a cross in the void // christopher lightwood {4}

thirteen // the book of invasions

Pluto woke to find Christopher beside them, sleeping, his mouth pulled into its usual faint sleep-frown. They slid their arms around him and held him close. He was warm and soft and he smelled, as always, of smoke and soap and dust. Pluto rested their head on his shoulder, looking out the window at the rain and the dark and the streetlamps. They reached out and shut their alarm clock off before it could go off and wake Christopher up.

He woke up anyway, letting out one of those annoyed morning groans and reaching to rub at his eyes so he could get them open. "Hullo, Pluto."

"Hey. How're you doing?"

"Well, my mother might very well kill you if she figures out where I was all night, but other than that, I'm alright." Christopher paused for a minute, considering. "She didn't kill anyone when I went to Scotland, however, so you might be safe."

Pluto winced. "Speaking of Scotland," said Pluto, "I kind of owe you an apology for that."

"For what?"

"Treating everybody like shit and completely wrecking myself for two weeks trying to get this research done."

"Don't." Christopher reached out and put a hand on Pluto's chest. "Don't do that to yourself. If I beat myself up like this every time I overfocused on an experiment, I would be afraid to pursue science for fear of doing it again. It hurt to watch that, but you're pulling yourself out of it now."

"Okay." Pluto swallowed, sniffed—allergies, they told themself, probably had to be—and met Christopher's violet eyes again. "Thank you. Thanks. A lot."

Christopher reached up, the pads of his fingers ghosting Pluto's chin. "May I kiss you? I don't know if now would be a good time."

"Go ahead."

Christopher shifted and pressed his lips gently to Pluto's own. It was gentle, tentative, as it always was. Pluto sank their fingers into his hair, savored the taste of him, the soft heat of his mouth. They'd had three months now of this, but the feel of newness, of something just beginning, still hadn't gone away.

Christopher pulled back, catching one of Pluto's hands and pressing his knuckles to his lips. Then he started sitting up, leaving Pluto to gather the blankets closer for warmth. He'd borrowed Pluto's Catzilla t-shirt to sleep in and it looked so odd, Christopher of the 20th Century in Pluto's clothes of the future.

"Will you join us in the library this afternoon?" Christopher asked. "For more research?"

"Sure," said Pluto. "I'll meet you there . . . one-ish?"

"One-ish sounds good. When is breakfast?"

< & >

Breakfast was at seven. They spent the couple of hours beforehand getting ready for the day and going over notes and kissing against the kitchen counter. Kissing Christopher was an odd, but pleasant experience. Neither of them needed to do it any more than Pluto needed to wear dangly earrings, or Christopher needed to write in blue ink instead of black. But it was fun and it felt good and it brought them closer and often it produced laughter so they did it anyway.

Eventually Pluto checked the time and it was seven-oh-three and they were already late.

Downstairs, Pluto discovered that Caró was back, her red eyes tracking Pluto across the room, smooth black hair pulled back into a braided bun at the nape of her neck. She nodded sharply at the both of them. As usual, the place in front of her remained unset.

Saoirse was busy, her nose in a ledger.

"Is that accounting?" asked Christopher.

Saoirse smiled. "Mhm."