asoncalledgabriel | (no subject)

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His anxiety is back. Gabriel isn't sure what quite triggered it to get worse. He had a bout with it in the fall, when he kept having visions of Henry in his bathtub, but that's passed and-- He doesn't know what it is. He wouldn't say he's stressed enough at school yet to really make it an issue, yet it hangs on in old habits he's thought he's left behind.

If I hold my breath between here and the door, I'll be on time.

If I miss all the cracks in the sidewalk, nothing bad will happen.

If I love God, I'll be saved.

It's a rush of stupid, ridiculous, obsessive thoughts that he should be past by now. At night it feels the worst, as if he's awaiting some unknown dread every time he gets into bed. He finds excuses to stay with Anthony, and he feels ridiculous for it but at least when he's with someone, it feels a bit better. Listening to someone else breathe, feeling Anthony's hand against his side as he falls asleep.

Tonight, it doesn't help. The nameless terror suddenly has faces, memories attached to it. The attack starts while he's dead asleep next to Anthony, but some time in the late night or early morning, Gabriel shoots upright with a wordless cry, gasping and shaking in the dark. He feels himself crying, and he can't stop that either. And, just like in all those moments before, he can't find his voice.

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“Your mother sounds like a very foolish woman.” A tiny bit of that protective steel enters Anthony’s voice for a moment. He continues quietly, “To be honest, I find it quite impressive that you said anything at all to her. I can’t imagine.” He scoffs softly. Perhaps Hilda Blunt knows what her son is, perhaps she doesn’t. Anthony wouldn’t know how to begin to tell her, even if he wanted to.

He carefully sips his tea. “Is it her opinion that you are still so worried about?” Anthony doubts it.

"I was a boy, yet," he admits. "Eight or nine, I suppose. I can't remember."

But he remembers the look on Fergel's face when he discovered him and Noel under a bridge, and he remembers keeping his distance from the older boy forever after. The wrongness of it all ached in him, and now it feels fresh.

"How did they know?" he asks in a whisper, unable to look at Anthony. "Noel, and the priest. How did they know? It must be branded somewhere I can't see--"

As he speaks, he feels his chest get tight, feels his eyes burn again, and he clutches his mug like it might keep him from flying apart again.

“Gabriel.” Anthony wonders if he should have given the boy the mug after all; he is so unsteady, and the possibility that he might spill tea all over himself seems high. But now he is clinging to the mug as if his life depends on it, and there is no taking it away from him.

Anthony isn’t sure what to make of what Gabriel says; he isn’t making a lot of sense. It’s as though the words are trapped in his throat, and Anthony wonders if he requires some kind of permission to let them free.

“Tell me."

"I was six," he murmurs. "With Noel. I was six, and I didn't think there was anything the matter with it, but-- Father Cornelius. I was sixteen. How did he know?"

How did he know he could do that to me? is the question he can't seem to finish. A wave of nausea hits him, an unpleasant rush all the way out to his fingertips. If not for his grip, he might have dropped the mug.

He looks at Anthony, finally, plaintively searching for-- He doesn't even know.

Something cold drops through Anthony.

He understands now—or at least, he understands enough. The shame that always seems just at Gabriel’s heels makes a sort of sense now, as do the secrets the boy sometimes alludes to. But it’s a dark sort of sense that makes Anthony furious and leaves him feeling ill.

He doesn’t have an answer to Gabriel’s question, though. Anthony can only shake his head, not quite trusting himself to speak.

Gabriel feels a few tears slide down his cheeks and he manages to let go of the mug long enough to wipe them away. The shivering inside him has been replaced by something hollow, empty.

"I thought, after it happened, it was some dream. I stared out the window until it was over and he was trying to right my clothes again, asking me to forgive me for his sin."

He runs his thumb over the lip of the mug.

Anthony’s jaw tightens and he lifts his chin slightly. Now he is the one gripping his mug a little too tightly, icy fury knotting inside him.

“How dare he.” Anthony’s voice, when he finally finds it, is dangerously calm.

Anthony's voice sends a chill down his back, and though he knows the outrage is nothing to do with him, he can't quite bring himself to look at the man.

"I told no one," he admits. "Not for months. I was failing my courses. It was Brendan I told. Even if he wasn't a priest anymore, I begged him to keep my confidence. He insisted I let him deal with Father Cornelius... that he was sick and must be seen to. I felt so cold when he said that. Sick. And I thought I must be, too."

“Your uncle was right,” Anthony says with the same dangerous calm, “though not for the reason he thought, I suspect. Or that you did.” He chances a look at Gabriel, who appears strangely small where he sits on the bed, as though some part of him has collapsed inward. God only knows what brought all this up for him, and perhaps it doesn’t even matter, but Anthony would very much like to destroy any source of the pain now on display.

Gabriel takes a deep, shaking breath and he lets it go as slowly as he can manage. He huffs a laugh.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to Anthony, feeling-- small and ridiculous and exposed. He finally takes a drink from his mug, grateful for the bite of whiskey now that all of that is in the air between them.

“Don’t,” Anthony says quietly. He doesn’t want to hear Gabriel apologize, for the words, and all the pain behind them, break his heart. It isn’t Gabriel who should be apologizing, or Gabriel who should look so wretched.

“You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Christ," he laughs, humorless and bitter. Gabriel has plenty of things to be sorry for, though the incident with Father Cornelius might not be among them.

He rubs his face and he can't bring himself to look at Anthony; he doesn't know what he fears more: pity or judgment.

"Well... now you know."

Anthony very much needs a cigarette.

He doesn’t pity Gabriel, and he certainly doesn’t blame him, but he doesn’t know what he is meant to do now, either. Icy fury still simmers in his veins, but he is aware enough to realize that his anger won’t do Gabriel any good in his wrecked state. He keeps his anger to himself.

So Anthony sits, and sips his tea, and watches Gabriel with an expression that is difficult to read. After a few moments, he carefully puts his hand on the young man’s knee.

"I don't know what's brought it all up," he murmurs. Gabriel takes another sip of his drink, cradling the mug close as Anthony's hand rests on his knee. He doesn't flinch this time. "I've-- save for Brandon, I've not spoken of it since it happened. Not to anyone else."

Anthony isn’t sure it matters what brought up such memories for Gabriel. What does matter is that they haunt him now. Anthony gives Gabriel’s knee a squeeze. Then gently, almost tenderly, he smooths his hand through Gabriel’s hair. Anthony doesn’t have anything he can say to make the miserable business better, but at least he can listen.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.

God, but he melts into Anthony's touch. Gabriel eases closer and sort of sinks against the man, finally allowing himself to really take comfort in what Anthony offers him.

"No," he murmurs, feeling rather small. Though, after a moment, he says, "Please never mention this to Guy... any of it. Please, Anthony."

It's bad enough that Anthony knows now, and he knows how close the two men are. Maybe they don't share everything, but-- he asks all the same.

In a distant sort of way, Anthony is surprised by how easily he wraps his arms around Gabriel, how natural it is to pull him close.

“Of course not,” he says, sounding almost affronted. Perhaps one could be forgiven for assuming that Guy and Anthony tell each other everything—and they nearly do. But Anthony does know how to be discreet when it is called for.

Gabriel turns his head, and maybe it's entirely inappropriate given his confession, but he kisses Anthony. He needs to feel something that isn't terrible and that's the first thing to come to mind.

Anthony's never made him feel guilty for his desire or like he should be ashamed of it. He's forgiven Gabriel for his temper, for his religion. Perhaps he could forgive him this outburst, too.

Though no one would call him a naturally understanding person, Anthony can’t think of any reason why Gabriel might require forgiveness—certainly not from him. He catches Gabriel’s chin in his hand and returns the kiss, finding nothing strange in the gesture.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

"No," he answers honestly. "But... not as bad."

Maybe it's a fine hair to split, but it feels significant to him. Sometimes he isn't sure there is anything like feeling better about something like this. But he doesn't feel as bad as he did a moment ago, and though he's nervous about going back to sleep, he feels... safe.

He musters a little smile for Anthony and kisses him again. Heavy sentiment sits on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to say it out loud. He's vulnerable enough as it is.

"At least all your secrets are about fighting for a cause," he says with a faint, sad smile.

Anthony inclines his head slightly in understanding. Gabriel’s reply is terribly reasonable and painfully honest. It’s an admirable thing, he thinks vaguely, to be able to freely articulate such thorny feelings.

He smiles dryly, brushing his thumb lightly against Gabriel’s lip. “Ah yes, they are merely treasonous,” he deadpans.

"Treason is surely a lesser crime than abominations before God," he says with a dry look of his own. God, but he loves he way that Anthony touches him. He moves a bit closer, kisses him again.

"Treachery and blasphemy. Suppose we're a pair."

He knows that Anthony puts no stock in notions of blasphemy or heresy, but Gabriel finds it weirdly funny, and he'll take any humor he can get right now.

“That's why we get on,” Anthony quips. For all his jokes, he doesn’t actually like the word ‘treason,’ or the idea of blasphemy. Both require a sense of betrayal that he has never felt.

He lightly runs his fingers through Gabriel’s hair. Some of the tension has gone out of the young man’s body, thank goodness. Anthony knows that all is not well, but Gabriel has been able to pull himself back together, and Anthony is glad about that.

Gabriel sinks back and he reaches to pull Anthony with him. He just wants to feel close, maybe even safe. He's exhausted but he isn't sure he wants to go back to sleep. What if it comes back?

Worse, what if he dreams?

He brushes a kiss to Anthony's shoulder. Gabriel doesn't think Anthony is treasonous, and he doesn't think of himself as truly blasphemous. Not anymore. But sometimes it creeps back in.

Anthony doesn’t feel protective of people very often, but when he does, it comes on fiercely. Not for the first time, the desire to keep Gabriel away from all pain and danger strikes him suddenly and makes his chest tight. He pulls Gabriel close and kisses his temple. I’m here, he doesn’t quite say, though that is what he means.

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