Basil frowned at Lissington’s suggestion that any rift that might exist between Atticus and himself was at all attributed to that fiasco in June. No, his brother constantly found ways to dig that grave deeper for himself; the ungallant scene he’d made had only been one such example. It was disheartening in a way, since things had seemed so much better as of late. Yes, Atticus was still a pushy sod, but generally he’d been… tolerable. Maybe even safe, for the briefest of moments. Distracted from these thoughts by Lissington’s obvious fib then, and little squeeze, Basil pursed his lips in protest. He debated emphasizing that it really had nothing to do with Lissing and that Atticus was off his rocker but he held back as the other made a quiet little admission. I don’t think anything could take me away from you again. Basil felt something flutter against the walls of his stomach and he instinctively ducked into his drink to take a sip, cheeks warm. He realized in that moment that he hoped it was true. He really did, and it was… jarring, maybe. Something about that hope made his brain nearly short circuit as he tried to process what it meant.
Basil knew he wanted Gus around, that much had become rather obvious by his notable absence and Basil’s attention to it. He’d tried to kid himself for awhile thinking that he was only so atune to the absence because he was anxious about trusting the red-head with too much. And he was, really. Basil certainly felt apprehension still that one day something would happen, either to do with him or not, and it would be too much for Lissing to handle and he’d jump ship, again, fleeing to Merlin knew what obscure corner of the planet. But… more than just a fear of abandonment, he also knew that his attention to Lissington’s absence meant that Basil missed him. And missed him, truly.
Basil didn’t have many friends he cared for, and even fewer who knew him well. He had mostly his crazy family, for better or worse, and a small collection of individuals he could likely count on one hand. Even then, some of those really didn’t even know him the way Lissing knew him. (Though, in retrospect, none of them could possibly know him the way Lissing knew him for other reasons…) But letting himself get attached was dangerous. Basil knew it was, though not because of Gus, whatever Atticus might think. He frankly didn’t trust himself to keep a safe distance, a safe headspace, when around the former cursebreaker.
Gus was to Basil what heat was to ice: thawing, and dangerous. It made him susceptible to vulnerability and in the wrong light could subject him to loss of self. And much like a melting snowman, he was defenseless against the barrage of invisible, intangible rays of sunshine that drew him in. As the other joked and teased about that day in their spot, it was all Basil could do to keep from touching him. But I think we spent the afternoon in a much better way. The brunette felt himself flush at the thought and unconsciously found himself agreeing. If Lissington only knew how much he’d rather have spent this moment in much the same way.
Abruptly, a laugh bubbled up from Basil breaking his dangerous thought process and he settled onto the bed beside Lissington to stare straight up at the moldings on the ceiling. Shadows danced across it, casting little figures against the stark white from the light of the fireplace. “We are not,” he protested, firmly. “That trick is as dangerous and reckless now as it was then.” And I won’t risk losing you over something stupid, he thought to himself with a sniff.
Turning his head into Lissings red hair, Basil buried his nose into it and just lay there. He didn’t have anything else to say or add, nothing that wouldn’t absolutely ruin the peace of this moment. Maybe it was the fire whiskey settling into his system, or maybe he’d always just… needed this, but he felt at peace with Lissing for the first time since January. There was an unspoken attachment between them despite everything that had happened then and since, but Basil could feel the edges of the frayed strings beginning to heal. He hoped desperately against everything he knew and believed in that Atticus was wrong. This time would be different.