#anyways. this story is genuinely so good at illustrating the trans experience

[florshedworf]

fluidum on webtoon is actually really good why did it take me like 2 years to finally come to that conclusion

[commander-diomika]

(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 6 - Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde Word Count: 4700 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Trans Male Character, Forced Outing, Pining, Additional Warnings In Author's Note

Summary: New intel from Curie brings new rules about the quarantine process. This puts Zolf and Wilde in an awkward position. A/N - The forced outing depicted in this chapter isn’t through any malicious intent, but rather circumstances outside character control. There are no transphobic sentiments portrayed in this series, internalised or direct, but some of Wilde’s caution around disclosing indicates that this is a world where transphobia exists. These things could make for an uncomfortable experience for some readers.

The few times that Zolf went out on missions alone, usually on fruitless attempts to scout the Shoin Institute, it had been Barnes that welcomed him back and locked him in. Zolf didn’t mind isolation stretches, but he didn’t love that Wilde kept himself absent for the entire duration. He understood why, but there was something unsettling about coming home, and yet having to wait for what he felt like was the proper homecoming of being reunited with Wilde. But he coped with it just fine.

When the invitation from Curie came for a meeting, and specified that only one person was welcome, Zolf fought hard for it to be him.

“You’ve never even met Curie.” Wilde pointed out, voice level despite the heat in Zolf’s tone. “It makes far more sense for me to go, and someone needs to stay here.”

“At least take Barnes with you,” Zolf countered, knowing he was being ridiculous but unable to help it. He’d known that this time was coming but that didn’t make it come any easier. “He don’t have to come with you to meet her, but he can keep you safe.”

Wilde’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Zolf crossed his arms, stymied. It wasn’t that he was overprotective. But he couldn’t squash the memory of Wilde’s face, slippery with blood beneath frantic fingers, or the haunted look in Wilde’s eyes when he emerged from isolation.

“I won’t even be gone long, Zolf. Curie is going to meet me in Hiroshima.”

Zolf opened his mouth to argue further, and was stopped by Wilde closing his eyes, looking genuinely tired for a moment. Normally Wilde relished a bit of verbal sparring and the two of them fought as easily as they breathed. But something about the way he sighed gave Zolf pause.

When Wilde next spoke, his voice was soft, a rare pleading in his tone. “I know, Zolf. I know you don’t like it. I don’t like it, but I have been looking at these same four walls for months. I am sick of not being a productive member of this team.”

“WHAT!” Zolf exploded. “You are the most productive member! Me n’ Barnes n’ Carter would be nothin’ without-”

“You know what I mean!” Wilde said, frustrated. Zolf hardly ever saw him like this. Anger was an emotion that Wilde kept locked away, just like his fear. “I’m sick of people treating me like I’m some sort of china doll, just because I can’t cast anymore!”

Zolf spluttered. “You’re not- we don’- nobody said-”

Wilde raised his hand. “I appreciate your concern, Zolf, I really do. But I’m going on this mission. And I am asking you-” Wilde drew a deep breath in through his nose “-to trust me.”

Well. That had been played like a trump card. Zolf felt something in him release, the angry churn of his stomach dissipating. If there was any truth left in the world at this point, it was that Zolf trusted Wilde.

He nodded.

---

As was protocol, on the evening he returned, Zolf, Barnes and Carter made themselves scarce until Wilde was safely in the anti-magic chamber, not detouring to any other rooms of the inn. They had arrangements for how to handle if a returning party member didn’t head straight for what they’d all started calling “the box,” but thankfully it was yet to come up. Zolf headed in after, with the keys to the cell, fresh clothes, and a bowl of prawn gyoza in hand.

“How’s Hiroshima?” Zolf asked, locking up and passing through the food.

Wilde didn’t respond, just levelled Zolf with a flat glare.

Zolf shrugged. “You can talk to me, an’ if at the end of the week you’re compromised, I’ll just assume that anythin’ you said was false intel, yeah? Until then,” Zolf pulled up the chair that sat outside and cell and settled it. “There’s no harm in it going this way,” he swept his hand from Wilde’s direction toward himself. “I just won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.” He, quite simply, was not going to take no for an answer. He wasn’t leaving Wilde alone with his thoughts for a week.

Wilde managed to look disapproving for a moment more, then a little smirk slipped through the veneer. “I find it difficult to believe you know anything I don’t, Smith.”

“Oh, sod off.”

“I can’t help it if I just happen to be the brains of the operation.” Wilde gave a small, defeated chuckle, and sat on the cot. He started undoing the anti-magic cuffs and massaging his ankles. Sometimes when there was no one using the box, Wilde would come sleep down here just for a chance to take them off for a little while.

“Hiroshima is well enough, but Curie says Cairo is a mess. The sandstorms have been giving it absolute hell. Anyone who doesn’t still need to be there isn’t, though it’s still seeing a lot of refugee traffic.” He picked up the food Zolf had passed through.

“From Europe?”

Wilde nodded between popping gyoza into his mouth. “These are very good, you know.”

Zolf waved a hand. “Hiromi’s been giving me lessons. She’s much nicer about it than her husband.”

Wilde updated Zolf on Curie’s operation. When he mentioned that she had been gifted the old Tahan estate, Zolf’s gut squeezed. It had been… almost over a year since he’d seen Hamid, and months since they’d last heard from him and the others. It was almost impossible to think that they were still alive, but without bodies or news, there was no way forward. Both men were left lingering in ambivalence, hope laid thick and heavy over a grief that couldn’t surface.

Wilde finished his food and frowned. He spoke more hesitantly than before. “There is one more thing I should tell you. We need to update some of the protocols.”

“Yeh? Howso?”

“The blue vein rumours? About the infected? Confirmed. More importantly, Curie says in every instance of a double agent, the blue veins have appeared on the body first, not the face or hands.” Wilde was overexplaining in a way that was unlike him. “In addition to the quarantine, being on the lookout for behavioural changes, Curie also recommended we do,” Wilde hesitated, again in a most un-Wilde-like fashion, “…visual inspections of those in quarantine. Thorough ones.” He fluttered nervous hands up and down his torso to illustrate.

As Zolf slowly turned over the implications, Wilde turned to rummage through his bag and withdraw papers. He gestured for Zolf to come take them through the slot.

“Reports, signed and sealed, detailing it all.”

Zolf took them, still absorbing what Wilde had said. He didn’t look through the bars. If he had, he would have seen something cautious and watchful in Wilde’s eyes.

The silence stretched on too long between them.

“Anyway, if you don’t mind, I am going to get some sleep. The boat from here to the mainland isn’t exactly a luxury cruiser, and I am exhausted.” Wilde flumped down onto the cot to punctuate the point.

“I… yeh. I’ll go have a look through these reports.” As Zolf walked away from the box, he paused in the door. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. I’m glad you’re safe, he didn’t add.

“Of course you are,” Wilde replied without missing a beat. “This place must be dreadfully dull without me to liven it up for you.”

Zolf rolled his eyes and headed upstairs.

Having read through Curie’s reports, the next day Zolf went back to Wilde’s cell with his heart in his mouth.

Naked inspections. It’s just one thing after another in this brave new fucking world, isn’t it, he thought, agitated.

The whole situation was ridiculous. What was he so worried about? After everything they’d been through there was a certain trust, an ease between them now. What was a bit of nudity in the face of all that?

He was only feeling nervy about it because he was sure that Wilde was going to be a dick about it, in his usual style. Getting under Zolf’s skin hadn’t stopped being a hobby of Wilde’s, and this whole situation set the stage for his insufferable needling.

Wilde stood quickly as Zolf entered. He’d changed out of the clothes he’d travelled to Hiroshima in, and was now wearing long dark pants and his favourite yukata, the one with green and pink floral pattern.

“I read through all the reports,” Zolf began.

“We might as well get this over with,” Wilde said at the same time, and then laughed a little manically.

Zolf took his seat, waited for Wilde to quiet, then continued. “Curie also recommended we start askin’ people to tell us stories of things that only the other would know. Code words aren’t enough because it’s more about how you do the retellin’ than it is about the information.” Wilde’s face relaxed at the notion of delaying what came next.

“I’ll get you to tell me about… tell me how you remember our first meetin’, then.” Zolf said. Since all the other people who were there are either dead or presumed dead, he didn’t want to add.

Wilde launched into an explanation of flaming notepads, blood noses, slipping into his storyteller shoes with relief. It was nice to listen to him perform, even if thinking about Hamid and Sasha was depressing.

“And,” Wilde wound up, “I just happened to linger by the door and overhear you mention something about my bum, of all things. Now, if you’ll do me the favour of telling what that was, and we can all move forward assured of each other’s memory, though probably not their integrity.”

Oh, curses. He hadn’t thought Wilde had still been around for those comments. He crossed his arms and frowned loudly.

“Come now Zolf, you’ve already said it, you can’t take it back now.” Exactly as Zolf had suspected, Wilde seemed to be delighting in causing Zolf discomfort once again, whilst he slipped back into his old, familiar smarm. Wilde wrapped his hands around the bars of the cell and bounced slightly on his toes.

“I said,” Zolf pinched the bridge of his nose. “I said it was very nice.” And he stood by it, but Wilde didn’t need to know that.

Wilde laughed, free and throaty, running his hand through his hair in a way that Zolf knew, if he had access to his magic, would be accompanied by a bawdy shimmer of sparkles. For a moment, things felt bright.

The energy snapped back. Wilde wasn’t performing for a party, he wasn’t needling Zolf for a laugh, he was locked up in a cell waiting to find out if he had an infection that would turn him into something unrecognizable and dangerous… Wilde dropped his hands from the adamantine, and the two of them fell silent.

“I can go get Barnes, if you’d prefer,” Zolf said with a useless gesture. Wilde was already shaking his head.

“What’s a bit of nudity between… friends.” Wilde asked, with a quizzical tilt of his head. His eyes were asking does friends really cover it anymore? Zolf didn’t have an answer.

Zolf didn’t know how to get this whole awkward scenario started, so he just waited, his mouth dry. There was something so grim in Wilde’s face, and Zolf didn’t understand. His obvious discomfort with the notion of watching Wilde undress should’ve delighted the man. It should have been ammunition.

As Wilde started on the ties of his yukata, for the briefest of moments, Zolf’s discomfort was replaced by a blistering anger at the absurdity of it all. All those moments he had wanted to be closer to Wilde, to touch his bare skin or to hold him… but he hadn’t asked for this. Between the two of them hung a nascent possibility. A possibility that Zolf was only just starting to acknowledge, and that deserved a chance to blossom.

That instead it should be forced to happen like this, through cell bars, was perversely unfair. To him. To Wilde. To the pair of them and all the ways that this could have been different.

Wilde paused, as if seeing the flash of anger in Zolf’s eyes. He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “Thinking about… hmph. The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” With that non sequitur, he disrobed, turning his body to drape the cloth over the cot.

As he turned back, Zolf was struck by a sudden realisation; he’d never seen Wilde with his shirt off. Never swum together, never seen him coming back from bathing with a towel around his waist. Even in the heat, Wilde always wore his shirt buttoned, his yukata firmly tied. Zolf swore he could see Wilde’s chest in his mind’s eye. It just made sense. Wilde had certainly seen Zolf’s chest; they’d been living in each other’s pockets for almost a year now and Zolf didn’t think much of it.

But no, because if he’d seen Wilde without the shirt, he would know that Wilde had a smattering of dark chest hair. And more scars on his torso than seemed right. The wounds from Douglas had torn two messy gashes near the ribs, and those scars were present as expected. But there were two more - slightly crescent shaped, uniform and well-healed - swooping across his chest just beneath flat nipples.

Surgical scars.

The air was knocked out of Zolf’s lungs. His body had grasped answers before his mind did. His thoughts felt sluggish, crawling, gasping to catch up, and when they did it was with the lurching realisation of just how unfair it was that they had been brought here, to this cell, to this grotesque scenario, against their will.

Wilde undid the drawstring of his pants and stepped out of them. Dark hair ran in a soft line from his navel down, fanning out to the triangle that dipped between his legs. His face was carefully blank, as he lifted his hands, palms up, in a sardonic “ta-dah” gesture.

Zolf was frozen inside his mind, as Wilde turned slowly on the spot.

He did have a fantastic arse, the perfect balance of muscular and plush, and once again Zolf was furious that any hint of eros in this had been utterly perverted.

Wilde turned back to face Zolf and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Zolf nodded again, his mouth dry. Wilde dressed, not rushed but efficient.

They sat in silence for a time.

“You never told me,” was all Zolf could think of to say.

“Fantastically witty and incisive commentary from one Zolf Smith, yet again,” Wilde said, voice like acrid smoke. Nothing made Wilde bite like losing the upper hand.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I jus’, I’ll go-” Zolf tried to walk and turn at the same time and knocked into the stool, clanging it down to the floor. He righted it with hands that shook and headed for the stairs.

“Zolf!” Wilde called after him. “You don’t have to leave.”

Well. That was as close to begging as Wilde ever got.

Zolf returned to his stool, and re-joined the silence. Wilde sat on the cot, watching the close wall of the cell with a face that Zolf recognised; it was one of Wilde’s favourite expressions, deliberately mild, open, waiting. It gave away nothing and invited everything. For Wilde, it was safety.

Other people, people who didn’t know Wilde as well, might take that as an invitation to speak. Zolf wasn’t other people. He thought about all the times he’d stumbled through something awkward, with good intentions but clumsy words. He had no idea how to proceed, other than it was probably wise to wait, and let Wilde find words first.

“Don’t feel bad about me not telling you.” Wilde said eventually. “It usually doesn’t come up, unless I’m sleeping with someone. Even then you’d be impressed at what can be achieved with creative use of props, dim lighting and a bit of magic.” He trailed his hand wistfully through the air, an impotent somatic component.

Zolf continued to wait, to leave the man space. Zolf wasn’t the one who’d been stripped, forced into a deeply personal disclosure without plan or intent.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed, you see. It's more… it feels like handing over a weapon, and I try to avoid that if I can. And well, I’m usually not in someone’s acquaintance long enough to feel bad about keeping it a secret.” There was an apology tucked between the words, and Zolf nodded even though Wilde wasn’t watching

He paused to run his thumb over the facial scarring, once, twice. “Bosie knew.”

Wilde let the silence stretch on long enough that Zolf felt like he had to speak or he would never stop thinking about skidding through Wilde’s blood on a cold stone floor. “You… you used to use your magic for it, righ’?”

Wilde barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh yes, for practically all of it! It was the reason I got so good at glamours! Back in Cairo I… I suspected that an anti-magic chamber or cuffs might halt the hexing, but I couldn’t, you see? I’d been doing it for so long. Everyone knew me as a man.” He shrugged, saying obviously with his shoulders. “I couldn’t go back.”

Zolf examined Wilde’s face. He was still carefully keeping his gaze on the cell wall. He still had that mild expression on his face, as though they discussed what to have for lunch, not one of the lowest points of his life. But he didn’t seem upset, so Zolf pressed on. “What happened?”

“Oh I…” he huffed a small laugh. “I got lucky. Turns out Grizzop already knew. I don’t think I reacted quite right when he punched me in the crotch.” Now something like genuine fondness crept into Wilde’s voice. “He suspected what might happen if I had to stop casting; he helped smooth things over. I was in no position to be fending for myself at that juncture, I had let the curse go on too long.” Wilde looked at his hands. “I will always be grateful to him.”

Wilde sounded like a man who knew, without a doubt, that the object of his gratitude was dead.

“Once it became clear the cuffs were going to become a permanent accessory, he set things up with the Cult of Aphrodite for me to have surgery and for them to supply the right potions. They have all the gear and know-how, of course. Not everyone in my position is a caster.”

Something else clicked in place for Zolf as he pondered the technicalities of non-magical surgery.

“Wait a minute. You were still recovering from that when we joined back up, weren’t you?”

Wilde’s brow crinkled as he considered timelines. “That’s right. Scarring needs to heal with almost no magical intervention, otherwise it’s back to square one. So it was… quite painful, to be quite honest. And compared to magical healing, the process drags on and on.”

Wilde smoothed a hand over his robe-clad chest. “I like it better this way now. No more binding my chest just in case, though I try to be careful about who sees the scars.” His voice was light, that faux-levelness starting to fade and he just, talked. Wilde was relieved, Zolf realised with a start. He wanted to tell Zolf about these things.

“It’s nice to just … be myself. Even at the end of day when I’m tired and can’t cast anymore.” And he finally looked at Zolf and smiled. Not a smirk or grin, just a completely open smile that welcomed Zolf into his joy instead of belittling or declaring victory with it. Even with the scar, sitting in a dim cell, he looked radiant.

As Zolf went to smile back, he felt his face wobble. This - Wilde smiling, confiding, being easy and honest with him - it was a better outcome than he could have hoped for. He felt the sudden bloom of Wilde’s smile in his chest, the warmth of the man’s trust.

But this was merely day one of seven, and it was still terrifyingly possible that the man who sat across from him was not Wilde at all. So Zolf’s smile twisted as it appeared on his face, and he didn’t reply, allowing them to lapse back into silence.

Day 2

“Wouldn’ it be- well not easier but less, I dunno- to just wait and do one inspection on the last day?” Zolf asked. He’d brought down breakfast and the paper, and they’d sat quietly as they ate; Wilde had finished eating and was starting on the motions of undressing.

“Zolf. My dear.” Wilde cocked his head in that patronising way that he did when he thought Zolf had said something legitimately dumb. “If I am reading your intentions correctly, your plan for the week is to eschew all your other jobs to waste away at my door-” Zolf opened his mouth to argue and Wilde simply raised his voice and pressed on “-not that I am complaining, but if you truly are going to while away the days with me, and then on the final day, you find out I have been infected the whole time and have to kill me, how, pray tell, is that going to make you feel?”

Zolf snapped his mouth shut.

“Wouldn’t you rather know as soon as it comes up?” Wilde pointed out, frustratingly reasonable.

Zolf simply wanted to throw the cell doors open because there didn’t seem any possibility that the man behind the bars was anything other than 100% pure, vexatious Oscar Wilde, but he stilled his twitching hand. Wilde’s question was to remain unanswered as Zolf simply gestured go on then and Wilde, with a grim, self-satisfied nod, started to strip.

Day 3

“No, don’tcha see, if Jennifer had gone to Antony in the garden, her mother would have known from the get-go-”

“But I simply don’t see how Alianne knowing would have improved things for Jennifer-”

“She was supportive, she could’ve helped smooth things over when Antony’s sister started her meddlin’, and they could have wrapped the whole thing up before supper!”

“Yes, but where is the fun in that, Zolf?”

Day 4

As Wilde dispassionately disrobed for a fourth time, Zolf realised there was now a familiarity to Wilde’s naked body, and that was jarring.

He wasn’t lanky, not really, but Zolf couldn’t help but think of most humans that way. The truth was he was solid enough in build, surprisingly muscular for a man who mostly rode a desk. His legs and arse especially were firm with it. He does a lot of walking about the village, I s’pose.

Zolf watched Wilde turn on the spot and he longed to trace the shape of Wilde’s shoulders, cup his ass, rub my damn nose in that soft lookin’ chest hair and…

Zolf ground his teeth against the wrongness of it all.

He thought of slipping his hands between Wilde’s legs, and though the shape of the fantasy had changed, the intensity had not.

It had been a long time since Zolf had felt a physical or sexual attraction like this, and the fact that it was at the most inconvenient time, and the most unlikely person, was enough to make him think he’d made a mistake breaking ties with Poseidon. Maybe if he hadn’t eschewed divine favour, he would have been protected from whatever trickster god had decided to throw this at him.

He kept his hands in his pockets so that Wilde wouldn’t see him clench his fists.

Maybe I should offer to strip too. At least that would put us on an equally horrible footing, Zolf mused.

Wilde dressed and turned back to look at Zolf with careful, watchful eyes. Wilde was in the business of reading even the most inscrutable enemies like a book, and at this point he had a thorough translation guide for Zolf. He knew it bothered the dwarf. The fact that Wilde hadn’t made a bunch of lewd comments was probably his idea of a kindness, but the absence of Wilde’s typical peacocking it somehow made it worse.

When he looked at him like that, it made Zolf feel like he was the one in the cell.

Zolf cleared his throat. “Got a new crossword book if you like?”

Day 5

“Pawn to E4.”

A chess board sat on a small table just outside the cell. Zolf moved the white pawn for Wilde then took his own move.

“Knight to G3.” Wilde said in a bored tone. He’d voted for bridge, but Zolf had talked him out of it. Too difficult to wrangle cards between the cell’s bars and mesh, he’d pointed out. Which was true, but what was also true was that Wilde was surprisingly bad at chess (it was much easier to cheat in cards).

Whilst Zolf did feel sympathy for Wilde, things weren’t so bad that Zolf wasn’t going to relish the opportunity to beat him at something for a change.

Day 6

Each day Wilde got closer to being comfortable with the inspections. Closer but not there. Half a lifetime of needing to be guarded about who saw your body created some strong foundational habits. That foundation wasn’t going to be eroded in seven days, regardless of how much you trusted the person who saw you.

But still, it could have been worse. Zolf shuddered to think what would have happened if this situation had been thrust on them a year ago. Their friendship, tenuous as it was, might not have been able to survive.

Dressing again, Wilde stretched the kinks out of neck. “I cannot wait to get out of here and have a proper bath and a nice long walk.”

“Nearly there.” Zolf said absently. He’d stopped needing to worry every second moment that Wilde was infected. Even though they’d been dealing with it all with distractions, with laughter, with pretending like it wasn’t happening, Zolf felt the sudden urge to be honest.

“I’m sorry that… that it happened like this. That you didn’t get a choice in tellin’ me about...” Your past? Your journey? Your truth? “…Everythin’.”

Wilde made a face of surprise, but instead of deflecting the offer of an honest conversation, he accepted. “Me too. I intended to, but as I said. I’m rarely… close enough with someone that I feel they deserve it. I wish-” Wilde paused, considering his next words, and what other weapons he might be handing over, deeply. “I wish that the circumstances had been different.”

Zolf could just ask what he meant. He could. It was practically an invitation for him to press, to force Wilde to clarify exactly under what circumstance he’d envisioned sharing secrets about his body with Zolf… but he didn’t.

Inside Zolf, uneasy guilt gnawed at him. The circumstances they had were only these ones. Wilde was vulnerable, caged, and thoroughly without a choice; but Zolf knew there were moments he’d chosen to ignore those elements. He knew, deep in his guilty core, he had been inspecting far more than he had the right. It didn’t feel honourable to press Wilde any further after that.

“Yeah.” Zolf stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Wilde. Last day ‘n all.”

Day 7

“It would have been too much to hope that the bloody sun would come out for this, wouldn’t it,” Wilde grumbled.

Freshly released, he was pondering umbrella selection in the entry hall.

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to come with,” Zolf ventured. Wilde had come out of his quarantine cheerful enough, but there was something understandably off about him; something distant and a little contemplative. Zolf had been half-expecting, or even hoping for, one of Wilde’s warm shoulder-touches. But he had kept his hands firmly to himself.

Wilde looked up, mouth twisted wryly. “I think I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, as he always did before saying something sincere. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me this week, Zolf, but I could use a little space.”

Zolf nodded. He’d expected as much.

Inside him, the guilt twisted a little, the word violator rising in his mind. No. Neither of them had chosen anything about this situation. If anything, their connection felt even stronger for having been through the wringer, yet again. Whatever liberties Zolf accused himself of taking, it wasn’t enough to dent that.

We’re alright. Zolf thought.

We’ll be alright. I think we both could use a little time, is all.

Wilde selected the green umbrella, gave Zolf a tentative smile, and headed out into the rain.

[lyeekha]

In the mirror he could see Ernest stood behind him, tie tucked safely into his vest, sleeves rolled up and a towel slung over one shoulder. He had ushered Lemony to a seat with a headrest, politely remaining in eyeline and not making any surreptitious-looking movements. He had removed his suit jacket and pointed out that, really, you needed to be topless for this, and Lemony had said oh yes, of course, as if this had slipped his mind instead of caused him to hesitate, and taken off his shirt, and nobody had made a fuss about it, and he had actually relaxed, and now Ernest was rubbing something into his neck that smelt... incredible. It smelt of summer.

The manager was obviously skilled, that hadn't been a lie. His palms worked the oil across his flesh with just the right firmness and friction to make his skin tingle. His fingertips pressed confidently into the exact hollows that made him hum with appreciation. He wanted more than anything to drift off and allow himself to be looked after, but Lemony was still playing the game. He had to be. As casually as possible, he watched Ernest's reflection. The man seemed totally absorbed in his work. In fact, Ernest looked more peaceful than he had ever seen him before. The enigmatic smile didn't seem as forced, though still impenetrable. A slight, strange frown of concentration was on his brow. Something ancient stirred in the back of Lemony's mind. He could believe that this was a genuine pleasure for Ernest, no matter what other motives were in play. The attraction of a simple, intimate, uncomplicated, repetitive task. Lemony cleared his throat and summoned a more jovial tone.

Thank you!!! (Pick a passage or comic chapter of mine for commentary)

this ones from Double Edged so, spoilers for that. sorry if its too much and maybe incomprehensible i just wrote everything i thought in a stream

The idea of rival spies in a truce having an unspoken etiquette about making sure the other person can see what they’re doing clearly at all times really amused me and also seemed like a natural progression for people who just, Live Like This all the time. Kind of like the body language animals develop to deliberately signal trust and lack of threat? Like when cats do the long blink or prey animals make a big show of laying down near you. Of course then you have it as a reassuring gesture, and that gesture being false, and I’ve set myself up for the whole rest of the thing to be about successfully and realistically (enough) distracting Lemony without him noticing.

Humans are the animals that do this too, of course. it is the same thing as normal body language just made more pointed. I have Ernest as having complete control over his body language and complete observation of everyone elses, in a Derren Brown type reading/manipulation style.

I like slipping dialogue into the narration here because it cuts out a lot of stuff that’s boring to read and skips a bit of time by having Lemony reflect on things that have just happened. the whole thing is in past tense but this is like, a few minutes further past tense than everything else. Means I can just put the pertinent things. Also it was very important for this bit to happen very fast so that you get his POV sense of being swept along with ‘naturally unfolding’ events. It buries the fact that Ernest now has possession of Lemony’s jacket by making the second half of that sentence much more engaging and interesting looking and easy to move on to - which is exactly what Ernest is doing by saying something distracting as he performs the natural gesture. It’s all about giving the reader the same experience as Lemony, that’s the goal for this one.

Lem is a bit nervous about taking clothes off - which is reasonable, actually - but also he’s a bit precious about it in general because of a lifetime habit of showing skin equalling danger (tattoo) and being vulnerable (without disguise or situation-appropriate clothing). I’m thinking of socks and the symbolic importance of clothes in atwq, the reliance on the disguise kit forever, the scene-appropriate netflix outfits to blend in all the time. That’s whats canon anyway - this all also contributes to my headcanon of trans Lemony, and I made sure to imply top surgery scars in the illustration. Again, vital to remember that its Lem’s POV (even though it’s not in first person), so ‘nobody made a fuss about it’ both tells you his relief that no comment about his body (whether salacious or surprise or mockery) was made and cements that he was nervous in the first place. 

Of course Ernest wouldnt say anything, or even visibly react at all. He is a practiced expert of the service industry.

This is also in contrast with Jacques, who has complete confidence in showing skin. Lem feigning absent-mindedness to disguise hesitation feeds into the overall ongoing thing of Lemony trying to be smooth, and I reckon hes’s coping by pulling directly from how he’s seen Jacques act. This whole seductive wiles angle isn’t really Lemony’s scene and his awkward phrasing and justifications in his own thoughts about it reflects this. Pretending to be going along with stuff he can do, but the playful flirty aspect is different and throws him a bit. So its pretty much all from what he knows of J’s playbook. Of course Ernest isn’t fooled by the faux casualness, and Lemony knows he isnt, but its the polite etiquette to go along with face value that makes everyone more comfortable. Lot of that in this fic. 

‘and he had actually relaxed’ the word ‘actually’ implying his surprise as he’d been intending to only pretend to relax - same with ‘that hadn’t been a lie’, as in, well *that* at least was true. Lem is double checking literally everything Ernest says. The fact that he is actually a practiced masseuse sells the idea to Lemony that this is not just a ruse to get his top off or whatever. And at the same time reassures the reader that Lem is not actually being a complete idiot - he is constantly suspicious of everything as always, and remains so throughout

It smelt of summer.... I wanted a feeling more than a specific scent. Its how it makes him feel. He can’t pinpoint it exactly because its too evocative. To me, smelling of summer evokes warm spice and mango. Also, the sudden switch from a factual barrage to slow and conceptual is a strong feeling. 

The fast pacing and then the sudden slow at the end of the paragraph like a sigh. Like the feeling of being swept along and then being a bit bewildered, bit ‘i can’t beleive this is actually happening’, bit ‘how did i get here’, bit proper relaxing. 

Then slow and meandering pacing, to match Ernest’s hands. Palm oil. Flesh Firmness Friction.

Ernest said pointedly earlier that the mirror was for Lemony to watch him, to feel safe. So he is well aware - and is in fact encouraging - that Lemony study his reflection at this point. However, I hope I managed to get a good genuine vibe in here. Ernest enjoys this, and is finding it relaxing. Probably the actual genuine feeling from him is a huge advantage to calming Lemony down, Lem can probably pick up on fakeness very well subconsciously, so the verisimilitude is Ernest’s best weapon. Also, he wants for selfish reasons. He doesn’t get physical contact because of his position, and when he does its not someone that understands why. And Lemony understands him. And he understands Lemony. Better than most on their respective sides do. Lem even acknowledges in his own narration - 'genuine pleasure... no matter what other motives were in play’ - that the truth and the trick are not mutually exclusive. he gets it.

Very intentional focus on enigmatic smile and brow in quick succession, which happens repeated through the story - yes we are invoking Ellington this fic, more quietly at first and then stronger later. A stirring of something ancient, you might say. 

And yes, the mind naturally wanders to other simple, intimate, uncomplicated, repetitive tasks and he has to shut that line of thought down immediately, something Lemony gets increasingly worse at doing as the fic goes on. Shoving words like ‘pleasure’ and ‘stirring’ and that technically accurate description together heavily implies Lem’s growing arousal. Just to really spell that out. Just in case. If it’s missed it would be there subliminally enough im sure.

Thanks for asking and a great choice of section, I havent read this commentary back so here it is have it immediately before i remember what i forgot and edit forever