha would be the one to prepare his body. It's meant to be a kindness, even if it means that Vincent is last touched by familiar hands. But it doesn't feel like kindness now, as Misha stands over him and tries to remember what to do.
The last day is an endless gray smear in his mind of phone calls and car rides and hasty fittings. He knows people have been generous to him, but he can't think of their names or what they've done. He only knows that he's standing here in a borrowed suit, that he ate an hour ago, and that Jeremy hasn't left him for a second until the mortuary doors swung closed between them.
From one master's hands to another's. It seems right. Misha can't even think of why he shouldn't accept it anymore.
He feels crumpled inside like a used paper cup. He can't say any words, not even when he'd slit his wrists if they'd just pour out. And Vincent is exposed, his naked body obscene against metal gurney, the injuries that killed him slow now livid and puckered dry. So Misha picks up the folded, crisply ironed clothes and begins.
"It made sense in the beginning, you know."
Misha looks up from turning the sheets down. It's that time of year, Vincent's mood thinning and waning like the moon until there's only darkness. Too much wine, too much bad poetry. Misha isn't stupid, he doesn't miss the date of Vincent's anniversary, and he knows better than to say anything about it. Vincent prefers to nurse his scotch and his wounds in quiet.
"What did, the poem? I hate it when that happens." Misha thumps the bed. "Come to bed, old man, you're getting sentimental."
The gentle prod doesn't make Vincent smile; Misha's stomach coils tight. He doesn't expect violence, he knows he's lucky in that, but watching Vincent retreat further into brooding is just as bad. That'd mean days of boredom as Vincent paced the library, refusing to go anywhere, requiring a damn three hour debate before he'd eat breakfast. And he loves Vincent, even if he wants to tear the veil of privilege down from around the old man's eyes. An anniversary, a grief that's old as decades? Fuck, there are slaves out there being trained and used and broken. Misha knows his brother and mother are dead. It makes it hard to sympathize.
"Slavery." Vincent doesn't turn from his study of the gardens below his window, turning and turning his wine glass. "It seemed so reasonable. So righteous. There are men who need to be guided in order to grow true; there were children, starving."
Misha finds his fingers gripping the comforter too tightly. He looks away from Vincent's silouhette, smoothing down the creases left by his fists. "Vincent, you don't have to explain--"
"It's hard to understand if you didn't live it. There were so many sick, so many, and we thought we knew what was best." Vincent huffs out a humorless laugh. "Well. I did. Bess, she never believed it. She was so principled. College educated, of course, and so... so very good. She fought with me for hours about it. Threw me out of my own bed. I told her, 'these people are starving, would you have them die for your principles?' And she told me, 'better that they die, then, if they die free.'"
Misha thinks of Sasha's small hand in his own, and he can't say anything.
"It killed her, in the end. Having slaves. Because of course we needed one, of course we grew used to being served. She would watch her young attendant work, and she would think. And one day, she requested a blade for shaving, and some privacy in the bath." Vincent's voice heaves once, a dry sob that he swallows. "She couldn't. She."
The hot stone burning in Misha's throat, the rage that never quiets down, doesn't stop him from going to Vincent. From embracing him, Vincent's body stiff against his own. It's wrong to see Vincent weep, an axis tilting between them to upset the whole world. It's wrong for him to comfort his master like this. And yet there's nothing else to do.
"It is unkind to us all," Vincent whispers finally. "I... I want you to know. And I am so very sorry."
"Shh," Misha whispers, and rests his forehead against Vincent's back. "Shh. Just come to bed."
Vincent is dressed like a doll, his long limbs dragged resisting into the funeral suit. His body is not ready to go, and his mind has moved on somewhere else. And Misha, Misha does what he always has. What has to be done. He straightens the lines of Vincent's jacket, arranges his tie to its sharpest angle, combs Vincent's thinning silver hair, fastens his cufflinks. When his mind drifts on the familiarity, he snaps it back with this will never come again. He takes his time and, before there is nothing left to do, he eases free the clunky ring from Vincent's finger. Vincent has been stripped of the expensive jewelry, and the ring... it's all Misha has.
There are no tears inside him, only a deepening silence.
****
Vincent would have hated the ceremony. It's poorly planned and full of prattling by people that Vincent couldn't stand. They all huddle under a tent hastily erected beside the open grave. The sky is morbid gray and threatens rain, wind snapping by to topple hats and ruin hairstyles. Misha sits very still on his chair and wonders if the errant wind is Vincent's last laugh.
Lord Burton came from his hermit's cave; he looks like he was slapped together from paper mache, and the hollows under his eyes have hollows. If he wasn't propped up on either side by his wife and his bodyslave, he'd fall into the grave. Honestly, he looks worse than Vincent's own kin, but then he probably took the news harder. Tim doesn't shed tears, which Misha thinks Vincent would demand. Not in front of these people, son. They'll eat you alive. It'd be funny on any other day to watch the beautiful and rich squirm uncomfortably around Lord Burton's entourage, trying not to stare at his bodyslave's half-ruined face or at the giant looming gauntly over Tim's shoulder like a chess knight over pawns.
Jeremy looks miserable, hunched up in his sloppy suit, trying to look like he's paying attention. His knee touches Misha's from time to time, nudging Misha out of his fugue.
Someone asks Lord Burton if he has anything to say. He gives them a withering look from under his wild hair and glances at Misha, like can you believe this bullshit?, but whatever he sees in Misha's expression makes him glance away.
Misha blinks, and time has slid by. People rise and toss flowers onto the closed coffin lid. The ceremony is over. He doesn't remember a word.
The tent empties except for the family and Lord Burton's people. It's Misha's time to get up and walk away. It's his duty as a slave to smooth over the rough edges of the moment before anyone becomes uncomfortable, or bleeds, or feels pain. He has to think of Jeremy, or the children; he is property, and property doesn't grieve.
He can't move. It hurts to breathe, a widening ache inside his chest that threatens to choke its way up his throat. He'll break his silence, he'll curl up on this damp ground and just keen until they take him away--
Jeremy grabs his arm before he can slide off the chair and steadies him. Spreading his hand on Misha's back, he rubs where the pain is, brisk like he wants to bring the blood to a numbed limb. He bends until his lips are by Misha's ear, his voice as rough and as necessary as his touch. "You need to get out of here, baby?"
Misha gulps air and puts his head down so he can't see them lower the casket. He hears it, though, the wheel spinning and the mechanical whine slowly muffled by the ground.
In a moment, silence.
Misha doesn't know how long he hangs there, Jeremy holding him up, until he sees worn boots step into his line of sight. Someone touches the back of his head, a halting affection like the person has to translate every action from his native tongue, and Jeremy tenses defensively.
"Misha," Lord Burton says. "Uh. We're here to bring you home."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2009-08-18 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-19 01:22 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2009-08-19 08:52 pm (UTC)