#writeurheartout

It looked like it was grating King’s throat, the very sound of it wrong in Ram’s ears, and Ram ached for the fact that King thought he had to put himself through this.

“Why?”

Ram knew King was drunk now, and together with the concussion, and the recent fever it was probably like a catalyst for negative emotions. Hair and eyes wild King really looked like a cornered animal. But there was so much more in his eyes.

A living being is a living being, that cares and fears, feels pain and connects with others, right? Animals, them Ram could bond with. So it was half muscle memory, half conscious choice when Ram put himself firmly in King’s line of vision, close and calm and unwavering, making his voice as sure and unoffensive as he could. Making himself as present, as there as he could. Don’t bite. Don’t just bark. Talk to me.

“Why?” Why are you scared?

Still so much fight in the uptick of King’s mouth, his teeth showing. Ram inched closer. I am solid. I am here.

“I won’t leave until you tell me why.” I won’t let you push me away before I know why you are not okay.

“Why?” Softer still. Closer. Why do you say all those things when it’s clear they hurt us both?

Because it hurt. It hurt like the nails King had dug into his hand while getting stitches. But Ram could bear pain when it meant getting King through this.

King who wielded words like weapons now:

“It tortures me. I feel torture, you know!“ That hit right to the center of Ram’s chest, although King’s hands were still at his sides. Ram swallowed, trying the word on his lips, trying to understand, to make it make sense. But it did make sense, didn’t it?

 First Ram had thought it was pain.

“Because of me?”

So much pain in the furrow of King’s brow. Pain beyond the physical. In the space between them. Echoing inside Ram. He listened to King’s tone hitch, watched him rip his finger’s through his hair, watched him push his chin forward.

“Yes! Because you make me feel good! Do you know how hard I have to hold myself back every time I am near you? It tortures me you know. That is why I want you to be far away from me, so I don’t have to feel all this pain inside!”

Ram couldn’t move. There was a thought that he should be relieved, because this meant… this meant they both felt something more? But how could he be relieved when King was still in so much pain? When the connecting thread between them right now was taut and electric and flickering?

He couldn’t move, for fear it would break this moment, this fragile truth binding them together.

Ram wanted to shout. King. P’King. How can you understand so much about me but not that. How can you see so much but not that?

He wanted to reach out so badly. But it isn’t my turn, is it? Like it never feels that it is my turn, like all I can do is ask, with everything but my voice, and offer. Be there.

He poured it all into his eyes.

As an answer King pushed again, hard. He used his hands this time, backed by his whole body.

And Ram picked himself up and came back. Like he now knew he would again and again, until they got through this.

The motion on King’s face showed that he must know, too, and for a second King thought he had gotten through.

Then King pushed.

The shock of contact rippled through Ram. It hurt. Didn’t it? (First Ram had thought it was pain.)

For a moment the heat and burst inside was so intense that all Ram’s brain could make of it was another wave of injury. Then the sensations of King’s breath against the corner of Ram’s mouth, the hard grip of his fingers on Ram’s neck transformed into another reality.

It was all still waves, breaking and closing high over his head: surprise and welcome, compassion and overwhelming affection.

This was King against him, pressed against his body, King's lips, King's fear, King's desperation. King, who Ram had wanted to touch. Like this. So much.

King had shouted. And reached out.

Now it was Ram’s turn.

King. King. Maybe you’ll understand this:

He poured it all into the kiss.

Hands came up, pulling King into the embrace, the circle of their space, the give of Ram’s lips. He willed into it all the certainty he had been feeling. Filled it up with calm and hope and comfort. The unhurried gentleness he knew King deserved.

His own breath was trembling through him.

When King broke the kiss Ram held him close. Letting go was not a thought that held any power.

He could smell the faint trace of whiskey on King’s every small exhale, and Ram’s chest brimmed over with a hazy mix of notions: A claim to protect, a sense of purpose. And Ram felt strong right then.

So he held King’s face between his hands - safe and gentle - and kissed him again.

When King’s lips answered, for a long moment, there was no pain.

                    A/N:

That SCENE. Whew. Breathe. I wanted to add something about the next morning, but maybe that's another ficlet or chapter, this felt enough as it is...

For anyone interested, I wrote a meta on the tent scene while writing Ram's perspective, because while rewatching the scene just got better and better, and it was all too much to put into a little ficlet, so I had to put it somewhere, and that somewhere is here.