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Isabeau’s arm is behind you.
Cursedly, it still does not touch you. It rests on the back of the couch’s cushion, right behind your head. If you lean back, you can touch him at the price of your own comfort as your neck is craned at an awkward angle.
You don’t do that.
Every time you try to move in, lean closer to him or just adjust so you can touch his arm or sleeve, you notice the way he tenses. You take your cue to move away again.
Is this how they feel, you wonder? Watching you brace as they move in, wondering if you’re preparing for discomfort or silently begging them to bridge the gap?
Which is it? You wonder, you want, you look at him. He doesn’t look back, distracted by the story Mirabelle’s reading to your group, thoroughly transfixed.
Results inconclusive. Why doesn’t he want you anymore?
You promised to practice, to try your hand – or lips – at kissing, but he hasn’t made a single move! He hasn’t even shown an inkling of proof that he still wants you–!
This is your fault, you’re certain. You did something wrong, said something wrong. He figured out how creepy and obsessive you are.
Maybe he put together that you only pretended to like him so you could keep him. If you got bonded, then he would be stuck with you forever, wouldn’t he? So it. . .
No, no, that’s not entirely true. That’s not actually how you feel, you think. It crossed your mind, the way intrusive thoughts often did. You’re pretty sure you’re invaded by that evil voice more often than the average person.
You’re pretty sure you listen to it more than the average person, bending your knee to its well, to the whispers that tell you you have to keep your friends, if you’re not careful they’ll leave you–
Can Isabeau hear it?
No, you know he can’t. That’s not how brains work!
Maybe he realized that when you said the kiss didn’t go well, it wasn’t because you were a bad kisser, or he was a bad kisser, or anything like that. It’s because you took it, stole it from his lips before he could fight back.
You assaulted him, and he had been helpless to fight back.
You could do it again. Right now. Isabeau probably wouldn’t even fight back. He was too worried about how he’d be perceived by everyone else in your party that he would stay still.
He couldn’t let Mirabelle lose her dreams of having a real romance play out in the party. He couldn’t switch it up after Odile already won the bet on when he would confess! Bonnie was a child, too, they didn’t know feelings could change.
Your nails scratch on your legs, but they’re protected from breaking the skin by the fabric of both your gloves and pants. Instead, you think you feel your nails snag a little, raking over nothing.
It’s undeniable now. You’re a monster. You’re horrible and awful.
You want to take and take and take from him.
You can’t even remember the feeling of his lips against yours. You don’t remember if you loved it or hated it! You just remember the aftermath!
You remember being shoved away and the regret but that it didn’t stop how powerful you felt every time you teased him – or was it flirting? You’ve stopped trying to figure out the difference – and he dissolved into a blushing mess.
You remember feeling pity for him, the way you would when looking at an insect with their wings torn off.
He was helpless. He couldn’t fly from you. The only real release was death, but you pitied him too much to give that to him.
You want to choke on your own cruelty.
If you started dying, foaming at the mouth, spasming on your chair and then on the ground, would they care?
Or would they be relieved to be free from their jailer?
If you found a river or lake to drown in, would Isabeau pull you free and press on your chest and press his mouth to yours to save you? Or would he pull you out and watch you finish drowning, unable to touch you? Or would they just watch and say it was a shame?
You don’t even know if that kind of death would make you loop.
Was there even a natural end to a loop, the way Loop theorized there was? Or was it always you and your stupid mind pulling you back over and over? Would you be given a choice of where in the House to wake up this time?
You don’t want to think about it anymore. You don’t want to think about dying or looping or–
You’d absolutely feel better if Isabeau kissed you already.
But he’s disgusted by you.
If you want it, you have to take it now, or you have to accept the fact that you’ll never. . .
Never. Never.
You stand up on shaky legs.
Mirabelle’s voice faltered, frowning in your direction. “Siffrin–?”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” you smile at her, trying not to let your growing distress come forth in your voice. “You can keep reading. Don’t stop on my account!”
Mirabelle does not continue reading. Nobody says anything as you leave the room, the silence palpable.
You go straight to the room you share with Isabeau and Bonnie, and slip into the adjoining bathroom. It’s more of a suite than anything. There’s the main room you’ve all been hanging out in, with couches and chairs and a table and a kitchen in the back. Then there’s two rooms built off of that.
You lock the door behind you, and collapse onto the ground next to the toilet. You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up, but you don’t like the idea of being out in the open anyway. You shiver, leaning between the bowl and the shower behind you, closing your eye tightly.
You ride the waves of misery and irritation for as long as you can.
It’s long enough that you start to zone out, time ticking by in a horribly foggy way. You’re both there or not. You’re going crazy from the isolation and are relieved for it. You both wish they’ll come seek you out, and are so glad to be left by yourself.
You want them. You don’t.
You can’t bear to move.
Some eternity later, you hear footsteps outside the door, heavy and firm.
“Siffrin?” Isabeau’s voice. Full-naming you, because he was scared for you or something. He’s still the last person you want to talk to. “It’s been, uh, a bit longer than a minute, bud.”
You hiss to yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You grip the porcelain bowl beside you tightly. You imagine shattering it like it’s that blinding counter, but you can’t. That’s too noisy and the hotel owners will be angry and you don’t want them angry and–
“I said,” you hiss towards the door, “that you don’t have to wait for me!”
“Yeah, well. . .” Isabeau started, trailing off slowly. “We did. And now we’re worried about you.”
“Are you?” You spit, unbidden. “Or are you just sick of waiting?”
Isabeau went very quietly. He’s not stealthy enough to leave without you hearing it, but you start to believe that maybe he really has left, hurt by your cruelty, or angry that you called him out–
And then you hear the creak of the steps as he takes a few paces away. You hear rustling, and then he’s right back at the door. You hear the handle click as he tries it once or twice.
As he speaks through the crack in the door, his voice comes out slightly warped, louder than it should be. “You’ve got two options right now. I’ve got my lock pick set here, so either I get the door open pacifist, or you open it right now.”
You’ll just lock it again immediately. The moment the lock clicks, you’ll reset all his progress because you’re a horrible person–
“And if you try to lock me out again,” Isabeau continues, as easily as if he had read your mind. “I’ll just break down the door. Worth the fee!”
Your grip tightens on the toilet again, and you hiss sharply.
You need to fix yourself before Isabeau comes in, but you also don’t want to risk him damaging the lock while picking it up, so you–
You force yourself to your feet. You stumble uneasily to your feet, squeezing your eye shut tightly against the sudden vertigo. After a second of breathing in and out, you finish crossing the short distance to the door. It starts clicking again right before you open it, doubtlessly Isabeau getting tired of waiting and guessing he knows your choice.
You can’t blame him. You really don’t want to open up the door.
Regretfully, you do anyway, and watch him startle to his feet as his lock picking set is yanked out of his hands. “Sif!” He greets, relief coating his tone. “You look–! Really tired, actually. Are you okay?”
“Fine.” You tell him with a grumble, pushing past him.
“Really?” Isabeau frowns, chasing after you. “You didn’t wash your hands!”
You know it’s supposed to be a joke. You know he’s teasing you. But, stars, it grates on your ears and all you want to do is scream at him, because how could he possibly think you’re in the mood for that right now?”
You look at him.
His smile drops. “Hey. Woah. Woah, hold on a second.” His hand grips your bicep through your cloak, and you freeze, the touch sending a buzz through your whole body that feels a little like heaven– and he lets go just as quickly. “Buddy, talk to me. What’s going on?”
You can’t say anything.
Buddy. He called you buddy. ‘Buddy’ isn’t romantic or sexual or anything you want it to be.
It’s a term between friends, but nothing more. It represents distance itself, Isabeau’s best way to show you that he doesn’t like being anything more to you. That he regretted making the offer as soon as it was spoken.
He doesn’t want to kiss you, he doesn’t want to love you.
Isabeau wants nothing to do with you.
It’s time you accepted it, instead of continuing to hope and hope and hope and hope–
“There’s nothing going on,” you tell him, because it’s true.
Why can’t you just be grateful that they’re staying with you? Why do you always want something that you can’t have? Why do you lust and want and crave and–
You fantasize, for a brief, horrible moment of leaning up anyway and kissing him. But you look up at him, and you imagine the pushing away.
You think of Loop, teasing you for kissing Isabeau, and how you had spent so long thinking that meant Loop wanted to kiss you when they probably. . .
They probably had spent so long under that tree wishing they could kiss Isabeau instead of you, wishing they could have a do-over–
They didn’t know that Isabeau didn’t want either of you anymore. That it was all just a passing fantasy to him. One couldn’t control their feelings, after all, and you always felt sorry for Isabeau since he couldn’t control it.
You wonder if he found his feelings to be akin to a disease the way you often did.
Oh, Isabeau, brave, strong Isabeau, unable to tell you that his heart had Changed. Unable to tell you just how much he hated you now, that he was glad to be rid of you.
Isabeau kneels in front of you, and you’re yanked out of your spiral by his hands hovering around your arms, on the brink of touching you, but of course he won’t.
He won’t even pull you in for a hug, for stars’ sake.
Why would you think he would touch you or anything when you’re upset, when you can lash out without a second’s thought, when you can hurt him?
You’re dangerous. You’re awful, and he knows you are.
“Sif. . .” Isabeau says slowly, studying you intently. “Come on. I know there’s something bothering you! Can you talk to me? Us? Before this ends up being blown up?”
A-ah. . . of course.
You’re not allowed to be in a bad mood. Last time you were, you almost ended the world over it. Of course that’s the only thing on Isabeau’s mind.
You shake your head at him. “It won’t. I’m not looping, Isa. I’m not going to snap.”
“Okay,” Isabeau agrees slowly, “And that’s great! That’s good. But I’m wanting to talk more about how you’re feeling. It doesn’t matter if you’re going to, uh. End the world or not, you know?”
Doesn’t matter.
Ha. Haha! Isabeau really shouldn’t be telling jokes right now.
It just makes your heart ache and your rage boil. Of course it matters if you end the world. You’re not a good person, if getting a little upset drove you to such lengths–
“What matters is if you’re upset or not.” Isabeau continues gently, eyes searching your face. “I care about what’s going on in your head. You’re. . . not okay. Can you tell me what’s wrong, please?”
What’s wrong was that he was getting on your nerves! You’re so sick of him pushing you. He always wants you to be the one to talk about things.
What a hypocrite. Dozens of times you had listened to him lose his nerve, laying in the bed next to you. And now he can’t even tell you that he’s lost those feelings.
He’s nothing more than a coward.
You open your mouth to tell him as much, but a quick shake of his head makes the words die in your throat.
“Sif. Don’t be mean.” Isabeau orders. “Don’t– We both know it’s you trying to defend yourself, but that doesn’t make it okay. Talk to us, okay? Before just. . . blowing up.”
You shift your gaze away. You can’t believe he called you out, pulling you apart like that!
But at the same time, you’re not surprised. Wasn’t this the same way you had treated him back when you did end the world? Even an idiot could see the pattern.
The Defenders were even trained for it!
And then there’s you. There’s you.
Awful little Siffrin.
The loops weren’t what were broken, failing, rotting.
It had always been you.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you bite out. “Go back to your book. I don’t want to interrupt–!”
“We’re fine taking a break.” Isabeau responds back, firmly. “We’re not on a time limit to finish the book before we all go our separate ways, are we?”
No. No, you guess–
You’re not. You’re not.
Because they want to stick with each other.
Your vision is blurry with tears, and you can’t bear to make eye contact with them.
“Tell me one thing I can do to fix it?” Isabeau begs. “Just one thing. That’s it! That’s all I need!”
You swallow. You look down at his hands. Still hovering. Aren’t they tired by now? Aren’t they sick of reaching?
“. . . hold my hand?” You ask.
Stars, what are you! A child asking to hold their parents’ hand in the market?
You’re so immature.
You already were able to hold Bonnie’s hands a few weeks back, you don’t need to rob more touch from them. If you keep this up, you’re actually going to infect them–!
Isabeau’s hand latches onto your arm, trails down, and finds your hand through your cloak. He holds your hand through two layers of fabric.
You
want
to scream!
At least it’s touch. At least you can’t be mad at him! There’s some pressure right there!
You could get the same sensation from leaning against the corner of a table or holding a particularly shaped rock.
This is stupid.
This isn’t touch.
It’s not what you want.
But it was kind of him to pretend to try.
“Thanks,” you say after an appropriate amount of seconds, long enough for him to think he did something, and pull away from him.
It must not have been long enough, though, because Isabeau looks confused, lifting his head to frown at you. “Was that, um. Good?”
No.
“Sure.” You say, stepping away from him, ducking your face into your collar. “Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a ‘yes’.” Isabeau frowns.
Of course he could see right through you! What kind of answer was ‘sure’?! Fishing for attention, that’s you! You want him to feel good but also know that you didn’t! Like it! Look at you, so needy!
“Come here.” Isabeau says as you take a step back, lashing out his hand again. It always takes you by surprise how fast he is, latching onto your hand again before you can snatch it away, change position, hide it beneath the folds of fabric.
He holds it again, and you’re prepared for it to be the blinding same, but this time he pulls it free from underneath the cloak.
His fingers fold around yours. This time, it’s just the glove separating you from him.
Your breath doesn’t quite catch. But it does something close enough that he looks up and meets your eye. He inhales softly, and lets it out just as gently.
“Can I. . .” His free hand pinches the seam of fabric lining your pinky and gives it a small tug. You nod.
You can’t breathe, you don’t want to breathe, you have to breathe, you–
He pulls it off, sets it gently on the floor. His skin touches your skin and
and
and
andandand!
You can feel it, callouses and ridges and how tight it is and exact. The hairs on the back of your hand prickle from the sensation, static is lurching through your arm and it’s so much you almost trip over from it.
You can’t think, you can’t comprehend it, you’re not breathing right you’re–
you’re hyperventilating?
nono that’s not right
you need to breathe. really, actually breathe.
come on, siffrin, what’s wrong with you?
“Hey,” Isabeau’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Is this good? Sif?”
nickname!!
that means he likes you!
you’re his good friend again you love it you love it you need it you you you you! and him!
always by your side, he’ll do anything for you!
ahhhh ahhhh ah!
touch touch! poke poke!
. . . you’re hysterical.
You breathe in, and out.
Twice more, just for good measure!
“Do you. . . actually like this?” Isabeau says in wonder, squeezing so gently and your mind turns into puddy, wanting to crumple against him, but you force your knees to lock so you stay put.
You nod, forcing it to be slow and measured or else you might actually black out! Haha!
Isabeau inhales sharply. “How. . . How long have you been wanting to hold my hand?”
Was forever an acceptable answer?
Ooooh probably not because then he knows how much you crave him! Crave touch! You don’t know if you want a kiss or if you want his hand or if you want anything at all!
You’re just grateful he’ll touch you a little!
It’s nothing like the romance he insisted he wanted, it’s just friends! You’ve seen Mirabelle hold Isabeau’s hand so many times, and she doesn’t want anything more!
But. Stars.
s t a r s !
It feels so good!
“Do you want more than this?” Isabeau asks awkwardly.
You laugh breathlessly. How had he known? Of course you want more. You crave it, like it’s alcohol and you’re a drunkard! No, no, that’s offensive. They aren’t as crazed as you are!
“Siffrin.” Isabeau says firmly.
You snap back to yourself.
You were shaking, you realize. You force yourself to still.
You pull your fingers from his.
He’s not happy right now. He must’ve gotten sick of holding your hand. Of course, of course. All good things die, don’t they?
You’re just lucky your friends haven’t yet.
“Hey, no,” Isabeau says, reaching out for your hand again. “We can keep holding hands! I just. I need you to stay with me just a little bit? You, uh. You really like the touch, huh?”
You nod.
His fingers find yours again.
You force your mind to stay in the conversation. You want to shatter so that he has to hold together your pieces.
“Okay. Okay! That’s good. That’s really good!” Isabeau says decisively. “I’m glad this is helping a little, then. Do you want more than–”
“Why won’t you kiss me?” You ask, impulsive and horrible.
Isabeau bristles. His eye snaps up to your face, and he shrinks horribly far away from you.
Why would you ask him that?
You already know the answer!
He doesn’t want you! You’re not worth choosing to love!
“I mean,” Isabeau says slowly. “I was kind of the impression that. . . you didn’t want to.”
You–
what?!
You agreed, didn’t you?! You said you wanted to kiss him, too!
This is stupid, this is awful! Why would he think you didn’t want this?!
You’re not so horrible as to yell at him over it, but you’re feeling very awfully tempted! Of course you want to. You want his skin. You want his love, how could you not?!
Except, maybe you don’t. You’ll never know. Neither will he.
Your eye is heavy with unshed tears.
“But I do,” You croak out. “I want— I can’t–”
He looks at you. He looks so impossibly sad.
You can’t do this to him. How could you ever force him to stay with you?
“Nevermind,” you say meekly, squeezing your eye tight. You try to extract your hand away again. “We don’t– nevermind. Nevermind!”
“Wait!” Isabeau cries, latching onto you tightly. “I– I want to, too, still, I promise, I do! I just– I thought–”
“Then why haven’t we?!” You demand, shrinking away, but relishing the feeling of his hands against your arms.
“I didn’t. . . I didn’t think you still wanted to! You were still flinching, and you never said if you actually reciprocated!” Isabeau explains, grip tightening enough that it almost hurts, but not quite.
“But you never asked!” You whine. “Why would you never ask?! If you wanted to know–!”
“I– I mean! I could’ve! But you– you! I didn’t want to force you into anything you didn’t want!” Isabeau explains, free hand flailing. “I’m a patient guy! I was going to wait as long as you needed!”
“I didn’t need to wait!” You snap right back. “I just– I wanted–!”
You can’t finish the sentence because Isabeau is already laughing. It’s not the happy kind, almost hysteric, in a way. His shoulders tremble, and he shakes his head.
“Oh, man,” Isabeau says sadly, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re both cowards, aren’t we. . .?”
You grunt in offense back at him.
“Neither of us will say what we really want!” Isabeau explains. “We just. Wait for the other to say something, but won’t ourselves. That’s kind of sucky, isn’t it? Because we both want the same things, but we’ll never. . .”
He trails off again.
You bite the inside of your lip. You feel angry, that that’s all it can be scraped down to.
You’re both cowards. Neither of you will admit your feelings.
Is that it, then? You’re incompatible, neither of you willing to be the initiator in your relationship? It’s over before it ever began?
Your one kiss will be a literally stolen one that hurt him, that hurt you, that made both of you–
“Sif.” Isabeau says, softly, and your eye lifts to his.
You wait for him to tell you that it won’t work. It won’t happen. You’re both too similar and too different. There’s not enough room to compromise, because neither of you are willing to Change enough to do that.
But instead he says, “Can I kiss you?”
And.
And.
You don’t even realize you’re nodding, you just are, and his free hand is lifting up to cradle your cheek and cards through your hair. Your ears fill with static. The hand finds the back of your neck, tickles the thinner hair back there, and pulls you in–
You
didn’t know
it was possible to feel this good. . .