you have (1) unheard message ; sable/indy blitz

 INDIGO AUCLAIR

He makes all sorts of excuses—("And what would I even play?" "Didn't bring my guitar…" "…crying wrecked my throat.")—as the moonlight pools into the ridges of his collarbones and makes the ink etched into his skin look like scripture I'd love to follow; I settle for playing an anthem across all their dark, raised edges instead.

He claims his voice as 'sour' but I've done nothing but taste his lips all night, so I know he's lying. Oh, so sweet, I fear the cavities that must be rotting away at my teeth as I smile around his musings—"They use them when you aren't looking already."—jeering only where I know it won't make the fresh bruises across his skin come back to life.

Though every mention of his pain only makes me pull closer to him in an attempt to shield him from where I had seen her tear him to shreds, where I knew it all hurt the most. I've got a cross of inky scarring upon my sternum to prove I can do it.

I think for him I could do anything.

"And, by the way," I shove him toward the middle of the mattress with my hips, working him further from the door and more towards the center of my mattress. He deserved that.


"I remember making that guitar for you, and only you, actually," I reminisce about bending the unbendable mahogany, glued things not really meant to be glued together, strings of fucking floss snapping the instant we all started playing because I'd spent all my money on wood and perfectly winded coils around a fancy new pick up—and, yes, of course, Slate made Sable's pedal board. They had so clearly explained many a time to me without a single word—      (Were you five years old when you built this?)

And I remember laughing too much. Or, actually, maybe I only remember the way my stomach ached and my lungs gasped and my eyes leaked tears of joyful agony as I suffered my way to composure. ("Okay, so, hear me out- I have fishing line because I figured this might not work out.")

"Mine as much as yours. Will have to cut a string though. Fuck your 5-string."

I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to ask someone for a promise when you have your lips pressed to their pulse. Probably some rule. I'd hate to make him feel the way Nyx did.

I shove him aside with my hip, push him toward the middle of the mattress and away from the door, offering an arm to him so he can lay on my chest, all safe from harm, where he had no choice but to breathe deeply and slowly and calmly against my skin. I run my fingers through his hair, curls not nearly as relentless as mine, but just as rainswept.

"Will you promise me something?"

"Anything, everything."

As if some prayer I'd always wanted answered had come to life when he spoke. Felt sacrilege coming from his lips. Just a god gracing his disciple with something he'd always dreamt of hearing. Surely.

Only I need to believe him. I think.

"Take back what you said. Outside the station."

Or maybe himto believe himself?

Why was this suddenly so difficult?

"Say you believe that I won't regret this. Promise you don't feel that way about yourself."

And still so perfectly simple.

I'm tracing his jawline and pulling him into my arms with every word. Call me completely and utterly nervous or completely and utterly enamored. It doesn't matter. I think they mean the same thing. "Or maybe that's too corny? Should I scratch that from the record?"

"Because I'd actually like to keep your redacted statement on the record- what is the uh, ummm- object? No! OBJECTION! I object? Or- is it order? Listen, I- I heyyyy," I laugh and too hardily; I definitely heard Ives come home.

And I'm rambling.

But, see, Sable's got this dimple that only shows up when he's uncomfortably happy—I've memorized it, that single dent on one side of his face—and all I can think is how I should've been more careful, making him smile like that. There's a bruise there tonight, raised and reddening, sure to purple and blue and go all indigo. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, tired. From the crying. From the late hours. From fists or pavement or tear gas. I should shut up, probably.

I press my knuckles into that dent until he relaxes the muscles that had tightened in his jaw and the uncomfortable becomes comforting. I unfurl my fingers in his hair and pull him into my chest, fingers gentle against his scalp as I will him to fall asleep to my heartbeat. I've always been steady, all bassline and beat. And maybe I'm tired, too. Or maybe my heart and lungs are just matching his as we begin to fall into sleep together.

I lift him carefully as I pull one hearing aid free and set it aside. I speak with my hands in the moonlight—(You can't tease when I'm telling you I love you.)—and then I take the other. I kiss the crown of his head as my eyes betray just how tired I truly am.

"Which is what I'm saying."

Apparently, my lips, in love, were relentless and refused to do anything but speak. Or kiss. Or smile. And then every muscle in my face falls. To sleep. Gently, slowly, and with a snore I hope he didn't mind.

Something I've never been so happy worrying about.