The Stains Beneath Our Skin [mxm] ✔

19 | Wolfsbane

The magic of the night before vanished in a puff of some unpleasantly greenish smoke when Casper woke up in Cain's bed with no Cain to make it the entire point of Cain's bed. Ironic that. And miserable. He'd clawed himself to about two minutes from making himself leave the warmth to go sulk in his room again when his stomach growled.

Easy choice there. The thought of pulling aside that mirror to hide it made his skin crawl and lying in bed with it right there – nuh uh, no way.

Just a shame that when he trudged into the kitchen with about as much pizzazz as a floorboard, rubbing this shitty sand out of his eyes, Cain was already sat at the table. He pored over a nauseatingly thick book with his equally nauseating bowl of weird healthy breakfast stuff.

The fruit yoghurt oats thing was almost gone, just the ends stuck to the sides of the bowl left, and a steaming cup of coffee rested in front of him. While Casper watched him, his finger stopped in the centre of a page and groaning around the spoon in his mouth, he slumped back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The wisteria trickling past the window cast a sweet lilac tint to his skin no matter how overcast the day outside.

Alright, looked like this weird fuck-off fluttering and breath-catching and fuzziness all through his lungs and his fucking kidneys or whatever hadn't vanished with the magic of last night. Probably liver damage. Easier to go with that. Casper made himself scowl and shuffled over to the table, wiggling his fingers at R2. The thing was doing whatever magic a sorcerous construct did in the kitchen to actually make food. Cain didn't look at Casper, even though he'd absolutely seen him coming and that stiffness hadn't been in his shoulders a second ago.

At least none of that psycho breakdown vibe had carried over. A shudder clutched at Casper's ribs, echoed by that howling laughter. Maybe it'd been stupid coming down here, but he'd already done the stupid running to Cain last night so...

He was still playing the game, wasn't he? Now more than ever, he needed to get out, 'cause Cain had just told him what was gonna happen if he stayed.

Hands around his throat, choking the life out of him.

(Soft fingers tracing his scars under the brush of starlight, and a slow smile as if every broken thing about Casper was beauty crystallized into a dewdrop kiss.)

Casper dumped himself into his chair and pulled Cain's coffee toward him. Call that exactly how bad Cain's mood was that he didn't even oi him or anything. Casper sipped the boiling liquid. Milk. Gross. And ow.

"You weren't there when I woke up."

Cain's eyes didn't leave the window, a stubborn cast to his jaw. "I didn't think you'd want me to be."

Which Casper couldn't argue with at all, except he'd kinda had wanted Cain to be there. He kinda missed waking up in that gross sweaty mess with Cain already awake, stroking his hair and watching the dozy fluttering of Casper's eyes with so much awe that Casper could have been an angel instead of dirty, ghoulish Roach Boy.

Didn't matter that Casper hadn't been able to go five minutes without something cruel spilling from his lips – sometimes unintentionally, sometimes because he felt sick with himself if he didn't put it there – because those five minutes until he snatched the soft wonder from Cain's face were pure bliss.

Except this time, he just wanted it to be all that bliss. Nothing but googly eyes and holding hands and the way Cain laughed when Casper baited him in for the viciousness. Just that, all the way down to breakfast and all the way through the day until Casper stopped thinking all this sappy crap and got his fucking head on square. Idiot.