2020-09-14 - No Rest for the Wicked

Bax just wanted a nap. And now he's having one, in the fresh sheets of what's to be his new bed, curled up against Vyv. Vyv, who is neither high nor underslept nor even recently exerted, and therefore entirely, thoroughly, and right now unpleasantly awake. Somewhere in the city a first batch of seasonal eclairs are being filled without his supervision and bags of his boyfriend's effects are likewise, and he's here in the near-silence of sleeping breath, studying multi-hued hair and features suffused with the strange innocence of slumber.

This morning was normal, normal even for places that aren't Gray Harbor, and this afternoon people broke into his boyfriend's place with guns, looking for drugs. This is not normal, not even for Gray Harbor. It's not normal for him.

What if Bax hadn't been on the roof?

What if it had been him in the living room? Napping on the couch, woken by these invaders? What if he didn't know where the drugs they wanted were? He shifts position absently, drawing closer to the reassuring solidity and warmth, fingers sliding up beneath the shirt to settle unseen against the newest ink. What if he did?

Years of movies and television dramas give their opinions as to the potential outcomes for anyone in that situation, helpful or un-, perhaps able to identify the gunmen. An image springs into his head, sharp and vivid: standing in his apartment, watching the fish, knowing Bax wouldn't be there again. It makes his chest clench and eyes sting, breath stopping a moment before he takes hold of that anguish and squashes it down into anger, a twitch of Art and fingers evicting the moisture threatening to well from his eyes and leaving it to dry on a distant part of the sheet. No. We are not doing that.

Grant's right there, after all, no thanks to the roommates and very little to his own common sense. Your father was right. If you'd had the sense to listen, this wouldn't have ever been an issue. Stupid decisions. So-called friends and random strangers endangering him over drugs.

How dare they.

Faint heartbeat beneath his fingers, slow with sleep.

He shifts again, finding a more comfortable position for his legs, and his foot brushes-- was that a sock? An experimental exploration follows. Yes. A sock. Just one sock. He gives the younger man a Look, though even his best ones can't pierce unconsciousness. You ridiculous mess.

A sigh, and he closes his eyes, lowering his head to let it rest against the dyed hair as he manoeuvres that sock off with his toes. But. My ridiculous mess. Somehow. He shoves the errant bit of cloth off the side of the bed, and stills again. And the world best not forget it.

Vyvyan Vydal takes care of his things. If that means sheets and a cuddle and sock equalization right now... well, that's nearly stopped seeming weird. Fine. He can do that. And if it means protecting him from gun-wielding mooks?

Fine. He'll find a way.

Can't say it's boring, I suppose.

Bax just wanted a nap, and that's what he gets.

Eventually, Vyv has one too.