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The soft slide of white robes against his skin, the gentle light shining through thin curtains and illuminating him in a milky glow; as Uri stands in front of the large mirror, dressing himself for the ceremony, he is the image of purity.
In the corner of his eye, there is the dark smudge that is Kenny, sitting off to the side with his legs spread brashly and arms crossed over his chest. His face is cold, hard as stone.
The rude sight has a gentle smile blooming on Uri’s face. For some strange reason it gladdens him to know that he had never managed to tame Kenny Ackerman fully. That he had come into the man’s life and would soon leave, and that Kenny would remain the same regardless.
“That's not the face of someone who’s about to be eaten” Comes the sudden, disapproving rasp of Kenny’s voice, and Uri chuckles, because it's the first thing the man has said to him in hours.
“Who knows, maybe it is not as bad as one might expect” He offers, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he brushes careful fingers through his fine, gray hair. Everything is soft today. Hazy, far away.
That’s good, he thinks. That’s easy.
Or rather, it would be, if Kenny was not so adamant on making it difficult.
“Real damn funny” He mutters. A dark ink blot on a pristine page. The softness Uri tries to exude is met by venom, so familiar that he is not sure if he wants to laugh or break into tears. My Kenny. .
“Kenny, please don't be like that..”
The man stands up from the chair with an urgency that doesn't slip Uri by, takes a few menacing steps toward him, heels clicking against the marble floor with each step. Sharp, loud.
What Uri has tried for so long to keep at an arm's distance—because it will only result in pain, because it’s not meant to be—now crowds into his space, forcing him to crane his head to maintain that cold, gray gaze.
“Like what ?” Kenny spits, leaning in close. “Am I wrong for not wanting to sit by idly and watch you hand over your life to some brat for the sake of fuckin’ tradition ?”
With Kenny the ripper towering over you, anyone would be scared. Surely that must be the reason why Uri’s hands are shaking so terribly.
Kenny, you fool, why place something so fragile as your heart in the hands of a monster like me?
“Perhaps I don't mind dying for the sake of tradition” He says. It’s cold, distant. Because it will hurt less that way. In the long run, anyway.
But no, not if Kenny has a say in it.
His voice lowers into something dark and rumbly, something that could be read as threatening if Uri wasn't able to see right through it—see that it is nothing more than an disordered, overly complicated plea for Uri to acknowledge him. “Right. You’ve made it very clear that this means fuckall to you.” There's an accusing finger digging painfully into his chest. But rather, it's Kenny’s words that cut through all his walls, rattle him to his very core.
Out of everything, that is the worst slight. Uri is fine with pretending he doesn’t care about his own life, but the mere implication that he doesn't care about this—about them —when it is so painfully obvious that it means everything to him. That, he cannot take.
But Kenny pushes on, spits curses, digs his finger into Uri's ribs deeper, as though trying to reach for his very heart. Uri presses his lips shut tight, teeth gnashing together.
Don’t you understand that there are some things I had to swear off when I took on this responsibility? Don’t you see how I’ve been holding myself back?
Don’t you understand that you're asking me to hurt you?
He wants to tell him all this, scream it until he’s sure it’s gotten through Kenny’s thick skull. He wants to call him an idiot, and smash his fists against that broad chest, and then tug him down and kiss him anyways. Hard and messy and painful, until they’re both tasting each other’s blood. Because you asked for it. Because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for you and what will only leave you in pain.
Instead he tells him, “You know that's not it, Kenny..”
But as Kenny looks at him, brows knitted in anger, that harsh facade to protect the soft center, Uri can see his eyes are pleading. ‘ Hurt me, Uri. You know I can take it. ’ The sight stuns him, leaves him speechless.
It stirs up the image of an old, secret place, hidden among his dearest memories that he keeps only for himself. Him and Kenny sitting close together, younger and so foolish. Kenny’s raspy voice, hushed and uncertain—a suggestion, disguised as a joke. ‘ What if we ran away? Left all this shit behind and went somewhere else, doesn’t matter where’. He remembers the faint pause—his thoughts racing with all the possibilities, so fast that they rumbled in his ears like a thunderstorm—and then, for no reason other than that he had taken a second too long to react, that delicate moment, suspended in time, was gone. Haphazardly brushed off as a joke. So easily lost.
Would things have been different if he, in that moment, had allowed himself to forget all that he was supposed to be? If he had abandoned his role as a saint or king or whatnot, shrugged it off like a heavy old coat and taken Kenny’s hand in his and told him ‘Let’s go. Doesn't matter where’ .
Uri takes in a shuddering breath as he stares into Kenny’s eyes now, sees that same exact look in them as back then. A precious moment repeating itself, for no reason other than to show that it had never really gone away.
Uri is taking a step forward before he can stop himself. ”That's not it at all..” He murmurs, his eyes stinging, voice wavering dangerously.
He knows it's a mistake, that he is too late, and that trying to make up for lost time now will only make this hurt more for both of them.
But, staring into Kenny’s eyes, there's that pull again. And gods, he knows all too well how it feels to let the moment slip past him. He won’t do that again.
He can afford to not be a saint for once, just this one time.
Uri leans in finally, rests his head against Kenny’s chest and buries deep. Carefully, he wraps his arms around the breadth of his torso, the way he has always longed to, holds on tight. Alright, if you want me to hurt you, I'll do it. Just promise not to hate me for it.
“Kenny.” He murmurs, breathing in the comforting scent of him. In deep inhales, he fills his lungs with steel and smoke and leather and all that is Kenny Ackerman.
Kenny goes rigid, curses and tries to pull away, but his attempts are weak and aimless. Why he's trying to keep up the pretense is beyond him. You asked for this, so don't balk now.
For a moment longer, Kenny pretends to fight him, then finally he goes slack in his arms, melts into the embrace.
It's the first time they've done this. The first time they've allowed themselves to.
He can hear the slow, steady beating of Kenny’s heart, feel the way his chest expands then contracts as he breathes a deep sigh, carrying all his exhaustion.
Uri is not even sure if he means to do it or if it happens by itself. There’s a short burst of electricity— the paths — and suddenly he is being flooded with memories of things that have never happened, and never will. Glimpses of them, resting their heads on each other's shoulders, fingers entwined; heated kisses; lazy mornings in bed; growing old together.
Oh, why is his heart suddenly aching?
When he reluctantly pulls away, Kenny’s face is slack, open and vulnerable. It is short lived, quickly giving way to narrowed eyes and clenched teeth, a look of distress and confusion and desperation.
Maybe this wasn't the pain Kenny had expected to be dealt. Maybe he had been hoping for something impersonal and quick. ‘You're right, Kenny, all this time we’ve spent together has meant nothing to me, and you have meant nothing to me, now begone’
For a moment, Uri thinks that perhaps that would have been a better option. Softer, easier. The kind of cut that would eventually heal up into a neat, clean scar, rather than the ugly mess of poorly healed scar tissue that he is leaving him with now.
But what’s done is done, and now he watches Kenny phase through a slew of different emotions, before finally ending up at thick defeat, broad shoulders hunching with its weight. When Kenny speaks next, his voice is so feeble that Uri barely recognizes it. “Why show me this now?” He asks, and Uri can’t seem to hold his gaze anymore.
Because you asked for it.
Because I needed you to know. Because I can’t bring this to the grave. Uri keeps his gaze downcast in shame, but if he said that he regretted sharing those unlived moments with him he would be lying.
Because I wish I had taken your hand, back then.
“I'm sorry, Kenny.” He says instead, his voice uncharacteristically weak, no longer carrying the pride befit a saint. “I.. wish things had been different.”
Kenny blinks. His face falls as realization slowly sets in, heavy and undeniable and, worst of all, inalterable. Set in stone. This is really it, then.
Uri watches with a heavy heart as Kenny slumps back down into the chair, hanging his head. He's never seen him like this before—so utterly defeated. It makes his head ache with how wrong it feels.
All he can do is put his thin arms around him and hold him close to his heart, bury his face in his hair and pretend it’s not already too late.
“Kenny, I love you.” He murmurs into dark hair, and Kenny nods weakly against him. It's the first time he has ever told him this. Somehow, he is not surprised to find that the words feel right on his tongue.
They stay like that for a long while, until there is a knock at the door, signaling the start of the ceremony, and the end of something that never got the chance to be.