“I know.“ Strange. There are words waiting to be served, plated, perfectly garnished. But he swallows them down. Slouches forward, elbows on his knees, the mug between his palms. Hot–almost painfully so. Seeping into skin. And he takes a sip. Sets it on the table. Careful. The coffee sloshes before it settles. Ripples before it calms.
“You sell yourself short.”
His wound pulses. A throb for every heartbeat. He’s pushed himself to be here. Pain isn’t cheap, and he wonders if Hector is worth it.
“But, here. See for yourself.” He unbuttons his shirt. The fabric spreads. The wound is covered with gauze and white tape, but the skin around it is red, red, red. Furious and irritable. Was she worth it? Orion leaves his shirt open and takes another sip of coffee.
“Let me see yours.“ More command than request. And he is charmed by this room. The quaintness of it. Steeped in that every day, common man domesticity Orion has always lacked. So simple. The bones licked clean and stark white that everything about Hector was out in the open for Orion to peck at.
“An artist. Hector. Here I thought we were beyond secrets.” Fingertips on the top piece of paper, sliding it to the right. The drawing beneath is familiar. That profile, those eyes, that serrated curve of lips–
Orion plucks the sketch of himself from the table. Holds it up to the light so the paper is translucent, the lines of pencil sharp, black, crude in it’s smudged curves and loops. He folds it in half. Then in quarters. Pockets it.
He isn’t so easily flattered. He’s been worshiped before–immortalized by hands on his edges and rounded hips, fingers in his mouth and palms on that wet slide of skin.
Mostly on whim. Orion dips his fingers into the slice of Tiramisu. Digs, burrows, tearing apart the thick and foamy cream, the plush layers of cake before diving into the whipped, frothy, cool sweetness again.
“Try it.” Fingers scooping up the piece. Raising it to Hector’s mouth. Shifting the question of concern aside with intimacy. “I’ve missed you.“
As close to a confession as he is capable of. Orion presses the tips of his fingers on Hector’s mouth. As if he can smother the it–the truth. Ill-fitted. Ill-suited. No room for–
He's kneeling, fingers skirting the length of the wound, a hairsbreadth from a touch. Beneath his knees the hardness of stone. If the cages- he thinks. If. And then he doesn't need the answer.
I'm sorry. In his mouth, the sickness. Seized in his chest. I'm sorry for being there. For watching you. For not looking. For trying to forget.
"Nothing to see." A deflection, hand stilling in its motion. He doesn't want to look up. Doesn't want to know what Orion would see, not when he can't hide it, too raw. Skin all flayed. And nothing Orion says feels real, not the flippancy- not the I missed you, not when it means nothing no matter how he construes it. A enigma of a sentence he cannot fathom. He wants to touch Orion, to make sure he's there, to steep this scene in reality once more.
Still his intent crumbles in defeat. A lull into a rhythm he's fallen away from. Too easy to fall back in. Parting his mouth, letting Orion push the cake between his lips. The only thing he can taste is the sugar, the cloying sweetness- the flavour lost on him. No thought behind it when he licks clean Orion's fingers, the rough pads of his fingertips on Hector's tongue.
So out of control in his own home. The drift of the thought, soldifying. Abruptly he's too conscious of his position. Heat rising in his cheeks. Embarassment. Frustration. Feet unsteady as he gets up, motion too swift, the sting of pain ignored. A somewhat hasty retreat is made back to the counter, he makes an attempt to locate whatever he was doing before Orion came. He hadn't been doing anything.
Hector picks up a fork instead. Deposits it beside the slice of tiramisu. Puts more space between them and tries to feel less uncomfortable in his own apartment.
"It's dangerous for me. You... being here." The accusation bleeds thin. He's looking back at the window, the drawn blinds- pulled shut as soon as he'd realized his visitor. "... Is there a reason you came?" But he realizes it as he speaks, curses his own foolishness. As if Orion would visit out of sentiment. As if he would-- "I don't think there's much I can do for you."