tell them i won't be long { sin & cas } day 4
Mar 16, 2021 20:53:33 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Mar 16, 2021 20:53:33 GMT -5
► ► ►
"We need to find Lore and Syren."
Cas tries to keep moving, arm around Sin and vice versa, but the blood loss from his head makes his legs shake and the smog makes him feel clammy and feverish and suffocated. His ankle rolls in a patch of mud, makes his knee buckle when he tries to catch himself on Sin.
"Maybe we just-" He winces and puts a hand against his chest, "-take a breather first."
Sin helps ease Castor to the ground, gentle as ever, and Cas gingerly raises a hand to his forehead where the majority of the blood runs from. It's tacky against his eyelashes and sticks to his skin in little rust-coloured patches. Once the adrenaline wears off he's just left feeling weak and he lets himself slump against Sin, head falling against his shoulder as he breathes through the dull pain that starts to spike.
Absentmindedly, he can feel Sin poking around and trying to patch him up, but it isn't until a choked off sound comes from beside him that he seeks out Sin's hand and squeezes it, "Hey, we did good, yeah?"
He's always been good at comfort, he likes to think, right from when his family didn't think he'd make it through the night and he had to tell them that even if he didn't, it'd be okay.
Cas presses his thumb against Sin's knuckles and nudges his shoulder, "We make a good team."
But the sound still doesn't stop, and it sets alarm bells off in Castor's head. Because this strong, stoic boy, clinging to Cas and making little sounds of pain - that isn't right. Cas realizes, very suddenly, that he's been sitting here while Sin takes care of him, but he doesn't even know if the other boy's been injured. He shifts until he sits with his legs crossed, knees pressed against Sin's, and he tentatively reaches out. His fingertips touch Sin's shoulders gently, searching across his chest for a wound, then they float up to his jaw and he pauses.
"Is this okay?"
There's one tap against his wrist, yes, and Cas lets his hands drift again. He runs his fingers across Sin's jawline, catching on nicks and scratches until he rounds the edges of his cheekbones. There's a wetness there, and Cas uses a thumb to softly brush it away, swiping under his eyes and following the crook of his nose. He traces Sin's eyebrow and places featherlight touches against his eyelids and feels along his hairline, memorizing all the little lines of his face.
It's the pain that makes Cas's hands shake, and the gash in his chest is what causes the little tremors that run through his fingers when Sin turns his face into Cas's palm.
Worry appeased, Cas takes his hands back slowly and reaches for his bag. He rummages around for his roll of bandages, but his hand brushes something plastic instead. He can't exactly remember grabbing it, but he runs his fingers along it, feeling groves and dials and sharp corners. He fiddles with one of the dials until a static screech comes out, loud enough to make him jump, but when he turns the dial again, little notes start playing.
The sound makes him misty eyed and he clutches the radio a little tighter, clears his throat and takes a breath before he speaks, "Do you like music?"
Cas tries to keep moving, arm around Sin and vice versa, but the blood loss from his head makes his legs shake and the smog makes him feel clammy and feverish and suffocated. His ankle rolls in a patch of mud, makes his knee buckle when he tries to catch himself on Sin.
"Maybe we just-" He winces and puts a hand against his chest, "-take a breather first."
Sin helps ease Castor to the ground, gentle as ever, and Cas gingerly raises a hand to his forehead where the majority of the blood runs from. It's tacky against his eyelashes and sticks to his skin in little rust-coloured patches. Once the adrenaline wears off he's just left feeling weak and he lets himself slump against Sin, head falling against his shoulder as he breathes through the dull pain that starts to spike.
Absentmindedly, he can feel Sin poking around and trying to patch him up, but it isn't until a choked off sound comes from beside him that he seeks out Sin's hand and squeezes it, "Hey, we did good, yeah?"
He's always been good at comfort, he likes to think, right from when his family didn't think he'd make it through the night and he had to tell them that even if he didn't, it'd be okay.
Cas presses his thumb against Sin's knuckles and nudges his shoulder, "We make a good team."
But the sound still doesn't stop, and it sets alarm bells off in Castor's head. Because this strong, stoic boy, clinging to Cas and making little sounds of pain - that isn't right. Cas realizes, very suddenly, that he's been sitting here while Sin takes care of him, but he doesn't even know if the other boy's been injured. He shifts until he sits with his legs crossed, knees pressed against Sin's, and he tentatively reaches out. His fingertips touch Sin's shoulders gently, searching across his chest for a wound, then they float up to his jaw and he pauses.
"Is this okay?"
There's one tap against his wrist, yes, and Cas lets his hands drift again. He runs his fingers across Sin's jawline, catching on nicks and scratches until he rounds the edges of his cheekbones. There's a wetness there, and Cas uses a thumb to softly brush it away, swiping under his eyes and following the crook of his nose. He traces Sin's eyebrow and places featherlight touches against his eyelids and feels along his hairline, memorizing all the little lines of his face.
It's the pain that makes Cas's hands shake, and the gash in his chest is what causes the little tremors that run through his fingers when Sin turns his face into Cas's palm.
Worry appeased, Cas takes his hands back slowly and reaches for his bag. He rummages around for his roll of bandages, but his hand brushes something plastic instead. He can't exactly remember grabbing it, but he runs his fingers along it, feeling groves and dials and sharp corners. He fiddles with one of the dials until a static screech comes out, loud enough to make him jump, but when he turns the dial again, little notes start playing.
The sound makes him misty eyed and he clutches the radio a little tighter, clears his throat and takes a breath before he speaks, "Do you like music?"
