Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

You're thoroughly charmed by the buzzing little purr your moirail strikes up as you play with his hair and occasionally steal his pencils. But as cozy and warm as it all is, and as tired as you are, you can't quite manage to really relax— lunch's round of beer has long since worn off and you feel unsettled, uncomfortable no matter how you arrange yourself on the pillows. The ache and itch of your marks is a continuous distraction you can't ever quite manage to shake. Rubbing or even scratching the punctures just makes it all worse, so you busy your hands with pencils instead. You steal a few pages of Jethro's graph paper to lay on your own sketchbook, and try to occupy yourself with composing increasingly intricate patterns.

Eventually a sharp, hot pang goes up your arm and you realize you've finally managed to scratch one of your wrist-marks open, and it's dripped a big violet blotch against your latest pattern. You blow out a long, exasperated sigh through your fangs.

"Give me your phone, love," you tell Jethro. "I don't know where that vodka I threw at Bel went to, we should order another."

 

You hand over your phone and fuss over his bloody wrist while he dials. "Tell 'em to send up some painkillers too. Sumpin' weaker than what's in the medkits, that'd mix bad with vodka. These don't hurt but they sure do plague you, babe. Hey, you reckon antihistamines'd do the trick?"

 

You try to get your wrist back from Jethro as you let the service troll know what to bring you, and hang up just in time that you don't moan into the poor fellow's ear.

"Don't," you tell him, pulling free— it feels good in the worst possible way for a moirail to make you feel. You tuck your wrist to your chest and try to catch your breath. Hell, if he'd just put his teeth in you you'd flip red for him in an instant and the thought makes you sick.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, patting his leg with your free hand. "Sorry. But. Don't."

 

"I gotta clean it, darlin'," you protest. "I know it does weird shit to you when you touch it, I know, wa'n't I just cryin' over that a hour ago? But that don't mean you oughtta let it get infected."

 

You hesitate. He— he doesn't have to, you could clean it yourself, or, or just let it close itself back up, you're not going to get an infection in a clean room like this, especially not one with a salt pool— but he knows it— he knows how it feels. He won't blow up at you like Bel does. It'd be alright to just— enjoy it—wouldn't it? Maybe it would even be pale. Maybe he could make the restless longing ease up a bit, that would be such a relief.

You hold out your wrist, very tentatively. "Sorry," you mumble.

 

"Shh, you didn't do nothin' wrong." You pap his cheek gently, then focus on his wrist.

Every touch makes him react, he's stifling noises that sound distinctly sexual, and it must be embarrassing as hell. But witnessing his embarrassing moments and not flipping out is what a good moirail does, right? These bites have never been properly cleaned out, and soaking in the salt pool has repeatedly puffed the edges of the wound so they're starting to cheloid. Shame at his bite-boner would be a really stupid reason to develop scar tissue thick enough to stiffen up, or an infection that would leave a divot.

"You're doin' fine," you say as you finish with the antibacterial ointment and smooth the band-aid on. Maybe if you keep being reassuringly not-squicked, and don't ask permission but just keep working, he'll let you clean all the worst bites.

 

"Nnh," you reply, dazedly, and shudder when he moves on to a mark just a little further up your arm. The pressure and sting of his work lances flushed desire all through you, urgent as dawn, but the attention is so pale. Your Lady licked the wounds bloodless and left them like that, vividly raw, and Jethro works to clean and cover each one up and to stroke your face warmly, besides. You melt against the pillows, tremblingly compliant, and churr for him some sick, muddled pinkish noise.

 

You purr and murmur pale nothings, praise him for being good and brave and yours. When you're finally satisfied every bite that's still open has been properly disinfected and covered, you wrap yourself around him, let him burrow against your sweater, and kiss the top of his head a bunch of times while you rub soothingly at the bases of his horns. "I pity you fit to bust," you promise. "I wanna be your first aid guy for always."

 

The urgent red pulse of desire washes out of you, bit by bit, as Jethro holds you and patiently gentles you. To your horror you find yourself weeping: you feel cracked-open and vulnerable and sick and exhausted and—

"I'm so--hn--so sorry," you choke out, scrubbing at your eyes. "Sorry. 'm sorry."

((i'm pretty sure erskin is the very quiet kind of cryer, who spends most of the crying trying to stop))

 

"It's okay. Shoosh, it's okay, nothin' to be sorry for. Shoosh, darlin'." Soothing him is soothing you as well. You've both been through some shit lately. Being cuddled up safe like this... you both needed it.

 

You can't quite manage to get hold of yourself, but that's alright, Jethro has you, and he's not angry with you, or revolted, he knows you can't help it. He shushes you each time you apologize, until you stop trying. You shiver against the warm, soft thrum of his body until you eventually find some sort of quiet peace. You're not sure if you sleep, but you drift for awhile, insensate. At one point you hear the door click open and you half-rouse, growling blindly, but Jethro tugs you back into the pillow nest by a horn, and smooths all the concern away.

You are never, ever getting out of this pile.

 

The hotel porter is admirably quiet ant attentive; you direct her with hand gestures to set the room service tray where you can reach it without coming too close to Erskin, and she does so without a blush or a blink. She's probably walked in on people's piles and even concupiscent activities many a time. She even somehow mixes you a pair of drinks without making the ice clink. You sign a nice tip on the reciept.

Once she's gone, you look over what Erskin ordered -- looks like vodka tonics, octopus dumplings, and roe on toast, plus a bottle of mild painkillers -- and put together a plate for him. You rouse him enough to feed it to him with your fingers.

 

"Mnfgh," is your studied opinion of being prodded into letting go of Jethro's middle and facing the world again, but then there is food, which isn't so bad. You realize you're literally eating out of your moirail's hand somewhere around the second piece of toast, and just barely manage not to bite one of his fingers as your face flames. It's ridiculous to have a fit of shyness now, about this, and you determinedly finish the toast, and kiss his bare palm, besides.

"You're nice," you mumble. "That's inadequate. I mean. As a descriptor, and all that, that you're nice. But. You are... Oh, fuck, is that the vodka, give it here."

 

"An' you're cute," you retort as you hand him the drink, "which is likewise inadequate. Here, have a couple a these, they're just headache pills, they oughtta take the edge off them bite twitchies."

 

"That's what the drink's for, mostly," you tell him, taking the pills he offers. When you try to wash them down with the drink you nearly cough them up your nose— the first swallow of harder stuff always burns, and you always forget. The second, cautious, sip goes better. You methodically apply yourself to getting it all down, then drop the glass off the edge of the couch and look around to see if there's more. No luck. You take another few headache pills and swallow them dry, then flop back against Jethro to wait for it all to start working.

"I want more pats," you tell him, pressing your face into his sweater. "And when's Bel getting back? We should, we should do something extremely scandalous, we should do that right as he, um, walks in. Yes."

 

You snicker. "Like what? You can have all the pats," you add, and demonstrate how very free you are with the pats. And the gentle scalp-scratching, and a few nuzzles just for whynots. "I'm game for shockin' Bel, I just got no ideas. His priss face is funny as hell though."

 

"I...mmm. Yes... I, I don't... know, either. Invite him in?" you smirk at the thought of his blushingly affronted face, and then smile a bit less at the thought of his face relaxed in soft pleasure. All that tense and irritable strength unstrung under Jethro's beautiful hands... "I shouldn't want Ms Pancho to be angry with us, though. I like her."

 

"Yeah, me too. I mean, obvs; she's my clubs. Steppin' on her diamond ain't cool." You pause thoughtfully, picturing the two spadebros awkwardly ruffling and settling like itchy cats, torn between bicker and snuggle; it really is an adorable picture. "Now, iffen she was here, maybe..."

 

You bury your face in Jethro's sweater again, mortified at the very idea. "Oh no, oh my goodness, no. No! I wouldn't dare. She's a proper sort of lady, you don't invite those into an orgy. It isn't done."

Jethro pats your head. You add, after a contemplative minute, "She does look like someone who knows her way around a hug, though."

 

"I know her an' Bel snugglepile with Lu an' Galley sometimes. I mean, they got that red square goin', pale on X axis an' flushed on Y, so I dunno if it counts as a orgy exackly. Plus I dunno what they get up to, ain't like I was there. But they got zero shame about it."

You have to grin at how Erskin hides his face, earfins blushing blackcurrant sweet. He has no clue how precious he is when he gets embarrassed.