The Twilight Hours. [Lysander]

[Seodai]

As deftly and innocently as Lysander had injured Seodai, so too did he mollify him. His murmured remark was somehow more soothing than all the apologies he had afforded the young farmer, who had looked up quickly when Lysander asserted that he didn't seem broken. Starving for such affirmation, he would accept even scraps. A small smile, at last, broke his serious focus, his thoughtful reverie. "It's fine," he insisted, with a glance down. "If I wash it, the clots will wash away. The whole thing will bleed again." Lysander, with his beautiful face, smudged from the dramatics of the night, did not seem convinced. Seodai heaved a sigh, but found his feet anyway. He shuffled about in the small kitchen and returned a moment later with simple bandages, which he placed in front of the ethaefal. He picked up his own chair and moved it around the curved edge of the table, so that he could settle in it, closer to Lysander. "I'm not sleeping yet." Seodai didn't make excuse or explanation for his decision. Instead, he reached down to find the edge of his tunic, and he pulled that coarse fabric up over his head. He discarded it carelessly to the floor beside of him, feeling a bit more exposed than he had expected. He spent half of his life without a shirt on; why should it matter that those beautiful eyes were drinking in the contours of his newly exposed body? "Your gift is really cool," Seo remarked, once Lysander began to move again. "Does it have to be a kiss, or does any touch work?" And why did it matter to Seodai which was true?

[Lysander]

Lysander found himself on his feet before he realized; thin fingers scrambled for the abandoned basin left on a nearby counter and the remainder of hot water boiled for tea poured into it. When he returned to the table, he settled on the edge of his chair and dipped one strip of cloth into the hot washbasin. “Any touch works,” Lysander admitted. The question had come with several of his own, the most resonant—why had he chosen a kiss? Even now, if he had the option, he’d push the wound away with his mouth over swiping it off of the blood and dirt-marred skin with a finger. “You’re a lot more scratched up than I am.” The Ethaefal’s appraisal of Seodai’s exposed skin came with the hot sting of wet cloth, carefully wiping away dried blood that had gathered around the cut. He was cautious not to wash the cut itself, not wanting to be a catalyst in the further spilling of blood.

“Forgive me,” the cloth rang out in the water, turning it all shades of ruddy grey-pink, “Sometimes I say stupid things. I’m not very—well, I’m young, I guess. I mean, I can’t remember how to act sometimes. Since I fell, I can’t remember much at all that makes sense.” He paused, then reclined, gold attempting to arrest Seodai’s gaze. The last bits of summer clung to his features; flecks of black behind his ears and across his bangs and the deepest jade green tipped his horns that had all but otherwise turned to gold. “I’ll remember it all someday, though.”

There was a promise in that passing comment somewhere. When Lysander could make sense of his past, perhaps then he’d share it. Right now, he could hardly make sense of the situation. Heat surged up his neck and blazed on his face some time ago, and had remained as he stammered to explain himself. “There,” he managed to murmur and motion to Seodai’s clean skin, “Now I’ll cover it, and when you go to Noc in the morning, you can both laugh about what a terrible nurse I’d make.”

Lysander laughed despite himself, and leaned in to wrap the soft linen around his friend’s chest.

[Seodai]

Seodai was quite self-aware, given to spending great lengths of time by himself, with his thoughts, his prayers to Bala, his farm. Too naive to realize the nature of it all, he was at least aware enough to recognize that it was Lysander's proximity that made him feel best. It warmed him, from somewhere deep inside, and that pleased sensation of satisfaction tingled out through his limbs to his very fingertips, which twitched with the desire to touch. That lovely hair, the myriad of colors that made up Lysander's form. That skin. Seodai rested one arm atop the table, and with the other he made a compromise. His fingers curled lightly above Lysander's knee; to balance himself, of course. The water was hot, stinging, but the soft hiss that issued through his teeth had less to do with that and more to do with the tickle of Lysander's hair against his throat as he worked so studiously at cleaning the wound. And then the beautiful man had leaned away, fixed him with those golden eyes, caused his breath to catch. "I'm sorry." It was an impulsive thing to say, the first thing he thought of, but with his furrowed brow and the genuinely saddened expression in his gaze, it was clear that Seodai meant it. How sad to imagine that this lovely, wonderful creature in front of him did not know himself. Lysander had leaned away then, the warmth of his presence replaced with cooler, fresh air. Seodai would much have preferred the scent of Lysander to that of his vegetation, his familiar little house - a definite first. He simply smiled, though, a crooked thing that made him look boyish. The fingers that were curled about Lysander's leg squeezed ever so lightly, and then he released him, leaning back too, with fresh bandages to boot. "Thank you, Lysander." There was a pause, a silence no longer filled with his injury, his awkwardness. "Are you hungry? Tired? You can sleep here, if you like. You have to stay, at least. The Captain said so."

[Lysander]

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Seo.” The mumbled syllables drummed from a tight-lipped smile. Lysander could not help but fail to grasp the farmer’s attempt at empathy; he instead offered a candid tilt of his head, sending gold on gold on gold rustling across his softened countenance. “It’ll come back;” that remark was something that even he could not be sure.

How did a fallen child of Leth explain their utter reliance on moonlight to sustain them? “Hungry?” he echoed plaintively, “no. No, I don’t, uh, I don’t get hungry.” Lysander did get tired, though; after the ordeal in the Labyrinth, he could use the rest. The man’s muscles whined dully at the thought of a warm bed. His bed, the one he’d left somewhere deep in the colorful village-on-the-cliffs, where he could only hope Sitkanis was, wringing his hands and worrying about his lost younger brother.

You have to stay. The Captain said so.

Lysander’s flattening lips surrendered to another uncontrollable smile and he managed to pull his aching mass to his feet. A set of fingertips appraised the wrap around Seodai’s shoulder—either looking for blood or another possible claret offense the child of Bala had not identified, or divulged. “I could sleep.” The hand fell limp at his side again, and he took a long, hard look at the square kitchen they were in, “You have a room for that, right?”

It seemed bold to assume too much. Sitkanis may have thwacked him for asking more of an already hospitable man, who had given him a roof, respite from strange, body-snatching lights in the sky, and steaming hot tea that steadily cooled on a worn tabletop in his wake. Lysander lifted a hand to his temple, where a glassy horn jutted out and curled beneath his ear; cool to the touch, and beyond, where flesh had inexplicably healed with an invigorating, hissing purple concoction. Aged hardwood creaked beneath the press of Lysander’s feet. He took a blind step backwards, dirty yellow gaze locked on the injured farmer.

“Did the Captain say anything about what I should do in the morning?” The question bordered on facetious; a smile blossomed into a grin.

[Seodai]

"Of course," Seodai replied. The farmhouse had belonged to Theo's uncle, to a much larger family at one time than the little, cozy pair of them. He had plenty of rooms to offer. But how long since they had a guest? How long since he had washed the blankets and sheets on the spare beds, dusted off the aging furniture? Seodai found his feet leading him the familiar path towards his own room before he could really sort out the repercussions of it. Perhaps the truth of it was as simple as the fact that he wanted the beautiful thing near. It had been a trying evening, to say the least. He was weary, and ... well. Seodai soon ran out of justification, but when he glanced back to see that boyish grin following after him, the need to even make his case faded. It didn't matter, did it? The heavy wooden door gave with a creak and Seodai stepped aside to show Lysander in. The room was moderately sized, but it felt cozy if only for the personal touches that made it clearly lived in. Seodai was tidy, if only because he had long since learned that life on the farm went smoother and made more sense. A wicker basket in one corner had a few days washing tossed haphazardly into it. A small nightstand by the table held a lamp, which Seodai lit to illuminate the room. A handful of books sat atop a parchment which was only half written up. A small sketch of a younger girl, someone who looked akin to Seodai, was held in a frame made of wood. It was such all throughout, the little evidences of a past lived, a present. Seodai glanced around, looking for however he might make the space more comfortable, more welcoming. He tugged on a blanket to straighten it, patted his pillow to fluff it, then at last glanced back towards Lysander. The lamplight was low, but golden. It made Lysander so beautiful, shadowing the doorway as he was, those big eyes exploring the space that was more intimately his than any other in the world. Seodai ran his fingers through his rebellious curls and then gave a little shrug, with a smile that was almost coquettish, if entirely oblivious to the fact. "Will this work?" He hadn't really thought far enough ahead to consider where he might go, where he would rest. There was only the sleepy intimacy created by the flicker of the lamplight, the familiarity of their shared experiences. There was only Lysander, and the way he sucked up all the air in the room somehow. Seodai, perhaps for the first time in the night, stared unabashedly.

[Lysander]

Lysander took his first apprehensive step into the room, golden-flecked eyes darting from one object to the next. A gathering of dried herbs tied with hempen rope tickled his nostrils and brought a comforting spice to the orange-lit and stale-smelling room. It reminded him of something, but he could not place what that something was; a dream, a memory, colors and shadows and voices too hazy to make sense of. The room was the sweetness of cinnamon and ginger, the tang of bergamot, all lying above the musk of human; Lysander inhaled again, nostrils flaring.

Seodai’s voice pulled him from his silent appraisal of the cozy room, and he replied with an enthusiastic nod, his smile never faltering. “You’re kind to let me stay, even if you were told to.”

The feather mattress was old, he could tell, as his knees pressed against it and he let himself nearly fall into a heap at the foot of the bed. It was almost absurd as the ethereal horned creature stooped forward to unlace his boots, before hooking toe to heel and shedding them in a leathery heap on the farmhand’s floor. Socked toes curled, were hoisted onto the bed; only then did he realize how good it felt to be out of those wretched boots and in the comfortable hug of a bed, even if it wasn’t his own.

Lysander’s honeyed gaze rose apprehensively, feeling the appraising stare of his new friend. A bowed smile turned crooked. “I don’t take up much room.” He’d done this before, with Sitkanis, when he’d first fallen, and he’s learned well not to sprawl—though he retained the habit of claiming most blankets if he could manage it. A ridiculous shimmy sent the heavenly creature to one side of the bed, and he crumpled a well-sewn quilt between his fingers before allowing himself another look at a room where a life had lived.

“There’s so much here,” he mumbled, resting his back against slats of wood that made up the bed’s headboard. He wanted to pick up every knickknack, every piece of scrap paper and every thread of clothing and ask about it all, where they came from, how Seodai got them, what the day was like when he had found or purchased them. The blond had lived such a substantial life; Lysander’s own was a blink in his eye. He clutched his stomach in an attempt to quell an aching emptiness that was so easy to ignore, when he wasn’t surrounded by another’s memories, and forced that boyish grin back onto his glowing countenance.

“Tell me something.” Lysander exhaled, a glass-on-wood clatter of horns resounded against the headboard as he relinquished his heavy head to the pull of exhaustion. He tried to laugh, but it came out in a sigh. “Anything; tell me about anything in here, as long as it doesn’t have to do with lights in the sky that steal people away.”