(no subject)
Xas doesn't touch Thom when he comes to take him out of Milliways, when they step through the door, while they walk along the beach. He doesn't touch him when they walk through the hotel lobby, past the bellhop and the concierge, past the gift shop and the too-expensive restaurant with less than adequate wine. He doesn't even touch him in the overcrowded elevator, careful inches of space preserved between their bodies. Angels are oblivious to irritated stares, or so it appears.
Thom seems similarly oblivious, though he does shiver a bit the longer they spend in the air-conditioned hallway. Xas solemnly hands him a room key, the plastic card not warm from the angel's hand, and opens the door.
"I would have gotten separate rooms, but this was . . . provided by an acquaintance of mine, and I thought it better not to quibble."
There's something in his words, and in the slight smile on his face, that suggests 'acquaintance' is far from correct.
Thom just nods, voice light as he unpacks his things.
Xas waits in the chair, attention seemingly on the book he isn't reading.
They go down to dinner, Xas refusing to stop at the hotel restaurant, citing far more interesting places in town, with food that has nothing of America in it. Little of the islands, either, but Thom doesn't seem to mind.
Neither of them eat much, and Xas laughs quietly.
"Some habits are difficult to break, and I've been pretending a long time."
They don't step foot in a restaurant again.
The beach is another matter; Xas doesn't wear sunblock, and is more than content to spend hours wandering the beach, footprints filling up with water behind him, washed away with the tides.
"I like the feel of the water, though it's warmer than I like."
Thom makes a face, wondering if Xas prefers freezing.
"Yes." Xas smiles. "It reminds me of home. My first one, that is." This is simple truth.
There are gardens, or at least carefully arranged flowers, and Xas shows them to Thom, critiquing their care, their color choices, all with a wistful air.
Thom frowns at him, mostly ignoring the blossoms. "Are these important?"
Xas shrugs. "They were."
They stop talking.
Thom burns, and propmptly orders Xas to get sunscreen. The angel helps him put it on his back, the touch clinical and precise. When Thom turns around, eyebrow quirked as if to say well?, Xas looks oddly grateful.
They wander the streets in the evenings, stopping briefly at a club full of too-pretty people who like to touch. Xas leaves early. Thom stays behind.
Neither return to their hotel room that night.
The last day is primarily full of shopping, Xas investing in soft leather sandals, a few jewel-toned button-down shirts, a bit of artwork. Thom ends up with several of the most garish shirts in existence, colors clashing, patterns eye-burning, cuts deliberately elaborate.
Xas tries not to laugh, and Thom just stares at him. "What?"
"Do they sell knives?"
Xas spends the last night on the beach, feet buried in cool sand, head tilted up to watch the stars. Early in the morning, the beach is empty, save for a small sandcastle with a brightly colored pennant, and two sets of footprints.
Both of them are barefoot when they head back to the bar, though Thom doesn't look best pleased by it.
Xas carries the packages.
The last of the sand is gone from their feet before they reach the staircase.
Thom seems similarly oblivious, though he does shiver a bit the longer they spend in the air-conditioned hallway. Xas solemnly hands him a room key, the plastic card not warm from the angel's hand, and opens the door.
"I would have gotten separate rooms, but this was . . . provided by an acquaintance of mine, and I thought it better not to quibble."
There's something in his words, and in the slight smile on his face, that suggests 'acquaintance' is far from correct.
Thom just nods, voice light as he unpacks his things.
Xas waits in the chair, attention seemingly on the book he isn't reading.
They go down to dinner, Xas refusing to stop at the hotel restaurant, citing far more interesting places in town, with food that has nothing of America in it. Little of the islands, either, but Thom doesn't seem to mind.
Neither of them eat much, and Xas laughs quietly.
"Some habits are difficult to break, and I've been pretending a long time."
They don't step foot in a restaurant again.
The beach is another matter; Xas doesn't wear sunblock, and is more than content to spend hours wandering the beach, footprints filling up with water behind him, washed away with the tides.
"I like the feel of the water, though it's warmer than I like."
Thom makes a face, wondering if Xas prefers freezing.
"Yes." Xas smiles. "It reminds me of home. My first one, that is." This is simple truth.
There are gardens, or at least carefully arranged flowers, and Xas shows them to Thom, critiquing their care, their color choices, all with a wistful air.
Thom frowns at him, mostly ignoring the blossoms. "Are these important?"
Xas shrugs. "They were."
They stop talking.
Thom burns, and propmptly orders Xas to get sunscreen. The angel helps him put it on his back, the touch clinical and precise. When Thom turns around, eyebrow quirked as if to say well?, Xas looks oddly grateful.
They wander the streets in the evenings, stopping briefly at a club full of too-pretty people who like to touch. Xas leaves early. Thom stays behind.
Neither return to their hotel room that night.
The last day is primarily full of shopping, Xas investing in soft leather sandals, a few jewel-toned button-down shirts, a bit of artwork. Thom ends up with several of the most garish shirts in existence, colors clashing, patterns eye-burning, cuts deliberately elaborate.
Xas tries not to laugh, and Thom just stares at him. "What?"
"Do they sell knives?"
Xas spends the last night on the beach, feet buried in cool sand, head tilted up to watch the stars. Early in the morning, the beach is empty, save for a small sandcastle with a brightly colored pennant, and two sets of footprints.
Both of them are barefoot when they head back to the bar, though Thom doesn't look best pleased by it.
Xas carries the packages.
The last of the sand is gone from their feet before they reach the staircase.