MistMorpheus

配对：Cytus II的Xenon/ConneR, 斜线无意义。Yes, this is a thing.（严肃

分级：Teen and up audiences

没有背景，单纯是想让这两位猫系（x）能有互相袒露脆弱和温柔的时刻。正如ConneR老师所说，所有的ooc都是因为他在发烧，而Xenon看到生病的人容易心软。（不是这样的，实际上，ooc都是我的错。）

这也许是个两人圈，非常感谢 @Vino 和我一起脑、给我很多支持和鼓励，没有您就没有今天的我这篇文！也希望看到这里的你能够看下去和喜欢。:)

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"I've never asked you to come."

"I know."

Rain was starting to gather in puddles. The smell of rust and dust, swept up by the moist air, thickened. Yet he was wrapped in dry linen, the pronounced cleanliness clinging to it familiar to him but foreign to his surroundings. He tried to get up, but the blunt pain in his left arm caught him by surprise; the dark shadow flickered behind him—he sensed it more than he saw it—and an arm steadied him from falling.

"Don't rush," said the man behind him. He caught a glimpse of his umbrella; it was black. In his feverish state, he thought the 27-year-old's tone was probably gentler than he had intended.

"But I need to—"

"All has been taken care of," said the man. Seeing his eyes widen, he sighed. "Don't pretend you left that backdoor by chance. With my encryption nonetheless."

For a moment, Colin was at a loss. Swimming at the brim of his consciousness were gratitude, shame, fear, and even warning, but all he ended up saying was "come here" and on these desperate words he nearly choked. When was the last time he'd been seen like this? He struggled to inquire, but it hardly seem to matter now when he found himself leaning instinctively into the even breathing and the smell of quietly rumbling machines and lemon-flavored shampoo, which washed over him like he'd never stumbled onto nightmare land, like he's home on the couch on just another rainy day, like—like he had never been alone.

Cold fingers came to rest on his forehead, and he involuntarily drew in a sharp breath. "I gave you penicillin," said the younger man. "You'll soon be better." His breath lingered, warm, on his cheekbones, too close yet too far away. "Simon," he heard himself whispering, his voice almost breaking at the edges, and his right hand came up to reach for the other man in his blurred vision, guiding him blindly until he felt warm, dry lips pressed against his, when his heart's relentless fluttering stilled and everything came back to place, but only for a moment too short; before Simon could back away he found and grasped his right hand, which was securing the umbrella while gingerly holding him in place, saying "get rid of the damned umbrella" and meaning hold me even if it hurts me, even if the rain may soak me. But Simon wouldn't let him—it was easier than usual, given how exhuasted and frail he was—and what he did was taking off his leather jacket, wrapping it tightly around Colin's shoulders, making sure it covered up his wound properly. Then he dropped the umbrella; suddenly a real downpour intruded upon his senses, as he was held in close and a hand threaded through his already wet hair.

"I—" all of a sudden Colin felt surreal, unjustified. He inhaled leather—his—and was struck by an unescapable and unbearable intimacy burning through the jacket and the shirt that were one size too big for him—his, they screamed, with the condescending posture of karma. "These are all yours," he breathed, not knowing what to say about the confusion, the frustration that arised seemingly out of nowhere, and the desire to shed them all like old weight and carry on on his own as per usual.

Simon sighed. "You should not blame me for caring." He shook his head as Colin opened his mouth to try to protest, and added, after a moment of hesitation: "Or yourself."

"I hate it when you talk like this," Colin muttered, feeling the burn behind his eyelids and through his chest. "All should's and shouldn't's. Naive speculation framed as conviction. You know nothing."

"I know enough to know what I want," Simon answered, with that irrevocable sense of entitlement that Colin was so desperately averse and drawn to, "and you hate it because you know I'm right."

"Prove it," Colin challenged, choosing the easy way out, and he felt Simon shifting closer. Strands of hair plastered to his forehead were gingerly brushed aside, and their lips met, wet now with chlorinated rain. With a sense of urgency he pushed forward, deeper, the rustling of fabric ridiculously loud in his ears, and his unwounded synthetic hand found its way to the hem of Simon's shirt. Simon made a surprised noise at the back of his throat and pulled back, his face slightly flushed to Colin's pleasure. "Now's not the time for that," he snapped, tone cold and curt despite the noticeable quivering in his voice, as he struggled to regain his composure.

"I thought we were on the same page there, you being the one who put your clothes on me," Colin said, feigning innocence. "Makes me feel like I'm inside you."

Simon's blush deepened. "Shut up," he managed to protest, but Colin was half certain that he had already made a mental note about the clothes for the next time…if there ever will be a next time. He didn't realize he had finished his thought out loud until Simon's voice registered: "Stop sounding like we are going to die here."

"As far as I'm concerned, we very well might."

"No, we won't," Simon simply answered. "I have a plan."

"You do?" Colin's mind shifted automatically into focus. "Talk about it."

Simon looked him up and down, frowning slightly, as if gauging whether he was fit for mental labor. Colin snorted. Simon eyed him sternly, then handed him his tablet.

"…And all you spent coming up with this was what, three hours?" Colin asked, not bothering to hide his incredulity as he swiped the screen, swiftly noting the salient points.

"More or less."

"Apparently I've still been undermining your capabilites."

"Don't say that. You know it's more about gathering and interpreting existing information than innovating."

"It's still a feat." Colin knew what Simon said was more truth than modesty; his past self had even been disdainful towards the whole methodology. At the moment, however, he understood it was simply stupid to deny that it was indeed the most effective approach, or that Simon's clean-cut way around formulating solutions was admirable and charming.

Simon raised his eyebrows. "That's novel," he said, and Colin laughed at the light sarcasm. "So you think it's practicable?"

"I would say it's our best chance."

"That's good enough." Simon reached out for Colin's forehead again; he felt his fingers to be a bit warmer. "The penicillin is working. Are you good to go?"

Colin closed his eyes momentarily. "I'm saying this just in case," he spoke, weighing his words, "but I need to apologize for having dragged you into this. You shouldn't have had to be here."

"I wouldn't have done otherwise." Simon replied calmly, picking up the umbrella. The rain had turned into a light drizzle. "It's among the few things that you have yet to acknowledge."

"You are probably always right." Colin tried to stand up and Simon's arm immediately came to secure him. He cleared his throat, knowing his words would be taken exactly as he meant them: "Let's go home, then."

He saw light brown eyes lit up with undisguised surprise and delight, those eyes that flashed across his mind in a moment of desperation, that he for a second thought he was never going to see again before he drifted off to feverish oblivion. But he saw them again; and though he never would be the first to believe in fate, he knew he would return to them. For the next time, and the next, and the next. Until there is no time.

"Let's go home."

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标题是Xenon的歌来着。啊，真的好爱他们啊。（抹泪