Pairing: Aidean (Aidan Turner/Dean O'Gorman)
Chapter Oneshot, word count 634
Summary: Aidan becomes melancholy in the evening light.
Comments: Inspired by an Aidean prompt post on tumblr: 9. Dean's small hands.
The day was growing old; the apartment — quiet. Aidan lay on a rumpled duvet, tossed and crumpled by the sex which still candied the air. He watched as dust motes danced in the light breeze, their soft edges stained red. The last gift of a dying sun. A symphony swelled in his mind, keeping in time to the sway of the particles. The motes would swirl, come together, then part, and particularly cheesy thought whispered that their dance was a lot like life. Whirl, come together, part, that was how it worked, wasn’t it? Maybe. If you liked to think about those things.
Aidan didn’t make a habit of it.
The same breeze tickled at the downy hairs on his chest. They staggered when Aidan released the large sigh, that had been building in his core, bending against the onslaught of decrepit air.
A grunt off to the man’s side broke the quiet, and Aidan tilted his head to look at his naked, dozing counterpart. Sweat had slicked strands of his blonde hair to his forehead, while the cotton sheets had ruffled others, making them stick up in different directions. Aidan brushed his fingertips against the creases that marred Dean’s face, smoothing them until they became peaceful.
Although Aidan knew he was not, Dean looked fragile. His small, curled frame gave the impression of porcelain. Press too hard and the clay would crumble. The paint would crack. The glassy eyes — shatter. He was otherworldly, at least to Aidan, anyway. Born to a land half a world away from his own; fitting into it so neatly. He belonged to the gold beaches, vivid lakes, and snowy mountains. Aidan did not. Rolling green pastures and sheer cliff faces pertained to him. Ancient ruins of stone and history inlaid in flesh. Aidan did not belong. But for Dean, he would try.
He traced the curve of the smaller man’s shoulder. Skittering along the soft, invisible hairs as he made his way down the tanned skin, mottled with freckles, to meet the bend of Dean’s elbow where amber curdled pink. There was a suggestion of muscle under the surface that thinned into bone then branched into tendon as Aidan made the journey to the delicate sinew of Dean’s wrist. The veins stood contrast to the hand that laxly clutched the white sheets, creating faded blue peaks and valleys spread tightly over knuckles.
Aidan’s hand hovered above Dean’s fist, his fingers spread wide. He admired how petite the clenched fist was compared to his. Its entirety could fit into his palm and maybe even then some. How easy it would be to enclose such a thing. Feel the frail bird bones shift and curl around his fingers. Mould to them. But as much as his mind urged him to. He did not.
Yet, he did something else.
Sliding down into the covers, he turned himself to face level with the sleeping man. Dean did not seem to stir, only let out a sigh from his parted lips, unaware of Aidan’s gaze. Aidan kept his eyes on Dean’s face as he leaned down to graze his lips over Dean’s knuckles. He took his time on each one, feeling the indent of bone as he slid his lips over the skin.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the heady scent of sweat and soap. It left his mouth dry as he lost himself in the moment. Felt himself slip and his mind grow heavy. He felt content to lie like that. Nose pressed to fingertips. Their softness left to warm the harsh hairs on his chin. His curls like ink on a canvas of white cotton. He was drifting, swaying; carried along by a soft breeze.A creature not unlike a dust mote; stained red in the dying sun.