Thank you to the person that followed and favourited this story, and by that reminded me I hadn't posted the two last chapters xD
No TW today, this is a nice -well,,, as nice as it can be- chapter :P
(Also, I know it looks like the premise of a sex scene at some point, but there is no smut in this fic. Don't be disappointed.)
Melon wakes up with a jolt.
He stays lying there, unmoving – waiting for the nightmare to fully dissolve back into nothingness – until a large palm lands gently on his shoulder. His subconscious seems to know what's going on because it doesn't startle him, though it does take a few more seconds for the pieces to fall back into place, the room slowly building itself up from the bottom all around his mind. He's in Agata's bed and, unless something very bad happened and miraculously didn't wake him up, the hand on his arm belongs to the same Congo lion.
He opens an eye, squinting against the sunlight. He's not used to sleeping in until morning, and right now he's vaguely tempted to consider the sun rays a personal offence – but finally, as he gets used to it, he can make out the outline of Agata's figure, sitting up on his own side of the bed. His phone screen paints his face with subtle tones of blue, and also apparently requires his entire attention.
Melon shifts and the hand withdraws.
"You're awake?"
"Hmm, I-" The hybrid is interrupted by a yawn, then continues: "Just now. What time is it?"
"Past ten.
"Really? Eh… So, you were waiting for me, kitty? That's cute."
Agata only hums in response. (And the hybrid can't say he isn't the tiniest bit disappointed by the lack of reaction.)
"And what is the world doing in this lovely morning?" He says, gesturing vaguely towards the phone. "It seems that whatever it is, it's captivating."
"They found Grace's body already."
"Oh."
Melon sits up, now completely awake, but can't find anything else to say. Agata is back to staring at the little screen, going through what must be a news report.
"What does it say?" the hybrid eventually asks.
Agata scrolls back up then reads out loud:
"The esteemed social worker was stabbed over ten times and horribly disfigured. It has been ruled out by the autopsy report, however, that what ultimately caused her death was asphyxia – in other words, she drowned. The on-site investigation team found at the bottom of the lake the remains of a small rowing boat with two clear bullet holes in its hull. It's still unclear whether Grace tried to escape using it, without realizing it was damaged, or if her killer purposefully set her up, maybe in an attempt to wash away any evidence."
The lion pauses, then after a few seconds he adds, eyes still glued to his phone:
"For now, the police don't have any clear lead to follow. They interrogated her relatives, but nothing could guide them towards a possible motive. The testimonies all agree on one point; she was loved by most animals she came into contact with. At the same time, the modus operandi doesn't match any known serial killers, but the officer we talk with was clear: this could only be the work of this kind of monster."
The silence comes back, worse than before – it's hanging above their heads, and the morning light is a little less bright because of it. Melon is just waiting for Agata to tell him off – off, and out of his room, and out of his life – any second now – until he gets a glimpse of the lion fingers, clasped around his phone so tightly that it's a wonder it hasn't broken yet. That's what makes him realize that the other is too scared to do so. Scared of him, of how he could react.
He sighs quietly, already regretting what they had – whatever that was –, and prepares to take his leave unprompted. He can at least do that for this animal, as a "thank you" for saving his life.
He's about to get up from the bed when Agata catches his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"… Away. Isn't that what you want?"
He looks over his shoulder, sees the lion's eyes widening.
"What? Why would I-?"
Melon huffs in frustration – gestures towards the phone, Agata's hand still clutching it – not finding the words.
"Oh!" Understanding washes over the lion's face. "I'm… I am angry, actually. Not at you. 'Loved by all animals', uh? So much bullshit. I'm sure her victims really loved her."
"Eh, she freed them from their miserable existences as freaks."
"How could they-" Agata stops, gives one long, pointed look to the hybrid. "That was sarcasm, right? Please tell me that was."
"Yeah…"
"Good. And, I wonder if they will ever publicly talk about her attempts at genocide, when and if they find out. There was one article that did mention the hybrid corpses they also found at the bottom of the lake, and the last one, the bear-antelope girl… Only one single article, and even though, it was just a few sentences at the very end."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they'd bury the whole story entirely. Society doesn't want to hear about us."
He chooses not to dwell on how this is probably the first time he used that word – "us" – when talking about hybrids, and both their gazes drift back to the phone Agata is still holding. There is a picture of the lake – heavy gray sky, blood-red boats over the waters – and, unseen, the skeletons under.
This kind of monster.
"You kitties have that rule to kill without torture," Melon adds before he could think it's a bad idea. (Anyway, Agata has to face this reality – that he's fully capable of this sort of horrors, that he took a certain pleasure in it.) "You know, I… I could have gone for her gun sooner. But it felt too easy, for her to go this quickly. And I don't regret anything."
"I mean… she was a serial killer."
"As am I!"
He thinks back to the other corpses he left behind that night; finds he cannot remember what they looked like at all. What does that bring his count to, now? He isn't quite sure. (And that probably tells more than the actual, exact number.)
"Do you think anyone here in the Shishigumis never had blood on their hands?" Agata shrugs. "I'm not proud of it, but that's what we do. We have rules, what we like to call morals; we don't kill based on anyone's species, to start with, and we try to do it without unnecessary pain. But in the end, it's just so that we can look at ourselves in the mirror. Nothing else."
The lion is avoiding his eyes, so the next thing that catches Melon's attention is Agata's thumb, slightly stroking the scars on his opposite hand.
"Maybe you were right, you know. What you said when I raised you the Black Market etiquette… That our morals were-"
"No."
"No?"
"I thought that by now you knew better than to take everything I say at face value, kitty. Wasn't it you that accused me like, what, five days ago? of manipulating you… For the record, though, I don't think you're boring. Not at all. Never did. You caught my eye from the start."
Agata flushes a pretty shade of red and the hybrid laughs – relieved that the conservation has derived back to a place when his words can elicit this kind of reaction.
"Really?" the lion squeaks out, with a too-little voice that makes Melon chuckle again.
"Yeah. You speak your mind; you stay true to yourself, even when I scared you. Or scare you? Do I still…?"
"Not really… I hope we are past that point now. And that there will be no more cooking utensils involved between us."
"Haha, promise. Wait, though, are knives still allowed?"
There is the tiniest beat, before Agata decides that he's definitely joking and swats at his arm.
"You're impossible."
"And yet here we are."
His gesture embraces both of them, the bed, the room – maybe the whole mansion too.
Agata takes his hands – the left one firmly, pulling him slightly closer, and the right one very delicately, mindful of his injuries. Holds them into his, which are larger but not much bigger, looks down at them in silence. His thumb brushes over the defined bones and joints, fingers sliding up to stroke his thin wrist. Melon fights the urge to pull away.
"Yeah, my hands do not match the rest of my body," he says – just to fill the silence, drown the awkwardness. "You know, I heard someone once comparing my kind to an old folklore tale… Frankenstein's monster. He allegedly was a mad scientist that sewed together various body parts, from multiple corpses, to create the perfect animal. He mixed herbivore and carnivore, too. Of course, what resulted was an abomination…"
"Said who?" the lion says quietly.
"Um?"
Agata meets his gaze.
"When I tried to kill you… before we knew Dolph had survived… I couldn't do it; I was too scared. And I distinctly remember thinking that even if we male lions are called King of the Beasts, as the offspring of carnivore and herbivore… the title was more fitted to you."
Melon blinks, taken off-guard. He only watches as Agata reaches for the side of his face. His now-discarded hand curls slightly, balling the covers up into his fist, as he listens to the young lion:
"And without even taking into account the heightened senses and all… I never saw your body as monstrous or anything of the sort. I had trouble not staring, the first few times I saw you without your mask and all, but that was out of fascination. And-" He smiles slightly, sweetly. (Even if the hybrid could never taste it – this has to be what this word means.) "-believe it or not, but I know a few tales too; and notably I know that chimeras are beings of legend, not solely randomly-mixed animals, but rather magical, admirable creatures."
He touches the leopard spots under his eyes, the edge of his mouth, his gazelle ears.
"I love you, Melon. Violent… tendencies, chimera body, and all."
The hybrid stares for a long time, not sure how to answer that. (Not sure, either, of what to do with the weird feeling blooming in his chest.) On a whim, he pulls away, just the time to take his t-shirt off. Agata opens his mouth – probably to ask about – then their gazes meet. The sun rays pour through the window, pool on the wooden floors, bath in its warmth the bed and the light covers, still in disarray from the night, blooming around their bodies like the fragile petals of a white rose.
"Touch me."
"… what?"
Melon has a flash of a different scene, in that very same room; Agata's hands on his waist, the mirror in front of them, his neck bare and offered. Will he refuse this time too?
"For me…" he starts, his voice falters. He tries again. Now avoiding the lion's eyes. "For me, touch means pain. But not yours. So… please."
Slowly, he reaches out for Agata's hand, brings it near. Lets it go, a few inches away from his chest. That's all he can look at; these large fingers just shy of touching him. He tries to breathe normally. To not pull away. And time seems to stretch endlessly.
Slowly, timidly, Agata begins to trace the outline of one of the melon leaves. His skin is warm. Touch so light, it almost tickles. He lays the rest of his fingers, five little points of contact, and Melon can't think about anything else. He barely realizes he's holding his breath.
Slowly, the fingers slide over, away from each other, until they are in line with his ribs, thumb straying apart, closer to his collarbone. Palm over his heart. He must feel how hard it's beating, just below the skin, beating to the rhythm of various emotions he can't name, flashing through, too quickly, emotions he can't even name. He is frozen in place. Still staring at the hand.
He can't recall the last time someone touched his naked torso. Unless alone, he never reveals more inches of skin than absolutely necessary – hands, neck, face – when he doesn't wear his mask – and even when he's alone, it's only to change or have a shower. Always quick. Melon wants to say, to believe, that it's only because he often finds himself cold. (But no matter if it's the hottest days of the summer, he can't sleep without a T-shirt on.) He doesn't want to see his body, doesn't want anything to brush against it, not even the covers, not even the light caress of the air when he moves. Just water, when standing under the showerhead, because water washes away the ghosts of the other touches. The ones he doesn't want to remember; the ones his mind did block out, but that stayed lurking at the very edge of consciousness, darkness all around a single burning candle, waiting for the flame to falter so it can take over. Touches that left scars over his skin and cracks into his psyche.
Agata's brushes over the echoes, infinitely gentler, and still louder somehow. Melon can almost relax. Gradually, he stops trying to piece out where exactly his hand is, what part of him his fingers are touching, if they are tracing the way his bones stick out, hard lines and hollows carved under his flesh, or if they are going over the leopard spots he hides under colors and slow-etched pain.
The lion brings his second hand up, one on each side of his ribcage, a couple of inches above the curve of his waist, and suddenly his heart begins to race anew. He stops thinking about Agata, about the room and all the small, quiet moments they shared these past few weeks – his body tenses up and he's acutely aware of the two palms pressed against his body, framing it, caging it. Aware of the lion's strength, the way it could hurt if he squeezed, cut off his breath, aware too of the carnivore claws a heartbeat away from cutting into his flesh.
Agata backs away, already starting to apologize, but Melon takes his hand into his own and forcefully puts it back over his side. His nails digging ever so slightly into the lion's skin. There is silence, until he finally gathers the courage to look up.
"We don't have to do it if you're uncomfortable," Agata starts. "I-"
"I want to. And…" He hesitates, says it anyway: "You're a lion, so I don't think you can understand it fully. But herbivores, and some hybrids like me, are always uncomfortable around carnivores. They get uneasy when they see one, and even if they know them, there is always a hint of fear that remains. This is something they- I have to live with."
His grip around Agata's hands softens. His thumb sliding over the back of one – feeling the small raised scars he himself left there.
"I want to continue", Melon repeats. "If you're okay with that, kitty."
The lion doesn't respond immediately. His brow furrowed as he thinks it over.
"Do… do I scare you right now?" he eventually asks.
"Not really. I mean… I know that you will not hurt me, but my instincts don't care about that."
"Then why? Why are you with me?" He pauses. "You're right, I don't quite understand."
"Because you make me feel better anyway. Because I… guess I like you." (Love you. But I'm not ready for these words yet.) "And… you know, I don't like my body. Hate it, even. But you seem to see something else when you look at it, and I don't understand why. So. Help me see."
Wordlessly, Agata brings one of his hands up, up and around, until his fingers reach his spine – making a shiver run down from the point of contact.
"I find herbivores pretty, with their soft features and delicateness," Agata begins. "Always have. But I find them pretty in the same way I would for a flower. Something you have to protect, something to admire from afar, and that you cannot touch, because of how fragile it is. Especially with me being a lion and all. But you… you are strong, more so than most carnivores I have met. You can defend yourself just fine."
"Right…"
Agata takes the time to kiss him before he goes on:
"I like your long legs, your slender figure, the curve of your back, I like the way I can see the sinews and Adam's apple in your neck, the picture it makes with your collarbones, it makes me think of a statue, like the ones carved out of white marble with all the amazing detailing. I like your smile when it shows just the tiniest hint of fangs, I like your twisted horns, your deep voice, and the golden ring there is around your eyes. I like your freckles, or spots if you want to call them that, and your lean muscles, and I like your tattoos too."
His fingers have traveled in rhythm with his words, up and down his body, leaving behind the memory of gentle warmth and things Melon never heard before. Words to balance all the insults he ever received, balance the way his bullies used to laugh at his chimera body. Words to see himself in a different light, for the first time ever.
When Agata finished, touching with one index a tattooed leaf near his waist, the rest of his hand following before he could register the sudden flinch of the hybrid – forcing an unexpected giggle out. He freezes, stares, taken off guard. Then laughs.
"Oh my, I guess you're ticklish."
He wiggles his fingers against the sensitive spot again and Melon's protestations get drowned out by another surprised laugh as he tries to squirm away from the offending touch. Agata follows though, clearly having fun, taking pity only after a few good seconds.
"If you try that again kitty," he mumbles after catching his breath, "I'm going to knee you in the stomach."
"Okay, okay, I won't," the lion laughs, raising both hands in submission. "Can I still touch?"
"Please."
He kisses him first – the feel of his fangs against his lips, and the rough feline tongue slipping out and meeting his – then goes down, kisses the side of his jaw, his neck, all the way down to the collarbone. His teeth graze his skin and the hybrid briefly wonders if he will bite, this time, but the kisses stay closed-mouth and soft. Even though, it feels like electricity, surges just under his skin, connecting the spots the lion's lips pressed against while his hands travel up and down, following the dips and curves of Melon's body, lighting up more sparks behind their wake. It feels like nothing he experienced before and he doesn't want it to stop.
Agata neither avoids nor lingers on his scars – the bite mark over his collarbone, a couple of small ones, either from his childhood or his criminal life, the ones left behind by leopard claws all over his hips and lower back. The first time he feels the rough pads of the lion's fingers slides over the still-sensitive skin, something twists in his guts, close to nausea, but the touch moves away, comes back, and away again, like it's just another part of his body, something that doesn't deserve much attention at all. And it allows him to consider it that way, too, even if just for a few fleeting moments.
One of the lion's hands strays away, touches his knee, his thigh, climbs a little higher, and the hybrid can't help but tense up. He won't shy away, though his body wants to, and his muscles are left twitching, unsure of what to do with the conflicting pull and push of his mind. Agata kisses him again and he forgets partly about the hand so close to- to what he doesn't want to think about.
"It's okay," the lion whispers next to his ear – a low, deep whisper, that makes Melon shiver. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."
"I know."
He brings one arm up, fingers sliding through the soft mane as he guides Agata back into one more kiss.
"Good," the lion whispers – and Melon feels him smile, something small and so tender, he almost wants to pull away to see it. (Almost. But his lips feel so good.)
When his other arm finally gives out under his weight, Agata's hands are there to catch him. He lowers him onto the bed and the hybrid unbends his leg from its awkward position, fully lying down now. When he looks up, he finds Agata, looking down. With the sun shining behind the lion's, placing a halo of golden light around his mane, Melon can't quite make out his features, but even without looking he knows the small nose, the big, gentle eyes, the white freckles dotting his cheeks, could paint them against closed lids. He's aware of one inner forearm touching the side of his chest, of legs pressed into each other, of the lion's tail falling over one of his thighs, the soft hairs at the end tickling the exposed skin – but in his mind, he sees the contact points as closeness and warmth, reassurances, no longer red and fear and pain. For the first time, touch means pleasure, and someone else means safety.
And more than that.
Slowly, he realizes that what he's feeling, it's not only the absence of fear and unease, not only the rare quiet of his mind – no, it shines way too bright to be a mere absence. It's a fire inside his chest, but not the kind that burns and destroys, not the raging inferno that takes over fully and splashes blood across his world, rather a tranquil fireplace spreading its warmth all through his body. A new kind of red, and orange and yellow too.
I found another way to feel alive.