. : HELLACIOUS : .

The Hate

Kash pressed Malcolm's shoulders, stood on their toes, eyes closed, lips against his as scarred and dry as could be.

He was as surprised as them (thunderstruck?), hands hovering in the air, still as an snowdrift before an avalanche.

Am I... doing this right?

Damnit I'm ruining this.

I knew I'd mess this up, I knew it, I knew it-

Then the dam broke and flooded the village underneath, helpless to stop it. All rational thought was decimated, drowned, suffocated.

Without breaking contact for a single second, Malcolm's hands magnetically found Kash  and backed them until they were perched on the hood of the car like before except this time his shoulders were within grasping range and they took full ownership of a moment that would always, always, always be theirs.

Oh my God...

Something metal clanged on the ground and Kash dimly recognized it as Malcolm's coffee mug but neither stopped to save it.

"Hey, your-"

"Leave it."

"O-okay."

The bonds didn't quite know what to do after that.

Neither did the D'Jinn, who only had instinct and educated guesses and feelings.

Malcolm's eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed, but Kash didn't want to miss a single expression. They gasped into each other's mouths and the kiss deepened, and it was weird being so close but it was worse than not being close enough and Kash wasn't sure who made that whining noise but they needed to hear it again right freaking now and it was a glorious mess but it was a helluva kiss as far as first kisses go.

But it was more than that.

It was half a year of words unsaid and useless pining and waiting for-

This. That. Them. Him. His hands. Kash loved his hands. The smart knobs at every finger joint. Malcolm's hands alone completely debunked the whole Intelligent Design theory. No sacred, omniscient, omnipotent being would dare create a brute as depraved as Billy with the same consciousness that crafted a man as wonderful as Malcolm.

He had scholar's hands, writer's hands, musician's hands, hands that transformed thought into living color in a matter of pen strokes. Typewriters became piano keys under Malcolm's care.

His smile alone inspired rich words in ancient languages Kash couldn't ever remember hearing, their bodies willing, writhing sheet music. Malcolm was an Alchemist. His fingertips smeared molten gold over their exposed copper bones.

Their teeth clacked and their noses bumped and it was alright.

They could get better.

They had time.

"We should-"

"Yeah-"

"Okay. Let's-"

"Kash." He said it soft like a prayer. "Kash, Kash, Kash."

"Yeah, ah, you're so-"

"I know."

"Can we- I mean, can I-"

"Yes. Hell yes. Please."

"Thank you. Thank you."

"Kash." He said it again. And again. "Oh, Kash. I'm the one who should be thanking you."