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achinghcarts

2 months ago

my honest reaction to this:

@achinghcarts i wrote this for you in one sitting straight onto tumblr, unbetaed. (!!!)

title: intimate; unidentifiable

pairing: paddy x eoin x augustin + established paddy x eoin

rating: m

also for background i'm basing this eoin off the other fic i wrote where he came back from the dead if you're wondering why he's a bit...off.

in a coffeehouse in paris, augustin feels that he is no longer himself.

a familiar compound ghost, paddy's once said.

this is home to him, yes, and the smell of freshly baked baguettes and patisseries and exquisite perfume is in the air. he's seen hardship in the desert, he's known thirst and hunger like no one's ever experienced. and now he struggles to reconcile with the lavish display laid out before him, after his escape from colditz.

he's well aware that after the liberation of paris, the city has all the reason to celebrate. christmas is just around the corner, the germans are gone.

he was lucky that he's managed to escape, when others have tried, and failed. he wonders if stirling's still alive. he's heard rumours that he still is. he wonders if paddy's still alive.

he's heard rumours from the french resistance that paddy still is.

the free french has no idea what to do with him. he's escaped just in time as the city's being liberated, and now he's just awaiting orders. he wonders if there's any way for him to rejoin the sas, if it's even in the cards.

but for now, he will just enjoy being here, being home, being a familiar compound ghost.

with the coffee and the cigarettes and a piece of mille-feuille served on a little dainty plate, with a little dainty cutlery.

"I am the Empire at the end of decadent days, Watching the pale tall Barbarians advance While composing acrostics, in my indolence, In a gilded style where the sun’s languor plays.

The lonely soul aches with a vast ennui. They say bloody battles are being fought down there. O lacking power, so feeble, such tardy prayer, O lacking the will to embellish reality!

O lacking the will and power to die a little! Ah! All is drunk! Bathyllus, life yet laughed away? Ah! All is eaten and drunk! No more to say!",[1]

he thinks.

the woman with the red lipstick and the red dress smiles at him, as if to say, come hither. augustin smiles back, but he doesn't move. he looks away. pulls out his newspaper, which he's scanned twice already, pretending that he's absorbing the words in, reading about the allies' progress across europe. wondering if the sas were ever part of those missions.

american soldiers braying at the table behind him. augustin pays them no mind.

and then:

'is this seat taken?'

it's a strange lilt, not quite american, not english either, though he looks up and the man is wearing a british uniform and a maroon beret; face scarred with gross lines on an otherwise gentle face. he's tall, and thin; almost regal in his bearing. eyes dark, narrowed, glinting; thin lips curving into a line of mischief.

augustin straightens his back and looks around. the cafe is busy, and his table has two extra seats. the man is alone. augustin studies the pips on his epaulettes -- he's a major, augustin thinks, and then looks up at the insignia on his beret, and realizes --

this man is sas.

'i've got a friend who's just coming, is it alright if he joins too?'

'is he sas as well?' augustin asks cautiously. something about this doesn't sit right, a voice inside his head warning him to be careful, to be on guard.

'yes, augustin,' the man says. 'in fact, i think you know him very well, when you were in jalo, together.'

paddy mayne hates him. he knows this from the moment the volatile, bearded, grey-eyed man stared up at him when they first met, those many years ago. it's the hard look in those iron-flint eyes, the frown lines on his forehead, the bunched-up tenseness in his jaw as he snarls orders at augustin, at georges, at those men of the free french.

at first he doesn't understand why paddy's targeted him, more so than the others. georges said that it's maybe because he's the only one who dares to tell him straight what he's doing is downright insane, that he's the only one able to openly scoff and question paddy's decisions, or actions, within and outwith training sessions. stirling told him that it was because he's a philosopher, a lawyer, and a poet too, but surely that's not the only reason.

he doesn't understand why paddy's decided to wrestle with him in the sand, with a knife against his throat, panting against his neck -- hard, and sweaty, and sharp. oh, and he knew that paddy was hard, and hot, savagely digging against his hip. with need. with want.

he doesn't understand why paddy's grieving, or who he is grieving for.

it's only much later, when he met stirling again, within the damp walls of colditz that he said: 'if you'd met eoin mcgonigal, augustin, you'd probably understand why.'

he thinks he's maybe stared at paddy too long when he sits down, tiny coffee cups in his hands, making clinking noises -- one for eoin, and one for himself. paddy looks good, his hair slicked back like honey, in the evening parisian light. he looks healthy, fresh, clean-shaven, handsome.

augustin catches himself, shuddering. he will not think of paddy mayne in this way. the cloying perfume of the women passing by makes him sick, he thinks, because he doesn't want to admit that he feels sick with the horror of this -- of paddy, suddenly reappearing in his life like this, looking smart in his uniform with his clear grey-blue eyes and eoin; this must be eoin, he thinks, with the perpetual smile, unknowable, mysterious.

he is acutely aware of eoin's constant gaze on him, and he has no idea why.

oh, but he now does understand why paddy's mourned so much, and why paddy's been so affected by augustin's presence in jalo. he's heard from stirling about eoin, about how much augustin probably has reminded paddy of eoin -- but he's pushed the thought away, because why would it be relevant? paddy's a hundred miles away and augustin's in colditz and eoin's dead. right?

except -- eoin's now sitting in front of him, almost a reflection of himself, dangerous -- and augustin wonders, who is the familiar compound ghost now, both intimate and unidentifiable?

'So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?" Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other-- And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded,' [2]

augustin thinks.

but that was then, when eoin was dead, and paddy was mourning. then augustin was captured and paddy moved on.

if he'd moved on, why are they here?

what use is augustin to them?

eoin speaks, and his voice is rich, deep, plumy. it's nothing like paddy's sharp consonants, though the rhythm of it still compels augustin to listen, to be lost in the melody that he rarely ever hears from other british officers around him.

paddy is stunning, golden, like he's a lamp found in the desert and polished anew, eyes like burning sapphires. they're speaking in turns, now, eoin and paddy, about their exploits throughout italy and france, and how they have this leave, now, before they move out again to god knows where ghq will decide to send them. it's serendipity, they say, that paddy's seen augustin sitting alone outside this cafe, even for just one night that they'll have this reunion.

augustin speaks of his escape, and of stirling's attempt, except -- where stirling's failed, augustin got lucky -- mostly because he was able to speak german and pass as a local.

and eoin's got his long fingers steepled under his chin, nodding, nodding, with his easy going smile and his easy going laughter, it only makes augustin want to open up more, more, more. and with every word that he utters, eoin's watching him intently, as though he's interested, too interested, almost as though he's making moony eyes at augustin, his desires hidden by the shades of his lashes. augustin's heart skips a beat and despite himself he shivers, knowing full well it's not just from the chill in the weather.

paddy's look is still sceptical, still questioning, and augustin wonders is it that they truly want from him.

oh, but they are so close, sitting like this, and augustin sucks in his breath when the american gis behind him push their chairs backwards, making augustin stumble even closer towards paddy. augustin witnesses the flash of temper rising quickly in paddy's eyes, as if he's ready to whip their heads for jolting eoin and augustin, spilling the coffee onto the table. but he also witnesses the way eoin touches the sleeve of paddy's uniform, fingertips brushing against paddy's knuckles, as if to say, there, there. it's not worth it, and paddy's eyes soften.

what do they want from him? augustin wonders, and then -- another american gi stands up abruptly, spilling augustin's coffee onto his lap. 'i think you've got to apologise to my friend here,' eoin says, without rising his voice.

'oh? if not, then what?'

'if not, then maybe you'd like to pay for his coffee, seeing as you caused him to spill it on his lap. aye?'

augustin feels the need to intervene, before this goes any further. he attempt to stand up. eoin's warm hand is on his shoulder -- to steady him, to indicate that he's got this, and the warmth spreads all over him as if his body is on fire.

eoin's hand is still on his shoulder, his thumb absentmindedly caressing his clothed clavicle, under the crisp fabric of his uniform. augustin doesn't move. transfixed. eoin doesn't move, either. staring down this american gi with his wilful eyes, before the gi's mates holler, 'just let it go, man,' and he manages to utter a 'sorry, it was just an accident.' eoin holds up his other palm, asking for money compensation for a spilled cappuccino -- and as if entranced, the gi dumps a few francs and centimes, without counting them, into eoin's upturned hand. scrambling to get away, as if he's seen something in eoin's eyes that jolted him into fear.

'merci beaucoup,' eoin smiles, as the americans leave. 'that was easy, was it not?'

augustin chances a glance at paddy. he beams at eoin, proud, like a man in love, before he blinks and focuses his intense gaze at augustin.

his heart skids through the roof, quickly he looks away -- and makes the unwise decision of looking up at eoin again. at eoin, who's now beaming down at him -- not paddy, but him. as if to say, i didn't do it to impress paddy, i did it to impress you. as if to say, i want you, the way paddy's once wanted you too.

ah, putain, he thinks.

he will not want eoin, or paddy. or the both of them--

but he does.

he does.

'your uniform is ruined,' says eoin, when they walk back along the seine, indicating at the coffee stain on augustin's groin. 'our hotel is just around the corner. you could come with us, if you want. to wash up?'

behind him, paddy looks like a lost schoolboy, fidgeting, almost nervous, almost giddy -- with what?

and augustin thinks, he knows, he thinks he knows. though the words are unspoken but the want is in paddy's eyes; in eoin's eyes. but eoin's the one who's asking, because if paddy were to speak he will never get to the point, his words and poetry snaking around for days and slithering and taking too long lest augustin's interest will fade.

augustin opens his mouth -- to say something, anything -- but his mind goes blank with his own need, his own want, his own desire suddenly stirring inside his veins, curling in his toes. he has never done anything like this before. and why now? why not when he was in the desert, with half-undressed men, almost naked and hot and sweaty in the sun? why now, when he's walking along the seine, in the moonlight, when it's dark and cold and he's barely known eoin, he's barely been reacquainted with paddy mayne?

he cannot even blame wine, or rum -- he is as clear-headed as he can be. the caffeine in his system goes into overdrive mode, his heartbeat fluttering, stomach curling and hoisted up into a knot inside his throat. all he could think about is how close paddy is, if he just reaches out he could touch him, all full and muscular and almost god-like, no longer the skinny bearded savage of jalo. he could see how ethereal eoin is, with his dark curls and his dark lashes; the faint, sweet, citrusy smell of his skin, unlike the heady cloying perfume of those women on the champs-elysees.

'yes,' he says. 'yes, i'll come with you,' augustin says.

he undresses in paddy's bathroom, while eoin fusses with his uniform, tells him that he'll get it laundered by next morning. he luxuriates in a warm bath, the same soapy smell on eoin's skin, then dries himself and wraps a robe to cover his modesty.

paddy is sitting on the other side of the room, a glass of wine in his hand, face scrunched up in concentration. he's playing chess with eoin, who's looking a bit more tired now from the day's exertions. they look innocent, like this. eoin takes one of paddy's white knights, with his black bishop, and says 'check,' and somehow paddy then bursts into laughter, as if there's an inside joke here that augustin has not been made privy to. eoin sips on his wine, and smiles, but because paddy is laughing (for no good reason) eoin ends up chuckling too, he ends up spurting the wine out of his mouth. paddy reaches out to wipe at eoin's bottom lip -- an intimate gesture, a gesture that only does even crueller things to augustin's heart.

quickly he looks away, but not soon enough -- eoin's noticed him, calls out his name -- 'augustin,' and blood flushes in his face, his heart racing.

his feet moves before his brain could catch up, and soon he is standing next to them, waiting, yearning.

eoin's lips are ruby-red, lush rom the wine he's just drank. beside eoin, paddy reaches out towards him, towards the knot at the front of augustin's robes, though his fingers are not quite touching. just -- playing.

like two hunters, playing with their prey. a rabbit in their snare. eoin's mouth crimson as blood, paddy's eyes bright and unescapable.

'augustin jordan,' paddy says, his voice low, and husky --

and there's something in the way paddy utters his full name that makes augustin shudder, makes him swoon, though he is a grown man of thirty and not a schoolgirl of thirteen.

he lets himself be pulled closer, paddy's fingers untying his robe, gently parting them. gently revealing to them how painfully hard he is, how much he wants this, how much he wants them.

eoin stands behind him and removes the robe, ever so slowly, off his shoulder, letting it slide to the floor, before his wicked fingers traces the entire length of him, pushes it down slightly before it bounces back up with a spring.

paddy steps closer, and presses a gentle kiss on eoin's lips, before tilting his head towards augustin, and kisses him too.

chess game forgotten, rooks and kings fallen by the wayside, knocked off the table. maybe augustin is paddy's white knight, helplessly captured by eoin's dark wiles, after all.

there is something wicked about this, about how paddy and eoin are still in their full dress uniforms and augustin's as naked as the day he was born. there is something wicked about this, about how eoin turns his head so that he could kiss him too, and kiss him deeply, tasting of the coffee and the wine and the sweetness of the mille-feuille pastry, and also of paddy. there is something wicked about paddy's mouth, and eoin's tongue, and paddy's hands, and eoin's fingers.

it's an exquisite fever, it makes him delirious, it's hotter than the desert. this white-hot desire that shoots up inside of him, spilling over, onto eoin's mouth, onto paddy's hair, onto his own skin.

once, in a coffeehouse in paris, augustin felt that he was no longer himself.

a familiar compound ghost, paddy's once said.

Augustin thinks.

but maybe it's alright, he thinks. it will be alright.

when they're inside him and he's inside them and augustin's struggling to even know if he's eoin or eoin is him; maybe they're one and the same, when they're inside of each other --

-- when paddy's there, when paddy's everywhere:

both intimate;

-- and

unidentifiable.

. end

[1] - Languor, by Verlaine

[2] - Little Gidding, TS Eliot