The Ink In-Between: An Anthology (Dark Edition)

Broken Toys

CW(s): sexual tension, dubious consent, power dynamics, implied sexual abuse and grooming. 

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"Come in."

It's almost instinctual, the way those two words leave Idir's mouth. There's as much thought put behind them as a swear word that might slip out in a moment of brief but inconsequential pain (like a paper cut, or maybe a stubbed toe).

That is to say, he doesn't mean them, not really. And if his mind hadn't strayed so far into the murky depths of his own thoughts, then maybe he might have known to keep quiet and not uttered them at all.

Alas, as they say, there is no point in crying over spilled milk (is that really the saying? It sounds utterly ridiculous). So he keeps that feeling of regret to himself, even if he can't quite stop his heart from clenching at the unmistakable sound of the door hatch sliding shut.

"Am I interrupting?"

Idir has half a mind to laugh. He almost does, which concerns him (maybe those all-nighters are finally starting to catch up to him), but he manages to stifle the treasonous sound before it can rise past his throat.

The slight quirk of his lips is a compromise he is willing to make, if only because his friend can't see it.

"No," he lies, as usual, though he is never quite sure why. "Not really."

One of those unwritten rules of human interaction, perhaps. If it's not rational, then it's only because that's not entirely the point. Right?

The rhythmic clicking of heels on the wooden floor echoes in the silence, like the ticking of a clock, yet somehow louder and more oppressive.

And Idir tries (really, he does) to focus on the many sketches and notes in front of him. But the letters and lines on the pages blur together, and all he can think about is how he shouldn't know exactly what pair of shoes his friend is wearing by the sound of his gait alone (definitely the expensive leather boots).

"Working on something new?"

There's a hand on the back of his chair. It curls around the wooden frame, the grip strong enough to make it whine, a sound that Idir's ears easily pick up in the dead quiet of his chamber.

The other hand slides over the desk, curious yet careless fingers flicking through the pages of his note book. The motion forces Erik to lean over him, his friend's strong, muscled arm brushing against his much scrawnier one in a way that feels almost accidental.

Almost.

"I... yes. You could say that." Idir struggles to focus on his own words, whatever cohesive thought he meant to form in his head fluttering to some far-off place at the sensation of a warm puff of breath across his neck.

The loud, dry cough he lets out is nothing but an excuse, albeit an admittedly poor one, to shift his weight on the chair and lean forward, just enough to move away from some of that pressing touch and uncomfortable warmth.

The fact that Erik finds an even better excuse to close what little gap he'd managed to put between them, by reaching over the desk to snatch one of his 'projects' (why on earth would a language use the same word to describe both a scientific achievement and a child's arts and crafts work?), shouldn't really surprise him at this point.

"Still working on those flying designs, I see."

It's a mixture of curiosity and anxiousness that has Idir finally looking up. Thankfully, he's spared from meeting Erik's gaze at all, as the man seems much too engrossed with the small, robotic dragonfly that he'd picked up from the desk.