Post chapter 59
"Just for tonight, can we pretend the cracks in our souls have been filled with melted gold?"
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There is a moment, walking out the kitchen, when William catches his reflection in the window glass. It surprises him, the proof of his own existence, the phantom visage that blends into the passing lights of the city, and fades into the smoky New York skyline greyed at the edges, kissing the faint gold horizon, and it almost feels like dawn even though William is quite sure of it being the middle of the night. The world feels strange, blurred into something akin to a dream, something not quite real, as if the stitches holding it together have come apart in some places leaving holes from where nothingness pours in, his own body ghost-like, not quite there, drifting, detached and lonely from every emotion. The nightmare has almost disappeared into a distance, and all he can feel are shadowy touches that no longer hold him by his throat, but simply caress in passing, whispering their farewell.
He hardly feels himself walking closer to the window, an untethered spirit stepping slowly into the comfort of the night. Bringing his hand up, he presses it to the glass of the window and doesn't understand why it won't go through, why he can't feel the dew and the breeze that sways the roses in the pots on the other side of the threshold, beyond the burials of past and present. His head leans forward, forehead against the window, and William is suddenly achingly aware of his existence, the sadness buried in his bones, the pain of his heart, and the emptiness that crawls under his skin, almost swallowing him up. He isn't sure what he feels anymore, it's all too much, all at once, everything and nothing, the hand against the window and the weight of his body all too heavy to bear and he can feel the wetness on his cheeks, though no sound disturbs the stillness of the night. William does not know how long he stands there, half his body leaning against the window still, the hand sliding down, the tears that fall upon the glass as dewdrops already on the other side.
Another knife in his hand, another stain he cannot wash away. What to do with a body that lives on?
Hands not his own come to hold him, clasping at the middle of his chest just over the beating of his heart that rings in his hears, and reminds him keeps reminding him again and again and again until he cannot bear it anymore, that he is alive. Hands clasp and silence the constant ringing sound, pulling him away from the cool glass of the window, into a warmth that feels like a cup of Darjeeling tea, like the glow of fire would feel on a terrible winter night to a lost traveler who has forgotten his way back home. He loves this warmth, and wants more of it, needs it like a man freezing, his hands coming to clutch at the wrists, he is gasping for air now, bending his face so his nose touches the bone of the knuckle, and it is enough. It is enough for now.
A kiss behind his ear, a soft Liam whispered into his skin. And it's just that, just his name, an assurance, an affirmation, affection curling around each syllable poured into his flesh, all of it. It is enough. He feels the arms tightening, a softer heartbeat muffled into his back, steady, calm, present, grounding. He is okay. He is alright. He will be.
His breathing is slower now, and he feels himself being turned around, his head still bowed; focused intently on the folds and creases of his nightshirt grazing his ankles. A hand that quietened his heart now cups his cheek gently nudging William's face till it meets the soft sapphire of his eyes. Sherly. He lets out a sigh, now so so tired and melts into Sherly's touch, tilting his head, his body loosening as Sherlock rubs his thumb against the curve of his waist. William feels himself being pulled into a hug, and oh he thinks Sherly smells like roses.
His eyes closed, lips open-mouthed pressed into the skin of Sherlock's neck, arms limp by his side, his heart beating beside his own, and William can almost forget what plagues him. He burrows further into the touch, as if he could crawl inside his lover's body and hide until all fades away. He can try. After a moment stretched into a comfortable eternity, Liam finds strength enough to hold Sherlock too. I am sorry. I am grateful. He hopes Sherly understands. Going by the way Sherlock's chapped lips come to rest on his temple, William supposes he does understand. His Sherly always has. Even when William sometimes couldn't understand himself. He is half my soul, as poets say.
They stay there, engulfed in each other buried in muffled light; the intertwined silver and gold of the sky and the city that drapes itself light around their tired love-soaked bodies. Sherlock raises his head from where his cheek lay upon William's temple and pulls away, taking one of Liam's hands into his own, opening the door, and leading him past the windows into their small balcony where roses blossomed in the pots lined up on the edge upon the railing.
No longer his own shadow, his own ghost, William can feel the cold floor beneath his feet, the light breeze swaying his nightshirt, reaching past it to caress the skin of his legs. Music drifts from across the street from where a ball is being hosted in the small hall, and it envelops them in the ghost of its gentle melody. The city shines beneath where they stand, almost like gods. Like they were immortal. In that moment, William felt like could eat the world raw.
He can feel Sherlock's stare, looking at him with an expression he cannot quite discern; half-concern and all fondness. Sherlock adores him so, to the point where it is overwhelming, and he turns his face to meet his gaze; William adores him so, too. They were the waves that drowned each other, but they were also a shore. He never knew until he met Sherlock how a person could be both.
"Care for a dance, Liam?"
William shifts, an infinitesimal movement towards him. A small smile on his face, he says, "I could be persuaded."
There is a mischievous glimmer in Sherlock's eyes that William is all too familiar with before he is pulled forward by his hand that is still in Sherlock's and dipped down, their faces way, way too close, and if William just leaned up a little bit, he could- Before William can complete that thought, Sherlock leans down, his lips barely grazing the shell of his ear, "Have you been persuaded yet Mr. Moriarty?"
Sherlock pulls him up, so careful with Liam, so very tender in his touches, and as they stand facing each other, Liam tucks a stray hair away from Sherly's face, settling his hand on his neck, and pulls him closer until their lips leave phantom touches at their every movement, "You play unfair Sherly."
William kisses his top lip, before pulling back to place his forehead against Sherlock's.
There are no further words exchanged, just the air between them, only the sound of the piano that wafts around them in their serenity as an accompaniment; and William can almost, almost forget how they've ended up here at all. Can almost forget the distorted shadows on the walls around him, the ghosts trapped in reflections. Almost. It is a strange word, isn't it? Almost. Existing at the very brink of existence itself. A promise of betrayal. Almost there. Never quite. William sighs, and he is so, so very exhausted, so he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, his head on his shoulder, and closes his eyes.
"Dance with me Sherly." he says so very softly, the breeze almost kissing it away from his mouth.
But then he feels the familiar weight of Sherlock's arms around him, his hands just above the small of his back and it is not okay, and may not be for a long time, but it will be. One day. William has that day to live for. For now, he sways in his beloved's arms. There is a man in his arms and his sweetness in his mouth and there is something in the way stars look tonight. Hazy beneath the translucent smoky clouds, almost like molten gold patching up the sky. Weaving it all together into a tapestry that hangs above them.
"I am so tired of losing sleep", William says, a little tremble in his voice, which would've gone unnoticed if it were not Sherlock.
"I know Liam."
Yes, Sherlock knows. It is what makes this easier. Makes it a little more bearable to live through these sleepless nights.
No clocks count these moments. They kiss and hold and cherish each other till the end of...well, there is no telling where time is.
