his own heartbeat hammers so hard, it’s hard to hear anything above it; hard to grasp a reality that isn’t deafening in every aspect. he wants to crawl out of his skin, make a home in a quiet high where nothing can touch him — where the clouds swallow up every fear, and his demons rest like dragons, curled amongst warm rocks, settled in until a valiant soul dares draw near with sword drawn, prepared an attempt to slay creatures that were much more difficult to rid than many understood. his hand curls tighter around the others wrist, and he can’t stop himself from reaching up his free hand and grabbing them hem of max’s dark-toned tee. he hadn’t expected him to stay after the events earlier in the evening, he hadn’t expected to wake up to another soul.
❝ thank you. thank you. ❞
quiet desperation, and he’s pulling the other in. all he wants is to hide, to get away from himself, and he isn’t sure if company is the key but, he’ll try anything once. dark eyes close as he forces himself to let go, to get some kind of handle on himself through the fog, but the tremble in his bones doesn’t cease and if he listens closely enough over the war drum he calls a heart, he can hear the sobs as they stall in his throat, caught by constricted muscles. he’s forcing his limbs to heave him over onto the other side of a bed usually occupied alone, stomach rising and falling against the back of his throat as strung out nerves burn and shiver under the electrical currant of pure fear.
and he’s trying to pull himself together, but all he can really do is run his hands over his face until his features are raw, nails biting into hairline as they drag down. he’s tearing himself apart, almost literally. his skin sings under the sting, and its hard to keep himself from twitching at the idea that this was the person who had nearly destroyed him prior. not that ben would hold something as a personal grudge; it was per request and, who were they to turn down entertainment? still, the memory causes his throat to draw just a bit tighter.
❝ i‘m sorry if i woke you. ❞
the victor from six has given up clawing up his features, and settles for chewing at somewhat swollen lips instead. when warmth finally joins him under the blankets, he loses a vital grip on control. alone is a familiar word, company is not, and he’s all but melting beneath the blankets, puddling around the body that dares come close. there is no shame, no room for shame, as he carefully wedges himself against max, burying against his side, hiding away from the darkness that bleeds into his skin. the victor from two smells like whiskey and self-loathing, ben knows the smell too well, but he says nothing. he has no room to say anything.
all he can do is hide eyes that have warped into black holes, breathless and shivering as he all but climbs into his counterpart’s form.
The nature of his touch, as he slides into Ben’s bed, is so sincere. He almost chokes from the pressure in his throat at the realization, untrained hands so soft in bringing their bodies together, in fitting himself against jagged edges. Fingers drag up the soft cloth of Ben’s shirt, and then down the warm skin of his stomach, curling over sharp hips. His palms rest over flesh he knows is marked with bruises left by the same hands, and a renewed fire of self loathing joins the burning whiskey churning in his gut. A kiss is pressed to a crown of dark hair, lips hovering near the other’s temple as they withdraw. The idea that he was receiving an apology, when the evidence of his crimes was set in black and blue contrast littered over pale flesh, it made him touch with even more hesitancy. The pads of his fingers have never considered something so reverently, of that he’s sure, and he trails them across skin like he could engrave an apology there. Ben’s face his hidden, so Max’s lips press next to the edge of his jaw, before nuzzling up under it to leave kisses along the pale column of unguarded throat. Teeth drag across, nips following the trail of kisses, as if he has to balance the gentleness of his touch against something more aggressive. Because he enjoys the way the man pressed against him responds to that scrape of sharp canines, as if to rip bloody throat from body would be some kind of gift. His hand comes up sharply, out from under Ben’s shirt and curling around his jaw before either of them can take a full breath. Dark eyes are forced to his, and he’s searching again, can’t let himself believe this is wanted, that he’s not just assisting the nightmares to take deeper root in the other's mind. He knows he should say something, anything, to cut the friction, the static that locks in between their eyes, but there aren't any words for the sensation he’s feeling. Not any that he’d say out loud. In the time that they’d done this together, had their bodies sold to the highest bidder, their kisses had been perfunctory, necessity, a show. Max wanted nothing more than to set his lips against Ben’s in this moment. In the dark, quiet room, the silence so loud he could here the current of white noise pulse in his ears punctuated by two sets of lungs heaving in oxygen. He couldn’t do it though, not without an indication that the act would be something beside a loaded gun, something beside nightmares coming to haunt you when you’re eyes were wide open. So a whisper into the dark, a quiet, “can I kiss you?”
