hello hello my dear! My prompt for you is: Wilde bedhead. Do with it as you will <3 -shofics <3
sho honey i wrote this days ago and have been waiting for jerry so we could post together and treat you real good. but has jerry finished yet? nooooooo. no she has not. and i am impatient. so here's your ficlet without art
Zolf wakes first. The bed is softer than he’s used to, warmer too with Wilde’s penchant for excessive blankets and thick quilts trapping the heat from both of their bodies. Wilde’s snoring gently, drooling from the side of his mouth that used to be rough with scar tissue from years ago, from another life. It really feels like that, the time between last Zolf saw him this vulnerable stretching back like a chasm, a deep pit he doesn’t want to focus on.
No point dwelling, though. Zolf rolls over and gets up, wheeling his way through to Wilde’s kitchen.
Wilde’s a clever man, thoroughly deliberate with his plans and intentions. It doesn’t slip Zolf’s notice that Wilde’s bought himself a flat with wide hallways and low benches, something he doesn’t need for himself. Zolf coughs to himself as if the action would be enough to dislodge that fact from his heart, unstick it from where it’s landed.
The coffee’s exactly where Zolf’d expect Wilde to keep it, a small unlabeled tin near the back of the hob, and Zolf can just reach it if he pulls himself in close, leans right over the bench. Wilde used to live off the damn stuff, back when they were travelling, back when they were posted in the inn. Used to have five or six a day when he was working on something that really sucked him in. A memory comes to Zolf, and he puts the tin of coffee back, reaches instead for the loose leaf tea.
Sometimes they’d have downtime. Never for long, never very often, but sometimes there was no rush, no need for black coffees and sleepless nights. Those days Wilde would sit with the rest of them for breakfast, hands around a cup of milky tea.
Today’s a Saturday, and while Zolf hasn’t exactly figured out what it is Wilde does for a living these days, he doubts it would be as important as saving the world, doubts he can’t afford him this little break here and now.
He busies himself with the process of brewing a pot of tea, the familiar method a sure thing to focus on. Leaves, strainer, hot water, wait. Wilde’s usual mug is nowhere to be found, left behind at the inn in Japan, so Zolf chooses two at random, one for each of them.
The tea’s ready to be poured when Wilde gets up, that impeccable timing he’s mastered the art of only coming into effect for the most trivial things. Zolf can hear his footsteps in the hallway, and then he’s there in the door, smiling at Zolf like he never left him, like it hasn’t been five years and three letters, too long to really pass off as just a break.
Wilde’s in his robe, his favoured bright purple with slippers to match, and he leans into the doorframe, watching Zolf as he pours their tea. His hair is a mess, flat on one side from being slept on, the other half tangled haphazardly from where he’s shoved it off his face, behind his ear, over his shoulder. He’s been growing it out ever since they shaved it back in Damascus, but it’s never regrown with colour. Neither has Zolf’s, mind, but Zolf’s never cared much for his looks. Wilde, however- this is new. He’s certainly giving off the impression that he doesn’t care for his looks, or at least doesn’t mind. His eyes are bleary and his cheeks are flushed, and that damn hair is all over the place in a way Zolf’s never seen before, and he doesn’t know why it’s this that gets him, but his heart catches in his chest and he has to look away.
“Tea’s ready,” he says, and Wilde crosses the room to join him at the small kitchen table. He yawns as he sits down, back of his hand to his mouth to hide it, and he’s still smiling that damn soft smile.
“Welcome home, Zolf,” Wilde says, and for the first time in his life, Zolf knows it to be true.
