comicshavefailedme | LL cont’

LL cont’

[Bad ideas. That’s what Rafael was famous for. Sometimes those bad ideas would pan out into groundbreaking technologies. Other times it would blow up spectacularly in his face - and by extension, all faces adjacent. Not that it ever stopped him from coming up with more.

This one, though. A bridge too far.

Aracha - if that really could be called his name anymore - sat, hunched over, cycling a trinket between his fingers as though in a trance. It felt like the slow, tactile motion was the only thing still keeping him grounded to reality (again, questionable). His mind was… far, far away, in a place that might not even exist anymore, lost. But more than that, alone, in a vast, empty field of deaf, silent rage. And that cold silence seeped into every crack in his brain, filling the folds of his thoughts, the hollow space in his bones, the pockets in his lungs.

He wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. None of this was real. He knew that now.

At some point, his fiance was going to walk through the door and find him sitting at the foot of ~~their~~ his bed. And one way or another, this lie would be shattered.]

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Hmph.

[He doesn't add anything else, just rolls over in bed. GO GET US BOOZE THEN, YOU HUSSY.]

[ He feels... kind of sad, for some reason. But it's time to go be a slut for whiskey.

About twenty minutes later, he's returned with a bottle of Fireball and a box that smells utterly divine; chicken wings lay within. He's placing that on the nightstand nearest Kaine, but the bottle gets placed on the table while he looks for cups. ]

It sounds like some of the other ship guests are in a similar position as us, so a lot of the locals are being pretty resourceful. Bartender was pretty fascinated by what happened. I guess it's made the news.

[In the amount of time it took for Miguel to come back, Kaine had gotten bored and explored their hotel room. The complimentary tea and coffee, the kitchenette, the bathroom.

The mirror in the bathroom...

He stands there for a while, taking in his reflection. It wasn't that long ago when he only saw himself when he looked in the mirror. Now who was he? Peter, Aracha, Kaine... all three stared back at him.

...God. He needed a shower. He'd spent the last week or so in a stupor, either depressed or drunk or both. Not a lot of time for personal hygiene. Who knows when Miguel would be done chatting up the locals, anyway.

By the time he does come back, it's to the sound of a shower running. Kaine can faintly hear what he's saying through the walls - knows enough to rinse off and finish up. Gotta towel off his hair.

Muffled, from the bathroom:]

But did you get the booze?

Of course I did. I wouldn't let you down.

[ Normally, he wouldn't think twice about a man in the shower. But this isn't just a man—he knows every inch of this man's body, dry or wet. Clothed or not.

...he's trying to find the cups a little faster, and—a teacup? Sure. Fine. Whatever. He needs to keep his mind away from the other side of that door. ]

[After a few more minutes, Kaine wraps the complimentary hotel bathrobe around himself and comes out, seemingly ignorant of how he looked - hair damp and slicked back, his skin rosy with the afterglow of a hot shower, poking out from beneath his robe.

Gestures at Miguel for drink, not really caring if it came in a cup or the whole damn bottle. Gimme.]

That whiskey?

Yeah. Cinnamon whisk...ey.... . . .

[ He's dropping off there as he passes over a styrofoam cup of the precious golden liquid, because. Well. He...

He.

...he has a terrible problem. A very terrible one. A truly outrageously horrendous problem!

Oh my god he's beautiful. ]

[Kaine nearly drops the cup as it's passed to him, the thought is so loud. It slams into him like a car crash, lighting up ever nerve at once as his heart suddenly struggles to contain the overflow of emotion: embarrassment, panic, desire, affection, indignation, desperation, shame.

Fuck. FUCK!

There was only one way to deal with this. And that was to down the entire cup of whiskey in one go.

Thankfully the burn as it goes down is strong enough to distract from all this other bad feelings right now! Great news even as it settles into a pit of fire in his stomach.]

urk

[ Second problem: this man is a Miguel mind-reader. He brings his hand back, balling it into a fist so he can focus on the pressure, rather than a sight in front of him that will have him spiralling into a whirlwind of emotions that aren't supposed to belong to him. ]

Look, I—I'm sorry.

[ quick, apologize for your dick before the man passes out... ]

[Kaine wobbles on his feet, feeling a little bit sick and a lot of regret. But in what direction that regret was aimed at, he had no idea. Without thinking (it's possible that he's lost that function entirely), he tosses the styrofoam cup to the side and grabs the front of Miguel's shirt in an aggressive fistful of cloth. For balance, of course.

Boy. Looking at him made Kaine mad. He had no idea why.]

You.

[ There's a heavy thump in his chest, and Miguel doesn't want to take the time to puzzle together whether it's because he thinks this is concerning or if he thinks it's hot. Not the time! It'll never be the time!

Instead, he wraps his fingers around Kaine's wrist. ]

I'll leave, if you want.

[The stupid drunk logic in his brain is immediately annoyed by this. He wants to leave! Probably to talk to that receptionist again! He was sooo charming at her!!! Why is he doing this to me!!!!!

Miguel then grabbing his wrist was doing things to him too. Hot things. He growls, pulling ~~Raf~~ Miguel closer.]

You know how I get when you flirt with people.

[Aracha got territorial. Insecure, and jealous, even when he knew better.]

[ Something lower in his body immediately reacts with all the interest in the world. Ohhhh no. All reason escapes his brain immediately, and his thumb gently strokes the inside of Kaine's wrist as he leans closer.

Who is he now? It doesn't matter anymore. He's this amalgamation of a man (or two) who's feeling everything.

When he answers, it's in a low and slow tone. ]

Do you remember what comes after that?

[ An entire weekend in bed as an apology, only punctuated with the important shower time (also not necessarily alone). ]

Shut up.

[Of course he remembers. He can't stop wanting it now, especially having obliterated his better judgment. Kaine's breathing is heavy as the heat of the whiskey travels up his neck, his face. He wobbles a bit more. And decides that hearing Miguel's voice is annoying too.

There's a gap in logic here. But in the next second, he decides that the best thing to do about it is to kiss him.]

[ It feels like a reward from heaven. Or a welcoming gift, because he thinks he might die once this kiss is over. Someone's going to kill him for sure. No, this was the best worst idea ever concocted. This large, angry man is a genius actually.

There's a few nagging feelings flittering about the back of his mind, but he hasn't gotten a hold of them just yet. He's too busy leaning right in, lips parting for him.

Holy crap.

SORRY, YOU'RE STILL A MIND READER. ]

[Yeah. This felt good. It felt right, for the first time in days. Kissing back, Kaine just wants to swim in this feeling forever.

Ignoring the queasiness in favour of chasing that high, tightens his grip on Miguel's shirt. Then lifts him up. Feet, off the ground.

Time to throw him on the bed now.]

[ in the most deadpan voice as he flies away to land on the bed, bouncing twice: ]

Seriously.

what, you'rre gonna complain now?

[Kaine confidently follows suit, pouncing on top of Miguel and

passing out on top of him. Zonk.]

[ this saves him from being like "I can't take advantage of you so we'll have to stop at some point" at least............. ]

Ah shock, he's gonna kill me when he wakes up.

[ AND I WAS ENJOYING THE KISSING TOO. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN. ]

[To make matters worse(?), the unconscious Kaine shifts in his sleep, curling his arms around Miguel and burrowing his head against his chest in a warm, comfortable snuggle.]

[ With utter resignation (and a slight, fond upturn of his lips) he's flopping his head back against the blanket and sighing. His fate is sealed. His ass is grass.

Maybe it's for the best they were interrupted... but that idle, poisoned thought is interrupted, as he lifts up a hand and curls it into Kaine's damp hair. It's nice. He's so warm, and large, and weirdly cozy, for a man built out of bricks.

And... it's very charming, being cuddled with. It's been so long—or, well, it hasn't... but it feels like it has. It feels like everything is right and wrong at the same time.

But maybe a bit more on the right side of things. ]

You're weirdly cute.

[Kaine doesn't reply, for obvious reasons. His breathing is slow, somehow still managing to sound grumbly, like the purring of a large, dangerous cat.

He dreams of being Aracha. Or maybe, he can only be Aracha in his dreams? Either way - it's a nice dream. Comfortable, domestic. Nothing more extraordinary than waking up in bed with his fiance, and spending the morning curled against each other - neither of them wanting to face the ordeal of pulling off the blankets and getting ready for the day. They mumble sleepily at each other about nothing of importance. They kiss each other's skin.

It's the happiest he'll ever be - and it bleeds into their mental connection. He was never more happy than in Rafael's arms.]

[ He hasn't fallen asleep yet, and has taken to idly gazing at the ceiling, his free hand sliding up to rub over his face. It tugs at him, the fatigue of the day, and he zones out—in that sweet spot between sleep and awake.

And like a gentle press comes the vision of them both, at home when the windows are starting to glow, enjoying their time together. Such a simple happiness, it (never) was. The biggest problem he could conceive was how to make it last forever (when it would last never). He'd joked about how hard it was to get Aracha to look at him in any way that wasn't a glare, and how that effort has paid off a million times over.

And... just like that, he realizes it's not just his fantasy. Not his dream. Right. Mind melding, or whatever. It features him, but he shouldn't be looking at it.

There's something burning in his eyes, and he has to vigorously scrub at his face to get rid of the evidence of a deep sorrow. That didn't exist. It never existed. He should stop playing with this poor guy—even though he feels it stronger than ever, that "playing" isn't the word for it.

One deep breath later and... no, ten deep breaths later, and he's drifting away into his own dream; one that is mercifully (or maybe mercilessly) quiet. ]

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THE SECRET FOURTH ONE

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