Page 59 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Lachlan contains the damage inside his own heart.

He gives it a perimeter and keeps functioning outside of it. He eats when required and sleeps when exhaustion wins. He maintains security, runs the household, holds the routines and never makes the mistake of allowing himself to look at Jules for too long.

The lie worked.

Jules believes him enough to stay away, which means Penhalyx has nothing left to threaten, and Lachlan has finally done the right thing.

He repeats that often in silence.

It has yet to hurt less, but pain of any kind is simply an old friend in varying coats. Lachlan is used to it. He can function while suffering.

Jules isn’t rude to Danya. Lachlan thinks it might be easier if he was.

He remains impeccably civil, answers when Danya speaks and thanks him when courtesy requires it, but all warmth between them has vanished. No teasing, no easy conversation, none of the casual affection that once came so naturally. If Danya enters a room, Jules will soon find a reason to leave, albeit politely. It proves he believes Lachlan’s lie.

Although, really, only the framing of a lie.

The we got drunk and fucked frame.

Lachlan still doesn’t know if they did. If sex was the bad thing.

Sex hasn’t been the bad thing in his life for a long time.

It makes him sad, and soft, and uselessly melancholic.

The first anniversary of hiring Danya Yashin rolls around.

Ever since the night he can’t recall, Danya hasn’t been distant with Lachlan, but they rarely spend time together anymore, so Lachlan decides they should get drunk together to celebrate, which is categorically a terrible idea, but he doesn’t really care anymore.

The damage is already done.

He did what Penhalyx wanted, which was to break his son’s heart.

A dose of reality.

Danya, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate.

He brings his vodka, and they go sit out on a log by the lake, fucking freezing, but the drink warms them from the inside out, surrounded by snow and ice, the moon above.

‘OK, OK, worst op. Come on,’ Danya insists, pouring more vodka for Lachlan. ‘I told you about the backfire.’

‘If you call shitting yourself because your arsehole wasn’t as spacious as you thought a backfire, then yeah.’

‘Shitting yourself because of this is literal definition of backfire.’

‘OK. Mine’s not funny, though.’

Danya claps his shoulder and rubs it briskly. Lachlan’s in a heavy overcoat, but it’s still painfully cold out here this late.

‘No offence, tovarishch, but none of your stories are funny.’

‘Sorry I didn’t shit myself more.’

‘Plenty of time to change that in the new year.’

‘Unbeatable resolution.’

Danya giggles.