[Flashback] You're in My Head (Syllke)

[Mara]

Mara supported the heft of his transgressions squarely upon his shoulders. Each step would mine him knee deep into the tundra had it been a perceptible burden. He had adjourned summoning as repeatedly, his esophagus was inflamed with a thorny bite. His small hand shot up to his orifice to cover a hoarse cough, and a retch skirted its way up his windpipe only to be gulped down in one trying mouthful.

He was shattered already having departed the city, and with the recently laden sleet erasing all emblems that pointed to any unambiguous target. His hair freckled with snow-white embellishment, hanging from contrasting strands to slide stick, or slide downhill along the glossed drop onto his cheek. He was not rational any more just fool-heartily hiking, trusting to stumble into something or get lost in nothing.

It took what gave the impression of several bells of feasibly slogging in rings with the resolved of going only headlong, but there at the forefront of his red-hot extremities and numb lips was a lump in the open briny of ivory. He squinted his eyes between the fog of whirling rime and held his hand to shield the snow from his irritated eyes. He traipsed toward the plump bantam alp, a blanket of slush frosting its dusty peak.

His feet paused just out of arm's length before it, the wind howling in his ears, he exposed it to be what he sought for. "Syllke..." it was a lament of relief echoed from the painful sobs that had been wrenched out of him. He stooped before him in more of a collapse than an intended act. He puffed before him kneeling on all four limbs like a beast, and had the entire vapor not been sapped from his now discolored creamy whites, he would have discharged a new current.

"You-" his words opened accusatory and breathless, projecting a subliminal finger at the newly found figure. "-idiot." his voice dropped as he scrapped his knees through the turf to grasp the boy and wrap his arms around his depressed form, cradling his head against his trunk and his own cheek against his crown.

No longer did he have it in him to plead with him, he just desired to melt into one compacted form with the article of his one man search party. He enfolded him forcefully. "What if I couldn't find you? Were you just going to sit out here and freeze?" turmoil was escalating in his voice again his lids padlocked shut so that they formed deep ridges along the thin membrane. His arguments were hypocritical having thought the same thing not far into his grief-stricken trek into the storm. "Don't do that." he pulled him from him to look into his face with a face full of worry and fear. "Don't you ever do that." He squeezed at the artists upper limb assertively, his own face warped into a crease that was rebelliously struggling to exorcise the constructing whimpers and curved from him. The consideration of finding Syllke unresponsive, concealed beneath the snow like he had once imagined his own corpse, stabbed him jaggedly in the chest.

He reflected on the spectacle of his childhood friend plummeting to the bottom of the lake, as he stood and watched stationary by his own fear, and the sight of his mother's stock-still body haunting the bedroom she had always been little more than an empty vessel to begin with, but was now accurately hollow. "I could never forgive you, not ever." his voice crawled out of the desolate cavern of grinding jaws, in a pained sob.

Had he located him right off or even in less of a fear-provoking state, he would have clarified his conducts briefly, shed some light to his behavior and asked for forgiveness, nursed him and gone back exactly as they had come. He was submerged by the reactions he'd been wrestling down with the full realization that he really cared for Syllke, and even in his own phobia of death would have held him captive, it hurt so much more to think of it being Syllke's body brought in to be prepared for burial.

He slackened his grip and brought a hand to his watering eyes and covered them, his body shaking in a kneeling curled heap before the other, this person that had wrapped himself so tightly around his chest with so little effort.

[Syllke Skyglow]

How long he sat like that, tucked into a little ball, Syllke couldn’t have said. The wind was picking up, and the snow falling more densely, now intermittently mixed with a frozen rain of milky ice crystals. He wasn’t cold, but there was some accumulation building up around and over him, so still did he crouch, contemplating his misery and the novel cruelty of an internal world he had barely been cognizant of before today. Any blame that he could conjure in the events that had unfolded, he laid squarely at his own ignorant feet. Obviously, he wasn’t very skilled at reading signals from others – at least not those kinds of signals. He would frequently resolve from time to time to rise and go back to the city, but he was reluctant to face his family, and the explanations they would demand. So he stayed put, each time, telling himself – a few minutes more, and then he’d go. His tears had long since ceased to roll down his cheeks, and his body was now aching from the physical blows it had taken, much as his heart suffered from the emotional ones. He had once again told himself that he really should get up and go before the squall turned into a white out, when, as if in a dream, he heard that voice saying his name. His head popped up and his eyes blinked open, to see Mara dropping down before him. Syllke could not have been more surprised if it had been Morwen herself come to find him. Whatever attempts Mara had made to get his attention, as Syllke had rushed away from the commons, had truly fallen on unhearing ears. Syllke might have expected Mara to go back to his hold, to the clinic, or any numbers of places. But to follow him? All the way out here? It seemed – unbelievable, and he blinked several times to see through the falling mess and make sure this was no hallucination or dream. But no – Mara it was, truly, looking quite spent and ragged from his exertions. Syllke opened his mouth to ask what in the world are YOU doing here?, when he was stoppered by Mara’s indignant assessment of the artist’s wisdom (or lack thereof) for being out in the storm. And before he could reply, two thin arms were wrapped about his head, his shoulders, as Mara had crawled forward on his knees, pulling Syllke up against his snow and sleet encrusted jacket. Without thought or hesitation or embarrassment, Syllke’s arms went likewise to encircle that thin waist and back, his fingers clutching into the fabric of the healer’s jacket desperately, pressing his cheek hard against Mara’s chest. In return he felt the pressure of Mara’s biceps about his shoulders, the other boy’s wet face pressed to Syllke’s head. He heard the relief and the fear and the desire to shelter all mingled in Mara’s voice – and the pain – the sadness – some echo of a ghost that still haunted this beautiful boy. Mara pulled away, though they each still held the other, with hands and with eyes. Syllke’s poor brain could not begin to fathom what had prompted this boy to follow him out into the snow, in light of what Mara had said, the way he had been acting, before. But it wasn’t conscious thought that was called for here. Analytical ability and rational problem solving would not bring him an answer to this puzzle that was Mara. The young artist could only feel this other being – his pain, his concern – his affection. At one level or another, Syllke knew, that Mara cared for him. As Syllke was willing to do battle for Mara, so Mara was willing to risk himself for Syllke. Friends or whatever, Mara’s actions spoke so much more loudly than his words, back there in the commons. Syllke watched as Mara dissolved, from worried admonishment to half whispered plea, the act pinned onto Syllke’s shoulders prospectively being one which belonged to the healer himself, a forgiveness that could not be had – not at any price, for it would have to come from Mara himself. As the other boy’s delicate, skilled, black nailed hand slipped to his distraught face, and he slumped backwards to sit on his heels, Syllke moved forward, rising onto his knees. In a mirror of what Mara had just done, he wrapped the other boy in his arms, pressing his cheek to Mara’s, hugging him tightly. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing, as his instincts guided him to turn his face slightly, his lips brushing against Mara’s cheek, at the fringe of those thick, hard nails. Syllke sighed and moved to pass his lips over Mara’s, an infinitesimally small kiss. Then he pressed once more, lips to lips, more like a real kiss, though still light. His lips lingered a finger’s width away from Mara’s and he whispered, “I’m sorry. I won’t. Don’t cry.”

[Mara]

Mara could not composed himself, his breath lashing in hurried outpourings as the boy held him closely waiting out the subsidence of the outbreak. He inclined into him, compressing himself nearer to him, until any opening between them was essentially occupied. In due course it decelerated, to an enforced inhale and waterlines that spilled from behind his hand dried in ravines along his plains of his veneer.

The placid caress of epithelium over his cheeks until a faultlessly mended whisper of a lip's embrace sketched over his quivering muscles and Mara undertook them, the kiss’s temperateness flooding him with amenity and ease. As he pulled away long enough to ensure a promise; Abandoned, the wall had disintegrated and his reaches seized Syllke's neck in an urgent jerk, until their lips were forced together once more. His hand interwoven in the raven locks that held him steadfast.

His kiss was desperate, fervent, striving to devour every inch of the Vantha, atom by atom. The condensation of the air, of their pressed faces, of their colliding mouths all melded into a muddled heap.

He wrenched away suddenly unconfident, casting his skull to the side and wiping at his reddened face. "I'm the one that should be sorry. I just wanted to protect you..." his voice surprisingly smooth for what had just occurred or how quickly his insides were throbbing.

Was he wrong? Wrong for feeling this way, for feeling this way about a fifteen year old, about a male, about anyone? He had no answers, his intellect was troubled in a tensing haze, and he just wanted more. He wanted more of all of Syllke Skyglow. What that destined or how it could sustain, was irresolute. It was terrifying as much as captivating.

He streaked a fingertip to his pounding mouth, and then pressed a delicate digit to Syllke's soft and inviting lips. "You are important to me, please don't doubt that." He stroked the side of his face, with his palm resting on his face and took in the depth of his sights.

“I know I hurt you.” He stroked at the dry and nearly washed away streaks of rosy bloody. “I also know I got you hurt.”

He leaned forward to press his lips to his forehead, unable to control himself gazing so perfectly before him, and now that he had found him, he did not think he wanted to go back at all.
“I won’t allow people to treat you that way. You would wither away if people fought with you constantly; if they spoke down to you that way, or you felt the need to fight battles for me. I could not possibly allow that, or allow myself to keep all of you. It’s too selfish.” He laid their summits together and closed his eyes. “You are too beautiful to be kept in my cage.” He was not sure what he was doing. Retracting from him again, or just confessing what he knew to be true.

Even if they found they deeply cared for one another, they would eventually become more harmful that helpful to each other. He knew this, yet he wanted to adhere onto him, to stay beyond of the city and survive the blizzard together.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke was almost rocked backwards by the energy of the kiss he received in response to the two so chastely placed on Mara’s soft lips. But the healer had twined his fingers in Syllke’s long hair, commanding him to stay, as Mara’s mouth moved so feverishly against Syllke’s, the intensity of Mara’s feeling palpable and beating and warm. Syllke was caught a bit off guard but it took not even a heart beat for the artist to return that kiss with almost an equal fervor, though his ardor was born of something much more simple, more basic, than the confused passions of the healer. Syllke was on the cusp of a turn into adulthood, one he embraced as eagerly as he now held onto Mara, and this awakening to all that lay before him was irresistible. He could feel only the pleasure of those lips pressing and moving against his, and he did not think beyond that. The tormenting doubt of the past few hours was swept away on a wave of feeling that was crystalline in its newness, and consisted of equal parts physical and emotional. Mara was here. Mara had come to find him. Mara was kissing the hell out of him and that’s all that mattered. As far as Syllke was concerned, that kiss could have outlasted the storm and they could have wound up buried in snow and he would not have complained. But much too soon, much more suddenly than Syllke wanted, Mara had broken away. Syllke felt a bit dazed with both the sudden rush of feeling and then the sudden loss of those lips, but he tried to listen to what Mara was telling him. Though, as the healer placed a finger gently to Syllke’s lip, and then traced his fingertips over Syllke’s cheek, the young artist found it a bit hard to concentrate. The import of Mara’s soft, almost sadly spoken, words, did seep through, however, and the heavy emotions that lay behind them. As Mara pressed his head against Syllke’s, the Vantha’s hand came up to curl about the healer’s neck, sliding under his almost soaking wet hair, his thumb rubbing along Mara’s jawline. The last sentiment though that fell from those intoxicating lips held such a note of melancholic fatalism that Syllke had to protest. It was Syllke that pulled away this time, though no more than a handspan of space separated the two faces, his hand still twined about Mara’s neck. “It is really so complicated?” he asked, gently, his eyes trying to lock into Mara’s. “If you – if you care about me . . .” To express that possibility out loud brought a stutter to Syllke’s tongue and a warm fluttery feeling to his stomach. “And I care about you, then . . . “ He shrugged, struggling to articulate the churn of emotions, hopes, desires and happiness he felt in a way to impress upon Mara that this was a good thing. So that was the only way he found to express it. “Isn’t that a good thing, Mara?” His voice was so warmly optimistic, his heart so naïve. “Doesn’t that – doesn’t that mean that we should be together?” Syllke’s other hand came to slip around Mara’s neck too, his fingertips lacing together as once more he closed the gap between himself and the healer, pressing their foreheads together again. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” he whispered. “Being together, like this?” His lips slid over Mara’s, and he kissed this boy in a way that showed he was quickly leaving behind the uncertain hesitancy of his youth.

[Mara]

Mara minded as the boy appealed his case, their case. He did not interfere or try and interject his own flailing sentimentalities. He wanted it to be bona fide. He wilted into the heartfelt caress enough to enjoy the scouring over his boiling surface. He wished it were that ingenuous and his argument, as simple as spoken, was taken as gospel long enough for him to appreciate their clinch. If he lived in a body of deception, then why would he not be able to persuade himself to consent this as fact, or at least pretend to, ever self-interestedly?

His reservations flushed through his cluttered mind. It would not always be just them, alone in a pasture of ice, without judgments, without restriction, without sorrow. If not someone else that would damage the boy by the very indictments of their association, then he himself would confidently be to blame. He was a healer, but his abilities were not as experienced at mending hearts and sowing spirits. Would this time be evanescent, so much so that one day he would find himself panicked by the distend of his feelings of affection and turn him away out of fright and without provocation? Would he be able to live with himself after the disconsolate appearance upon the artist’s face being restated at his own punishing and calculated wording? Or would Syllke find it too problematic to carry on, too tiresome, and with a kind and uninhibited grin, sentence him to the solitude he thrived in.

His breath was evacuated from him in a wisp of extracted air, their bodies melding together, as he had all to accurately yearned for. “Being together, like this?” and their lips found each other once more. Yes, just like this, was his wordless reply as their mouths seethed against the chilling atmosphere.

He directed his arms to Syllke's curved waist, gripping into the material that conformed against his ribs. He continued headfirst, motivated by pure instinct, so his thighs slipped to either side of the Vantha. Their mandibles tilted awkwardly, but refused to mislay their demand, drawing and greedily straining at the supple flesh. Mara kissed him crudely, a bruising force of crushing mouths and teeth and tongues, and was always concluded with careful tentative licks to sooth the rampant blows, uncontrolled and meticulous, exactly as he was in life.

Mara’s hands compelled their bodies to press, their cloth-covered chests brushing against each other and a steam of fog rising from their panting orifice into the thinning air. He pulled away to look at the Vantha with half-lidded gaze and glistening lips. “I’m not sure whose corrupting who here.” He gasped a hissing chortle slipping between inhales.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke was beyond words, now, beyond thought. He had kissed Mara, a more demanding kiss, meant to seduce and allay Mara’s concerns, and Mara had kissed him back, so passionately it might have taken Syllke’s breath away. But Syllke fought back, a pounding in his blood that impelled him to twist into that kiss, that mouth, his fingers pulling Mara closer, and Mara twining his arms about Syllke and pulling him closer as well. For a long moment, it seemed that the two had a joint goal of melding into one, though quickly Mara’s rampant will to both consume and succor Syllke got the upper hand. Mara straddled Syllke’s thighs with his own and one of the artist’s delicate hands slid down to the small of the healer’s back, clasping him tightly about his waist. It was insane, this intemperate volcano comprised of two desperate beings caught in the middle of what should have been a freezing swirl of ice crystals. But for all they paid attention to the falling sleety snow, the two boys might have been in a dreamscape of the most ethereal, pristine and sublime elements. Syllke was well and truly lost to the feeling of Mara in his mouth, when once more the healer broke off, panting, as if he’d been running. He regarded the healer through eyes hazy with the tidal wave of arousal that had washed over him, and his chest heaved just as Mara’s did. He heard the comment but had no reply. It was seriously doubtful if Syllke could have even managed coherent speech in that moment. Huge, wet clumps of snowflakes all stuck together were pelting down between their barely separated faces, striking skin hot from the inferno boiling within, melting to slide down cheek and chin and neck. They were getting soaked as well as coated in a white rime. With hand on neck and back, Syllke rose upwards, slowly, gracefully, from where he was sitting back on his heels, his lips going to Mara’s again, refusing to be diverted by words that could only take them to an unhappy place. As their lips met, Syllke pushed against Mara gently, supporting his weight with his hands, as they tumbled down into the growing pile of white. Syllke slipped to the side so that he ended up only halfway stretched out beside and on top of the healer. None of Mara’s misgivings mattered, if they had even registered. Not now. All that mattered was the feel of that thin, bony hip jutting into his mid-drift, those satin lips against his own, and the growing heat of Syllke’s own core, which, along with Morwen’s gift, made him oblivious to the chill blanket that began to cover them in white.

[Mara]

Not even a wince was achieved, as their saturated physiques should have been shivering with each pelt, but in its place coursed so broiling they could have unclothed and touched as comfortable. Lined surfaces hailed again, until Mara felt himself tossed back onto the budding powder, his spine stretched out in the recently prepared bed. Had he been more coherent, less engrossed from the treasurable caress, he would have looked startled. Instead he cordially consented to it. Their legs unified between each other, demanding every spare inch together. It could not be decided where one started and the other concluded.

Yet again with reintroduced assertion, they plummeted into the depth of one another. A husky moan reverberated between them as a reconnoitering tongue peeked out to fondle at the foreign territory of newly discovered continents. Exploring draws sinking flags into the soft soil of the tender flesh of their backbones and necks.

Snow sailed down upon them, growing increasingly bushier, piling up on top of their writhing bodies, sugar coating them with bedspread. Mara's misty impulses began to pang at him. He laid the last of tender packed pecks to Syllke's feverish lips. He dragged away with a protesting chew to his own aperture, with one arm locked between their shoulders to preserve him from temptation, the other retracted to double to his chest and press to his tingling lips. "Syllke..." The name never tasted as sweet when his essence still lingered in his jowls.

"We have to go back, this is crazy. We'll freeze and not even realize it." it did not sound so appalling once he had said it out loud and he had to fight the urge to recommence. As his thoughts were enunciated, a penetrating shout hove through the snowfall.

"Hey!" It was an Icewatch gaurd. Apparently aware of two fledgling youths having exited the city gates on the cusps of a blizzard and they had been searching for them. Mara recognized him as one of the Kelvics assigned to the job. No wonder he had uncovered them so easily under their shawl of slush. "Are you two ok?" his voice was gruff, but not very aggressive carrying over the wailing wind.

Mara tipped forward to press another kiss just beyond the boundaries of Syllke's ear, his last chance before being in range for a clear view of them. "Just hush, I'll have him take you to my hold." he whispered. He lifted in the snow, sheet tumbling from his frame.

"His ankle twisted, I've told him not to move, but I'm not capable of caring him back."

The kelvic gaurd shook his head, and without hesitation reached down to scoop Syllke into his solid arms. Mara hoisted, feeling rickety and faint, he stumbled in the snow his clothes feeling unexpectedly and implausibly heavy from sodden moisture. He passed his trembling fingers through his dripping locks, rubbing them in a new messy display.

"Are you hurt too?" the guards face looked skeptically at his bleaching appearance.

Mara tossed his head in answer, aiming to assemble himself, "No."

“There is another just feet from us, he can help you too if you cannot make it.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” His cold and declined behavior returned, his rosy face palling, and posture straightening.

[Syllke Skyglow]

It was highly unlikely that the two would have stayed flopped down in the snow, in that cozy tangle of arms and legs, until they had both actually frozen to death. For one thing, both bore Morwen’s gift. Obviously, if they had been ‘regular’ humans, like the men who Mara had been so assiduously treating the past week, they clearly would not have been comfortable in the middle of a sleet storm, and would have hurried back to the city long since. As it was, the warmth of their goddess running through their veins was enough to keep them comfortable. On top of that, the internal physical reactions of being so entangled, and wound together in such an amorous embrace, helped to both keep them toasty and provided quite an unignorable distraction to the cold and wet. So they were safe, though, as Mara observed, it was a bit nutty to be rolling in the snow like that, when it was entirely possible that they could do the same elsewhere – someplace drier, warmer, and maybe more comfortable? Though Syllke was perfectly, ecstatically comfortable and really had no thought whatsoever of moving, when Mara pulled away, much to the young artist’s dismay. Even the sound of his name on Mara’s lips was hardly enough to dissuade Syllke from trying to re-establish that spine tingling contact. But the arm wedged firmly between them was, at least momentarily. In response to Mara’s sage suggestion, Syllke’s only intent was to dislodge that interfering arm and just keep kissing the boy that he had no desire to let go of. But it seemed fate had something else in store for them. Just on the verge of moving in for that kiss, Syllke too heard the gruff voice, seemingly descending out of nowhere, for the precipitation was so thick he could barely see three feet from his face. Mara was already peering into the frozen distance and Syllke tried to crane his neck so he could look over his shoulder. But Mara’s lips ended up near his ear, planting one last ticklish kiss there and whispering his instructions to remain quiet. Not having any better plan in mind, Syllke did as he was told, and before he knew it, strong arms were lifting him up and away from the healer. At that point, he might have protested – especially when Mara made it clear that he intended to walk out. But at a stern look from the boy for whom Syllke would have unquestioningly jumped into a lake full of crocodiles, the coddled, would-be invalid remained silent, though his brow crinkled into a frown. Another shake of Mara’s sopping locks, pointed directly at Syllke with an obvious meaning, and Syllke crossed his arms over his chest and with a huff of air, resigned himself to following Mara’s lead. It was surprising to Syllke to see just how far he had come away from the city gates, and how equally far Mara had pursued him. At least throughout the messy trek back to the city, Syllke was able to console himself for the loss of Mara’s lips with the thought of the other boy’s solicitude and effort on his behalf. Joined by the other guard, three pairs of feet sludged through the wet, sticky snow, the fourth riding high, if not exactly dry. It took much, much longer going back than it had seemed coming out, as is typically the case with any journey. Syllke kept casting anxious glances at Mara, worried about the healer’s stamina, in the face of the earlier trek, and the steadily worsening weather. But he seemed to be holding up, and the party moved on in silence for the most part. By the time they reached the gate, there really was a blizzard blowing, and it had sunk home at last to Syllke how foolish it would have been for them to stay out a moment longer, despite their gift. Mara now spoke up just enough to give directions as to their destination, and finally – finally, they had arrived and Syllke almost hopped out of the ice watch guard’s arms, so glad was he that the trek was over. Remembering at the last that he was supposed to have a sprain, he allowed the guard to place him on the snow covered ground. Mara came to his side and slipped his arm under Syllke’s, and Syllke obliged by raising his foot up, resting just the toe in the snow. They both gave the two guards their thanks, and in return they were given a very brief lecture about being more careful of the weather. The men then departed, obviously happy to get somehwere in out of the storm. Syllke was sorely tempted to turn his head to the side and plant a kiss on Mara’s cheek, but he managed to show some restraint. “Um, they’re out of sight. I think you can let me go now,” he smirked. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you just want to keep holding me.”

[Mara]

Mara ironically gathered his breath on the revisiting passage, finding it easier to face the elements with deep and conscious breathing than to acquire air between their aforementioned actions. He strove not to look at him too regularly, to pay him much notice and emphasis only on walking. It was challenging, the eyefuls he stole were ones he bemoaned, for suddenly just the aspect of him made his ribcage tighten and an uncomfortable stiffness seize him at the sight of arms not his own supporting him.

When they had ultimately returned and been given a proper lecture, which they were almost convincingly respectful during. Mara rotated to Syllke, still dangled over his shoulders, and that devilish smirk creeping across his cheeks.

At his enticing commentaries, Mara fought back a grin, instead shrugging him off with a spirited shove. "Can we at least make it inside first?" he curved pushing the door of the Whitevine hold ajar.

Once inside he crooked over his shoulder to address him "Don't think this gets you out of an examination." he paused wondering if his arguments would be taken in a changed fashion. He settled they likely would be and pointed him a forced firm look. "-and not that kind." He reproached.

They touched the topmost of the staircases and made their way to the indistinguishable empty office they had been in upon their first consultation. He drew the curtains just like the first time, and repeated eerily comparable actions. The auxiliary garbs had already been swapped; fresh supplies as well of course, even a fresh bottle of liquor. He kneeled down and pulled out the clothes just like before. "Seems this is becoming a habit of ours." he stood and handed the folded clothes to Syllke. He gave the impression of being composed and unshaken.

He skimmed his face and cleaned at the slightly swollen cut upon his cheek, and then procured his immaculate orbs in a brief containment. He lugged away and squeezed the hems of his coat "Should I turn around?" already he initiated shrugging off his own jacket from his tapered shoulders. The ink across his chest and torso glistened beneath his washed-out and now virtually translucent top, sluggish dribbles of water still crashing with the caramel skin from clumped strands of blackened hair.

He grasped the edge of his shirt and pulled it away from his body and over his head, turning from his guest in the same motion, electing to spare him the demonstration of his disrobing body, within conscious view at least. He walked not far and wrapped the sopping clothes into a well-ordered pile, resting them in the corner. He reached for a towel along the counter and ran it through his hair and over his body, resting it across the back of his neck as he pulled off his pants to join their waterlogged comrades.
Again the black silk robe was pulled over his form and tied ornately at the waist. The fabric creating pleating flows as they fell from his slightly curved hips. “Done?” he asked leisurely pivoted with his hands woven into his locks to wring the last of the moisture from them with twisting hands.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke laughed outright at Mara’s response, now seeing that the healer would often be hiding his true intent behind cautionary words. Mara was like a shy sparrow, that required coaxing and some amount of stillness to get him to hop into a proffered hand of friendship. One false move, especially in the open, and he would flitter off to a wary distance. But Syllke wasn’t bothered by that, now that he understood – or at least, was beginning to understand - this complicated and captivating boy. So he followed Mara inside and up the same set of stairs, his good humor restored completely since he had left the city at a run. He smirked at Mara’s additional warning about being examined, and thought silently to himself that Mara should not be so very sure of the outcome of this adventure. But he trailed obediently behind the one who was in charge and allowed Mara to repeat his preliminary actions of letting in what little light was to be had through the sleety precipitation flicking against the window. Syllke watched Mara fetching new, dry clothes and he snickered again at Mara’s observation. “I hope so, though I could do without having to have an injury, just to get the chance to take my clothes off around you.” Mara seemed to ignore that remark, which was probably wise, and instead, bent his attention and his eyes on the cut on Syllke’s cheek. But then they came up and locked on Syllke’s - only for a moment though, before the healer stepped away Should I turn around? Mara’s pseudo-innocent, pseudo-joking quip floated like a downy feather between them, as Mara’s deft fingers went to shrug off the sodden jacket that encased his thin shoulders and torso. The wet shirt, transparent with the melted snow, quickly followed and even that sheer veil was lifted, to reveal Mara’s almost wraith like frame, decorated with swirls and slashes and dots of ink. That feather could as easily drift one way or the other, dependent on the whim of the currents that wafted between the two boys. Syllke still had not answered, even as Mara turned to place his wet jacket and shirt in the corner. And he had good reason not to. For what he really wished to say was, No, not this time. The last time they had gone through these motions, he had been unsure of how Mara would take it – seeing him undress. It had been predominantly for the healer’s sake of modesty that Syllke had made that request, though he had never explained that. And what had subsequently happened had, unexpectedly, rattled Syllke a fair bit more than he would have anticipated. But this time . . . no, he had no real objection to stripping down and redressing, no matter whether Mara was watching or no. He just wondered if Mara was really only teasing, or whether the healer wanted Syllke to give him the excuse he needed to turn around – and not because of shyness. No, it seemed they were past that, for the moment. It could easily return to suppress and limit their interactions. But Syllke doubted very much that either one of them was feeling very inhibited right at that moment in time. So he wondered if Mara had asked . . . in order to avoid the temptation that he might fear he could not resist. It was a tantalizing thought, and Syllke was a bit distracted by it, and so still remained silent, and then . . . Mara himself removed the last of his sopping wet clothes, and for a moment, he was wearing nothing but a towel – wrapped about his neck. Well, now Syllke was totally distracted, and his foot probably could have been on fire and he would not have noticed. There were definitely other parts of him that were on fire, metaphorically speaking though it felt like literally, and all he could do was look, unabashedly, curiously, and with a pull inside that spoke of the many things he did not yet know about Mara, but wished very badly to discover. By the time Mara had slipped his robe on and turned, Syllke was still just standing there, dry clothes clamped in a ball to his chest, rapidly getting damp as they absorbed the moisture from the ones he wore, his mouth not agape but simply set in an unmoving trancelike mask. He blinked, twice, and seemed to come out of it, and his lips twisted into a grin. “My fingers are really sore, from the fight,” he said, holding out his hand so Mara might note the slight abrasions on his knuckles from where he had used his fist as a weapon. “I might need some help, again. Like last time.” He smirked, knowing that Mara would know he wasn’t serious. Though if Mara wished to execute his amazing blind man’s clothing removal service routine again, there was no way in hell that Syllke would object – although he might suggest Mara would find it easier if he kept his eyes open.