by Harukami

Another new member.

Illusion could remember when it had just been the three of them; himself and the twins. The theatre hadn't even been named then. All it could do from there was grow, and grow it did. Twelve members. Thirteen, now.

Lucky thirteen.

As one of the founders, he'd read this young man's works to help approve him, though the twins had been the ones to finalize the decision, meeting with him while Illusion stayed back. A mute, they'd told him. He'd obviously known enough about Le Théatre des Espoirs to leave the name column blank until he chose his new name. The boy had been a playwrighting genius, but Illusion knew no more than that about him.

His work had been incredible. Unpublished, he had put on his cover letter. Illusion couldn't see how, unless he'd never sent it out. The boy's work was much better and much truer than many published plays Illusion had read.

He finished brushing out his long brown hair and bound it in its customary ponytail, then lifted his mask from the desk and put it on. Fishing a few wayward bangs from behind the mask, he smiled behind laquered lips.

He was ready to face whatever was coming.

Illusion bumped into Cantata on his way to the lounge.

"A new member," Cantata bubbled, cheerful as always. "Seems like they just keep coming! Have you met him -- what's he like, Illusion? Come on, you can tell me!"

"We'll see," Illusion said, and found a seat on one of the couches. Soliloquy nodded at him from the chair beside the door.

Monologue entered, and behind him walked the most beautiful person Illusion had ever seen.

Living in Le Théatre, Illusion saw a lot of beautiful people.

None quite like this, however. Full lips tinted purple with some dusky lipstick, a perfect oval face, eyeshadow the same shade as the lips, and two almond-shaped, pale, pale blue eyes set in a face just this side of white. Platinum blond hair -- REAL platinum blond, so hard to find ANYWHERE -- and it was clear he'd spent at least an hour doing the hair, winding strands into a quadruple braid that wove in and out of the bun held to the back of the head by chopsticks. A few strands hung before the ears -- no accident, but carefully crimped and arranged. Combined with an effeminately slender body wearing Chinese robes and delicate hands with tapered fingers lightly holding a notebook, this beauty was unlike the earthy beauties of Monologue, Soliloquy, or the others, even Delicacy; it was an unsettlingly etherial effect that Illusion decided he liked.

"This is Silence," Monologue announced as the new boy's gaze swept the room. "He's joining as playwright and silent actor." Silence scribbled something in his notebook and handed it to Monologue, who smiled slightly. "Despite his inability to speak, he invites you to engage him in conversation freely - as long as you don't mind waiting for lengthy answers."

Whispers. Silence looked around the room seriously, then suddenly smiled and winked.

Illusion rose, breathing deeply. He was able recognize the courage behind that smile. "Welcome to Le Théatre," he said, and meant it.

Illusion planned to just watch that evening, observing as Silence fielded questions from practically everyone. It was interesting to watch; he did use the notebook, but less often than Illusion had expected, frequently just answering with nods and hand gestures. Every so often, he would stroke his throat, idly. It was barely noticable.

Eventually, after Illusion's attention had wandered a little, he felt the sofa sink and glanced over to see Silence sitting down. The pale boy lifted an eyebrow, his whole position a query.

"No problem," Illusion said, understanding. "The couch belongs to everyone." He realized that sounded abrupt and added, "I'm Illusion, by the way. It's a pleasure to meet such a fantastic author."

Silence's solemnly set lips turned into a beautiful smile, head dipping forward in a gesture associated with thanks. Illusion forced his heartbeat to calm, wondering slightly. Few people affected him so strongly by appearance alone. Still smiling, Silence reached out and touched Illusion's mask, then wrote, It's beautiful.

Surprise. Most people pretended the mask wasn't there or just asked about it outright. He knew its pale white fragility contrasted nicely with his own dusky skin and sharply lined muscles, and had always thought it was beautiful, but hadn't thought that anyone could share that view. "Thank you. It's a part of me; I sometimes forget I'm wearing it." Lies, but ones that caused no harm.

The mute tilted his head back and laughed soundlessly, then underlined beautiful'.

"You're so happy," Illusion murmured, barely realizing he'd said it aloud.

Silence shrugged, indicated the room with a wave, touched his heart, and wrote, home.

"It's always been mine," Illusion agreed. "And there are certainly worse places to call home."

Silence's smile faded, and he nodded, stroking his throat with light fingers.

Sore point. He'd remember that. "Do you know sign language?" Illusion asked.

A shrug and a shake of the head. Odd, for someone so adept at communicating without words and presumably mute from birth. Illusion smiled. "I like your way better. Everybody can understand it and it's so much more personal." The playwright's lips turned up into a smaller smile and he gently placed his hand over Illusion's.

Shock.

It was like electricity. Their eyes met. Tension sparked in the air between them, and Illusion felt himself held motionless. It was sexual energy and something more - he'd barely met this man and was somehow connecting with him more than with any of his many lovers, however much he had loved them all. He couldn't move. The tension held him there.

Silence broke it, raising his eyebrows and mouthing, wow. It was unexpected to the point of comedy, and Illusion gave in to the wave of relief and laughed. Turning his hand over, he gripped Silence's, white on dark. Like his mask.

He had nothing to say after that, so Illusion just didn't speak. Silence didn't try to move his hand. Eventually, the mute let his head rest on Illusion's shoulder.

As time passed, they grew closer. Silence made a number of friends in the theatre, but never begrudged Illusion's visits, be they for conversational or professional reasons. There was still that . . . something there, mixed in, something that it took Illusion a while to identify.

Honesty.

Illusion lived lies. He was an actor in so many ways . . . and he found himself being more open than he'd ever remembered being. Even more open than with the twins.

Only with Silence.

He walked through the bathroom that connected their two rooms and knocked. No answer, but he'd wanted only to warn the mute. He opened the door. Silence didn't look up, and he felt his breath catch.

Such an innocent pose and as such, all the more beautiful. One leg tucked under the other which hung off the side of the bed, Silence sat bent over a notebook, pencil in hand, lips pursed thoughtfully. A loose lock of hair slipped free to fall in front of his eyes and the beautiful young man pushed it back. Looking at him, Illusion realized that he'd do anything for Silence. It wasn't a startling realization; almost comforting, in fact, but it made him hurt in a way he thought he'd killed long ago. It was impossible to stand there and just watch.

He sat on the bed beside Silence. "New play or a diary?"

Silence's fingers had gone to cover the page but hesitated, and slowly he held the notebook out, dead serious.

Just as slowly, unprepared for this, Illusion took it. In steady text was written:

I ache
For what I thought I found -
Surely, I didn't find -
Paradoxical beauty -

and nothing more.

"Beautiful," Illusion said. "Mysterious. I didn't mean to interrupt your writing of it."

Silence was watching him intently, as if searching for something. Taking the notebook back, he put it to one side without looking at it and took one of Illusion's hands in his. It tingled, and Illusion realized he was holding his breath.

Slowly, uncertainly, Silence's thumb pressed against Illusion's palm and circled slightly, rubbing in small nervous motions. That energy was back again, crackling in the air around them. Behind his mask, Illusion wetted his lips.

He was being seduced, he realized, unable to take his eyes off the way Silence's teeth indented his lip nervously, how the pale lashes fluttered, shading blue eyes, gaze avoiding Illusion's face to watch his own pale thumb pressing against Illusion's palm. Illusion didn't remember the last time he'd been seduced, especially not by someone who apparently wanted to be seduced in turn.

His stomach was tight and his breath short. The situation was ironic and he would have laughed if he could find breath. He certainly had enough experience to take control of this if he wanted to. He knew that, but at the same time, couldn't move, entire world focused on the fluttering of Silence's lashes and the small circular pressure against his palm.

The dead quiet of the room pressed around him as his world narrowed and narrowed more. He felt he should say something, anything, but there was nothing to do, nothing to say.

Silence dropped his hand and he sucked a breath in as pale eyes raised to his full of uncertainty and something else. Desire, yes, and . . . knowledge. Illusion's thoughts were scattered; he didn't know what the knowledge was of, precisely, but it overbalanced the uncertainty and made those eyes burn.

Glancing away again, Silence raised his hand and in one swift motion, pulled the chopsticks from his hair. The hair seemed to hold for a moment longer before giving in to the inexorable force pulling it and showering downwards to surround his face in pale twisted waves. Illusion leaned closer, running a hand through it, and Silence let out a quiet sigh, pushing his head into the touch, eyes running over Illusion's mask. Carefully, tremuluously, Silence reached out.

Illusion's world held still as pale fingers hooked around the edges of the mask. He could feel it start to pull away and something inside him screamed.

"NO!"

Silence jumped backward, startled, as Illusion turned away, frantically holding his mask to his face, making sure all the fastenings were secure. He felt like he was dangling over a chasm, desperately struggling to hold on. "No . . . no . . . not my mask . . ." His throat was tight. Silence touched his shoulder.

Under other circumstances, it would have been a reasonable mistake, and Illusion would have just explained reasonably that he didn't remove his mask around anyone. The others had had no trouble adapting to this. But crouched there, frantically holding his mask in place, he realized what that knowledge that had been in Silence's eyes was of.

Suddenly, anger.

He whipped around, grabbing Silence by the shoulders, furious, watching the mute's eyes widen. His own stronger weight pushed Silence down, pinning the smaller body under his own. Silence didn't struggle.

"How dare you?!" he demanded, hardly knowing what he was saying, words escaping from the tangled mess of fury and fear. "Don't you understand?! You came here! You should understand that there are some things nobody can touch! nobody! Don't you understand?!"

A long moment of stillness and he felt the anger whirl around him. Silence reached up, for his face, and for a moment he feared again that the mute would try to remove his mask. But long fingers ran over the mouth of the mask and then traced the edge where it pushed against his skin, not demanding, just touching.

Anger began to drain away from him and he sat back. It might not have been Silence's fault, after all. He might have misinterpreted. Silence followed him up, scooting backward to sit so that only his legs were pinned under Illusion's body.

Illusion glanced away and struggled to explain. "Everyone here . . . we . . . we have things that we don't talk about and nobody ever forces the issue. Things we can't reveal." He glanced back at Silence's blank face. "You should understand that! I've seen you -" he stroked his own throat idly, "I've seen it, okay? And I'll never ask and nobody else will never ask and my mask never comes off. All right?"

The mute bit his lower lip, looking down to the pale hands supporting his upper body weight on the blankets, then leaned forward and took Illusion's hands, raising his gaze again to Illusion's face.

"What - ?"

Silence closed his eyes and lifted Illusion's hands, placing them loosely around his own thin, pale neck. He licked his lips.

Illusion sucked air in. That thing inside him was screaming again. Silence was breaking the rules! Silence shouldn't . . . ever . . . he could feel the mute swallow against his hands, and something shattered inside him. He let his hands fall. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lashed out. I just . . . had to tell you. I told you badly."

Silence opened his eyes, and white butterfly brows drew inward, expression hopeless. Frantically he scrabbled for his notebook and wrote something, then thrust it in Illusion's face, turning away.

Sans les mots et sans les masques, il y a l'honnęteté.

It took Illusion's calming mind a moment to translate the words from French to English. "Without words and without masks, there is honesty," he said aloud, slowly.

The last remaining bits of anger bled away. Silence lay back, legs still pinned beneath him, and he stared down, shocked. Was it really that simple? It couldn't be. Why . . . why was he so scared, he wondered.

And realized.

"I don't want honesty," he said slowly.

He felt Silence's body twist under him and sat back as the slender young man pulled away, turning away from him.

He knew that showing himself for who he was to the world was impossible. But . . . Silence was different.

Silence already knew who he was. He'd known. He didn't know the details, but he knew the basic truth. He'd connected with Illusion in a way Illusion hadn't allowed anyone to, and he would do anything for Silence because something in him had . . . acknowledged? Recognized? - Illusion wasn't sure of the exact feeling, but he felt . . . he knew Silence too.

How to say this? How to stop Silence from turning away from him like that? How to explain that he hadn't meant he didn't want honesty, just that he couldn't show himself to the world, not any more, it was too late for that? How -

Honesty was the best.

"But you're different," he said with all the courage he could muster, putting his hand on Silence's black-robed shoulder, dark on dark. "You're . . . different."

Why was this so much harder than the realization that he'd do anything for Silence, putting it in action? Why did he have to start to actually feel? "I don't know if I can explain it, but I . . . might . . . might be able to be honest with you. I . . . I can't put it into words . . ."

Slowly, Silence turned back to face him, own hand raising to cover Illusion's. Something like pain in those pale blue eyes sparkled dangerously, and something like elation, and something like truth.

Carefully, eyes flicking across Illusion's mask as if trying to read expression on it, Silence nodded. He leaned forward and Illusion enfolded the smaller boy in his arms.

This was right.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat as he held Silence, shaking, probably squeezing the fragile-seeming boy too hard, but unable to let him go. Silence's arms came up and knotted in his shirt and Illusion felt something well up inside him.

No. He refused to cry.

Long pale fingers stroked his back and he clutched Silence's shoulders convulsively, then, before he could talk himself out of it, raised his hands higher and pulled his mask free, letting it fall to the bed.

Silence pulled back a little, tilting his head up to look, and Illusion closed his eyes, as if shutting his own vision off would remove Silence's. Words bubbled up, the truth. "I'm scared."

Without sight and without sound, Illusion suddenly felt lost and he opened his eyes again, to see Silence watching him, just sitting back and watching him. Smiling ever so slightly. Uncertainty. "Silence -"

The mute shook his head and rose to his knees, leaning forward to place his fingers on Illusion's lips, quieting him though uncertainty still thrummed through his body. Silence's smile broadened and he traced Illusion's scar with one finger, then cupped Illusion's face and kissed his way along the scar, dropping at the end to meet Illusion's lips.

Illusion made a little noise against Silence's lips, exhaling roughly into the other's mouth, then pulled Silence as close as he could as they kissed. He felt his own lips tremble against Silence's, and realized to his shock that there were tears trailing down his cheeks, and where they kissed, they transfered from his face to Silence's.

He wanted to say something, to explain them away, to deny them, but it wouldn't matter. Silence knew, and sometimes it was better to just let it be. That, too, was honesty.

Silence's hand slipped around behind Illusion's head and tangled his long fingers in the dark hair, pulling almost painfully at the base of Illusion's ponytail.

There was pain there, and joy, and simple need, and two people clutching at each other in desparation, as if holding would build a support, although two people caught in the same torrent are unable to use each other as a lifeline.

At least they'd be together in it.

There was no need for clothes, no need for masks, no need for words. Just two bodies, sweaty and hot, flesh on flesh separating ocassionally with a wet ripping noise, hands and mouths searching and finding flesh, nipping, biting, clawing, tracing, teasing.

Silence was flexible and soft and passionate and willing and never once cried out, never raised a voice beyond harsh breathing.

Illusion would always remember that, later, their first time with the spicy scent of oil in the room and that slender body pale, so pale beneath his own, Silence's face twisting, mouth opening and forming silent cries while nothing escaped but ragged whispers, and thinking, Yes, this is right. This is . . . right. With this, I might not need anything else.

It's right.

Afterwards, they lay together, exhausted, only moving when Silence pushed at Illusion's shoulder and, grinning slightly, they rolled out of the wet spot.

Was this love?

Illusion couldn't say the words. They never had been something he'd been good at, those three words. Not like he'd ever had a real chance to practice them. And would he recognize the feeling? This drunk, sated elation?

"Stay with me!" he wanted to cry, briefly, then remembered this was Silence's room.

"Do you want me to go?" Illusion asked into Silence's shoulder.

A soft sigh, and then Silence rolled so he was on top, snuggling in, effectively holding Illusion there.

"Good," Illusion murmured sleepily, stroking Silence's back, the curve of a hip. "I don't want to go."

Against his skin, he felt Silence smile and realized that he hadn't needed to say it. Silence knew already.

And that was right.

Sans les mots et sans les masques . . .