Kinda the next installment of 30poS. Kinda not. Mostly, just me wanting M/V smex. XD
Zair couldn’t sleep. The moonlight no longer lit his skin like candle flame, but it didn’t allow him peace of mind either; washing his face out to white and filling him with uncomfortable thoughts. The window was too large and it turned the room silver. Atre had given into exhaustion hours ago, and Val was slumped over in a gray plastic chair. The little clock on the hospital table read 3:04, and the numbers made morning feel like a forever away.
It had been a busy afternoon and Zair had talked to more Warriors in the space of twenty minutes than he had in the last twenty years. It was a draining, tedious process, but worth it for Val’s phone call to Zephyr. Their conversation had been strained, ending up with Val snapping ‘well, the collective penis is damn more important than your own’ before slamming the receiver down with a smack. He had gone distinctly red after that, and Zair had practically crooned. As moments went, it was highly satisfying.
The rest of the evening had been spent making jabs on the subject and when Atre finally drifted off, body overtaxed with healing, Val had chosen to follow suite. In retrospect, Zair didn’t blame him. Having figured that out, however, there was little to do.
The magazines on the smooth white counter top were three years old – celebrity matches emblazoned across the covers long since disbanded. Zair wasn’t sure if he should be proud or ashamed; he’d read every last one. Proud. Yeah, definitely proud. Fingers twitched, and he ran them along the painted walls and over rough cotton curtains. He was bored and he was worried, and unless he got something to do he’d get more worried and Zair hated that. He hated being boxed in, feeling like he had to stay. For a moment a wild, wandering urge sprang up in him. Leave. Just go; forget liability, friends, and lover. The Warriors could take care of themselves without his help. He wrestled with the thought, and in the end managed to squelch the idea.
There were too many things going on. Atre was hurt and he’d promised to help Val. There were threats that wouldn’t disappear just because he’d rather not deal with a thousand years of a personal responsibility complex. Turning his back to the door Zair grabbed a pen instead, uncapping it to scribble lazily across the back of a series of medical papers. A lumpy man was accompanied by a lumpy train, which was quickly squashed beneath a large, lumpy reptilian foot. Chewing the plastic end of the sharpie lazily, Zair viewed his work with a critical eye. He’d never be a great artist, but at least he was a damn sight better than Val.
The idea struck, and mismatched eyes narrowed as they settled on a sleeping blonde head. Suddenly conscious of the noise that each of his footfalls made, Zair crept over to the chair and its sleeping occupant. Hand calm and steady with a professional’s grace, he laid the ballpoint just to the right of Val’s nose. Masterfully patient, he traced a series of mutating lines out from under closed eyes, spiraling them in shapes over still cheekbones. It was a slow process, but Zair could be dedicated when he wanted to be.
The clock read 5:15 when he finished adding the last painstaking detail to a carrot that stretched across the left side of Val’s face. The business was a tricky thing, as one of the leaves skimmed past the corner of the man’s mouth. Savior/Destroyer of the world or no, Val drool was an unpleasant thing and unproductive to the inking process. Repositioning his arm, Zair reached to darken a particular line and froze as skin shifted beneath his hand. For a moment, his knuckle brushed flesh and he was pulled down in a riptide of dark images.
There were hands on him. Back upright and pushed hard up against a wall he didn’t notice because someone was stoking down his belly and the noise in the back of his throat was caught up in something like a moan. There was a knee between his legs and he was pinned; heady, kneading fingers getting higher and lower all at once. There was a surge of heat and licking, writhing fire in his belly as his body squirmed. Dark eyes and rowan-gold hair, covered in it, foreign, arched and wanting…
Zair blinked as the room settled back into moon bathed silver. Val’s lips let loose a word and he didn’t quite catch it, but shivered anyway. Capping the pen, he told himself it was his imagination. He’d sooner not deal with the consequences.
The hospital bed was uncomfortable and narrow. He sunk down at its side with all the ease of a burnt puppy. Atre’s body was warm and familiar, reassuring. At moonset, Zair slept.
The soft spoken Marius faded from memory. Melted away with the dawn.