Work Text:
“What did it look like?”
The bristled tip of a brush stops mid-stroke, the hand holding it freezing as the curious lilt comes from your gentle voice. It's not the first time you've watched him paint; not the first time you've asked questions or told stories that really only served to fill in the silence.
“What did what look like?” Rafayel asks, despite knowing exactly what you were asking.
“Lemuria.”
His eyes glaze over with a far-away look that you don't see very often. Before you can take it back, the corners of Rafayel’s lips quirk up, smirking as he goes back to painting. For a moment, you don't know if he'd answer your question—not that he was obligated to, of course—but he does, eventually, his eyes still firmly on his canvas.
“You see it all the time.”
“I do?”
“My paintings. Most of them are of home.”
You give a thoughtful hum, leaning your body to brush your shoulders against one another, your own canvas right beside his.
Truth be told, you haven't really been painting for the last ten or so minutes, too busy gazing at his face, so calm and focused, so different from how he usually acts; and his long, pretty fingers, ones that knew exactly how to touch and take you apart and build you back up, holding his paintbrush with precision. He always denies being precise with his work, claiming he's more about passion rather than skill, but you’d argue it's both.
You feel as though you should be more embarrassed about how schmoopy you were being. Of course, you're much too smitten to care.
“But your paintings look more like they're … the vibe of Lemuria. Y’know, inspiration. Not like… exact copies of places there.”
“Are you saying I'm not skilled enough to paint my own home?”
“What—no, I never said that!”
Rafayel laughs, and you wonder when you'll be able to listen to it without your heart feeling like it was growing two times larger.
“You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” he says through a grin, which grows wider as he watches the bright red of your cheeks spread throughout your entire face. His grin could rival that of the Cheshire Cat’s.
He barks out an infuriating(ly handsome) laugh as you shove him with your shoulders, making him burst into a fit of giggles.
“Hmm, what is it, cutie? Curious about me?”
“Ugh, nevermind, go back to painting.”
“Don't be mean! I thought you wanted to learn something new!”
“I’m betting that all I'm gonna learn is that you were just as much of a brat as you are now.”
“Rude.”
You roll your eyes. You'd think after enough time his teasing would stop affecting you so much, but alas. For the first time in minutes, you go back to painting, your cheeks still warm. Before you can fall deeper into that sweet headspace you usually fall into while creating art, he finally speaks up again.
“No, you're right. I don't have photographic memory, obviously I won't be able to paint it without a reference.” His voice is softer than usual, which makes for lovely background noise. You can understand why it isn't a bother when you watch and talk to him while he paints. In fact, he seems to enjoy it. “In any case, it doesn't really matter to me. I don't want to paint an exact replica anyways. It's all about the feeling.”
He doesn't say anything else for a while after, but instead of filling the silence, you wait for him to continue. “I used to hide around the museums so nobody would catch me trying to sneak a peek at the pieces. It didn't even really matter, I'm sure they would’ve been happy to let me admire a few pieces for free. I was a kid, after all.”
Something about the tone of his voice makes your chest feel full. You don't always get to hear him like this: wistful, longing. It makes you want to kiss him. But the desire to listen to him overpowers the desire to feel those supple lips on yours.
“Not to boast, but our architecture was way prettier,” he turns to the side where morning rays shine from the tall windows, then he looks up at his high ceiling, “so many corals and seashells. It's all brick and clay with you people - and I get it, we all use easy-to-find material - but yours are painfully aesthetically unpleasing.”
You tilt your head and shrug, a gesture to show that you're listening, even as you move on with the next part of your painting. “Did it look like anything up here?” You ask, just to keep him talking.
“Yeah, I've seen a whole bunch of old buildings that, at first glance, look similar to ours. But it doesn't take very long for me to pick out the differences. The buildings up here are beautiful in their own right, but the colours… I wish you could have seen it for yourself.”
“The corals were all kinds of shades of reds and yellows and purples, shades and colours you wouldn't even be able to see. But you'd be able to feel it. Not the colours, you can't feel colours, obviously, but the life. It was pulsing with life down there, and now it's…”
You watch as the child-like grin Rafayel had throughout his rambling drops ever so slightly, replaced by a tiny forced smile. He never finishes his sentence and you never push. He wouldn’t talk about it anyways. It must hurt, you think, to be so far from home; from your people. There are so many things you feel you're missing, ones you aren't sure Rafayel could explain, but whether he could or couldn't doesn't matter when he refuses to tell you anything directly.
You wonder if it's a constant pain, a cut that bleeds and bleeds and won't stop bleeding; or if it's a scar that leaves him with a dull ache in his chest whenever his eyes pass by it. A permanent reminder of a loss he does not have the power to change.
You feel a bit sorry for having brought his mood down, even if by accident, and now you really do want to kiss him, if only to be selfish, to remind him he's yours.
You let your eyes wander to the side. You watch as he stares at his canvas, no longer painting. It's difficult to read his expression - it doesn't look particularly sad, more pensive. It doesn't surprise you, it's a face you've seen on him before.
Slowly, you set your brush down on the easel tray, right beside your palette, and you lean even closer to him. Your shoulders are pressed together now, no more room left for light touches or skin brushing on skin. Before you know it, larger palms are on your cheek, turning your head to look him in the eye. You expect him to kiss you then, for him to take your lips, to take your breath away. But he doesn't.
Rafayel stares at you with such an intense longing. Your face grows warm and you feel your guts twist around into knots at his gaze. You don't know why he's looking at you like that, like he’s going to lose you, even though you're right here, and you have him just as he has you. You only know that you crave more of it.
Those irises, blue and red contrasting one another like blood spilling on the ocean under sunlight. You know how dangerous he has the capacity to be, how powerful of a creature he is, and how different of a world he was born and raised in. But you're not scared. Even when his eyes go half-lidded in pleasure and all you can see is the pinkish red of those eyes, you're never scared - not of him.
Want, or maybe need, surges through your entire body and you give in, bringing your hands up to his cheeks to pull him into a searing kiss. He immediately reciprocates. The hand he had on your cheek now rests on your sternum, his remaining hand flying towards your waist to pull you in closer. You rub your thumb on his cheek, as if to soothe. His skin is soft under your fingers, and God, does it make your heart race.
You remember his scales, how beautifully they shimmered under the moonlight, such a soft shade of blue peppered across his porcelain cheeks and sturdy ivory neck. How could something so gorgeous possibly deserve to have watched his home fall, how could you ever hope to understand the loss he's experienced. But there's nothing you can do to change it. There's nothing he can do to change it.
What you can do is drag your hands down his neck, allow him to nibble at your lower lip and part your lips just enough to let his velvety tongue slip into your mouth. You can hear yourself moaning, the taste of him making you feel a greed like no other. His hands keep a firm grip on your waist as you let your hands roam down his neck to his chest. You have him now, you have him and you refuse to let him go.
Unfortunately, you are also very human and do need to breathe, so you pull away panting into his mouth. Still, your hands are on him and you don't plan on taking them away anytime soon. Rafayel’s eyes are hooded, his cheeks flushed and his lips shiny with saliva. He looks as wrecked as you feel, fanning the flame of desire in your stomach. The both of you allow each other a moment of rest, Rafayel pressing his forehead on yours during your little reprieve.
“Rafayel…”
“No - just… let me have you.”
“You do, you always do.”
You lean in to kiss him again and a tiny whine slips from his lips as you do. You keep it short and chaste, making no effort to deepen it until the both of you are ready again, as if to remind him there's no need to rush. You want to experience everything with him, not just within the realm of intimacy, but in life in general. You have so much time and you intend to spend as much of it with him as possible; beside him, on him, over him or under, in every possible way there is.
“I love you, Rafayel.”
When his lips curl into a smile and he snorts childishly, your heart melts like a love-sick idiot. You want to hear him laugh, you always do. It’s certainly much better than his petulant whinging. But even that, you love. You love how he wears his heart on his sleeve, you love that he's dramatic and spoiled and so very vulnerable when he's around you. You love him.
“Miss Bodyguard,” he says, putting on a scandalised voice as if just a minute ago he wasn't sucking and moaning around your tongue, “how unprofessional of you.”
“Shut up,” you breathe out, “and take me.”
He surges up to take your lips once again and you let him. You own each other, always, until your dying days and the next life over. Forever.