Worry Trambles Denial — Lance & Rafael (Patreon)

And you show me that life

Isn't all about extending your time

No, it's the perfect time

For a bottle of wine

His fingers dance across the cords in a pattern long memorized. Lance doesn't need to think about time and beats, his fingers move with a life of their own, separated from his person.

His voice too rings at a distance. He hears the soft melody and judges it as any craftsman would, but a part of him can barely recognize the sound as his own. Lance hears it and sings it, and somehow, in the middle, his thoughts gain form.

Right then

You kiss my skin

I don't know what this is

Or where to begin

He sits on the ground, one foot propped against a stool while the other bends at the knee. He leans back to accommodate the elegant lute in his hands, it's wood polished and smooth and the color of gold. His nails aren’t even. Some are grown to look like pointed claws, while other fingers barely have a nail at all.

They pluck the strings of his lute as if he caresses the lover he sings about. But it's a distant lover, he tells himself. One that lives in the land of inspiration, with no face and voice and a profile made of distant stars.

It's those stars Lance stares at now. Or rather, he stares at whatever piece of the dark night he can see through the narrowed window. Blue hair falls over his shoulders as Lance seeks the pale comfort of the stars. So distant tonight, so incredibly feeble.

But not feeble enough that he can't see them moving and shifting, and then, right before his eyes, they start to rearrange. The stars flash as they form a different kind of profile. A profile that looks suspiciously like you.

This fills me up with bliss

Don't tell me this was a dream

Lance keeps singing, but his tongue feels heavier, and his chest heats with an urgent warning. His fingers never stop, however, nor does his voice. The soft snoring over his shoulder tells him that he cannot quit. You requested a song, and while you had fallen asleep before Lance could finish it, the bard prides himself in his trait.

It has nothing to do with how your breaths tingle his ear and how your hand tumbled when you fell asleep and landed on his shoulder. It has nothing to do with how warm and gentle your fingers feel as they brush against the skin near his collarbone and play with the ends of his hair. It has nothing to do with you.

His butt is sore from sitting on the ground, his legs grow numb, and even his fingers could use some rest, but you're not the reason why Lance doesn't simply get up and fall into bed. It's because he has to finish his performance. Even if his audience has slipped into the land of dreams.

Perhaps you can still hear it. Lance hopes that you do. Lance hopes that you enjoy his song, even if you can't quite place his voice and—

Your hand jerks, and instead of soft caresses, your nails dig into his skin.

Lance falters, a cord ringing shrilly in the air as he turns back to look at you. You're laying on your side, sprawled over the mattress, and your hair falls over your forehead in what he may have called endearing were it not for the way your brows clench. Your eyes are shut tight, and he can see them rapidly shifting from side to side behind your eyelids.

"No," you say, the word like the barest of whispers. Lance's hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He hears so many sounds, and he knows so many versions of your voice. The way it tingles with you laugh, or the way it drops when you're annoyed. It lifts, barely, when you're pleased, and whenever you talk while you smile, your voice takes on a unique edge.

Lance could tell you were smiling even with his eyes shut.

He knows all the versions of your voice, and yet, he does not know this one. "Please, no," you speak yet again, your hand grabbing his shoulder almost painfully now. "Please."

This voice freezes him to the core.

Very slowly, Lance lowers the lute to the ground and kneels beside your bed. He doesn't know what to do. "Mercenary?" he calls. Should he touch you? "Can you hear me?"

You don't seem to. Your hand falls away from him to clutch at your cheeks. Your nails dig into both sides of your face as you start to thrash on the bed. "Stop!" you yell, your legs kicking the blankets.

Lance's eyes are blown wide, and for once, the bard-turned-spy doesn't think. He doesn't weigh his actions, doesn’t care for their repercussions. Lance Silverthread does not care, then, for consequences, because all he cares about right now is restoring the peaceful way you looked a moment ago. With a faint smile on your lips and your nails playing with the blue ends of his hair.

The bard grabs your wrists, tearing them away from your face, and pushes them on the mattress beside your head, body leaning over yours. "Wake up, mercenary. Rouse that spirit of yours and wake up.”

-

You wake with long, slender fingers brushing away strands of damp hair from your forehead.

You blink, feeling tears on the corners of your eyes, and slowly, the world comes into view. A head hovers over yours, his blue hair falling like a curtain around you, bathed by the cold, pale light of distant stars. When grey eyes fix on yours, Lance smiles a smile that shows off his golden tooth.

"Ah, there you are," he says, his voice cheery but unmistakably tight. It matches his smile, trying so hard to be carefree but carrying a stiffened edge. You can read him more easily than when you first met, and Lance has concern written all over his face.

He takes his hand away from your face. "It appears you had been dreaming, my friend. A kind of dream I wouldn't wish on anyone," Lance says, the voice so cheery, his eyes so dark. You miss the warmth of his fingers. "But you are awake now and sleeping dragons cannot reach you."

He pauses, eyes bouncing all over your face before Lance nods and starts to move away. Your throat is dry, and your tongue is swollen, but there's nothing sluggish about the way your hand shoots forward and latches onto his forearm.

"Wait," you croak, not minding how desperately you cling to him. Your nails twist his shirt as you pull him closer. Don't leave me. Lance halts, freezing over you. "Stay close. I... just stay."

Silence clings to the air. Lance stays perfectly still, looking down at you with eyes made of stone.

You lick your tongue, hand tightening its grip on him as too close, you still feel the pull of horror. Your nightmare looms nearby, like a beast awaiting you to close your eyes. You tug Lance again. You don't want to beg. Please, don't make me beg. "Lance?"

The bard moves. "Yes," he says, his voice filling the space between you. Lance carefully leans you forward, and then he slips into the bed behind you, leaning his back on the headframe. "I can stay for a while."

His arms loop around your middle, and it's so easy, then, to simply sink into his chest. You hear a faint inhale of breath, but you ignore it to take his hands in yours. "Sing to me?" you plead, making soft circles on his thumbs.

Lance's voice rings odd. "Aren't you greedy? Twice in the same night?" he says, and you can imagine him smiling even if the tone is... not wrong, but different. You can't decipher it now, so you simply smile, and turn your head until you feel his hair brush your cheek.

"I didn't hear the second half of the song."

"Hmm, and whose fault is that?"

You laugh quietly as Lance twists his hand and intertwines his fingers with yours. "... my lute is on the ground," he says.

You rest your forehead on his neck. He smells like citrus. You'd marvel at how close you are to him if you were in your right state of mind. But right now, you just want to take comfort in him. Whatever way he’s willing to give. "Just sing," you whisper against his skin. "Your voice is enough."

Lance is quiet for a long while. You think that, maybe, he won't heed your request when you feel him clearing his throat and holding you closer.

And then his voice rings like honey in the air.

And you show me that life

Isn't all about explaining your time

No, it's the perfect time

To lay all night

The words drift upwards, his voice tingles your ears, and with a smile, you let yourself drift too. In the arms of an illusive bard whose smile and eyes tell a million tales but whose touch is the most sincere you have ever felt.

Lay all night.

You hope that you do.

- - -

Rafael is freezing.

He's shaking, muscles trembling without his input, and his damn teeth clatter against each other so loudly, he's sure it'll attract some sort of predator. As if his night couldn't get any worse, all it’s missing is a bear to try and tear his bloody head off.

He scoffs, the sound pathetic because it slips past freezing lips, and then hugs his arms closer to himself. The rock he leans against is so cold that it’s a wonder there’s no ice frosted on its surface. The little crook on the cliff you found before the sun went down can barely be called a cave. It isn't deep or particularly large, so Rafael can't even stretch his legs because you're sprawled out on the ground across from him.

The thief curls his lips in a sneer for the millionth time tonight. His dark eyes watch you, and he wonders once again how on God's filthy earth were you able to close your eyes and just... drift off to a peaceful sleep. Rafael would say he envies you if he could stomach admitting the fact even to himself. Instead, he thinks you mad and dumb and guesses it's a miracle you were able to survive this long.

As he watches you, your face visible by the light of a huge full moon, Rafael sees the way your eyebrows lightly twitch, and your lips curl at the corners.

Pretty.

His sneer deepens until his tooth gap is on display, but as much as Rafael wants to, he can't tear his eyes away. He keeps watching you, eyeing the way the cold bites at your cheeks, and your hands are tucked underneath your armpits for an extra amount of heat. His cape is thin and it's one of the few layers he has against the elements, but for a second, a stupid moment, Rafael almost takes it off himself to drape it over you.

His hands moved before he could snap back to his senses, and now Rafael looms half-bent over you, his snarl so deep, it could pass for a grimace.

I'm such a fuckin' idiot.

His heart hammers as very slowly, Rafael moves back to his place. What if you had woken up and seen him there, looming like a creep above you? God in dry heavens, he wouldn't know what to say. You would have probably shoved him, and the bastard can't say he would fault you.

It's so cold, his teeth clatter. But suddenly, Rafael feels too warm. His cheeks heat as he stares at you, and a wave of... something grows on his spine that has his legs twitching and his skin prickling as if he's growing too big for his own body.

Rafael shoots up, finally, finally tearing his eyes away from you. He'll take a walk. He just needs some time alone, he's sure nothing will harm you. It will just be a moment, and he'll stay close so that your idiotic self can keep sleeping and rest, and he...

Rafael sighs, edging closer so he can try to step over you without making a sound. He's just a bastard. A bastard and thief but at least he's good at this: going away without making a sound, without disturbing anyone. Without disturbing you.

Rafael takes the step, and then pushes off his other leg, glancing down to make sure you —

Your whole demeanor has changed.

Rafael halts with his feet between your hips. You're frozen. Your whole body is. You're as rigid as stone, muscles and jaw locked so tightly, it's a wonder you can still breathe. And it's not the cold that's making this, he knows. It's not the cold because your skin is flushed, and your lips aren't blue but swollen from how hard you dig your teeth into them.

Rafael hesitates but then lowers himself to the ground beside you, eyes watching every single inch of your face. He can't place it but... you don't look right. "Hey," he calls, hand hovering halfway to your shoulder. "You in pain?"

You don't answer. Rafael frowns. He reaches over and carefully, touches your shoulder. He can feel the socket pulled taut up to your ears. He then moves his hand down your arm, feeling the tendons hard and stiff. "Hey..." Rafael lightly tugs your wrist. You fight him on it, pulling your arm back to your body. "Let loose a little, will ya? You feel like a board."

But you don't answer. Rafael guesses you still sleep, even if it's a wonder how. You look anything but relaxed. You look like you're fighting for your damn life. Concern starts to grow on his chest. "Hey," he says louder, grabbing your wrist and firmly setting it on his lap. "The hell wrong's with ya?"

Your eyes shoot open, but before he can breathe a sigh of relief, you open your mouth.

And scream.

Rafael's heart leaps out of his chest. "Fuck!" he yells, but he doesn't hear his own voice because you drown it. You scream at the top of your lungs, your voice grilling into his ears and making his blood pump madly. He's shocked to the point of inaction. He can just stare wild-eyed down at you.

Your eyes are fixed on a point above his head, round and wild-looking but glazed. It’s as if you're seeing horrors not from this earth but another.

Rafael realizes you're in the midst of a nightmare.

"Shit," he curses and snaps to action. You're still locked tight, screaming a horrible, terrible scream when he grabs your shoulders. "C'mon," he breathes out, dragging you on top of his legs and holding your head in his lap. Rafael shrugs his cape off and lowers it over you, holding it like a vest around your body. "C'mon, you headache. Wake up."

Your teeth snap together when you finally stop screaming.

"Wake up, idiot," Rafael hisses, fingers squeezing your jaw and neck and the back of your head. His heart hammers against his ribs in a way that can only spell panic. Rafael closes his eyes tightly and pushes it away.

He can't panic now. You need him.

"Please, wake up," he whispers, mouth near your temple. "Please."

-

Your throat is sore.

You don't open your eyes, but you blink several times, and like a rope being pulled, you're thrust into a freezing night. Your legs feel stiff and cold; your whole body feels rigid and uncomfortable except for your face.

That is warmed between two hands, the thumbs going back and forth on your cheekbones, tracing the arch from your temples to the upside of your mouth. You blink again, feeling an odd pain in your jaw, and Rafael's face comes into view.

He's staring down at you with his brows furrowed and a familiar expression of anger on his face. But, unlike most times, the anger doesn't seem directed at you. If anything, the gentle way his fingers caress you indicates the opposite. You blink again, this time in bewilderment because you cannot understand what is happening.

You're on Rafael's lap, and the bastard is sneering at the world as if he blames it for all his misfortunes.

His brown eyes look at yours, but it's like he doesn't care that you're watching him. He holds your face tighter. "C'mon," he whispers. You've never heard him sound so... gentle. "Just how long are ya gonna take?"

Is he talking to you?

You crack your lips open, feeling your tongue oddly dry. Your whole body hurts. Just what happened? "Rafael?" you croak out. You want to lift a hand to his face, but you don't find any strength in your limbs. You feel sluggish, you realize. Sluggish enough that you don't even have the heart to crack a smirk when Rafael nearly jumps at the sound of your voice.

You just hold his gaze. "You're awake?" he asks, and the question is so ridiculous, you find the strength to roll your eyes.

"No, I sleep talk," you say dryly. "With my eyes open."

Rafael doesn't take the bait. He doesn't seem to have listened to you. He just stares down, his eyes huge and his face pale, and his fingers never once stopping from tracing your cheekbones.

You feel your cheeks warm. Rafael has never looked at you this way. You open your mouth, mind buzzing with questions, but part of you is afraid to break this... truce between you. "What... what happened?" you ask, your voice low and mellow.

Rafael looks from your eyes to your lips, and then back to your eyes again. He seems far away as he parts his lips—

And like a lightning bolt, snaps them shut. His hands freeze over your face, his shoulders tensing too, and then he's pushing away from you as if you carry a particularly contagious disease.

"What happened?" Rafael spits, scrambling on the ground to get as much distance away from you as possible. You fall back on your elbows and turn confused eyes at him. He's flattened himself against the rock, his face red and eyes narrowed. "You can't even sleep right, that's what happened."

"What—"

"You had a bloody nightmare," Rafael interrupts, leering as if you chose to have it. "Ya started screamin' so I— I had to shut you before some wolf started wondering what all the damn ruckus was about. That's all.”

He looks away, throat working up and down, dark eyes fixed on the wintry night outside. There are phantom touches on the arch of your cheeks, faint agile fingers that can open any lock and sweep the coin purse of any lord but were so gentle when they caressed your skin.

You look at Rafael, and there are so many quips at the tip of your tongue. But your lips are sealed shut, and they refuse to let them out. You had a nightmare, and he tried to help you. Heat spreads from those phantom touches, plunging deep into your chest.

You follow his sight to the night beyond the cavern and clear your throat, the sound too loud in the sudden uncomfortable silence. "Thank you," you say.

You're not looking at him, but you can see him from the corner of your eye. You can see how he stiffens. "Think nothin' of it," Rafael answers back, his voice sharp and snappy. So different from the tone he was using just a moment ago.

You settle back against the rock, shivering with how cold the ground is, and take note of the cape that wraps around you. It smells like him. It smells like the bastard. "Oh," you let out, whole face burning now because your hands, traitorous things, squeeze the cloth tighter to you.

What am I doing?

"Raf," you call, hating how tight your voice sounds. What in Hell’s darkest pit is wrong with you? "I, uh. You left this here."

You hold out the cape towards him and watch as he turns his scowl at it. It's as if he blames the poor thing for everything wrong with his life. But then, he looks at you, and it's brief and swift, and maybe you're still dreaming after all because his features soften.

Rafael holds your gaze, his scowl melting until he... you don't know what to call what he looks like. You just know it makes the knot in your throat twist tighter.

"You can keep it," Rafael says in that same tone from before. Low and deeper and... and matching whatever it is that darkens his eyes.

Before you can even form an answer, Rafael pushes off the wall and walks briskly to the mouth of the cave. "I'm gonna take a walk," he announces, not looking at you. "Shouldn't be long. Or go too far. If you get attacked by somethin' just... yell. You're good at that."

"Wait, Raf—"

"I'll come runnin'," he whispers right before he disappears in the night.

You hold his cape against you, the wind howling in your ears, his smell enveloping the air around you. And as your eyes slowly close, exhaustion weighting on the eyelids, you don't bother stopping the slow smile that grows on your lips.

I'll come runnin'.

There are so many things you dislike about Rafael. So many things that infuriate and frustrate you and get under your skin in the effortless way that only the bastard can.

There is so much about Rafael Borja that you oppose. But somehow, you don't doubt his words for even a second. He'll come running.