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Iris doesn’t know what made him trust Lillium so quickly. By all means, he should have been confused at best and appalled at worst in reaction to a stranger invading the peace he called home for the past 17 years of his life. He should have alerted his mom without question to stop the imposter who dared come into the paradise she had taken so many years to build.
But, instead-
Instead Iris stared at the pink haired man and saw a reflection of himself—saw mirrored the fire he had felt boiling under his skin for his entire life. Here was someone who understood his powers as an inseparable extension of himself, just like Iris did. As if his powers were as much a part of him as his arm or leg.
Seeing Lillium was the first time that Iris thought that maybe there was a place where his powers could actually mean something besides a curse.
And that split second feeling of right-ness led him here—in their shared RV, hiding against Lillium’s shoulder at the 8th jump scare in the past hour.
“Why don’t they just jump out the window like a sane person would do-oh HELL NO—”
He feels Lillium’s shoulders shake in barely suppressed laughter. Iris is torn between punching him in the face and crawling into a hole from fear.
Despite how not-pleased he is with Lillium’s movie of choice, he’s never felt this sense of safety and familiarity—of normality before. Not even back at the base, in his room with Penny. Sure, Lillium could be ornery and distant, but ever since they got back things have been relatively calm.
Maybe he’s settling in too soon, especially considering there are multiple psychopaths raring to get their hands on both Lillium and himself—but for now—for now he’s been letting himself take this moment to feel this peace.
“Hey—“ he feels himself get nudged, “you haven’t jumped or screamed at like-the last three scares. You still alive?”
“You’re really going to ask me that after choosing a movie you know is going to freak me out?” Iris squawks with no real ire, “Why don’t you put on one of those animated ones that won’t give me nightmares—-WHAT IN THE HELL was that??”
Iris resigns himself into a ball curled up next to Lillium. Shifting around to get comfortable—he was too exhausted to get worked up so much. Especially because he wants to wake up early to finish Dan’s workouts.
But it felt nice—being able to feel the warmth of Lillium’s thigh against the crown of his head. Hearing the gentle breath in. Breathe out of the man next to him—someone who he owed his life to, even when Lillium believed that it was the other way around. He didn’t really mind the buzz of the movie that much anyway.
Lillium blew air out of his nose, “you’re such a baby”
Fingers find their way into his hair.
Iris holds his breath, then relaxes as they continue their movements carding through the dark strands.
Iris wasn’t used to human touch. Or well—he was—but in intermittent doses and often with an intent to hurt and scar. He recalls the sharp slap of his mom’s hand across his face, and the cutting, burning, stinging excruciating pain in front of hundreds of his peers—
And then Rosalie, who showed him that love didn’t have to hurt. They had been one of—no—the only human being who had showed him an unconditional kindness. And whose touch didn’t sting with the cost of discipline.
Even alone in his room—it was just him and Penny. His own creation.
It’s strange. You never recognize loneliness until you settle into the opposite.
Lillium’s nails scratching gently against his scalp brought him back into the moment. He might as well be a warm bowl of Shakshuka melting against the couch.
Iris wishes this moment would never end.
In a moment of delusional sleepiness, Iris snaked his head securely onto Lillium’s thigh, making himself comfy on his found-object pillow. He figured since he crafted half of Lillium’s legs anyway, he was at least entitled to this much.
“What a spoiled brat,” Lillium mumbles before weaving his fingers even further into Iris’s hair.
Iris hadn’t even noticed he’d fallen asleep, soothed to unconsciousness by surprisingly gentle fingers for a man with so much blood on his hands.
He woke up the following morning tucked into bed, with hair slightly frizzier than normally a part of his wake up routine.
Things had fallen into a state of relative normalcy since riding back on a flying statue. He completed his daily “chores” from heather, sketched out home improvement and leg improvement blueprints, and avoided beheading via-raw eggs thrown at the camper.
It was one of the closest things that he could consider to a paradise. Yeah, he got a bit bored and restless at times, but he finally felt for the first time that he was able to breathe. He had a collar around his neck for the time being, but again, this is what he saw for the cost of truth. It was the cost of being able to stay with Lillium.
But nothing lasts forever and the other foot had to drop at some point. Iris never thought it would come in his dreams.
Flashes of color and smoke. “What did I tell you about your powers, Iris,” his mother’s hiss echoes. Then—a sting. A sting that starts at a single point until he can’t see—can’t hear—all there is to his existence is all-encompassing, never-ending agony.
“A curse.”
Nothing is solid. They is just light and sounds and emotions swirling around in his consciousness, unable to be held firmly like sand running through his finger tips.
It’s not a narrative, but a light-show of pain.
Screaming?
Is someone screaming?
“Iris”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance”
“Iris!”
He’s being shaken.
He’s gulping in lungfuls of air like a man drowned at sea.
“Iris—Iris, hey, wake-up, please-wake up”
There’s pressure on his shoulders. His eyes are too blurry to register the figure in front of him and it’s too dark to pick out the pink saturation of the other man’s hair.
Iris chokes out a sob, hiding his face against Lillium’s chest.
“Shhhh, you’re okay, you’re alright, you’re safe here Iris, it’s okay”
Strong arms wrap around his shoulders and a hand presses against the back of his head. He’s never felt this—this held before. And even though it feels like in this moment there’s a monster killing him from the inside—
Lillium continues his reassurance like a prayer, running his hand over the crown of Iris’ head to the nape of his neck and over the ridges of his spine before tracing his journey back up.
He holds Iris until he stops shaking. Until the sobs turn to sniffles turn to silent tears. He doesn’t let go until Iris leans away himself.
“I’m sorry for slobbering—“
“Don’t be.” Lillium interrupts, “do you—do you want to talk about it”
Lillium’s hands twiddle with his thumbs, unsure of their purpose.
Iris shakes his head, “no it’s just—it’s just the—“
He runs his hands over the visible marks on his forearms. They look almost irritated in the dim light of the camper—as if reawaken by the memory of their maker.
Lillium nods. Nothing more needs to be said. They had both been there.
“I’m going to grab you a glass of water,”
Before Iris can protest, Lillium is gone and back again with a large mug of lukewarm water. He’s grateful for Lillium’s steady hands against the bottom of the ceramic because his are still shaking.
“Nightmares usually leave me dehydrated so I figured it would help.” Lillium whispers into the space between them. The last drops of water collect at the bottom of the cup. Have you ever noticed that no matter how far you tilt the glass there will always be a few drops of liquid left on the bottom when you flip it back over?
The glass clanks against the floor as Lillium sets it down.
Silence spread like butter.
Iris is content sitting in it. He doesn’t want to be alone again.
“Do you—“
“Could you—“
They speak at the same time.
Iris swallows.
“Could you stay here tonight—I mean you don’t have to I totally get it if you don’t want to.”
Sheets shuffle in the darkness and Iris’s wrist is tugged.
“C’mere, dummy-“
His body sags against the side of Lillium’s, tucked between his side and his arm.
Lillium was going to have to pay him to return his shoulder, because it was Iris’ pillow now, fully equipped with the rhythms of Lillium’s heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
It would have been a feat to have forgotten the nightmare that had gotten him here, but it had faded into the back of his consciousness. It was replaced instead by a reassurance—living breathing proof that he was cared for and that his powers weren’t an omen. That Iris wasn’t predestined to tragedy.
Wrapping his arm around Lillium’s torso, Iris falls into a dreamless sleep.
He is dead to the world when a pair of lips press again his temple before falling away like a ghost.
In the morning, Iris wakes up to the dulcet tunes of Lillium’s ear torture—i.e. singing—and the smell of cooked meat.
They don’t mention the night before. Maybe it was just Iris’ imagination: the gentle touch across his back when Lillium passed him to grab a plate. Completely unnecessary, but a pressure point that sends lightning up his spine.
A few nights later, Iris startles awake, scanning the room for danger. Heart jumping at the possibility that his mom had come for him.
He hears a faint “no, stop-“ and a whimper from lofted bed above.
Lillium—he must be having a night terror.
Stumbling out of bed, Iris figures that Lillium wouldn’t mind if he returned the favor. He thought back to how held he had felt a few nights before.
Iris scampered up the ladder, peaking over the edge. Lillium’s pink hair was messy, half plastered against his sweaty forehead. Eyes scrunched shut, his body tense. Iris crawls to his side on the slim bed and shakes his shoulder-
“Lillium, wake up, you’re having a nightmare”
A sharp intake of breath and Lillium shoots up like a rocket with wide eyes.
“Iris-Iris I—“
“I know”
Lillium folds, head in his hands in the space between their bodies. His hair nearly brushes against the fabric or Iris’ shirt.
He longs to touch it. To weave his hands in Lillium’s hair, to rub his back, to sooth his nerves just like he’d done for Iris .
And so he does.
Gingerly, like Lillium might wake from his daze and push him off the loft, Iris places a hand on the top of Lillium’s hair.
A beat.
Lillium’s body rises and falls with a breath.
Taking it as confirmation, Iris brushes his fingers through pink hair. He tries to mimic what Lillium had done. Twisting his fingers under the strands, using his blunt nails to etch designs into his scalp.
Lillium’s head falls against his chest, his hands drop to either side of Iris. He takes it as encouragement to situate his hand along the nape of Lillium’s neck, pressing his fingertips into the hollow at the back of his head.
Now it’s Lillium’s turn to morph into Shakshuka.
Hands find their way to Iris’ hips, draped but not gripping. Iris almost passes out from the way his stomach erupts with bubbles, like a fizzy drink his mom used to sometimes give him when he was little. But his fingers continue their trail through Lillium’s hair as Lillium’s thumbs rub over the fabric of his shirt, glued to his sides.
Iris drags his fingertips down Lillium’s spine—noticing too late that the other man was shirtless, but marveling at the solid hills of his spinal cord.
Lillium shivers, grip tightening for just a moment before relaxing again and shuffling a fraction closer.
They stay like that—like a quotation mark—for long enough that Iris’ eyes start to shut out of sleepiness.
Lillium must sense his yawn.
“Stay, please.”
Iris doesn’t argue, just let’s himself maneuvered until his head is on Lillium’s bare chest.
This is better. He thinks to himself, his head rising and falling with Lillium’s breath, being so close to his heart. Half asleep, Iris wraps himself around Lillium, arm over torso, leg over leg.
He’s too tired—too drunk on Lillium’s closeness to consider what it all means.
Hours later, Iris blinks awake to sun streaming into the camper. He’s surprisingly warm considering he normally wakes up with literal cold feet in the mornings.
Then he registers the warm, firm body under him, still gently breathing, mouth half open.
He hadn’t thought much about Lillium’s beauty before, or how peaceful he looks like this—frown lines all but disappeared. His thick hair though—
He can’t help but laugh at the state of it.
Now it’s Lillium’s turn to groggily grumble awake. God, he wakes up like an old computer, like booting up.
Iris props himself on his arm, “your hair looks insane right now—like cotton candy”
Pink eyes roll as Lillium sits up and smothers Iris’s head down into the pillow behind him.
“Yours ain’t that much better, short stack,”
Iris chuckles, sensing the lightheartedness behind the jab.
He watches as Lillium shuffles himself to the side of his bed, too distracted by the cords of muscles lining his back and the near dozen scattered scar markings forming constellations there.
“Wait—Lillium! What did I tell you about-“
Metal feet land on the floor below with a thump-
“Jumping off the goddamn bed!!”
Lillium looks over his shoulder while Iris shuffles to peek over the side.
“If you jump, maybe I’ll catch you.” He accentuated with a wink
That son of a—
“What do you mean maybe?” Iris sputters. His entire chest explodes with heat.
Lillium saunters his way to the pantry, “what do you want for breakfast?”
Jackass.
“…pancakes….please”
“Scootch over, Donatello”
“You’re just making up people at this point—“
“Scoootch,” Lillium insists, plopping himself down on the bed next to Iris. In the past week they’ve found their way close to each others’ heartbeats a few times, but only in the middle of the night or half asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Maybe these sorts of things need the cover of night, of being half aware. Now—Iris isn’t sure what to do with his hands as Lillium lays on his back next to him, all of his side pressed against Iris’.
He hesitates.
Then he’s tugged—or more so pushed down by a pressure on his back, falling over Lillium’s chest—clothed this time. Bummer.
But it doesn’t feel quite right.
“This is wrong-“
Lillium stiffens under him.
“You’re on the wrong side, I have to-“
Iris climbs over Lillun, pushing his body over to the inside of the bed with a grunt, then fits himself against his side like a puzzle piece.
He draws the sheets over them and settles down again, head over Lillium’s heart like it was meant to be there.
“Better.” He sighs.
“You really are a brat” but then Lillium’s settles too, not complaining until sleep claims them both.
It goes like this for about a week. They find their way to each other, normally in Iris’ bed. And on nights where Lillium comes home late, he shuffles his arms around a half-asleep Iris, who grumbles and shuffles further against his chest.
The nightmares don’t stop either. First, it’s Iris, waking up gasping, crying out at the phantom pain on his limbs.
And even though it’s psychological torture, he can’t say he doesn’t relish in the fact that Lillium’s there to sooth him. Already so close—
One night he’d whispered “it’s the marks they hurt—well they don’t actually but—but the dreams she’s—again I don’t know—“ Iris’ babbling had trailed off with the feeling of fingers running over his arms, from his wrists to the top of his biceps where the sleeves of his t-shirt began, then down again.
Lillium had sat them up, legs still tangled together under the covers, his pink hair disheveled.
“You’re okay, love”
Iris’ chest had constricted.
“Is that the name of another one of your made-up artists?” Iris had chucked at his own joke.
“Yeah,” he spoke softly, like a prayer. His pink eyes almost seemed to glow in the dark—luminescent. “One of my favorites.”
Then, the marks on the back of his wrist had pressed against lips, chapped yet soft and warm. He forgot how to breath.
“Do you want me to grab you a water?”
He had nodded, words lost to the space between him and Lillium.
The next night, Iris falls asleep alone. Lillium is off on another late-night mission. While Iris had insisted he can make food that they would need, Lillium doubted his ability’s breadth, “good luck trying to make a good smoked paprika, Brunelleschi—“ “I swear you’re just pulling these names out of your ass now—“
But despite falling asleep alone, he’s awoken to heavy breathing and a steel grip encasing him.
Lillium had come back. And he was caught in a nightmare.
Still in Lillium’s grip, Iris shifts around to face him, bringing his hands up to cup either side of Lillium’s face. He drags his thumbs up and down and up his cheeks.
A small part of Iris is ashamed that he’s relishing being so close.
“Lillium,” he whispers, “Lillium, wake up, you’re having a night terror, wake up.”
His eyes adjust to the faint glow of Lillium’s, glossy with tears.
“Iris-I-“ Iris’ heart breaks as Lillium’s voice cracks.
“You’re ok, I’m here—just breath, you’re ok” he says shakily.
“I dreamed that I lost you, that Madam took you and I couldn’t do anything—my legs—“his chest wracked with sobs, holding his hand over Iris’ still holding his face, as if afraid he was going to disappear “—they wouldn’t work.”
Iris wishes that he could take all that pain. Wishes he could reach inside Lillium’s head and clear the nightmares away.
But he couldn’t.
He was as helpless as Lillium felt in his dream.
So instead, he leans his forehead against Lillium’s, closes his eyes.
A deep breath in.
And out.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe, and I’m safe. Just breathe with me”
The rhythm of their breathing synchs and evens out, like Iris’ favorite melody.
And in that moment, he lets himself indulge. He reasons to himself that it was to help Lillium, but he knows, he knows the way that he presses his fingers into the nape of Lillium’s neck is selfish. He knows that the thumb that brushes right under the shell of Lillium ear, the tilt of his head back as if to grant Iris access, is selfish. The way that he accepts and runs the pads of his fingers down the other man’s neck, under his jaw, and back up. The way he traces the shell of Lillium’s ear, and chest warms with something unidentifiable —he knows he’s being selfish.
But he can’t bring himself to care.
Not when he was able to help Lillium from tears to this, eyes closed and gently breathing, pink hair pooled on Iris’ pillow.
And no one will know, no one will see Iris when he brushes Lillium’s hair from his forehead with a gentle kiss before falling asleep himself.
Iris doesn’t care. He’s going to kill Lillium.
“I refuse to watch another one of your horror movies, what is wrong with watching like—god I don’t know—a nice movie about math or oh! There’s that one about ocean life I saw, we could watch that instead!”
He grabs for the remote. Lillium claims it first.
“Uh uh uh, I’m older than you, I get TV Seniority”
“You’re only a year older than me—“
“And—it’s my TV so I get to choose what to watch.”
Iris guffaws, “like hell! This is our place, we share it.”
Lillium places his free hand on his chin as if deep in thought. “mm rejected, but nice try though, Botticelli.”
“Who the hell-“ Iris reaches to grab the remote from his hand, but Lillium just stretches away from him.
In a lapse of pettiness, he decides a different route.
“Did you just shove me off the couch?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iris plucks the remote from his hand, gazing down at a flabbergasted Lily, ass planted on the hardwood.
“You little-“
This time, Iris is yanked off the couch. He crash lands nearly on top of Lillium, pulling back, he finds himself situated between iron legs, hands on Lillium’s shoulders for support.
And he can’t look away, drawn in by pink eyes opened wide. It’s not often he gets to look so close. He can see the individual lashes, the curve of his nose and the shape of his lips.
Iris doesn’t breathe for fear of disturbing the moment. A space that is decreasing.
From inches to centimeters. Until he can feel the warmth of Lillium’s breath mingling with his own.
Their lips brush, butterfly soft.
And they part. Lillium says his name like a prayer and the tension snaps. They fall into each other by the next heartbeat.
His lips soft, pressed against his own. Iris doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s never done anything like this before.
But it feels so right, here in Lillium’s arms. There’s a lightning storm residing in his chest and he doesn’t know if it’s nervousness or excitement. But he knows he trusts Lillium to catch him if he lets himself fall.
And so he does, into Lillium’s arms. His fingers lace in soft, pink hair, keeping him close. Lillium’s arms come around him.
He parts to breath, panting, while Lillium traces his jaw with his lips.
“Lillium”
Iris traces nonsensical patterns into the back of Lillium’s neck as he’s blessed with kisses. Lillium trails up his neck and presses his lips under the lobe of his ear. He gasps, Lillium rubs his fingers over his lower back.
He feels held. Loved. Cherished.
“Iris”
Lillium pulls back, both their arms loosely entangle the other. It’s a mellow moment. It’s calm. It’s peace.
Lillium smiles. Not one of his cheeky smirks. But a real one. A soft one, without the crease between his brows.
Iris leans to press his lips against Lillium’s, feeling the smile in the kiss.
Once, twice, and a third before Lillium squeezes Iris in a crushing hug to his chest. He squeezes a laugh out of Iris.
“You want some Shakshuka?”
Iris rolls his eyes, unable to avoid his glee, “You’re impossible,”
He always loves Lillium’s food when he feels comfortable enough cooking. But this time—this time was something else. There was something about being able to wrap his arms around Lillium’s waist when as he stirred the pot and cracked eggs.
Something about the way Lillium would take time between adding spices to brush his lips against Iris’ lips.
And something about falling asleep in each others’ arms that night, without reservation.
Because things were uncertain, and their safety was not guaranteed. But regardless of how long their peace lasts, for now it’s theirs.