midnightdiddle

I swear I'm normal. But, uh,

x_saturnine and I were discussing Othello, and, well. Iago's a bastard, but he's such a cool one, in the creepy "zomg please don't ever be dating me or living near me or having anything to do with my life, yes?" way.

Climbing High

Iago hates him, really. Can't stand his face, his mouth, the way he laughs and makes the others laugh. Cassio's perfect, young and beautiful, with everything Iago's been yearning and striving for years to earn. He watches Othello set the world into Cassio's lap with a smile and nod, and thinks, I hate him.

He's not even quite sure who it is he hates. At times, it's Cassio, because Cassio is perfect without trying, while Iago's been working, killing himself, for years to achieve half of what Cassio's showered with. Other times, he hates Othello, with Othello's dark face and dark hands, Othello who climbed even higher than Iago, and is climbing higher still.

Iago stands at the bottom and watches Othello and Cassio laugh and grin and climb ever higher, and thinks, to hate is such a simple thing. And it is simple. He hates them at supper, when Othello's cutting little meats for his little toy wife. He hates them at night, when Cassio's climbing the wall to visit his short-skirted whore. He hates them, and thinks, and waits, and hates them even more.

"What," Cassio asks, laughing, and he's leaning over Iago, face smeared with dust, "is wrong, Iago? Your face is so stern."

Iago blinks, smiles, shows enough tooth and lip to be convincing, then lets his eyelids lower, like a whore in the alleyways. "Nothing," he says, and he watches Cassio's eyes go appraising, and thinks, I hate you.

"Is it this place?" Cassio asks, and he's helping Iago to his feet, a hand that is cool and large and powerful, so much better than Iago's. "It's not the same as our last set, is it?"

"No," Iago says, and he lets his hand stay near Cassio's for a moment, sets a tilt to his head and lets his smile lift higher on one side. "The rooms here are emptier."

Cassio doesn't climb the wall that night. Instead, he comes into Iago's room, after Emilia's left to care for the toy-wife. "It is," Cassio says, filling the doorway, "emptier here, isn't it?"

Iago rolls onto his side, sets his hands to Cassio's skin, and thinks, I hate you. He crawls closer, and closer, and wonders if he can climb into Cassio's skin, learn what it is that makes Cassio so perfect, such a darling of a darling world, where he's treated like a prince as he chases after the whores of the street. Cassio groans, puffs beneath Iago's hands, and twists ever closer.

"You," Cassio murmurs, wet-slick and hot, "shall destroy me."

Iago smiles against Cassio's neck, lets his teeth nip, and thinks, I hate you.