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 Posted: Tue Jun 24, 2014 12:13 pm
The idea that all of this had been to show Alistaire how to deal with other people, allow him to build up resistence so that he could touch others the way Harland touched him now-- Harland had long since pushed that information to the recesses of his mind. The place where he put the dark things he wanted to forget. Maybe, in time, he would take that information out and try to update it. He hoped on that day, he could truthfully say that without a doubt that was no longer the case.
Alistaire being so different was one of the things Harland had come to love the most about the man. They were not alike, it was true, and it could be rough to navigate the differences. But in a way, they were similar, a way that was hard to give words or a voice. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly why Harland felt like he should be with Alistaire.
Of course, Harland would be lying if he said he didn't want to date Alistaire. He knew it would have to be a secret, even if they were dating, and the idea weirdly enough didn't bother him. It wasn't about telling everyone, showing off, being in a relationship-- it was about Alistaire. It was about being with Alistaire. He'd been right, in a way, when he'd insisted to Harland that it was their business.
Harland also loved the way Alistaire's heart sped up. He loved knowing that he wasn't the only one feeling out of control. And instead of backing down, he inexplicably wanted to push just a little harder-- it was a very un-Harland feeling, and for a moment Harland forgot which side of the coin was his. Was he the analytical, cold one? Or was he the hero, the stereotype of good? Was he both? Were they neither?
Maybe the closer he got, the more he would understand what his role was, who he was. Who Alistaire was. Harland's skin shivered as Alistaire breathed, their lips so close-- Harland didn't bridge the gap, he was busy spiralling down into the confusing dark of both longing and his blurred identity. He had, somehow, been led astray.
And he was not complaining.
The softness behind Alistaire's kiss would be the felling blow, and any reserve Harland had before could not survive. There is hope, it meant, to Harland. Hope that you could, one day, love me the way that I love you. He smiled through the kiss, wishing that he could dwell in that moment for just a second longer. Two seconds, three seconds-- as many as he could have.
He felt selfish, he felt dizzy. He felt a desperation behind his need to be with Alistaire that he was unfamiliar with. The relief of hearing the request to stay by Alistaire's side swelled over Harland like a wave. "Won't leave your side," Harland promised. "Your bed, or mine?" he asked; he wanted to make sure Alistaire was comfortable. His own bed was clean, free of clutter, perpetually smelling like the cowboy's shampoo and aftershave.
"I am," he said, quietly.
Even if it would be the end of him, he would see this to its end, whatever and whenever that might be.
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Posted: Tue Jun 24, 2014 2:44 pm
He felt dizzy and confused, his gaze slightly unfocused. He was pressed against Harland still, Alistaire's arms looped around his neck, his face against the side of his throat where it slid into his shoulder. This warmth, this heat, this feeling of Harland so close to him was something he had no intention of giving up anytime soon. The idea of anyone else being so close to him made him vaguely nauseated, Alistaire closing his eyes briefly.
He was still dressed in Harland's clothes; the long sleeves of the shirt draped down nearly to his fingertips, and the sweatpants were slightly too large, giving him the strange, childlike, somewhat awkward appearance of someone who was not used to wearing such things.
Mine mine mine mine mine.
A greedy thought, selfish and demanding, but Alistaire was already in too deep in his head; he'd never before felt such an overwhelming possessiveness, a desire to keep Harland for himself. A part of him wondered whether he was still in love with Ian, and the thought made his stomach twist with anxiety, with anger, because Ian got everything that he wanted.
He was not going to get Harland.
Wordlessly, Alistaire drew away, his arms sliding down from Harland's neck, but he didn't go far; instead, his hands curled in the sides of Harland's shirt, and Alistaire stepped backwards, taking Harland with him until the back of his legs hit the bed, and he sank down onto it, still holding onto Harland. He looked up at him, face still flushed a deep crimson, but his fingers had tightened in the fabric of Harland's shirt, unwilling to let go, trying to pull him down beside him on the bed; a clear, childish demand.
Maybe he'd let Harland be in control one day. Maybe he should let Harland be in control, instead of always being the one to drag him around. Anxiety fluttered low in the pit of Alistaire's stomach, but the idea of relinquishing control was terrifying, because he'd already lost control of his senses by his blatant refusal to let Harland go.
Alistaire tugged on Harland's shirt again.
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 8:48 pm
Harland could hardly belive that Alistaire was so close, and wasn't pulling away yet. Was it the same man, in fact, who had barely been able to touch their hands together? Bare skin had been an anathema to him. Once, he'd thought Alistaire was just a predator out to assert dominance just because he wanted to, and use that power for the wrong reasons entirely. Somewhere along the lines, Harland had lost track of what constituted the wrong reasons and now all he was concerned with in this moment was letting Alistaire have exactly whatever he wanted. Whatever it may be.
It was like he'd fought Alistaire just to push back and then give in. Through half-lidded eyes, Harland looked Alistaire up and down as casually as he could from this distance: the shirt draping down, the slightly-too-large clothing. It made Alistaire look vulnerable, somehow.
Harland knew, for a split second, this was why he wanted Alistaire to have control. Because there was a part of Alistaire that he buried so deep that man could disappear in a second, and Harland had fallen in love with that. Fallen in love with the whole, but as a result, he wanted Alistaire to have control so that he felt comfortable enough to kiss him this softly, to hold him so close.
He was not thinking of Ian. He didn't really want to think of Ian; Ian belonged to, with, Shiloh. Whatever life he may have had, however much he may always love Ian, it wasn't his place to think of those things. Dreams that never were. Never could be.
Harland was happy. He hoped Alistaire never asked about how he felt about Ian, now.
He didn't want to lie.
As Alistaire pulled away, Harland's fingers reached out as if to grab hold of Alistaire, but relaxed and fell to Harland's sides until he was being pulled forward, bracing himself with one hand so that he didn't fall directly on top of Alistaire. He smiled, a look full of heat and affection and the exposed brilliance that was a perfect line to Harland's heart. A path that only Alistaire could walk, and only this once; the kind of trust and love that no one got a second chance at. That most didn't even get a first chance at.
And Harland would let Alistaire have it, without ever saying what it was, or what it was worth, or even making him give him anything in return. A gift seemingly without a cost. The cost, inevitably, would appear later when it was least convenient, surely.
Harland didn't need 'control' and he didn't need to feel like he was leading anything. He was confident enough in himself. In Alistaire. Curious to see where Alistaire wanted to take him, and so as long as Alistaire kept pulling, Harland would keep going where he was pulled. This time, being pulled down beside Alistaire on the bed, Harland relaxed his muscles to fall beside but not on Alistaire despite how much he wanted to be close. Harland smiled.
"What, better off?" he teased, shutting his eyes as he smiled, his skin bright red.
Why did he keep saying this kind of thing? Behaving so forwardly?
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 9:07 pm
For a split second Alistaire thought that Harland might not want to do what Alistaire was asking; that he'd changed his mind when Alistaire had stepped back, deciding that it was too much trouble, too much of a hassle, too complicated, too everything.
But the eyes that looked at him were bright and burning, Harland's gaze almost too much to bear sometimes with its intensity, and Alistaire's breath caught in his throat, his chest tight. They were beside each other now, Harland only a few inches away, and the heat radiating outwards from him washed over Alistaire in waves. Dimly he wondered if it would be possible to somehow bottle that heat, keep it on his desk for times when he was by himself and craved the warmth that only Harland seemed capable of producing.
It was too late to back away now, too late to tell Harland that their "lessons" were over, even if that was a lie. He couldn't possibly remove himself from Harland so easily, not unless he was willing to sever anything and everything; and Alistaire could not do that.
Alistaire's face was flushed scarlet; he inched back so that he could lay down, stretch his legs out in front of him, and it was only then that he realized that he was not wearing any socks or shoes, that his shaking hands were still bare. Nausea and panic rose in his throat, tamped down by a desperate desire for control, Alistaire curling his fingers into the sheets beneath him.
He heard Harland's voice like smoke curling against his skin, and Alistaire turned away from him, lying on his side on the bed, but there was still only a few scant inches between them, close enough for him to feel Harland's breath; and it was taking a certain amount of willpower not to give in and let himself drown in that warmth again.
Alistaire didn't answer Harland's question, but instead said, in a low, rough voice, "Tell me more about yourself."
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 10:05 pm
Harland hadn't shared his own bed with anyone since he was a teen, and even then it had hardly been romantic. Mostly, he'd either avoided being romantically snared or if he hadn't avoided it altogether he'd definitely kept it out of his own apartment. He was strangely comfortable with Alistaire there, however, despite occasionally feeling the dull ache of worry that Alistaire was going to feel smothered. Harland kept a bit of distance, respectfully, cooling down a little as the knowledge he was exhausted began to set in.
It dulled the edge of his desperation to feel Alistaire's skin against his own again.
Harland turned to lie on his back, looking up at the ceiling, lifting his head so that he could slide one folded arm under it and rest his head against it. He was thinking. "Hmm," he said, quietly, humming in his throat to indicate he'd heard and wasn't asleep.
What could he say? What was there to say?
"Before I lived here, I had two shirts to my name an' I lived in a rundown office where I worked durin' the days; had a pile of blankets an' a pillow. This place is an upgrade, even if I might die just livin' here," he said, not sure if that was worth knowing. But that was his life before here. His life before Alistaire.
"An' even if I do nothin' else right... I always wanted t' be the hero. That's what I think I'm around for. Not everyone can be strong, so if ye can be, use it t' protect the ones who cannae be as strong," he tried, listening to the sound of the words, as though he was trying to figure out if that was accurate.
Damnú, Harland swore mentally, as he adjusted his arm and felt the small box under his pillow. How had he forgotten he'd put that there? He didn't want Alistaire to find it, but if he moved now, what would happen? Better to hope that he didn't notice... Wasn't it? Harland suddenly felt very selfconscious.
"An'," he started again, his voice a little quieter, uncertain as he was divided cleanly between this and the apprehension Alistaire would find the box far too early, "I never really cared much for the thought of relationships," he said. The past tense hanged, heavy, in the space above him.
He turned onto his side again, facing towards Alistaire, attempting to slip one arm under the pillow so he could grip the ring box in one hand and hide it. "Alistaire, is there anythin' ye could tell me of yourself? A trade?" he asked, smiling.
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 10:33 pm
Alistaire was simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable; though the latter was more of a result of wanting desperately to roll over and press himself against Harland and drown himself in the heat he was exuding. But the other side of him, the more rational side, was terrified to become this comfortable in someone else's bed, near someone else. He was a man of organization, of routines; and this right here, lying next to Harland, in Harland's room, broke about a dozen routines that Alistaire was used to having.
It was a frightening thought, but something about the cadence of Harland's voice; the slow, deep way that he spoke, each word said with care, made some of the tension in Alistaire's shoulders ease. He could feel himself relaxing more into the pillows, one arm curled beneath his head, the other lying in front of him.
Such a strange man, he thought to himself. Still such optimism, even when faced with the hardships of a life that didn't turn out the way he probably expected it to.
Maybe if Harland had not come to Deus, had not met Alistaire, he would have gone about his life, moved past his difficulties, married a pretty little wife and had kids of his own, living in happiness until he died of old age. Now he was thrown here, into a place where survival was a success, where death was to be expected, where danger and chaos lurked at every corner. And yet he was still optimistic, his heart still full.
Alistaire didn't understand it, didn't understand how this man could even exist in the real world. He turned his face slightly, pressing his nose against the pillows so that his voice came out muffled when he spoke, his cheeks flushed a deep red that made his entire face feel hot.
"You are strong," Alistaire mumbled. "And you can protect me."
It was already true, in a way, though admitting it was humiliating and shameful. Alistaire was not strong, not really, and he knew it, even he didn't want to say it to himself. The front he put on, the casual airs and graces, they were all a show so that no one would perceive him as weak.
He was not strong, but he was not weak.
I never really cared for the thought of relationships.
Alistaire turned his face more fully into the pillow, hiding the flush that crept more fully onto his cheeks. He felt the bed dip lower as Harland shifted positions, and he was still curled on his side facing away from him, but now Alistaire could sense the closeness, the nearness of him, even closer than before.
"There isn't much to tell," he said flatly, finally lifting his head a little so that he could be heard. There was a small pause, and then, in a much quieter tone of voice,
"I don't like salad. Or cucumbers."
He'd moved his arm while he spoke; very slowly he'd slid it back, over his side and behind him, his trembling fingers searching for something, anything he could grasp; a clear attempt at wanting to touch Harland, to let himself be selfish and feel that warmth again.
"I don't particularly care for television, but I've always found those pathetic reality shows to be rather curious. I prefer spicy foods over anything else, and I've never really had any issues with things being spicy or hot. I didn't learn to drive until I was almost twenty because I didn't see the point." And I was too afraid of it, he thought, but didn't say.
"I was never particularly good at mathematics, though I enjoyed geometry." Was Harland still there? He wanted to drown himself in that warmth. "My first drink was when I was sixteen, at a party for some of my parents' friends that I was forced into attending."
His voice had dropped lower, scratchy from use and raw from speaking so much at one time.
"I have no interest in my parents. I don't hate my brother, contrary to what he believes."
He stretched out his fingers towards Harland, itching to pull him closer and push him farther away at the same time. Alistaire's voice was barely above a whisper now, and he'd turned his face into the pillow again, his breath hitching in his dry throat.
"I never cared for anyone other than myself for years. Until now."
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 11:00 pm
If Harland could have heard that mental image, 'married a pretty little wife and had kids of his own,' he would have laughed. For one, it had been very rapidly and obviously apparent he felt not even the slightest spark of physical interest in women. They were fun to romance, that much was true; pretty little things that smelled nice, and yelled a lot. That was his experience with the ones he'd known at home, anyway. It always died fast when they realized he wasn't really into them in the way they were into him. He just loved to make others feel loved, and he couldn't help it.
He was also kind of a natural flirt, as much as he'd deny it or pretend it wasn't happening. Whether he really thought he was truly innocent was unclear. In all honesty, Harland had been and often was fairly sad, but he didn't find it particularly good or useful, so he tried not to dwell on it very often.
Alistaire was the only one he felt the need to honestly communicate with. In time, surely he'd admit that he wasn't always as happy as he seemed. But the optimism was true; the optimism, the confidence, the patience. Those were all truth. No amount of digging would ever uproot them. He figured.
Harland thought, fondly, of the time Alistaire had reassured him that his mother's death was not his fault-- it was from the midst of that warm memory that he heard Alistaire's voice again. You are strong, and you can protect me, Harland heard him say. His gunmetal green eyes snapped open, and he felt his voice hitch in his throat. Did Alistaire even understand the impact those short phrases would have on Harland? Rebuilding the parts of Harland torn down over the years. Giving him hope. Real, profound hope.
"Alistaire? How is it ye disarm me with the simplest of phrases, an' unravel me just by bein' near?" he whispered, once he found his voice. Harland thought fondly of the edge of determination in Alistaire's body, his movements, the way he approached strangers. Alistaire was not weak, and didn't need to be protected. Harland would do anything to protect him, that being said. He'd sacrifice anything. Everything.
He'd keep living through those sacrifices, just for Alistaire. He would not admit as much. Harland was very pointedly refusing to silently cry, though he did blink the tears out of his eyes. Alistaire was telling him about himself.
Every detail was precious, a drop of water to a man who may as well have been dying of thirst; the exhausted, half-dreaming way Harland seemed to hear Alistaire's voice was really getting to him at this point. Harland watched Alistaire's hand reach back, and felt his heart leap again. He wanted to be close so badly, wanted to kiss Alistaire's palm, his wrist, the skin of his forearm, kiss down his elbow, his upper arm, his shoulder, his neck, graze his teeth along his ear--
Harland felt incredibly warm, pushing the mental exploration of Alistaire's body out of his head as he reached his had innocuously up to hold onto Alistaire's lightly, abandoning the ring under the pillow. No longer worried. Cucumbers. Public enemy #1.
Salad, whatever, Harland could live without that. Reality TV: Harland thought it was very much too real to be enjoyable, but he could learn to study it. He loved old westerns, but did movies count as television? Spicy foods seemed fine. Harland grinned as Alistaire said he hadn't learned to drive till he was almost 20-- Harland, himself, had probably learned on the fly by taking his Da's car for a forbidden spin one night. He hadn't hit anything alive, for what it was worth.
Harland could not quite relate to not being good at math. Math was one thing Harland excelled at: the calculations, memorizations, processing; Harland's brain was built for those exact tasks. So long as he wasn't timed. If he was timed, forget it.
He was listening carefully, filing every detail away like it was the answer to all questions he would ever be posed. Parties. Harland knew a lot about those, too. He had not exactly been shy with alcohol growing up. He wished he could show Alistaire what some of it had been like; it was customary when he was a kid to leave your door unlocked, open even if the weather was good, so neighbours could drop by and share a drink and some food by the hearth. They would share stories, songs, just talk for hours and hours. It was so warm, and those memories cradled a distant young version of Harland as he listened again to Alistaire.
I don't hate my brother, contrary to what he believes. Harland felt nauseous, for a moment, pushing images of Ian out of his head. He didn't want to picture Ian, didn't want Ian to be in his thoughts, didn't want the memory of almost kissing Ian to be so very vivid. He didn't have a choice.
All of his memories were so vivid.
Harland wove his fingers through Alistaire's, and busied himself with kissing each fingertip, his face angled to do so. "I swear I'd sooner die 'n abuse that privilege," Harland said quietly, softly. He laughed, and added: "Unless of course now's the point where you tell me ye've got a harem stored away somewhere. Or a clone of yourself, maybe?" He grew quiet again, not sure how to express how deeply he'd been affected by Alistaire's facts about himself.
And the knowledge that he cared. That Alistaire had actually grown to care for Harland as well, and it was not one-sided. Perhaps not as intense from both sides, admittedly, but... it was a start.
"Everythin' I learn about ye..." Harland whispered, "makes me... want to be closer," he finished, his voice whisper soft.
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Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 11:20 pm
He'd tried to keep himself objective.
He'd tried to keep things at a professional level, at a respectable distance that was safe, that was normal, that was careful because anything further, anything more would mean opening himself up, letting the parts of him that he'd kept so deliberately hidden be seen by someone other than himself. Alistaire kept his emotions and feelings and memories in safe, a strongbox inside of his heart meant to be locked away so only he could see them, and even then, he sometimes pretended that they did not exist because it was easier that way, safer that way.
It was easier to be cold and unfeeling.
His voice was hoarse now; raw from the sheer emotions laced through each word, each part of himself that he was expressing, that he was taking from that locked box and showing. He couldn't stop them once they started, and they fell, one right after the other, until he was breathing quickly, his heart in his throat, his pulse growing rapidly faster.
How long had he kept everything about himself buried so deeply? How tall were the walls that he had built around himself? They felt smaller now, as though slowly but steadily Harland was breaking them down, one by one, until eventually there would be nothing left but himself, nothing to protect him, nothing to hide away in.
Alistaire felt, to both his relief and fright, Harland's fingers weave through his own, and he sucked in a breath that became a slight hiss through his teeth, because Harland was not just holding his hand, but kissing his shaking fingers, and it was monumentally distracting and riddled with anxiety. The trembling increased, but Alistaire did not pull his hand away, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.
"No harem," he managed to get out. "Just..."
Just you, was the unspoken rest of the sentence, and Harland's words hung in the air between them, Alistaire feeling as though he'd swallowed sawdust, the dryness in his throat making him swallow hard.
I want to be close to you.
I want to be away from you.
You mesmerize me.
You frighten me.
I don't know what I want from you anymore.
It was hard to breathe. Alistaire gave a sudden jerk of the hand entwined with Harland's, pulling so that Harland's arm would be forced around Alistaire from behind, his back pressing against Harland's chest. His whole body was shaking now, but the warmth was nearly overpowering, Alistaire drawing Harland's hand up to his lips.
How close is too close?
How close is not enough?
What if - when - I push you too far?
"How close?" Alistaire whispered against Harland's fingers. "I will only break you should you stay."
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Posted: Thu Jun 26, 2014 10:29 pm
Harland had not ever thought he could fall in love with Alistaire. When they had met, when he'd watched Ian carry him away unconscious, when he'd heard Alistaire ask for his help with a problem. Even when he'd kissed Alistaire, he hadn't really realized this would be the result.
As many walls as Alistaire had, Harland had his own, and he hid them so that even he himself often forgot they were there. Wounds that he'd hidden in his past, and Harland felt that although the intensity of whatever they had might sear him to the bone it would surely burn away the pain he'd felt then. The things he still remembered, no matter what he did.
He listened to the way Alistaire's voice sounded, and knew that there was truth behind whatever was happening, and the relief was again overwhelming. Even if Alistaire didn't or couldn't admit it yet, Harland hoped... that one day, Alistaire could return his own hidden sentiment. Poorly hidden, albeit.
Harland was dizzy with the notion that not only was Alistaire special to him, he was unique in Alistaire's life. It felt like there was an entire side to life that only Harland and Alistaire could access, together. Private, safe. It had been so long since he'd seen anything even close.
Harland thought Alistaire was trying to pull away, but instead he was pulled into Alistaire. Harland nuzzled into Alistaire's neck from behind, parting his hair, pressing his mouth gently to the skin. He exhaled slowly against Alistaire's skin, smiling.
"As close as ye want, mo chroi. The Irish aren't broken easily," he joked. "But as far as I'm concerned... Ye could kill me an' I'd still protect you as a ghost. I'd find a way."
The idea was all too real. Death was everywhere for the Hunters, and ghosts were very possibly a part of their lives. If he died, and he managed somehow to become the things they hunted, maybe he could... at least be weaponized. His thoughts were strange, drowsy, as he felt like he couldn't possibly be happier.
"Remember when... I said this was home? This is why," Harland whispered, his voice slow and rhythmic. "You're... why."
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Posted: Thu Jun 26, 2014 10:51 pm
The walls were crumbling around him.
Originally it had been the alcohol; an easy excuse, the imbibed liquor loosening his tongue, making him more vulnerable, more talkative in spite of himself. But that was simple to twist into something casual, because alcohol was a good cover, something accessible that could be used as a scapegoat.
The second time there had been no alcohol, but he told himself it was just the stress and the sheer strangeness of the situation he had put himself in - had put both of them in.
The third time there had been no alcohol, but he told himself it was just the high of accomplishing things he hadn't been able to accomplish before.
And on it went, until he had run out of excuses; until he had run out of things to cover up the truth with.
Because it wasn't any of those things that made him open up to Harland; it wasn't the alcohol, it was Harland himself that was making the walls crumble, making the iron gate around Alistaire's heart slowly creak open after years of being carefully guarded. And try as he might to keep it shut, to lock the doors again, build the walls up, they were already down, and here he was, his emotions a wreck, telling Harland more about himself than anyone - even his own brother - knew.
The easily spoken mo chroi made Alistaire remember that he still needed to look up the phrase and see what it meant; but Harland's lips were against the back of his neck, and he couldn't concentrate anymore, the thought slipping away, back into the recesses of his mind.
He couldn't say I won't kill you because there were no promises to be made that could not be entirely fulfilled.
He was falling into something he couldn't - or maybe wouldn't - explain.
He wanted very much to turn around, to press his lips to Harland's and kiss him until they were both dizzy, until he couldn't think anymore; but Alistaire tamped down on the urge, instead allowing himself the small comfort of Harland's arms around him from behind, the warmth encompassing him, the feel of Harland's breath on his neck sending little tingles up and down his spine.
"You're not going to die," Alistaire said, and he shifted slightly, pushing down on Harland's arm so that it would be wrapped around his waist. He laid his own hand over Harland's, intertwining their fingers, and pressed them down to keep him in place. "You're going to be just fine, Mr. Belle."
I will break you even if I don't want to because that's what I do.
I break people.
His heart couldn't seem to settle, especially not after the last few words from Harland that sent his mind reeling, his chest fluttering with anxiety. Alistaire closed his eyes.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Stay with me tomorrow too."
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Posted: Thu Jun 26, 2014 11:00 pm
Harland wasn't being careful. He knew that he should be, he knew that he shouldn't divulge so much or tell Alistaire how he felt or be so terribly obvious-- he knew that he shouldn't so casually call him my heart, but he'd called him that before he even felt this strongly. It seemed natural.
It still amused him that he'd felt naturally inclined to call Ian the devil, while he'd called the seemingly far less affectionate Alistaire 'my heart.' Maybe both brothers were the devil, that remained to be seen.
Harland started to laugh, shaking his head and pressing his forehead against the back of Alistaire's head as he got more comfortable, not pulling away. "I'll die eventually," he said, amused. Harland smiled gently, as Alistaire reassured him, however. "See? I'll be fine, and nothin'll happen t' me, ye said it yourself," Harland said, his voice breathy.
He was clearly about to fall asleep, and that would explain why he was so comfortable and both unwilling to move and not paranoid he'd upset Alistaire. He was so tired that he just felt like he was dreaming. And when he woke, he'd wake with the vague notion that Alistaire had asked him to stay tomorrow, too. "So will I get to kiss you goodnight every night, then?" he asked, smiling, his sentence half-delirium.
"An' good mornin', an' for no reason other than your smile is my weakness..." he rambled on, his voice fading into sleep as Harland got cozy on the pillow.
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Posted: Thu Jun 26, 2014 11:22 pm
It was simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable; though the uncomfortable feeling stemmed not from Harland's body pressed close to his, but from the anxiety that wracked Alistaire's mind because of the closeness, because he'd allowed himself to open himself up to someone like Harland Leander Belle and now there was no going back, no taking back what he had shared without intending to.
He could still feel Harland's breath against the back of his neck, every word spoken shivering through him.
"Nothing will happen to you," said Alistaire flatly; a clear and decisive declaration, though he knew it to be a lie. He pressed harder on Harland's hand where it lay against his stomach as though to reassure himself that perhaps the lie would eventually come a truth if he thought for it hard enough.
His face was flushed and he was glad he was facing away so that Harland could not see. There was a long pause, and then he said, so quietly that it was barely audible (purposefully, because he knew that Harland was falling asleep, that he most likely would not remember this conversation in the morning),
"Kiss me at night. And in the morning as well."
And then, so soft it was just a whisper, Alistaire's eyes slowly falling shut,
"And whenever you want to."
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