Withdrawing

intolerablexsacrifice‌:

~

_{Flint had risen instinctively just after Thomas did, unsure of what he’d done wrong but deeply concerned; he couldn’t tell if this was anger, or upset, or something else entirely, and therefore could not predict how Thomas would proceed. If he left the room, James decided he would not follow- it was usually better to let Thomas come to him, and not go searching.}

_{But Thomas turned, and Flint watched him warily, concern etched into his face. Thomas’ voice–the cool stiffness of it–made something in his gut twist unhappily, made him want to stare at the floor. He didn’t–Thomas would likely notice such a dramatic shift in demeanor–but both hands came to fidget with the hem of his loose shirt.}

_{“Ah,” James nodded once in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” In all of his dreams of what this life might be like, he had never accounted for just how drastically the two of them might have changed. He would not have given Thomas up for the world–it was still a struggle to have him out of sight even briefly–but sometimes, the man was all but unrecognizable. He had no doubt that he was often the same to Thomas.}

_{Such drastic change between them both meant that the rules had changed, and James was still unsure of what they were (for both of them- and some rules could not be known until they had already been broken)–but this, this he could remember. No touching without asking first. He could do that. He had been adept at keeping his hands to himself, once upon a time: he could become so again for Thomas’ sake.}

_{Expression smoothing out into something more measured than the worry and guilt from before, James stopped fidgeting, and folded his hands behind his back.}

_{“If you need a moment–by all means. It’s alright.”}

“Neither did I.” He could not tell if that admission cost him something, or if it was simply a relief to acknowledge something broken in him with someone who recognized that it was broken. James seemed to collect himself, for which Thomas was grateful enough that he slowly lowered the book, and finally set it at his side with an acceptance for the fact that the alarm in him had already caused the damage – and James was giving him the space necessary to build the bridge they both needed.

He inclined his head at the offer of a moment, though more out of gratitude for the offer of it than the intention of taking it. He stepped over, setting the book down and reaching for James – not taking hold, but simply offering a truce of his own, in the form of himself. He didn’t know what else to offer, if truth was to be examined, but if nothing else it should at least indicate that he was not cross with James because of this.

“It – “ Hmm. Strange to find himself without words to describe precisely what was wrong with a situation, when painting such visages had been his gift and downfall. But then, he’d rather been trained out of that in some ways – for days and weeks that had stretched on too long, words stolen from his lips, a mind too muddled to function –

“Its the hair. Nothing else.” Words thrust down, if only to drag himself away from the dark path his mind wished to tread. “At least – nothing else that bears mentioning, at this moment.” He had always insisted that James use his words – through coaxing, training and command – and for the first time he wondered if perhaps he had been cruel for doing so, when he thought himself kind.

The Lines We Draw

@intolerablexsacrifice [x]

“Exactly!” The word was sharp, snapping from him with force enough to strike if only words could land physical blows. “I was dead to you so what fucking purpose did killing her serve? Damn you James,” The curse of his name hurt, was agony to spill – for so long it had been Flint he spat into the dirt when he needed something to direct his hate upon – but to know that Flint was his James, that the two were one and the same – !

“Why.” There was a dangerous precipice here, notable mostly by the suddenness of his calm. “My father, I could forgive. My father I could understand.” Indeed, he did. On both counts, in fact. He forgave, unquestioningly and without fanfare, the death of his father at James’ hands. He understood it, completely and without any need for explanation – but this – what harm could she possibly have done?

Whom would care that Flint was McGraw, even if she did speak of it? McGraw was disgraced and Flint was a pirate what fucking damage could she have done with that knowledge? Had he given her a chance – for all they knew all this pain, and bloodshed, and anger and loss would have been averted. She could have told him the truth if she’d been granted the chance to recognize what was happening and why. Thomas had barely recognized the man before him, and they’d been on quite intimate terms. His mother had only met the man once, for Heaven’s sake!

“But not her, James.” His voice was still in that eerie calm that promised only that the storm was not over. Only that where the clouds settled, was still being determined. “How do I forget that her blood is on your hands? How do I – how do I let those hands touch me, knowing the stain they carry?”

End Of The Game

@trucidavit continued from [x]

The smile that flit across his lips was entirely unintentional – and he knew it would only provoke her further, no matter how swiftly he managed to suppress it. It was there – as clear as her rage with him – that it was an impotent emotion. There was nothing she could do to stop him – nothing she could say that would change this outcome. It was over – and her absolute refusal to accept that she could not hurt him for refusing to stay in this house was just further proof that they were no longer compatible.

It was perhaps for the best that Miranda did not voice her opinions in regard to his mother – for his will not to strike back would surely wither, and he would feel obligated to point out the bitter truth that the only one who had fought for him as opposed to their own damaged pride was in fact his mother! She was the reason he was not in Bedlam, she was the reason he still remembered his own name, and by God, it was she who had pushed Alfred out of society to make it at all possible for Miranda and James to even access him in the first place, but oh yes – let it be believed that the ones who only took action after they believed him dead were the fucking righteous in this affair!

As it was, all Miranda had to offer was an attack on him – a will to blame him for all of it – and a display of her own pride in the power that she now wielded over James. He saw no reason not to let her if it meant she would cease mourning a man she had buried well before he was dead. Let her have her rage, let her burn him down until there was nothing left, and perhaps by some remaining grace she would move on. His role in these tales was over – and that was the fact of it all. Whether she liked it or not.

He stepped forward without a word – he had nothing to say to her, nothing he could say that would not be biting or cruel, and she was right about his pride. Ten years at war with the idea he could even have such a thing, that he could make any decision for himself, had him quite frankly thrilled with the power of making this call. Yet for all that, his posture was neither defiant nor threatening – there was a readiness in case she lashed out physically, but beyond that he seemed to be maintaining an effort to keep himself smaller so as not to tower or loom as he simply made to walk past her.

He would dismiss himself, and if she fought that effort, what came next would be of her own making.

[intolerablexsacrifice, for Thomas, post-reunion] 😬 Snarl/show teeth at my muse [ probably while trembling with suppressed Upset Emotions because g-D THESE TWO ]

{ Nonverbal Starters }

“Is that it?” Sarcasm dripped from his lips as surely as frustration rattled at the corners of McGraw’s, bringing a notable twitch to those damnable whiskers – a tic that cast his mind afield of this argument for but an instant – a flicker of memory as fast as the initial shift that caused the recollection.

“Is this the best that you can muster – or am I meant to be so beholden to you that you don’t feel the fucking need to try? Am I supposed to beg, my dear lieutenant,” Like venom, the words spat from behind his teeth with all the force of violence necessary to cripple – words that had once been so meaningful, so adoring, now laced with only the most poignant contempt. “How dare you.”

@intolerablexsacrifice

👏 – Ruffle my muse’s hair [ fOR THOMAS because guess who just remembered his Thing About His Hair and likes suffering ]

{ Touch Starved Meme }

The reaction was involuntary and immediate as Thomas jerked away from the touch and stood sharply – he was already several steps away before his mind caught up to where he was and who he was with. He forced himself to stop moving, though the tension in his shoulders did not leave and the flight response still nagged at him.

He supposed it was because he hadn’t truly lost track of his surroundings. It was more that it didn’t matter that it had been James – he didn’t want anyone touching his hair without his permission. Not even his lover – if not especially him, for of all people, he ought to be the more aware of Thomas’ feelings in this regard.

Closing his eyes, Thomas took a steadying breath before acknowledging that James had never been good at reading people. It had, admittedly, been one of his more endearing qualities in the past. That it had not changed might have been heartwarming, if it wasn’t so frustrating in this particular regard.

Setting his book in front of him, pressing it firmly against his stomach as a grounding source – as a shield of sorts – he slowly turned and remarked stiffly, “I would prefer it if you would check with me before taking liberties with my person, going forward.”

It sounded cold in his own ears, and he didn’t know how to bridge the gap between wanting James to treat him normally – and knowing that in some things, he simply wasn’t what he used to be any longer. All he knew at the moment was he didn’t want this in particular, and that he hated not knowing precisely how to illustrate the difference.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” [ for thomas! ;v; ]

{ Sinday Memes }

It was novel, to be asked something so intimate. He understood the hesitation – it had been years, and even in their prime James had never truly been one for the more daring of physical initiatives. He blossomed under the attentions, in ways that had enraptured Thomas to the point it felt as if every waking hour was consumed with thoughts of the naval officer that had eased so unexpectedly into the depths of his heart.

It had been so much more than physical then – it was a desire of a different sort that had stirred them together to begin with. The desire for a mind to challenge, for scintillating conversation and above all else, for entertainment had been the draw at first. The more they circled one another’s orbits, the more those desires had drawn forth hidden depths until finally the line between enthusiasm and passion had been crossed.

Thomas had never forgotten those sweet moments, no more than he had lost the memory of the heat that could build between himself and the man before him. There were days now when he sought to stoke it – days when he did all he could to rile James up solely so that he could feel warm again. Whole, in the completion James could bring to him – and there were days when it cost him something to be touched at all. He ran hot and cold so often now it was a wonder James put up with him at all. A wonder that he had learned to ask – to see where he was when Thomas still forgot so often when his own torments were distracting him.

Realizing he had been silent too long, Thomas reached up and gently brushed his fingers against the man’s jaw. Stubble met him – rough and scratchy beneath his fingertips – and he raised his brows a bit as if to wonder if James had only asked this time because he knew how Thomas felt about beard rub. His lips twitched, the thought alone chasing away the last of his melancholy as he assured quietly, “You don’t have to ask today – though if this is here tomorrow,” He tapped a stubbled cheek, “I will dodge you on sheer protest.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” [ for thomas. 8′) ]

{ Profound & Emotional | Always Accepting }

“At which point?” These arguments were fast growing tedious. Just as the feigned attempts at a return to normalcy felt as though they were choking him, the fact James kept slipping back into this dialogue of fault and blame only further illustrated why neither one of them was in a position to pretend the world hadn’t changed.

His fingers shook against the soft fabric of a cravat he had failed for the seventh time to tie on his own, proving that satisfactory fashion was not a skill one maintained after a decade with no cause for it. He had enough small and painful reminders of the truth without horrible clashes like the storm that was about to break now.

“I am not disagreeing with you James,” He had never once faulted the man for leaving – in that there had been no choice to which there would have been a favorable outcome. Nor did he intend to begin faulting him now. The trouble was differentiating what the man was bloody well excusing, and more often than not it tended to be everything that came after that event.

Slamming the useless silk onto the table, he gave up on the effort entirely and gripped the back of one of the chairs to keep himself from picking at anything else. To keep himself from fidgeting, or pacing, or any other physical activity that might further his own agitation as he forced himself to focus on James, and whatever war he was presently facing.

Taking a breath, he charged forth into the veritable battlefield that was laying waste to the mind before him, armed only with intellect and devotion against ghosts whose names he didn’t even fucking know. “What I am saying is that – for years now, you have made many choices. You cannot say that you didn’t because we both know that is false. As for what motivated you to make those choices — be they what they are, they drove you. You can own them now, and move forward from it, or you can continue to insist there was no other way in which case, I do not know how to help you. I am no more equipped to fight your demons for you than you are to fighting mine, damn it all!”

This is a permanent starter call for Thomas Hamilton, of Starz’ Black Sailsexplicitly.

These calls give me a heads up on who is open to interacting with whom (which is handy for those who have exclusives among my crew! ) and gives me an excuse to kick you starters whenever something crosses the mind, or blow up your inbox knowing who would be most wanted.

These calls also serve as a final tag dump – when this call is posted it indicates a character has been fully moved into the blog and is ready for action!

For other starter calls, check the tag HERE.

“I trusted him.” [ for thomas, post-reunion, probably about silver (8 ]

{ HAMILTON STARTERS | Accepting }

This was not the first time James had spoken of the man who brought them back together in such a conflicted manner. Thomas did not pretend to understand the nuances behind it all, or act as though he was not grateful to a pirate whose motivations would never really be known to him. All he could do in these moments was offer his ear and play advocate to a stranger in the hopes it might ease something that continued to bleed in the man before him.

Idly, he raised his hand and stroked it through James’ hair, seeking to soothe as much physically as he could while this storm brewed between them. “Are you sure you were wrong to?” A dangerous inquiry, he was quite sure – he didn’t know the whole of it, and he doubted James would ever tell him. Just as he would never tell James, the whole of what had become of himself in the decade during which they had been so cruelly separated.

The narrative he received would be only the one James was comfortable in sharing, though that did not mean Thomas could not read between the lines, and infer truth left unspoken. He didn’t know Silver from Adam, but he did know one thing – and that alone was enough, to give him the strength to play these games and bleed out the poison that continued to twist inside James’ chest.

“You chased death for so long – can you really say that the man who stopped that chase, and offered instead a life that need not be fought for – was truly not, in some way, a friend?”