#xyran

The rockstar grimaces to himself and reaches to run a hand through his disheveled hair. At least he’d been able to actually style it this morning, for the first time in… hell, how long had it been? Over a week. He’d been stuck in this damn house, barely able to so much as walk across one fucking room, for over a week. How had he not gone completely crazy? Maybe he had. That’d explain the stupid thoughts he’d been having about the asshole sleeping nearby.

That asshole. The only reason he hadn’t completely lost it from the boredom of being confined in his own house. In a weird way, Xyran Rocketfist had enjoyed the company. Those days and nights spent just… talking, rather than the unmentionable shit they usually preoccupied themselves with. Not that that wasn’t enjoyable as well (in fact, being unable to do it because of pesky inconveniences like broken bones was nothing short of tragic), but… the rockstar didn’t get the chance to talk to people much.

And the hand-holding? That’d been nice, too. The blue-haired goblin’s hand pauses in the midst of his mohawk, and he glances down towards the other goblin. That’s his hand, yep. A careful, casual little slide of his hand over… and his fingers curled briefly around the taller goblin’s, offering one of the squeezes that had become so familiar over the past few days. This was weird. This sensation of content and happiness and BUTTERFLIES and he suddenly felt like he was going to vomit. The good kind of vomit, though, if such a thing existed. Not like those nights when he’d had far too much to drink, or smoke, or both. He’d only felt this kind of sensation… twice, maybe three times before, and he dreaded putting a name to it.

Still, he couldn’t ignore it for forever. Today. Whenever they both weren’t sleeping like assholes, he’d made the first move. He’d be the biggest badass, and just ask him.