Wolf's-own: Koan (10 page)

Jacin was silent for a moment, going over what Malick had just said in his head, picking it apart so he could be sure he'd gotten all the nuances. He flicked his eyes up then quickly away again. “There's... you....” No, he should be looking at Malick when he said this. He slanted his gaze upward. “That's not what you started out to say."

Malick sighed, laid his head down to Jacin's shoulder, and let go of his hand. “No. Never mind. Another time."

Yeah. Well, Jacin had known that. And he knew “another time” would probably be sooner than he wanted, but “ever” would be sooner than he wanted, so what difference did it make? As long as it wasn't right now.

Still, this... whatever it was Malick was thinking—it annoyed Jacin. No, it worried him. And he wasn't sure why.

Then you can know what you really are to the gods. What you are to treacherous Wolf. What you are to his own.

Fuck you, Beishin. If you see so much, why can't you see that I don't
want
to know?

"You think I still let him tell me what to do, even though he's not here anymore."

"I think,” Malick said slowly, muffled into Jacin's skin, “that you still... care. I think it still messes with your head. And I think you have to learn to stop letting it. You have to stop stifling what you need because of what he might have thought of it, until you need it so bad it almost explodes out of you and takes you out in the blast. That's what I think."

Jacin frowned at the ceiling, going over that, too, wishing he had that bottle of liquor close by, because he'd stopped wanting to get away from Malick, but he'd rediscovered his desire for a soothing buzz. “You get what you want, so what does it matter to you?” he whispered, not even sure he wanted Malick to hear or answer.

There was a puff of warmth across Jacin's shoulder, an ironic-sounding snort, and Malick slid a little off to the side. Jacin could breathe a bit easier than he could a moment ago, but Malick's grip was still comfortably firm enough to keep him in place.

"It matters,” Malick said. “It
matters
here. And it's not... it's not
all
I want. Damn it, Fen, I
care
."

Jacin actually believed that last bit. A little. The rest... the rest was too close to that “something” Beishin kept saying Malick wanted from Jacin. Jacin should be demanding to know, he should be pushing and poking and prodding like Malick did, until Malick was so frustrated and disconcerted that he blurted it out before he could help it like he made Jacin do.

Jacin couldn't do it. He didn't want to know. He wanted to pretend he was still flying. And Malick seemed willing to let him.

"We should clean up,” he said instead, but with no real conviction.

"Mmph,” was Malick's considered reply. He emphasized it by dragging the quilt from where it had slid off the side of the bed and pulling it up to cover them both. “Should do a lot of things.” He tightened his grip around Jacin's ribs and turned his head to plant a kiss to Jacin's throat. “Fen,” he said as he settled back in, getting himself comfortable while keeping Jacin right where he was, “I think—"

"Jacin."

Malick stilled. “Um. What?"

Jacin wasn't sure why he said it. Maybe he was just afraid Malick wasn't going to let the other things drop after all. Maybe he was just tired of being different versions of himself for different people, when none of them seemed to fit very well into those people's expectations. Malick didn't seem to expect him to be anything but what he was.

Maybe Jacin just wanted to give him something in return.

"Jacin,” he repeated. He shut his eyes and slid his fingers along the notches of Malick's backbone between his shoulder blades. “In here, it's Jacin."

Malick didn't dare even whisper it. Not yet. It was too fragile just now. Fen probably didn't even know what he'd just handed Malick, and Malick didn't want to do anything too overt and make him know. Sometimes, you just had to let Fen stay still and calm in his own self-delusion. And sometimes, you had to prod him out of it, force him to know things, see things, but not everything and not all the time. You just had to know the difference.

A bloody-mindedly determined paradox, Fen Jacin. Seeking identity by giving himself away. It would be a mighty effort for Malick not to succumb to the omnipotence Fen kept trying to hand him. Not get caught up in Fen's delusions and take up the heroic space Fen kept assuming Malick should occupy. Grudgingly assuming, which was a paradox around which Malick couldn't even begin to bend his mind.

The name was a gift, but more than that too. A sign. A real, undeniable, fuck-you-Malick-Imara-was-right-and-by-the-way-the-gods-hate-you sign.

Malick couldn't stop looking at Fen and waiting for another that would negate it.

Son of a
bitch
.

Malick didn't want to see, but he couldn't look away. Fen was... perhaps not ready, but as close to it as Fen could come. And Malick had no real choice anymore, as had been pointed out to him this morning. Fucking Imara. Still—Malick had been waiting for Fen to hand him a sign, and Jacin had done it for him. Even if Malick wanted the choice, it was no longer his.

And with everything that had gone on lately.... Malick sighed. And mentally cursed Imara. Because she was a screaming bitch, yeah, but mostly because she was right, even if she wasn't right in the right way. Fen needed to know, he needed to know what he was, and he needed to decide what he was going to do about it. Fen might be neck-deep in denial, but he wasn't stupid. His mind could be a brittle, unpredictable thing sometimes, but he knew something was coming, Malick could tell. How could he miss it? The Almighty Cock was going to fall off from overuse pretty soon, if Malick didn't tell Fen what Fen very obviously didn't want to know. And Malick was somewhat attached to it. He'd miss it.

Not that he was going to have much use for it for a while, Malick supposed. He was going to be lucky if Fen....

No, he wasn't going to even think that far ahead. In this one thing, he rather understood Fen's habit of avoiding knowledge. Because sometimes it burned and stung and stripped you raw. And Malick
knew
he wouldn't be contemplating forcing this on Fen now—tonight, even—unless he'd been forced into it himself.

He nuzzled into Fen's shoulder, careful not to wake him just yet. Soon, but not right now. Malick wanted to savor.

So, fine, he'd tell Fen about the Incendiary, show him it wasn't all as bad as he knew Fen would make it, not really even that much different than Untouchable, except Fen wouldn't have insane ghosts yammering in his head all the time. And then he'd keep Fen from tipping right over from sort-of-not-really-suicidal and into determined-death-wish. Because Fen wasn't quite ready, but he was as close as circumstances were going to allow, and it couldn't wait anymore.

Malick grimaced, letting his hand drift up to slide his fingers through Fen's dark hair spilled across the linen of the pillowslip. His fingers lingered on the little braid at Fen's temple before moving on.

Thing was, Fen didn't want choices. And he wasn't going to be pleased with Malick for forcing this one on him. Nor would he likely understand that it wasn't Malick doing this to him. Fen could raise his fists to the empty air and curse the gods, or he could turn his wrath on something tangible. Most likely on Malick, because he'd be handy.

Sometimes it really sucked to be a minion.

Malick stayed still, just listening to Fen...
Jacin
—a soppy little smile surprised Malick as he paused to shape the name silently on his lips—listening to Jacin dozing, his skin warm against Malick's, wire-strung nerves gone loose and pliable. Malick soaked it in, preemptively regretful, molding the shapes and sensations and textures into his consciousness, because he might not be having it for very long. Which was going to fucking
hurt
.

Loved him. Really, honestly, deep-down-heart-clenching
loved
him.

Fucking hell.

They always had their best talks after sex, when Fen was all loose and dazed and didn't remember to shut Malick out until Malick was already too deep into the “conversation” for Fen to ignore. And it had to be done. It was, after all, Malick's job.

Burrowing down tight for just another moment, Malick sucked in a long breath, firmed his grip on Fen then slowly let it loosen. He set his hand to Fen's shoulder and lightly shook.

"Jacin, wake up. We need to talk."

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Goyo stopped in the middle of the street, head cocked, gaze distant. Entirely oblivious to the shoppers and passersby who growled at him as they jostled past him.

Something... new, but.... No, something familiar, but... not that, either.

He reached, stretched his senses, dipped over toward the domain of the spirits, but only halfway. Listening. Seeking.

No stir, no sudden shift in attention, no swelling buzz in the hubbub of white noise that was the ordinary chatter of drifting souls looking for a spark of life on which to latch. Not even a tiny shock of curiosity.

Frowning, Goyo sniffed the air. Nothing. Just the smells of Mitsu—the salt breeze from the sea, the stench of guts and blood from the fishing boats in the harbor, the sweat, the hot oil from the kettles bubbling in food stalls, and here, close to the temples, the heavy perfume of incense, thick as a cloud. Nothing he hadn't smelled before. Nothing new.

"Pardon me, sir, you'll have to move."

Scowling, Goyo dragged his gaze outward, focusing on the patrolwoman who'd chided him. Though, now that he was looking, perhaps “chided” wasn't the right word. Taken an opportunity to speak with him, perhaps. There was recognition and a shy bit of admiration in her gaze. She was young—maijin newly turned, if his guess was right—and so many of the Patrol were vying for a place in the hunt right now, wanting to be one of those who brought Tambalon's
banpair
predicament under control. Goyo had never had so many trying to curry his favor before.

He adjusted his mien to match the patrolwoman's. It wouldn't do to annoy the Patrol. Maijin though he was, he still had to work with them. And he was rather in the way, he supposed. The streets in Mitsu had never been sufficient for such a teeming mass, and those paths to the temples were always clogged. He probably could have picked a better spot for his sudden... whatever it was.

"Please do forgive me."

Goyo bowed with a smile, as charming as he could make it, and moved along. He'd been heading toward Snake's temple, meaning to consult the seer-priest again, because he'd grown bored with the fruitless hunt and was hoping for new direction, however vague. He veered instead toward the Ports District. No rhyme, no reason, except that whatever it was he hadn't just felt had come from that direction. Or not come from that direction. Whatever.

Perhaps he should begin visiting the inns and taverns again. There was always interesting talk, at least. Most of it rumor, true, but sometimes, if you listened properly, you could find the seed of verity inside the anecdotal entertainment. And the recent gossip had been terribly intriguing, if completely unbelievable. At least Goyo didn't believe it. He'd seen the last moments of the last Incendiary, after all. He wouldn't believe that any god could be so cruel as to chance something like it again.

Just the idea of it sent shocks of disquiet all up and down Goyo's spine. Incendiary were too dangerous, too much unpredictable risk in mortal form. At least, that had been the gods’ excuse for eradicating them. Goyo saw through the indefensible defense—everyone saw through it—but he accepted it, because he
knew
. Dropping an Incendiary into the world untethered was like dropping a newborn into a pool of sharks.
Temshiel
and maijin alike would sniff him out, hunt him down, and claim him for their own god, or do him in altogether to keep the others from claiming him.

Hitsuke had only survived as long as he had because—

Goyo cursed. He shouldn't have allowed his mind to wander there. A century wasn't long enough, he was continually surprised to realize, every time he made the mistake of letting Hitsuke enter his thoughts. Goyo still missed him. He'd been new when he'd known Hitsuke—perhaps that was why he'd never managed to shake the gloom. Young and impressionable, and Hitsuke had certainly made an impression. And Goyo had certainly not been bored.

Maybe that was it. The not-taste on his tongue, the frisson of phantom feeling on his thumb... like when he'd wiped tears of agony from Hitsuke's cheekbone. The blood of Incendiary had a smell, a taste, but there hadn't been blood that day, only screams and tears, and Goyo had tried to wipe them away and had tasted... something on the back of his tongue, but it had hardly even registered at the time. It hit him now with a strange vertigo of not-really-remembrance, and it made him shudder. He hardly ever thought about that day. He made it a point not to. He hadn't remembered that not-taste until just this second.

With a shake of his head, Goyo set it aside, realized he'd wandered all the way to the piers and was staring morosely out into the gloaming over the rise and curl of the water. The breeze shifted his dark hair around his face, and he shunted out a light growl, dug around in his pocket until he found a bit of leather to tie it back. A ship's bell rang out somewhere farther down the coast, the trill of it carrying on the cool draft that flittered past Goyo's ears, tickled at his nape. Wolf had already crested over the water, his silver face rising up as though mounting the waves themselves, only the barest red glow tingeing his flank where Raven and Dragon followed like two jealous siblings intent on missing nothing. Which was probably fairly close, Goyo thought, squinting at the horizon for a trace of jade. Owl began her secondary phase soon, riding Wolf's coattails, lending her pull to providence and purpose as the New Year approached, but Goyo couldn't see the hue of harbinger in the sky yet, not with the blood of Raven and Dragon staining it.

And when had his temper swung over to maudlin?

Goyo snorted. It came out rather flat.