Lord of Unkindness Ch. 17

 Notes: I'm exhausted. I hurt. But I love you. Have a warm story moment, and let's hope we all make it through only minorly scathed.

Title: Lord of Unkindness: Chapter 17

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Chapter Seventeen

 (My internet is so bad today, so please imagine a gorgeous red frangipani bush where this description is)

It’s hard to tell time in a magical grotto of food, sleep, and affection. Ciro spends most of the first…day? Two? He’s not sure. He goes from drowsing to dozing to snacking to a quick trip to the bathroom and back to solid, steady sleep over and over, his body paying the price for his weeks—months—of hypervigilance. His magic is there every time he wakes up, perching on his head and preening his hair or on the couch where Ciro hasn’t moved far from or, on one memorable occasion, sitting on Angelo’s shoulder while he cooks something in the kitchen, singing along with the percussive music with a strong, smooth voice. If Ciro had his cell phone with him, he’d take a picture, but…right, he’d dropped it back at his shitty apartment.

Eh. Could be worse. At least they can’t use it to track him.

When he finally feels recovered enough to do more than suck down a bowl of soup, he realizes two things: one, he doesn’t see Angelo anywhere, and two, he’s filthy. Like, layers of grease and dust filthy. Like, an aroma that’s going from bad to worse filthy. Angelo got a sheet under him at some point, so at least he’s not leaving an imprint of his own grossness on the couch, but it’s past time for him to shower. For that, he needs to get to the full bath, which is attached to the bedroom.

A quick peek inside is enough to show him that Angelo is tucked up under the massive purple comforter on the queen-sized bed, fast asleep. Ciro’s last raven is in there with him, looking more like itself and less like a chickadee cosplaying a bigger bird now that he’s had some time to recover. It tilts its head at him and fixes him with one beady eye as if to say Don’t you fucking wake him up.

Fine. Ciro can handle being gross a little longer.

A crack of thunder filters in over the sound of the ever-present music. Ciro wanders over to the front door and peeks through the glass there. It’s raining outside, water falling heavy from the sky and splattering against the formerly dusty ground. It’s…shit, it’s raining, and it’s been so long since he last felt rain. The urge to step outside is almost overwhelming, so Ciro tucks his hands behind his back and steps away from the door because he’s not an idiot, and he’s not about to violate the safety of this space by, whatever, breaking barriers or upsetting leylines or however kinnara work their magic, and—

His bird lands on his shoulder and pecks him on the head once, hard. That’s the you idiot peck, followed by a brisk preen that means follow me. Ciro follows his magic past the couch and the door to the bedroom into a small hallway with two doors. One leads to a tiny laundry room with a stacked washer and dryer, and the other leads outside.

He gets the preen again, and then his magic flies through the door.

Well…okay then. Ciro steels himself, then opens up the back door and takes two steps out, closing it behind him. He finds…

It’s a tropical paradise. There’s a tiny pool in the center of the little courtyard, with a stone bench beside it, but those are the only signs of a human touch he can see. Every other surface is covered to bursting with plants. Ciro sees plenty of California natives, like the poppies and sage from Angelo’s clinic, but there are also plenty of plants he only recognizes from botanic gardens: Javanese Edelweiss in purple and pink interspersed with sweet-scented Malati, whose tiny white blossoms pop against the decadence of their neighbors; spreading palms that share space with a hundred different types of orchid, including the famous moon orchid; and a red frangipani in the corner whose pink and yellow clusters of flowers are so perfect they could have been airbrushed.

Ciro all but collapses onto the bench, aware that the rain is soaking through his pants but really not caring. The air is warm, the water feels cleansing against his skin, and the smell of this little slice of botanical heaven is enough to make him want to cry. It’s beautiful, the type of beauty that makes you wish there was some way to be a part of it instead of feeling like an intruder. Ciro closes his eyes and breathes the scents in, and he knows without having to ask that this place is just as magical as the rest of it. It’s a respite area, healing, special.

And Angelo thinks he’s special enough to share it with.

He didn’t say it back. The “I love you,” he didn’t say it. Ciro isn’t sure why, but he’s not worried about his love not being requited. Why else would Angelo go to these lengths for him? He’s compassionate, that’s clear, but he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t steal Ciro out from the jaws of his family unless Ciro is worth it to him. He loves him.

But he’s scared. Ciro can tell he’s scared. He’ll have to chase that thought down and examine exactly why at some point during their stay here, but right now he’s just too content to worry about it. The rain, the flowers, the sound of droplets hitting the pond and coaxing fresh scents from the foliage all around them, orchids nodding their heavy heads in time with the wind and the water...

A familiar weight settles onto his shoulder, a presence that he hasn’t felt the full effect of in far too long. Ciro knows without looking that his magic has regained its former size, and the numbness in his hands has turned into a fierce burning sensation. “Stop that,” he mutters. The raven pecks him hard in the head. “Don’t drain yourself for that.”

Peck! It feels like a don’t tell me what to do wrapped in sass, and Ciro chuckles. He must be feeling better if his magic has its personality back. He’s sad, for a moment, that he’s only got the one, but then his natural caution reasserts itself. The less magic around him, the safer he is. Magic can be tracked, magic can be sensed—magic is undoubtedly what brought his own family sniffing around the hellhole he’d found to stick himself in. There was no reason other than him for them to be there; they wouldn’t leave their Tower to track down Angelo in California, they’d send for him to attend them in their stronghold. No, Uncle Magnus had to have honed in on his magic in order to find him, which means the solution is clear—diminish his connection to it at all costs.

One more sharp peck, and then the raven vanishes. A few moments later, the back door opens, and then a sleep-warm pair of arms wrap around Ciro’s shoulders as lips press a kiss to his wet hair. “If you wanted a shower, you could have had one inside,” Angelo says, his voice still a bit slurred with sleep.

Ciro shakes his head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Hmm. Too late.” Before Ciro can react to that, Angelo comes around the bench and takes his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s have one now,” he says as he tugs Ciro back into the entryway, grabbing a somewhat threadbare orange towel off a hook there to wipe off the worst of the rain before continuing through the bedroom. Ciro still leaves puddles behind, but neither of them care as Angelo reaches into the shower and turns the water onto hot, then helps him get out of his damp clothes and pulls him into the stall.

It's barely big enough for both of them, and the water pressure strong enough to almost feel like a thudding massage against his back. Ciro groans at how delightful it feels, and braces his arms to box Angelo in against the wall before laying his head down on his shoulder and feels the stress in his body begin to melt away.

“At least give me a chance to get you clean,” Angelo laughs as he squeezes some body wash into his palm and begins to scrub Ciro down with it. Ciro wants to pull himself together enough to return the favor, but he can’t quite make it happen. He stands there, hot and wet and so immensely soothed he can barely comprehend it, and lets Angelo use his beautiful hands to wipe him down and make him new and then—

He slides down Angelo’s body to his knees, and smirks up at the wide-eyed stare he gets. “Here,” he says, leaning in and resting his face right next to Angelo’s awakening cock as he reaches for his soapy hands. “This’ll make it easier to get my hair.” He places Angelo’s hands on top of his head, then turns and licks the head of his dick. Warm, flushed skin and a bead of slickness greet him, and Ciro groans as a surge of arousal flickers up and down his body like electricity. He opens his mouth and takes his lover inside, almost choking with how fast Angelo gets hard, and it’s so good. He tastes amazing even though the water, and Ciro has to grip the base of his own cock and squeeze so he doesn’t come first again, he can’t come first again. This time he wants Angelo to be the one to fall apart.

It takes gratifyingly little time to bring Angelo to the edge. He’s got his feet braced against the sides of the stall, he’s not thrusting his hips even though Ciro wishes he would, but he’s pulling him down, smooth and steady, making Ciro swallow but not quite choke on his cock. His eyes are gold when he looks down at Ciro, and then he deliberately tilts his head to the side so he can see Ciro’s hard hold on himself. “Let go,” Angelo tells him, breathless but commanding. “I want to see it, let go.”

Ciro lets go, and Angelo finally thrusts hard enough to hit the back of his throat. He’s so hard, he’s so desperate, he makes Ciro feel so good, gold brushing skin and passing pleasure back and forth, that Ciro can’t help it. He comes untouched, not even his own hand stroking him through it, and that’s it for Angelo. He bends at the waist as he comes down Ciro’s throat, spending in one long moan that Ciro would savor if he could really hear it over the sound of rushing in his ears.

It's so good. God, he feels so good.

Naturally, it can’t last.

They make it back to bed—Angelo’s bed, this time, they need to clean the sheet on the couch—after another wipe down with the towels, and Angelo lays his head on Ciro’s chest and curls his fingers through the sparse, dark hair there and for a moment, everything is perfect.

Then Angelo says, “We should start thinking about how to reunite your magic.”

“No!”