Jean Wolfe
August 30, 2020 7:23 AM
Countdown by Jean Wolfe
Five minutes to go.That was nowhere long enough, but it was also not yet near enough that he had to let go. Time had been playing tricks all morning. Hours together, with the morning off work, sounded like so long. But both their stomachs had been churning over the thought of this moment. Jean-Loup had a few ideas about how they might relax and put it from their minds but the steadily ticking clock had done little to set the mood. Nor had the notion of family which loomed closer and closer, a spectre of disapproval. A threat. There had been promises made about safety. Dorian would be checking in with Professor Brooding-Hawthorne after twenty-four hours. It was convenient that that meant Jean-Loup got to hear from him too, although he was not allowed to be a consideration. It was galling that he had to put his faith for Dorian’s well-being in people who didn’t want to acknowledge his importance in his boyfriend’s life. How was he supposed to trust that they would treat Dorian appropriately when that, in itself, was not right?
Four minutes to go.
He had sworn to himself, and to anyone who wanted to recognise his existence, that he would keep Dorian safe. Now that was being taken from him. Dorian was going back where Jean-Loup couldn’t look after him. It had been the Montoirs that requested it, and Dorian who had acquiesced, but it was funny how having it placed beyond his control did not make it feel like it had been taken out of his jurisdiction. It was still his responsibility, only now he could not enact it. He just wanted to tell him not to do it. Not to go. But he had tried that, in as much as he was allowed to try anything, and it really wasn’t his call to make. He didn’t want Dorian to go. Dorian knew that. He was going anyway. His other job was to soothe, as the clock ticked down and Dorian got anxious. To offer support, to smooth away his anxieties and tell him it would all be fine but he couldn’t do that either because the fear that it really wouldn’t was bubbling up in his own chest. He couldn’t be any of the things he was supposed to be.
Three minutes to go.
Dorian had said his goodbyes to Darius and Evangeline, to the Brooding-Hawthornes and all the kids already. Jean-Loup had gone to get his bags and to not have to watch. To pretend that he wasn’t about to have to do the exact same thing and that he wasn’t crying just thinking about it. Those goodbyes had taken place inside, and then they’d left him to walk Dorian into the garden, where they stood together now, the little tea tin clutched in Dorian’s hands. No slumming it with the public portkey system when Mama was the one pulling the strings… That was a ridiculous thing to resent. It wasn’t like he wanted Dorian’s journey to be any more complicated than it had to be. And it was how the Montoirs, how families like both of theirs, did things. Why would they change? It was not a deliberate comment on his skills in keeping Dorian in the style he was accustomed to but, fairly or not, Jean-Loup couldn’t help but think she’d be pleased at one-upping him like this. He was sure Dorian saw those differences so plainly as he did. They stood out like fresh wounds on pale skin.
Two-minutes to go.
Although all the tea tins in the world could not make him say that Dorian was going back to a life of comfort. He was going to a house full of people who didn’t appreciate and treasure him like they should -and one who had done far, far worse.
“You know, you have to let go, unless you’re coming too,” Dorian stated softly.
Jean-Loup nodded, letting Dorian feel the gesture rather than see it, because his head was still leaning against the top of Dorian’s, and his response to Dorian’s words was to close his arms around him a little tighter.
I don’t want to. He didn’t say it. I don’t want you to go. That discussion was passed. Dorian had made a decision, and Jean-Loup had…
One minute to go
...to hold him and tell him what mattered.
”Je t’aime,” he muttered, kissing Dorian’s hair.
”I know. Je t’aime aussi,” Dorian stated, leaning back enough to look at him, to kiss him on the lips.
Thirty seconds to go.
The portkey began to vibrate in warning, and Dorian’s hands slid against Jean-Loup’s chest as he broke apart from kissing him, pushing him gently but firmly back.
Jean-Loup let his hands drop hopelessly to his sides, although they didn’t sit there restfully. Dorian was still in front of him and that in itself (twenty) was enough to make them want to reach out and explore (fifteen) never mind the fact that (ten) his boyfriend was being (nine) snatched away (eight) against Jean-Loup’s will (seven) to a place where (six) he couldn’t be sure (five) he would be safe (four) and even if it (three) was just for two days (two) he didn’t think (one) he could stand -
He was used to people travelling by portkey. The sudden swirl away into nothingness. Gone, in less than a second, beyond his reach. For a second, he thought he had reached out and grabbed, the jerking sensation in his stomach was so violent, startling a little gasp from him, as Dorian was snatched away. But his hand - a hand that had reached out instinctively, with who knew what real plan - had closed only on empty air.
He stared for a moment at where his boyfriend had been, before glancing down at his watch. There were still twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes and approximately thirty seconds until he could expect him to call.
13
Jean Wolfe
Countdown
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