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Castor brushes a stray lock of hair away from Sylvester's face. Gently, gently, always gently. His hands tremble still, even just slightly, and his talons, he knows, are sharp and wicked things. The face is a delicate thing, and Sylvester's is even moreso, dark shadows beneath his eyes from sleepless nights. His brows furrow, and lips tug downwards into a stern line — Sylvester shouldn't be sleepless.
"Castor?" Sylvester just blinks at him, as if this is an ordinary moment, as if Castor's focus doesn't phase him at all. (It likely doesn't, Castor thinks, fleetingly. There are few people whose gaze alone would make Sylvester worry. Castor counts himself lucky to not be one of those few.)
How to put into words the thoughts chasing circles through Castor's head? How to voice the wonder, the care, the worry?
Gently, gently, he presses his palm against Sylvester's cheek. It's cool to the touch — Sylvester has always run cooler than Castor. It's a stark contrast, the blackened skin of Castor's hand, talons sheening slightly green where the light bends, against the pale freckled skin of Sylvester's cheek, the soft white-silver hair and eyelashes. It's gentle, Castor's touch, because Sylvester deserves gentleness more than anything else. (He has given so much for Castor, already. Gentleness — a promise of protection, a promise not to harm — is the least that Castor owes him.)
"Castor?"
"Your eyes." Castor says, face still holding that stern appearane. "They're silver?"
Sylvester blinks, slowly — a slight widening of the eyes. Surprise. "Are they?"
"Mmh." Castor's face smooths out, as he leans forwards — thumb brushing just beneath the eyelashes, just beneath Sylvester's right eye. He's careful not to lean too far or too heavily, for his wings are heavy as is his body, and Sylvester is much slimmer. Even still, he leans closely.
They really are silver, Sylvester's eyes. Not silver like the color, but silver like the silver that Awakeners are born from. Like the silver that the Silver Key is made of, like the silver that Mythag values so highly, like the silver that sits within Castor's chest, that marks him as divine by the Lantern's scriptures. It's mesmerizing, looking at the irises — from afar they look simply gray, even if a pale shade, but up close like this Castor can see every individual shift in color. (Structural iridescence, he had read once, to explain the shifting colors of his and Pollux's feathers, to explain the dancing emerald hues in the feathers and hair, in Castor's hair, even with the pigment long lost to stress and years locked underground. That must be what brings forth those slight — but no less beautiful — shifts in color in Sylvester's irises.)
Sylvester leans into the touch, eyelids falling closed. "Your hands are warm." He murmurs, suddenly soft.
"Are they?"
"Yeah."
It's not a cold afternoon — it's late Spring, almost the edges of Summer — but Castor shifts his weight back just slightly. His free hand rests on Sylvester's shoulder, and (carefully, carefully, gently, gently) he begins pulling Sylvester closer to him. Sylvester must truly be tired, to not react at all — and, soon, Castor has pulled the man into his arms. For a few moments (wonderful, gentle moments) Castor simply stands there. Sylvester, held securely against his chest, wings spread to wrap around the other man as well. The Spring breeze drifts through, carrying the smell and promise of rain, rustling his feathers and hair just as it rustles the leaves of the many trees on Mythag's campus.
"You look like you need rest." Castor says, softly, to Sylvester. "Come lay down with me?"
Sylvester makes a soft, inquisitive noise. Though he runs cool, he's still warm, where he's halfway burrowed into Castor. "Will it be comfy?" He asks, bleary — the lack of sleep has hit, Castor thinks.
"It will be." Castor promises, arms tightening just slightly, pulling Sylvester just slightly closer. "There's still a few hours before nighttime. Pollux will be in his half of the room, but if you don't mind it, you could stay with me?" The words tumble out awkwardly, but Castor presses onwards. (It's easier to ask, when those silver eyes aren't looking at him. When Castor can't get lost, distracted by the pearlescent hues.) "You've been kind enough to allow me in your room, on several nights. I . . . want to repay the favor."
Sylvester pulls away, and Castor lets him (even as a stone sinks into his stomach, even as a small part of himself keens). "Let's go, then." Those eyes smile up at him, Sylvester's cheeks scrunched at the action, too. (It's cute.) "Any excuse to get to sleep more and not do work, right?"
Castor can't help but smile back in return. "Of course." He folds his wings against his back, to their proper place. Sylvester follows him as he walks, step-in-step, through campus towards the Awakener Dorms. For once, Castor feels no anxiety nor apprehension at the thought of Sylvester seeing his and Pollux's shared room — only cautious hope, that resting beside Castor (alike to the many times Castor had rested beside Sylvester, in Sylvester's room) may allow Sylvester the sleep that he is so clearly missing.
It's not that Castor's room is messy, of course. He and Pollux both go to great pains to ensure their room stays neat, organized, and free of debris or clutter. They struggle with having things, he and his brother, but they are slowly accumulating items to make the room feel lived-in. The majority being bedding — soft blankets and pillows, cushions left unclaimed and other such things. There are the bookshelves with their valued tomes set upon the shelves, an eclectic collection of other things equally distributed along both halves of the room — Pollux's carefully-copied notes in neat penmanship, Castor's elegant-yet-hastily written notes and questions in his own journals. The ever-growing collection of inks, and a few favored pens. The incense left in the corner, for daily prayer, and the small strip of gauzy purple fabric that was to be the only thing of the Church either would allow in their room.
Castor would be surprised if Sylvester noticed much of this, however — what with how quickly Sylvester heads toward Castor's bed. (It's easy to tell that it's Castor's bed, on account of the feathers, scattered and woven into the nest of blankets that Castor had turned his bedding into.)
"I'm sorry," Castor starts, hit with realization as Sylvester leans down to remove his shoes, and then cape. "I don't have any spare nightclothes."
"It's alright." Sylvester smiles, removing his vest, but leaving the undershirt and pants. "I can just sleep in my dayclothes."
"You're sure?" Castor's hands find his writs, talons running through and tugging at the long feathers growing there. "I — I could lend you one of my spare robes, if you'd prefer . . .?" (It'd be too big on Sylvester, they both know.) "I don't want you to be uncomfortable.
Sylvester laughs, and shakes his head. "No, no, it's alright. I just want to sleep now, if that's okay."
"Of course." Castor carefully watches for a few moments, as Sylvester eases himself into the blankets, burrowing down into them, until he's sure that Sylvester is comfortable. He sheds the outer layers of his robes quickly, leaving just the thinner inner robe, and carefully settles down onto the bed himself. Then, beneath the blankets — laying on his stomach, tugging at blankets until they cover him well enough.
Sylvester laughs again, and Castor turns to look at him, blinking — frozen, then, as those silver eyes gaze into his own emerald, mirth dancing within them. Sylvester says nothing, but shuffles until he's pressed against Castor on the bed, blankets pulled over them both — a hand gently tugging at Castor's wing until it's draped over Sylvester, and the blankets pulled over the wing and person both.
A hand runs through black feathers, and Castor's eyes fall closed. A soft trill escapes his throat, and Sylvester hums softly. (Some song, that Castor can't name, but knows dearly all the same.) "Your feathers are soft." He murmurs, tucking his face against Castor's neck. "Goodnight."
Castor doesn't have a name for the fondness welling within his chest, but he'll treasure it regardless. Sylvester is asleep, already, but even still, he smooths down Sylvester's hair again. Sighing softly, and with a smile upon his lips, he presses a soft kiss against Sylvester's forehead. "Goodnight, Sylvester."
Sleep finds him quickly, after that. Castor welcomes it. (In his dreams croons a flute, low and gentle, and in his dreams those silver eyes watch him so very reverently. The memory is gone upon waking, but while he dreams — while he dreams, Castor is made divine by adoration. While he dreams, the silver tone of Sylvester's voice draws him tight like a bowstring, melts him like candlewax, and Castor is suffused into that gentle silver.)