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Help me find a title, people?
He has dreams sometimes, not the ones he can't remember, filled with life outside the bar--filled with magic and experimentation and a harsh and heavy uprush of rebellion and justification and 'I'll show you'. These dreams are quieter, a rush of wind instead of raging water, the quiet coolness of soil instead of the burning intensity of flame, of Roger Lucifer.
Instead there is a pair of bright blue eyes, sly and warm and laughing, and cool callused fingers, and tangled black hair. There is wine, held to his lips in a finely cutcrystal glass, and an insistent finger pointing at a line of poetry, forcing Thom's gaze to it almost against his will.
There is a feverish body against his own, hungry for touch and taste, wanting him more than anyone ever has. The warmth of fingers on his breastbone, and on his face, and lower, always so careful. And that face, perfect and beautiful and otherworldly, turned up toward his all open and waiting. It never bleeds.
Thom does, though, and in the dreams he never minds. Until, of course, he wakes up, breathing hard, hands shaking just a little, all alone in his room.
But there will come a day, of course, when Thom wakes up to find Xas waiting, legs crossed, hand resting very gently on Thom's shoulder.
One day. When Xas is ready.
Until then he sits quietly, lightly perched by Thom's bed, whispering low and soft in the tongue of angels.
And Thom dreams.
He has dreams sometimes, not the ones he can't remember, filled with life outside the bar--filled with magic and experimentation and a harsh and heavy uprush of rebellion and justification and 'I'll show you'. These dreams are quieter, a rush of wind instead of raging water, the quiet coolness of soil instead of the burning intensity of flame, of Roger Lucifer.
Instead there is a pair of bright blue eyes, sly and warm and laughing, and cool callused fingers, and tangled black hair. There is wine, held to his lips in a finely cutcrystal glass, and an insistent finger pointing at a line of poetry, forcing Thom's gaze to it almost against his will.
There is a feverish body against his own, hungry for touch and taste, wanting him more than anyone ever has. The warmth of fingers on his breastbone, and on his face, and lower, always so careful. And that face, perfect and beautiful and otherworldly, turned up toward his all open and waiting. It never bleeds.
Thom does, though, and in the dreams he never minds. Until, of course, he wakes up, breathing hard, hands shaking just a little, all alone in his room.
But there will come a day, of course, when Thom wakes up to find Xas waiting, legs crossed, hand resting very gently on Thom's shoulder.
One day. When Xas is ready.
Until then he sits quietly, lightly perched by Thom's bed, whispering low and soft in the tongue of angels.
And Thom dreams.