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When you awaken from sleep in the morning, his hand is on your back.
It is not an unwelcome thing. This shapes the surprise for you. You’d thought that the weight of it would be something stifling, fearing the subjugation that would soon follow. A hand to shy from. Rather, the imprint of his palm is warm on your spine. His fingers move, tracing lazy patterns on your skin, a tender, languid motion. You could get up at any moment, free to move.
You don’t.
He has earned the right, after all, through careful words and kind gestures. Earned his place at your side. You are a force to be reckoned with, even in your wounded-animal rage— you fight tooth and nail to remain alone, untouchable. It had taken time before you eventually lowered your defences with a wary eye. To which he’d boldly ventured into the cage of your ribs and taken up residence, curling up around your heart, and so you’d seethed about your newfound softness but reluctantly permitted him to stay.
Sylus is ecstatic about it. You see it in his eyes often when you stare back; that tender delight in your closeness. By default, you bridle at him over it, clutching vulnerability to your chest like a snarling tiger before hesitantly opening your arms to him. It’s hard to shake second nature. It had taken a long time for you to trust that giving him more freedom with you didn’t mean he would overstep— it’s a line you’ve always been defensive about. It’s not his fault, you reason with it and know it to be true— it’s just how you are. But he’s done remarkably well. He has never pressed you into a point of discomfort, always knowing where to draw the line. You’ve often wondered if the Aether Core in his eye has anything to do with it— his ability to read and understand your desires, where they begin and end— or if it’s just him, that maddening perfection that allows him to navigate the minefield of your relationship with exceeding tact.
You’ve got a habit of ruminating on this through a self-deprecating lens. Sylus doesn’t seem to mind everything you've been reflecting on, it's all you. Picking holes through the heart of yourself. You are just— bad at being healthy. It’s an uphill struggle. Avoidance has come more easily to you than anything else has, and his presence in your life is a fresh experience. Not such a bad one— merely unfamiliar. He’s long learned to see past your habitual hostility and your iciness, and it is both a horror and a relief to be so well-known.
Back to the present: his fingers drag a pleasant rhythm on the bumps of your spine, the bare skin above the loose line of your tank top warmed by his hand. With anyone else, any other time, you would be drawing back, bristling. Not now, though. Not after he’s been so careful to reach this point with you. You allow him to come and go in the night— he joins you when the darkness bleeds into dawn and sleep begins to tug at his countenance. It is a privilege, he thinks, that you have opened your bed up to him. That you afford him the luxury of vulnerability, your tender-bellied softness exposed only when you lie sleeping, snuggled beneath the quilts and pillows that barricade your prone body like another line of defence. At the beginning of it all, you would never even have turned your back to anyone, let alone him. Now, he gets to stroke over your hair and your back as you rouse— subconsciously, your body no longer categorizes him as a threat, and so you don’t move.
“How long are you going to keep pretending to sleep?” comes his voice, low and rich and amused. You are stomach-down in the bed, clutching a pillow beneath you, head turned to the side. At the sound of his voice, you open one burning eye to glare at him, the solitude of silence shaken off. His smile visibly softens and he makes a soft clicking sound with his tongue, disapproving. “You shouldn’t lie like that, kitten. It strains your neck.”
“Who are you calling kitten,” you grumble, the words dredged down by sleep. His hand on your back turns insistent, sliding to your shoulder to roll you over. You resist, but there’s not much to be done as he persists, turning you over, closer to him. On your back. By automatic impulse alone, you immediately dislike the sensation of having your front exposed, but he’s moving before you can snap about it, covering you with a pillow and then a blanket, restoring the sense of security you cling tightly to.Then he ventures closer under the covers, reaching forth to draw you into his arms, using the crook of your neck as a makeshift headrest, his body replacing the pillow you hide under. This, too, is the result of earning your trust. You still bristle, but it’s just part of your reaction at this point, something you can’t fully shake— he doesn’t grudge you for it, cuddling you closer, cooing. “There, there,” he purrs into your neck, nestling his face against your throat. “I’m just holding you.”
His silvery hair pokes at your nose and your face scrunches up. “It tickles.”
“Mmf.” He doesn’t move, and you feel him smile. You put a hand on his head to press his hair back down, eyes sliding shut.
“You are annoying.”
“Yes…” Sylus’ lashes feather against your cheek as he raises his head slightly to look down at you. “And what else?”
Feeling him move, both your eyes blink open to glare at him. “You are babying me too much.” You are too nice to me, is what you mean to say instead, but the sheer rawness of the thought makes you avoid speaking it to life.
“Maybe,” he says smugly, “but you know I don’t do it because I think you weak.”
“I know,” you say after a moment, self-conscious at how he reads you well, so well that you need not humiliate yourself by overexplaining. He meets you in the middle every time. Perhaps he even does more. “You’re unfair.”
“Ahh…” Sylus croons, exaggeratedly dropping his head back into your neck, “Is that so? Why?”
“You’re making this too easy for me,” you say absently, fingertips against his scalp, massaging like an afterthought. He begins to purr at the feeling of it; catching yourself red-handed, you waver for a moment before soldiering on, finding you quite enjoy the sound.
“Making what easy, kitten?”
“This.” Your neutral statement belies the tone of your voice, that belittling edge aimed inwards. A part of you— a rather unavoidable part at that— tends to slant towards self-flagellation. The thought that something good could come to you is almost a punishable one.
“I wouldn’t say it’s been easy, darling. I think you’ve worked rather hard, and been rather brave.” He kisses the side of your neck a breath after. You have trouble really believing that his loving you is second nature, but when he demonstrates it so casually in the space between words, even your lack of faith falters.
You scoff. “Brave? I wouldn’t say that. Between the two of us, you’ve been so much more patient, understanding—”
“Hmm.” He snuggles closer and you can’t help the affection that blooms rosy in your heart at the action. Like a large feline. “None of my attempts to court you would have progressed anywhere if you hadn’t done your best to open up to me, defying every piece of your past that told you not to. Is that not bravery in its own right?
Wordless, you blink down at him.
“I’m right,” he says lazily, pleasure blooming in the dip of his curved smile, his ruby eyes. “You will agree with me eventually.”
“Eventually…” you mutter halfheartedly, “but don’t you think it’s still unfair?”
Sylus moves suddenly; he sits up, hovering over you. And you blink up at him, the apprehension in your eyes at his position quickly soothed away when he puts both his hands on your face, cradling it in his palms. “You are a stubborn thing,” he tells you fondly, “and I know words mean less to you than actions, but still—”
He leans down, and sighs his next breath out against your lips. And you put one tentative hand on his shoulder, then the other, thinking: Sylus has proven himself enough. There may be a glimmer of hope for you on the horizon yet.
“— Let me be your unfair thing.”
You pull him down to close the final gap. What a wonder it is, to kiss a person not from obligation, but desire.