it surprised me that all 4 of Sylus' fav dishes (the ones in this piece) in home system i found for now are all made of fish and other seafood. i guess that's what "kindred spirits" means :3
I'd like to see Rafayel being the injured party 🤔 I don't know how they end up there but, he needs stitches apparently!
Sylus/Rafayel, with mention of established Sylus/Rafayel/MC.
On the heels of slamming shut the driver’s door, Sylus lets out a tight sigh and most deliberately averts his gaze from the rear view mirror.
That is, he endeavours not to yield to the temptation - the need - to glance in it and discover the state of the creature currently occupying the back seat, yet it is a matter of moments before he finds himself surrendering, concern winning out over the need to prove any point.
“You’re not wearing your forlorn ‘pay attention to me’ face, or your ‘ask me what wonderful thing I did’ one, so–”
From Rafayel, there is a huff of something laughter-adjacent, too breathless and brittle to be true amusement.
It it a sound that makes him want immediately to turn and examine just what has caused such a sound to rise from his lover, yet he knows very well that to move too quickly and to press too much is to invite a snapping and snarling; not to mention the possibility of an exit from the car simply to try and prove a point.
Instead, he settles for a low, insistent, “Tell me.”
Another one of those soft sounds, this time through clenched teeth.
“You were right.”
“As much as I would enjoy hearing those words on another occasion…”
He turns, locking the car in the same instant, which earns him a half-hearted growl and a stubborn redirecting of Rafayel’s gaze as he takes in the sight of him, flushed and with one hand pressed just south of his left shoulder, a dark stain marring the fabric of what was once a pristine crimson shirt.
“Bullet or blade?”
“Bullet,” Rafayel grits out, still refusing to look at him.
“Is it still in there?”
“No. Grazed my arm.”
“I assume you finished the job.”
Statement, not question.
Rafayel’s lips curve into the variety of sharp, satisfied smile that, in other circumstances, he would find enchanting and an invitation to coax and provoke him into pressing teeth against his throat and tucking that smile just beneath the line of his jaw.
“The next person to attempt to sell Lemurian genetic material will know what happened here,” is a promise in low and deadly tones.
“Good.”
He does not remind him that he offered his assistance and was perfectly willing to miss this evening’s auction; does not tell him that he has been so distracted that he has had only the wherewithal to do battle with his aether core, and has, in-fact, returned from said auction with nothing. The fact is that it may well have changed nothing - that Rafayel is choosing not to inform him that he quite possibly allowed the bullet to strike him.
From beneath the passenger seat, he pulls a small box, which he tosses onto the back seat.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got some seaweed crackers in there?”
Sylus lets it be seen when he casts his gaze towards the ever-darkened sky, though cannot fight down a wry little smile.
“Not your day,” he drawls, clambering after the box in what he knows is not an especially elegant fashion, yet it is enough that the sight of it seems to distract the injured party he has trapped in the car with him.
Rafayel is silent as he allows him to cut away the sleeve of his shirt with scissors retrieved from the box, and offers up not so much as a hiss as he pours sterilised water over the wound that has mercifully seemed to stop bleeding as much as it wills.
“You should have stitches.”
“I–”
“I know you won’t go, so let me do what I can for now, until we get home and I can make a decent job of it. And let her berate you for as long as she wants.”
Only after he has applied a temporary dressing and bandaged it tight enough to hopefully dissuade any further bleeding does he realise that Rafayel has been quiet and suspiciously docile for the duration of the whole affair.
Not only that, but he is staring at him.
There is yet a hint of pain tightening eyes that have softened, and while there was not so much as a telltale shimmer to betray tears, now there is a particular brightness to them.
“Home,” Rafayel echoes softly.
He had said it unthinkingly. Is suddenly surprised that he has not uttered it before.
For it is true. With those he loves beneath the same roof, how can it be anything else?
As Rafayel lifts a bloodied hand to brush the backs of his fingers against his cheek, Sylus turns his head ever so slightly to nip at his fingertips.
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