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[holyposition]

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t.laughlin

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[forzare]

Careful as he can be ( and oh, he can be careful; he can be diligent about where he puts his hands and feet, keep his limbs tucked in like the cryptid he is, all skinny angles and half-starved intensity finally filling in at the seams ), he checks over the top of Tim's head. Locating the bed behind him, and the debris that he has to clear off it in order to give the guy some space to relax. Okay, okay. He can do this. The ability to comfort is a learned trait, and Harry's a little under thirty years behind the curve in regards to doing it. Well, if at all.

Comfort wasn't for boys like him, unless it came with a harsh lesson.

" — it won't help, but I... " He doesn't know if it's even worth saying, but maybe being a little open and vulnerable with a normal human being will wash the fever of the Sidhe from his brain. It'll push back the Mantle urging him to sink teeth into someone so very sweet, the way his hindbrain wants him to sometimes. Dominance and survival are the name of the Winter Sidhe, and he rebels against it with inner fire and a deep, nigh-primordial sense of control. So, it won't help.

It won't help, but he takes Tim to bed. Slips things off the covers one-handed and draws them back, urging him to settle down into the confines of his blankets and lay back against a pillow. It won't help, but he nudges Tim over, tucks the blankets between them like a gentleman and folds his long, long body onto the mattress. It won't help, but, he says to Tim

quiet, and half-tucked into the pillow he lays down on, his hand encompassing the side of Tim's head, stroking a thumb over his temple

" — I died in a lake, too."

[holyposition]

Tim settles back into bed with shaky breaths, happy to have Harry guide him into place. He's made enough bad decisions over the start of this twisted game, and he's sure the mistakes won't end, so for someone to choose for him, no matter how small, it's a comfort. Where to lay his head, how to best protect himself (did the charm go off, or did he lose it in the struggle?), how to arrange this so it isn't illicit and there's no pressure.

He lays on his side, turned towards Harry, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other reaching for him over the bunched up blanket, touch going both ways. The comfort of an affectionate touch is still relatively new to him - for so long, he was afraid to seek it, for the slippery slope of sin he might tumble down if he even allowed himself to want it, much less accept it. The fear of Hell was replaced by the fear of more worldly consequences, losing his job and his family and everything else. Here, in Saltburnt, where despite the terror and confusion that comes in waves, with just enough rest to let their guards down before the next batch of horrors, this one little thing that he needs is allowed.

Of course Tim leans into it, nuzzling into his hand like a dog desperate for love, eager to be handled softly, comforted by the fact that the same fingertips brushing his hair back now were burned just days ago, making something that might have protected him, stalled his attacker long enough for him to be saved. He's safe with Harry, he has faith in that, and in the aftermath of an assault that has him flinching at shadows and keeping his back to the walls, there's no greater comfort that he could be.

"You...died?"

Asked softly, doe eyes wide and questioning. Helpful, maybe, isn't the word, but...it's something, feeling like he understands, and his neediness and shameless flirtation hasn't scared him off. Tim places his hand over Harry's, keeping it there on his head, keeping himself secure.

"You can talk about it, if you want to."

[forzare]

God knows, Harry's been where Tim is. Nearly forty years old, with every year of his life harder than the last; the stakes higher, the danger greater, the violence escalating until it nearly devoured everyone he loved and cared for. He's been on the receiving end of hands around his throat, knives sunk down to his bones, kisses laced with venom, promises that required him to carve off pieces of his innocence and feed it to the hungry mouths of more powerful entities. He's been in the lake. He's been paralyzed in his own bed, reliving moments that haunt him still.

Laying on his back, he turns his head to face Tim. The hand pressed to the side of his face brushing along the hairs just behind his ear, the ends of his fingers cold but the palm warm. He curls his fingers downward, tucking them into his palm as he — well, pets Tim — carding his fingers along the edge of his ear and avoiding the bruised mark on his throat as he follows the line of muscle bunched there up and down.

"Not tonight," he murmurs, but it's not not ever. "I just wanted you to know we have that in common."

The others who had drowned, even if they were saved like Tim, could probably empathize with him as well. But, Harry remembers the bitter bite of Lake Michigan closing over his head, the delicious warmth that had finally been in reach soon after, how tired he'd been. How it hadn't hurt, not really. It just felt like being weightless. It was the coming back that had hurt the most.

"You should take a nap before tonight, you're gonna' need your strength. And I'll stay, unless someone throws me out and takes my place."

[holyposition]

“Okay. Thank you,” he agrees, with a soft nod. Tim doesn’t want to push, hates that he himself was victimized so publicly, in a situation where he has no choice but to talk about it over and over. There’s no time to process, no time to choose when and to whom to reveal his pain. Maybe they don’t need to reveal it at all, if they’ve both experienced it for themselves. They both know the moment of losing faith in their own lungs, when the body knows it’s out of fight. The fear and the helplessness that’s hard to articulate without breaking down, the final bargaining with God to hear his case and not cast him away for his sins. If Harry knows at least most of it, then it doesn’t need explaining. It’s more than most people will understand, without that.

Slowly, as if he’s afraid he might make himself flinch at his own movements, he shifts his head so his neck is stretched out, letting Harry’s cold fingertips touch the bruise. It makes him tense again, for a few breaths, but the cool sensation is soothing. A more intimate icepack.

“You can stay,” Tim offers, perhaps too quickly. “But, um. Hawk—he lives here, on the other side, but he’s been on this side a lot, cuz of everything. He won’t throw you out. He doesn’t have a right to, I don’t really know where we are right now, it’s-- complicated. If you don’t want to deal with that, I understand, but right now, I...”

Can’t be alone. He’s barely holding it together with Harry here, having no company but his thoughts would be...well, it would be bad. Tim can’t shut down now, not with so much to do. A nap he can accept to keep his brain working, but he doesn’t have time to sink fully into crisis mode.

“I want you here.”