High Tune

Sleep slithered away from him as he levered himself onto his left elbow, head turning this way and that in search of the source of missing warmth. The night before had been long, what with both of them running into the mouth of hell to save innocent people; the other being awake so soon was…unusual, to say the least.

The clock counted the steps he took into the hall.

"Babe," Jesse's voice rolled against the walls, still hoarse from sleep.

There was a soft sound, before a small, delayed, "Kitchen," reached his ear. He  followed the voice down the corridor and rounded the corner near the sparsely furnished living room.

The sun was a muted presence, a slow bleeding wound between the blades of the kitchen blinds. Glossy granite countertops, once lively mirrors, were dulled surfaces that reflected nothing but the heavy silence.

Lúcio leant back against the island in the center of the kitchen, facing away from the open entrance. It wasn't unusual to see him standing and dozing off whilst waiting for water to boil on the stove for his tea. But a cursory glance showed Jesse an empty stove; the teapot remained neglected next to the sink. It was a simple oddity, yet it drove the sleep in his eye further away, and the silence was made leaden in his chest.

"Mornin'." he greeted casually, stepping up onto the raised floor, padding around the island to stand before his lover. The older man leaned forward, bracing an arm on either side of Lúcio.

"Morning," came the barest of whispers.

Jesse frowned upon the  dreadlocked crown under his pointed nose.

Lúcio, he knew, was never one for just a simple 'morning.' But he waited patiently, the whisper of the clock growing into a murmur in the quiet of the morning.

The Brazilian stood still, a statue frozen in time, cocooned in the shell of his own arms and huddled into himself as if wanting to hide from the world. His locks spilled over his shoulders and curtained his face, creating a cavern the oozing sunlight could never hope to enter.

The chanting of the clock began to echo.

When nothing seemed to burst out of his unusually silent boyfriend, Jesse balanced his weight onto the heel of his left hand and hooked a finger under Lúcio's chin to meet his eyes.

"Baby boy," he coaxed, tilting his head down and to the side to catch a glimpse of big, brown eyes currently hidden under thick lashes. "You alright?"

Lúcio sucked in a breath though slightly parted lips, and finally looked up at Jesse, killing the words that were at the tip of the older man's tongue.

Dull, bloodshot eyes met his own, the shadows beneath them like anchors to a sinking ship. The usual shine was gone, deadened by barely contained anguish.

"No," the Brazilian mouthed, his voice seemed to die beneath the shudder that suddenly wracked his small frame.

Jesse's lips pulled into a thin line.

"She was only four," came the barely audible murmur.

Oh, he thought, his worry morphing into the distress mirrored in Lúcio's own crumbling resolve.

In one swift motion, he squatted until his shoulders drew level with Lúcio's hips and hooked his arms under the shorter man's legs to hoist him onto the island. Wasting not a second more, Jesse gathered the quietly sobbing mess into his arms.

"Nothin' we could have done, Darlin'," he tried to soothe, moving an arm to run his fingers through the loose locks.

"Four," Lúcio repeated helplessly.