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[= memory is cruel.
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Gusts whistled through the centimetre gaps in the siding butted against the supports. The noise making the rot seem more alive than it had in years. Salt-fresh air punctuated with castoff ebbed and flowed through the floorboards like lungs. It cooled the small apartment not unpleasantly but not pleasantly either. Dull *fwips* from the corners of unbundled drafts pushed in the airflow. Tiny particles of sleet threatened to thread through the gaps and dampen anything they could touch.
Heavy footsteps thunked up the stairs, toes of over-sized boots catching inside the narrow footwells on the steep rungs.
The lock didn’t argue, threading beautifully and tumbling in perfectly oiled sync.
Sasha shouldered the swollen and chilled door open, and kicked it shut. The heavy metal of his augmented leg easily forcing it back into its frame. He grumbled as he shed his coat and the cold of the apartment bit against his skin. He pulled his hair out of its low pony and shook it out, another small grumble vibrated in his throat at the relief from the pressure of it pulling, along with it covering the chilled shells of his ears.
He hung his coat and pulled the thick housecoat off its hook in a well-practised efficiency. The clink of old metal tapped against his joints, the brass pushed against the thin veneer of his flesh like a creature peeking out of the water at the docks. He’d have to replace the augmentations soon.
*Hm. Synthesise stronger epithelial repair structure.* The thought was dry and methodical. *Prioritise over current.*
He scowled. Ground his teeth against themselves until the pain registered. Hadn’t their research been to eliminate these kinds of inconveniences?
Bitterness seethed in his stomach.
He should have been given more time.
Numbness in his fingers registered for only a moment before the annoyed familiarity of his stomach twisting joined it. The gusts of sleet had grown outside, pushing the argon lights’ glows nearly to uselessness. Purple haze changing from comforting to foreboding in the collection of ice and aerosolised diesel.
Kettle first. Distinctly the opposite of what Caz always had insisted upon. The water sputtered and shot out of the faucet with a rattled difficulty. Sasha tried not to feel fondness from its familiarity. Sentimentality wasn’t going to make him tea.
Still, warm orange-tinged memory stuck their fingers into the corners of his eyes. Longing for the thick coffee Caz would make them when the weather started turning made him ache. His thumb traced over a dust topped jar, grinding a greasy mix of gnats and gas into the pad of his finger. Maybe he could make some?
[[give in]]
[[don't give in]]
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Disgust at his own weakness was immediate and lingering. He clenched his hands into a fist until the joints in his fingers cracked. The gas range clicked twice before catching and Sasha slammed the dented kettle down on top of the flames.
Numbed fingers fought against him as he tried to scrape a proper amount of the tea cake for the pot. Habit automatically grinding the amount perfect for two drinkers.
Wasteful.
Still he continued to prepare the setting for two. Rooting out the chipped set from where it had been carefully stored. Soft, worn fabric wrapped around the porcelain handles and stuffed inside the fluted snowdrop body. They were wide-mouthed with a beautifully soft curve well-worn from hundreds of sips. Tiny, bubbled imperfections made their feet wobble a little inside their saucers but had been the original haggle point that caused them to be able to afford the half set in the first place.
Sentimental.
His fingers lingered, smoothing over the delicate green pattern etched into the porcelain. In a smooth movement, Sasha removed the lid of the teapot and poured some of the near-hot water from the kettle into it before returning it to the stove. Swished and dumped. Warmed gently before he knocked the powder into it.
Wrapping the pot in a cosy — bone button worn oblong from use — and set with its cups on the tiny table of his dining nook, Sasha turned to root out some food to have with his tea.
Nothing sounded appetising. Cold tin fish, or cold tea cake that probably had gone stale? He sighed.
[[Maybe there was still a chunk of bread and a hunk of butter left in the larder.]]
[[Or porridge. It’d be thin but Sasha never needed much.]]
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“Stupid idea,” Sasha muttered to the empty room. He didn’t know how to make it nor did he particularly enjoy the taste.
[[He will make tea.->don't give in]](enchant:?passage,(text-colour:white)+(bg:#333333))
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There wasn’t.
Caz had always kept them with a new loaf of bread every few days. Partially a holdover from their childhoods, but Sasha knew Caz would bake the breads in an attempt to prove he was still good to keep around even as his body rot around him.
At the beginning of their partnership Caz had made perfectly tended sourdough loaves. Cut and dusted with traditional Tionlaš designs. He would fold handheld pies over their leftovers mixed with potatoes so they wouldn’t lose wages in the cafeteria.
The designs got simpler as his joints stiffened.
It became shaggy kneadless loaves rising in the enamel cast pot Caz couldn’t lift anymore.
Sasha had only suggested once that Caz didn’t have to keep baking bread; that he could get Sasha to do it while he sat, or they could buy a loaf at a bakery.
“Fuck you, Shurík,” Caz had spat. He’d yanked the leather through the buckle as hard as he could, the teeth of the brace chewing against the material. The metal pressed in closer, caged in the thin limb and, Sasha would discover later that night, built more angry red-purple bruises over the finally fading greens that seemed constantly blooming through his body hair.
“Don’t be stubborn. Listen and sit.” Sasha’s stomach had clenched at Caz forcing his brace tighter. Nausea had nearly painted their kitchen from watching him try and force his body into working. “My turn to cook tonight anyway.”
The quiver of the muscle underneath tight and painful when he had tried to pull himself up from his chair. The foot of Caz’s cane had slipped a centimetre, whimper forced itself through his clenched teeth. He had known Sasha was lying. It was pitiful. He couldn’t bolster his brace any farther than he already had. He’d fallen back into his seat. Shame leeched into his bones. “Pass the lighter, then.” He’d knocked out two cigarettes from the brass holder. One for each.
Sasha hadn’t argued.
He shook his head against the memory.
[[He’ll go with porridge, then. ->Or porridge. It’d be thin but Sasha never needed much.]]
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Porridge. Truly the only friend Sasha had longer than Caz. He made it with a mechanical efficiency — mix oats into water, boil until thick, remove. Add in a dollop of thick cream. Blow three times before taking the first cautious bite and not bother doing so for the rest.
There’d always been the insistence from Caz when they both were in the upper city to add in a couple slices of fruit. It was so much easier to get in the market, and had a burst of flavour that couldn’t be preserved inside of the canned jams and preserves they’d both grown up on in Tionlaš.
Sasha paused for a moment before he lopped a hefty spoonful of thick-rind marmalade onto his porridge. He was already being wasteful, what was another slather of decadence he shouldn’t afford himself? Who was left to stop him? It was tart but sugary when he licked the spoon.
A fog horn sounded, cutting clear through the whistle of the increasing gale outside. Longshoremen cleared out for the incoming storm. Ice would slick the boards tomorrow. An absent thought on if the younger lumpers knew to affix steel teeth on the underside of their boots, or if he were going to wake to the panicked yells of someone already having slipped and fallen into the unforgiving heavy water.
Sasha wrapped his thick housecoat tighter against his body, re-knotting the belt and leaning a bony hip against the counter. Kettle near-boiling. Spitting and rattling but not quite pushing through the dented whistle. He ate more of his porridge, pushing the marmalade to the side to mix the thickened cream into the oats.
His thoughts drifted to the coffee tin again. It hadn’t been touched since Caz abandoned him. Sasha had barely gotten a taste for the thick oily taste, but he refused to give away the still-useable food. Keeping it close to his chest and baring his teeth at anyone or anything that dared to try and take it away from him.
The whistle had just started to scream, choking and wheezing through its now ill-fitted cap, when it was removed from the stove. Poured into the cosied teapot with a fluid, practised movement and slammed back down onto the stove to be forgotten while it cooled.
Sasha finished his oatmeal staring absently at the opposite wall.
[[A knock against the wood floor made his eyes focus.]]
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Sasha set the empty bowl down on the slice of counter behind him, straining his ears to pick out what the knock was from. Too heavy to be something just knocking against the outer shell of the building, the dull reverb of it suggested it was inside his home.
Another dull knock against the floorboards. A familiar clink as metal teeth slot into themselves and locked.
He couldn’t stop the warmth from beating in his chest. Recognition a poisoned well he couldn’t excise from his heart.
Tiny bursts of hail stuck into the cowlicks of salted brown hair, spits of snow dusting eyelashes, and the tune of the metal betrayed the temperature even more. Caz’s cheeks were ruddy, the peaks of his cheekbones spat with a near-purple.
“How many years and you still don’t know how to stock a larder?” Caz clenched his jaw tight, the annoyance clear in the hiss of his words. Meticulously slotted over top of deep-rooted affection.
This was an old dance. They had long worn out their shoes.
“I have enough,” Sasha responded, “And there are better things to spend my time on than something as useless as making the //larder// come up to your standard.”
Caz’s green eyes rolled to the ceiling before glaring. “Selfish.” He all but fell into one of the wooden chairs at the table in the dining nook, the brittle wood groaning at the unexpected press of weight.
The backs of two of his blunt fingers pressed against the tea cosy, a small ‘hm’ rumbling out of his throat. He glanced over at the finished porridge behind Sasha, eyes sliding off the other like runoff. “You eat like an old man.”
“That never bothered you before.” Sasha sat opposite of Caz at his table.
Caz didn’t look at Sasha, instead picking up the tin of coffee and turning it in his hands. “You could have made coffee and you still went with tea.” He set it down and pressed his fingers to the tea cosy again. Impatient.
The sheen of brass plating just barely covered underneath the thin skin stretched over the unhealthy jut of his wrist mesmerised Sasha’s eye. He tracked the movement with sharp curiosity.
A hard gust battered against the thick windows, pressing its thick fingers through any gaps it found to pet against the men. Its whistle the only sound between them.
Caz still would not look at Sasha.
His voice was still clear. “One of Gail’s boys is looking for you.”
[[“Why would I care?”]]
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“Why would I care?” Sasha’s nose crinkled as he spat out the reply. //Why won’t Caz look at him?// His teeth peeking out in the beginning of a snarl. “If someone drifts through their family it isn’t my business. And I don’t want it to be.”
Caz grabbed the teapot and poured himself a cup. “That’s fucking heartless.” He didn’t pour Sasha’s cup.
“It’s realistic. I thought that was something you used to value.” He tilted his head, trying to catch Caz’s eye.
“You knew me less than you thought.” Caz continued to refuse looking at Sasha, choosing to stare at the lead paint flaking off the wall. He took a sip of the tea, one of his crooked teeth knocking into the lip of the cup.
A flare of anger from the rejection made Sasha’s face flush. He didn’t want to ask why Caz was here if he wasn’t going to look at him and have him leave again. Having his partner back in his home made his chest ache, but watching him abandon him again would hurt more. He wanted to keep Caz all to himself. Had he not earned that multiple times over?
Sasha swallowed the anger, cooling it in his voice. “If he manages to find me then maybe I will extend some niceties.”
“Hm.” Caz took another sip of his tea, eyes sliding closed in a mockery of enjoyment. “I think he is dying.”
“Then he can die.” Sasha leaned over the table, pushing his weight down onto his forearms. “Is that not what you would do?”
“Fuck you, Sasha.” Finally Caz’s eyes were back on him. It didn’t matter how angry he looked. He was finally looking at him.
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“Let him,” Sasha said with false disinterest, “If he’s worth anything he’ll find me himself.”
Caz grabbed the teapot and poured himself a cup. He didn’t pour Sasha anything, instead flicking the granules of dark sugar that crusted on the lip of his cup into Sasha’s cup. “Heartless. You barely know the kid.”
“Realistic.” Sasha’s nose crinkled, teeth beginning to peek out in the beginning of a snarl. Caz wouldn’t look at him. //Why won’t Caz look at him?// “You used to value that.” He stared holes into Caz, desperately wanting to see the tiniest flick of those hazel eyes on him.
“You knew me less than you thought.” He took a sip of the tea, one of his crooked teeth knocking into the lip of the cup. Staring at the lead paint flaking off the wall. Pointedly not giving Sasha even a glance.
Anger and embarrassment made Sasha’s face flush. If he were so disinteresting, why was Caz even here? But he couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. Caz was at least back in their home, and it would hurt less to be unwanted while he stayed than to be unwanted and him leave him again.
He wanted to keep Caz all to himself. Two gears perfectly notched. Hadn’t they fastened themselves into their own complements? Hadn’t Sasha earned Caz’s affections lifetimes over?
Sasha swallowed his anger. It burned in his throat but cooled in his voice. “If he manages to find me, then maybe I will see what he wants.”
“Hm,” Caz hummed. Eyes sliding shut and pantomiming a thoughtful expression. “I think he’s dying.”
“Then he can die.” Sasha leaned over the table, pushing his weight down onto his forearms. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“Cruel.”
Sasha’s anger flared again. “What? Would you want me to experiment on him? I thought you didn’t approve of that — regardless of how much it helped.” His lip curled. “Wasn’t that what you wanted to do? Die?”
“Fuck you, Sasha.” Finally, Caz’s eyes were back on him. It didn’t matter how angry he looked. He was finally looking at him again.
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“What? Why would I extend him anything more than I offered you?” Sasha leaned away from Caz, the thud of his back hitting the chair dulled by his housecoat.
A laugh barked out of Caz. “You didn’t offer me anything. You just forced me back.” He gently moved the teapot onto a wall-mounted shelf, the cups quickly set onto the warped, peeling wood as well. A blink of a moment. Caz grabbed a fistful of Sasha’s lapel. “You never gave //me// a choice.”
Sasha dug his fingernails into Caz’s wrists. Anger subsumed surprise in a millisecond. “You didn’t want to die. We had so much we still had to do for our city.” He kept tightening his grip, trying to dent the brass he has inlaid into Caz. “It isn’t my fault you couldn’t see this was the better outcome.”
His wrists ground like old gears teething into themselves, stuttering as they notched to support the weight of Sasha as Caz dragged the larger man out of his chair. Heaving, he threw Sasha to the ground. His cold boot connecting hard with the other’s rib. “You’re still so fuckin’ selfish!”
An aborted yelp forced its way out of Sasha when the heavy foot connected with his torso. He caught Caz’s trouser leg when he tried a second kick. Yanked his leg hard toward him.
Caz slid. Fell. The back of his head narrowly missing the hard edge of the table. He tried to stomp at Sasha before folding in on himself and grabbing a fistful of Sasha’s hair.
Sasha threw a lopsided punch, connecting hard with the ridge of Caz’s eyebrow and splitting it. He tried to throw another, wrist getting caught in the other’s hand.
Throwing one of his legs over to straddle Sasha, Caz slammed the caught hand against the hard floor. He let go of the fistful of hair and wrapped both of his hands around Sasha’s throat.
His hands scrambled up Caz — trying to wrap his own hands around the other’s neck but grabbing fistfuls of his clothes instead. Ripping the buttons off the outer layer. Exposing the sweat-damp undershirt and scratching possessive red welts into Caz’s mottled skin.
“You couldn’t have let me die?!” Caz yelled. He leaned a fraction more of his weight onto Sasha’s throat. Feeling the rapid, heavy heartbeat underneath his callouses. Feeling the bloom of bruise and blush under him.
Sasha bared his teeth.
Caz kissed him. Hard. Teeth hitting against teeth. Copper tang of blood biting through bitterness of the tea and the sweet of the preserves.
A rumble of a moan vibrated through Sasha’s chest. His hands pulling harder on Caz, trying to get the other man closer. To grind their bodies against each other until they couldn’t be separated again.
“Selfish, selfish man,” Caz muttered against Sasha’s skin. The housecoat was pushed open. Caz nipping a trail of angry welts down the line of Sasha’s neck. He dug his nails into Sasha’s sides, just above the jut of his hips.
The sharp inhale hissed through Sasha’s teeth. His hip stuttered, at war with desperately wanting contact and not allowing himself the desire.
Caz pressed his own hips down, grinding his growing desire against his ex-partner’s. He sank his teeth into the crook of Sasha’s neck and pushed his hands below the waistband of his trousers. Well-practised in finding the thickening base of his cock.
“Please—,” Sasha breathed out. He didn’t know where to put his hands. They pulled and tore at Caz’s clothes, trying to expose every inch of the skin he didn’t deserve. The buttons of his trousers gave way to Sasha’s desperate, clumsy hands.
He ached. The loneliness had eaten holes into his bones. But Caz was back. And he still wanted him.
Both of their hands covered the press of their cocks against each other. Rocking into joined pleasure.
Bites turned to kisses. Dug in fingernails turned to clumsy, affection-filled trails. Caz pressed his weight against Sasha — collapsed on top of the other ignoring the cooling, tacky spend mixing into their body hair. This close he could see the lines etched into Sasha’s face; see the silver threading through the auburn.
He was so tired.
He wanted his partner back. But he couldn’t forgive him. Caz was supposed to die decades ago. He was never supposed to see greys in Sasha’s hair. He was never supposed to be able to feel the click of arthritis in his hands.
They were never supposed to have this. But he wanted it.