Sandman

It’s fucking criminal the way Blue has Mattias wrapped around his finger. A few flyers left lying around their begrudgingly shared apartment — Blue is a subletter who just happens not to pay rent, Mattias’ thoughts clamour to clarify — and the holoscreen conveniently set to news channels covering the appearance of the lake outside of Sor Solir at all hours of the day.

Lake is perhaps the wrong word for it. It’s more of a pit or a trench, stretching across wide planes of what were previously sandy dunes and plunging off into deep, deep darkness. Blue keeps trying to call it the Hole, which is obviously a stupid name, but that won’t stop him from joking about it all the time. It seems that no one can agree on a name anyway, but the one that keeps popping up most often is the Starwell, named for the sparkling night sky that is reflected in the pooling waters, no matter the time of day.

It happens like this: Blue’s stretching out across the sofa, yawning in a way that pulls back his lip to expose sharp teeth. Mattias is back from a forgettable day at work, pouring out a glass of wine.

“I already made you a drink,” Blue calls out, eyes almost closed and he stares at the holoscreen.

Mattias pauses, the glass in his hand already full of plum red wine. Two drinks can’t hurt. But when Blue pops his head up over the edge of the sofa, a grin plastered to his face and a mysterious drink in hand, the feeling of curious, tentative gratitude is squashed within him.

“I call it the Booty Hole,” Blue crows, holding out the tumbler full of an unnameable blue, sparkly liquid and what looks to be pieces of stargold floating in it. “Like, it’s a pirate’s booty and it looks like the Hole!”

Mattias takes a slow sip of his wine.

“I’m not drinking that,” he says at last, swirling the wine glass beneath his nose.

“Uh, yeah you are,” Blue snorts, “because I made it with all the love in my heart. And I already tried some and it tastes very alcoholic, which, you know, is basically all you drink. Because you’re trying to engineer liver failure for some reason and you won’t quit your shitty rich guy job or even take paid leave so we can go to Sor Fucking Solir, even though I’ve never been and I really wanna go.”

Mattias puts the wine glass down with a gentle clink, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other hand. Blue doesn’t really care much about taking stuff, but he rarely makes genuine requests, and what few ones he does are routinely and easily turned down by Mattias. Wanting some takeout from the place that does the crazy hot spicy wings or stealing the cash out of Mattias’ wallet to buy a ticket to the Neon District to see his friends isn’t really something he has to run by Mattias first, because that’s just not how they do things. Mattias continues to live under the illusion that he’s got some semblance of control over the situation and Blue continues to let him for however long they can tolerate until they both explode at each other and Blue ends up bunking with one of his friends for a few nights. And then Mattias employs what Blue likes to call his ‘creepy stalker tactics’ and comes to find him, grumbling that he’s still got those flaming hot crisps that Blue bought last time and no one will eat them apart from the aforementioned terror. And then they kiss and make up, so to speak.

The point is, Blue rarely ever actually asks for permission, and this level of half assed grouching is the closest he ever gets to it. He even made Mattias a drink. Which, as he walks over to Blue and takes in his hand, is completely room temperature.

Blue’s been sitting on the sofa with this drink waiting for Mattias to get home. The thought makes something curl within him.

He takes a tentative sip, tasting glitter and — is that his expensive rum? Regardless, it’s not bad, even if the floating bits of stargold keep bumping against the tip of his nose.

Mattias sighs heavily, perching on the armrest of the sofa. Blue’s gone back to lying down, staring resolutely at the holoscreen with a focus that is only half genuine. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Mattias leans back and tries to remember where his life went so wrong.

“I took the vacation days,” he mumbles, rubbing his face tiredly.

“Shuddup, I’m watching,” Blue cuts in. “This is the good part.”

A guy on the screen comes crawling out of the Starwell drenched in water, crying out about how he swam too far down and a demon bit his ass. Blue bursts out laughing in hysterics, but something about it is practised, like maybe he’s been watching the same coverage on loop all day and rehearsing his reactions.

“Aw, man! Do you want to get bit on the ass by a demon? That could be arranged,” he says with a dumb smirk, flashing his snaggletooth. “I’m very amenable to ass biting. One of my favourite pastimes.”

“Blue.” Mattias is louder this time, focused. He’s staring directly into Blue’s eyes, holding his gaze with what he wishes he could claim is an unusual intensity, but it’s not; Blue just brings out the intensity in him. “I said I took the vacation days.”

Blue’s eyes widen comically. “You what?”

“We’re going,” Mattias grits out, “to Sor Solir. To the Starwell. I’ve booked the seats on the next ship out of the port.”

“What.” Behind him, Blue’s tail slowly starts to thump against the sofa.

It’s something he does when he’s happy. He’s so expressive in all the ways Mattias wishes he could have read months ago, tail down between his legs and a haunted look in his eyes, soaked to the bone with rain running down his cheeks like tears. He’d looked so small then, his hair dripping into his eyes, and Mattias would have done anything to be able to understand the words he couldn’t say. He was deficient, though — as always, a part of him supplies — and so all he could do was offer Blue a place to stay for the night. They’ve been living together since, save for a few on and off breaks.

It had been something to do with Lucifer. It’s always something to do with Lucifer. If anything can get under Blue’s skin and pry his ribs open like a clamshell or shuck him like an oyster, cracked at the seams, it’s that fucking starkid. Mattias doesn’t even know how they met or how deep the connection runs, but it’s enough that he’s never seen Blue as broken as he was on that day.

He’s never seen Blue that cut up over him. Selfishly, he wants to see the way Blue could crumble for him, layer after layer broken down. Logically, he knows it’ll never be like that. He’s just the interlude, the intermission before the second act, and the play ends with Blue and Lucifer together as always, orbiting each other like celestial bodies. He’s disposable. Always will be.

Until then, he does what he can. So he throws up two tickets on the holoscreen, watching the way Blue explodes with excitement, and pretends he doesn’t feel the clock ticking down.

“We leave in about,” Mattias glances at his wrist, “an hour.”

It’s all screaming and frantic packing from there.

---

Mattias has the aisle seat. Blue hadn’t asked for the window seat, but Mattias isn’t completely clueless, so he offered it to him under the guise of needing the extra legroom for himself and settled back to watch Blue plaster his face against the window, the tip of his nose pushing up where his breath fogs the glass. It’s not like he’s never travelled before, but holidays weren’t something commonly afforded to Blue in whatever life he had before Mattias. He eyes the spot where the hoodie is slipping off his shoulder, one or two sizes too big for his frame. He’d reach over and fix it, but casual touch isn’t what he does, not even with — not with anyone. He’s content to watch, his ears twitching slightly as the captain announces that the passengers can now disembark. Blue practically explodes out of his seat, tugging at Mattias’ arm like he wants to pull it off.

“Come on, it’s time!” Blue pulls sharply. “You’re so fucking slow, look at how quickly everyone else is getting out.”

Mattias swallows his yawn, rubbing his smile away with the palm of his hand. “There’s no rush. We don’t have to be at the cabin until—”

“Come on!”

And then, without warning, Mattias is steamrolled by Blue and his grabbing hands, pushed to the front of the crowd by sheer will and will alone. He stumbles forward, feet catching in soft white sand and eyes blinded by the shining sun in the sky. Behind him, Blue shucks off his hoodie, chucking it at Blue in a ball and running out onto the shoreline with a loud whoop. And God, it’s like he’s a fucking child sprinting around in circles and waving at strangers and tearing off all his layers with the exclamation that he’s going to dive into the water, and then Mattias is gripping him by his upper arm and holding him back.

A small smile creases his face. He wipes that shit off quickly. He wants to tell Blue how endearing it is, seeing him scramble beneath the weight of all the stimulus.

“One thing at a time,” he says instead.

Beside him, Blue vibrates with energy. Spectral ghost talonfish and effervescent dridgeons float by, called by the cooing of their masters. This side of the Starwell is packed full of stalls selling trinkets, souvenirs, and the most innovative street food concoctions Mattias has ever seen. Closer to the shore is a stage, currently occupied by a thoroughly mediocre band, but even the shitty music isn’t enough to dampen the mood between the two of them right now. By the deep blue sparkling waves are rows of sandcastles, shells, and umbrellas blocking out the sun. A few fishermen are sitting out on boats, chatting amicably over a bucket full of the day’s catch.

His attention recentres on Blue and the way he’s stiffened beside him, the muscles of his arm hard beneath Mattias’ hand. Mattias gives him a tentative squeeze.

“Okay?” he asks, softening the frown that settles between his eyebrows as best as he can. “It’s not too much?” Oh, fuck, he should have thought about that beforehand. Maybe Blue’s freaking out from all the stress or maybe he’s homesick — maybe he wasn’t ready for a trip like this at all. “It’s not too late to turn around. We can go back, I can charter something, I don’t know.”

“No.”

Mattias stops, brain ticking over slowly. “No?”

Blue shakes his head firmly, then looks up to meet Mattias’ gaze, and his smile is incandescent. Little black teeth glint in the light, snaggletooth poking at his lip. His eyes, piercing as ever, are shining with the type of happiness Mattias has only glimpsed hints of once or twice, truer and more genuine than half of Blue’s emotions.

It’s too much, but Mattias can’t look away.

“Are you happy? Tell me you’re happy,” Mattias pleads, his grip loosening and eventually falling from Blue’s arm. Before it can drop, Blue catches his hand in his own.

“Yeah,” Blue sighs, “I’ve never. No one has ever done something like this for me before.” He breathes in deeply and Mattias can practically taste the salty air on Blue’s tongue. “I’ve never gone somewhere like this.”

Mattias stays still, not wanting to disturb the vulnerability of the moment.

“And I know you’re an asshole or whatever,” Blue continues with a shaky laugh, “but you’ve got to be halfway decent, right? Because a complete asshole wouldn’t do this.”

Mattias is an asshole. He’s a complete asshole, no way around it, and he’s doing this because he wants to keep Blue close close close and never let go. He’s doing this because they’re isolated together now, worlds away from everything Blue holds familiar, and there’s nothing but him as far as the eye can see. He’s doing this because something inside of him wants Blue and he’s never known how to say no.

Blue’s hair is gently ruffled by the salty breeze. His face is shadowed by Mattias’ taller figure, the only thing stopping him from being lit up by the flaming sun. His smile is secret, just for Mattias.

Mattias wants to own all of it.

“No asshole coulda done this,” he whispers. “Or this.”

And he leans down to take Blue in his arms for a gentle sea tossed kiss, one hand coming to rest at the back of his head and the other sliding down to his back. And Blue smiles, and then he laughs, and then both of them are laughing about nothing and everything.