2020-07-02 - Sagrado Corazon

Cristobal slipped off during the chaos of first responders flooding the scene of the funeral. Questions were going to be asked about dead bodies (at least those other than the chief) and the wounded, and he just wasn't in the Mood to have to come up with a logical explanation for the gash wounds that criss crossed his chest.

Home, the remnants of his tattered uniform were tossed on the kitchen table, Dante assuaged that he wasn't going to die, and then he insisted he be allowed to go shower off and stitch himself up alone to spare Dante that scene. Or spare himself from Dante seeing him like that. Six of one, half dozen of another.

Now clean, sutured and bandaged, he reemerges into the common area of his rather modest apartment in his plaid PJ bottoms and looking at least a little better for the wear.

Dante, though unhurt (other than bruised pride and a few scratches) does not look much better. He fell into a mud puddle on his way out. The suit is a write-off, but fortunately it was a plain black (if immaculately tailored) one. Not as irreplaceable as some of his wardrobe pieces. His muddy jacket is draped over a chair. He's used paper towel to wipe mud off, but his hair is half curly, half straight from the mud and rain. His white shirt is stained, as are he knees of his pants.

He's sitting at the table, with a thousand-yard stare. When Cris emerges, he says quietly, "I want you to teach me how to fire a gun."

Cristobal turns one of the chairs out to face Dante, palm pressed into the table to help lower himself down in to the seat and with a wince he scoots closer to Dante so his knee is on the outside of one trousered leg. "Okay." There's no argument about it, no questions, because in truth it's not a bad idea. "You should know how to protect yourself. I wanna teach you some stuff in the gym too." But besides being pretty pissed off about his ink, he's acting like this is just a Tuesday for him. Even if the zombie part was a little unsettling. "Estas bien mi amor?"

"I've got a very rudimentary set of boxing skills, years-rusty," says Dante, his tone distant and distracted. He draws in a breath and looks up at Cristobal. "I should have been of-use, not a bloody damsel in distress. I'm not exactly a weakling, am I? And I should try to use this..." he taps his head. "Elias..." he hitches a little on his name, "...was teaching me, but I didn't get very far."

He grips his hands together. "You could have been killed and all I did was cower under a bloody umbrella."

Cristobal's eyes tick over Dante's face as he raises a hand, fingering one of those damp curls so it splays briefly round his first knuckle. "First, even if you knew how to shoot or use your brains, there's a chance I'd've shoved you along towards shelter anyways. Second, we both know I'm too stubborn to die. And third, August. The guy who owns the Branch and Bole. He's the strongest I know with our art, he can pick up where Elias left off."

"And we both know that there's a high likelihood of me being pulled into one of those things without you. It could happen at any time. I've been lucky so far. The one time we had to fight, the Dream gave me the ability to do so." Dante swallows, face muscles tight. "I don't want to be a bloody liability, Cris."

To that Cristobal grunts, more truth that is irrefutable. "I guess you don't realize you'll always be a liability at least when I'm concerned. That's what love does to a person. Makes you afraid of losing that which you love." Cristobal's hand smoothes until it's hooked on the back of Dante's neck and then he draws them forward until foreheads touch.

Dante exhales an awkward breath of laughter. "You're the one who got hurt. I should be the one comforting you." He closes his eyes and bumps foreheads with Cris. "It's bad enough that I could lose you to the things you can't tell me about. But I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because of my inability to help when I'm standing right there. All of this still bloody paralyzes me and it shouldn't. My own imagination has cooked up things more twisted than this place has shown me." So far. His hand rests on the other man's knee and gently flexes.

"Gonna need a bit more than simply getting hurt to need comforting, amor. But I suppose you can help me mourn the scar that's going to be right through my ink." Cris' smile tries to chase into Dante's vision, trying to shove some levity into the conversation by hook or by crook. "But if you wanna learn, we'll get you taught, alright? So long as you don't go starting to chase the trouble, I have no problem with it."

"How are you feeling?" asks Dante gently. "Honestly. How bad was it?" He pulls back to look Cris in the eye. "And no need to worry about me chasing trouble. Enough of it seems to stumble into my path. I don't need to go looking for it."

"I'm feeling torn to shreds. About the time you were sucked back to reality, the undead rose - cemetery, go figure - but I think you would have liked the part with the animated musical instruments. There was even a piano. You ever see the Thomas Crowne Affair? The remake with Brosnan. They were playing the song from the end. I fucking love that song. Well, loved. Kinda ruined now, if you ask me." Cris takes up Dante's hand from his knee, singling out a finger from amidst Dante's others. "Here. Here..." And then Cris eases up three fingers until they're spread like claws, "And here." Showing over the tops of his bandage where he's been injured.

"What, Sinnerman? Darling, that's Nina bloody Simone. Clearly we need to work on your jazz education if you're referring to it in the context of a movie." Dante chuckles softly. "I've tried to play that. It's so fast and challenging and the vocals are a bitch as well. Don't let the Veil ruin that song for you." He lets his hand be placed, frowning deeply. "I should have been there. Been your valiant zombie hunter, beating back birds and corpses. Fighting like the Band of Thebes."

"That's the name of the song? Shit. With a name like that, I should have it as my ring tone. And who gives their kid the middle name of 'bloody'." More jokes, it's easier to joke so the wince around his eyes seems born from laughter rather than a smidge of pain. And not the fun kind. Cris angles in his face to steal a kiss of simple fondness, "You will be. Next time. You teach me jazz standards, I'll teach you to shoot. Seems like a fair trade. Oh. And whoever Thebes is."

"Thebes is a place in Greece. And in Ancient Greece, the Band of Thebes were an elite fighting force made up of male lovers. They were said to be instrumental in defeating the Spartans. They were among the fiercest fighters because they fought not only to protect their lover, but to impress him and bring out the best in one another." Dante rests his hand against the curve of Cristobal's neck. "And what man would derelict his duty or fight less than his best with his beloved at his side? It was a bond so strong and a force so powerful they called it the Sacred Band of Thebes."

"That sounds incredibly...hot." It's much more than that, but leave it to Cris to boil it down to the most basic degree. "I'd completely go sacred for you, and then the Darkness would really have something to fear." He turns his head, kissing Dante's inner wrist. "And now we know that you should leave some clothes here, because when I eventually let you out of my grasp, you're going to have to wear my shit."

"Usually when I know I'm coming over here, I pack a bag and leave a garment bag hanging in my car. Just in case." Dante twitches a smile. "But that's for wrinkled clothes on the floor, not...graveyard dirt contingencies." He reaches out and threads his fingers with the other man. "You are careful, aren't you?" he asks quietly. "And you are keeping in mind that I would be utterly inconsolable if anything were to happen to you? I accept I can't be in certain parts of your life, but I want you to feel me there, when things get dangerous. So you'll be smart."

"Well I'm sure you have enough clothes, you fashion horse, to leave something hanging up here. On the inside of the apartment. And throw some extra boxers in one of the drawer. And leave a toothbrush." Cristobal laces his fingers with Dante's when they're twined into his grasp, "And I promise, bebe. I will always wear condoms with zombies."

Dante rolls his eyes and murmurs, "You know what I mean." But then he clicks back to the part where Cris is talking about drawers and toothbrushes. He blinks. "Would that not upset the balance? With...the others?"

"I think it's already too late for that, luz de mi corazon." Cris answers simply. "The balance was thrown out of wack when we realized we love each other. A few of your socks rolled up next to mind isn't going to change anything. Sparrow lives with her number one, and I'm pretty sure Joseph sleeps curled up at the end of de la Vega and Itzhak's bed."

Dante chuckles softly at that mental image and shakes his head. "I have been worried that Elias' departure had thrown things off as well. I'm not exactly storming out the door to find another lover," he drawls. "Even if I wanted to, every single person in this town seems to come with their own flow chart of relationships. With the restaurant and my writing, I don't know if I have the mental energy to deliberately complicate things."

"Oh just wait, I'm told the tourist season is in high swing. Some little spaghetti strap dress in high heels will come into the casino and wanna ride the the London Eye during her wild girl's weekend away. Or some valet will want you to park your car in his garage..." Cris says with a wicked grin that somehow looks entirely possessive and proud at the same time.

Dante smiles that charming and slightly smug smile of his - all wide pearly whites. "Oh, a casual shag I know I can find. But how could I possibly find the energy after my various jobs and your insatiable libido? Besides, admit it - you'd probably hate anyone else I was with."

"Hate is a strong word. More liiiiike..." Cristobal searches for what he would use in place, getting pleasantly distracted by that smile and tracing the way it transforms Dante's face and looks as if it chases away some of the worry that was sitting so heavy just before. "Act like I'm vastly superior to them. Because I am. You'll always be mine, no matter who you're with."

"Is there anyone you'd like the idea of me shagging?" Dante asks in a playful sing-song tone. Yes, they've been through some heavy shit, but sometimes you just have to pretend like everything's all right - if only to get a break from it all. He grabs a fistful of the bottom of Cris' shirt, though he's mindful of the injury to his chest and doesn't tug like he might otherwise.

Cris grins as Dante fists his shirt up, "Oh, I like the idea of you shagging just about anyone. I'm popping a semi just thinking about watching some piano bunny give you a blow job and I wouldn't mind double stuffing someone like Joe with you, completely ignoring him even though our dicks are plugging him from each end just to kiss each other. Yeah, fucking hot, but those all include me, don't they?"

"Whereas I think I manage to not get jealous because I'm not seeing it. I think I could handle a threesome with a stranger, but with someone you have history with? Too complicated." Dante huffs a bit of laughter. "A piano bunny. Are those a thing? I'm just picturing a Playboy Bunny in black and white and I'm sure that's not the same thing."

"That's why it'd have to be someone like Joe. Someone who took orders well and I could just instruct him to do all sorts of horribly wonderful things to you. But I get it, if Joe made you moan in some way I never have and I was right there? I might punch his fucking lights out. I don't think it's something I'd ever ask of you. Like Valentine's these things are better at your idea, pace and comfort level. And I hope it's not something you would ever resent me for. So far you've been very understanding with my...predilections, especially now that you know where I'm coming from. But if that ever changes, I need to know." Cris says earnestly, turning the conversation a bit serious now.

Dante looks down and away. "I...admit I'm more comfortable with you and Sparrow than you and Joe. Not just because she's a woman and I know she wouldn't try to snatch you away from me." He pauses, composing himself. "I don't...like that he hurts you. I don't like the idea of anyone hurting you. Even if it's consensual." He swallows. "Even if you like it. So you'll have to forgive me if I'm not as comfortable interacting with him as I am with Sparrow. But on the other hand, I don't want to deny you, because that way lies resentment." HIs lips twitch a little.

"I get it." Cris says quietly as he looks up and away, running his tongue along the front of his bottom teeth so his lip rounds out for a minute. "You should know, I've uh, only really let him do it once. Not that he couldn't ...deliver but he'd rather...you know. Receive. Not that I expect that to make anything better or you more comfortable. I just want you to know. Most the time if I'm hurt, well.." His eyes go down to their hands, his knee bouncing nervously. "I resort to doing it myself."

Dante folds his other hand over Cristobal's. He squeezes firmly, warmly. "Catholicism mixed with real reasons to feel guilty is a hell of a combination," he says quietly. "What I want..." he begins, then shifts, lifting a hand to gently tip up the other man's jaw, "...is for you to get to a place where you don't want to hurt. When you're not so angry at yourself, at the world. To a point where the safe and a bit more vanilla version of rough play is enough for you. Where you don't want to hurt." There's that twitch of his lips again. "But I know that will take time, and you need to come to that on your own. And you've things to work through. And you're not going to get there by me denying you or shaming you for anything. You'll get there by me being here, trying to show you that you're worthy of love. Christ knows I struggle with that m'self, what with my abandonment issues." A rough chuckle.

"The pain quiets the noise." Cristobal sums up how he currently deals with his grief and guilt in just that, his gaze returning to Dante's with that hand to his jaw instead of scurrying away any longer. "I've given you a lot to stomach lately. I'd apologize for that, but truthfully? Just being able to tell you has helped. I couldn't do this without you and stay sane." His arm turns slightly, wrist twisting to show Dante his own words reflected back in permanent ink on his forearm. "See? Neither of us is going anywhere, right?"

"I hope the pleasure does as well," says Dante as he presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. "This town has and continues to give me a lot to stomach. And I know I see a bit delicate, but you've read my books. I don't look away from the dark parts of human nature. But yes..." he runs his fingers over the inked words, "...there is a way out of the darkness. You can embrace that it exists without taking it in to yourself."

"No." Cristobal says firmly. "You're not fucking delicate. Don't take my protecting you as it being because I think you're weak. It's because I think you're treasured. Do you understand me, Dante Taylor? You're not fucking delicate. You never were. You sure as fuck couldn't put up with me if you were. You're one of the strongest men I've ever known, you just happen to talk all educated and dress super fucking fine. It might fool others, but not me."

"It's easy for a man to seem strong when he hasn't faced true hardship," says Dante with a sad little smile. "The worst thing that's ever happened to me is...getting dumped. I haven't known loss like you have and kept carrying on. I don't know if I could."

Cristobal says, "Heartbreak is heartbreak, no matter how you shake it. And you're surviving in Gray Harbor. That's a feat in and of itself. But you still haven't answered about my offer. Will you move some of your shit in?" Hell, that's a hardship within itself, seeing more of each other and dealing with someone else's dirty dishes and random socks left places."

"Are you sure you want that?" Dante drawls. "You know how fussy I am. Though I promise to only clean up your place a little." He reaches up and fingers through Cris' hair, neatening it a bit.

"I asked, didn't I? Think I woulda asked if I didn't want something? Shit, you're lucky I didn't just grab a bunch of your stuff last time I was over and forcibly move it in. I tend to take what I want." Cris tilts his head away from Dante's combing fingers, and gets up from the table with the grip of his hand on the back of the chair, helping him to stand. "In case you haven't noticed." To others he might seem annoyed, but to Dante maybe he'll just come across as determined as he crosses to one of the bedside tables and yanks out the drawer, taking one thing from the contents before upending the rest on the floor. "See? Whole one to yourself." And now he's walking to the open piped closeting system, heaven help them.

"Darling, don't strain yourself." Dante stands up and follows him across the room. "Or at least save the straining for something fun," he drawls. And yes, he's trying to use innuendo to stop the determined bull.

At least that stops him from tossing some hangers and the clothes that occupy them to the floor, instead Cris just shoves them over on the rail, making a gap. "What about presents. Are presents fun?"

"Yes, presents are fun. And I'm touched. I really am. But I also don't want you to tear your flat apart and tear whatever it is that's holding your wound together." Dante reaches up to try and catch Cris by the back of the neck and to pull him in for a soft, brief kiss. "I know the significance of this. And I'm grateful you're letting me in. Or rather..." he looks at the clothes on the floor, "...violently making room for me."

Remember that thing Cris took out of the drawer before upending it? It's pressed into Dante's hand now as he's kissed and a sly smile gets curved into the affection, "Good because I got you this." He's handed a little leather box, inside a signet ring that should presumably fit on the man's middle finger, the face of it the monogramed initials 'DT' and along the inner side of the band inscribed 'mi luz mi amor'.

"Cris...what's this for?" Dante looks genuinely surprised. He looks down at the box. "My birthday isn't for months." He opens the box and pulls out the ring, taking a moment to put it all together. He looks...well, a bit overwhelmed. He nearly misses the inscription, but then holds it up and reads it. "You know my Spanish is utterly nonexistant. Obviously I know what amor means, but what does the rest of it say?" His tone is gentle and warm, and he even looks a bit flustered.

Cris's grin is absolutely smug as Dante gets a little flabbergasted, which means he did good. He's abandoned the closet and making room for Dante to leave some of his things here so he'll feel more at home when he's in the Mexican's home, and now focuses on the Brit completely. Hands go to the man's hips, "It says 'my light, my love'. I figure you can't pull off the old Vegas look no matter which suit you choose, if you don't have a white gold ring to pull it all together."

"I thought I was already nailing that with my hair volume and pearly whites," says Dante with a flash of a grin. He slides the ring on his finger and looks down at his hand, then up at Cris. "You know, I used to wear my father's signet ring. Or rather, the Taylor family one. But when we had a...falling out, he demanded I give it back. I told him I didn't want his fussy old tradition, anyway. I much prefer this new one. It's my own connection, not his." He grabs hold of either side of Cris' collar and then pulls in for a soft kiss. "Thank you."

Cris accepts the kiss and returns it warmly, but he'd be hard pressed to make it turn deeper right now because he can't seem to wipe that smile off his face. "I guess that means you like it?" But of course Cris knows the answer, he's just asking facetiously of course. "See? You had a falling out with your pops, too. You've been through and survived more than you admit, or care to remember. Now...I believe someone mentioned something about straining in the fun way?"

"No, I bloody hate it and I'm going to throw it down a sewer drain," Dante drawls, completely facetiously. He jostles Cris with that grip on the shirt, then leans in to whisper, "Any flavour your want, darling. You buy a man jewelery, and it's dealer's choice."

"I'm going to have to remember that. Distract you with shiny things anytime I come home wounded..." Of course that's not why the ring was brought, or what prompted the offer to share some space, it was just convenient timing. Cris takes that jostle as an invitation to start backing Dante towards the bed. "I'm thinking I'm just going to have to lay there and let you take advantage of me. Wouldn't want to open my stitches."