#all-made-of-stardust

A gift for @all-made-of-stardust, created by @gravitaz!

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tiles are cold (so am i)

warnings: bad words, allusions to ptsd and other mental illnesses. we’re doing some good old fashioned hurt/comfort, lads

summary: taako looks terrible. he has dark circles so deep that kravitz wonders if he can feel where they indent his skin, and even in the dim light from the few candles in the corner of the room, kravitz can see that his olive skin is at least a shade or two paler than normal. he looks ill, and that sends a spark of anxiety shooting down kravitz’s spine.

There’s familiarity in hiding from love and from warmth and from light. And familiarity, Taako used to find, is comforting.

When everything else failed him and when the world treated him with almost calculated cruelty, he found it simple to take the hand of habit and treat it in the same way. The world was a game of chess, a game of strategy, and he never lost. He was never able to afford to lose. He was all alone, in this world that was dark and dangerous and cruel. He had no one to pick up the knocked over pawns. That was a lesson he learned years ago in Glamour Springs; a lesson he was reminded of in Refuge.

So when Istus changes her tune, naturally, he grows suspicious.

Merle says never to blame the Gods for suffering. But when they are so unknowable, Taako finds it difficult not to. EspeciallyIstus; it’s all well and good being one of her emissaries, after all, but he finds it hard to believe that she can be the Goddess of Fate and yet have no control over the tapestry she weaves.

Of course, the parting of the clouds brings with it a little metaphorical sunburn. Yes, he gains back Lup, and sure, he’s reassured of Kravitz’s love. His family surrounds him, five other little birds, but it all hurts with the sixth there in the centre of it all, his little sister, a woman who stole everything from him for ten years, only to give it back when she got caught. Maybe Istus isn’t feeling so kind yet.

Neither is he, to be quite fucking frank. That kind of thing requires time that he has not yet had, and a fortitude he has had no reason to develop. The wound runs too deep.

Standing in his kitchen at only the Gods know what time shows him exactly how fresh it is, and not just the one she left him with. The light of the moon leaks in through the window, and three candles in the corner cast a strange, flickering light across the room, and Taako’s leaning over a counter trying desperately to catch his breath like he never learned how to breathe. The air in the room is thick and heavy as he tries desperately to push it into his lungs.

This is why he doesn’t fucking sleep any more. He doesn’t even need to do it, so why the hell he subjects himself to it is beyond him.

That’s the funny thing about grieving, and the odd thing about guilt. No matter whether or not a person thinks they might be over it, it never really goes away. Taako knows he isn’t responsible for what happened to those poor forty, and he knows his family is safe and alive and well. But whenever he closes his eyes, that mass grave still haunts his thoughts and all he forgot from those hundred years comes back to pester him in his dreams. He can’t seem to catch a break from it.

“Taako?”

He whips around so fast that he’s surprised the sound barrier doesn’t shatter around him, glamour up like a shield. Kravitz’s tired eyes greet him from the doorway. It makes something ache in Taako’s chest, seeing him this way. He grows more human by the day; skin warmer, breath deeper. He forgets that, while Kravitz is death’s emissary, he is a person and he is softer, gentler, now.

“Oh, Kravitz,” Taako says, as casually as if Kravitz had just come back from a trip to the Fantasy Costco. It’s a pretense he hides behind well; after all, he has had several years to practice, and several years to learn how to work through the guilt that bites at him for his dishonesty. He drops his glamour, but still throws out his best grin. “Bit early to be going to work, isn’t it, babe?”

Kravitz scowls.

Taako looks terrible. He has dark circles so deep that Kravitz wonders if he can feel where they indent his skin, and even in the dim light from the few candles in the corner of the room, Kravitz can see that his olive skin is at least a shade or two paler than normal. He looks ill, and that sends a spark of anxiety shooting down Kravitz’s spine.

“What’s the pout for, handsome?” His boyfriend’s voice catches him off guard. “M’ not allowed to grab myself some eats at three AM, is that it?”

Kravitz, of course, knows better than to go for the bait. “Not even close,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the island in the middle of the kitchen. The granite is hard and glacial underneath him, but it takes away some of the stone-cold formality of what he wants to say, what he wants to talk about. “It’s your house too, love. You know I don’t mind. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Taako’s jaw sets hard for just a second, almost imperceptibly. When his speaks, his voice is noticeably softer. “About what?”

“Well, you. This is, uh, extra, even as far as you go.”

“And what about it is extra, exactly?” Taako breezes past him, and in the dim light of the room, Kravitz thinks he spies that Taako’s face is just a little redder, a little puffier than usual. It’s also noticeable in the way that Taako begins to clatter around the place for something, anythingto do to stop Kravitz from worrying that something is wrong. It hurts to watch. “Maybe ch’boy just wants some fucking pancakes, alright? That’snothing to worry about, is it?”

“We’ve been over that already,” Kravitz says. “And the answer was no. But it isn’t that I’m worrying about.” He slides himself down from the countertop, deciding that this is no longer the type of conversation that he can force to be casual. Taako pauses at this motion, seeming to get what it means. The metaphorical gloves have come off. “Look, if you don’t want to talk, then that’s fine. But-”

“Fuckin’- don’t do this to me, bones,” Taako replies, voice a little thick. “Things’re fine, just- you know me. Takes more than a nightmare to take ol’ Taako down.”

Kravitz sighs. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Fucking-that.”

“I’m not catchin’ your vibe, Krav.”

“Stop pretending you’re okay, Taako.”

Kravitz swears that all the air in the room turns to sponge when Taako puts the spatula in his hand down forcefully. He could probably hear the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, the silence left in his wake is so deafening. “I know you do it because you’re worried about me, too,” he continues, “even though you won’t admit as much. And you know that I’ll never force you to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. But please, for the love of the gods, stop pretending that everything’s fine. That just worries me worse.”

The silence doesn’t let up, and every moment that passes is another anxious knot that forms in Kravitz’s stomach. He is sure that this will go one of two ways, and neither one is pleasant. Either Taako will put up another wall, another fifty feet for Kravitz to scale, or all of the ones he currently has built up will crumble unceremoniously at his feet. Even though both outcomes make him feel a little sick with worry, he decides in an instant that he will deal with it, if it is what it takes.

However, Taako does something that Kravitz does not account for. He sighs, and his shoulders relax.

“Why didn’t you just fuckin’- just tell me that-” He seems unsure as to how to even start his sentence. And Taako is shorter than Kravitz to begin with, but in the low Candlelight, Kravitz swears that he has never seen Taako look smaller. “You know, I hate it when you’re right. But I don’t- I don’t think I do wanna talk.”

Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t doubt that it’ll all come out on another morning just like this one. Uglier, more raw, less restrained. He’s already had some times like that, but Kravitz has not yet been privy to them all. He thinks that this will come with time. And a warm relief settles in his chest when his boyfriend nods and his hunches are confirmed.

“You got it.” Kravitz dithers for a second. And then, wordlessly, he opens his arms in Taako’s direction.

One thing that Kravitz understands about Taako, even for their comparatively short time together, is that Taako is not massive on physical affection in these situations. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule; the plate of sapphire on Phandalin, Carey and Killian’s wedding, their evening at the Chug N’ Squeeze. But under this circumstance, raw emotional vulnerability is not something Taako handles well. It’s a little bit of a surprise when Taako regards this posture, meets Kravitz’s gaze, and slots himself into the open space in Kravitz’s arms.

They stand like this for what is probably only a few minutes. Kravitz feels as though he could hold Taako forever, though. He doesn’t say this.

“Taako,” he says instead. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Taako whispers, without hesitation, because it’s the truth. He laughs, and the sound is just a little bitter. “Should fuckin’ act like it, shouldn’t I?”

Kravitz, though, does not laugh. He simply shakes his head. “Sometimes, that just isn’t how things are wired,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Taako’s head. “And that’s alright. We can rewire it, no sweat. It’s not as if we’re on a time limit here, my love.”

“Does five or six hundred years count as a time limit?”

This time, Kravitz does laugh, and it warms Taako’s veins. “Well, yeah,” Kravitz says, “but I’m literally an emissary of death herself. I think I can pull a few strings to get us a bit longer.”

Taako grins. “Tight.” And then, after a moment’s pause, “Does that mean we have time for me to make these fucking pancakes? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m not really in the mood to go back to sleep.”

Kravitz tucks Taako’s hair behind his ear, presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, and says, “More than enough.”