@fortitudina bared their pretty throat :
[ MAPLE ] sender shakes receiver's shoulders, begging them to wake up. ( from Castaelar )
‘Lucien. Wake up, love. Come on.’
Sound reached him first, distorted and far away, Castaelar’s voice pressing through the dark with a desperation that made some buried part of him stir before the rest of him understood why. Bathroom tile lay cold against his cheek, the light above him far too sharp, copper thick on his tongue where he had bitten through the soft flesh during the seizure. He was on the floor. Brilliant. Of all the places to lose control, his own nervous system had apparently chosen beside the bath like a fragile little mortal with timing issues. ( Of course it had to be his husband who found him. The one person he least wanted to frighten and the only one his body would recognise before panic. ) A rough sound caught in his throat, too faint to count as an answer, though the grip at his shoulders stopped shaking the second it escaped him.
Barely, but it was something. His lashes fluttered, vision blurred with white light and the vague outline of Castaelar above him, close enough that Lucien could feel the heat of him through the chill clinging to his own skin. Everything ached in a dull, heavy way, limbs slow to return, jaw sore, chest dragging each breath in as though his ribs had forgotten their duties. Crikey. He’d survived cages, wars, Purgatory and more supernatural bastards than history had bothered recording, only to be reduced to a trembling mess beside plumbing.( If humiliation had a taste, it would be blood and expensive soap. ) His fingers scraped weakly over the tile until they found Castaelar’s wrist, clumsy but deliberate, holding there before pride could object.
That almost made it worse. Not the touch, never his, but the gentleness in it, the softness held tight enough to keep from breaking. Lucien knew Castaelar’s restraint, knew the effort beneath each careful movement, the way his husband was holding himself together because falling apart would help neither of them. He wanted to mock it. Wanted to be sharp enough to ease the horror sitting in Castaelar’s face, except his mouth was slow and his body had gone heavy in the aftermath. ( Look at him. Gorgeous, terrified and still trying to be steady. Marriage really was an outrageous thing to survive. ) His thumb shifted once over warm skin, a faint answer where speech failed him.
The word left him rough, aimed at the expression rather than the man. He hated seeing Castaelar like that, hated knowing the seconds he had lost had been lived through by someone else with nothing but silence and a body refusing to respond. Pain was familiar enough. Blood too. Shame had arrived quickly, naturally, nosy little cunt that it was, but guilt moved faster when his husband’s voice still carried the strain of begging him awake. ( One seizure and suddenly he was making a tragedy out of bath time. Excellent work all round. ) He swallowed, winced at the sting in his mouth and tightened his hold with what little strength remained.
The reassurance sounded thin, though clearer than before. His eyes managed to focus by degrees, first on Castaelar’s mouth, then his eyes, then the worry he hadn’t managed to hide despite being unfairly good at composure. That look reached places the seizure had missed. Lucien had taken blades with less offence. He had heard men pray at his feet and felt less exposed than he did lying there with damp hair, bitten tongue and his husband watching him as if the world had almost taken him elsewhere.( Purlease. He was difficult to kill, dramatic to keep, and apparently dreadful for marital blood pressure. ) Another tremor worked through him, weaker now, enough to make his shoulder tense beneath Castaelar’s steadying touch.
‘I thought you weren’t breathing.’
Ah. Fuck. That one landed. Lucien’s mouth parted, then closed again, the usual retort failing him in a way he would have found mortifying under better circumstances. He could picture it too easily, Castaelar finding him too still, shaking him, calling his name into a bathroom that had given nothing back. No wonder his voice sounded like that. No wonder the grip at his shoulders had bordered on frantic before Lucien managed a sound. ( There it was. The damage done outside his own memory. How wonderfully unfair. ) His gaze stayed on his husband, tired but present, and he dragged in a breath with deliberate care.
Small word. Difficult word. He disliked the taste of it nearly as much as the blood, yet Castaelar deserved it and that was the irritating heart of the matter. The seizure had taken choice away from both of them, leaving Lucien with missing time and his husband with the sight of him unresponsive on the floor. Neither seemed a fair trade. His hand slid from wrist to fingers, seeking a better hold now the tremor had eased enough for intention to matter. ( Huh. Clinging. How very domestic. Someone shoot him if he started calling it healing. ) He kept his eyes open, refusing the urge to let exhaustion drag them shut again.
Castaelar’s words were quiet, which made them harder to avoid. A shout could be argued with. Anger would have been easier, something to meet with bite, humour or a well-timed insult. This softness left no obvious escape and Lucien, unfortunately, was too wrung out to manufacture one. His throat worked around another breath, the room still swaying at the edges as though the bathroom itself had joined in the betrayal. He wanted to sit up, wanted to look less like a man who had been dropped by his own body and left for collection. ( Nah. Vanity could wait. Rare sentence. Best written down. ) The hand around Castaelar’s fingers tightened.
It was honest, lacking his usual flourish, but there was more apology in it than he cared to unpack. His husband’s fear mattered. That had always been the terrible inconvenience of loving someone, hadn’t it? Their pain became a place inside your own chest whether invited or otherwise. He’d learned that lesson before, brutally, and still Castaelar had managed to make him relearn it with quieter hands and far better intentions. Lucien breathed again, slower this time, letting the closeness keep the dark from pulling too hard. ( His. That was the problem. His husband, his worry, his voice dragging him back. Bloody unfair, really. ) A faint attempt at a smile touched his mouth and disappeared almost at once.
Terrible lie. Truly poor effort. Even in his current state, he recognised the lack of conviction and looked faintly offended by himself. Fine was for people standing upright, preferably holding a drink and ruining someone’s evening with charm. He was horizontal, aching, nauseous and offended by tile as a concept. Castaelar knew it too, which made the whole performance rather pointless.( Still, habit was habit. Some men smoked. Some prayed. Lucien lied about being alright on principle. ) He swallowed more carefully this time, then exhaled through his nose.
Better. Slightly. His body had begun returning in stages, each muscle making its complaint known as if submitting paperwork. He could feel the damp chill at his temple, the soreness in his back, the lingering flutter beneath his skin where the seizure had left its echo. Sitting up would be unpleasant. Staying down felt worse with Castaelar looking at him like that. ( Come now. He had already provided blood, panic and floor-based theatrics. A little cooperation seemed generous. ) His fingers remained linked with his husband’s, refusing to release even as he shifted.
Asking cost him something, though less than it would have with anyone else. Castaelar moved carefully, and Lucien let himself be guided, face tightening as the room tilted in protest. One hand caught at his husband again, instinctive and lacking all elegance, before he could pretend otherwise. For a moment, once upright enough to count, he let his head rest against Castaelar’s shoulder, breath uneven against him while the world rearranged itself. ( If anyone called this cuddling, he would deny it with religious conviction. Collapse had special rules. ) The contact steadied him, more than pride approved of, though pride could piss off until his limbs stopped feeling borrowed.
Another difficult offering, spoken quietly enough that it almost belonged to the space between them rather than the room. He meant it. Awful. Castaelar’s hand remained close, and Lucien kept hold of it, thumb brushing over his knuckles with a tired care he lacked the strength to disguise. He would recover. He always did. Yet the memory of being shaken awake, of hearing his name in that broken tone, would linger long after the ache faded from his muscles. ( Trust marriage to make immortality feel breakable in entirely new ways. ) His eyes lifted, heavy but aware, finding Castaelar again.
‘I’m sorry I frightened you.’
The words held this time. Soft, tired, real. He hated how exposed they sounded and left them alone regardless, because Castaelar deserved more than jokes dragged over a wound. There would be time for humour later, for pretending he had handled the whole thing beautifully and with impressive cheekbones. For now, Castaelar deserved more than him hiding behind another joke.
A pause followed, small and necessary.
