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Empty prayers, all over again.
Artem Wing is on his knees, hands clasped in a quiet moment as his mind raced through all of the possibilities. He closes his eyes, deep in a prayer that he believes only reserved in situations like this. He opens one of his eyelids, his clear blue eye peeking a glance at the clock nearby. Only ten more minutes until the hour changed.
The attorney shuts his eye again, repeating his prayers so diligently that anyone would believe he was a priest. But no, Artem Wing is no priest, he is just a devoted lover waiting for his other half to return. Safely. And quickly.
Minutes passed, and Artem is only growing even more and more anxious.
Each of his hands holds the other tighter, not minding the way they tremble under the moonlight seeping through the window. His stomach churns, anxiousness pooling deep in his heart and mind that he can’t even find the strength to stand up or simply move. He ignores the numbness in both of his legs, having been sitting in the same position for as long as he can remember.
Each passing second feels like an eternity of damnation that he has to suffer through, but who is Artem if not stubborn? So he sits in the noiseless apartment, alone with only the wind coming in as his only companion. He bites his lower lip until he is met with the taste of blood on his tongue, but he hardly takes a breath to stop the whispers of prayers in his head.
Lines by lines that are now etched onto his mind are repeated in a desperate agony, wishing for his savior to come and save him from this endless cycle of lonely prayers. The imaginary clock ticks, and Artem doesn't bother to check the time again, with his eyes shut tight. For now, time is just a concept that Artem does not understand. It doesn't matter how long he has to stay there in his apartment to pray and ends up being late to work. All of those worldly matters pale in comparison to this simple act of waiting for his savior to come.
Finally, finally, he hears the front door opening, and Artem immediately tries to stand, only to be hit with dizziness before his legs give up. The brown-haired man looks up to the one holding half of him, his blue eyes clouded with unshed tears.
“Luke.”
The name is whispered, as if it’s something holy and he is forbidden to call out such a name. Artem grips the carpet beneath him as a repentance.
There he is, Luke Pearce, dressed in all black, standing in front of him. (Artem tells himself over and over again that the Luke standing in front of him is real, and not just his hallucination.) A hint of tiredness is visible on the light brown-haired man’s face, but the man’s expression quickly turns sour as he sees the marks on Artem’s hand, where the usually unblemished pale skin is now red with fingernails marks all around.
Luke Pearce is not stupid. He knows what those marks mean.
“Artem.” Luke returns the words without the same delicate tone the older man had used. Tears are falling freely on Artem’s face now, and oh how the detective hated the way the sight made him feel. Artem sobs in silence, staying still in where he had fallen except now his delicate hand holds the corner of Luke's pants.
“It’s five in the morning, my dear attorney. Have you slept?” The surprise evident on Artem’s face tells Luke enough. “I was waiting for you.” The words are forced through his lips in a hurried manner, almost quick enough for them to pass as nonsensical mumble to the younger of the two.
“So you prayed for my return the whole night?”
A reluctant nod. Luke slowly drops to his knees, joining his lover on the floor. He carefully holds Artem’s hands, caressing them on his own.
“My saint, what if I hadn’t come back today? Will you still be here tomorrow, waiting?” Luke kisses the hands on his hold one by one, relishing in the way Artem’s cheeks are showing a hint of red. “Yes.” The answer came not a second later, the older man’s voice not wavering in the slightest despite the tears.
From where Luke sits, Artem looks ethereal, the morning sun gracing him with the light that hits all of the right places. The tears are not stopping, however, and Luke frowns in displeasure. This saint of a man is more than he will ever deserve, Luke thinks, before pressing a kiss under Artem's eye, caressing his cheek to wipe the tears gently. Artem glances at his lover shyly as a response, his face heating up.
Luke’s breath hitches, and before Artem could ask what’s wrong, he suddenly found himself enveloped in a tight hug. The feel of a warm body against his cold one never felt this comforting before. Artem returns the hug then, his hand patting his lover’s back affectionately.
“My saint.” Blue eyes meet reddish brown.
“I won’t do it again.”
The weight of the words sink into both of their hearts, as Artem takes in Luke’s expression. Artem nods, but Luke knows it was just temporary. Because Artem is too good for him. So Luke presses a kiss on his lover’s forehead, tightening his hug. A whisper of prayers of his own for his saint went unheard.
(Don’t wait for me, wasting your breath to say prayers to save this worthless one, please. My saint, I will not repeat this again. So you don’t have to pray for me.)