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Deacon's grinning against his mouth, and Bronze can feel that this kiss is finally coming to an end at that, pulling away as if already anticipating the loss.
Their mouths part, and their noses knock together as they find air, gasping. Bronze hears a delighted little snort from Deacon, and his own eyebrows scrunch up in annoyance.
It felt like Deacon was taunting him half the time. All the time in these books, bantering even more, flustering him with a hand to his waist or an attack of kisses, over and over.
Admittedly, he liked it because that meant Deacon was always laughing whenever they were in storybooks, so much more confident that he could tug his hands in his hair and feel the dips of his face. Silver and Violet exchanged exasperated stares every time before letting them into storybooks without a question—and Chase and Nox never noticed, luckily, busy doing whatever they were always doing (he'd rather not know).
He has Bronze, Bronze has him, Bronze snuggles into his hoodie, Bronze's copper hair brushes against his jaw. Nothing else matters when Deacon can feel these things, can feel electricity shoot down his spine.
"What?" Bronze asks at last. Whenever he hears Deacon laughing, he never stops to ask. Usually that disgusting human daze would overcome him, like he had consumed the strongest of wines that Deacon had given him straight from his mouth, smothering him. Usually, he'd be left drunk to their kisses. Right now though, annoyance and confusion gets the better of him.
Deacon just laughs again, in hiccups. His face is red, freckles dip across his nose, his collarbone, down his chest, probably…and Bronze is staring at him, dumbfounded that that is what he is paying mind to, instead of getting angry at his human for laughing.
His human's chuckling is sure to give him a headache—unrestrained, stupid, so unlike him. "What?" Bronze tries again, impatient. As unrealistic as the idea of him aching was, he feels the dull thud of annoyance knock against his skull.
"Sparkly," Deacon blurts. It makes no sense, because his eyes are the ones sparkling, twinkling gray so alive in a way Bronze wants to burn into his memory. It's devastating, how animated his eyes are right now.
Deacon has to be entertaining himself with the past few weeks of warmth, the idea of it all—whatever this was, whatever they would not label for the world to see, because they did not need to. Bronze brushes a copper curl behind his ear, blinking to the world. He's confused, but he doesn't need confusion to mar Deacon's beauty—it wouldn't succeed in doing so anyway. "You…you get sparkles around you whenever I kiss you. I just noticed it—how didn't I earlier?" He continues, the idiot.
Bronze doesn't know what to say to that—heat rushes to his face, and Deacon laughs even harder. He can't see anything in front of his eyes out of the ordinary, but it seems the freckled boy can. The stickiness spreading across his arms and face is disgusting, making him grateful that this was something he did not have to feel on the daily.
Bronze wouldn't know what to do with himself if this was a regular occurrence, something that Deacon uses to tease him. A part of him has a feeling that Bronze is exposed now though, that this annoying little quirk could happen elsewhere. After all, Deacon…Deacon had no reason to! Bronze has done so much for him—he was the one who put Deacon back together. Sure, Deacon crafted Bronze's self-worth together too in so many ways, but…he couldn't just use it against him! This is embarrassing, this is different.
So of course, Bronze shouldn't be surprised if part of that is Deacon noticing the things Bronze would not even blink at, just to fluster him. After all, it is Bronze who knows how Deacon whispers in his sleep, who knows the freckles that are covered by the nape of his neck, covered by the hair that trails down his head and slow down his back. Everything about Deacon was so careful, so shy, so open, somehow warm all at once. "I don't do silly things like that," Bronze denies.
"Sure..."
"I don't!" Bronze says, face warm.
The old Deacon would not be this confident, falling into banter like this. Of course, there are remnants—he falters now, mouth parting at the lack of words from Bronze, green eyes blinking up at him. "It's true," Deacon insists. "S-see?! You're still doing it again!" He exclaims, snorting. Now that Deacon has noticed the smallest of flaws, he will not let go of it.
Bronze flickers, taking in the freckles across Deacon's nose and face, still inches from him as they part. "What has gotten into you?" He hisses, trying to be annoyed, but something fond slips from his mouth. God, I swore. I swore…swore not to drown.
Bronze pulls him in harshly once more, just to block out every bit of his teasing once more. They fall together, and Bronze does not stop to see if his eyes shut all the way. Deacon makes a noise and breaks away, and Bronze's eyes, green and otherworldly are gone. Bronze pulls him back in, noses bumping, arms around each other.
Deacon gasps and breaks away as if annoyed, and Bronze already feels his face getting hotter by the second, a subject to a famous painting in Deacon's eyes. A grin is the reason that the kiss is always lost to the corners of his mouth.
The human looks like a madman of sorts—the bastard is laughing, and why is he laughing, Bronze wants to cease existence. Bronze hates humans, and right now, even his own. "S-shut up!" His voice falters, and he glares at Deacon, malice failing him. Their eyes are both open at each other now, and Deacon tilts to press a kiss to his cheek, blinking.
"Hm...God, you're…fascinating. I never pay close attention in the real world, y'know, or maybe it's just more noticeable now. It's beautiful."
"This wasn't meant to happen," Bronze starts, weakly, mouth stinging, speech lost in between his teeth and Deacon's retorts.
He hates being fond so openly. Fondness only existed in the mundane things he would watch Deacon do—chores, laughing so much more in a way that needed its own mixtape, the rambling, the mouth that usually kissed him with more seriousness, not whatever this was. He'd gotten too comfortable—both of them had, maybe.
God, but…it was beautiful. All of it. "I'm never letting go of this," Deacon snorts, whacking his arm. "It's gorgeous."
Bronze stares at him for a beat, contemplating whether Terrence and the peanut fluppies and if the rebuilding the human had done for him was worth this level of humiliation. If Deacon was truly telling the truth.
He looks back at Violet around his neck, grasping onto her, mouth opening to utter, home.
Deacon says something that's lost to Bronze, but suddenly he's saying home to Silver too, and he's back in the tower, Bronze staring at him with a death glare even though he's inches shorter once more.
Pretty.