Fic: Limbo (1/1)
Title: Limbo
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Jacob/Esau (Samuel)
Word Count: 5,339
Summary: Jacob doesn't remember; doesn’t care to. He’s tired, somehow, of figuring the grander schemes of the world. For the lovely toestastegood on her birthday. It also happened to merge entirely with the story I was writing for her request of "Esau/Jacob, together in the sideways-verse, in any way, shape or form," at the Fanfic Wish Meme. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For toestastegood: this isn’t quite my normal thing, and I’m not sure if it came across as I’d hoped it would, but I do hope you’ll enjoy it :D Happy birthday, my dear, and here’s to many more, and a wonderful year to come <3
Limbo
i.
There’s light, a small hint of dawn; the kinds of things he’d missed from a time he can’t remember, can’t forget.
He rolls to his side, the sheets following, and he feels older, too old; he blinks, makes mountains and tree-lines out of the silhouettes cast against the growing glow. The clock at his bedside gleams ‘8:15’ and something catches in his chest that he can’t name, can’t stop; and he can’t remember his birthday, how many years he’s padded earth beneath his feet, but in that moment -- that singular, strange little moment between falling and soaring and waking and sleeping and living and dying and moving, ever moving -- between the now and the then, Jacob knows his name.
He knows his name.
_________________________
Jacob is used to things he doesn’t understand, though he’s not entirely sure why.
He unties his left shoe, keeps his right one laced; he’ll eat meat, except for fish. He doesn’t much care for the dark, sleeps with the hall light on, the glare pressed low beneath his door. He works seven-thirty to three-thirty, Monday through Thursday, and he rides the Green Line home, even though the Red Line makes fewer stops. He walks a path home that takes him exactly five minutes out of his way in the evenings. None of these things make logical sense. Jacob does them anyway. It doesn’t feel strange, doesn’t feel wrong; it simply is.
Until it does; until it isn’t.
So he takes the Yellow Line and gets off after four stops, walks eight blocks west like there’s a rhyme to it, a design. The park he finds is generic: the ebb of it like white light and chlorophyll, its flow in shades of grey. He feels every step as pebbles, stray bits of gravel lodge in the tread of his shoes, and when he meets eyes across the way on a whim -- just the quirk of his neck to the right -- he feels as if some things are put off balance because balance was never the goal to begin with.
The stranger’s seated at a table; one of the lonely slabs of checkerboard-painted stone with crawling moss and long-decrepit webs -- and Jacob breathes deeply, counts to ten in his mind, waits for the calm, counts again to five until his breath comes quiet, sure. And something happens in those moments, something strong and steady that rocks the ground beneath his feet, as he watches deft fingers spin knights and rooks and bishops and pawns, the queen, but never the king, dancing over sixteen carvings of wood -- unshakable -- an invitation, a promise; a statement to the cosmos in no uncertain terms: this man holds the key to something lost, something hidden just below the surface, just between the lines.
The black pieces to all of his white.
He sits, and the stranger smiles; Jacob’s hands shake against his thighs as he struggles to swallow over something shifting -- his paradigm, his ribs against the wild thrum of his heart -- and he doesn’t pause to question, to wonder. When the man is finished setting up his side, Jacob nods and takes his turn, leading when he should be following, when he has no right, fingers stilled against the rounded globe of a pawn.
They play, and Jacob doesn’t watch the pieces fall, doesn’t notice where he moves, simply waits for the shock of life and death that surges through him when their hands brush across the board.
White wins, in the end, but Jacob knows it’s a thrown victory; there’s something hopeful and sharp in the eyes of his opponent that speaks to a plan, an intent, and Jacob knows there’s no way the man could have lost if he hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted it.
Jacob tries not to think about what it all means. He’s tired, somehow, of figuring out the grander schemes of the world.
He shakes his companion’s hand, relishes the slow burn of the man’s voice as he declares their competition a pleasure, blinks too slowly and replies in kind only after a long beat -- he clasps his hands together to hold the sensation of the touch to his skin as long as it can last, as the other man gives him the barest ghost of a grin, and Jacob doesn’t think he’s ever seen something that rang so true within him, within something deeper than he can name.
He hears the ocean trapped in his blood, dammed up against him at the marrow, furious as his pulse speeds and he turns, heads for home.
_________________________
Jacob feels as if the things he does comprise a practiced sort of routine -- something ingrained in him, elemental. He doesn’t question them.
He feels as if he’s done this more times than he can count: walked this path and turned this corner and smiled the same smile where the corners of his mouth tighten and his lips don’t quite curl, to the point where it’s not merely like second nature, but more like instinct. Innate. Unconscious.
He tells himself that’s why he can’t find any layers, and meaning or real recognition beneath the superficial level of what it is he’s doing: of why he sets his alarm for twenty-three minutes after four in the morning, instead of merely half-past, or why he never feels clean after a shower, merely wet and unsatisfied, until he closes his eyes and pictures the ocean. He can’t even recall ever going to the ocean, seeing it with his own eyes; he’s certain he hasn’t, but he knows the feel of the surf, of shells between his toes.
He doesn’t know why he answers his phone when the screen declares the caller unknown, and the number unfamiliar -- but he does, and the low drag of embers that greets him across the line, deep and smooth in the pit of Jacob’s stomach, the center of his chest; it’s that sound that situates and lays roots around everything in him that moves, that beats -- that holds him still as the voice asks him for another game of chess, and maybe something warm to fend off the cold when they’re done.
The voice pauses, but its heat remains, and Jacob takes a moment to revel in it before he realizes there’s no answer, and only one response.
Jacob pulls on a pair of gloves: worn leather, fitted sharp and sleek, though stretched between his fingers, wide at the cuffs of his coat. It takes him half of the walk back to the park for Jacob to realize he’d never gotten the man’s name in the first place, never offered his own; he’d never given his number, nor taken one in kind.
_________________________
Time follows, flows, and Jacob doesn’t question, doesn’t mind the passage, the way the days fold into weeks, into months, back to hours like raindrops that trickle and flood; he doesn’t mind it -- never could.
They get coffee in a place he’s never been, familiar, and they smile for each other in the space between, lips warm and red against the heat of their drinks, their breath like fog; and Jacob shivers at the sight of it, steam rising from their cups, and Sam -- he says his name is Samuel, Sam, and he looks like a Sam, and there’s absolutely no reason for Jacob to think any differently as he smiles and tries the single syllable against his own tongue, shapes it gingerly, desperately with his mouth; Sam moves closer to him, wraps an arm around him as if it’s nothing, as if this is how the world turns, the universe swells: with their arms entangled and their chests pulled close.
They get dinner, and Jacob orders a steak to Sam’s salmon; Sam offers him a bite, spears a forkful of flaky meat and reaches over before Jacob has the opportunity to politely decline. He doesn’t know what strikes him, moves him, as he leans forward and closes his lips -- slow and careful, eyes never leaving his companion’s gaze as he bites -- around the fish; and he knows exactly what it is that sparks through him like wonder and need when he catches Sam’s eyes trained dangerously at the way his throat works, moves as he swallows.
The fish, he finds, is delectable.
They get drinks: Jacob has an affinity for wine, though Sam doesn’t share it. He doesn’t complain, though, when Jacob gives into the gravity that pulls between them like a dying star, slanting his mouth against Sam’s until the prickle of Sam’s stubble drags subtle and wild against his chin, until their noses brush and their tongues taste, trace along their teeth -- he doesn’t complain; in fact, he splays a hand at the small of Jacob’s back and pulls them closer, delves in deeper, and Jacob feels warmer, dizzier than any drink could hope to manage.
They get tired, and they fall asleep; together, bodies aligned on the couch cushions, warm skin exposed at the hems and waists and necks of their clothes, fending off the cold in tantalizing peeks, teasing samples. Sam drifts off first -- the catches in his respiration somewhere between a moan and a snore, like bliss and hell, second comings, followed closely by thirds, though not too closely, not too sure -- and Jacob watches him, watches the way his chest expands, stretches the shirt he’s worn all day, separates the cotton blend just below the buttons that run a line between his ribs, betray little curls of black and grey dusting the flesh below the fabric, just out of reach.
Jacob sleeps with a question, a thought of the feel on his fingertips, the taste on his tongue.
_________________________
Jacob doesn’t remember his dreams; sometimes wonders if he dreams at all -- but there’s always the implication, the specter of something he doesn’t know, can’t describe, the splash and crackle of water on sand.
But the one thing he remembers is the touch of skin -- firm and soft like the tides, like the breeze, the scratch of bark and the smudge of dirt, and the whisper of a voice so ancient, so imbedded in his soul; he doesn’t know it, but he doesn’t have to -- it transcends mere knowing.
In time, though, he doesn’t have to remember, because the touch is always there, the whisper always waiting; Sam’s palm against his knuckles, or a hand on his shoulder, on his biceps, his forearms and neck -- Sam never seems to be absent for very long.
And he doesn’t remember how it happens, not that it would make any difference; the how does not supersede the simple fact that it is, and it’s enough for Jacob.
It’s enough.
_________________________
Details are fleeting. Jacob can’t remember if it ever bothered him before.
The bridge of Sam’s nose is strong, solid, tender, slight; warm as it drags down Jacob’s cheek, the jut of his jaw -- exhales hot as it trails down Jacob’s throat, proceeding after Sam’s lips where they press impatient, erratic. The tip of Sam’s nose drags damp through the wet silhouette of a kiss glistening on Jacob’s skin as he works down, lingers and breathes against the pulse that jumps, heavy and visible; betrayer between his collarbones.
And Sam; Sam just draws air in, expels it with a thought, back and forth so that their bare chests brush with every inhale, nipples grazing, sending fire up Jacob’s spine as he glances up from under veiled lashes, hooded eyes; asks questions that his throbbing heart can’t quite drown out -- Sam, though, Sam breathes him in like the end of all beginnings, and Jacob’s pulse thrums all the faster, harder; runs towards a finish he cannot see, and never wants to reach.
“Sometimes,” he gasps, his own voice a stranger to him, cracking when Sam’s tongue sucks through a quick hum, a succession of beats pulsing stark at his clavicle; “sometimes, you just can’t stop the inevitable.”
And Sam draws away, braces a hand on Jacob’s chest, half-covering the skin that shakes above his heart. “Is anything really inevitable?”
Jacob follows, lets Sam’s touch push hard, fast enough to feel the flesh of him, the bones, to measure the way the muscles tremble, the way his blood courses below. “Some things,” Jacob hisses, closes his eyes for a moment as he draws breath between the weight of Sam’s hand, the truth of confession beneath, the tightness that’s pushing him, urging him toward the edge. His fingers play at the belt loops, the fly of Sam’s jeans; the heel of his palm digs wanton, rote against the hot, straining flesh trapped underneath.
“You,” Sam stops, stills, doesn’t meet Jacob’s eyes, and Jacob’s glad for it; where his hand cups Sam’s cock through the denim, he can measure Sam’s heart, feel it beat out of time with Jacob’s, but nevertheless beyond their control. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not some blushing virgin,” Jacob murmurs with a smirk, the purr of his lips vibrating, slipping smooth in the sheen of sweat between Sam’s shoulder blades, the hollow where he bows his head, and even if he can’t remember the last time he was with another person, another man quite like this; even if can’t remember, there’s no way to forget -- not this. “I’m sure.”
“You have a choice, you know,” Sam whispers, weight like a dead thing burning in the dusky centers, black holes swirling in his eyes, blown wide and fierce against the way his heart pounds, shudders against Jacob’s touch -- and for the first time, Jacob doesn’t hate the dark.
Far from it, in fact.
“Of course I do.”
_________________________
ii.
Sunlight streams like a vengeful sort of god, a merciful demon in the hours before their hearts leap and their breaths catch and the dreamy haze of visions and rest subside; they don’t notice it, and when they sleep, their pulses beat against a similar rhythm, something tired but true, and while they never know it, it keeps them close in the night.
By the time his eyes open to the day, the glow spreads like shattered gold, and Jacob basks in the heat that seeps into the bare skin of his chest, permeates his veins and sinks into his bones; he reaches over for the now-familiar weight, the dip of presence against the mattress at his back, the subtle puff of an exhale, the cool chill after every inhalation that tickles at the nape of his neck.
If Jacob rises to the breaking morn, then Sam prefers the dark, the half of the bed -- their bed, in Jacob’s mind, and maybe Sam’s as well, now -- that the angle of the window and the facing of the sun can’t quite breach. Jacob’s never much cared for the dark, always strayed toward the glass, toward the promise of life and vibrance that had always served to break surface without fail; but there’s a draw, a pull between want and need that roots him, keeps him from walking to the window and throwing the lock, letting the cool breeze take him and make him new.
But he doesn’t feel used, or broken; doesn’t need the sun, somehow. His eyes drift closed and he melts a little, falls a little into the shape, the curl of Sam’s body, his chest caved in around his arms -- the line of his spine brushes Sam’s hand, and Jacob doesn’t breathe more than twice before Sam groans, just a little throaty sound, and slips Jacob into the crook of his elbow, draws him in so that he fits into the hollow of Sam’s chest now, safe in the shadows for just a little while longer; long enough.
For shadows, though; with Sam, they’re so fucking warm.
_________________________
Sam even showers in the evening.
Jacob’s reading: glasses perched low, almost slipping at the tip of his nose as he follows lines of impossible text, small and smearing in the low light, the weariness bearing down behind his eyes. He marks his place, dog-ears the page and sets the paperback to the side, and his gaze drifts to the closed door of the master bath, just across room; his eyes slip closed as he lets the soft pad of the water as it sprays, as it falls, sidle against the rush of his blood, wash through his veins like wine.
The steam that escapes the cracks, the gaps between the door and the wall; it reaches out in tendrils -- an invitation, an omen to him where he lies, sprawled across sheets already cooling, robbed of everything but a lingering scent: the sweet spice of something far away, something exotic and undisclosed; clandestine. Unique.
He slides out from between the sheets and braces for the cool to hit his naked skin, the warmth to pool beneath his boxers. He hooks his fingers at the waist and pulls them down, toes them into the corner before easing the door to the bathroom open, careful not to make a noise.
Sam tenses, but doesn’t turn when Jacob’s feet create ripples, sound against the floor of the shower; is still, rigid for a moment when Jacob takes over massaging the shampoo against his scalp, but soon relaxes, as if he recognizes, remembers just who is at his back -- as if he knows that Jacob is there, and that it’s okay. And Jacob, for his part: he’s lost for a moment in memories he can’t recall, and when the steam engulfs him suddenly in an impenetrable cloud, there’s an interminable moment where he can’t breathe; and it might have frightened him, if not for the cadence of Sam’s breath below the subtle tattoo of water against tile, against skin, the feel of his hair, his flesh beneath Jacob’s hands.
Jacob leans in, bites behind Sam’s ears, at the nape of his neck, chases the suds as the water runs down them both. He tongues at the point of Sam’s jaw, and when he reaches around to lilt, barely tease Sam’s dick with the smooth crescents of his fingernails, drags the backs of them up the ridge, traces the vein, he tries to calm his heart as he feels Sam’s breath catch against him, pressed firm into his chest.
He can barely breathe in before Sam’s turned around, half-hard, eyes dark -- and Jacob yields to the halting, the pause; the way Sam merely stares at him, studying, like he’s looking for something that’s there without Jacob’s knowledge or consent, burning beneath the surface in ways that only Sam can know, and it sends fire through Jacob, the likes of which he isn’t sure that he can stand. He doesn’t have to weather it long, though, before Sam’s lips come crashing against his own, the flick of his tongue without patience or finesse drawing moisture through the paths of the water droplets clinging to the corners of his mouth. Jacob lets Sam lead, lets him move without restraint for a time, without resistance to be met as Jacob slides his hands, warm and open, over the muscles of Sam’s stomach, his chest, kneading into his arms and memorizing the ripples, the lines.
When Sam stops -- doesn’t part, but merely stills while he draws breath fast and sharp through his nose, mouth still slanted against Jacob’s -- Jacob takes the initiative to respond in kind, parting their lips and licking slow around Sam’s chin, pressing his mouth up one side of his neck and down the other, dragging his teeth across the trimmed stubble of his jawline, nuzzling his nose at a patch of beard that Sam didn’t quite catch.
He reaches behind him, laves his tongue against the skin, grins into the prickle of hair against his taste-buds before he brings the razor to Sam’s flesh; his eyes flicker up to meet Sam’s, and something in him plummets, cracks at the flash of fear that lights up the color in Sam’s gaze just as Jacob presses blade to skin, fierce and devastating in the moment before Jacob flicks his wrist downward and leans in to run his lips, catch and drag them wet across the tender flesh, a salve against the burn, and it hurts -- it hurts when, even after the fear’s bled out and the terror’s gone from the set of his features, his limbs, the throb of Sam’d pulse beneath Jacob’s mouth is still a harsh staccato, laced with dread.
Sam’s hands brush, slide with the slick film of soap against Jacob’s neck, somewhere between grasping and caressing, control and chaos; an apology, a plea, and Jacob simply pulls him closer -- the water between them, clinging to their skin, barely keeping them separate, keeping them sane; Jacob feels his throat tighten when they press flush together, cocks brushing and twitching at the contact, the touch, and he doesn’t know if it’s only the water from the spray above that trails from the corners of his eyes, or something more.
Wordlessly, Sam thrusts against Jacob, builds a cadence, grinds his hips with tantalizing leisure, his neck craned backward as he grazes his hot flesh against Jacob’s straining length, working them both to a hardness that aches, sears, and Jacob pants hard against the shower and the steam, nails digging into Sam’s shoulder as he holds him close and jerks counterpoint to his rhythm, creating delicious friction that even the water can’t diminish. He feels the tension in him, around him, between them build, crest, and finally begin to ebb, slip away; the heavy drum of his pulse its only remnant as his seed washes with the water and the waste, already gone.
Sam’s palm steadies him at the very center of his chest, like a touchstone, and Jacob leans in, gasps against the touch until his heart slows, the water cools, and he stands on his own again; but the hand upon his heart remains.
It’s fitting, he thinks, though he doesn’t stop to ponder why.
_________________________
He’s slowly forgetting what it’s like to live alone. Because of all the things he doesn’t remember, he knows one thing for certain: before, there was no one.
Sam makes Folgers in the morning, brews it hot and strong, stronger than Jacob can stand, at first, but he acclimates in time, sharing two cups from the same mug versus pouring his own. Jacob doesn’t set his alarm anymore, because his head his always cradled into Sam’s body, ear flush against him to listen for the metronome of his pulse, the rush of his breath like the flow of a stream, and Jacob finds himself unwilling to leave the comfort, the sheer sense of something willful and right that envelopes him in those hours, abandons him as soon as he leaves, as soon as Sam’s out of his sight -- the force of it knocks the wind from him: it’s like nothing he’s ever known, ever dreamed of knowing; it’s like something he’s known longer than forever.
Sam sits on the bed, shirtless, the last of their second cup of coffee in hand; watches as Jacob’s fingers slide across the buttons of his oxford as he sips in silence.
“No work today?” And Jacob doesn’t dwell on the fact that he can’t put his finger on what, exactly, Sam does for a living, or how many times Sam’s had to leave him for his job. Sam shakes his head, reaches out to button Jacob’s cuffs as Jacob takes the mug from him, drains the dregs.
He shrugs out the wrinkles of motion in his clothes, catches Sam’s eyes in the mirror. Sam smiles at him, a little tight, a little forced; Jacob simply leans in and presses their mouths together, smiles against the hints of a frown in Sam’s lips and kisses him slow, hard, massaging the kinks out between them until they’re both a little dazed, until their eyes shine a little bit bright.
Sam walks him as far as the kitchen, doesn’t quite make it to the door; and it feels like there’s more here, something more at work when Sam reaches out and peals a magnet from the refrigerator door, ignores the way the flyer it had been holding sways, flutters, falls. Jacob walks reluctantly on, pulls the handle and steps over the threshold without Sam’s eyes upon him, and he can’t help but want them, want Sam to be the only thing he sees, and vice-versa. And if it’s a little co-dependent, if it’s a little soon; well, Jacob feels as if it’s been a lifetime, and it’s nothing compared to the way his chest seizes, just a bit, as the door closes, obscures the splay of light against the body slumped against the countertop, the soft tease of lips splayed thin -- the fingertip playing against a slab of magnet: so delicate and sure, and he fights the urge to go back, to stop the door before it catches at the latch, to grab for his keys and call work and tell them everything, tell them that the world’s inexplicably brighter for all that this dark and vague wonder has brought to him, and he needs it. He needs it more than the air he breathes.
He swallows hard and hefts his bag higher against his shoulder, leaning in to the give of its weight, the pull, and he knows this: there was no one before.
The sound of his feet on the pavement with every step echo like nails in a coffin, and he shivers against the glare of the sun.
_________________________
Sam smokes when he’s frustrated, angry, anxious. Jacob feels like he’s done it, too, at some point -- the scent makes his eyes water, chokes him; familiar in the worst sort of way, like the press of evil against his windpipe, drinking him in and spitting him out.
It’s a sure-fire way of gauging Sam’s mood, though, his disposition -- whether he wants Jacob near or needs his space, whether he needs the chance to follow or to lead, and Jacob’s been trying to learn the tells, the signs; he knows, in the way Sam drags on his cigarette, slow and shaky, passing his hand across his eyes between puffs, leaving the wide circumference of his mouth pursed open to catch the hint of ash -- it’s Sam’s way of relishing the emptiness, the hollowness, the void: he needs to be alone. Jacob knows this.
So he doesn’t understand what prompts him to descend the stairs and intrude upon Sam’s solitude -- brash and unthinking, like a coming storm, shattering the still and taking the spiral of smoke that coils tempestuously, a temptress from the tip of the cig, and sending it straight back to hell without reticence or remorse.
He doesn’t understand, but he’s sure that he’s done it before -- watched the smoke ebb to reveal the face before him: slack and lost and broken beneath all of its walls, all its masks; a moment of weakness betrayed in the glow that flares when Sam breathes in.
Jacob doesn’t ponder, doesn’t pause; steals the cigarette from Sam’s hands and sucks his life through, unfiltered, and breathing it in feels a bit like overcoming, like triumph; breathing it out into Sam’s lungs as he captures his mouth feels like coming home, settling as the smoke dissipates and all that’s left is them.
They don’t speak; but they kiss until they’re breathless, until the butt lies forgotten at their feet, the carbon clinging, but already faint.
_________________________
It’s the dead of night -- halfway between dark and light and dusk and dawn -- and he’s riding Sam like he’s trying to touch something, reach something; find something, a common ground within them where they can both afford to stand, afford to know. Because he catches the way that Sam looks at him, sometimes -- like he’s waiting for Jacob to find him in another place, on another plane; as if he’s merely biding his time with Jacob here, in the hopes of meeting again elsewhere, in another life where they both belong.
That look, every time he sees it -- every time, it strikes fear in his heart and hope in his soul, and he knows that whatever it means, it’s truer than the skin beneath his hands, the sweat that slicks the way he thrusts, the friction between them as Sam’s palms urge him faster, harder -- dig at his hips and deny him restraint. It’s more real than the pounding of hearts, and the thrum of his pulse where Sam’s buried to the hilt within him; more real than the pressure threatening to send him to oblivion.
Jacob jerks his hips, pushes down onto Sam’s length, traps his erection between them as he leans forward, close as he can, watches as he feels Sam tighten, clenches his own muscles around him, never once blinking, never breaking contact as he stares, studies, loses himself in Sam’s unwavering gaze.
And in those eyes; eyes that flash and ache and sear until Jacob nearly drowns, ceases to breathe for the burn in his lungs -- in those eyes, Jacob reads all of the things he’s ever forgotten, spelled against grains of sand and written on the shore, whispered to the trees.
There is no warning, no way to know; Jacob simply feels the throb of his heart cease for the longest moment he’s ever endured, picking back up fit to leap from his chest as his breath stutters and his blood runs cold and he shivers, and he sees -- finally, he sees.
“Esau,” he breathes, breaks, comes, falls -- and the hands that slowly ease his descent know his blood, his tears; there’s a sadness in the touch, the gaze he’s lost inside: an agony that bleeds -- breaks bonds and hearts alike, and Jacob can feel the shards, the shattering in the comedown, settling heavy and sharp, visceral and so very, very still in the hollow of his chest, lodged against his gasps.
The white pieces to all of his black.
_________________________
iii.
There’s light, after darkness -- and that’s important, somehow, the distinction. Darkness, however long it lasts, forever yields dawn.
Jacob sees the sun differently, now, and when he rolls, turns into the warmth at his back, away from the gleam of day and back into the shadows, the arms around his waist; when he turns, there’s weight there. It’s been a long time in coming.
He feels power in the creases of his eyes, the lines of his palms; he breathes, and there are possibilities.
But at the same time, there is grace in this -- as much redemption as there’s sin; the things in this life that are no longer possible because they already are -- because it already is.
So he breathes, and there are possibilities. He notes a sudden trill, an echo in the beating of his heart where his ear cups, carries the sound against the pillow, the crook of his arm; and Esau, waiting where he would have left, would have run before -- his hand is wrapped at Jacob’s wrist, measuring not potentialities, but the promise of what’s there in the now, beating free and full and strong, untethered and unashamed.
He breathes, and there are beginnings, where he only ever remembered how to make ends; and it’s fitting, he supposes, in it’s own strange way. It fits.
He closes his eyes, and inhales; exhales. Savors the gravity of a touch against his skin.
Just breathes.
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Jacob/Esau (Samuel)
Word Count: 5,339
Summary: Jacob doesn't remember; doesn’t care to. He’s tired, somehow, of figuring the grander schemes of the world. For the lovely toestastegood on her birthday. It also happened to merge entirely with the story I was writing for her request of "Esau/Jacob, together in the sideways-verse, in any way, shape or form," at the Fanfic Wish Meme. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For toestastegood: this isn’t quite my normal thing, and I’m not sure if it came across as I’d hoped it would, but I do hope you’ll enjoy it :D Happy birthday, my dear, and here’s to many more, and a wonderful year to come <3
Limbo
i.
There’s light, a small hint of dawn; the kinds of things he’d missed from a time he can’t remember, can’t forget.
He rolls to his side, the sheets following, and he feels older, too old; he blinks, makes mountains and tree-lines out of the silhouettes cast against the growing glow. The clock at his bedside gleams ‘8:15’ and something catches in his chest that he can’t name, can’t stop; and he can’t remember his birthday, how many years he’s padded earth beneath his feet, but in that moment -- that singular, strange little moment between falling and soaring and waking and sleeping and living and dying and moving, ever moving -- between the now and the then, Jacob knows his name.
He knows his name.
_________________________
Jacob is used to things he doesn’t understand, though he’s not entirely sure why.
He unties his left shoe, keeps his right one laced; he’ll eat meat, except for fish. He doesn’t much care for the dark, sleeps with the hall light on, the glare pressed low beneath his door. He works seven-thirty to three-thirty, Monday through Thursday, and he rides the Green Line home, even though the Red Line makes fewer stops. He walks a path home that takes him exactly five minutes out of his way in the evenings. None of these things make logical sense. Jacob does them anyway. It doesn’t feel strange, doesn’t feel wrong; it simply is.
Until it does; until it isn’t.
So he takes the Yellow Line and gets off after four stops, walks eight blocks west like there’s a rhyme to it, a design. The park he finds is generic: the ebb of it like white light and chlorophyll, its flow in shades of grey. He feels every step as pebbles, stray bits of gravel lodge in the tread of his shoes, and when he meets eyes across the way on a whim -- just the quirk of his neck to the right -- he feels as if some things are put off balance because balance was never the goal to begin with.
The stranger’s seated at a table; one of the lonely slabs of checkerboard-painted stone with crawling moss and long-decrepit webs -- and Jacob breathes deeply, counts to ten in his mind, waits for the calm, counts again to five until his breath comes quiet, sure. And something happens in those moments, something strong and steady that rocks the ground beneath his feet, as he watches deft fingers spin knights and rooks and bishops and pawns, the queen, but never the king, dancing over sixteen carvings of wood -- unshakable -- an invitation, a promise; a statement to the cosmos in no uncertain terms: this man holds the key to something lost, something hidden just below the surface, just between the lines.
The black pieces to all of his white.
He sits, and the stranger smiles; Jacob’s hands shake against his thighs as he struggles to swallow over something shifting -- his paradigm, his ribs against the wild thrum of his heart -- and he doesn’t pause to question, to wonder. When the man is finished setting up his side, Jacob nods and takes his turn, leading when he should be following, when he has no right, fingers stilled against the rounded globe of a pawn.
They play, and Jacob doesn’t watch the pieces fall, doesn’t notice where he moves, simply waits for the shock of life and death that surges through him when their hands brush across the board.
White wins, in the end, but Jacob knows it’s a thrown victory; there’s something hopeful and sharp in the eyes of his opponent that speaks to a plan, an intent, and Jacob knows there’s no way the man could have lost if he hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted it.
Jacob tries not to think about what it all means. He’s tired, somehow, of figuring out the grander schemes of the world.
He shakes his companion’s hand, relishes the slow burn of the man’s voice as he declares their competition a pleasure, blinks too slowly and replies in kind only after a long beat -- he clasps his hands together to hold the sensation of the touch to his skin as long as it can last, as the other man gives him the barest ghost of a grin, and Jacob doesn’t think he’s ever seen something that rang so true within him, within something deeper than he can name.
He hears the ocean trapped in his blood, dammed up against him at the marrow, furious as his pulse speeds and he turns, heads for home.
_________________________
Jacob feels as if the things he does comprise a practiced sort of routine -- something ingrained in him, elemental. He doesn’t question them.
He feels as if he’s done this more times than he can count: walked this path and turned this corner and smiled the same smile where the corners of his mouth tighten and his lips don’t quite curl, to the point where it’s not merely like second nature, but more like instinct. Innate. Unconscious.
He tells himself that’s why he can’t find any layers, and meaning or real recognition beneath the superficial level of what it is he’s doing: of why he sets his alarm for twenty-three minutes after four in the morning, instead of merely half-past, or why he never feels clean after a shower, merely wet and unsatisfied, until he closes his eyes and pictures the ocean. He can’t even recall ever going to the ocean, seeing it with his own eyes; he’s certain he hasn’t, but he knows the feel of the surf, of shells between his toes.
He doesn’t know why he answers his phone when the screen declares the caller unknown, and the number unfamiliar -- but he does, and the low drag of embers that greets him across the line, deep and smooth in the pit of Jacob’s stomach, the center of his chest; it’s that sound that situates and lays roots around everything in him that moves, that beats -- that holds him still as the voice asks him for another game of chess, and maybe something warm to fend off the cold when they’re done.
The voice pauses, but its heat remains, and Jacob takes a moment to revel in it before he realizes there’s no answer, and only one response.
Jacob pulls on a pair of gloves: worn leather, fitted sharp and sleek, though stretched between his fingers, wide at the cuffs of his coat. It takes him half of the walk back to the park for Jacob to realize he’d never gotten the man’s name in the first place, never offered his own; he’d never given his number, nor taken one in kind.
_________________________
Time follows, flows, and Jacob doesn’t question, doesn’t mind the passage, the way the days fold into weeks, into months, back to hours like raindrops that trickle and flood; he doesn’t mind it -- never could.
They get coffee in a place he’s never been, familiar, and they smile for each other in the space between, lips warm and red against the heat of their drinks, their breath like fog; and Jacob shivers at the sight of it, steam rising from their cups, and Sam -- he says his name is Samuel, Sam, and he looks like a Sam, and there’s absolutely no reason for Jacob to think any differently as he smiles and tries the single syllable against his own tongue, shapes it gingerly, desperately with his mouth; Sam moves closer to him, wraps an arm around him as if it’s nothing, as if this is how the world turns, the universe swells: with their arms entangled and their chests pulled close.
They get dinner, and Jacob orders a steak to Sam’s salmon; Sam offers him a bite, spears a forkful of flaky meat and reaches over before Jacob has the opportunity to politely decline. He doesn’t know what strikes him, moves him, as he leans forward and closes his lips -- slow and careful, eyes never leaving his companion’s gaze as he bites -- around the fish; and he knows exactly what it is that sparks through him like wonder and need when he catches Sam’s eyes trained dangerously at the way his throat works, moves as he swallows.
The fish, he finds, is delectable.
They get drinks: Jacob has an affinity for wine, though Sam doesn’t share it. He doesn’t complain, though, when Jacob gives into the gravity that pulls between them like a dying star, slanting his mouth against Sam’s until the prickle of Sam’s stubble drags subtle and wild against his chin, until their noses brush and their tongues taste, trace along their teeth -- he doesn’t complain; in fact, he splays a hand at the small of Jacob’s back and pulls them closer, delves in deeper, and Jacob feels warmer, dizzier than any drink could hope to manage.
They get tired, and they fall asleep; together, bodies aligned on the couch cushions, warm skin exposed at the hems and waists and necks of their clothes, fending off the cold in tantalizing peeks, teasing samples. Sam drifts off first -- the catches in his respiration somewhere between a moan and a snore, like bliss and hell, second comings, followed closely by thirds, though not too closely, not too sure -- and Jacob watches him, watches the way his chest expands, stretches the shirt he’s worn all day, separates the cotton blend just below the buttons that run a line between his ribs, betray little curls of black and grey dusting the flesh below the fabric, just out of reach.
Jacob sleeps with a question, a thought of the feel on his fingertips, the taste on his tongue.
_________________________
Jacob doesn’t remember his dreams; sometimes wonders if he dreams at all -- but there’s always the implication, the specter of something he doesn’t know, can’t describe, the splash and crackle of water on sand.
But the one thing he remembers is the touch of skin -- firm and soft like the tides, like the breeze, the scratch of bark and the smudge of dirt, and the whisper of a voice so ancient, so imbedded in his soul; he doesn’t know it, but he doesn’t have to -- it transcends mere knowing.
In time, though, he doesn’t have to remember, because the touch is always there, the whisper always waiting; Sam’s palm against his knuckles, or a hand on his shoulder, on his biceps, his forearms and neck -- Sam never seems to be absent for very long.
And he doesn’t remember how it happens, not that it would make any difference; the how does not supersede the simple fact that it is, and it’s enough for Jacob.
It’s enough.
_________________________
Details are fleeting. Jacob can’t remember if it ever bothered him before.
The bridge of Sam’s nose is strong, solid, tender, slight; warm as it drags down Jacob’s cheek, the jut of his jaw -- exhales hot as it trails down Jacob’s throat, proceeding after Sam’s lips where they press impatient, erratic. The tip of Sam’s nose drags damp through the wet silhouette of a kiss glistening on Jacob’s skin as he works down, lingers and breathes against the pulse that jumps, heavy and visible; betrayer between his collarbones.
And Sam; Sam just draws air in, expels it with a thought, back and forth so that their bare chests brush with every inhale, nipples grazing, sending fire up Jacob’s spine as he glances up from under veiled lashes, hooded eyes; asks questions that his throbbing heart can’t quite drown out -- Sam, though, Sam breathes him in like the end of all beginnings, and Jacob’s pulse thrums all the faster, harder; runs towards a finish he cannot see, and never wants to reach.
“Sometimes,” he gasps, his own voice a stranger to him, cracking when Sam’s tongue sucks through a quick hum, a succession of beats pulsing stark at his clavicle; “sometimes, you just can’t stop the inevitable.”
And Sam draws away, braces a hand on Jacob’s chest, half-covering the skin that shakes above his heart. “Is anything really inevitable?”
Jacob follows, lets Sam’s touch push hard, fast enough to feel the flesh of him, the bones, to measure the way the muscles tremble, the way his blood courses below. “Some things,” Jacob hisses, closes his eyes for a moment as he draws breath between the weight of Sam’s hand, the truth of confession beneath, the tightness that’s pushing him, urging him toward the edge. His fingers play at the belt loops, the fly of Sam’s jeans; the heel of his palm digs wanton, rote against the hot, straining flesh trapped underneath.
“You,” Sam stops, stills, doesn’t meet Jacob’s eyes, and Jacob’s glad for it; where his hand cups Sam’s cock through the denim, he can measure Sam’s heart, feel it beat out of time with Jacob’s, but nevertheless beyond their control. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not some blushing virgin,” Jacob murmurs with a smirk, the purr of his lips vibrating, slipping smooth in the sheen of sweat between Sam’s shoulder blades, the hollow where he bows his head, and even if he can’t remember the last time he was with another person, another man quite like this; even if can’t remember, there’s no way to forget -- not this. “I’m sure.”
“You have a choice, you know,” Sam whispers, weight like a dead thing burning in the dusky centers, black holes swirling in his eyes, blown wide and fierce against the way his heart pounds, shudders against Jacob’s touch -- and for the first time, Jacob doesn’t hate the dark.
Far from it, in fact.
“Of course I do.”
_________________________
ii.
Sunlight streams like a vengeful sort of god, a merciful demon in the hours before their hearts leap and their breaths catch and the dreamy haze of visions and rest subside; they don’t notice it, and when they sleep, their pulses beat against a similar rhythm, something tired but true, and while they never know it, it keeps them close in the night.
By the time his eyes open to the day, the glow spreads like shattered gold, and Jacob basks in the heat that seeps into the bare skin of his chest, permeates his veins and sinks into his bones; he reaches over for the now-familiar weight, the dip of presence against the mattress at his back, the subtle puff of an exhale, the cool chill after every inhalation that tickles at the nape of his neck.
If Jacob rises to the breaking morn, then Sam prefers the dark, the half of the bed -- their bed, in Jacob’s mind, and maybe Sam’s as well, now -- that the angle of the window and the facing of the sun can’t quite breach. Jacob’s never much cared for the dark, always strayed toward the glass, toward the promise of life and vibrance that had always served to break surface without fail; but there’s a draw, a pull between want and need that roots him, keeps him from walking to the window and throwing the lock, letting the cool breeze take him and make him new.
But he doesn’t feel used, or broken; doesn’t need the sun, somehow. His eyes drift closed and he melts a little, falls a little into the shape, the curl of Sam’s body, his chest caved in around his arms -- the line of his spine brushes Sam’s hand, and Jacob doesn’t breathe more than twice before Sam groans, just a little throaty sound, and slips Jacob into the crook of his elbow, draws him in so that he fits into the hollow of Sam’s chest now, safe in the shadows for just a little while longer; long enough.
For shadows, though; with Sam, they’re so fucking warm.
_________________________
Sam even showers in the evening.
Jacob’s reading: glasses perched low, almost slipping at the tip of his nose as he follows lines of impossible text, small and smearing in the low light, the weariness bearing down behind his eyes. He marks his place, dog-ears the page and sets the paperback to the side, and his gaze drifts to the closed door of the master bath, just across room; his eyes slip closed as he lets the soft pad of the water as it sprays, as it falls, sidle against the rush of his blood, wash through his veins like wine.
The steam that escapes the cracks, the gaps between the door and the wall; it reaches out in tendrils -- an invitation, an omen to him where he lies, sprawled across sheets already cooling, robbed of everything but a lingering scent: the sweet spice of something far away, something exotic and undisclosed; clandestine. Unique.
He slides out from between the sheets and braces for the cool to hit his naked skin, the warmth to pool beneath his boxers. He hooks his fingers at the waist and pulls them down, toes them into the corner before easing the door to the bathroom open, careful not to make a noise.
Sam tenses, but doesn’t turn when Jacob’s feet create ripples, sound against the floor of the shower; is still, rigid for a moment when Jacob takes over massaging the shampoo against his scalp, but soon relaxes, as if he recognizes, remembers just who is at his back -- as if he knows that Jacob is there, and that it’s okay. And Jacob, for his part: he’s lost for a moment in memories he can’t recall, and when the steam engulfs him suddenly in an impenetrable cloud, there’s an interminable moment where he can’t breathe; and it might have frightened him, if not for the cadence of Sam’s breath below the subtle tattoo of water against tile, against skin, the feel of his hair, his flesh beneath Jacob’s hands.
Jacob leans in, bites behind Sam’s ears, at the nape of his neck, chases the suds as the water runs down them both. He tongues at the point of Sam’s jaw, and when he reaches around to lilt, barely tease Sam’s dick with the smooth crescents of his fingernails, drags the backs of them up the ridge, traces the vein, he tries to calm his heart as he feels Sam’s breath catch against him, pressed firm into his chest.
He can barely breathe in before Sam’s turned around, half-hard, eyes dark -- and Jacob yields to the halting, the pause; the way Sam merely stares at him, studying, like he’s looking for something that’s there without Jacob’s knowledge or consent, burning beneath the surface in ways that only Sam can know, and it sends fire through Jacob, the likes of which he isn’t sure that he can stand. He doesn’t have to weather it long, though, before Sam’s lips come crashing against his own, the flick of his tongue without patience or finesse drawing moisture through the paths of the water droplets clinging to the corners of his mouth. Jacob lets Sam lead, lets him move without restraint for a time, without resistance to be met as Jacob slides his hands, warm and open, over the muscles of Sam’s stomach, his chest, kneading into his arms and memorizing the ripples, the lines.
When Sam stops -- doesn’t part, but merely stills while he draws breath fast and sharp through his nose, mouth still slanted against Jacob’s -- Jacob takes the initiative to respond in kind, parting their lips and licking slow around Sam’s chin, pressing his mouth up one side of his neck and down the other, dragging his teeth across the trimmed stubble of his jawline, nuzzling his nose at a patch of beard that Sam didn’t quite catch.
He reaches behind him, laves his tongue against the skin, grins into the prickle of hair against his taste-buds before he brings the razor to Sam’s flesh; his eyes flicker up to meet Sam’s, and something in him plummets, cracks at the flash of fear that lights up the color in Sam’s gaze just as Jacob presses blade to skin, fierce and devastating in the moment before Jacob flicks his wrist downward and leans in to run his lips, catch and drag them wet across the tender flesh, a salve against the burn, and it hurts -- it hurts when, even after the fear’s bled out and the terror’s gone from the set of his features, his limbs, the throb of Sam’d pulse beneath Jacob’s mouth is still a harsh staccato, laced with dread.
Sam’s hands brush, slide with the slick film of soap against Jacob’s neck, somewhere between grasping and caressing, control and chaos; an apology, a plea, and Jacob simply pulls him closer -- the water between them, clinging to their skin, barely keeping them separate, keeping them sane; Jacob feels his throat tighten when they press flush together, cocks brushing and twitching at the contact, the touch, and he doesn’t know if it’s only the water from the spray above that trails from the corners of his eyes, or something more.
Wordlessly, Sam thrusts against Jacob, builds a cadence, grinds his hips with tantalizing leisure, his neck craned backward as he grazes his hot flesh against Jacob’s straining length, working them both to a hardness that aches, sears, and Jacob pants hard against the shower and the steam, nails digging into Sam’s shoulder as he holds him close and jerks counterpoint to his rhythm, creating delicious friction that even the water can’t diminish. He feels the tension in him, around him, between them build, crest, and finally begin to ebb, slip away; the heavy drum of his pulse its only remnant as his seed washes with the water and the waste, already gone.
Sam’s palm steadies him at the very center of his chest, like a touchstone, and Jacob leans in, gasps against the touch until his heart slows, the water cools, and he stands on his own again; but the hand upon his heart remains.
It’s fitting, he thinks, though he doesn’t stop to ponder why.
_________________________
He’s slowly forgetting what it’s like to live alone. Because of all the things he doesn’t remember, he knows one thing for certain: before, there was no one.
Sam makes Folgers in the morning, brews it hot and strong, stronger than Jacob can stand, at first, but he acclimates in time, sharing two cups from the same mug versus pouring his own. Jacob doesn’t set his alarm anymore, because his head his always cradled into Sam’s body, ear flush against him to listen for the metronome of his pulse, the rush of his breath like the flow of a stream, and Jacob finds himself unwilling to leave the comfort, the sheer sense of something willful and right that envelopes him in those hours, abandons him as soon as he leaves, as soon as Sam’s out of his sight -- the force of it knocks the wind from him: it’s like nothing he’s ever known, ever dreamed of knowing; it’s like something he’s known longer than forever.
Sam sits on the bed, shirtless, the last of their second cup of coffee in hand; watches as Jacob’s fingers slide across the buttons of his oxford as he sips in silence.
“No work today?” And Jacob doesn’t dwell on the fact that he can’t put his finger on what, exactly, Sam does for a living, or how many times Sam’s had to leave him for his job. Sam shakes his head, reaches out to button Jacob’s cuffs as Jacob takes the mug from him, drains the dregs.
He shrugs out the wrinkles of motion in his clothes, catches Sam’s eyes in the mirror. Sam smiles at him, a little tight, a little forced; Jacob simply leans in and presses their mouths together, smiles against the hints of a frown in Sam’s lips and kisses him slow, hard, massaging the kinks out between them until they’re both a little dazed, until their eyes shine a little bit bright.
Sam walks him as far as the kitchen, doesn’t quite make it to the door; and it feels like there’s more here, something more at work when Sam reaches out and peals a magnet from the refrigerator door, ignores the way the flyer it had been holding sways, flutters, falls. Jacob walks reluctantly on, pulls the handle and steps over the threshold without Sam’s eyes upon him, and he can’t help but want them, want Sam to be the only thing he sees, and vice-versa. And if it’s a little co-dependent, if it’s a little soon; well, Jacob feels as if it’s been a lifetime, and it’s nothing compared to the way his chest seizes, just a bit, as the door closes, obscures the splay of light against the body slumped against the countertop, the soft tease of lips splayed thin -- the fingertip playing against a slab of magnet: so delicate and sure, and he fights the urge to go back, to stop the door before it catches at the latch, to grab for his keys and call work and tell them everything, tell them that the world’s inexplicably brighter for all that this dark and vague wonder has brought to him, and he needs it. He needs it more than the air he breathes.
He swallows hard and hefts his bag higher against his shoulder, leaning in to the give of its weight, the pull, and he knows this: there was no one before.
The sound of his feet on the pavement with every step echo like nails in a coffin, and he shivers against the glare of the sun.
_________________________
Sam smokes when he’s frustrated, angry, anxious. Jacob feels like he’s done it, too, at some point -- the scent makes his eyes water, chokes him; familiar in the worst sort of way, like the press of evil against his windpipe, drinking him in and spitting him out.
It’s a sure-fire way of gauging Sam’s mood, though, his disposition -- whether he wants Jacob near or needs his space, whether he needs the chance to follow or to lead, and Jacob’s been trying to learn the tells, the signs; he knows, in the way Sam drags on his cigarette, slow and shaky, passing his hand across his eyes between puffs, leaving the wide circumference of his mouth pursed open to catch the hint of ash -- it’s Sam’s way of relishing the emptiness, the hollowness, the void: he needs to be alone. Jacob knows this.
So he doesn’t understand what prompts him to descend the stairs and intrude upon Sam’s solitude -- brash and unthinking, like a coming storm, shattering the still and taking the spiral of smoke that coils tempestuously, a temptress from the tip of the cig, and sending it straight back to hell without reticence or remorse.
He doesn’t understand, but he’s sure that he’s done it before -- watched the smoke ebb to reveal the face before him: slack and lost and broken beneath all of its walls, all its masks; a moment of weakness betrayed in the glow that flares when Sam breathes in.
Jacob doesn’t ponder, doesn’t pause; steals the cigarette from Sam’s hands and sucks his life through, unfiltered, and breathing it in feels a bit like overcoming, like triumph; breathing it out into Sam’s lungs as he captures his mouth feels like coming home, settling as the smoke dissipates and all that’s left is them.
They don’t speak; but they kiss until they’re breathless, until the butt lies forgotten at their feet, the carbon clinging, but already faint.
_________________________
It’s the dead of night -- halfway between dark and light and dusk and dawn -- and he’s riding Sam like he’s trying to touch something, reach something; find something, a common ground within them where they can both afford to stand, afford to know. Because he catches the way that Sam looks at him, sometimes -- like he’s waiting for Jacob to find him in another place, on another plane; as if he’s merely biding his time with Jacob here, in the hopes of meeting again elsewhere, in another life where they both belong.
That look, every time he sees it -- every time, it strikes fear in his heart and hope in his soul, and he knows that whatever it means, it’s truer than the skin beneath his hands, the sweat that slicks the way he thrusts, the friction between them as Sam’s palms urge him faster, harder -- dig at his hips and deny him restraint. It’s more real than the pounding of hearts, and the thrum of his pulse where Sam’s buried to the hilt within him; more real than the pressure threatening to send him to oblivion.
Jacob jerks his hips, pushes down onto Sam’s length, traps his erection between them as he leans forward, close as he can, watches as he feels Sam tighten, clenches his own muscles around him, never once blinking, never breaking contact as he stares, studies, loses himself in Sam’s unwavering gaze.
And in those eyes; eyes that flash and ache and sear until Jacob nearly drowns, ceases to breathe for the burn in his lungs -- in those eyes, Jacob reads all of the things he’s ever forgotten, spelled against grains of sand and written on the shore, whispered to the trees.
There is no warning, no way to know; Jacob simply feels the throb of his heart cease for the longest moment he’s ever endured, picking back up fit to leap from his chest as his breath stutters and his blood runs cold and he shivers, and he sees -- finally, he sees.
“Esau,” he breathes, breaks, comes, falls -- and the hands that slowly ease his descent know his blood, his tears; there’s a sadness in the touch, the gaze he’s lost inside: an agony that bleeds -- breaks bonds and hearts alike, and Jacob can feel the shards, the shattering in the comedown, settling heavy and sharp, visceral and so very, very still in the hollow of his chest, lodged against his gasps.
The white pieces to all of his black.
_________________________
iii.
There’s light, after darkness -- and that’s important, somehow, the distinction. Darkness, however long it lasts, forever yields dawn.
Jacob sees the sun differently, now, and when he rolls, turns into the warmth at his back, away from the gleam of day and back into the shadows, the arms around his waist; when he turns, there’s weight there. It’s been a long time in coming.
He feels power in the creases of his eyes, the lines of his palms; he breathes, and there are possibilities.
But at the same time, there is grace in this -- as much redemption as there’s sin; the things in this life that are no longer possible because they already are -- because it already is.
So he breathes, and there are possibilities. He notes a sudden trill, an echo in the beating of his heart where his ear cups, carries the sound against the pillow, the crook of his arm; and Esau, waiting where he would have left, would have run before -- his hand is wrapped at Jacob’s wrist, measuring not potentialities, but the promise of what’s there in the now, beating free and full and strong, untethered and unashamed.
He breathes, and there are beginnings, where he only ever remembered how to make ends; and it’s fitting, he supposes, in it’s own strange way. It fits.
He closes his eyes, and inhales; exhales. Savors the gravity of a touch against his skin.
Just breathes.