Title: A Never Ending Story
Author: MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)
Rating: M overall, but 98% of it will be lower than that.
Spoilers: Everything
Summary: Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story.
A/N: This is not going to be a long, plotted fic, because, as you may have gathered, I am rather rubbish when it comes to finishing those. What it is going to be, however, is a series of vignettes that chart Christian and Syed's new life; snapshots of their life, moments that they share, key points rather than the whole narrative. Because there is so much to be explored. I really want to relish the new found creative freedom we have with these characters, and give myself the opportunity to write whatever takes me at the time.
Never Ending Story Rocky Roads
The hotel room is alright, considering it was only booked today (or was it yesterday? Syed has lost track). There's enough space for them to have already made it their own; odds and ends spill from their open suitcases, and a few pieces of discarded clothing lie crumpled around the bed like worshippers circling an altar. The road outside is a little loud, granted, and the humidity isn't something they're used to after the gloomy streets of East London, but, all in all, it's okay.
Syed lies still, staring at the ceiling as he counts the gentle breaths from the other side of the bed. The sheets are shucked to the side, one of his legs hanging lazily over the edge of the mattress. Even if this hadn't given him some respite from the heat, he wouldn't have had much choice in the whole 'leg-out-in-the-open' business. Christian has stolen the covers.
By all accounts, he should be exhausted. First the flight was delayed; then the plane had hit turbulence, shaking them awake with a calculated viciousness every time they began to doze off; when they'd finally got off the plane and managed to find their bags (Christian had rainbow tags, which Syed would have rolled his eyes at if hadn't made the whole bag-finding process a lot easier), they'd received a message from Jane saying she couldn't meet them, but she'd booked a hotel room and a taxi in their name and all – all, yes, all – they had to do was find it.
When they'd finally stumbled in to their room at some godawful time, all sense of time and space – and anything other than opening suitcases for the bare essentials, and then getting undressed, and then collapsing on the bed – had been left somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
It wasn't exactly how he'd envisaged the first day of their 'new life'.
After all, aren't reunions or eloping or epic love stories or whatever it was that they're supposed to be doing sealed with slow, burning, passionate love-making? It all seems pretty disappointing at face value, as he remembers nothing more intimate than the hand on his back to steady him as he nearly tripped over the corner of the bed. There was the kiss to his forehead as they settled, the warm heat of Christian's body stretched out so that their limbs just touched - but it hadn't taken long for Christian to fall asleep, rolling over to the other side of the bed and taking the covers with him.
Not that Syed minds. He figures he owes him that.
But he can't sleep. Not yet.
The future seems to be a looming large, a lot more foreboding than it had been as they left the Square hand-in-hand. The less-than-smooth introduction to 'living the dream', as his dad had graciously put it, has fuelled a nervousness that niggles under his skull. It's a timely reminder that there's no such thing as a happy ending; because it's never an ending, there's always more story to be told, and the next chapter is something that both terrifies and thrills him.
Syed knows that they still have a way to go – they have a lot to rebuild, to re-find, to work out in order to make sure that the next ending turns out as well as this last one, and the next one, and the next one. Because he also knows that they haven't fixed anything, not really, other than their conviction to try. But trying is the most important part. And he believes they can do it. They've as good as promised each other that they will succeed. There's no way out, no going back now, no ducking out or avoiding the issue. They have made their choice, and they will make it work. Because they want to. And because it's so, so worth it.
Still, the weight of everything he's done sits heavily on him, pressing down with the humidity to squash any threat of sleep from his mind. He can't shake the guilt. Or the fear. A part of him wants to go to his mum for a hug, or to Tamwar for advice, or to Yasmin, just to pick her up in the middle of the night and breathe her in as he whisper his worries and hopes and dreams into her hair.
But he can't do that. Not now. Because this is them. Him and Christian. No one else. Not for a while.
And he knows that's what they need.
Syed shifts onto his side, shuffling inelegantly across the bed so that Christian's heat bathes him in a warm glow. He closes his eyes for a second, reaching out a hand, laying it on Christian's back and moving forward until it's pressed between them.
"Christian?"
Christian doesn't respond immediately. Syed repeats the word like a mantra, softy, until he hears a snuffling sound and feels Christian begin to shift into consciousness.
"Hng – what?"
His words are slurred, croaky, little more than a low breath skittering on the edges of sleep. Syed closes his eyes again, before pressing his lips gently to the centre of Christian's shoulder blades. The sensation brings Christian around a little more, especially as Syed breaks the kiss but keeps his forehead resting against the back of Christian's neck. It's as though, now he has it, he can't break the contact. And although he can tell by the cadence of Christian's breath, by the way his muscles tense and relax, that Christian is awake, or as awake as he is going to be, he doesn't feel any movement.
As though Christian is waiting for him to speak.
His lips brush Christian's back again, pressing against the heated skin, and he can't pull them away.
"We're going to be okay, aren't we?"
He can't decide whether it's a statement or a question; it sounds more like a question from his lips than he intended, his fear bleeding out of the words and into Christian's flesh. He keeps his face against Christian's neck, buried, hiding, attuning every nerve into his body, reading his response, his language, the unspoken words that he really, really needs to hear.
Christian moves but doesn't turn; sudden but gentle, his hand reaching around his body, fingers splayed out, seeking, searching, wanting, inviting - and Syed takes it, silently prising his hand from Christian's back and linking their fingers together, letting Christian manoeuvre their joined hands until Syed's palm is pressed to the centre of his gently thrumming chest.
When Syed wakes up in the morning, their positions have shifted – unconsciously seeking some respite from the unbearable heat of their two bodies – but he's still holding Christian's hand.
Thank you for reading!