There was something very… implicit about Gus’ response as Basil clung to his shirt and inhaled the familiar, bittersweet scent of curse breaking and angst on him. Something almost final, terminal even, in his tone and in the words that colored it. The brunette wasn’t sure if he liked that or if he’d just become inadvertently resigned to it but, this… could really be it, couldn’t it? It was a strange thought to wrap his head around, really. One Basil hadn’t actually considered before. Not engaging with Lissington anymore if he did stay? Not speaking, not laughing, not even fighting, and certainly not being there when the redhead needed someone— his heartstrings gave a painful tug at that. It wasn’t possible for Basil to ever turn Gus away in person, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how much he might someday wish he could. And he didn’t know what he’d do if Gus ever tried to make him.
So maybe that was their answer, right there:
Basil couldn’t actually imagine a life without Lissington in it, someway or another, if the other was here. In England. In Ireland. Within reach.
Something about it sent a small shiver up his spine.
Basil heard what the other went on to say about his own fear. (A slight relief, to think he wasn’t alone in that.) To hear what Gus thought about his anxieties. (Thank goodness the redhead took them seriously, because they were, very serious!) But the most important thing that Gus could have said was that little, niggling comment about putting down roots. Grey hues flickered up to blue, terrified to be hopeful but managing only just. Things more important to me now. What things? Those things are still the same, the nasty little voice in the back of his head chirped. Figueroa, him— they’d both been around back then too. Back then when Gus had shoved it all aside to run rampant through Egypt. What would happen now, if they fought again? If he took another misstep, or said something stupid - because he would, undoubtedly - and when Gus flared up at him like in the past? Would he run? Basil’s chest felt tight but it all kept coming back to that same irritating realization…
Within reach.
Basil stared, hard, at Gus’ tiny smile and pinned all his hopes on it as he let out a soft breath. He counted sixteen and a half freckles on the man’s nose alone and let his gaze move slowly, carefully, up towards those deep baby blues. Gus had always been taller than him. Not by much, but enough that Basil had to lift his chin to meet that devastating gaze. He wanted so badly, so masochistically to just dip forward and kiss Gus. But that was the wrong answer. It always had been.
“Alright,” Basil finally said, voice quiet in the too still room.“Let’s just… think about this, logically.” His fingers released from their stranglehold on Gus’ shirt, leaving wrinkles in their stead, and the brunette ran a hand quickly through his hair. It was time to make a plan. Talk out the intricate details of what they wanted, weigh the pros and cons, and decide based on fact - not feeling - what the best path forward might be. It was foolproof! And yet, as he stood there trying to think of what best to say next, there was only one thing that kept coming to mind. It was irrelevant, stupid, and utterly capricious. Basil knew he ought to keep his mouth shut. But one more weary look into Gus’ face, still quite close to his, and it came blurting out before he could catch it.
“Have you ever heard of Achilles and Patroclus?”
(The question itself was harmless. Even came out sounding relatively normal, if a little random. It was what came next that Basil should have kept to himself. )
“There’s… this line in a great classic you may have once read, and it’s about er— them. Patroclus, he… he’s killed when Achilles refuses to go off to war and anyway, he comes back in a dream and says ‘Never bury my bones apart from yours… let them lie together…So now let a single urn… hold our bones - together.’
Basil trailed off, voice quiet again. “They remind me of us. A better version, maybe. More honest. More free.” He ran a hand through his hair again, tugging on the fringe a bit. “Anyway, it was just something I read, once. After… after you proved to me that what I thought impossible was, in fact, historical.” Here Basil felt his cheeks warm and he looked away, determined not to say any more on the topic. He knew anything he dared to share about the whole ordeal before graduation would only put them in a worse place. He didn’t trust himself to tell Gus that he’d fallen into a cesspit of research. That he’d dug up every paper and scrap he could possibly find about this kind of thing in myth and history and emblazoned it into his mind. It wasn’t helpful, and in the end had only made him more miserable, anyway.
Basil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just… I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t want one fatal mistake to mark this coffin. Why don’t we just… take it slow,” he suggested. “Let’s… see if we can’t be friends again. Maybe time will help this…” he gestured more gently between them this time “feel less…” (monstrous was not the correct word) “haunting. Easier, even.” Basil shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know if Gus would hate that. If it was a cop out to everything he’d come here to lay out and decide. But as the words came out, he finally realized this could be the right answer. Time was their worst enemy, but could also become their greatest ally. If Gus did stick around and they managed to find a way to coexist in one another’s lives without the burden of expectation then… maybe they could find a more natural way of things. Or, perhaps too they’d realize they were better off merely as friends. Either way, it would be a choice made upon further research rather than rash assumptions of what ifs and what nots.
Nodding, convinced, Basil should have taken a step backwards to put some space between them. Instead, he reached for Gus and pulled him a bit closer by the lapels of his shirt. “This time we’ll get the hang of it,” he promised, earnestly. “This time, we’ll force one another to communicate and be honest. No more… running.” Either of us. “This time… we build something with a brand new foundation.” Obliterate the old and don’t let the mistakes we’ve made rot our little cottage to the ground.
Because he could almost see it: this abstract place outside the realm of reality where he and Gus shared whatever it was they needed to share, where the constraints of modern society didn’t matter and they could live in peace. He wanted that. Wanted it more than he dared to bloody admit, to himself and especially not to Gus. Because Basil Foxwood had never been an idealist. He was too academic for that.