Sanctuary (Chrollo x OC)

19. Three in the Morning

     It's actually been a long time since Azuma was up this late, she generally tries to sleep early and wake early, so she could maintain an orderly schedule. She supposes this night is an exception in more than one way.

Chrollo has comfortably melted himself into the edges of the hot spring. He almost looks to be in danger of drowning himself, with his entirety, save his head, below water—the position looks horrible for his back. He's lazily conversing with her, eyes drooping; relaxed.

Azuma plops another dumpling into her mouth, careful not to drop a single crumb. Chrollo, lazily, slides his eyes over to her. "I don't think you can possibly deny being a glutton at this point."

Lips twisting into a defensive half-snarl, Azuma answers. "I can and will."

The man raises an eyebrow. "You've been swallowing dumplings whole, Azuma."

She nods. "Yes, yes I have, but," and she raises a finger, "I'm being careful not to drop crumbs in the spring! I can't help it, if I took a bite crumbs would surely go astray." Logical; a sound argument, surely there's no way Chrollo would be able to retort.

It only takes a half beat for Chrollo to respond. "Or," he drawls, "you could simply eat it later."

Azuma furrows her brows. The thing is; she doesn't want to eat them later. Her lips twist into a frown. "Hmph." She huffs, because he's right.

Chrollo's laugh rings out cut and clear and beautiful—for the second it lasts, Azuma has to blink and wonder why her heart squeezes, like it's some kind of elaborate knot that someone has tugged tighter. The moment only lasts a second, though, before long, the laugh turns into gutted chokes and gurgling bubbles because somehow Chrollo managed to slip the lower half of his head into the water and his laughs have turns into choking on water.

It's quite a display.

Azuma isn't and never has been a sadist, but it's a kind of hilarious delight in watching Chrollo stumble over himself in such an obvious, easy-to-avoid way. When The man finally regains his breath and stops gasping like a fish out of water, he send her a halfhearted glare. "What's with that!"

The woman lets a grin twist at her lips. "You didn't need help."

"You..." Chrollo looks to be struggling to latch onto the right words; it's late and they're both tired, it's too late for this kind of wordplay.

"Yes?" Azuma prompts.

Chrollo half frowns—annoyed and irritated but so undeniably happy—and Azuma thinks there's something in this that's some kind of special. Thinks that if Chrollo would be happy, she'd be happy, too—thinks that seeing him fractured only hours previously must have cracked something in her, too.

Chrollo pushes himself two half steps closer, and it takes too short (far too short) a time for him to have pushed his chest out of the water and leaned his head onto the crook of her shoulder. His cheek rests on her own skin, and it's too much.

He sighs, content? Perhaps. She can't really tell. It sounds like he might have said something along the lines of: 'it's too late for this, you're being unfair', but she isn't sure because she can hardly hear it over the rush of her own blood, or the beat of her own heart.

Because he's so close and when he spoke, Azuma could just barely feel his breath hitting her skin, and it feels like she's burning up and she's undoubtedly flushed—from this or the spring, she can't tell.

But there's something in the way Chrollo leans against her that makes her want to simultaneously stay like this for the whole night—maybe longer—and makes her want to cringe away, escape how uncomfortable it all is. The way her stomach drops and heart flutters (twitches, feels like it's being squeezed so tight it could burst, feels like someone has given it wings and it's trying to take its first flight), and blood rushes isn't exactly comfortable.