Cole didn't know what he was doing, only that Alistair was suddenly reaching over with leather-clad fingers, brushing the edge of his jaw as if he were scared of frightening him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think – could only stare at the delicate parting of Alistair's lips, his slow inhale.
Somehow this was the closest they had ever been. Closer than when they'd tumbled in the snow together, grappling for each other's throats, legs tangled and kicking. This was a gentler closeness, a closeness that didn't want blood, or violence, or steel in flesh, only this.
If he'd hoped for more, he didn't get it. Carefully, Alistair dropped his hand, leaned back and stared into his lap. His eyes were wider. They looked slightly mortified, as if his hand had acted of its own accord, without his consent, until it was too late.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled urgently. "I didn't mean – I shouldn't have..."
Cole thought it must've been the first time he had ever heard Alistair stumble over his words. He spoke so much, surely he must've at some point said the wrong thing, stuttered and slipped (excluding the time they had been too freezing to physically string together coherent sentences), but no matter how far back Cole's memory went, he couldn't think of a single occurrence in which Alistair had been made speechless.
The situation was dire.
Cole shook his head. "Don't, it's okay." Was it?
Alistair's hair slipped out from where it was tucked behind his ears, framing his open-mouthed, downturned face like some artist's depiction of utter bewilderment. Like he couldn't believe himself or his lack of self-restraint. Flexing his fingers, the leather squeaked in the near-silence as he formed fists.
After a moment, he glanced up. "It's... okay?"
Cole nodded before he could stop himself. Heat crawled up the neck of his shirt, and he could feel the visible blush rise to his face – unwillingly, he found himself wanting to uncurl Alistair's fingers and bring them back, tender against his face. He wanted it, which was a revelation all in itself. And suddenly, with an indecipherable pang in his stomach, he wanted again to feel his skin on his and to have his gloves off.
For once, he didn't even have the energy to care – he didn't think about it, the repercussions, the effects it would have on the world outside of their small cottage, only that it would feel nice. Only that he wanted it.
Slowly, unfolding his legs from under him and reaching over the forgotten game of Knogar, Cole brushed Alistair's hair from out of his face to see it all in precious clarity. He stared back at him, waiting. Waiting for something. The breath paused in his throat, and somehow Cole could sense the beat in which he wasn't breathing at all, although he didn't know how. A sudden awareness of a body that wasn't his own.
Cole searched Alistair's eyes for a silent question, anything that would hint to the meaning of his skipping pulse, darkening eyes, anything at all. Then, again looking at him to ask if what he was doing was okay, Cole reached forward and gently lifted his hands in his, pulling slowly at each of the glove's fingers. When they were off, he tossed them aside.
Alistair wet his lips. "Are you sure...?"
Cole nodded. "Leather can leave rashes sometimes, they chafe if you leave them on too long," practical purposes, that was why he was doing this. Practicality was his top priority. "I know you probably wouldn't have told me if—"
"Cole." Alistair laughed breathlessly, carefully slotting his fingers into the space between Cole's. "Stop talking."
"Usually I would be telling you that—"
YOU ARE READING
WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS
FantasyA boy whose home was taken from him seeks freedom. A mindrenderer with dangerous hands hopes to undergo his own redemption arc. When Cole was younger, his mother told him about the men who played at being gods. Self-righteous, arrogant fools who st...
