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Rook doesn’t remember waking up. All he knows is that he can’t get himself to move.
The moonlight streaming in through the open window at their bedside paints the room in shades of greyscale. It’s— it’s cold. The sheets have long since dragged down and away, silken fabric pooling at his thighs. The chill of the night air rolling in from the distant waters of Treviso’s docks whispers against Rook’s bare skin; It seeps into his flesh, freezes his lungs in his chest.
He feels like he can barely breathe.
It’s so cold.
It’s so still.
He catches a stuttered breath but it hitches in his throat, trapped behind the quiver of his lips. He presses them tight on instinct to keep his face from twisting with the dread that crawls up his insides. It makes his shoulders shake, muscles tight as they curl up and in against his sides. Everything is so empty, night as silent as the grave, the canopy above a sky of dark nothings, the twist of the blankets around his legs like vines, and Lucanis—
Lucanis.
Rook turns his head just far enough to see the man lying beside him.
His face is turned away. Hair spills out around his head like oil, inky black against skin turned deathly pale by the moonlight. It’s not right. Lucanis’ skin always carried a warm complexion, always drew Rook’s eye to the curves of his face amongst all the dark leathers— tempted him with thoughts of kissing moles, grazing thumbs against cheeks, nudging noses together. Thoughts of rosy blushes and small, secretive smiles, just for him. Just for Rook. The sight of him, still and soundless, starts to blur.
Rook knows what his face looks like, in death. Remembers his desperate scramble the first time he saw him lying against the cold stones of the fade’s landscape, unreactive as he called his name, cupped his face, shook him gently, desperately. The heavy weight of his lifelessness as he pulled his body to his chest, curled shaking fingers into his hair and begged, please no, don’t be gone, don’t leave me, don’t leave me in this alone—
Rook sobs.
The sound rips out of his throat like the burst of a dam, a single, horrified gasp as the world around him— cold, dead, empty— presses in. He forces his eyes shut, burning and wet, and the fade follows him into the darkness of his eyelids. His hands come up and press against his face, the pressure of his palms against his eyes sending painful sparks of light across his vision— but they don’t chase the fade away. It swallows him whole, and a second sob breaks its way free, the shake of his shoulders spreading to his entire body.
He pushes his heels against the sheets, forcing himself up against the backboard with a painful thunk of his spine against the wood.
“ … Rook? ” Bellara’s blight-weakened voice comes through the ringing cacophony in his ears, lost and hazy.
It’s distant and dim, and Rook is horrified at the sound of it, one hand leaving his face to help him scramble back— away — from the voice. The drag of the sheets rumpling below him as he moves is like knives against his skin.
“ Rook! ” Harding calls, scared and dying, and he feels a hand— her hand as she falls, wet with blood, grip frantic and slipping— wrap around his ankle.
His leg flinches back and kicks out to get the grip off , and the force of his momentum when his foot meets a solid target sends him tumbling backwards off the edge, slamming into the floor in a terrified heap. Pain radiates up his hip and shoulder like lightning, and it throws him off-kilter as he scrambles, scrambles, scrambles back until he bumps into something painful. The sound of his head hitting against its corner, glass rattling above— shattered and blood-edged, a functionless Eluvian he’d punched as he raged and wept and floundered his second week in the fade— is lost in the thumping of racing footsteps coming his way.
He can’t flee. He’s as far into a corner as he’ll make it, the mirror’s leg— it has to be that mirror— digging into one shoulder and the other awkwardly pressed to a wall. He can only curl up and hide from the begging voices, face between his knees and his hands wrapped in a death grip around his ears in a futile attempt to block out the noise.
“ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— “ Rook warbles out between tears in a frantic chant, becoming part of the voices himself.
Another wave of shivers wracks him as the frozen wind slithers through, curling him in impossibly tighter. The dead chill of a lifeless place.
He failed them. He failed all of them, just like he failed Minrathous and his fellow Shadows, just like he failed the world they had to save. Their lives placed into the cup of his hands, his to safeguard and guide, and here they spill out and bleed into his ears, his eyes, his lungs— they burn in his muscles and bones, a screaming pain that refuses to quiet, and Rook drowns in the sea of them—
“Mierda— ROWAN!”
The world ignites in violet, and everything comes to a stop.
Hands gently force their way into the shaking tangle of his limbs, calloused fingers curling around his face. They pull his head up, a slow, careful guiding of something fragile, and when the brilliant lilac dancing against Rook’s eyelids finally lures him into hesitantly opening his eyes, blinking through the tears, Rook is met with Lucanis’ face.
“Do you hear me, mi amor?” Lucanis asks, thumbs gently wiping at the wetness beneath Rook’s eyes, right above the lines of his vallaslin. Worry is etched into his features, brows pinched, the corners of his lips downturned.
Rook can't respond. His throat still feels closed shut, and when he tries to force something out all that comes is a whimper. Lucanis is here— alive. How is Lucanis here? He shouldn’t be, Rook couldn’t stand the thought of— of him being trapped here like him, desperate yearning warring against terrified panic— But there must be some sort of clarity in his eyes, a flicker of awareness to act as an answer to Lucanis’ question, because his wings slowly drift down and disappear in wisping smoke at their feet, revealing their surroundings for… exactly what they are.
Simply their bedroom.
Rook’s eyes bounce around the moonlit furniture; the book piles, the paired coffee cups, their overcoats both slung over the love seat together; It is all just as they’d left it after-… After they went for dinner, that evening. Only a handful of hours ago. The shape cutting into his back is his own nightstand, a glass vase of brilliant blue flowers from the Wetlands tipped over atop it, the blooms a scant inch from falling off the side.
Realization dawns, and Rook’s stomach roils with shame.
That must show on his face too, his features crumpling before he can stop them. Lucanis murmurs an, “Oh, Rook,” before gently prying Rook’s fingers off his ears and guiding his arms around Lucanis’ middle. The man pulls him forward and gathers him up against his chest, forehead tucked against the curve of the Crow’s neck, and a careful touch cards back Rook’s sweat-dampened bangs from his face as his breathing crawls its way back into a slower rhythm. Lucanis’ hand cups the back of Rook’s neck when it’s done brushing the stray locks from his cheekbones, a grounding, protective hold.
“I woke you up,” Rook says into his collarbone, voice heavy and hoarse with regret.
“That is what you’re worried about?” Lucanis responds, sounding almost a touch baffled, “It’s good that you did, Rook. You’re always at my side when I wake up, no?”
Rook pulls back just enough to peek at his face, Lucanis’ gaze meeting his own. The furrow between the other man’s brows has become hard-set with concern; It deepens the shadows beneath his eyes, a lingering sleeplessness of his own, and Rook can’t find the words comforting. Lucanis’ hair and beard are a ruffled mess around his features, and the soothing tone of his voice is layered overtop careful-stepped worry.
Lucanis’ sleep is a cherished thing in Rook’s eyes, hard-fought for and well-earned. His hair should be ruffled from sleep, not a panicked rush. He’s usually the source of Lucanis’ calm, not— not the disruptor of it.
Up until tonight, he’d never been the disruptor of it. Rook’s had his nightmares, slithering things that Spite’s caught onto and interrogated him over in the night, but they’ve never carried through to the world. And a little pleading between him and Spite— to let Lucanis rest, that they were nothing but annoying little flickers— kept Lucanis from worrying over it. He had so much on his plate, especially now as he stepped up to the mantle of First Talon, and Rook was meant to be people’s pillar whether he was made for it or not. He kept his nightmares trapped in his chest, a heavy weight to bruise beneath his eyes and rot at the edges of his mind along with the rest of his creeping horrors. He had no time for them, with so much to recover, so much work to do. He had people relying on him, whole cities of them— Minrathous in shambles, the Crossroads to watch over, the clean up of the mess the Antaam occupation left behind in Treviso. He couldn’t be— he couldn’t be doing this, flailing about in bed—
Flailing. He had kicked out at someone, in his panic.
Oh, Gods.
He kicked Lucanis. Rook tries to pull away further and disentangle himself from his lover, a hand hovering hesitantly over Lucanis’ chest where the impact likely was, wide-eyed and horrified with himself— but he’s swept back up against the other’s body again before a single apology can leave his quivering lips. His shaking fingers are interlaced with Lucanis’ own atop the man’s beating heart, steady and strong.
“ Don't, ” Lucanis says, tone soft, but brokering no room for argument, “You did not know it was me, love.”
“I still did it,” Rook argues weakly anyway.
A huff, amused and displeased in equal measure.
“An understandable reaction, and an impressive one at that. It’s no wonder you always send those Venatori off ledges. Your kick rivals your shot, Rook.”
Rook’s nose scrunches at that, the memories of soaring blood mages— and Lucanis’ own lighthearted teasing— drawing out a lopsided smile. He hides it against his lover’s shoulder, and the feel of it against Lucanis’ skin brings a smile of his own to the other man’s lips.
“They get too close,” Rook says quietly but conversationally, some of his usual personality surfacing from the murky depths, “Who am I to deny you a show? You always put one on for me. They probably all flee my way because they’re terrified of you.”
“Going in your direction is my reason to kill them,” The Crow responds with disdain, the corner of his lip curling, “They seal their own fates with their stupidity.”
A laugh blooms from Rook’s chest, and Lucanis is starstruck by the sound. He presses his lips to his Shadow’s forehead in a soft kiss, savouring the joyful shake of Rook’s amusement in his arms. It’s a far cry from his terrified shivering only minutes ago, and even when it’s weighed down by drained exhaustion it’s still one of the most lovely sounds Lucanis has ever heard.
“Come,” Lucanis says, beginning to pull Rook to his feet, “Back to bed with you. The Crows have stolen away enough of my time recently. One late morning won’t kill them.”
“Late morning?” Rook repeats, confused.
He’s sat down on the edge of the bed, legs spread to allow Lucanis room between them. The man bends at the waist, hands sliding up Rook’s thighs until they find a hold on the juts of his hips, and Lucanis’ forehead is gently pressed to Rook’s own.
“A late morning, yes. You and I are going to stay here together as long as we both need, and then once we’ve both had our fill of rest we can talk about what happened,” Lucanis says as he pulls one of the ruffled sheets around Rook’s shoulders.
Rook’s lips press thin at that plan, not very fond of the idea of talking about the mess he’s been hiding away from Lucanis’ sights— both because of the subject matter itself and the fact he can already see the worrisome, reproachful lecture waiting with the morning light. It’s evident even now with the quirked brow Lucanis has aimed his way, the man knowing very well what that little reaction of his means, and the look he has in his eyes makes it very clear Rook won’t be slipping away from this one.
Lucanis sighs, and guilt nips at Rook’s heels for considering if he could dodge Lucanis at all in the first place. He lets his features fall lax and tips his chin up to press a kiss to Lucanis’ lips in apology, gentle and slow; It spreads warmth down his neck and into his chest, reciprocated with a hum, and Rook’s eyes flutter shut. They only open again when he eventually feels Lucanis pull away, a hand coming up to cup his jaw.
Lucanis’ attention is off to the side of them, most likely on Spite and whatever comments he has to say, and it’s only then with a moment for his thoughts to wander that Rook belatedly remembers they’re both very naked. He reaches for the edges of the blanket and pulls them tighter around his torso, concealing the blush creeping down his chest, and his focus is kept resolutely up on Lucanis’ face.
… Not really. It only lasts a half-second. A full one, if we’re being generous. Even with his eyes already threatening to sleepily close, vision blurry at the edges, it’s a very nice view. He finds his eyes darting back down appreciatively, lingering on the planes of the other man’s midriff, the muscle of his thighs, the trail of dark hair that travels down his navel— before his face is tugged back up to meet Lucanis’s hooded gaze, the smirk dancing upon his lips lazy; as pleased as the cat that got the cream.
“In the morning,” Lucanis slowly says, tone low and tempting as he taps a thumb to Rook’s lower lip, and Rook clicks his teeth shut when he realizes he’s been faintly gaping. The blush spread high across his cheeks deepens.
Whatever he looks like has to be entertaining, because Lucanis chuckles under his breath before nudging Rook back in the direction of his pillow. Blinking his lovestruck haze away, Rook responds with an acquiescing, “As the First Talon commands,” and shuffles back to where their pillows await.
He feels the bed dip behind him only a couple of seconds after he lays down, and he holds up the sheet so Lucanis can slip in behind him. An arm finds its place around Rook’s middle, fingers spread protectively over his stomach. Lucanis keeps him as close as he can possibly be, and the rhythmic press of his breathing against Rook’s back is a soothing guide for his own.
“Since when did a Shadow Dragon start taking commands from a Crow?” Rook hears just beside his ear, causing it to twitch. A smile pulls at the corner of his lip.
“From the moment you showed him your wings,” Rook softly responds, already drifting off in the warmth of Lucanis’ arms.
When he dips into sleep, his mind is mercifully quiet— at least for tonight.