Welcome to Gaia! ::

Two days on the ocean was, for Detraeus, a special kind of hell. It ended though, thankfully, right on time, and he stumbled off the landing plank and onto the dock with graceless eagerness, never more happy to be back on the blisteringly hot sand dune that was Eowyn. Being that they arrived relatively early in the morning, after making initial drop-offs at their shared residence, Araceli immediately had a number of tasks to get to involving both her work and — presumably — the Fedele household. Detraeus, however, didn’t inquire as to what and attended to his own business.

He had yet to speak with Casseth since returning to Eowyn. Much to his surprise, he found that, on thinking of him, it wasn’t that he was still angry. He had been furious, of course, following the initial reveal, and in the immediate months after, but after all the buffer time in between that moment and the present, his anger had — finally — subsided. He still did not trust Casseth. Or, rather, the hybrid had not restored his trust back to what it once was. Detraeus felt fairly confident in assuming, though, that that would never happen. Once damaged, it would be impossible to repair precisely what they previously had.

The lack of anger, however, left him at an impasse, and curious. He wondered what Casseth was up to, if he still fought in the pit, if he was well, and more. In the end, it was only his pride and stubbornness that kept him from following the well-trodden path from his and Araceli’s house to Cas’. If the hybrid wanted his company, he could come here himself. Until that moment, Detraeus would wait, and leave the rest in the hands of fate.

Thus decided, he spent the afternoon busying himself with his own affairs. Come sundown Araceli returned, the two cooked and ate a simple meal, cleaned, and stalled in the living room. There, Detraeus frowned.

When they had left Eowyn, Araceli had never set foot in his room, nor he in hers. Those two spaces in the house were solitary and understood to be off-limits. So much had shifted on Ayr, day to day, week to week, and yet, on Eowyn, things felt different again. Old, unspoken of ‘rules’ clashed with new experiences, leaving him in flux and uncertain. Eventually, however, he resorted to instinct, and moved towards his bedroom. At the doorway, absent any immediate objection from Araceli, he turned and shifted his weight, tail flicking across the threshold.

“Goodnight,” he said, and stepped inside. After only a moment’s hesitation, he shut the door behind him, but — for the first time during his stay in the house — he couldn’t bring himself to lock it, and thus left it as was, unbolted, before moving to his bed.

His space felt empty without her.

From the moment Detraeus shut the door until the moment Araceli opened it, Detraeus had not slept for a moment, and his attention darted to her the instant she did. His vision gave him the full benefit of detail: her nightdress, her posture, her expression — everything from the tilt of her hips to the pinch in her brow and his breath skittered out from between his lips before he drew a larger one and pushed himself to a sit.

“Come here…”

Detraeus watched her approach, listened to the sweep-pat of each footstep before she came to a nervous perch at the edge of his mattress, and then listened to her words. At the end, though, he shook his head. “No.” His eyeless gaze studied her in the dark, drawing in the various pieces of body language and trying to puzzle them together into a complete answer: if she had wanted anything other than to sleep separately again, why had she said nothing?

She had said nothing. She hadn’t stopped him. Hadn’t suggested otherwise. Hadn’t invited him into her space, which he still considered entirely her own. And yet, here she sat. Part of him wanted simply to kiss her. On Ayr, perhaps he would have — or would have asked to — but here, the silence between them felt more deafening without the now-familiar winds of the blustery continent, and everything was too quiet.

“Enter as you please…from now until always.”

‘Yes.’

Detraeus sank forward and into the invited kiss. Why bother with answers, when this was all he wanted? Her against him. Near him. Familiar. Warm. He knew this now, and it was easy to slip back into. So easy, even, that it transitioned just as smoothly.

The kiss, innocent at first, changed, and nothing felt wrong. When he had her under him, her back to the sheets, hair splayed over his pillow, fingers tangled at his nape, and body arching up against him, nothing felt wrong. For a snapshot of time, a baser instinct guided him without falter. It felt natural to press his lips to the wild, wardrum pulse in her throat, natural to shape his fingers up the soft curve of her thighs, under and irrespective of the thin cloth of her night dress as it gathered in folds at his wrists and rose with them. It felt natural to settle his weight between her legs, to stretch his wings in a protective, possessive tent over her, touch his tongue to her collarbone and then mouth to the upper rise of her breasts and think that yes — this was all what he wanted.

Then, her fingers were at his waistline, her rocking up to him in impatient invitation and the words, “Yes, Detraeus, please, I want you…” registered like a frigid wake up call. It splintered into the protective mental shell of the moment, leaving a crack through which panic surged and skittered throughout his body.

In a matter of seconds, his hands were off of her again, pulse like a hive of vispirii in his throat and head shaking. “No—no, no, no, I can’t—”

A choked, frustrated sound left Ara, and she whined when she spoke. “You can, you can, Detraeus, you’re not hurting me, please…”

“I will—”

“You won’t, you haven’t, I trust you…”

Detraeus’ exhale quivered on the way out, and he shut his eyes, working his utmost to rein back in the panic in his thudding pulse. “I…can’t…”

That time, something in his tone seemed to register, and Araceli’s restlessness eased back, her frustration softening into a frown closer to concern. When she reached out, her fingers coming to a gentle perch on his cheek, he straightened his shoulders to keep his full body from shaking.

“Why…?” she asked.

He shook his head, but she persisted.

“Why can’t you, Detraeus? What are you so afraid of…?”

“That…” The words clogged his throat, thick and unnatural, but he forced them out anyway, “…I’ll hurt you…”

“Why?”

“Because it hurts.”

“It doesn’t, though. I’ve told you—”

“It always hurts.”

Araceli paused, something dangerously close to understanding clicking into place across her features. “Detraeus…”

“It always…always…always…” Detraeus’ full body shook in spite of himself. His muscles bunched and quivered, his jaw set and eyes squeezed shut. He felt like a bow strung too tight, held at the nocking point so that one touch could set off a snap. “Relax,” he whispered, voice brittle and spread too thin. “It’ll hurt less if you relax. They’re. Liars.”

“Wait.” Araceli shook her head. “What are you talking about? Who—”

“They’re. All. Liars,” Detraeus spat. “‘Beautiful’ little monster, is what he would say to me. ‘You’re lucky,’ he would say. ‘You should be grateful.’ ‘Isn’t it easier when you cooperate the first time…’ ‘You’re so lovely when you behave yourself…’”

“Detraeus—”

“‘There’s no need to be afraid…’” Detraeus whispered, barely feeling Ara’s thumb as it brushed over his cheek. He discerned that he was crying only in the aftermath, when the stroke of her touch left the area feeling cool and damp. He shook his head, throat thick and burning with unswallowed bile. “There is always reason to be afraid…”

“Who hurt you, Detraeus…”

“All of them.”

Araceli frowned. “The orderites…the ones who took you when you were small. They…touched you?”

Detraeus made a sound, fractured and sharp as a new blade, though otherwise it might have passed as a laugh. “They <********> me,” he said. “All of them. And I’m going to kill. All of them. I’ll have them scream for me, like they made me scream, until every—last—one of them understands what it means to wish and pray they were dead. And then I will send them to their goddess in pieces.” He sat back onto his knees on the mattress, breath shaking, and reached up, frowning when he found more dampness on his face. “I disgust you now…” he murmured. “I can leave the house, if you prefer.”

Detraeus shuddered, damp lashes falling shut against his cheeks and brow furrowing at the kiss. But he did not pull away. When it broke, he held form only for a matter of moments before giving in and allowing himself to sink: face and forehead to her shoulder, back bowing under invisible, immeasurable weight, and tail coiling around to cling to her. His fingers held her hips and he shut his eyes again.

“Such…a strange woman,” he managed, voice mangled and brittle, but audible. What he meant was more along the lines of: ‘I love you…and I no longer understand quite how I would live my life without you. I don’t deserve you.’