September 19th, 1891 - Jude's Flat

Kieran was worried that he was going to kill Jude.

This had been true every full moon for years, but was more true now — more true now that Jude could transform into a seabird with a truly frightening wingspan, and more true now that he stayed with Kieran through the full moon nights. Never mind that they'd made it through two nights this month without incident — apparently, as Kieran certainly didn't remember whatever happened — he was still nervous.

He was eyeing Jude to try to assess injuries, having unlatched the chains from around his wrists. He had to retrieve his shirt and trousers from the neatly-folded pile, but he felt weird about it — obviously, being naked in front of Jude was a little loaded — and was trying not to look like he felt weird about it. Which meant — being casual. Making small talk, maybe.

"How was it?" Kieran asked warily.

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Jude Wright Elias Grimstone

  

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set by MJ!

Back in human form again, and still wearing yesterday’s crumpled clothes, Jude leant his head against the sloping wall of the attic and tried, very deliberately, to look anywhere but at Kieran until he was unchained and alright and... well, dressed again.

(Chained up in his attic was really not the ideal way he had ever envisioned seeing Kieran without clothes.)

But they were a little beyond the usual tenets of privacy now. Maybe too far – the whole thing was real in a way it hadn’t been before, spending all night with him up here. He’d never been able to forget it before, would stay up most of the night nonetheless trying to read or write or do something other than stare up at the ceiling at the soundproofed attic and imagine every minute of it nonetheless. But after the first night this month he’d felt tears welling up in his chest that he hadn’t been able to shed, and a lump in his throat, and a feeling like sorrow or horror seeping through to his bones.

And Kieran didn’t remember it afterwards, and if it was that awful to witness it had to be so much worse to endure, but at least – at least now he wasn’t alone.

“Fine,” Jude said, voice a little ragged but otherwise light, though he couldn’t in good conscience say good when it was objectively terrible – but fine equalled uneventful, at least. “How do you feel?”

He thought back on the night’s events. “You – It – tried to go for the chains, once or twice,” Jude added half-apologetically, motioning at his own wrists in illustration, “and I tried to – well, sorry if I, er, pecked you.” 

He glanced over to assess for any beak-marks on him – the albatross bill was sharper than Jude had expected – except, oh, he had looked over much too soon, he wasn’t dressed yet, not even close. Guiltily, Jude dropped his gaze away from Kieran and suddenly affected an excessive amount of preoccupation in rolling down his shirtsleeves from his elbows. (Probably for the best that he pulled them down: he had maybe gotten a few stray scratches for his intervention – but they were nothing, really, just slightly more visible on skin than through feathers.)

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"Tired, mostly," Kieran replied. His trousers were, mercifully, at the top of the pile of folded clothing; he tugged them on and latched the button before engaging with the bit about pecks. He looked at his own wrists and didn't see much in the way of scars outside of the usual bruises to his wrists. It was hard to tell, amongst the old scars, whether Jude had left any pecks on him — and pecks from an albatross were nothing compared to the burn scar along his side, or the old bite mark on his shoulder, or or or.

Still shirtless, Kieran looked up at Jude. He couldn't resist narrowing his eyes and saying, "You should really stay a little further away from it, you know." Sure, maybe the werewolf wouldn't hunt an albatross — maybe — but that didn't mean that it couldn't do a lot of damage, and it was bad enough that Jude's voice took on a ragged quality in the mornings after.

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Jude had never really known how much of an understatement ‘tired’ must be, when one night of the physical transformation seemed like enough to wreck a body for weeks, let alone three in a row – and he had always forgiven – well, tried to forgive – the few irritable days beforehand, and the arguments they occasionally had in the heat of them. But Jude was beginning to think maybe he should have been trying harder.

He felt Kieran’s eyes fall on him again, and turned his head to meet his gaze. “It’s really not interested in me,” Jude informed him, as matter-of-factly as he could. He could have added I promise, but it had only been a few nights, so Kieran wouldn’t believe that; Jude had no way of being sure. Else he could have just said I know and quietly agreed, but he suspected they both already knew he wouldn’t heed Kieran’s warnings that closely – and since Kieran had no way of knowing what actually happened during the full moon, it wasn’t as if he could make any concerted effort to stop him.

Not that Jude had any intention of doing anything reckless.

Except maybe now, in letting his gaze linger. Or in allowing it to slide down over Kieran’s bare shoulders and chest and the telling marks on him, scars Jude had imagined more than seen. He shouldn’t be looking, probably. (All month, every month, he lived like this, then – the guilt there forever, written on his skin.) Or in stepping over to grasp Kieran’s hands and turn them over in order to hold out his forearms between them, so he might properly examine the bruises there and any other marks for himself before Kieran could finish getting dressed.

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   Kieran Abernathy

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And maybe It wasn't interested in Jude, but — what if things changed, one month? It only took once for things to be changed irrevocably, and even if an albatross was large for a bird it still seemed fragile to Kieran. One bad move from It — from Kieran — and Jude could be injured or dead or worse, infected with lycanthropy himself.

Of course Jude knew this, but Kieran didn't think he knew it.

His train of thought — or train of argument, or — was cut off by Jude's glancing over him, and stopped short by Jude grasping his hands. He's touching me, Kieran thought, as if Jude was touching him for any reason other than to look at his wounds.

"You're looking at me," Kieran said, but he didn't pull away. And — maybe it was a stupid thing to say. Of course Jude knew that he was looking at Kieran; he was holding his wrists, now, looking at the bruises the bindings left every month, and Kieran felt like he could do nothing but stand there and feel exposed.

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   Jude Wright

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You’re looking at me, Kieran had said, and Jude had been doing more than that – his thumb had been brushing over the chain-marks on his wrists as if they were charcoal he could smudge away – but the declaration of it aloud made him feel, well, caught. (But thank Merlin Kieran had put on trousers now, at least.)

But though his hand had stilled and his cheeks had warmed slightly in chagrin, he didn’t drop his gaze, just looked back up as if he could explain himself. It was difficult to be here and not look, that was all. To not look, to pretend not to care... “I just...” Jude began, and released one of Kieran’s wrists without thinking, lifted a hand to trace the shape of the scar on his shoulder – the werewolf bite – in the air, without quite touching it. “I haven’t ever really –” seen your scars. There had been some unspoken state of separation before: Kieran was up here alone, and would usually be more dressed when he came down to have tea and toast in the mornings, and besides, Jude had always tried to offer him some semblance of privacy here, if he could give him nothing else.

But Kieran had painted him before: Jude at least understood the pressure of being looked at, really looked at. So maybe he had crossed a line here without realising it – without thinking – because the last thing he meant to do was make Kieran uncomfortable by it. “Sorry,” Jude said steadily, dropping his hand apologetically and meeting his eyes with new seriousness. “You can tell me not to, you know, if it’s too much. I’ll stop.” That was about his looking – or maybe about all of it. Jude wanted to be here, and he wanted to help – but the attic, the monthly transformations, being here with him, talking about this, trying to keep him safe, attempting to share the burden – and he thought he was helping, if only a little, but if Kieran thought otherwise, or ever changed his mind, Jude would understand. He didn’t have to be here, if Kieran didn’t want him to be.

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Kieran's eyes darted towards Jude's hand where it hovered dover his shoulder, over the raised scar tissue from the original werewolf bite. It would have been one thing if that was the only area of damage, but it wasn't: there were the bruises, the smooth scar of the burn mark on his side, the little self-inflected wounds from every full moon, the marks on his ankle where It had tried to chew itself free. Kieran couldn't be sure, because he wasn't looking, but he was sure that Jude's skin was smooth and as close-to-perfect as possible under his clothes.

And then Jude dropped his hand. Somehow the eye contact was nearly as bad — like Kieran was being perceived — but Jude held Kieran's gaze. He reached to catch Jude's hand before it fell all the way. "You're allowed to look," he said, holding it.

Even if it made Kieran a little uncomfortable, Jude was allowed to look — allowed to do whatever he wanted.

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   Jude Wright

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Kieran had said you’re allowed to look, but Jude didn’t quite believe him. Besides, he was too self-conscious about it now, from that or from having just met his eyes. He averted his gaze, then, although the temptation was still there. After all, he had spent the last several hours, or rather the whole night, watching Kieran – the werewolf, the creature in Kieran’s place – intently; maybe it was harder to curb the habit now because of it. And perhaps because he’d been holding his wrists already, there was an acute impulse to touch him again – but just as Jude thought it, Kieran caught his hand.

Jude clasped his hand back gratefully, pressing Kieran’s palm to say thank you or I’m sorry or I’m glad you’re back or I hate seeing you like that. But it still wasn’t enough – didn’t feel like nearly enough – to express any of that, or to fully shake the lingering lonely feeling of the full moon night.

Without entirely knowing what he meant to do instead, Jude took a step forwards and wrapped his arms around Kieran. Still gingerly aware of the scars and bruises and probable tenderness from the transformation, he pulled him in close all the same, tucking his head over his shoulder, holding him tight. It was as if he needed proof, almost, that Kieran was back to himself again. Tangible, comforting proof, that could only truly be felt by the warm bare skin of his shoulders or almost being near enough to feel his heartbeat; or maybe it was another wordless way for Jude to say it doesn’t matter, this doesn’t change anything about you, nothing could; or maybe he had just spent too long, the last few nights, being so careful about keeping a safe distance that he was too tired to always do the same in the daylight.

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Jude was embracing him, and Kieran stepped into it, because there was nothing else to be done. He wrapped his arms around Jude without thinking, his mind noting he's warm, but then Jude tucked his head against Kieran's shoulder and it was like Kieran's entire brain shorted out. He did not think they had ever been this close before — Jude was taller than he was, and this was so much more obvious when they were embracing than it was when they were just standing.

It was as if Kieran's brain was on fire, a temporary madness, all of it set off by Jude's arms around him.

And maybe that madness was the explanation for what he did next — tucked his own head towards Jude's shoulder and pressed his mouth to the cloth there.

Not a kiss, but almost. Close to one, and unthinking.

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He had half-expected Kieran to protest, to flinch, to react with some discomfort – the way he had when Jude had just been looking at him – but there was nothing like that, just his arms around Jude in return, and another small, gentle pressure at his shoulder. This wasn’t something that they did – Jude wasn’t even sure what he was doing – but it felt so desperately necessary just now that he only folded himself more into him, turning his face further in towards Kieran until he was practically nestled into the crook of his neck, like he could bury himself in the closeness and the relief.

And it did feel comforting to be this close to him – he could have held onto him for hours, the day be damned – but the longer they stood like this, the more Jude supposed he should probably explain himself. Except he didn’t have much of an explanation, besides the obvious; and he couldn’t imagine how that could ever go well, in circumstances like this. Because if Kieran was not uncomfortable enough already, admitting sorry, I’m in love with you was sure to make him run. And he couldn’t run, that was a problem: because the moon would still be too full tonight, and every month again after that, and Kieran having somewhere safe to be for it was more important – too important – to ruin over the way he felt.

So he couldn’t be honest; he didn’t know how to go on hiding it, either. But maybe Kieran already knew. (Surely, after all this time, he must know?)

“Kieran,” Jude murmured, only then realising his mouth was still near enough to graze the skin of Kieran’s neck or at the base of his jaw; nearer than he had any right to be. Conscious of it, he drew back from him slightly, straightened a little in the embrace, paused uncertainly there. He had meant to say more, he was sure – but if the rest had to go unspoken, maybe he could just weight down that one word with it all.

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Jude's mouth brushed against Kieran's neck and Kieran shivered, unable to contain the reaction that spread from his neck through to the rest of his body. He'd wanted this — more than this — for so long. But everything would be ruined if he actually did anything, right? Jude was too perfect to have inclinations towards anyone, let alone Kieran — untouched and golden and perfect.

Jude straightened, but Kieran didn't relinquish him yet, leaving his arms where they were.

"Shh," Kieran said, mouth against Jude's clothed shoulder. He had tried to shush Jude before, surely, but only in an argument, to get a rise out of him. He wasn't trying to get a rise out of him now. He was just trying to preserve this moment, which felt so fragile that surely when it ended something would shatter between them.

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   Jude Wright

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Shh, Kieran had said – so he had to know, then. But he hadn’t yet let go of him, either: so it was as though he was content here too, happy to keep holding each other. Jude knew it probably wouldn’t happen again and it couldn’t feel the same when they were around the rest of their friends and they would have to slide back into normality eventually, any second now, pretend this small exceptional moment had never happened –

“Do you want to come to bed for a while?” Jude suggested, quietly and without thinking. (He wouldn’t have known what he was thinking, if he had been. He was overtired, that was all, and had spent all night in the form of an albatross, so maybe some animal instinct had taken up space in his brain that he hadn’t quite shaken yet.) But it was only just dawn, wasn’t it? Jude certainly had nowhere to be for another couple of hours. They could both use the rest before having to be back here tonight... except Kieran could just as well go home to his own bed to sleep, couldn’t he? And not wanting to curl up in bed alone – wanting to keep him in his grasp for a while longer – was not a good excuse for this. Jude drew back, extricating himself properly, but found he couldn’t look Kieran in the eye any more, whatever he ended up saying to it. It was a bad idea, obviously.

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Kieran had imagined Jude asking that so often that for a second he thought he'd imagined it. But then Jude drew back, and Kieran took a step back, too, feeling — exposed and shirtless and confused. The last showed on his face when he responded with a tentative, "Jude?"

If Jude meant it, Kieran would have him in a heartbeat. But he didn't think Jude meant it.

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He didn’t have to look to see it: the confusion in Kieran’s tone was there, clear enough to make him wince. Somehow he’d thought – hoped – that they were on the same page for once, that maybe they understood each other. But Kieran sounded taken aback, and that uncertainty felt as damning as an outright no. Like he’d lost his mind.

“I just meant –” Jude started faintly, to sleep – and he felt certain he’d have had a better chance of actually falling asleep for an hour or two if there was someone else there, to spare him just laying there awake, reliving the night again. But if that was already too far for Kieran, then Merlin knew what he would think of Jude ever proposing anything else. “Never mind,” he said, ducking over to retrieve Kieran’s shirt as if that would hide his burning face. He pressed the shirt into Kieran’s hands, forget it, please get dressed, and stepped away again, turning for the attic’s trapdoor. “I’ll make toast.”

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Kieran took his shirt from Jude, baffled and — embarrassed? — by the strange turn this conversation had taken. He swallowed. "Toast," Kieran said, "Right."

He pulled on the shirt and followed Jude down the ladder.

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