#lucahsur

[muwitch]

it's WIP Wednesday my dudes;

i'll be brave little potat and pretend i write or whatever taggin' @smoreofbabylon @plethomacademia @woundedsoul12 @mixupmycota AND @rin-hanarin but by all means just go and do the thing, Zhu Li

The hookah smoke swirls in tight blue rings and Ashur knits small nimble snakes out of it. 

They coil around his fingers, twist in shimmering silver and dive back into the clouds that Luc slowly releases from his lips. It smells sweet, and his mouth feels drawn under the mask. 

There's almost no one at the safehouse: the pawnshop is guarded by a shift and dozens of spells in the wee hours of the morning, decent people are asleep, and people like them... what do “normal” people do? Wouldn’t knowing the answer to that question be nice.

Ashur could ask Luc, but his mouth is full, and breaking the silence is not the most rational decision. It stretches between them like molasses left in the sun for too long, but Ashur slips his cloak off anyway and settles cross-legged on the colorful cushions beside. 

That, he can afford.

“Don't look around so thievishly”, Luc's voice is always a little lower than usual after a puff, without notes of smugness. “No one’s here”.

“Even the walls have ears.”

He hears a familiar, slightly strangled chuckle in response. Luc leans back on the cushions and the rugs, arms spread wide: his neck bare, Adam's apple twitching as Ashur glances at him. Almost absent-mindedly.

“Do you assume they might blush?”

“Luc.”

Ashur reaches up to remove a curly strand of hair that had fallen into Luc's face, and the laughter that had been quivering somewhere on the tip of the ever-talkative Mongoose's tongue fades, giving way to calm, measured breathing. He’s looking too closely. Again.

“Sometimes you don't have to take everything that happens in the world at face value,” Luc conducts his hookah pipe, resting it against Ashur's polished chest plate.

All that remains is a sigh, but there is no irritation in that exhalation. Only slight tiredness.

“The world around us is far from perfect.”

“And yet.”

Lucius lifts himself up on his elbows, sitting up straight again, runs a free hand through his long tangled curls. He hands over the pipe, wrapping Ashur’s fingers around it with a trepidation unique to him. Smiles wryly, though he asked not to.

“Take a rest once in a while.”

Luc suddenly dips his fingers under Ashur’s mask with the dexterity of a professional thief, barely stroking his tense jaw with his fingers before there’s time to object.

“If not in a "perfect" world, then at least our own.”

Our. 

Such a dangerous word.

“I'll think about it,” Ashur promises, finally taking a deep puff after lifting his mask a little.

Luc smiles with the corner of his mouth. 

That, they can afford.