It was a nagging idea, though it had to be addressed one way or another. The older Victor's words did nothing to alleviate Victor's fears, in fact as soon as the man began to show signs of doubt, so too did the younger Victor's concern grow. He hadn't noticed anything between the two, though he wasn't entirely sure he was looking in the right places. Certainly there was only one way to get to the bottom of this, and that was to ask the man of the hour. An interrogation was necessary, if only to set his heart to rest. And so, Victor sat in the passenger seat of Sherlock's car, parked under a thick canopy of trees in the middle of a dirt road. They were deliberately lost, with the intention of no one finding them.
"You've never quite gotten used to weed, have you Victor?" Sherlock chuckled, reclining his seat so that he could blow his sour puffs of smoke out the sunroof. Victor's eyes creased, though he only just noticed that he had only taken one puff of the rolled joint in his fingers. Sherlock, alternatively, had almost smoked his through.
"It's uh...well it's not a nice flavor," Victor admitted.
"It's smoke!" Sherlock chuckled. "It's not supposed to have a flavor."
"Well, then it smells bad. Either way I think it's quite foul," Victor admitted.
"Then why waste my joints by accepting one?"
"You sort of just...handed it to me," Victor pointed out. He looked down upon the small rolled paper, frowning at the smoldering end and wondering if it would be polite to simply throw the thing out the window. He didn't like to be high, especially when he had serious business to discuss. Certainly he should keep a clear head for this confrontation, as he needed to get the words exactly right. The trouble here was the fine line between accusing and insulting, for he had made the mistake before. Sherlock took himself very seriously, and even more so he held his sexuality to an almost godlike standard. To question his current romantic affiliations, especially when suggesting disloyalty, would undoubtedly snap him into a defensive mode. And a defensive Sherlock was no conversationalist.
"Well if you don't want it, I'll finish it," Sherlock offered at last, having taken a moment to decide as if this was a very delicate situation. As if he wasn't desperately looking to get a better high in the same amount of time, anyway.
"Two at once?" Victor chuckled, only realizing the poor choice of words after they had both laughed about it. After Sherlock had received the joint in his fingers and stuck it within his lips. Two at once. How many other things was he able to balance so beautifully?
"Sherlock, I wanted to talk to you about something," Victor admitted at last, his stomach twisting in apprehension as he averted his eyes away from his companion. Sherlock pursed his lips, as if he could feel the mood shift dramatically. The boy didn't like any serious conversation, though today he did not have a choice. If Victor was left to agonize over this question alone he would lose even more sleep, he would descend into a state of unhealthiness that was too much to bear.
"I'm listening," Sherlock grumbled, pulling both blunts out of his mouth and breathing an almost impossible plume of foul smoke. Most of this smoke missed the mark, and instead of venting out of the sunroof it instead hit the roof of the car, billowing down towards the windshield and fogging it tremendously.
"I've been thinking a little bit about...about the progression of things," Victor admitted. "How they're supposed to unfold."
"Oh yes? I hope you're not thinking too much into it," Sherlock cooed.
"I...well I suppose I have to think too much into it. It's our destiny, after all."
"Destiny is such a boring thing to ponder," Sherlock complained. Victor readjusted himself in his seat, determined to stare at Sherlock as he talked, determined to watch his facial expressions change as the conversation escalated.
"I know that you're destined to be with John, and I want to know what you're thinking about that," Victor admitted at last. Victor wasn't sure what he was most afraid of after such a question. Perhaps a denial too quickly, one which rang suspicious, or even a sudden fit of anger. What followed instead, that small, knowing smile, seemed to be worse than both combined.
"What do I think about that? Well, what is there to think about? Some musty old book told John Watson that two hundred years ago I slept with him. I rather think that's the end of the story," Sherlock pointed out.
"Not just two hundred years ago. Every single lifetime we've all shared," Victor insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily, though he still did not have the curtesy to clear his mouth of his drugs. Instead he smiled around them, and he attempted to speak his logic through the muffled juxtaposition of two blunts sticking against his tongue.
"Whatever you're really trying to ask me, please be forward with it. I hate having to guess."
"I'm asking if you're interested in John. Or if...if he's been showing interest towards you."
"Victor...I'm the sort of man who doesn't dwell too much on emotions," Sherlock began. "Interest, love, romance...all are just words attempting to put a value on a basic human instinct. You think too much into these things."
"What the h*ll does that mean?" Victor growled, wishing for a straight answer rather than Sherlock's jumbled attempts at philosophy. At this moment in time he needed something definitive, something not just to contemplate, but to hold on to. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be playing Socrates at the moment; he was supposed to be displaying loyalty. He was supposed to be cooperative.
"It means don't worry about it," Sherlock explained, though his voice was condescending, as if he was speaking to a small dog who didn't know how to behave himself. Victor's eyes squinted, though at the moment he could not find anything other than amusement within Sherlock's facial expression. Was he a good enough actor to hide the guilt, or was there simply nothing to be guilty of?
"Is it not obvious that I'm already worried?" Victor murmured quietly, to which Sherlock pulled the joints from his mouth and pouted his lips in an attempt to be understanding. It wasn't a polite mimicry, in fact Victor felt as if his concerns were being treated like a joke, as if two hundred years of repeated history was not enough to justify a concern.
"What do you want from me, if not a denial?"
"That wasn't a denial, that was word play!" Victor complained.
"Fine, a denial then. Victor, I'm not sleeping with John," Sherlock announced, lifting his arms towards the roof and even sticking one of his hands through the open sunshield, as if to demonstrate his pledge to a god he did not even believe in. Victor hesitated, not so quick to take Sherlock's word to heart. He was in many ways a manipulator, and he seemed to have mastered the art of telling people what they wanted to know. How as this situation any different from the past, in such situations that the boy had to get himself out of trouble? How many times had he lied to a school administrator, saying that his weed was medically prescribed, how many times had he lied directly to the faces of Victor's parents in an attempt to cover up their relationship? How many times would he be prepared to lie to cover up anything else he was hiding, to whoever it was he deemed unnecessary to know? Victor had to no reason to doubt Sherlock at the moment, as he had not yet (to Victor's knowledge, at least) lied to his face. Was this the first time? Or should Victor rely more on precedent, rather than suspicion? A better question, a more reasonable one at that, would simply be...what choice did he have? What grounds did he have to back an accusation on, if Sherlock's words were saying what he wanted to hear?
"Alright, fine," Victor decided at last, turning his hands apprehensively and finally averting his eyes. It was difficult to maintain eye contact for an extended amount of time, especially when Sherlock's irises did so much work to convince him. The way they darted back and forth, the way they deepened into a falsified sense of comfort. He was a machine of a man, determined to get what he wanted any every step of his life. Oh the ridiculous, beautiful thing. Victor had chosen a dangerous creature to love.
"If we're speaking about the house, you know, because that's so rare...I might ask you something as well," Sherlock suggested, leaning forward upon the cup holders and stretching his lips into a smile. Both blunts were dangling from his two fingers, tapping their ashes upon the steering wheel. "Are you scared of John?"
"Scared? Well...no," Victor muttered, squirming in his seat and wishing he might have said that more convincingly. "I'm not scared of him...not yet at least."
"Not until he tries to kill us?" Sherlock joked.
"He won't kill us," Victor snapped.
"I wish I believed you," Sherlock sighed, reaching one of his hands to stroke the outline of Victor's jaw. His fingers poked sharply upon the bone, smoothing along the singular crease as if to admire the exact structure of Victor's skull. Of course the boy was only too happy to be under review, and so Victor held his head steady, acting and obeying as any smitten boyfriend might.
"I'm not afraid of John; I'm just worried I'll lose you. It seems as though Victor Trevors are designed to lose what they love the most," Victor admitted quietly, his words moving his jaw just enough that Sherlock's fingers eventually had to give up and grab hold, securing Victor's chin within his grasp and exposing his teeth as his lower lip sagged.
"Why are you so sure you'll lose me? If I were you, I'd be approaching John Watson with these final questions. He came here under the guise of being your best friend, but look how you despise him," Sherlock taunted.
"I don't...who ever said I despised him?" Victor snarled, recoiling enough to provide a fitting reaction, though not enough so that Sherlock's hand would be pulled away. He rather enjoyed the touch, it was an attempt at intimacy that had not been made in a small while.
"I read body language, dear. I read your eyes when he speaks, and your body when he approaches. You're repulsed, there's no point in hiding it."
"It's that house. It's trying to pull us apart, because it made a mistake when it allowed us to be friends. When it allowed us to be close," Victor pointed out.
"Perhaps it wants a different ending," Sherlock suggested.
"Or perhaps it wants to watch me lose both my best friend and my boyfriend, all in the same event!"
"Boyfriend?" Sherlock chuckled, finally dropping his hands from Victor's chin and withdrawing to his side of the car. "Victor, the labels. You know I don't like the labels." Sherlock swished his hand across his head, as if batting at an imaginary fly, though Victor knew that was just his dramatic showing of disgust. It was as if he was trying to shoo away the very word Victor was so proud to use. There might have been a heavy clunk, something like a rock hitting against the engine underneath the car. If feelings were properly personified, and hearts really could drop, Sherlock would've heard it. The ground would've felt it. A rock, plummeting to the earth, a heart tunneling its way to the molten core.
"I thought...I thought that's what we were?" Victor whispered, his voice crackling over his struggling throat.
"I don't do boyfriends. I do a lot of things, but I don't want to get all official."
"But I thought that's what we were? I thought we were...exclusive?" Victor whispered again, repeating his same accusation as if Sherlock hadn't heard correctly. Certainly Sherlock didn't like labels, though could he not bring himself to like this one?
"You really do think a lot into things, don't you Victor?" Sherlock chuckled as he said this, as if Victor's despair was something to laugh about, something to mock. The boy never felt a single emotion, did he? It was as if that heart, so quick to be handed to another, was rooted so deeply into his partners that it failed to send any signals back to his ridiculous, struggling brain.
"You're being a bit rude," Victor insisted, his voice struggling to capture the exact heartbreak he was trying to define. In fact it was nearing impossible to speak at all, for the words Victor would prefer to use would have choked his voice with sobs. Rude was an understatement. Rude was a compliment. Sherlock allowed his smile to drop for a whole thirty seconds, a straight face that was supposed to be for courtesy, though as soon as he regained himself he was back to that pathetic little half smile, that grin that he wore when he was trying and failing to be serious.
"We're together, Victor. We're together." Sherlock assured at last.
"I don't know why you're trying to downplay all of this!" Victor exclaimed. "I...I'm in love with you. I'm actually...do you even know what that feels like? What it feels like to be properly in love?"
"Why do we have to talk about love?" Sherlock exclaimed. Victor opened his mouth, caught his breath, and trapped his words with a determined snap of his jaws. He gaped wide, stared for one second, and decided that this was enough. This was...this was too much. And so he grasped for the handle of the car, fumbling with the lock for a moment before pushing the door open and stumbling out onto the road. This was enough. This was all he could handle for now.
"Victor, now come on!" Sherlock wailed his objections, though for the moment he stayed seated in the car. Perhaps he didn't know what to do; perhaps he didn't know how far Victor was prepared to go. Well of course even Victor wasn't aware of how far he had to go, for they were in the middle of nowhere in a road he could not navigate. Perhaps he would have to hitchhike, just to prove a point. What a turn of events that would be! Instead of falling prey to John Watson's hand, instead Victor would be killed by a roadside burglar who was picking up stray children on the side of the street. What a way to end this disastrous cycle of life! Best they reset it anyway, considering how disastrous their combined lifetimes were beginning to be.
As Victor began to march down the dirt road, perhaps twenty feet from the car, he heard the triumphant sound of another car door opening and snapping shut. An array of quick footfalls followed, and before long the scuffing of running feet cumulated into a hand upon the back of his shoulder, a splayed palm and fingers that grabbed ahold of the loose fabric where it dangled along his back.
"Victor, you're being hysterical," Sherlock reminded him, his voice sounding condescending though slightly empathetic, as if he was beginning to realize that he had to be nicer to the boy he was supposed to love. Supposed to being the key words here. Apparently even two hundred years of history was not enough to spark a flame of romance between them. Victor spun sharply upon his heel, smacking the hand away and recoiling from the touch, figuring it was only Sherlock's way of trying to tame him. All Sherlock knew was seduction, and unfortunately it was a very useful tool to use against Victor. Tonight he had to make sure he did not fall prey so easily. He had to get his point across before he would allow himself to be swept back into Sherlock's arms.
"I think I'm acting rationally, in fact!" Victor demanded. "I'm not sure anyone would want to be in a car with such a manipulator."
"Who said I manipulated you?" Sherlock wondered, his face sagging into a legitimate frown as soon as his own character was called into question. So he could not summon such a look of remorse in the face of Victor's tearful eyes, though he could look upset only when an insult was thrown his way!
"I did!" Victor exclaimed, pushing an accusing finger into Sherlock's chest and forcing him to fall a step backwards. The boy whined, and approached again. "First you're not my boyfriend, and then you don't love me? Why the h*ll would you bother with sleeping with me then? Why would you play with my emotions if you knew it was just that? If it was fake all this time?"
"It's not fake!" Sherlock demanded. "I care for you, of course I do! But I'm not about to be bogged down with silly verbs, or silly proper nouns."
"Do you even know what sort of grammar you're talking about?" Victor wondered doubtfully. Sherlock scoffed, dragged his foot through the dirt, and shrugged at last.
"Either way, I don't care. Is it not enough to have you by my side?"
"For how long, Sherlock? For how long, if you're really don't love me? If this is just lust, something so superficial as that, would you not pass me by the moment your interest was sparked by someone else?"
"Victor, we're seventeen. Do you really think that in the remaining...what, seventy years of our lives I will never once be interested in another soul? Do you think this is going to last us until the end of time?"
"What an awful thing to say," Victor announced, his words crackling as his eyes finally let loose the tears that were accumulating behind his lids. Slowly they began to trickle, carving paths along his smooth cheeks and dripping slowly from his sharp jawline onto the dirt below. For a moment this was a response enough. There were no words that could be summoned to display how hurt he felt, so perhaps the tears would do the trick. Perhaps each one contained a word for how he felt, and as they dropped onto the stones below they would form a sentence more convincing than could be croaked from his mouth. Sherlock might understands the tears better than the words. In fact, his shoulders slouched in remorse. His face downturned, softly at first, and then all at once. His lips unfurled from their perpetual grin, his eyes became heavily lidded until finally they shut, squeezing his own regret out in a meager couple of tears. He may have been forcing this response, finally understanding now what Victor expected to see from him. Or perhaps he was legitimately moved, as if some part of his heart would not so quickly allow Victor to cry alone. Maybe there was a spark of empathy inside of him, one so invisible that he couldn't summon it without the proper help.
Well, it was no use for either of them to cry on their own. Standing a pathetic two feet apart and separated only by hesitation, each boy muddled through his own grief and uncertainty, unsure if a hug would be allowed or was even necessary. Sherlock was worried his actions might be misinterpreted, while Victor was worried that his argument would be proved invalid as soon as he settled within Sherlock's arms. Was he really not able to keep his side of the story straight, especially when faced with tears on the opposing side? Either way, he was growing tired of the distance between them. He had two options: continue the walk home or fall into the arms of a boy who did not love him. Who claimed to not love him, while his actions were beginning to prove otherwise. Victor's momentum failed him; his grudge hesitated before stopping short of a proper complaint. He fell forward, stumbling throughout the dirt until his weight was finally captured in the chest of his lover. With arms extended and grasping like a child, Victor pulled Sherlock Holmes close to his chest and draped himself across his body, allowing his weight to fall almost completely into the boy who would have to atone for his sins. Much like Jesus had to carry the cross, now Sherlock had to carry Victor. To the car, perhaps. Or maybe just to the ground. Already the boy was beginning to grow exhausted of emotions; already victor could feel kisses in his hairline. Nothing had been solved, though the shatters that were appearing upon Victor's heart had been bandaged properly enough. He couldn't forgive Sherlock immediately, though he could pause his anger for now. He could appreciate this intimacy, and attempt to forget what would come after. He could cherish the touch of Sherlock's kiss, only if he forgot that he may not be the next recipient after tonight.