@nvrcmplt asked: What if Luan just lies on the floor outside of Ayalon's place at the crack of dawn, semi-circled around a bottle of beer, in a fur coat and his usual fishnets and boots. Paint smeared over the skin from a good night out but also mostly covering up some new discolorations on his frame. Though drunk, and exhausted, he still doesn't disturb the other and instead waits til the morning - but nods off in the process.
“You’re quite a handful, aren’t you?” Ayalon muses with a smile, arms crossed and leaning against his open doorframe. He knows Luan can’t answer; the man was sound asleep, a flesh made fortress around a single bottle of beer. Even from where he stood, Ayalon can smell the alcohol on his new companion, and he’s sure the intoxicity is what fried his brain into choosing not to simply knock on Ayalon’s door for shelter. But instead, carelessly take up Ayalon’s entry way. The God cocks his head, humming a small tune as he crouches at Luan’s side. “What a stupid thing to do..” He murmurs, a light tilt to his voice. What a stupid thing to do to wait at the wolf’s door.
Though perhaps, that is all Luan knew how to do. Ayalon isn’t oblivious to the smeared makeup that once covered Luan’s bruises. Or at the very least, that’s what the God assumes it was for. He won’t ignore someone in need, not when they made the effort to seek out his comfort ( even if they stopped short at the temple’s entrance ). Leaving the bottle behind, Ayalon scoops Luan up in his arms, ever mindful of the discolored welts as he does so. Carrying Luan is effortless, like picking up an empty box.
As the sun begins to peek over the mountain range, Ayalon already has his door locked shut, apartment left dark so Luan was able to get the rest he needed. He moves through his living space, into a short hallway, and finally his bedroom where Luan is placed delicately on his mattress. Ayalon doesn’t even consider the possible invasion of privacy as he begins to shed Luan of his coat and boots, continuing to hum his small tune as he does so. The God will have a bottle of water and an aspirin waiting for the other on his bedside table, and if Luan so chooses it, a shower. “Next time,” Ayalon starts with a whisper. He tilts Luan’s chin up with a finger despite his unconscious state, mulling over the man’s features while he slept. “Don’t wait for me to spare you. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it.” And with his final message, he leaves like a shadow, silent as he moves through his apartment.