A Single Bed — Part 2 (Patreon)

The floor sways up and down, but it has been so long since it bothered him. Nowadays, it's the steady ground that unsettles him — the rocks are too still, the walls too stationary, and the tension he always carries in his legs accomplishes nothing besides making his muscles ache.

No, the Pirate King likes it when the four walls rock and the floorboards creak, and whenever he takes a step, he accounts for the need to keep his core perfectly tight. Dry land is far away, hidden in the cover of a starless night and the two torches burning bright behind the opulence of his desk make the shadows dance around his shoulders and cling to the sides of his face in a way that has his smirk seem almost unnaturally wide.

He takes advantage of the dramatic effect when he spins towards you, arms opened wide, gold buttons flashing in his vest, long midnight hair falling in thin stripes around his forehead. "Welcome," the Pirate says, putting one boot in front of the other to bow before you. "To my den. Make yourself at home, for tonight what's mine is yours. But have no worries: what's yours remains yours alone."

You stand by the doorway to his chambers, the captain's quarters, and the Pirate sees your eyes slowly start exploring the space. He straightens up, resting his hands on the handles of his twin axes and leaning on the edge of the big oaken desk behind him. He smiles as you take the first cautious steps inside. This room is a point of pride. Everything inside, from the paintings to the chests and the covers of the massive bed, was picked specifically by him — it was also earned by his hand alone. The quill, the sconces, the armed chair with a silk covering, the Pirate plundered them all and stored them throughout the years.

Everything here is a reflection of himself, and the Pirate can't help but think how perfectly you fit amongst it. He leans back further, black eyes watching you gingerly touch the heavy drapes on the western windows. You’re like a treasure he found, or one that simply drifted towards him. Glistering and unique and, right now, finally turning to face him.

"It's bigger than I thought it'd be," you say.

The Pirate shrugs. "It's a big ship."

You walk to the middle of his chamber, near the steps that take from the office space to the more personal quarters where his bed dominates the view. "It's more homely too." You purse your lips. "Or comfortable, I suppose. Aren't ships and vessels meant to be..."

His smile tilts to one corner. "Shit?"

He sees those pretty lips of yours tilting too. "Your words, not mine."

He chuckles. He always liked your wit. "That's a misconception. Nothing in life has to be bad, peach. And if it is, well." The fingers tighten on his axes. "You make it good."

His voice came out lower than he intended, more of a growl, but the Pirate can't say he regrets it when he sees you shiver. He has to fight himself from stalking towards you, from seeing up close the way you suddenly bite your lower lip. You like it? The Pirate wants to see your eyes, now, but you're too far away.

"By force?" Comes your voice, and he can't tell what it is he's hearing. It's akin to a whisper too, one that has his shoulders tensing. The door is closed, and you're alone together, and for the first time in a long while, he doesn't know how to proceed.

But he's not about to show it. "By whatever means you need to," he answers, staring deep at you. Come closer.

You stand there for a moment. His hands on the axes tighten once more. The air feels... the air feels just like it does right before a thunderstorm. It's as if something is about to snap, but the Pirate doesn't know in what way. He stays in his place, muscles locked because it's you who has the power. It's you who—

You take a step near him. "There's only one bed," you say in that same tone of voice. You walk like a feline, steady too even as the ground forever sways up and down. You walk until you're right in front of him and your cheeks are kissed by the orange glow of the flames.

He can finally see your eyes and finds them narrowed at his face. Fiery, beautiful. Dangerous. "What else were you expecting? There's only one captain," he tells you, doing everything not to move a single muscle.

You bite your lip again before you take a final step. And now his skin is on fire when your hand presses his chest. "I'm not expecting anything."

"Liar."

You smile. Spirits, does he like your smile. "How cruel you are."

And he can't take it anymore. The Pirate lets go of his axes to grab one side of your hip. The other hand grabs the apex of your chin, pulling your face upwards. "I may be," the Pirate murmurs, slowly closing the distance. "But not here, and not with you. You understand that, don't you, peach?"

You cup his face between both of your hands. "Well, then, I have something to inform you."

Your lips brush his. The Pirate closes his eyes. "Hmm?"

And in a flash quicker than lightning, you tear yourself away from him. "Don't expect the same courtesy from me," you say over your shoulders, laughing in that crystalline laugh of yours as you skip up the steps towards his bed. "You said what's yours is mine, and I quite fancy this big bed."

You pause, smiling like the devil. "All to myself."

His heart sinks. "You don't mean that."

But you laugh again. Spirits, he likes that sound too. "I see a big, fancy duvet over there." You point to the left side of the bed. "You can have that."

You turn around then, shrugging the long white tunic off your shoulders in a languid movement. It pools like water at your feet, the sight of your bare back like a heat-induced hallucination that has all his nerves aflame. He watches you crawl on top of the bed. His bed. And your voice waffles through like the mourning breeze after a destructive storm.

"Your bed is so comfortable."

You are cruel.

And this will be a long night.

- - -

"Hell."

She goes down with a groan. The thin mattress creaks under her weight, and Neia feels one of the springs jump up and dig right between her shoulder blades. The pain is annoying, warmth spreading to the socket of her shoulder, but it's not enough to make her move. If anything, she sinks even harder on the pathetic excuse for a bed, letting her limbs deflate on top of the musty cover.

Had it been her old self, she would have called back the clerk and asked him if this is his idea of a bed. Because it isn't hers. The mattress sits on the floor against a dusty corner, and beneath an even dustier window, and had it been but a few months prior, she would make the useless man clean every inch of the room before even stepping one foot inside.

No. She would have made him give up his room and have him sleep in this rat's nest instead. She would have—

But Neia, the former Dawnseeker, is done with interrogations. And, right now, she's done with the world in general. Her armor lies half-discarded on the floor beside her, sword pommel a few inches away from her fingers, and her muscles buzz with relief. The mattress is bumpy and uncomfortable, and the fucking spring is now digging into the back of her neck, but Neia closes her eyes and welcomes the darkness. At least, there's quiet.

She breathes in, deeply, and holds the air in her lungs. Her skin tingles almost pleasantly, and she moves her toes one by one. The road had been as it always is. The bottom of her feet are so calloused that she barely feels a thing, but even so, it sure is good to lay down. To not have to carry her own weight.

Slowly, she lets the air go in a drawled-out exhale. Her chest deflates, her thoughts numb, and the scar on her lip twists around a grimace that isn't entirely disgruntled. She'll take this poor excuse for a bed if it means she gets to—

"Uh."

Her mouth twists down in a snarl. Neia cracks one eye open, scowl deepening at the sight of the ceiling stained with humidity, and shifts her head the slightest bit to the side until she sees you.

Standing beside her bed like an idiot. "What?" she growls.

You lift an eyebrow. "There's only one bed," you tell her in a too casual tone of voice. Neia doesn't know when you started adopting that tone with her, but she doesn't like it. She also doesn't do anything about it.

You look at her, waiting for an answer. Neia doesn't know why she simply doesn't close her eyes and go back to sleep, ignoring you like the nuance you are but... something makes her answer. "And?" she gruffs. Not much of an answer, but she sees you frowning, and now her scar twists again as she smirks.

She likes that look on you.

"And you're all sprawled there as if you're here alone," you protest, crossing your arms over your chest. "There's no room for me."

"How's that my problem?"

You blink, and then look so offended, Neia has to bite her tongue to keep from chuckling. "I am not sleeping on the floor, Neia," you say, trying and failing to sound threatening.

Neia does laugh then, the sound rough and low. "Seems to me you're out of options, sweetling," she says. She closes her eyes again and turns her chin upwards.

But she snaps them open right back when she feels the mattress shift. Neia sits up, fingers already clenching her sword when she sees your silhouette kneeling on the bed. You're tucked in the only available room between her long legs, and moonlight falls on your hair like the veil of a ghost.

"If you don't move, I'll just sleep on top of you," you have the bravery to say, your eyes narrowed, and your lips tightened, and Neia will be damned, but she thinks you'll actually do it. You'll actually dare to lay down on top of her.

Slowly, oh so very slowly, Neia lets go of her sword to sit up properly. Even seated, she looms above you, and she makes sure to use that. She leans forward, forcing you to slant your neck back, the resolute light in your eyes shifting to nervousness as Neia brings her face right beside your own. Yellow eyes brimming, scar twisting.

Holding back a chuckle.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks in a hiss. "Are you sure you want to share a bed with me?"

It's not surprising when you don't avoid her gaze. You never seem to. You're one of the few who can do it, who can withstand the heat of her eyes. And Neia isn't about to say it, but she likes it about you. She likes it too much for her taste. "You would be better off on the floor."

You hold your chin up high. "I'm sure," you say, voice like steel. You hesitate, but then your hands are on her shoulders, and Neia finds herself being slightly pushed back. "If you have a problem with it, you can go sleep on the floor. Or outside, I don't care, as long as I can rest."

You push her down then, and Neia doesn't know why but she allows it. She falls back heavily, and the spring digs into her shoulder, but she doesn't even feel it. Because you're laying beside her, your side pressed against hers, your head on the corner of the paper-thin pillow she claimed for her own.

There's silence. Yellow eyes pierce yours. "Hell," Neia curses, letting out a half chuckle and a half sigh. She closes her eyes for the third time before she loops a heavy arm around you. "Alright then, sweetling."

Neia smirks in the darkness at your gasp of surprise, a smirk that deepens when you don't pull away. One that changes when you tuck your head into her shoulder and ease your body against hers.

Alright, then.

- - -

He opens the door to see you seated beneath a ray of gold.

The afternoon sun is deep, painting the world in tones of orange and yellow, and while the eastern sky is all but dark, twilight shines from the west in a last blaze of glory. And how glorious you seem, then, your profile delimited with specks of dust, your lashes long and your lips gleaming, and Lance has always been a lover of poetry, but whatever words he had ready quickly die on the tip of his tongue.

Beauty, so it seems, is defeating. And you are defeating too.

His fingers tingle to touch the strings of the lyre strapped to his back, but with a shake of the head, the bard pushes idyllic thoughts away. How embarrassing. He finds himself stuck again and again in your presence as if he’s still the green boy facing the world for the first time.

Lance closes the door with an audible click. "Ah, I see you have made yourself right at home." He smiles when you turn towards him, the kind of smile that comes so naturally to him. He has long learned how disarming a sympathetic look can be, how little people look past the homely front of a well-meaning man. It makes others ignore him, it makes it so easy to slip past their defenses.

But not you. You've never quite been fooled by it. Lance doesn't know if it frustrates or impresses him more, but as your eyes settle on him — really looking as you always do — he finds his lips straining to maintain the fake smile.

"It's hard not to," you say then, and give him a smile of your own. Lance can't see any insincerity, but he knows he's not in the best place to detect it. Not as his stomach lurches at how beautiful the sight is. The sun still clings to you like a halo, like the paintings on the stern walls of cathedrals. "I don't know how or when Mist snatched himself this safe house, but I don't care."

You stretch wide, arms up your head, and let out a satisfied groan. "This is wonderful. Do we really have to leave in the morrow? We could just stay here for a couple of days."

Lance laughs, stepping into the room to actually look at it. He gets what you're saying. The furniture isn't opulent, but it’s clean and relatively new. The windows are tall, the drapes vibrant and the bed you sit on looks more than comfortable. There's even a small table near the fireplace with a wine bottle on it. Granted, the bottle is empty, but Lance can appreciate the aesthetic it provides, nonetheless.

"It is quite the improvement from my usual crashing places," he agrees, dropping his traveling sack near the fireplace. He bends down to carefully rest his lyre on the couch. "But alas, I don't think it's good enough to abstain our duties over. No room is worth the wrath of a crime lord, aren't you in agreement?"

You lift your chin in defiance. "Let him come."

Lance swipes a hand through his hair. He needs a bath. "Of course, you would say that." His legs feel heavy and clumsy, and when he sits on the couch, Lance feels his whole body deflate. He's more tired than he thought, he realizes.

He looks at you on the bed and starts to gather the courage to get up and find a room of his own.

"Why, whatever do you mean by that?" Your voice is tinged with a teasing edge that perfectly matches the smirk you throw at him.

Lance cannot help but smile back. "I only mean that is it on par with a mercenary, no?" he says, opening his palms in innocence. Your smile tilts even further as you lean on your knees on the bed, coming closer to him. "Being all brash and courageous and... well, perfectly brainless."

You gasp in feign offense and then bend down, and something is hurdling through the air towards him. Lance's eyes blow wide as he tries to duck, but the sock hits him right on the forehead. "Oh!" he exclaims, finding it hard not to join when you break down laughing. "Oh, but you are very mature."

Lance throws the sock back, but you completely ignore it. Your chest is heaving in laughter, and your cheeks are bobbing and when you sit back up, the light in your eyes is much too dangerous. The bard looks down at his lyre, trying to calm his heart. Why is it beating so quickly?

You’re not laughing any longer, but he can feel your eyes on him. Lance swallows against the heavy silence. You're alone in a room together. The realization has him picking up the lyre as if it's a sort of shield.

Stop acting like a child.

"Fine, we won't stay more than one night. This safe house isn't that perfect anyway." Your voice mercifully cuts the silence, and Lance breathes out a sigh of relief. But when he looks back at you, the relief dies when he sees your eyes sparkle in the same way they did before.

"Hm?" Lance absently asks.

You point at the room. "I mean, this is the only bedchamber, after all. It's alright for one night, but more than that? Your wardrobe is too colorful to withstand for more than a few hours, you see."

Lance doesn't even register the jab. He gets up like a spring. "What?"

Your smile slowly dies. "Uh, this is the only room." You blink in clear confusion, but then pat the mattress beside you. "Don't worry, though, I don't move much in my sleep. You'll have your side, and I'll stay on mine. I might, however, steal the blanket."

You grin then, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but Lance’s chest tightens. There is only one bed. He looks from the door to you, still seated at the center of it.  Guilt rises in his chest at your expression, but Lance can focus on little else but the sudden pain in his back.

His skin burns in deep gashes over his shoulder blades.

He takes a step toward the door, lyre clenched in his hands. "Ah, worry not, you can keep the blanket." He smiles then and knows how insincere it looks. "I will stay outside."

Your eyebrows scrunch together. "Lance, wait."

Your tone has him freezing near the doorway. "No, I—" His back is burning. "Do not worry for me. Keep the room and keep my terrible clothes out of your sight. The moon calls for me, as it were, and never have I managed to resist her call. Please."

He hates the hurt and shock on your face. You will blame yourself for this when it's not your fault. But... but he cannot explain. "Please, sleep soundly, my friend. I'll greet you when the sun shines once more."

"Lance!"

But he closes the door and marches into the night air. The moon is covered by a heavy cloud.

How fitting.

- - -

He lets out a low laugh.

The sound is not amused in the slightest, and Rafael doesn't even try to pretend otherwise. His lips curve not into a smile but a snarl that leaves the hole between his teeth on complete display.

What a goddamn shithole. He walks further into the room — if room is even the right word. It has a ceiling, and a door, and that's pretty much where the similarities end. Dust clouds lift with every one of his steps, and the floorboards creek as if they're seconds away from collapsing.

The lone window is broken, so it can't close properly, and there's a pile of rags tucked in a corner that Rafael refuses to examine closer. He doesn't know if humidity and filth can ever grow a conscience, but he's not about to find out.

"'Course they stuck us in a dump," he complains. Rafael sneers at the room, eyes narrowed at every offending detail. He spoke mostly to himself, but, of course, your annoying voice had to answer. You always make it a point to talk back at him, most of the time with the sole intent to anger him.

Rafael told himself he'd stop letting you get under his skin.

"Aren't you used to this, bastard?" you cut from behind. "This is exactly the type of place I picture whenever you speak of home."

But to hell with that. "Shut up," Rafael growls, spinning to pin you with the full force of his scowl. You're leaning on a damp wall, your arms crossed, your smile cocky, and your goddamn eyes shining. It makes his blood boil. "I don't come from a bloody hole."

You shrug with one shoulder. "Could have fooled me."

"You goddamn—" Rafael breaths in, closing his eyes and turning his back away from you. It's so infuriating how you can just... rile him whenever you want. And that damn smile too, Rafael has never disliked a smile so much in his life. He hates how often you do it, and he hates it even more that it fits your face so well and how he sees it, sometimes, when he closes his eyes, and he'll like to wipe it off your face with his li...

His stomach lurches. He's so damn pathetic.

"Just stop talking and go the hell to sleep," he says, the fight dying in his voice. Rafael eyes the mattress under the window, and it looks as rotten as everything else, but tiredness starts to cling to his bones. "I don't wanna hear ya until the morning."

He takes a step towards it, dumping his traveling bag on the floor. His boots come out next, and just as Rafael is about to let himself fall, a hand grabs his shoulder.

"What—" he lets out as he's shoved back.

"Wait," you say, fingers digging into his arm. But you don't even have the decency to look at him. You're studying the bed, his bed, with a light frown and a pout, and Rafael fucking hates how he can’t stop staring at your lips.

"Hey, get off," he finally gruffs, but his voice isn't as harsh as he wanted. He shrugs you away, also more gently than he'd like, but you let go, and Rafael will consider that a victory.

Small, because you don't even step away. If anything, you come even closer. "There's a problem," you inform.

'Course there bloody is. "Yeah?"

You point at the bed. "That pathetic mattress is all that there is."

You don't elaborate. He scowls. "What does that mean?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "It means, you genius, that there are no more stupid beds in this stupid room," you spit, your voice completely frustrated. You hold his shoulder again, not harshly, but firmly and lean until you're hissing into his face. "And you're not going to take it."

He can feel your breath washing over his cheeks, can feel the warmth radiating where you touch him. Slowly, Rafael narrows his eyes right back. "Who's gonna take it, then?" he rasps in a low, low voice. "Let me take a guess. It's you, ain't it?"

You smile. Rafael hates it. He hates how attractive it is. "If you insist," you say.

"I don't."

You stare at each other until he sees the realization in your eyes at the exact same time that he realizes it himself. There's only one bed, and neither of you is going to budge.

Your look to the bed, smile turning stiff.

You look at him again.

…

And you both take off running.

"Argh!" Rafael groans when you trip him, but your plan didn't work because it just made him stumble right into you. He grabs you and tries to push you to the side, but like a goddamn cockroach, you cling to his wrist so that you both go spinning.

"Just let me have it!" you shout.

"Over my dead body!"

You bolt again, and so does he. Rafael is gaining ground when you try to shove him, but he was ready. In a flash, he pokes your side, fingers tickling up your ribs, and he laughs, then, when you shake. It doesn't stop you for too long, but he doesn't need too long. He just needs this.

Rafael laughs triumphantly as he lands heavily on top of the bed. The mattress creaks and moans under his weight, and something foul-smelling tickles his nose but Rafael pushes it aside to smirk as wide. "Too slow," he gloats, arms crossing behind his head and legs locking at the ankles. "Too bloody slow."

He laughs again at your stupid face. "You— " you gasp, puffing up your cheeks in indignation. It would be adorable if it was anyone else but you. "You bastard."

"Someone's a sore loser," Rafael quips, the name-calling not affecting him in the slightest. He just smirks, chest puffed, as you falter there. Yeah, go curl in some corner. He doesn't care at all. He doesn't—

You take a step forward and then bend until you take hold of his arm and lay beside him. Rafael's so astonished that he lets you. He lets you put his arm behind your head, and then rest your nape on the crook of his elbow. He's staring at you, mouth like a fish, as you wiggle until your side flushes right alongside him.

And then, to top it off, you turn your head and smile right at him.

"The hell are ya doing." He meant to yell or, at least, half-shout. But Rafael whispered it. His voice is so... laughable. He can feel his whole body seizing, muscles taunt and rigid, and his idiot cheeks boil.

Your smile turns softer. "Rafael," you say, and he'll be damned, but he loves the sound of his name on your lips. You come closer, head resting on his shoulder now. "Just go the hell to sleep."

You lean forward and kiss his cheek.

Rafael feels about to explode. He snaps his head away, wide eyes staring holes into the ceiling, mouth agape. His heart hammers in his goddamned chest, and his nose is filled with the sweet scent of your hair.

Oh no.

He's fucked.