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Tighnari turns around.
There’s a familiar look in his eyes. Distant, yet palpable. A glimmering fog of something, something that draws Cyno closer–or Tighnari–he isn’t quite sure who’s moving. But he knows that they’re closer now. Noses mere inches apart. And he knows, knows that they shouldn’t be like this, alone together in the woods, with nothing to see other than each other. It’s dark, the sun is setting, but even in this dim, shitty lighting, Cyno can see Tighnari in all of his beauty, so clearly. Maybe even clearer now.
Cyno feels something cold and wet slide down his cheek. He blinks, and sees Tighnari again. This time, there’s small, round droplets beginning to pitter on his face, making small, almost silent sounds as they splash against his skin.
“It’s raining,” Cyno says. Tighnari blinks at him, with long, wettened lashes. His lips twitch into a smile, and Cyno’s too busy staring at those perfect, rosed lips that he barely feels the way Tighnari’s warm palm lightly places itself upon his cheek. He doesn’t resist it. It feels natural, as the sun to its rising moon, as the grass beneath them to the scattering rain around them, on their faces, in their eyes. As a puzzle to its pieces.
It feels right.
“We should get some shelter…before either of us get sick,” Tighnari agrees, and Cyno nods.
Neither of them move.
Cyno watches Tighnari, waits for him to make a move. He knows what’s about to happen, given by the way Tighnari’s smile fades; he’s looking at Cyno solemnly, like he’s yearning for something, almost giving in.
It’s so cold. The rain hurts, like sharp icicles piercing Cyno’s skin. It’s unforgiving, but Tighnari— he is. The warmth of his hand spreads through Cyno like a flame. And to Tighnari’s flame, Cyno’s a moth. Blindly following, leaning closer at the promise of that light, of that warmth.
And like a moth to a flame, they collide.
Cyno feels more than he tastes. Tighnari’s lips are wet, slick with rainwater, but they’re still so soft. Maybe Cyno’s mind is playing tricks on him. Maybe he’s so infatuated with this man, all his touches feel like warm clouds, warm cotton on skin.
He doesn’t mind the delusion anyway.
It’s raining harder now. Cyno can only tell by the sound of the water showering over them—the rest of his senses are occupied by the man thats kissing him, stealing his breath away, grounding him to the dampening, hard earth.
Cyno barely realizes how much time passes. With Tighnari, time is endless, boundless, infinite. The world melts, and his heart soars. A minute blends into an hour, that hour blends into days—
But what does it matter?
Cyno has Tighnari.
And that’s all that matters.