Leftovers

Written January 1st, 2012 - Revised October 11th, 2014

"You're weeelcome, baby."

Cabanela ends a neverending hug that way – responding to thanks he never received. The couch is the best place to catch him off guard, to bury him in a wave of comfort he would never ask for. It is the place where someday – and that is not a promise, it is a certainty – he will restore Jowd back to his former self, and then get him to talk.

That is what he aims to already, while the warmth of his long arm still does not leave Jowd's shoulders.

They would be unjustified gestures to the eyes anyone else. To Cabanela, they are an elaborate plan, and one that is indeed going quite well. To Jowd, they are lot more – but he cannot know, not yet.

"There is still that."
"That what?"

The couch is a nice place to focus, too. That is where Cabanela has been studying his partner from since he gave him that special gift – a one-way ticket to his home and his family, and everything was suddenly easier. With him, it is already a lot.

"The only thing I still don't get at aaall, baby." He waves and points his finger to him in a complex arabesque. "You have no reason to feel that sad."

Jowd chuckles and holds Sissel closer, basking in the comfort of his favourite cushions. He feels his friend's gaze pierce his mask of serenity – some days it is harder than usual, and some days, unluckily, he is there to watch.

It is a hard fight, but a labour of love nonetheless. Jowd does not want to lose their trust in this life.

"I wonder what makes you think so," he laughs. "It takes a lot to break my ribs and then say I am sad – just look around you, partner, and tell me how I could possibly be sad."

Cabanela floats off the sofa; in the next second, and Jowd doesn't know how, he is pointing his eyes at him like loaded guns. The cat on his chest feels his uneasy heartbeat – it is the only sign, the only possible path to that shade of fear which has been sneaking in him since then.

Jowd has to get ready. He raises the shields he has been building for almost fifteen years.

"You don't count as nooormal, baby," he hums. "You can't make it work for me. I know sooomething is dancing in you. And I'll make you dance until you spit it out, baby. No more talk."

Cabanela throws him another donut and rests on the couch again, deep in thought. Jowd catches his drift – he chews it methodically, with the skill and patience the strongest warriors must have.

Even though he does not want to know, he realises how much he fears his words. White feathers, as sharp as they are light. And a subtle certainty makes its way in the yellow eyes staring at him, coming from the distance of years, but still clear and visible.

Starting from a bullet and a death, Jowd has built a castle of lies. In time, steady or not, it is bound to crack to pieces.