warmth
Lily M.
The hand against his is warm. Barnaby is not sure if it is because of the warm drinks the other has brought over, or because he's the one feeling cold – abnormally cold, abnormally out of himself. He doesn't know, but the hand is warm; a warmth that spreads fast, up his arm, inside his chest.
Another hand reaches up, takes off his glasses. For a moment he's looking at nothing, absolutely nothing; the steam coming from half-drunk drinks on the coffee table, his jacket lying on another couch, not quite remembering taking it off. And then he focuses. He looks up and he focuses, and that warmth is so close, so suddenly close he almost backs away, rejecting it, remembering things he didn't want to remember.
Remember.
There is a touch of lips on his forehead, and he freezes. Too close, too close, and he closes his eyes tightly, the lips moving to brush against his eyelids. Barnaby doesn't notice he's crying until he feels his tears being brushed away. There are no screams, his head doesn't hurt. The tears fall and he doesn't know why, he cannot stop.
The voice speaks up, too close, and his insides stop twisting in anxiety. Because he knows it, knows it too well, although the tone is new, the softness, the care. He can't respond, his arms are limp and he has barely any strength to open his eyes, but he relaxes. Tilts his head up for a second, for a millimeter, and their noses touch. He's simultaneously cold and warm, simultaneously there and not. He feels like he might wake up at any moment and everything will be gone, but he also feels like falling asleep, deeper into this dream.
It's not a dream.
It's over, Bunny.
It's over.
He lets himself fall, and somewhere in his mind he's conscious, he's telling himself that it's wrong, that it's against his principles, that he's making the same mistake again and again and over again. He's exposed, bare, and getting carried away and he knows it has happened before, he remembers, but isn't it a mistake, isn't it—
He's leaning against a chest, and there is a hand in his hair, moving in its own pattern, caressing, comforting. There should be a million things running through his head, there had been, some time before he entered this apartment, some time between the end of the battle and the beginning of… this. Some time between feelings of relief and betrayal and anger and happiness, there had been thoughts. There might have been.
But he didn't know what to do with himself then and he let himself be led, somewhere, here. There are words being spoken against his ear and he has no idea what they're saying, but it's his voice; attaching itself back to his memory, refusing to let go. Over. It was over. He could think about the future now. Later.
Tomorrow.
He's aware he's falling, but he doesn't have the strength to bring himself back up, doesn't want to bring himself back up. He has a whole new path awaiting him, but right now he's tired and he lets himself fall.
Because there are arms waiting for him.
When Barnaby falls asleep in Kotetsu's arms, he doesn't know that, actually, he had fallen a long time ago. On one day he didn't know when, in some way he didn't know how, he had fallen. And when he opened his eyes again, he would know, know that it was not falling from grace, but falling into something much better than that.
And he would allow himself to trust again—trust himself to those warm arms.