Ancient Bones, Arcane

II. Debts To Be Paid

         Like the previous floor, the hall stretched onwards with the exception of rooms that branched off to the sides. There wasn't a single door in sight until the spiraling staircase at the end of the corridor, sectioned off from the rest of the hallway by a solid, metal door that was propped open by a large rock. Orin led Blaine through the doorway, his fingers trailing down his arm to rest around his wrist, his index and middle finger settling over his pulse point. The gentle heartbeat beneath the pads of Orin's fingers made his grip tighten just enough to feel Blaine's wrist flex against him.

         "Who's the new guy?" Orin swallowed harshly, taking the winding steps at a slower pace. He brushed off the break in his voice, his words coming out at a louder volume than he had expected. The few words he had spoken to Yvonne had done nothing to ease the ache in his throat.

         Orin didn't have to turn around to hear Blaine's footsteps falter, he felt it all the same. The tug of his partner's arm pulling against him had him turning on his heels, steps ahead of the other man. The furrow of Blaine's brow was enough to communicate his confusion. His free hand fell heavily on the railing at his side, the charred end of the cigarette pinched between his fingers broke off on contact. Orin watched it hit the ground on the stair next to Blaine's foot.

         "You've been gone for three fucking days," Blaine began, his eyes racking up and down Orin's front, gaze settling on his bruised temple, "and that's the first thing you say to me?" He paused then spoke through a lump that'd formed in his throat. "And you're hurt."

         He touched his fingers to the skin above Orins brow, raising the other man's arm along with his own, his fingers still pressed against the inside of Blaine's wrist. Orin felt the uptick in Blaine's pulse the moment he set his eyes on the discoloration at his hairline. And, though he worried, he kept his touch light. The pads of his fingers just barely skimmed over Orin's face. It felt like he wasn't touching him at all.

         Blaine waited a moment before speaking again, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. "Who was it?"

         Orin shook his head, slowly. "It doesn't matter," he whispered.

         "It does." Orin tried to shake his head, but Blaine's hand stopped him. His palm met the back of Orin's neck, skin hot but not unpleasant. "You know it does."

         Orin huffed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Blaine's gaze. He leaned forward until their heads touched, forehead to forehead, warm breaths intermingling between them. And he breathed in the earthy scent that clung to Blaine's skin, tainted only by the nicotine that swirled in his lungs. Orin thought him beautiful. From the sharp line of his jaw to the soft arch of his brows, and the gray of his eyes to the full shape of his mouth. And he would not keep anything from Blaine if it should be so important.

         He relished in the way Blaine's fingers slipped through the hair at his nape, his thumb sliding back and forth across his skin. He couldn't be certain if it was because he was weak or simply so taken by the man before him that the words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them. But he said it anyway. "Abrahm."

         "Which one was he?" Blaine wondered, nudging his nose against the side of Orin's.

         Silently, Orin grabbed Blaine's free hand in his own, the remainder of his cigarette falling to the floor below, bringing Blaine's fist to the base of his throat. His fingers unfurled, his index finger hooking around the neckline of Orin's shirt and pulling it away from his neck. Underneath where the stark black turtleneck covered the pale line of his neck was a long, jagged mark that marred his skin. The scar was ugly and a dark contrast against the base of his throat. The wound had long since healed but not without its own effects.