It had been a long, long day.
Actually, it had been a long, long three months. Since El Dorado.
She walked down the cobbled streets of a land called Spain in a ridiculous amount of clothing: layers of petticoats were wrapped around her under a heavy dress cinched at her gut with a corset. She had to look down as she walked: she couldn't even see her ankles.
The buildings were about the same size as she was used to…except for the churches, which were tall and almost as wide as the gods' temple. The colors were drab: greys and browns made up the clothes and buildings. The food—for the most part—was okay, although the meat had far less spice than what she was used to. But then, they couldn't afford meat that often, anyway.
The faces around here were all white; she got used to it within the first week. But they didn't.
Everyone was looking at her, even now. A few young women smirked at her as they walked by, hiding their mouths behind their hands as if that would truly cover anything up. The men gawked; one had the audacity to wink at her. Usually she'd be mildly amused by all the pettiness, but it was all getting old.
To all the faces around her, she was a beautiful exotic flower being successfully smothered by their foreign climate. She was a walking demonstration of the wonders of the "New World," and how it could be tamed. Domesticated.
Beneath her coarse layer of indifference, the embers burned hot.
She told them she wouldn't be back until evening, but they didn't need that many supplies, so she was at the door of the modest, shambled hotel by late morning.
She started up the staircase in her ridiculous outfit carrying a bundle of various non-perishables to the third floor where their room was. Soon enough, she made it to the faded-blue door that had bits of paint and wood chipping off. It was still relatively early, and since the hinges squeaked, she opened the door very slowly.
The room was sparse, the biggest of the few objects in it being the bed, in which he lay with his back to her. His hair was out of its ponytail, the raven waves rolling down his back and onto his pillow like a black waterfall. He was sleeping on one arm, with the other slung over to the other side of the bed where she couldn't see. His skinny torso and long legs were exposed; the blanket only covered his rear.
She smiled. Sleeping in the same bed as him was sometimes a challenge. She shook her head, making her way over to the small table in the corner of the room opposite him to set down the supplies. Once she did so, she turned around to look at him one more time.
.
.
.
She froze.
His arm was slung over a pair of narrow hips. The person under his arm lay down facing him: their noses touched. Only their middles were covered by the blanket, which spilled over onto the floor. Two very different, complimentary faces mirrored each other: his framed by dark waves, the other by straight, fine hairs of gold.
They were naked.
She blinked.
She…should feel more upset, but she didn't. She was fond of both of them: they were her only spots of color in this new, drab world she conned her way into. She had conned him into her bed, and had done the same to his heart, and…she thought that he had done the same to her. But looking at them together now, she realized that that was never the case. They belonged to each other. She always knew that, she suddenly realized.
She was indifferent...but looking at them together, she felt at peace.
She found a scrap piece of paper, something to write with, and left a note on the nightstand. She took one last look at them—one last look at him—before she headed out the door, loosening her bodice as she went. They would be off on a new adventure soon, and she would be off on her very own to conquer this new world she found herself in.
She smiled.
He woke up early in the afternoon, judging from the golden sunlight filtering through the half-open shutters on the window. That sunlight fell onto the equally golden hair of his recently-realized love. He smiled.
He sat up, gently, hesitantly removing his arm from over slender hips. It was time to start the day, and she would be back in a couple of hours.
He frowned.
He knew he should tell her, but this…what he had here, finally, was still new to him, despite it being several years in the making. Hell, he'd go so far as to say it was coming since the day he entered the world, even though he didn't believe in Fate. He didn't know how to fully explain it to himself, let alone her. He couldn't imagine what her reaction would be.
He ran his hand over his face; it was too early to be thinking this much, but that had never stopped him before. His fingers caught in his hair.
Shaking his head, he turned over to get the ribbon to tie up his hair in its usual style. As he blinked light into his eyes, he felt something dry and crisp under his fingertips. Frowning, more in confusion than anything, he picked up the object: it was a piece of paper. He blinked again, now fully awake. He leaned back against the headboard and read:
It's okay. I took my share of the supplies.
-Chel
"Tulio?"
He dropped the note onto the floor, staring blindly into the wall.
"Tulio, are you alright?" he heard the blond ask up from the pillow. After a moment—a small eternity—he felt a gentle, calloused hand carefully cup his cheek to turn his head. He went from staring at the wall to gazing into sleepy, vibrant green eyes framed by disheveled, perfect golden hair. The man beneath him gifted him with a familiar, divine smile. Looking at him, he was consumed by happiness.
"Yeah, Miguel. I'm fine. Everything's…perfect."
Miguel nodded, tilting his chin up. Tulio bent down, meeting him halfway to kiss that smile that had always cooled him and soothed him. He took Miguel in his arms as they settled back against their pillows. Their next adventure could wait.
A/N: I wrote this one Hell of a long time ago…six years, maybe? There's nothing really that…spicy about it, but I'm still proud of it and thought it might be worth sharing. If you want, let me know what you think!
