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Rolan wakes up with an ache in his back.
The floor is not the most comfortable place to fall asleep on, but Rolan had done it because you had beaten him to the punch last night and claimed the bed for yourself, practically throwing yourself on the mattress the second you stumbled through his bedroom door.
He had tried to keep you steady from the tavern to the tower, but when you get enough alcohol in your system, apparently you don’t walk anywhere, you run. But running just so happens to get you slamming into things, and if Rolan weren’t there to pry you from the orc you clung to like a lifesaving rope, you’d probably wake up in even worse pain than him right now.
The sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains, hitting him square in the eye. He has no idea why he puts up with you. You’re more nuisance than good, even if you’ve helped out on more than one occasion with not only his tasks but his life, and his siblings, and his heart, dare he even think it. But what a bloody infuriating help you are to him when he knows he’d live a much more peaceful life if he just kicked you out on the road.
Though, he’d never do that. He’ll let himself get counter-spelled a dozen times over if it meant you’d be unharmed. He really, really doesn’t understand why he keeps you around.
With a grunt, he turns on his side, looking over at you, half-slung over the mattress. Your head isn’t even on the pillow. Instead, your face is smushed into the sheets. They’re tangled around your leg and untucked from the end, and he’s got to take a moment to wonder just how you managed that in your sleep.
Which you’re still in, he notes. Your breaths are heavy but consistent, still fast asleep in his bed. Your arm is dangling off the edge of the mattress, and you look even more of a fool than he thinks you look like all the time.
And yet he can’t help but recognise this is the most quiet he’s ever heard you. He should be soaking in this, relishing in the fact that you aren’t saying anything to make his tail curl or get his heart pounding like it runs on brimfire alone, but instead he simply watches the slow rise and fall of your breaths, how you’re an utter mess right now and yet it’s…endearing.
Your lashes subtly flutter in your sleep, probably dreaming about sheep or whatever the hell occupies your mind. Maybe you’re dreaming about last night when you stumbled into him at the tavern, or how he reluctantly walked you to the tower when you lost your shoes, or when you called him your hero before placing a kiss on his cheek that felt like a branding iron.
A shiver runs through him at the memory. That was the last thing he was expecting from you, even with how ridiculously drunk your behavior was. He thought nothing could surprise him after your compliment—you had looked at him with a sluggish smile before blurting out the word “handsome” as if it meant as little as a greeting—but then your lips touched his skin, and he felt the ground give below him.
Sure, he’ll admit he had been a little handsy with you prior to that. Not in any sort of ill fashion—even he has standards—but when you were tripping over your own toes, Rolan felt it was important to wrap his arm around you to keep you from falling head-first into a bush. But he never meant to imply anything with his touch. He wasn’t trying to give you the wrong impression, despite the fact that you hadn’t said anything about it, and really the kiss only came before you jumped on his bed and promptly passed out.
Still, it was your fault and your misunderstanding. He treated you like a feral animal gone loose from its cage, not like a precious bird being brought back to its nest, especially not because the nest happened to be his bed, not yours.
Yes, he very well could have brought you to one of the many unoccupied rooms in the tower, but those haven’t been touched in years, even before he became master. Despite his diligent efforts to keep the tower in modest conditions, he didn’t trust to lay you on a mattress he’s never tested, and with Cal and Lia already fast asleep, his bedroom was the most logical choice.
That was what was driving him the entire night—logic.
So, he’d very much appreciate it if you could stop looking so gentle and beatific on his mattress right now.
Rolan grunts. This will not do. He reaches over and flicks your nose.
The touch registers in your sleep-addled mind, causing you to rub your nose like it was a fly that landed on it. No, it was not a fly, and he’ll make sure you know of it, so he flicks your nose again. This time you groan, swatting away the mysterious feeling, and when your eyes flutter open and meet his firm, vivid ones, his lips curl in a smile.
“Good morning, tosspot.” he says.
Your brows furrow. “Rolan?”
“Yes, the one and only.”
“What are you doing here?”
Your voice is heavy with sleep, and heavy with a hangover, he notices. He tries his best not to look too pleased about your disorientation.
“You’re in my bed, remember?” he says.
His words make you blink, and he’s never seen you look so confused and so shocked at the same time. With a sluggish hand, you rub your eyes and roll onto your back, taking in your surroundings.
“How did I get to your room?” you ask.
He huffs. “Of course, you can’t recall. You were very drunk and I was very considerate in making sure you got home safely.”
Your head turns, looking at him with eyes that could melt him to his boots if he’s not careful.
“Home?” you mutter.
A lump the size of a rock gets lodged in Rolan’s throat, and he clears the intrusion before he can choke on it.
“The tower was closer. I couldn’t drag you with me the whole night.”
“What about the portal?”
“You passed out before I could get you there.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it. His lie feels foolishly thin, and if you were even slightly more awake then you’d catch him out on it. Instead, he springs up on his feet before you can ask him another question, but the sudden rise has him clutching his back with a hiss.
“Are you alright?” you ask, sitting up and holding your most likely pounding head.
“Quite fine.” Rolan says, but his nettlesome tongue has a mind of its own. “It’s all thanks to you. I had to sleep on the floor.”
Your brows do that annoying thing where they twitch with worry, and Rolan wants to take back the comment because he can see that you’re taking the blame like you always do with a heavy—stupid—heart.
“I’m sorry,” you say, swinging your legs off the bed. “Did I push you or something?”
“What?” he asks.
“I must’ve. I kicked you in my sleep.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I rolled you off?”
“No.”
“I elbowed you? That’s probably it.”
“You didn’t push me because I was never on the bed.”
“Oh.”
“I slept on the floor of my own volition because I didn’t think it’d be safe to leave you on your own.”
“...Oh.”
Rolan grunts. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Like you know the truth.
“Sorry.” your eyes dart to the wall.
Well, don’t listen to him, either! Rolan sighs, never knowing what to do with you. When he tells you to stop nagging him, he regrets not listening to your opinion. When he thinks he needs peace and quiet, he’s missing the sound of your voice when it’s gone. When he wants to be left alone, he really rather be alone with you.
It’s torture. It’s a paradox of his own creation. Every time he thinks he’s got something right, it all feels so wrong when you’re not a part of it. He’s not sure when this all started, when you started lingering in his life like some apparition, but he can’t even fathom expelling you, not when he’s become so used to your presence, to your voice, to your scent.
He knows it’s going to linger on his sheets, and he’ll smell you when he lays his head on his pillow tonight, and he’ll postpone the washing to keep you there for as long as he can.
When did he turn into such a rudding fool?
You’re still staring at the wall, your hands fiddling in your lap, and Rolan softens. He wants to slap himself for every remark that turns you so docile. He prefers when you’re spitting something back at him or jabbing a finger in his direction. Probably because he’s used to fire. He can thrive in the heat.
“How’s your head?” he mutters, sitting down on the bed.
Your gaze meets his now, though you’re still fiddling.
“Like it’s filled with sand.” you say.
He chuckles. “Blame all the alcohol you drank last night. I’m surprised you’re even coherent at all.”
“I’d probably be in an alley right now if it weren’t for you, so…thank you.”
The appreciation clings to Rolan’s heart, digging its claws into the fragile organ. He’s at least grateful it didn’t choose a different organ to disturb.
“Don’t mention it,” he says because he really means it.
But since when did you ever listen to him?
“I’ll make it up to you.” you say, and reach out to grab his hand.
Damn it, now that other organ is feeling something, and from something as modest as the touch of your hand. This is utterly ridiculous. He shouldn’t be feeling these things, not with someone like you. Why do you have to turn him all inside out? When you’re around, it’s like he’s out of his skin, like everything becomes a jumbled mess of confliction and…panic.
Sometimes he doesn’t want anything to do with you because of how scrambled his thoughts get, but he’s always reeling you back in because the confusion feels worse when you’re out of sight.
He was confused last night, too. When he came to your aid without a second thought, when he automatically chose the tower to bring you to, when his heart fluttered at your drunken words, when he burned for more kisses that could lead to nothing safe, he could only wonder why.
The reasons are as clear as day, but he doesn’t want to give it life. If he lets it spring up, it’ll never go away, and he’s been doing his damnedest to kill the infection before it spreads. That’s why he didn’t sleep in his bed last night. He couldn’t. It wasn’t because you claimed it, it was because he was afraid of himself and what he might do. He was scared he’d like it, that he’d find an excuse to press his body to yours or at least brush his hand against your skin, that he’d enjoy too much the sound of your breathing by his ear, and that he’d want it all over again.
He was scared to want you because nothing good can come from wanting someone who’s perfect. He can’t compete with perfect.
His vision fades away from that flowery filter, and he realizes you’re staring at him. Oh, hells. Were you talking to him this whole time?
“What?” he mutters, blinking back to life. Get a hold of yourself.
“I said I’ll make it up to you,” you say. “Name your price.”
Zurgan, do you even notice what you’re doing to him?
When you’re looking at him with those eyes—the ones that say you want to fix something he doesn’t even know is broken—he wants you to stay. He knows that goodbye will taste bitter on his tongue. He stayed awake half the night just watching you, convincing himself that it was to make sure you didn’t choke on your saliva in your sleep, and saying over and over again how foolish you looked passed out, when in fact he’s only ever regarded you as beautiful.
But this is dangerous territory, and he’s inept in walking on difficult terrain.
He’s got to shake you off. For one, he needs to move away from your hand still holding his because it’s about draining the life from him. He needs to put distance between you. First thing’s first, he’ll tell you to leave. That’ll be his naming price.
“Stay for breakfast.” he says.
What the hell was that?
“Okay,” you say, quite quickly. “But let me cook. You deserve that much.”
You’re slipping off his bed a moment later as if his words give you a medicinal boost, swaying when your feet touch the floor because it looks like your head must still be spinning, but you adamantly reach for the door and pass through it like you’ve never been given a more important task than frying eggs.
Well, Rolan gets his wish—you’re staying. Though he knows he ought to fix you something for your hangover because you’ll work through it without saying a word when he has the means to help you in return. You never voice your issues even though he can see them written on your face. You really are a handful. You’ll send him to an early grave, he’s sure of it.
Absolutely, the one thing he needs right now is more time with you—domestic time, too, which is worse. What he needs is a slap to the face because he can feel his heart swelling with anticipation to spend the morning with you when he thought all he’d get was a night on the floor instead.
Taking a deep breath, Rolan stands. He can do this. He can get through one breakfast with you. Nothing can possibly progress over a meal of bacon and eggs.
He is—like most things concerning you—dead wrong.