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1.
“Davey,” Janine whispered to him from the doorway.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, squinting at the light from Janine's candle. She closed the door, put out the candle and sat next to him, rearranging her stiff new skirts around her so they wouldn't crease. It wouldn't do to give mother something else to be angry about.
David quickly ruined her efforts, clambering into her lap and wrapping his arms around her neck. The crinkling of starched fabric was audible.
It was instinct to wipe away his tears, but when she touched his cheeks her fingers came away dry. She had already gathered her handkerchief in her other hand. She could feel his throat bobbing against her shoulder and hear his little hitched breaths, but he wasn't crying. She dropped the handkerchief and pulled him in close, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other on his back.
Her fingers were wet. But David's cheeks had been dry, she was certain. Her fingers were wet, and her hand was on his back and -
“Oh Davey.” His body was taut.
“He ruined my book.” Barely a whisper. He was frightened, however well he hid it. She could see his jaw shaking – just barely – in the light of the moon. “I didn't mean to ruin the party.”
“I know. Stay there.” She lit the candle again, and set it on the rickety table beside the bed. It squeaked, and David flinched. Janine dug her nails into the palms of her hands. “Turn around, I'll take a look.”
She peeled off his shirt, wincing with David where it stuck. His blood was an angry red against the crisp white. It would have to be thrown out; Janine didn't want to risk sneaking down to the washroom, nor did she want to leave David alone.
His back was striped with faded red marks, but she had expected that. It was the blood, half dried where it had trickled down his spine and as stark against his pale skin as it had been against his shirt, that made her cry out. It wasn't fair. She soon had stripes on her own body - itching, pink lines on her forearms where she had dragged her nails down. She didn't remember doing it.
“Janine?” He sounded too old. She smiled weakly when he laid a single, trusting eye on her, his neck twisted uncomfortably.
Even when she dabbed at the wound with alcohol, he didn't cry.
- - - -
It was pathetic. Douglas Kenton's eyes were rimmed bright red as he blubbered, great fat tears swelling in the corners of his eyes. Alec regarded him critically from his seat.
“I truly thought she loved me!”
The students surrounding him made various sympathetic noises. Just looking for the next thing to gossip about, thought Alec. Or the next trip to the tavern. At least he was honest in his disinterest in Douglas' supposed heartbreak.
One of the older boys thumped Douglas on the back.
“Plenty of other girls out there, Douglas. Let's go out tonight, you'll forget all about her.” There were cries of 'let's!' from the other students, but that only intensified Douglas' wails. He sounded like a baby taken from his mother's breast. Alec found it difficult to conceal his irritation.
“You're going to soak the pages of that book through, Kenton.” Alec's voice cut through both the sobbing and understanding tuts. “Perhaps you should consider the stage, rather than the library, for your next performance.”
He ignored the looks of indignation and continued, “Though you need to make it believable for the audience. I'd say your wailing is more suited to the death of your mother, not losing a place in your tavern whore's bed.” His eyes met Douglas', bored green on wide, glistening blue.
For a moment, Alec didn't know if Douglas would lunge at him or if the unshed tears in his eyes would spill over. Unfortunately it was the latter. He sucked in air like a dying fish, rubbing furiously at his eyes as a few of the boys led him away, presumably to let him drink until he passed out.
Lucas, who had been studying in the chair next to him, waited until Douglas was gone to comment quite casually, “That was unnecessary. Even more so than usual.” He sounded amused, but also curious. Alec usually disliked curiosity when it was directed at him.
He folded his arms. “So was that dreadful noise.”
“He's upset.”
“Over something ridiculous.”
“That's entirely subjective.”
That only got a disdainful huff from Alec.
“We've all cried over something ridiculous.”
“I haven't. I don't remember how to.” He sounded surprisingly honest.
With a chuckle that showed his clear disbelief, Lucas pushed his chair back and gathered his things. “You ought to take a class on it, then. Emotions for the Modern Gentleman. Theory and Application of Tears. What a hoot. Have a good day!”
- - - -
2.
“Don’t you show your face here again!”
Alec lay where they had thrown him, hoping desperately that the wheel of a cart would snap his neck. When he heard hooves on stone, he tilted his head back to bare his throat, and saw the stars.
“What are you doin', lyin' on the road like that? D’you want to die?” Came a shout.
Yes, he thought. He stared at the stars, and they stared back at him. More than anything.
“Get ou' of my way! I've got no patience for fools like you.”
This was a new scenario, one he hadn't considered. He quickly tried to determine how fast it would be, how painless – or painful. In the best case, the cart would be carrying bricks and lead, and the wheel would roll directly over his neck. In the worst case, it would cripple one of his limbs, a foot or hand if he were truly unlucky. There was too much left to chance.
The horse champed on its bit impatiently.
He got out of the way. He slipped on the snow when he stood, and the cart nearly landed him on his back again when its driver rolled past muttering about young men and their drinking habits, but he got out of the way. He only had to stumble a few metres to find an alley to cower in. Riverside was made of alleys, after all.
He took stock of his injuries. His lip was split and bloodied, but it had already dried. His cheek was tender to the touch. He found it difficult to turn his head to the side, most likely a product of being thrown onto the icy road.
Against all odds and for all that he had done in the weeks since he had left university, he was alive. He should not be. His eyes stung with frustration. He touched a freezing finger to the rim of his eyes. Entirely dry.
The next night, he went back to the same inn.
- - - -
The third time they slept together, Richard found a tiny knot of scar tissue towards the top of Alec's spine. It disappointed him, not because Alec's skin was marked but because he had missed it the first two times. It meant he was both inattentive and had left an inch of Alec's skin untouched.
The first time his thumb brushed over it – accidentally – Alec tensed. Pride and curiosity forced Richard to feel for the scar again, to see if it was possible that he mistook it earlier for the sharp jut of Alec's spine. With how thin his skin was stretched over his bones, it was conceivable.
Next time Alec didn't just tense, he froze. His lips were parted and hovering over Richard's chest, an angry flush in his cheeks that Richard didn't think was the result of arousal.
“How did you get - ”
“I don't know.” In a matter of moments Alec had gone from being supple in his arms to a rigid, human-shaped board of wood.
His work suddenly fallen to pieces, Richard wasted no time in mending it. He kissed Alec's body until his misstep was forgotten, and Alec's breath was shallow for the right reason.
It was one of his earliest lessons in bringing up the past with Alec. Later on, when he knew him better, he realised Alec must have been in a good mood that day.
They don't discuss the scar again, nor does Richard deliberately seek it out.
- - - -
3.
“I hope you visit soon.”
“I daresay I won't. Not in summer. There will be flies everywhere, and it would be unbearable to leave a shuttered room.” He didn't need Richard to remind him that he often found it unbearable to leave his room regardless of season or location. The excuse itself didn't matter; only that he had one.
“Later then, when it gets cooler,” Richard said.
“If I have the time.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Silence followed. Richard felt for the door to the carriage, opened it and climbed in. He was clever in his movements, careful to make it look as if he was using his eyes as well as his hands.
“Good bye, Alec.”
“Good bye.” His voice was cool and impersonal, as if he were farewelling a barely known party guest. Richard smiled, and clicked the door shut.
Once Alec was alone in his room, a destructive urge that had been swelling for weeks overtook him. It had begun when Richard first suggested that they move to the country.
Normally he was careful only to ruin things that belonged to the late Duchess, ugly expensive ornaments and delicate plates that were immensely satisfying to shatter. Now he spared nothing, tearing out pages from well-read books he had owned for years, flinging a candle holder taken from Riverside across the room.
Once he was thoroughly exhausted and as dishevelled as his room, he collapsed onto the bed. He had a peculiar pain between his eyes, but to his disappointment it eventuated into nothing more than a searing headache. He fell asleep completely clothed.
It was dark when he woke up. He called for a servant despite the hour, and arranged for a carriage to take him to Riverside. He thrust a pouch of gold in his pocket before he left.
- - - -
“Did you cry often when you were a child?” The question came out of nowhere, but that was usual for Alec.
“Of course. Whenever I skinned my knee, or stepped on a bee. And whenever my mother gave me a slap on the rear. Ones I deserved, of course.” He laughed fondly. He could feel the displeasure in Alec's body, but the jealousy written on his face could not be felt. “I imagine I was looking for her attention, mostly. I stopped crying so often when I was too old for her to care.”
“Did you hate it? Crying?”
“Not really. It's normal, particularly for children. You feel better afterwards, in mind at least.” Richard shrugged, his bare shoulder sliding against Alec's, “It eases your pain.” In his opinion, the goal was never to let one's thoughts and problems progress to the stage that they might make you cry in the first place. That was simple enough, normally.
“There are other ways of achieving the same thing.”
Drugs, sex and watching Richard thrust his sword between a man's ribs. Alec did know how to cry, in his own fashion.
“Mhm.” He swatted a fly, and rolled onto his side to kiss Alec.
“I'm too tall for this rug. The grass is irritating my feet. Picnics ought to be held inside, if you ask me.”
Richard smiled, and kissed him again.
- - - -
4.
He talked with Janine for hours. Or rather, he talked while Janine intermittently cried and spoke. Often she did both at once. He didn't mind, through the haze of his drugs, though she was sometimes hard to understand. Their conversations wandered wildly from inane curiosities to recollections of their childhood. Copious amounts of wine and chocolate made the latter bearable.
“I believe I’ve forgotten how to cry,” Alec said thoughtfully, at some point during the night when Janine wiped at her cheeks. It didn't bother him particularly. Nothing did, really, when his mind was so wonderfully fogged.
Janine looked stricken. Drunk and drugged and glassy-eyed, she reached for Alec’s hand. She held it far too tight.
“It isn’t so terrible. At least I’ll never look as wretched as you do now.”
Janine started giggling. The giggles gave way to hiccoughs, which eventually dissolved into more tears. She crawled half into Alec’s lap and wrapped her arms around him.
- - - -
“I cried once.”
“How very emotive of you, Alec.” It was a late afternoon in summer, and the usual sea breeze was missing. If he sat on their front steps, Richard could see bright colours in the corners of his eyes when the sun set. He did so most afternoons. Alec had no routines at all. He was standing behind Richard now, but tomorrow at the same time he might be asleep, or pouring over a book he had read tens of times already.
It took too long for Alec to reply. Richard had misjudged where he should not have. The sun made his body feel warm and slow - perhaps it had done the same to his mind.
“The scar on my back,” Alec had never done away with the bored tone that Richard could read far better than he ever could books, “I cried at my mother's party. I think I interrupted the music. I'm sure they were horribly expensive, and quite offended. For a ten year old, I made quite the scene.” He sounded pleased with himself, in the same way he used to be pleased with himself when he had dice flung in his face or the lip of a table shoved into his stomach. Richard could read that too. It was huge black lettering on stark white paper.
He closed his eyes, and nodded. Alec would not tolerate comfort. They were both silent. Years ago Alec might have persisted, tried to corner him into conflict so that he would not have to reflect silently on whatever admission he had made and the terrible power he thought it gave Richard.
Richard waited for the sun to sink below his chin, his chest, his hands. It was still warm, but the colours had gone.
“Let's go inside, Richard. The sun is gone.”
He ran his fingers over the scar that night, while Alec clung to him desperately despite the sticky heat.
- - - -
5.
Richard would have cried, he thought, if Alec had died before him. He would not have believed that, years and years ago, when he had doubted Richard's love in order to soften the inevitable abandonment he anticipated. But it had never come.
No. That wasn't true.
The abandonment had come when Alec saw the tangled mess of limbs and skin that they had hauled from the ocean. It was an image seared into his mind with a hot brand, so that he was forced to see it when he was both asleep and awake.
He fumbled for a knife. He would cut into the loose skin under his eyes, sagging with age, and make blood a substitute for tears. His hands shook as the tip of the knife wobbled in front of his eye.
Habit made him look for his swordsman, a steady hand that would pry his fingers free and let the knife drop to the ground.
It didn't matter that he did not come. Still the knife fell from his hands, and still no blood came. With a wretched cry he tried to make gouges with his nails instead, but he had already torn at them with his teeth and they were blunt and ineffective.
He could search the world and never find a drug that would dull this, or any number of men or women that could make him forget. The only one who could ease such pain was the one who had caused it.
What sorry being could lose the man they had loved for decades, and still find their eyes dry? There was no one to scold him, or witness his weakness, unless the trees had grown eyes or the bees had learnt to speak.
He had truly forgotten how to.
- - - -
“You cry in your sleep,” Sofia said to the man, after she fetched him breakfast in the morning. “I can help? With medicine.”
His mouth curved up like he was pleased by the news, but his expression remained tired and sad. She didn't understand.
“No.”