my rafa. that's me.

Devon

Middle of the morning, Rafael's arm slumps against the sheets as Devon slowly moves away from him. Slowly sits up. She's shaking a little, but not terribly. She untangles her bra straps from her arms and pulls that bra out from under her shirt finally, dropping it on the floor. It was her intention to do this, drink some water, and then fall back asleep, but once it is off, everything else makes her skin crawl. So she peels out of her top, her back to her boyfriend. She lifts her hips and scoots her skirt down, and then rests for a moment.

Twisting the cap off, Devon drinks some water. Chugs it at first but then remembers to go slowly, drink slowly, but still she takes down half the bottle before she stops. Covers her face with her hands and breathes outward, then slowly gets up.

Walks not to the bathroom but out of his bedroom, in her little boyshort-panties with their lace trim. And nothing else but that false gemstone stuck to her belly. She goes carefully down the spiral staircase -- honestly, at one point she sits down and just scoots the rest of the way. And in the kitchen, she finds a banana in a bowl of fruit and sits down on the nice, cold kitchen floor to eat it, her back against the fridge.

Drinks her water and eats her banana, mostly-naked and a complete mess on the floor. It's bright outside, and not all the shades are pulled, which is why she's on the floor: the kitchen island provides a cover that gives her a bit of darkness.

When the banana is mostly done, she puts it in the garbage. She finishes her bottle of water and gets another. And she heads, slowly, back up the stairs.

Devon checks the bed to see if Rafael is still asleep, but it's just a glance. She doesn't want to wake him, so she gets out some clean pajamas from her little drawer in his room and carries them with her down the hall to the other bathroom to shower. Perhaps he hears it turn on. Perhaps he sleeps heavily through all of this. But she showers, sitting in the tub and drinking water occasionally while warm water pours down over her. Lukewarm water.

She goes to the bathroom twice: once before her shower, and once after it.

Her makeup is washed off her face. The smoke and dust is washed out of her hair. She has had a bottle and a half of water. She puts on little cotton shorts, a little tank top, and combs her hair after squeezing and scuffing as much moisture out as she can. Hard to do: her hair is so very... much.

But the lights go out and she pads back down the hall. Flips the pillow she was using over. Crawls back into bed beside Rafael, knowing that soon enough she will feel positively wretched, knowing also that she has a tiny vial in her purse downstairs that will help. Because she's a witch. Because plants listen to her, and love her, and help her when they can.

She faces him this time. Nestles close, sliding her arm over his waist beneath the covers, tucking her feet close to his, tucking herself under his chin, against his chest. She is asleep again in moments.

--

When she wakes the next time, whenever that is, spikes of pain are lancing through her skull, her stomach is wobbling like a balloon filled with something more volatile than water, and every vein in her body feels tightened up with aches. She's cloudy. She is convinced she has the flu.

Which, except for the actual presence of the virus, she essentially does.

Rafael

Morning rolls to noon. Noon rolls to afternoon.

That's when girl wakes the second time. Wolf wakes too -- he's gotten his eight hours and then some. Stirs when she does. Moves in the bed beside her, heavy and very warm; rolls lazily onto his back and stretches. Limbs extend in every direction. Quiver with tension. Release.

He opens his eyes. Pushes up on his elbows. Hot, bright light pouring through the windows by then, though the ventilation system keeps his room comfortable. He needs to take a piss. He needs to eat.

Sits up to do these things, throwing the covers back. Feet thump heavily to the ground, walk away. Toilet flushes. Water runs, splashes.

Bed dips when he comes back, sits on her side. He steals her water again, drinks.

Devon

Girl is whimpering. She looks miserable, curled up in a ball, hiding from the sunlight. He stretches, refreshed and warm. She feels like she's going to be sick with every vibration of the mattress beneath them.

And Rafael leaves her, thumping and perky. Comes back and sits down and she groans. Doesn't see him stealing her water because she's created a cave of pillows to hide her face in from the sun.

Rafael

He does feel bad for her, of course. Look at her. She's miserable. Just that he can't help his amusement either -- or the ruthlessly pragmatic part of him that sees the direct causality link: she drank too much, she feels like shit.

Still. He drinks her water, he caps it, he sets it down. He puts his hand on her shoulder, her back, rubs a little. Wordless and soothing.

"Just how much did you have?"

Devon

His back rubbing both works up her stomach (bad) and warms her (good). Devon remains very still, but that doesn't mean she doesn't like it. Her hair is a giant bird's nest of dark coils and wonky twists. She doesn't reach, or ask, for her water.

The question he asks makes her smirk a little -- which is perhaps surprising, given how she feels. "Lots."

One eye opens. She looks at him. "Could you... get my bag for me? Downstairs?"

Rafael

"Could just put a bandage on you," he says. "Talen. Probably make you feel better."

Devon

Sniffs. Wants to shake her head but wiggles her finger instead, tapping the mattress. Means nothing to him but, to Devon, it is a head-shake. "Don't waste it. Have... stuff in my bag. Family recipe."

Which could mean a lot of things, coming from someone else. Coming from Devon, it means witchcraft.

Rafael

Inexplicable swell of affection makes him dip his head, nuzzle her shoulder. "Witch," he whispers. Surely not the first man -- or wolf -- to call her, her ancestors, her reincarnations through the ages by that name. Perhaps one of the few to say it quite like that. Affectionately. Lovingly.

His weight leaves the bed. He goes down the stairs. He comes up the stairs. Her bag thumps down on the bed.

Devon

Funny, but no one's ever called her that with affection before. No one who wasn't also a witch in their own right. Funny, but she doesn't always entirely consider herself a witch. She's just Devon, and she does stuff. But he calls her Witch with that swell of tenderness in his eyes and voice and mannerism is as obvious and honest as the fact that he is tall, and green-eyed, and dark-haired, and it makes her heart ache a little with, well:

affection. Tenderness. Love.

So of course she huffs a little laugh at him, and he says not another word before he gets up, and goes downstairs, and picks up the slouchy bag she has, and brings it back up, and sets it beside her. Devon, who by now has managed to sit up and finger-comb her hair -- slightly: it is still a rat's nest, slept in while wet -- and has had a sip of water, looks at the bag gratefully. Forgets to look at Rafael gratefully. She tugs it closer, over the sheets that cover her legs, and digs through it till she finds a half-full amber glass bottle with a lightning seal. She looks at it, frowning, then shakes it, then undoes the seal and chugs it.

Whatever it is, it does not smell nice, like her flowery muscle-soreness-fixer or the spray she puts on cuts and scrapes that closes them so rapidly it's not to be believed. No, this smells like vegetation that is just about to spoil. This smells and looks somewhat oily, but there are flecks in it that aren't quite ground fine. It smells like it should choke her, and choke her it does: Devon coughs, gagging slightly on the flavor, but she makes herself drink it until the little glass bottle is empty, a good four ounces of the stuff.

Immediately, she chugs water. Orange juice would be better but there you go. She coughs again, drinks more, then makes a face, sticking out her tongue a little. "Ugh," she says, but -- perhaps this is merely psychological -- she already sounds better.

Devon shuts the green glass bottle. She puts it back in her bag. She leans back on the pillows in his bed, looking up at him again.

This time, with gratitude. With relief. And reaches out to him, to hold his hand. "Thanks," she says, simply enough. Wiggles her fingers into his palm, so that his hand wraps around hers. Clarity is already returning to her eyes. Her skin is already less puffy. Slight changes, but perhaps he's more attuned than most: looking always for her unfindable scent, his other senses hold onto her other markers that much more greedily. The shape of her face, the exact color of her eyes, the subtle changes in her voice.

"Meant to go home last night," she tells him. "Must've given them your address."

Rafael

Remarkable really to watch her come back to herself. And wolf does watch: while she drinks, while she coughs, while she sinks back into the pillows and ... simply ... stops being hung over.

Wolf takes another sip of water. He's stolen her bottle again. Holds it out to her, even as she's taking his other hand. He gives her fingers a squeeze. Firms his grasp.

"You were pretty confused to see me," he says, amused. "Were all, what are you doing here?"

Devon

It's gradual, but shockingly fast. Every moment that passes, she looks better. Sounds better. Obviously feels better. Still drinks water, still rests, but this must be how she bounces back. This must be how she drinks ahrouns under the table.

At least: part of how.

--

A wry twist of a smile touches the corner of her mouth. He mimics her and she purses her lips against a grin. "You carry me up here?"

Obviously.

Rafael

"Nah," wolf deadpans. "I let you crawl up on your belly. Like a sick snake."

Devon

Perhaps it says something that, instead of laughing, Devon just stares at him for a second. Perhaps it says that she would believe that he might. Perhaps it says that she's still coming back from the throes of that particularly nasty hangover.

"Did you really?" she asks him.

Rafael

Wolf's brow knits a little. "Course not," he says. "Carried you. Not a total dick."

Devon

"You're not," she murmurs, reaching out and touching his hand again. Smiles at him, her eyes

so fucking beautiful.

"Took care of me, yeah? Woke up here, water on the nightstand, all tucked in. Left my clothes on."

She clearly does not remember her pretzel, or she might figure out that he ate it.

Devon tickles him between his thumb and forefinger, smirking. "You're so fucking hot."

Rafael

Girl makes him sound like some sort of white knight. Wolf snorts. "Tried to get you to take 'em off and shower. You said you wanted to sleep."

Glances at her hand, his own. Meets her eyes again with a smirk.

"Told me that when you were drunk too. Well. Close enough. Told me you were sleepy and horny."

Devon

Those eyes of hers, liquid while drunk, cloudy and yet piercing while hungover, are crystalline again. They sparkle.

"Remember you walking around in a fucking towel," she tells him. Of all the things to actually remember. "Distracting," she adds.

Rafael

Wolf's smirk widens. It's sly. It's a touch shy, too. Paradox. He decides to move: decides to swing his legs up on the bed. Nudges her inward. Stretches out beside her.

"So how come you drank so much last night?"

Devon

After that foul drink, it's easier for Devon to move around. Him jostling the bed doesn't make her want to throw up. Him coming up next to her just makes her want to touch him, not curl up in a ball. She reaches over and runs her hand over him as he's coming nearer: touches his chest, his arm. Caresses him.

Pets him, sort of. Strokes him -- not even necessarily with lust, but lovingly. Warmly.

She decides to push the covers down and away, since it's warm, laying beside him in her pajamas. Shrugs at his question. "Just partying. Some rave-thing in the middle of nowhere."

Rafael

Girl's hands touching him. Fair enough: there's a lot of bare skin to touch. Put on shorts at some point, lost the towel. Otherwise he's bare, warm, rather languid, a beast in his den.

He puts his hand over hers. Mulls this a bit. "Maybe next time I'll go with you," he says. Just a touch hesitant.

Devon

Her eyebrows flick. With interest, sure, but also something else: a touch of wariness. Her freckles look a little bit golden in the sunlight.

Distracting.

"Would you want to?"

Rafael

"Maybe."

Honest about that. Not a certain yes. Not yet, anyway. He thinks about it a bit more. Head turns on the pillows; looks at her from a little ways away.

"Might, if it's in the middle of nowhere. So I'm not cooped up with a bunch of drunks all night."

Devon

Wry twist of her mouth. "Usually out in the open. Might get rained on. No one cares. Just drinking, some drugs. Sometimes sex and shit."

She scoots a little closer. "Mostly dancing, though."

Rafael

Wolf's arm comes around her, heavy and sure. Girl's scooting closer anyway. He takes it as a sort of invitation.

"Better not be any sex involving you," he grumbles.

Devon

Her eyebrows go up, but she doesn't move out from his now-encircling arm. Lips together. Stares at him, doesn't say

seriously?

Rafael

Wolf glances at her sidelong. Then head-on. Leans in, bumps his brow to hers.

"Know there wasn't," he amends.

Devon

Devon rests there, brow to brow with him. She is looking at his chin, his lips, more than anything else. Hard to see her eyes, though it's easy enough to hear that she's not saying anything to that.

"You still wanna go if there's another one?" she asks, after a silence, which makes it even more awkward. "You won't dance."

Rafael

Wolf draws back a little; enough to see her clearly. Frowning now. Their interactions are like this: strewn with little hiccups, speedbumps. Moments where he says the wrong thing or she does. Imperfect, sometimes teetering on the edge of disaster.

"You want me to go?"

Devon

Lifts her eyes.

"If you actually want to, yeah?" she says. This is her, trying to be honest. "Don't like feeling like I've dragged you."

Rafael

Bed jostles as wolf turns on his side facing her. Eyebrows together now; serious. He puts his hand on her face. Sometimes feels like he has to touch her like that, be in contact somehow. Otherwise he can't reach her at all.

"Yeah. Wanna. Least just once. See what it's like. Long as you're not sad if I wander off into the woods or something."

Devon

Her brow furrows. "'Course I'll be sad," she murmurs, with those big, round vowels she sometimes has, when she's talking quickly or sleepily or half-dreaming. "Want you with me when you're with me."

Rafael

Wolf makes this low sound. Wraps his hand behind her head the way he does. Presses his lips to her brow.

"Can come with me," he says. "Promise I won't leave without at least giving it a go."

Devon

It's still too early in the game, as far as her hangover cure is concerned, for Devon to try and understand that low noise he makes. Not as hard to understand him touching her, kissing her. She knows he means well, saying she can go with him, off in the woods, if he doesn't want to stay. Knows he means well by wanting to try. Knows she's asked him to try, even.

Lots of things roll aimlessly in her skull: to tell him that these aren't forests. There aren't bonfires. Desert-like land, as far from roads as they can go. Not a lot of places to hide. Empty expanses, mountains in the distance, moon and stars overhead. Speakers and music and alcohol, drugs, porta-loos. Little else to do but let go. Dance. Worship, in some way, what's above

and what is below.

For her, at least. And she gets lost in that solitude in the crowd. Everyone is her friend and no one matters to her at all. She's no one. She's connected to everything. And she's so high, and so low, and it's everything.

Devon's not sure he can get there. Or would want to. Or would understand. Which spirals into other thoughts, other worries. She doesn't want to be hung up on whether he dances or not, but he won't answer her, won't speak to it. She doesn't want to be hung up on whether or not he wants to go, when he says he at least wants to 'try'. She doesn't want another schism. They keep leaving them behind, open wounds that never quite get cleaned out.

Which chills her. Because she really does love him.

She moves her hand, touching her fingertip to his lower lip. Traces it, adoring the shape of his mouth. The sound of his voice. His stupid, stupid voice. His stupid mouth.

"Not really in the woods, babe," she murmurs. This is what she decides to say. "More like... desert. Nowhere to go hide."

Rafael

"Oh."

Not what he imagined, then. Not some secluded druidic gathering deep in the mountains. Not anything like his other house, the huge one with the dozens of rooms, obscene luxuries; not like the forests and peaks and lakes and glades near that house either.

Desert. Alcohol and drugs and sex and noise, noise, people. Wolf frowns; he's not sure anymore. She's touching his mouth but he's distracted, a little frustrated suddenly; doesn't kiss her fingertips.

"Nevermind. Forget it, then."

Devon

Her brow wrinkles deeply. Her hand moves down, and away, and curls in on itself. Her nails are painted pale blue and glittering black. Somewhat chipped. They were like that last night, too.

"All right," she says quietly, and withdraws. Rolls over; she's on 'his' side of the bed now. The whole bed is his side. She didn't even sleep in here every night when she lived with him. Even when they were well and truly fucking, even when they told each other you'd better not with anyone else. Even when they got back from that trip of theirs. But still: on a day when she wakes up in here, there's a His side and a Hers side. She's on the His side. And she is rolling that way, and sitting up, and standing up to head to the bathroom.

Rafael

Wolf rolls on his back as girl turns away. Bed doesn't move nearly so much when she gets up, but he still knows she's gone. Feels it, hears it, senses her departure.

She goes to the bathroom. He closes his eyes for a while, shading his face with his palm. Maybe she washes her face; maybe she brushes her teeth. He sits up when she comes back out of the bathroom. A hundred things occur to him to say; none of them quite form into words. Sentences. Silent, he watches her.

Devon

In the bathroom, Devon uses it. She washes up. Splashes water on her face. Brushes her teeth. She combs her hair until it is less nest-like and more hair-like. She sits down on the cold floor and tucks her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. She stares at the cabinet doors and aches, privately and alone, because --

well. She's not putting it into words. If she did, she'd start crying.

A couple of minutes of that, no more. She gets up and comes back out, and Rafael is still on the bed, but now he's sitting up. She thinks of maybe running over there and getting on top of him. Kissing him and holding his face in her hands, urging his hands up her tank top, down her shorts, gasping into his mouth. She thinks of fixing the awkward, sad feeling between them by fucking it out.

That didn't really work last time, though. And standing in the doorway last time 'distracted' him. She looked good like that and he wanted to fuck her, and she wanted to fuck him too, and they fucked, and that was it. They could put it away, and aside, and this is why when sad and strange things are between them all she wants to do is fuck him.

Also: because he's so fucking hot. Because she wants to fuck him anyway, pretty much all the time.

So Devon doesn't stand in the bathroom doorway. She walks to the edge of the bed and tips her head, looking at him. Looks down, frowning, looking at the bedspread.

"Don't like jokes about cheating on you. I'm not like that. Don't want anyone but you." Pauses there, lips closed, leaving it where it is. Fingernails drag over the bedding a little, in mindless little swirls. "Makes me think of that thing you said --" and her voice lowers a touch, not to mimic his but to mark an echo of him, his sarcasm: "-- 'and you wonder why I don't think you're here to stay'."

Might not be exact. And she doesn't say forever. Heart dropped through a hole in her stomach when he said forever. Her head gives a small shake, just once. "Shitty thing to say. Thought you were breaking up with me." He can see her lashes fluttering; she's blinking, somewhat rapidly. But not looking at him, so he probably can't see why. Obvious enough. Her voice is so heavy, and yet so quiet.

"Can't figure out what you like about me, other than fucking me. Or having me live with you. Don't like anything I like, don't want to do anything I do. Always seems to be a weird fight, when I just want to... share stuff with you." Something so gross and silly and pathetic about that word. 'Share'. She winces, uncomfortable with it. Shakes it off. "Dancing or my friends or magic. Wish you were interested. But don't want you to force it and fake it, either."

Devon sighs. "Then we don't fight, because we don't want to fight. We fuck or we just... stop." Her brow's wrinkling deepens that much more, harder now. "Feels like you love me and want me and all that, like you say you do, but... feels like you don't really like me that much."

Shrugs her narrow shoulders. Blinks a few more times before she looks up, looks over at him. Doesn't really expect him to be able to answer. Which may be why she precludes it: "Anyway. Not even another of those parties coming up that I know of yet, so it's all hypothetical, isn't it?" She licks her lips, folding them in for a moment, pressed together. "Just how I'm feeling lately."

Rafael

Wouldn't have surprised him too much if she'd just left. Put on her clothes and went downstairs to watch TV and drink tea or something. Or maybe left altogether: walked out the door, caught a cab or a bus back to her place. Her friend's place. Whatever.

She doesn't leave though. She comes over to him, and he moves forward to the edge of the bed in response -- feet touching down, legs out from under the covers. She thinks of putting her hands on him. Fucking. He thinks about that too. He does put his hands on her: doesn't quite pull her down for another go, but his palms are warm on the outsides of her thighs. Fingertips grip her lightly.

She talks. And midway through it wolf tips his head forward, thumps his brow against the center of her chest. Exhales a warm sigh and wraps his arms haphazardly around her thighs; around her lower back. If she keeps talking, he listens -- though she could be forgiven for thinking he's not listening anymore. His face is buried against her tits, after all.

Leans back when she's done, though. Looks at her frankly, brow troubled.

"'Course I like you," he mutters. "Like everything about you. Including the witchcraft stuff. Just don't like crazy parties with a lot of strangers. Or dancing. Or getting drunk and high." Shrugs, something tense and trapped about that: like twisting in unseen bonds. "Don't mean I don't like you."

Devon

Almost decides fuck it when he comes to the edge of the bed and puts his hands on her bare thighs. The lace at the edges of her shorts brushes his knuckles. She wants him, the way she seems to always want him, even when she's sad or not really in the mood or angry at him. Always wants him so much. But she's already talking, and after a little while the distraction of his warm palms on her legs and the tender grip he has on her fades just enough that she can focus on the words. Mostly.

Neither of them are that great at words. At talking. At expression whatever it is they feel. They have so little reason to even try.

When he tips his head onto her, Devon's hand comes up as if by instinct. She doesn't stroke his hair but she holds his head there, while he wraps his arms around her hips. Lowers her voice a little. He can hear her echo inside her chest. Her hand falls away from him when she's done. When he, slowly, pulls away and looks up at her.

Devon watches him as he talks. She stares, really. Sees how twisty he is, how unsettled. Doesn't know why. "What do you like?" she asks,

realizing, for the first time, that she's never really asked this. Or figured it out. Or even wondered. On the list of things she can think of that he likes, fucking her seems to top it. Having her near him. Maybe watching old movies with her, and even then she sort of figures that's just because of the 'with her' part. Is she a narcissist? She feels bad for never asking.

And, perhaps because she feels bad and only knows a few things that he likes, she crawls onto his lap. Straddles his thighs and sinks down on him, very close now, trusting his arms and solidity to keep them from tipping off the bed.

Rafael

"What?" he says -- reflexive and perplexed. Girl's crawling onto his lap then and that makes it that much harder to process what she just said to him. Wants him to tell her what he likes about her. Question makes his brow furrow; not because it's hard but because it's impossible to him. Absurd.

"Just like you." His arms have come around her. Well; to be more precise: his hands are on her waist, her ass. A moment later he tries a little harder, "Like everything about you," which is just repetition. He knows that.

Tries yet again: "Can't say what I like about you. Like asking me what I like about breathing."

Devon

His confusion makes her tender and amused, her smile lazy. He's always saying what like that, she thinks, and she sort of wants to snuggle her body to his and kiss his neck, but she doesn't, because she does want to know, and she does care.

His answer, though, makes her wary. Worried. He's touching her, and she thinks maybe getting on his lap was a bad idea. It's not until he insists that he can't say what he likes about her that she realizes he totally misunderstood her question. Devon huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. She leans to him, brow to brow.

"I meant," she explains, "other than me. You don't like partying and all that. So what do you like?" She rubs her brow on his, nuzzling. "Realized I don't know. Realized I never ask."

Rafael

"Oh." Some of the furrows leave his brow. Wolf huffs a laugh. Then the furrows come back. He realizes it's no easier a question to answer.

"Don't know. Like being alone. Like hunting." Flicks a glance at her at that, troubled and wary himself. "Like ... the way it feels. Going up against something. Measuring myself. That moment I know it, and it knows it too. Whatever I'm hunting. That moment we both realize I'm the stronger one. I'm going to win. I love that.

"Not a sociopath." Edge of defensiveness, even if she hasn't said a thing. "Just my nature."

Small pause. And if she hasn't said anything, hasn't broken in yet --

"Like being up in the mountains. The other house. Like it a lot. Like riding my bike up there and I like being there. All that space and quiet. All that wild land right there. Like keeping that land safe. Same as with that church on Colfax. Like keeping it safe." Shrugs, then. Reaching now, casting about: "Like taking naps in that lazyboy downstairs. And I'm starting to read through my dam's library. The less boring books anyway. Even like watching your old movies now."

He thinks a little more. "Like visiting you where you work. Getting a muffin every time."

Devon

Devon just listens. She sits on his lap and strokes his hair while he talks and... listens. He likes being alone. He likes -- well, she doesn't know how to summarize the parts about hunting. But he keeps flicking his eyes, finding himself defensive, and sees nothing on her face to suggest wariness. Worry. Recoiling. Devon just goes on listening to him talk. The only worry she has isn't that he's a sociopath, but that one day he's going to go up against Something and measure himself and there will be a moment when he knows it, and It knows it, too. That he's not the stronger one. That he's not going to win.

She curls closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, tightening her thighs around his hips. Stops stroking his hair then and just cuddles against him. He tells her it's just his nature, and she doesn't argue.

A huff of laughter when he says he likes napping in his recliner. She likes that, too, oddly enough. Such a small thing. She hears him say read through my damn library because she doesn't think like that: dam and sire.

"Or a cookie," she says, because sometimes there are no muffins and he gets a scone or a cookie instead. Her voice is muffled against him. She holds him, warmed by him, nuzzling his clavicle. "All right," she says, to all of it. She thought about it, and it seems like the only appropriate thing to say. Except for this, added on:

"I get that."

Rafael

"Or a cookie," he agrees. His hands give her ass a squeeze. It's not lustful. It's -- tender, somehow. Loving. "Like the muffins more though."

And she tucks herself close. And he, with a sigh that sounds just a little like surrender, lies back on the bed with her. Wraps his arms around her, his right hand sinking into the tumbling mass of her hair -- at the shoulderblades, then at the back of her head. He kisses her neck through that tanglework.

"Like this too. Don't like being with people much. But I like being with you."

Devon

The room, bright with midday sunlight, tips. Rafael lies backward and Devon rests lazily on top of him, closing her eyes almost drowsily as he touches her hair, her scalp. Her feet rub gently against his legs. She's quiet for a while, just laying there with him, soaking up what light comes through the curtains, what warmth there is in his body.

"I'm alone," she says quietly, eventually. "In those crowds. At parties. It's sort of why I like it. Like... not being there at all. Or no one knows I am. Being in this shadow-place between things. Between people. I see all of them, and they can't really see me. Even when they look right at me."

Her head is on his chest, her eyes facing the wall. She closes them though. She breathes in deeply, and out slowly. Saying it seems to give her some peace.

"I like being around people," she says. "But that's not the same as being with them."

Rafael

Never would have thought that if she hadn't said it. She says it, though, and wolf can't imagine it any other way. He thinks of that ancestral echo of her spirit: always alone, even when she was surrounded by those of her tribe and blood. Of course that's how it is. Of course. Nothing else would make sense.

Aches for her, too. Wraps his arms around her tighter. Doesn't know that he does it the same moment she closes her eyes, but he feels her breathing. In, then out.

"I see you," he whispers. "And you see me. And for the first time I can remember, that doesn't make me feel exposed.

Devon

"Like being with you," is her echo, when he says he sees her. Quiets, the words fading underneath the ones that follow in his voice. This is what they mean, she realizes, when they say they like being with each other. I see you. And you see me.

Devon nestles closer to him when he says this does not make him feel exposed. She understands that, too, and doesn't say so, but perhaps he can intuit it. Perhaps not. She places her hands on his sides, on his expanding ribs that move with each breath he takes.

"My Rafa," she whispers, with the same hushed secrecy with which she sometimes says I love you.

Rafael

Wolf closes his eyes, feeling her hands on him. Likes that. Just like he likes when she kisses his chest. Touches his hair. All the little physical things she does that makes him feel seen. Felt. Known.

He breathes against her palms. She names him. His eyes open for a moment; close again.

"That's me," he murmurs; that same hush, that same secrecy.