If there are ANY darco fans out there AT ALL who write, or draw, or make graphics, or just DISCUSS Darco DARCO APPRECIATION WEEK is going on RIGHT NOW. And it's kinda flopping and it's SAD. So if you CAN contribute pleeeease do so! We're very excited for new people and whatever we can get to share the darco love. It'll be over on the 24th so we really want to get as much as possible while it's still around! Thank you. :love: There is linkage in my profile! go!
Dylan shot upright in bed, chest heaving in time with his heart and cold sweat sticking to his skin. Flashes of nightmares sped before his eyes, slowly dissolving into the black. The dark room was completely, eerily silent save for his own labored breathing mingling with the faint serenade of crickets outside and the AC coughing into life and then dying.
Next to him a whisper of sheets filtered into the velvet silence and, dream forgotten, Dylan turned his head. Beside him lay Marco, curled over on his side tightly, facing him and breathing softly, fragilely. He felt his gaze soften automatically.
It had been ages since Dylan had gotten to watch Marco sleep, so busy falling into an exhausted coma every night and hitting the snooze button repeatedly in the morning to spare the time. He remembers earlier in their relationship he used to lie awake simply for this...this charged quiet, almost tangible, precariously held together with thin paper dreams and scotch tape sighs. Some nights the feelings would feel so great, so monumental, and Dylan feared this perfect peace, this awe inspiring breathing silence, would be shattered...become little melancholy fragments of perfection littering his bedspread.
Marco shifted quietly beside him, shrinking even further into himself, his curly hair falling into his face. Dylan smiled softly, reaching up a hand to brush back the hair, fingers lingering and ghosting in silent contemplation.
Missing this, he decided, was such a pity. Being able to observe someone you hold so dear when they are at their most vulnerable, most trusting. It was a strange feeling, knowing a person has that extraordinary faith in you, knowing Marco was so sure of his presence, so sure of him that he could slumber at his side without worry and without consequence. It was humbling in the most terrifying way.
How easy it would be to simply slide out of the covers, walk out the door, and disappear into the night. And yet Marco slept on beside him every night without fail, eyelashes fluttering and warm breath melting into his skin, smelling of that expensive shampoo and sunshine and smiles, all soft skin and dazzling beauty until Dylan felt like giving up on everything because it simply didn't make sense. He had been told so early in life that no one was perfect.
Had they lied?
Dylan ran his fingers down the man's cheek. Perhaps they hadn't lied. After all he was still so very surprised he had been given the chance to know this person, to speak to him for five minutes of time, to know that subtle quality that just was. Maybe they simply hadn't known Marco, he decided. And he pitied them for that. Because surely then...they'd have known without a shadow of doubt perfection was alive and well, breathing right beside him in the oncoming dawn.
He realized there was a lump in his throat, and Dylan swallowed painfully, brushing his fingers yet more softly against the light shadows of Marco's temple, watching those delicate eyelashes jump the smallest bit in sleep at the touch.
With a tiny heartfelt sigh he lifted his fingers, allowing them simply hover above the younger man's cheek, almost certain he could feel the dizzying heat emanatating from his skin. The Italian was a furnace when he slept, even though Dylan knew Marco was constantly freezing. At night Marco would climb into bed and immediately clutch to Dylan's side, soaking up the heat and comfort offered there. In return Marco always took a shower before bed, so that his hair would be wet and cool to the touch so Dylan wouldn't burn up completely, being hot-blooded. But the fact remained, that during the night Dylan would reach a point of passing out from the heat in the room and have to very gently pry away Marco and scoot him to the other side of the side.
The Italian of course never knew until morning and usually built a cocoon of blankets in his sleep, burrowing deeper and deeper as the hours went by until every inch of olive skin was obscured from view.
Right now all Dylan truly saw was the man's face and he marveled at the soft lines there, the shadow of lashes against cheek, and the faint stirring of hair across his forehead. He could truly watch Marco forever, he thought, slowly allowing the elbow he was propped up on to slide down, his head coming to lie on the pillow as he stared silently.
What would he give, Dylan wondered, to simply make the night hours last longer. To keep this cherished silence even one second longer than he was given. One breath more of serenity. A last infinitesimal of grace to remind him of what he lived for.
Out of the ghostly, penetrating silence the faint rustle of whispering sheets sounded once more and Dylan watched as a small dark hand creeped out from under a blanket near his stomach. It made him smile for unknown reasons and instead of jump towards the touch immediately he laid deathly still, waiting. As if sensing the lack of reaction even in sleep Marco unconsciously moved his hand further from it's warm sanctuary and inched further, touching Dylan's chest, causing him to inhale sharply but still not move.
As if pulled by silent strings thin, spidering fingers trailed up, running along his arm with aching slowness. Dylan felt his eyes flutter shut against the thousands of heartbreaking feelings this single touch of fingertips stirred within him and as the hand finally reached his neck, curling securely there and protecting the fine beat of his heart like a fragile guard, Dylan felt his self-restraint fall away.
Swallowing against the restriction in his throat once again, stunned it was still there, he raised his own hand, sliding it gently and lovingly under the covers, finding the Italian's arm and following up until he allowed his hand to cup Marco's throat as well, thumb brushing against the soft skin, eyes stock still as if waiting for the eyes to open at the touch, as if waiting for the moment to break.
But the frail moment held tightly, the dust quiet left undisturbed and his paper heart in one piece.
Marco shuffled his body across the small space seperating them in his sleep, curling even tighter and closer to Dylan than usual, his head burying in Dylan's chest and his tiny hand keeping it's place over the most precarious part of Dylan.
The beat of his heart.
Dylan wondered if Marco could feel it breaking, too full of everything...every touch, every sigh, every unheard declaration that fell on sleeping ears.
Batting away the heart-rendering feelings for yet another night Dylan pulled Marco closer, completely unaware of the sweltering heat of the night and instead focusing on the amazing warmth of Marco, of the man he loved and the amazing hush that danced around him...
All he could feel was Marco breathing beside him. In...and out...in...and out...as steady as the minutes that ticked by in blissful ignorance...of the small, soul-shaking moment they were a part of.
Your brain is telling you to review. o.o it is. it is.