sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: March 23
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly specifically, anyone else who wants to come hang out in the kitchen
WARNINGS: so many feelings
STATUS: ongoing

It's been over a month. A whole month of sleeping in Kira's room, of avoiding Kate's eyes, of trying to keep himself as busy as possible when there still wasn't much to do.

It's difficult, being helpful in the Inn, since any and all chores he might set his eye on would run a high risk of having him bump into Kate, and they've been avoiding speaking to one another since their fight in the kitchen, the night Benedict burned his arm. His arm has healed, only slightly-pink and shiny skin left to mark his stupidity, but his relationship with Kate was not so easily mended. (Perhaps it might have been, had he been brave enough to step forward and apologize, but Benedict hadn't been able to find the words to say what he wanted to say, and then too much time has dragged on for any attempt to be plausibly accepted, so now he has to come to terms with the fact that he's managed to cock up the one really good thing he's found for himself here, and he'll never get it back.)

The empty houses around the habble had been drawing his eye, but somehow, the thought of leaving the Inn made his rift with Kate seem so much more permanent, and he hadn't the courage to take that step. Besides, Kira had told him that he was planning on moving out of the Inn soon, so Benedict needn't worry about overstaying his welcome in the room they now share.

Like he has so many times before, he creeps down to the kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed, intent on making himself a cup of tea. He's much more careful with the kettle now, the cracked tile on the floor from where he dropped it the night he burned himself enough of a reminder to not be so careless, but he can't resist the comfort that a hot cup cradled in his palms brings. Leaning against the counter as he waits for it to steep, he looks out the window towards the tree line, absently missing the swirling colors of the Aurora. The fireflies that have taken to chasing and stinging people are just as dangerous, but if he was given the choice between the two, he'd almost certainly pick the former. There had been something peaceful about the lights in the sky, something that reminded him in a strange way of Etherealist magic.

He hopes Ferus and Folly are well. And Gwen...the fact that he's barely thought of her for weeks makes him feel suddenly guilty. He's been so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he'd all but forgotten his family back home. She'd shake her head at him and cluck her tongue disapprovingly, then threaten to tell his mother the way she had when they were children.

Almost despite himself, he smiles.

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"I'm begging," she says, and almost laughs. The sound is full of tears, but for all her dramatics, she is aware (a little) that she probably looks a little ridiculous. It's not a posture that works well unless one is fully dressed, not hanging around in a chemise and boots and a coat. "And the floor's clean, I scrubbed it-"

What she wants is to throw herself at him, wrap her arms around him, cling. Instead, she clutches at his hand.

"I made a bloody mess of it all, and us. But I miss you so much."

"But why?" he asks, sounding forlorn like he's annoyed and dismayed that everyone understands something he doesn't. He doesn't see why Kate should be asking his forgiveness. She should be forgiving him.

Her hand clutches at his, her nails digging into his skin, little pin-pricks of pain winding their way up his arm, but he wouldn't shake her off for the world.

He's not crying, but his breath is a little shaky, and when he pulls her closer to him so he can wind his free arm around her, his hands tremble slightly. "Katie," he breathes, tugging her all the way into his lap, their legs tangled hopelessly on the cold tile, his arms curling around her and his face pressing into her hair the way he's been dying to do for weeks. He feels like he can't say her name enough.

"Jesus Christ," he continues shakily, a laugh as choked as hers had been bubbling in his throat but never quite making it free of his lips. "I've been such a wreck." As if that hadn't been obvious.

"I know, I know." She does know. She's been watching and worrying after him since she calmed down from the fight, wanting to look after him and knowing that it's due to her that he's been in such a bad way. "I'm sorry. I should have, I should have said earlier."

But her pride was there, trying to protect her and it from humiliation. And fear, and shame, all of those twisting up to still her tongue and keep her from walking over. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and been a prideful little brat.

His arm around her feels right, the length of him against her. How close he is, and she's missed this, she's missed him, all so much. Too much. Enough that she turns her head, twists a little to be able to face, and kiss him. Finally.

Benedict had tried to hide how miserable he'd been, but he's fairly certain he failed. Miserably. Thankfully, outside of a few stilted attempts, Kira hadn't mentioned the obvious reason for Benedict's sudden bout of listless melancholy, which had made it easier to pretend.

He's been disappointed before. Enough times that he'd learned that the easiest way to keep from being disappointed is to not get your hopes up in the first place, a lesson he'd forgotten the first time Kate had looked up at him and smiled wide enough to make dimples pop into her cheeks, to make her eyes sparkle with suppressed laughter. He'd tried not to remember those moments too much, because it hurt to dredge up memories of what he'd lost.

The trick to get over disappointments is to ruthlessly squash them down and pretend they aren't there until they stop hurting.

But Kate is in his lap once more, warm and solid against the tops of his thighs while the cold of the tile beneath them seeps through the fabric of his scrubs, worn thin and smooth in places, close to breaking if he's not careful. It's easy to forget everything else with her weight in his lap again, with her body pressed against his, her hands on his chest and her breath against his neck.

She turns her head to kiss him and he can't help the noise he makes deep in his chest, a low, rattling groan that sounds far too loud to his own ears.

Kate shivers, but not from any chill. Dimly, she's aware that her legs are cold, her feet, too. She's aware that she's on his lap, on the kitchen floor, wearing a shift and a coat. But she's on his lap and she's kissing him, and she shivers at his groan. Purr, deep down and low. She's missed making him sound like that, too, all the times they've messed around in bed.

Messed around, fooled around, but never that final step. Her choice, that one. She's not sure why, now. Not with him like this, kissing her back and purring.

Kate pulls her hand free from his, but only so she can cup his head, hold him a bit more still so she can kiss him deeper.

It's like a dam has been broken somewhere in his head, and now that Kate is back in his lap, clinging to him, kissing him, holding his head in place so she can lick past his lips, all Benedict can think about is the things they've done together, the countless nights spent curled around each other in bed, their hands slowly exploring under the cover of darkness and blankets alike.

Before he met Kate, he never really understood what everyone's preoccupation with sex and romance was about. It had seemed single-minded and stupid, really.

...And then he understood.

He's spent over a month without her touch, without her presence, without her scent clinging to everything he touched, and it's been torture. He rumbles again, sounding less like a rusty engine spluttering to life and more like something well-oiled and powerful, and clutches at her.

Kiss him like this is heavenly, almost made more intoxicating, more pleasurable, just more because of the time spent away without him.

Almost.

She'd been a fool, not to beg forgiveness before now. She's missed him, she's missed him, and she's missed this. His hands on her, his mouth under hers, the sheer heat of him against her body. Of knowing that she did all this to him not because she's just a pretty girl, the oh so delectable Kate Kelly, but because he, Benedict, loves her. Loves her. Respects her. Needs her. Wants her.

So Kate kisses him and kisses him, and shifts in his lap so she can press herself even closer. Her knees on the floor, she can move until there's nothing between them and it's not enough, not nearly close enough. She wants, she wants -

She breaks off kissing his mouth only to kiss his face and then duck down, kiss his neck. Kiss everywhere she can.