Moonlight Saving Time

In the image and in life, his hair is a mess: points jutting out every imaginable angle. It looks deliberate— fixed with gel, spray, or perhaps a spontaneous desire to be a talking point at breakfast— but his eyes are sharp with curiosity as he pats at his head. Is his hair really—? Yes, he can feel it under his hand.

Now that’s confusion, soft-bellied and exposed. You don’t know when you’ll have this chance again, so you take the shots you can, rapid-fire, no mercy:

“You look like you fell asleep in a washing machine. Like you were practicing alchemy, and it blew up in your face. Ooh, ooh! You look like a toilet brush that’s been used to scrub seven million toilets.”

Sylus hums as he pokes a hair tuft. “How… colourful.”

“Seriously, Sy. I know you’re a deep sleeper, but you’d think something was nesting in there, the way that—”

You gasp.

A little preoccupied, Sylus misses the ember. By the time he gazes up, sensing warmth and danger, it’s too late to stamp on it. He tries, anyway. “No. No. Kitten? No.”

…

“Hold still, Sylus!”

Mephisto wobbles on Sylus’s head, hunkering down for stability with a chirp.

“Take your time, sweetie,” Sylus grimaces, claws in his scalp as you take so many more pictures than necessary.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done… try, uh… try to look really grumpy, yeah? Like you wanna kill me. Can you do that, Sy?”

He can’t, actually. He might be bleeding, ridiculed, but there’s light in his eyes as he watches you laugh and fuss over the composition of his downfall. When you say something about the rule of thirds, you catch his lip quirking; he’s trying not to smile.

You lower your phone, grinning. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

Sylus lifts Mephisto from his head— plonking him down on the kitchen counter, then finally, finally, tending to his hair. He mumbles as he smooths it back down, guiding silver-white curls with his fingers: “The things I do for you, kitten. Just make sure the twins don’t see it, hm? I couldn’t care less what they think, but the headaches, oh, they’d never let me hear the end of—”

Across Onychinus’s base, someone shrieks with laughter. Sylus flinches.  

You glance up from your phone, where your group chat with Luke and Kieran is open. “Hmm? Say that again, Sy, sorry, I missed it.”

Like a ritual, you set up the table. Dinner, drink, a candle - and a tablet propped up on a stand. You sit impatiently. Watching the screen. Waiting...

Suddenly, it plays a little tune - one he hums all the time - and you accept the video call.

"Hi~!" you greet, trying to act casual.

Sylus sees right through you, huffing a soft laugh as he sees the candle glow in the corner of his own screen. He's in his hotel suite, sitting at the little table. Even for the best room in the building, it's not sized for a man as big as him. Still, he makes do, no doubt stretching his legs out underneath. "Hello, kitten. I feel underprepared. Do I need to send someone out to fetch a candle for me?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Shut up. I'm coping."

Another warm laugh. "I haven't been gone that long."

"But I still miss you..."

You see the slight shift of his expression. The barely noticeable way his eyes widen, brightening, like having you admit it cut through layers of sarcastic walls protecting his own emotions. It's gone just as quickly with a soft smile. "I miss you, too, sweetie," he says in return, warm and earnest. And then, because it's harder to be so vulnerable miles away from you, he asks, "What has the chef prepared for you tonight?"

You smile knowingly to yourself, proud that you can understand him so well even separated by distance and a screen. You can't wait to have him back home, with his heart exposed just for you to watch bleed the words he has trouble saying, and his belly uncovered for you to attack with playful hands.

-

You look over at the tablet, precariously propped up on the pillow facing you. Sylus has set up his own on the pillow beside him as well, completing the illusion of being side by side.

It's nice having a partner so accommodating to your whims. Going that extra step to help you feel comfortable and safe and happy.

Unfortunately, you're even more aware of the emptiness of the bed beside you. You can stretch your leg as far onto his side as possible and not bump into his legs. Reach over with your hand and feel no chest. Sneak your head to lay beside his on the pillow and feel no breath hitting your face. Even the lack of sound is obnoxiously loud in your ears; no breathing, no heartbeat, no fabric rusting or throat clearing or sighing or anything aside from what the tablet picks up.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" he murmurs, mirroring your frown through the screen. He's laying on his side. So close, yet so, so far. His arm is reached out toward your side, hand disappearing below frame, as though he's enacting what it would be like to hold you again.

You wish you could feel it. The warmth. The comforting pressure of his hand on your arm, your shoulder, trailing down your back to pull you in by your waist. "I miss you..." you repeat. Your heart aches. Skin itches. Every fiber of your being longs for him to be here again, within arms reach, taking up space.

He hums lowly, understanding the pain you're enduring, because he's suffering it, too. "I'll be home soon," he whispers. "Just a little longer."

You nod. There's nothing else you can do. You can't ask him to come home right away; what he's doing is far more important and far greater than your own desires.

He shifts the tablet closer, jostling the view until you see from his upper torso to his chin. "C'mere, kitten," he croons.

And no matter how silly it may be, you do as he says. You scoot closer to the tablet, until you can pretend you're resting your head on his chest. You close your eyes and nuzzle your face into the silk of his pillow, breathing in the fading scent of him and pretending it's stronger.

"Get some sleep, my love. When you wake up, I'll be one day closer to being home."

---

Tag List:

“You two are sick.” A few feet away, Rafayel is shaking his head. “A man is dead, and you’re flirting. The body’s not even cold, and you’re—”

“Okay, Raf.” You peel yourself off the floor, and your skin is sticky. Your head hurts.

You’re not up for even thirty seconds before a tendril of Sylus’s Evol wraps around your fan, repositioning it until the fluff of his hair bounces, fluttering, played with by an artificial breeze.

You sink your hand into that hair as you pass by the couch, your touch far less of a caress. “Get up. Or I’m telling Luke and Kieran you’re taking them on a beach day.”

Sylus groans, and behind the moisturiser and cucumber slices, his face is scrunching as he stretches. He’s always preferred a more tangible knife at his throat.

…

Rafayel dabbles in hyperbole as often as he dodges a phone call from Thomas, but this? Might be an exception. You tilt your head, observing the way Valko’s curled on the floor by your patio doors, like he didn’t quite make it out to the garden.

Curled is the wrong word. It’s a half-curl: he’s on his side, limbs stretched out, tail flat.  

“He’s breathing,” Rafayel confers quietly.

You squint. He is breathing. That’s good.

“Fate comes for all of us eventually,” Sylus hums, nodding as though delivering a morbid prognosis. “It’s relentless. Inevitable.” Then he crushes your body to his. “Don’t look at it, kitten.”

His shirt is half-unbuttoned, his chest tacky against your face. He smells of sweat and gunpowder, and you squeak in protest, only to be hushed like a feral, naïve little thing. Sylus shushes you, stroking the back of your head as you wriggle.

“Raf…” you eke out, whispering warm against Sylus’s pecs, “help!”

“I’ve got you, cutie.”

Rafayel hugs you from behind, only squishing you further. They’re both hot and sticky and you’re going to kill them, just as soon as you can… as soon as you can get… ugh! “Get off, Raf!”

“I know he meant, like, a lot to you,” Rafayel sighs mournfully, resting his chin on your shoulder. “But you’re not alone. We’re here for you. You don’t ever have to be strong with us.”

You stamp on Rafayel’s foot, and kick Sylus in the shin. One yelps. The other draws in a sharp, enamoured breath, but they do release you, thank god. “I’ve had it up to here with you two,” you hiss, marking the air above you with a decisive slice of your hand.

They blink down at the motion, unfazed. Rafayel is mid-hop. Sylus is still.

“Up to there with you!” you try again, pointing higher at the ceiling.

They look up.

“… That’s a lot,” Rafayel says after a moment.

Sylus nods in agreement, taking the new estimate into very careful consideration.

That should keep them occupied for a while. You wander over to where Valko is slumped on the floor, soaking in sunlight. In a black t-shirt and dark jeans, it’s a wonder he’s not a puddle already. Although… from the looks of it, he is headed in vaguely a puddle-ish direction.

“Psst… Valko?”

Nothing.

“Vaaalko…? Can you hear me? You still with us? Valko?”

You’d stooped to talk softly with him, but you’re getting impatient— he’s being so stubborn— so you stand with your hands on your hips instead; the sun’s not the only thing glaring. Carefully, you nudge Valko’s tail with your toe. That earns you an ear twitch, but nothing more. You sigh.

“Guys, can you come and get him into the shade? Gently, please. I’m gonna call Zayne.”

…

“Mmhmm. Yeah? Okay, got it. Thanks so much, Zayne. You’re a life-saver. I know that’s the job description, but…”

When you re-enter the room, a quiet chuckle— rich with fondness and empathy— can be heard through your phone.

“Yeah, Zayne,” you answer after a bit. “Take care of yourself, okay? Ugh, what am I saying? You’re fine, Mr Walking-Talking Snow Globe. But whatever, yeah, still make sure you’re—” you gasp— “ah, Rafayel, no!”

Rafayel is crouched over Valko, slowly trickling water into his mouth from a bottle. None of it is getting consumed— it’s all dribbling over the seam of sealed lips and pooling straight onto the floor.

“He’s gotta stay hydrated!” Rafayel huffs, and the water bottle remains tipped, spilling.

You storm over and snatch it out of his hand. “Not like that!” Your phone lifts to your ear. “Zayne, I gotta go, sorry. Talk soon. Love you lots.” Then you end the call. “Really, Raf?”

The artist is sat on the floor now, and his face is unrepentant. Smug, even.

“Why would you do that?” you grumble, taking a seat by Valko yourself. Softly, you sweep away the excess water from his lips with your thumb.

Rafayel just smiles, lazy and warm. He leans back on his elbows so he can catch the breeze wafting over from the patio doors. “You sounded stressed on the phone, cutie. Before you came in. Valko’ll be okay. Don’t worry, yeah? I’m sure our dear doctor had some good advice, but you really should have more faith in your trusty sidekicks.”

“Is that right, hm?”

“Yup. Sylus is onto something right now, in fact. I’m watching our friend here in the meantime.”

“By drowning him?”

“Hydrating him. How nefarious do you think I am, cutie? I know water. Besides, I’ve got a website.” He wiggles his phone with a grin.

You roll your eyes, shuffling closer to Valko so you can move his head to your lap. As much as Rafayel teases, you know he and Sylus would part oceans for you— move mountains, too. They can act like finding a space for Valko in their hearts is just as biblical, as Herculean, but it’s easy, really. You managed, didn’t you?

“Fine. What else does your website say?” you ask with a hum, fingers threading through Valko’s hair. You like to scratch at the shorter parts.

“Number one, hydration,” Rafayel reads, “check! Number two… ‘walk them at cooler times of the day.’ Says a gentle walk through a shaded woodlands is safer than playing ball at the par—”

Water smacks him in the face.

He gawps, dripping.

The water bottle is in your free hand, fresh from being flicked at him. You flick it again, sending forth another slosh. “Just you wait until you get sick, Rafayel! Gonna stock up on aquarium guides. When I’m pouring fishie medicine down your throat, who’s gonna be laughing then, huh? Huh?!”

Rafayel laughs, trying to dodge the water; you’re thankfully limited by the heat-stricken man on your lap. “Don’t! We need—” he coughs as you land a splash in his mouth as he speaks— “ack! We need that for… pfffftt… hydration!”

You’re laughing too— trying to swing the bottle harder without turning Valko into collateral damage. “Stay still!”

You pull the bottle back, preparing an even bigger splash, but something stops you. Not mercy or conscience, no, but… something sweet tickling the periphery of your senses. Weird.

The room smells like chocolate.

Turning around, you see Sylus coming over with a baking tray in hand. It must be fresh out of the oven; he’s still sporting oven mitts. Though some of his hair has been tied back haphazardly in bunches (with colourful hair ties), some is plastered, damp on his forehead.

You sit up as much as you can, neck stretched like a meerkat. “That smells amazing, Sylus. What is that? What’ve you been up to?”

“Problem-solving, sweetie.” He tilts the tray juuuust enough so you can see what’s inside.

It’s brownies— or one, giant brownie, since he hasn’t sliced it yet— still hot, and undoubtedly gooey in the middle. The sight makes your mouth water. The ‘problem’ shifts on your lap.

A wrinkle at first: Valko’s nose scrunches, giving a shallow sniff. Then a deeper one; you can hear the chocolate-thick air drawn in once, twice. His tail starts wagging, soft against the floor.

He sits bolt upright, so quickly it startles you. “Is that brownies? Nice!”

“Wha—? Val, are you okay? Take it easy, you were just—”

“Bring ‘em over here! They’re fresh, right?”

Sylus trundles over like a butler who might just poison his master’s next meal. A quiet thwip of his Evol scores a line through the brownies, and it’s hard not to think about how that Evol can grip, asphyxiate, and break. Dark alacrity— you feel as though you’re watching a murder weapon slide through a birthday cake.

Valko grabs a brownie as soon as it’s offered. “Oh, mmm…” he groans, fangs sinking in, eyes rolling back. With his cheeks stuffed as they are, he’s more chipmunk than wolf. “That’s the stuff.”

“Val,” you frown, “you’re okay?”

“Mmhmm!”

“You didn’t… pass out, or anything?”

“What? No. Course not.” The brownie is polished off, and Valko is chewing, still, as he stretches out over the floor. He laps chocolate from his thumb. “Mmh, this is the life, huh?” And rolls out of the shade, into the sunlight. “Thanks, Skyler. You’re pretty cool, you know that?”

You blink in bewilderment. Rafayel grins ear-to-ear.

Oven-gloved and exhausted, Skyler is moments away from making the news.