A/N: USA 1940.
He is an honest man. When they ask him such a question, he refuses to answer. He cannot tell them, and any answer that's not the truth would be a lie. So he says nothing. He had made promises, long ago, with people that are gone. But he holds onto the shards of sayings with a relentless, unforgiving grip. He may not let go.
He is an honest man. He agrees to help. At the meeting, sitting in the far back, listening to the subpar spew the men lets out, his mind starts to wander. He needs to be there, yes, but he need not listen, need not be concerned. When he packs the books down after the meeting, he sees someone far away. Smiling, with hair like quiet gold, voice beckoning to every mirage in his sultry life. He finishes his work, goes home. He thinks about decisions, reasons he may not.
He is an honest man. When the blond approaches him, he doesn't say a lot. Because speaking would be lying, in most cases. Though he starts fearing that with this one, it might be more truths than lies. And that is even worse. Truths has a tendency to rule and quest and conquer, and turn into something far from the divinity it started out as.
He is an honest man. The other man is younger, too young, and he tells him so. He is hoping to create a flimsy barrier of words, since there is nothing else between them. On his sofa, he tells him. The papers are all spread out across the apartment, as if a malevolent rage has run about in his life. The documents are strewn as if it was a matter of stars and not words. It is not rage that has disordered them, far from it. It's despair, and sunny afternoons and a whispered "I think I'm dying" when he's had a whiskey too much. And then it's this person, this thing, this godlike apparition. He is subtly wrecking him, on his sofa, claiming him. He thinks after a while of kisses and sighs, that maybe being wrecked isn't a bad thing.
He is an honest man. If the blond asks him yes or no, he says yes. He says a lot of other things, now that he dares to speak. And the blond lets him, awaits his answer. They speak in between their words, of wars and cities pummeled. The eventual silence never makes him cringe like it used to.
He is an honest man. So when the demands of sacrifices burns too hot, he learns to ease his grip. The one he loves should not be left out in the cold, like him. With him. He will learn to love a little less, if it means another future for the man in need of it.
He is an honest man. And whatever he asks of him, whatever he wants from him, he can have. So when he says "Will you come to the reception?" he says yes. Always yes. It makes him sad, but mostly numb. He thought they had more days, more mornings to wake up to and more nights for when they loved each other.
Under the dark grey, looming industrial sky, he lets him. He lets go of the one thing that has never let him down. He shies away, but not too far, still able to hear the subtle lilts in his voice as he thanks them for coming, for buying presents, has someone seen his friend? A long man with grey hair, he was right there... He leaves him then, figures that there are things he gets to keep and things he can't. Some things you only get to borrow, that he knows. He stares up at the sky, ashen from broken promises and lies, and things that he got to hold, just for a while. He gets in his car, pounds at the steering wheel with a shaking hand. He is an honest man, so he returned it, that which wasn't his.