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Rain, and rain, and rain, and rain. It’s a miracle the inn hasn’t got swept into the sea by now, but Poseidon’s probably waiting for when it’ll screw up Zolf’s life the most. Arse.
“And this pylon here’s got an extra enchantment for stability,” he points out, speaking over the sound of water drumming against the roof. He turns the prosthetic over in his hands, running a thumb along the runes. “They ain’t gonna stop working if they’re covered, but if they get scratched deep enough for ‘em to make new marks we might have an issue.
“Right.” Wilde’s been taking notes as Zolf has gone through the prosthetics, and he chews his lip as he scribbles something down. Zolf had put it off, at first, explaining all the tech and magic that went into them because he’d expected mostly stupid, annoying, or borderline offensive questions. Now he knows Wilde a bit better--right, a lot better--and isn’t actually surprised he’s been nothing but attentive. The note-taking is weirdly endearing by itself, but Wilde’s also cramped himself up on the stool next to Zolf’s bed, hunched uncomfortably like a bizarre, squinting bird as he watches Zolf explain the separate parts.
“And that’s pretty much the whole of it.” He sets the prosthetic at the side of the bed with its pair, shrugging. “Any other, uh, any other questions?”
“Not…” Wilde taps his notes for a second, chewing his pen before shaking his head. “No, I think I’ve got it, if there’s ever an emergency. I appreciate you...taking the time to explain, in any case. You’re quite the teacher, Mister Smith.”
“You’re--thanks.” Zolf clears his throat. “Well, erm.”
The rain pours in through the silence as Wilde inspects his notes one last time before flipping the book shut. He stands abruptly, and Zolf reacts just in time to grab his arm as he stumbles on nothing.
“Oi,” Zolf says, alarmed, but Wilde sinks down on the bed next to him with a grumble, cheeks pale.
“It’s fine,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut. “Headrush, it happens.”
“Doesn’t happen when you take proper care of yourself,” Zolf counters, unimpressed as Wilde rubs his temples. “You know, like sleepin’? Hear it’s good for you.”
“What an outrageous rumor,” Wilde says dismissively, raising his chin and rolling his shoulders. He’s very, erm. Warm. Sitting next to Zolf, their shoulders brushing. It’s nice, with the chill of the rain leaking in through the thin walls.
Wilde is looking at him.
“Comfortable?”
With a start Zolf realizes he was leaning into the warmth, and he jolts away. But Wilde’s turned to face him with an expression that doesn’t look offended, leg pulling up onto the bed and folded beneath him. It don’t look comfortable, but Zolf is thinking less about it than the fact that his heart has begun to pound. It’s not particularly pleasant, a very miniature heart attack as Wilde just barely leans forward.
They’re alone. And Wilde is very close. Zolf wants to be closer, and—and that’s—it’s what you’re supposed to do. Isn't it?
Zolf takes a deep breath, bridges the gap—only inches—and presses his lips to Wilde’s.
Nothing really happens. He feels Wilde go extremely still for a moment, before a hand presses against his chest. Zolf himself knows he’s rigid, sitting upright and trying to focus on if his heart pounding this hard is a good thing. Surely Wilde can feel it, and in Campbell’s it’s always described as a good thing, hearts racing and cheeks blushing so you know the characters like each other, but in Campbell's they also seem like they enjoy feeling like that when he just feels on the verge of a panic attack--
He drags his brain back down to earth just in time to feel Wilde’s hand on his chest very abruptly push him away.
Zolf pulls back quickly, heart thudding in his ears as he fights the urge to make some terrible excuse to leave the room immediately. Wilde would be offended, probably, maybe—yeah, and Zolf doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, he’s kissed people before, men and women and whoever, and he’s not sure why this is different, but it is. Not a lot. Just…just something he can’t place.
Wilde hasn’t moved from where he leant back. He looks—he looks flushed as Zolf feels, and his hand is shaking slightly where it had pulled away from Zolf’s chest to pause in the air, and he looks—he looks lovely, and tired, and Zolf still—Zolf still wants him close, but can’t help but think that he mostly just looks incredibly uncomfortable.
“Was--” Zolf weaves his hands together to quit them shaking. He's not sure what, or--or maybe why, or--he's confused, alright, and not just at Wilde. “Did you not—not, erm, mean—”
“No! No, I mean—I mean yes, that’s what, uhm, what I was…yes.” Wilde nods more vigorously, shifting his leg out beneath him and visibly trying to look more casual. His face is still bright pink, though, and he isn’t meeting Zolf’s gaze. “You know, I just.”
They sit there. The silence is undoubtedly and cloyingly awkward.
“Sorry,” Zolf tries. “Erm.”
“Gods, don’t apologize.” Wilde leans forward on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. “Don’t-- I’m sorry. I—I don’t think I meant to do that.”
“You didn’t—I mean, I did it. Sorta. Y’know.” Zolf’s heart is starting to slow down, thankfully, but it don’t make the words easier. “ I, uh. I kissed you. Technically. ”
“You just beat me to it,” Wilde says, throwing him a wry smile. He still looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I was--in the very least, I was intending to invite it.”
“Right, uh. O..kay.”
There’s another long silence. Wilde rubs his neck, looking like Zolf probably looks right now—like he’d rather be literally anywhere else in the world right now.
“It’s just—it’s just usually what you’re supposed to do,” Wilde says finally, gesturing at nothing. “The, ah. Next step.”
“Next step to what,” Zolf says, raising an eyebrow. “Hate to disappoint, Wilde, but—”
“No, not—I know you don’t care for—I meant next, next--” Wilde exhales, scrubbing his face. “Oh, I don’t know.”
Zolf thinks he might, actually, but he doesn’t know how to say it. But it’s the reason he leaned into the kiss, the reason he wants to lean forward now and smooth the frustrated furrows from Wilde’s forehead. The rain is making the room feel small and cozy and Wilde next to him is warm.
“It’s the usual course of events,” Wilde says eventually, not meeting his eye. “When you—you know?”
“Yeah.” Zolf frowns to himself, fiddling with his hands. “Yeah, erm. I guess it’s…”
Wilde finally looks at him fully, and it’s overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as kissing had been.
“I guess it’s about bein’ close.” Zolf’s mouth is dry, but he forces himself not to look away. “I, uh. Don’t mind that bit.”
Wilde blinks at him.
“If you don’t,” Zolf adds quietly.
“I don’t.” Wilde clears his throat, waving a hand in a way that’s probably supposed to be elegant, but Zolf just finds kind of dorky. “Close is…good.”
They look at each other. Rain, and rain, and rain, from outside.
Zolf thinks it might be on him to be the brave one. He takes a deep breath. Before he can even move, Wilde has toppled with a sigh backwards onto the bed--Zolf doesn’t resist, just lets himself be dragged down with a quiet oof onto his chest. He feels Wilde curl around him, a hand in the back of his hair as they adjust themselves around each other until everything is warm, and any lingering, confused panic has faded into the quiet of the room.
“Is it alright?” he hears Wilde say, into the fabric of his shirt collar. “If we don’t kiss.”
Zolf runs a hand along Wilde’s cheek, scooting down so they’re eye to eye. Mouth to mouth, if they wanted. Zolf swallows.
“I—I think so?” he says, searching Wilde’s eyes. They’re half-lidded, sleepy-looking despite the alertness in his gaze. He strokes his cheek again, finds none of the shakiness he found at the thought of kissing him. Just his skin beneath his palm, the nearness of his heartbeat pressed against his own ribcage. He traces Wilde’s brow, a little entranced. “This, erm. This’s fine.”
“Mhm,” Wilde says, sighing as Zolf’s hand combs back through his hair. “Your hands are warm.”
“Yours are cold.” Wilde snorts at that for some reason, but Zolf feels the fingers at his neck pull away. “I didn’t mean—ain’t a bad thing, just-- a thing. Rest of you is warm.”
That was the right thing to say because Wilde seems to take it as a challenge to envelop as much of Zolf as he can, until he’s wrapped in a very gangly blanket.
“Comfortable?” he asks, once it’s seemed Wilde's found the best way to wrap himself around Zolf and still be able to look at him through his lovely dark eyes at the same time.
“Very.” Wilde yawns. The rain hushes the room, and Zolf can’t help but take the moment to study Wilde’s face when he isn’t working or stressing or bleeding or miserable or uncomfortable. “You?”
“Yeah.” He extracts his arm from his new blanket to reach up again, tracing the curve of Wilde's cheekbone, the flat of his brow. He smiles, and Zolf traces that too, the fine wrinkles it makes by his mouth and his eyes.
The rain is louder, harder than before, but Zolf gives even less of a damn about Poseidon than ever. Any god, really.
“Close enough?” Wilde whispers as Zolf smooths his hair back again, tucking it behind his ear. Zolf tilts his head forward, until their foreheads are resting against each other, until he’d go cross-eyed trying to meet Wilde’s gaze so he closes them instead. Rain, and rain, and warmth, and proximity. “Zolf?”
Zolf is already asleep.