Originally written for the citrus_taste comm on LJ. Part of this ongoing...thing that I have going on with Watari and Roger when they were younger. As always, for my B.
16 August, 1958
Eight steps to descend; one taking him closer to the bottom of the pit than the next, and Quillish glanced up, tapped the side of the rotting wooden ladder, and beckoned his companion down.
Roger's brow only arched, an unspoken protest resting between lips and tongue, but he turned, lowered one foot onto the first unsteady bar, and began to climb down. Because after all, when had he ever said no to Quillish? It was an unstated sentiment which kept him following the other like an unleashed, but unendingly loyal puppy: never say no. Because when you say no, he will turn his back to you. And then you will be alone.
Pathetic, really. And he was aware of this. As aware as he was of his own name, but this—well. This was all he had, wasn't it? There would be a future because Quillish assured him that there would be a place in his kingdom (he hadn't used the term, but Roger fancied it) by his side, assured a million things until Roger's head was spinning with possibilities, his eyes wide, and all he could do was nod, agree with excitement, and begin to dream dreams that only a fool would indulge.
Which was why, on this otherwise boring, uncomfortably warm night in August, Roger had agreed to accompany Quillish to the graveyard. "You worry more than is healthy," Quillish had chided when Roger almost declined. Almost. "There is no reason for anyone to be there after midnight and if we are found, are they going to accuse us of robbing an empty grave?"
He said it with a mocking lilt; laughter nearly on the edge of every word until Roger was reduced to feeling like a stupid schoolboy and actually became ashamed that he thought it was a ridiculous idea, in the first place.
The scotch is bitter against their tongues, stinging their throats before spreading through their chests; warm and slowing. And then the bottle is more than halfway gone and Roger wonders if the two of them have spoken a single word since his polished shoes touched the bottom of the plot, and he realizes that no, they haven't.
"Quill."
"Mm?" And oh, perhaps he is far too drunk to provide a coherent sentence, but Quillish has them forming in his mind; conversations and rants, and if he could just get the first syllable out, he knows the rest would flow like wine.
"I'm going to hate you someday." Perhaps the truest thing that Roger has said since an eccentric, light-haired prodigy decided that kissing wasn't something reserved only for the fairer sex. It feels right to let it out, because bottling things up has led him to restless nights spent replaying conversations over and over, trying to find the second, the word that he could have used differently in order to get his point across without being mocked.
He isn't entirely sure if it's a possibility, actually. Quillish can be quite the condescending bastard.
This only earns a slight raise of Quillish's brow, a brief, uninterested glance before his attention returns to the sky above them; stars sprawling and seeming to melt into thinly-spread clouds. The moon hides behind a larger one; illumination peeking through the lining.
"All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream…" Roger follows his line of sight, slipping closer until he is all but leaning against the older boy's arm, chin resting on a sharp shoulder.
"Oh, don't quote me that rubbish." And this is complimented with a very undignified snort, Quillish's arm finding purchase around a thin waist. "Poe was an idiot. All poets are."
"I fancy you, you know."
"Oh. I hadn't realized." Long fingers drag the side of Roger's shirt up slightly, tips pressing into skin, even as the older's eyes never leave the sky. The stars are blurring into each other a bit, becoming a connected object, and Quillish decides that perhaps he has had quite enough scotch. Heaven knows that Roger has. He can smell it on the boy's breath as warm lips press against his cheek; unimportant sentiments being whispered against his skin with a tiny slur.
"Liar."
"The truth is a matter of perspective." His eyes finally do lower, and a shock of brown hair catches the edge of Quillish's peripheral.
"Kiss me."
"I would rather not." But that's a lie too, isn't it? It amuses the older to antagonize Roger until he is desperate, which honestly, doesn't take very much at all. It's a game of sorts between the two of them, though he isn't entirely certain that the other realizes they are playing at all. Unlikely. "What are you going to do when I graduate?"
"Follow you, of course." Foolish, he knows. But Roger has been, since the moment he decided, quite blatantly, that he was in love with Quillish Wammy, set on the idea that he wouldn't allow distance to occur. Whether or not he would be allowed to follow was another matter, entirely. "Kiss me."
And Quillish finally gives in; stiff lips pressing against a yielding mouth, Roger's sigh touching the back of his throat with a light tingling sensation and he shifts, pressing the other back against the moist, dirt wall. He draws his head back, swallowing, and wipes his mouth against the cloth covering his shoulder. It has become custom to ignore the frown that takes over Roger's features when he does this. But he has explained it a hundred times over: he dislikes the idea of another's saliva in his mouth unnecessarily.
And this, as far as Quillish is concerned, is extremely unnecessary. No matter how fervently Roger seeks additional kisses as though he requires them like breath.