// edge of a knife //



"As apologies go, Abdul, that was kinda lame."

Behind him, just to his left, and as Sayid sits upright, he can see something glinting dully in the half-light. Sawyer's voice, one of Locke's knives held loosely in his hand. That same constant smug half-smile on his lips, and Sayid can't even begin to decipher what's in his eyes.

"I meant it," he says, calmly. "I'm sorry you doubt me."

"You're sorry." Another flash of silver as Sawyer taps the blade against his thigh. It makes no sound against the denim, but the movement is strangely hypnotic. "Is that another one? I'm touched." He moves closer, then drops to his haunches, and the knife never once misses a beat.

"I'm not proud of what I did," Sayid says, his voice low, but he knows Sawyer can hear him. Even now, there's a coil of something cold and fierce in his belly when he thinks of what happened, what he did - what he's still capable of doing. What he never wants to do again. "I'm not--"

A sudden movement, and Sayid's reacting almost before he realises, his hand wrapping around Sawyer's wrist, stopping the blade in mid-air, and for a long moment, neither of them moves. Sayid can hear himself breathe, can hear Sawyer, too-- can feel each and every exhale shimmering along his skin.

"Do it," Sayid says finally, not resisting anymore, the slow curve of his own wrist bringing the knife closer, then closer still, until he can feel cool silver resting urgent against his throat. "Go ahead. I think you've wanted to for a long time."

"You give up that easy, Abdul? Is that what they taught you?" Close, so close, the words slipping into his ear, but Sayid can tell something's changed. Sawyer doesn't sound as sure, tiny threads of uncertainty working their way into his voice even as the blade presses into skin, rises and falls in slight increments with every breath Sayid takes.

"Do it," he says again, no more than a whisper this time, lifting the knife higher, higher still, until he can feel the pads of Sawyer's fingers against his lips. "I never meant to--" The thought is unfinished, incomplete, but he can't, he doesn't know how, can't even imagine ever uttering the words he wants to say. What he needs to say. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth again, feels one of Sawyer's fingers slip inside, then there's the sharp, sure bite of the blade slicing into his lip. Bright copper fills his mouth, warm and slick, and when he scrapes his teeth gently over Sawyer's finger, Sayid can hear him hiss, can feel the sudden shift in the line of his body.

"Nice move," Sawyer says, something like wonder in his voice, his finger tracing over Sayid's mouth, a smooth, sure trail, painting his lips with thick scarlet, and then it's gone again. A long, slow moment where nothing and everything changes, something unspoken falling silently into place, and then, with a final tiny sting, Sayid feels the blade slip away too.

When he opens his eyes, Sawyer is watching him. No smile now, but this time, Sayid knows exactly what it is he sees in Sawyer's eyes. It shines, something dark and deep, the same as in his own. The knife lies at Sawyer's feet, abandoned or forgotten, and a finger rests against his lips, stained dark with spilled blood.

"Apology accepted," Sawyer says softly, and turns back toward the darkness.

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