cats love water

The door bangs itself open as Alaric's body pushes out of the supply closet, and Lino's thoughts all halt with the graciousness of a freight train.

He has a finger hooked on the belt loops of a man that trecks two steps behind him; Kai, his mind supplies, his messy red hair being unmistakable even to Lino's short stay aboard the White Lotus, no matter the low light of the lower deck. He has natural all-black eyes, but the cat beastman can see just how blown out they are, both just a fraction past the usual rim as they stay locked onto the back of Alaric's head. There is something dark in them that reflects in the rounded pupils of Alaric as he stares straight ahead, somewhat glazed and unseeing, two bottomless pits of something Lino can't (won't) quite place or else he feels he'd be pulled under.

(He can't swim. He hates water. This is an all too dangerous game for him to play, and so he refuses to acknowledge it even once.)

The surgeon's lazy smile stretches slowly, recognition filling his expression in lazy honeyed drips. 

"Oh. Hey there," Alaric says through flushed cheeks and clammy skin as he combs a hand through his hair, seemingly conscious of its ruffled state but not really trying to dissuade the mess. Yellow eyes scan the beastman from head to toes before he says, "Lino," and the breathy sigh that unsticks itself from Alaric's throat as he does is so sickly sweet it rearranges Lino's organs and he lets it, suddenly feeling a tad too drunk and irresponsible.

Kai looks at him with much the same brand of curiosity in his, albeit there is a missing spark in them that twists Lino's guts in too many different ways. He is not unkind or undesirable, not in the least, but ever so often his eyes flit closed then open again in blinks that resemble the flutter of a hummingbird's wings; the jut of his hips, gravitating around the pull of Alaric's orbit, is sharp and quick like all of his limbs; the round of his face and wild of his hair mesh together perfectly and it's hard to think the man has not been molded by some historical God's hands. Not from some sort of desirable perfection, but simply because it's hard to imagine him ever being different to what he is, now, like something as harsh and demanding as puberty could never really hit him and he has just existed and grown as is. It's all pretty and it's half strange, much like the crew as a whole shows itself to be.

And yet. Despite the similarities, despite how they're both all pretty and half strange, there has been this tinge to Alaric's presence since the first time he met him. This thing, just underneath the surface of his skin, that hid in the molten core of his gravitational pull and that made Lino want to claw and tear at his superior to find it, study it, understand it; because understanding it would surely be understanding himself, too, when it seemed to hold so much power over him. It's an all vicious emotion and it's half a herald of his own death, but yet still it's all pretty.

Lino says nothing. His mind is flooded with vague recollections of ancient imagery of religious nature, portraying debauchery in so many copious mediums of art it seemed holy, and it's all he can do to say none of what he thinks. None of the scattered half dozen connections and anecdotes he can paint of a surgeon's play on life being all too close to the divine. None of it would even be welcome in a cynic's mouth to begin with, he reckons, and he too has a pride he wishes to maintain over any feeble desire to wax poetics on how enticing the feverish look on Alaric is.

So, he says nothing, in lieu of contradicting the foundations of his very being for a half strange and all pretty face.

Instead, one of his bushy brows rises slow like a drunken caterpillar. Lino weighs a heavy bet and a deep hum rumbles through his chest, one pitch too deep and entrancing to be entirely separate to a purr but voiced just enough not to be questioned, and the beastman takes his win where he can. It's taken and understood, as it is, with a grating smile and a full-body laugh.

"Oh, c'mon, mon chéri," Alaric's voice is honey-sweet and warm-scented. It rings in his brain like church bells, sizzling his entire nervous system, and echoes in the throes of what remains like the warning call of the end of times. "No need to be sour. You can join us next time."

Us. Lino laughs, quick and deep.

"Of course," he says, glad the sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice can cover what is truly stopping him from ever entertaining the thought.

Alaric's good natured chuckle follows the thin veil of his tone, but Kai has the slitted eyes of a viper and Lino can't for the life of him read what they reflect of him. He has the distinct impression, however, that he's heard it in his voice and now knows the one thing Lino himself doesn't yet; beyond false remarks and lingering stares and the discomfort in his skin since he first saw them.

(Kai, he corrects himself, is all pretty and all strange. He is not, in any of his many facets, a man to do things by half, Lino guesses. 

There's respect to be had there, and so he doesn't nudge.)

"I'll be looking forward to it, then," Alaric sing-songs, one note too chirper to taste even close to truth on his lips. 

Lino is the one to have started this idyllic play of sarcasm and white lies, yet it rips at some part of him to see the ease with which it is brushed off. Then, the surgeon is joining one other finger to Kai's belt loop and pulling him along as he sidesteps the door and Lino. 

He only watches as they go, disappearing in the shadows of the poorly lit corridor.

There's a faint mix of sweat and honey lingering in the air wherever Alaric steps, and it's nothing but a light trace and ghost of the pirate's body but Lino knows it will follow him as far as his bed some odd hours past evening, tonight, and stick to the back of his eyelids as dreams weight them closed.

His body feels heavy and older than all its summers as he closes the door to the supplies closet.

.

.

.

There he is, Lino can't help but think, good ol' Alaric.

He has pride splattered on his face like guerrilla war paint and dirt and blood staining his clothes that he carries like medals. It's an outright mess – he's an outright mess, – for sure, but he can't find it in his chest, beneath his ribs, enclosed by his lungs and squeezed against his sternum, to care. Lino no longer has any of his usual complacent and easy going expressions and gestures and even his manner of speech has become crude underneath his tongue – though this, still, he refuses to give unprompted, reigning in the quick sharpness of it and his teeth.

Alaric, on the other hand, wears his fatigue like golden ornaments draped on the shoulders of a king. His chest heaves in and out like high tide waves, sinuous muscle straining behind clothes and glistening in bleeding sweat. His face is a mirror of the expression painted in Lino's own, with a gleaming mix of crude relief that looks positively beautiful on him. It's heady to have those yellow pools of draconic lineage locked onto him; Lino can never stop this one, fluid mold of thought. How yellow became his new favorite color, how it calms him now, how it's standing beside stark white as the color of home.

There he is, and there is Lino, right beside him. As he should. As is his place. He could sway on his feet from it all – it's a really, really close thing – but then again, Alaric looks at him with yellow pupils and dark slit eyes from down on the ground where he has remained since the first break of tension, and, well. The least Lino could do now is this: he steadies his knees and reaches out, palm splayed and claws still heavy sharp on his fingers as the surgeon connects their hands and rises quick. 

There have been full seasons already from when he first joined; he will see his second summer end in a few weeks, still only his eighteenth over-all, and yet the rabid smile that curves Alaric's lips in this moment, in this fugue ambiance– it's the closest he's ever been to the sun and it melts his insides like heavy wax. He's been nearing and dearing with Alaric in this dance of sorts since his first steps aboard, but this somehow feels different.

In the wildness in his eyes, in the sharpness of his teeth and in the capsized backdrop around his frame.

"Well then," Alaric starts rather intelligently, grasp still firm on Lino and sounding absolutely breathless. The beastman is not, however, about to comment on his superior's eloquent drag into silence. Not at all. Not ever, when it keeps him here and warm and steady; the rush of adrenaline shakes his body, yes, but everything about the man has never felt so crystal clear and sure. "That's one less problem for us on my account, I imagine."

Lino grips the hand in his harder and squares his jaw, fighting all the words. I'm proud of you. That was beautiful. You deserved a conclusion. 

He settles, instead, for something just as true.

"Not a problem to us," Lino grumbles, feeling somehow like he should add a 'sir' at the end of the phrase, as he'd do in his first seasons beside the man. It's like his whole body is intimately aware of the lack of respect Alaric had endured in the past few weeks and wanted to be here and provide for that in abundance. 

It's all worth it for the way Alaric's features soften, in the end, and Lino finds himself soothingly tracing his thumb on the back of the surgeon’s hand.

“Right,” Alaric mumbles under his breath, then, exhaling hard and lifting his head, more firmly: “Right.”

Lino watches as some sort of amazement or glee pulls at the other’s face, higher and higher until there’s laughter bubbling from his chest and a pure wondrous look on his face. There’s not a speck of fatigue on his whole posture anymore, his hand is gripping harder, he is shining like the fucking sun and fuck. It’s like the entirety of the past weeks has all bled away from him, forgotten as it scurried down the drain along with all the dirt and muck that had been staining him down to his very soul. His past is never going to disappear, not really, no matter how many of these ties he cuts down and how many of these bodies drop like they did today; yet, still, he’ll carry on. Maybe, even, it’s a lighter burden to carry. Maybe he no longer feels like he has to carry it by himself and maybe, just maybe, Lino gets to feel like he is the one to have changed something. That he matters, in this moment, as something much more than an apprentice or a crewmate or a simple friend. That this – today – has changed something for them.

And it’s with that heavy, heady thing weighing his mind and his heart that he leaves behind the now bereft ship. With Alaric pulling him by his hand some odd steps ahead of him and the sound of his laughter still echoing between the two of them, he can’t help but feel it to be justified.

.

.

.

Lino sits, all gangly limbs and frozen muscles, trying as best as he can to keep the blanket firm around his shoulders as he shuffles about to make himself comfortable. Alaric, by his side, only stares with mirthful eyes up from his cozy perch. Once the beast man has reached the crowsnest floorboards, however, the older man wiggles his way close. It’s not the most undignified Lino has seen him, really, and with the fluff surrounding him all it does is make him look like a very-inoffensive-and-almost-cute rotund mass.

Nonetheless, it all feels a little bit mad. Two pirates, highly renowned both of their own accord and from the baggage carried by their crew's name, huddling together for warmth in the middle of winter and looking cute as they do it. 

.

.

.

Winter, as harsh and demanding it can be, does not last forever, and spring always comes bearing its fruit. 

.

.

.

The first time they kiss, it goes a bit like whetstones and knives. It's sharp edges turning sharper and he feels the both of them molding, together, as they work in tandem.

The first time they kiss, it goes a bit like this:

Alaric, for all the time he has spent glued to Lino's side these last four-to-five summers, has not become any easier to read. So, when he had spent the last two hours of work in complete silence, seemingly contemplating something that deserved extremely careful consideration, Lino had done his best not to ponder too much on what might've been happening behind his eyes; as is customary. The man is usually cheerful, of course, and often more inclined to say too much rather than too little– but there are four-to-five summers between them, and Lino has grown used to sudden bouts of seemingly "odd" behavior. 

He has not grown used enough, however, to stifle the choke that tears itself from his throat in a lightning-quick response.

"How much cat are you?" Alaric says, face too straight and tone too flat for it to be considered a joke. Lino is sputtering indelicately but he can't for the sake of his own ma' and pa' find it in himself to care. The surgeon seemed to have that effect on him, curiously enough. 

"Uh…," Lino starts, only in lieu of letting his mouth hang open. "What?"

"Like," Alaric asks, then, as if it helps: "What percentage?

Lino feels like he is losing his mind.

"Percentage–“ Lino huffs, a bewildered smile creeping up the corners of his mouth. “What kind of question is that?"

Alaric, to his credit or, at least, to the credit of how serious he was about this – which really wasn’t saying much – merely hums, drumming his right hand’s fingers on the small windowsill he was perched beside.

"Y'know,” He starts, free hand motioning haphazardly “How different beastmen have different traits. Some are more fluffy, some are less, some have some instincts, some don't…” Alaric trails off with his eyes looked onto the empty space, and for one pregnant second, Lino can feel them glaze over with something he can’t quite recognize. But then, the moment is over, and the dragon snaps his head over to look straight into the beastman as he mutters, “Some have some extra parts that others don't."

Lino, as he blinks rapidly, has a distant feeling he has missed something.

"Well, I…” The cat beastman starts in a grumble, slightly miffed that he can see some sense into the questioning but still not completely sold on it. “I guess that's a valid question, then, but to ask it so suddenly…” Lino trails off, compartmentalizing quietly as he went over his own basic anatomy in a slightly uncomfortable checklist, crossing over with what he knew should be on a normal human.  “I guess I'd say I'm pretty average, so, uh, average percentage?"

"That's not true,” Alaric chuckles, eyes squinting at the corners in a way that made them twinkle just so, and made Lino’s heart skip more beats than he’d like to admit.  “Just look at your eyes! They're the most cat-esque I've seen on a beastman!"

The cat beastman blinks hard. The comment sound strangely sweet coming from Alaric’s lips, like a compliment, and there’s only so much Lino can do to not let himself get lost in that tone. There’s heat pooling in the very pit of his stomach and spreading through his cheeks and there is a very tense moment in which all he can focus on is not squirming, because damn him and all this fucking pride he needs to mantain. 

"Well, I guess that's true,” He grumbles, like a wheeze getting squeezed out of his chest. “But still…"

(It's not a day Lino had reckoned would turn out very memorable. The heat was cramping his muscles, making everything slick with sweat and every room hard to stand in. The pure smell of it all was the only thing that had made him accept Alaric's proposition of staying inside for today; the scent of cleanliness and faint trace of oxygenated water were a blessed rest for his nose, and the icy tile floor and windows made for a decently cool room. The medic bay was, admittedly, one of the best choices for a day such as this.

So it was only logical to think this would be a normal sweltering day of reading over twice the same passage on books about medicinal herbs and rearranging supplies, time spent simply lying around and pretending to be productive. As it ought to be.

Still, the first time they kiss, it goes a bit like this.)

"Then, your tongue. Is it rough like a cat's?"

There's a distinct heat creeping up in the base of his neck, and Lino's only half attentive mind is pulled to a full stop at this. He wants, wants so goddamned badly, that this might just be some kind of manifestation of his desires. Maybe he has a heat stroke, and this is it, the one mirage to bring him down bodily. Because he will be damned to hell and back before ever trying to dip his toes into the ocean, and this feels much like the same. Like one step in less-than-stable ground is all it would take for him to be dragged down, down, down into those yellow eyes and dilated pupils.

Still. Still, this is Alaric, looking at him with those clear eyes and that one questioning look that would have Lino spilling his guts and laying his heart on a silver platter if only he'd be asked to– and so, there's no other way this could go.

"Yeah," Lino hums, and is immediately sticking out his tongue to prove a point; he would give this one gift horse to Alaric and hope, with all the strength left in him, that he wouldn't look it in the mouth.

He doesn't do that, per se, but then he's doing something so, so much worse, Lino wished he did; it's curiosity being peaked on both sides, he acknowledges, but then again figures his innocent questioning could be kept at that. Innocent. Ignorant. Alaric had no business indulging him. Had no business repeating that faint whisper dancing along his breath.

“It’d probably hurt, right?”

"What'd hurt?"

Had no business answering Lino once he asked.

No business lifting from his perch beside the window. No business sauntering up to him in that distinct sway of hips and with that preen in his figure. No business sticking his hand in this matter and being so bubbly red and warm on his cheeks once Lino confirmed that, yes, yes, he had never kissed anyone. Not properly, not really, and most definitely not as intimately as was required for this particular line of pondering. There was, truly, no business for either of them here. Lino could not have cared less to indulge on something so fickle as whether or not kissing was a problem for beast men like himself; and the surgeon in front of him, supposedly a man of academics, should surely have concerns other than the anatomy of one three-inches-shorter junior.

It's the least relevant of thoughts to go after, right now– in fact, it's not relevant at all, it's utterly unimportant, and Lino has half a mind that he's stating this fact out loud because, then, just as quickly as he'd thought and said it, the entire world tips right side over and everything stops. His thoughts spill and mix by his feet, capsized with the tremors of his frail world and freezing over despite the heat. He's not sure of anything anymore. He can't think, no matter how much he tries. 

There's one more inch of space being eaten away by Alaric's rapid approach and it's all it takes for Lino's brain to give up on trying to make any coherent thought. Possibly ever again.

"This seems relevant. Very, very relevant."

Alaric's voice alone is enough to melt his brain but his words, the innuendo. They enter his ears and latch themselves straight onto his heart. Every single corner of him is turning mushy and weak and what, what, what? There's no longer anything behind Lino's eyes that's capable of processing this information and it's getting hard to breathe. 

"No," His head is shaking and before he knows it he's at it again, babbling, brain-to-mouth filter gone, and stressing that no, no, no fucking way, "It isn't."

"Oh, to me, it is."

Something touches his chin and his world spins harder. Gone are the white tiles and the dark brown and black of their shoes– he's forced to look up where he knows he can't right now, where he knows he'll drown in if he's given any one other ounce of this playful affection. Where he'll be buried, too, if this is given with the same ease it's given to others. Yellow irises, off-white hair that looks beige-orange, red spotted skin and the most kissable shade of lips he's ever seen stare back and he's so fucking close to begging. 

But Lino can't ask, because he can't be the one to try this of all things. To try to keep the sun in his pocket and steal the day from every other living thing thriving on the surface of Gilhia. To say damn this planet, because he doesn't need it; he needs this, only this, only ever this.

"Why would it be?" He's choking on it all already and yet his lips are still unobstructed. Fucking dammit. He feels so pitiful. Asking, pleading, begging. He could give in to the weakness in his knees, scrape them on the floor and continue this conversation there, by Alaric's feet, and it'd be no less humiliating than this already is.

But then there's the calloused pad of a thumb stroking his lower lip and it's like he's being remade then and there. This, right here, as he snaps his eyes open and locks them onto dark swiveling pupils then red bitten lips, is the closest he’ll ever come to praying. The closest he’ll ever be to adoration is here, in the waver of a ship, between a wooden table digging into his back and the solid mass of Alaric’s body. Between him, their shared breaths, and the honey-sweet words whispered into his space; 

“Such a pretty face, on such a pretty person… ”

Lino’s heart thrashes in his chest in a rhythm that escalates at the same pace Alaric's finger skids more and more in his lip. Like testing the temperature of the water before a bath; where the only conceivable ending has them both dragged bodily into water.

"Isn't it a waste? For no one to have kissed you yet."

Then, he's smiling– he's throwing all pretense out the window, and he's smiling, soft and full and a secret little thing for Lino only to see.

"It's alright, darling." Alaric whispers into his lips, into his mouth, into his soul. It's a reassurance and a promise all in one, rolled into the cooing tone of his voice and filling his ears and heart. Every nook and cranny of the beastman's heat addled body is being filled with this, the honey-sweet and the warm-scented and the everything in Alaric's existence that pulls him like the moon controlling the tide, and it's all just on the verge of tipping him over into madness.

Then,

"Allow me to fix that?"

Lino stares, valiantly and with a self control he didn’t know he still had in him– but only for long enough so that he can think fuck it, then, positively losing any of his atheist restraints, God fucking dammit.

He pulls Alaric by the lapels of his vest and kisses him hard. 

(All wind is knocked out of his chest in the motion, and vaguely, he thinks he can hear the whisper of ‘amen’ in the breath that leaves him.)

Everything is hazy-warm, spinning endlessly, and so Lino doesn't blame himself that it's more of a crash of his mouth on Alaric's than anything else. It feels fitting, for him, in a sense; how he's spent so long chasing after celestial bodies, dragged on by the moon and the sun's orbits like tides and planets and now he's hitting both, a meteor shower in the great dark expanse painting everything in white-hot streaks of fire, destroying himself in the process with how much he's giving but he can't stop. Doesn't know how to, can't think about there ever being an after, of ever leaving now, of ever deciding to part. His brain is being rewired, right here and now, as their lips touch, and when Alaric starts moving them he thinks he's being taught how to breathe again. That this, as they both tilt their heads just so and move and bite and nip, sharp and blunt teeth mixing, is the one integral part to his being– the one thing that pulls life into his lungs and into his soul.

When there's a shy splay of tongue– and shy only for its amount, since its insistence had no reservations– lapping forcefully at his lower lip, his mouth opens without a single thought. It's like a shock running through his body, spasming his muscles and making his reflex reaction of accepting whatever was given to him push through. His head is so fully stuffed with cotton he can't do anything but obey, follow his instincts as they tell him to be good and chase after the wet trail of warmth before it could leave him.

Lino's tongue scrapes at his own lips as they singe forward to seek the taste of Alaric on him and everything stops with much the same grace of a spooked cat flying two feet up into the air. He's halting and pulling away, suddenly, as minutes-old musings screech into the front of his mind, because– because what if it hurts? What if Alaric was right to muse this should be a delicate matter? Lino scratches and prickles even himself most times his pride allows for proper grooming, but his skin is tough and born to deal with such scrapes; Alaric’s tongue was soft, human even with his dragon blood, and Lino should feel like sandpaper in comparison.

He gulps around a dry throat. There are arms circling his waist and he can't leave. Doesn't want to, not really, but it makes it harder to think correctly and make the decision and this feels so, so important, he wants to make the right one. Alaric’s face is closing in, slowly, and Lino is sure he is babbling again about how it’ll hurt, stop, don’t. 

A sweet cant of lips press to his cheek in a kiss so soft it's a miracle it shakes Lino just so; it stops his downward spiral, brings him back to the surface and holds him comfortably afloat. Alaric hums as he caresses the beatman's chin in lovingly soothing circles and it's making him high off the warmth that spreads in his chest. The love. The need. The hope. 

"I'm willing to take the risk," Alaric says, and from their proximity, Lino feels it rumble in his chest. It feels nothing like the purr in the throat of those he loved, so, so long ago; they were strong, tremors wrecking down his entire body, and had a drawl to them where Alaric only had a hum.

Yet, still, this feels like enough. Feels right in all its different facets. Feels lovable and feels like something Lino could get used to, maybe.

"Well, I'm not," he counters, no fire in his words or demeanor. It's more out of a need, a lightning-quick reflex to keep being difficult rather than anything else.

Even then, just as quick, there's assurance flowing out steadily from Alaric's lips. They're so close to Lino's that the beastman thinks that, if he wet them, even just a shy splatter of tongue and nothing else, he'd be able to taste the honey that sweetened every word.

"I'm pretty sure it's not gonna be any risk at all, really…" Alaric whispers, in a scratchy low baritone and with warm breath. It sounds like desire clogs his throat and bakes his tongue."I feel like I'm gonna enjoy this."

They kiss, deep, for the first time, and it goes a bit like this.

(The soft of Alaric's tongue scrapes and prickles itself on Lino's every time they meet, just as he'd guessed, but the dragon-born keeps diving in for more. Time after time, like a man starving, even if he is the one being eaten, Alaric lunges. Like he's not at all bothered to be mangled here and now just as Lino’s hunger feels greater and greater by the second and, in that moment, it’s the most destructive combination possible. Lino feels himself almost vibrating out of his own skin, torn between reaching for more and trying to control the flames of desire licking up towards his maw. 

There are firm teeth with a hint of sharp, then, pulling slightly on his bottom lip, and something inside Lino breaks free. It’s an intoxicating mix of having his self-control lost, tossed carelessly to the wind, and of the click of realization that his jaw has been feeling locked up and contained for far too long. Drunk on the buzzing underneath his skin and the faint sting on his lips, his desire reigns him by the scruff of his neck until Lino is opening his mouth and lunging forward. It’s by all means messy – more bite than kiss – and as he rakes his teeth across thin, spit-honeyed lips, Lino’s frazzled mind slowly grounds itself in the physical infliction and warm breath fanning his face.

He pulls back, holding in and restraining himself with a herculean might, and blinks his eyes open. Lino has static and cotton filling his head as he looks onto red-bitten lips and trails of prickled blood. Alaric’s eyes are blown out impossibly, only golden rings around pools of ocean-deep black, and his cheeks are flushed hot and as crimson as his mouth. He looks positively delicious, deliriously so, and Lino keens high and strained. His entire body is throbbing with a need that feels impossible to quench, and forgotten is the notion to hold back and avoid hurting Alaric – the man looks good in hurt, in nips and bites and blood, and wears it all so comfortably that the beast man can’t deceive himself anymore that this might not be welcome. Still, Lino’s muscles are locked in place from the excess stress they endure, because he just doesn’t know what to do. He wants this, wants everything that involves Alaric because he wants him, but this is still new and there’s fuck all he can actually do when he doesn’t know what comes next.

"Relax, pretty thing," Alaric mumbles, noticing the quickening breaths from the man in front of him. There’s a snicker in his voice, then, and his smile is stretching wide and locking up in all places Lino knows must sting. His eyes crinkle and shine with mirth as he says, “Told ya’ it’d be good, hmm?”

Lino’s breath catches in his chest for the fraction of a second and then he’s wheezing, too happy and content to be here in this man’s arms to pretend not to love every witty remark he knows is stashed in Alaric’s brain. All the fight in his body begins to drain, lost in the air around them, and Lino thinks he could fall in love all over again with this alone. The surgeon is pleased, too, in having such a response, if the hum in his chest is anything to go by.

“It's gonna be fine, yeah?” He says, body wriggling closer to Lino’s and voice grazing low. Their hearts explode against each other where their chests meet and there’s heat everywhere else they touch, but the beast man has never felt surer and calmer than he feels now; like everything fits, with them squeezed together like this, and there’s no more missing pieces in their puzzles. Nothing feels too out of reach and no star scorches as it burns.

Yeah, Lino finds his hazy mind agreeing, it’s gonna be fine.)

When later that night Alaric whispers sweet nothings into his ears and says, with a broken baritone, that he's been ruined for anyone else, that Lino had ruined him for anyone else– then, well. He supposes that had to be enough. He'd leave the sun where it hung on the sky, and take this, instead. 

This way, other hot summer days would be waiting for them, together.