1
It’s been pouring rain all week, buckets that led to streets flooding, and the Thimes lapping at its banks. Storm of the century the tabloids had touted- Marc is unfazed by it all. He’s dealt with worse things in life than a little rain even though the swelling river across town makes him want to throw up every time he has to walk past it.
Keying into the walkie on his hip he reports to central command that the perimeter of the hotel is still, predictably, secure. Silent and dead is more how he’d describe it, no one but idiots like him would be out in this shit weather.
Being a bodyguard now is a simple job, mostly boring, but better than constantly covering his hands with blood, and makes great use of a natural skill set he’s built up over the years. It’s a small plus that Steven always loves hearing about the famous and successful people he gets to meet. Beams wide and bright and says he no longer has to read the tabloids to know what’s going on with the city’s upper crust.
He tries not to check his watch as rainwater soaks through the black standard-issue jacket the small company he’s working for this week gave him. Keeping a casual eye on a few pedestrians briskly walking across the street, wilted papers held over their heads to protect them from the rain. They're smarter than him, dashing for cover and out of the rain while he stands, soggy and cold.
He doesn’t want to admit he’s bored at this, has been since he gave up the suit over to Jake, since Khonshu worked out this whole triad soul thing with the Ennead. Admitting you're bored tends to send trouble down upon you, and like clockwork Karma is a bitch. His cell phone silently buzzes in his back pocket.
Steven texts him… a lot if he’s honest- and even Layla will send him messages throughout the day. They all know he keeps his phone on do not disturb unless emergency, so when it vibrates a second time, he knows in the pit of his stomach this isn’t just a cat video or mindless request for groceries.
But it is. He unlocks the phone and looks dumbfounded at the list Steven has sent over. It consists mostly of bandages and an assortment of antibacterial products.
Marc has the ringing phone up to his ear before he even realizes he hit call. This shouldn’t be happening. Jake may be the Avatar now, but they all have the suit, and they all have the protection of Khonshu, it was part of the deal. Has Layla been hurt?
The rush of adrenaline and anxiety tastes bitter on his tongue as he tries to unstick it from the roof of his mouth.
Has he failed to protect them again? Just because he was too busy protecting some rich asshole.
“E’llo Marc! I didn’t mean to bug you at work!” Steven greets, his tone too chipper, the same kind he uses when stressed.
“Is everyone ok? What the fuck is going on?” Marc says, already stalking toward the front of the building. They’ll fire him for abandoning his post and leaving his shift early but he doesn’t give a shit.
“No, no everything is A-okay! It’s not that big of an emergency, I just didn’t want it to get lost in your text messages, I know how you let them pile up. Lots of tikiy toks I send, it’s my fault really. We needed it, yeah, but we’re good till you get home! Got plenty here for now.-’, Voices argue in the background behind Steven's babbling voice. Its a muffled sound and Marc strains to hear them.
Spanish.
“Steven give the phone to Jake,” Marc says and he hears Steven sigh, a muffled static over the phone and someone swears loud enough in the background to come through clear on Marc’s end. Maybe that was a gasp and not so much a sigh.
“Jakes a wee bit… bloody. Right now. Not Jake! It’s not Jakes!” Steven instantly says, knowing where Marc’s head had suddenly derailed too. “It’s O’Haras. Miguel’s here, poor bloke. He’ll be fine though! Jakes got him on the toilet and patching him up. I’ve stepped out because I can’t even watch those surgery videos where they fix animals to rehabilitate them. Which, all things considered, that’s kinda what this is, i’nt?’ Steven laughs but his voice is tainted with panic or worry or both, Marc walks faster through the puddles.
“I’m coming home right now.” He says through teeth clenched tight enough he’s going to give himself a headache.
It’s not that he hasn’t slowly learned to trust Miguel O’Hara, and even begrudgingly accept him coming and going in his life- but Miguel to Marc is like Jake or Khonshu, always a threat even when trying not to be, and a giant pain in Marc’s ass.
“Marc you’re going to lose your contract. It’s just another hour- ah looks like nearly two. But we’re fine here. I’m assuming we’re fine here?” Steven's voice moves from the phone and Jake responds, maybe O’Hara, the two sound so damn similar over the phone, whoever it is the response sounds like ‘si’.
“See, we’re ok here. I maybe just panicked a little bit. It was a lot of blood, you know those horror movies Layla likes, where the little aliens come out of the guy's chest-“
“Steven you’re not helping,” Marc says, looking up at the rolling grey clouds and rain like it's nature's fault his life is like this.
Steven takes a deep breath, he must have moved somewhere more quiet in the apartment, or the bathroom door has been shut, because he can’t hear the other two anymore. Jake said everything was ok though and that leaves Marc calmer, adrenaline wearing away and leaving him feeling cold and damp again. He glances down to find he’s come to a stop in a puddle and turns to pace back to where he was before.
“I’m leaving my phone on, if anything changes or happens, call me. Don’t even text just call- ok Steven?”
He waits till Steven says a soft ok and Marc regrets that his tone may have come across as too harsh.
“Steven?”
“Yeah?”
“See you soon. Be careful.” He says, prying the words from his chest.
“You too. La’ers gaters.” Steven chirps, and it warms Marc from the heart out as he hangs up and returns his phone to his pocket.
-
Steven was being generous when he said nearly two hours, by the time Marc is turning in his walkie at central command and heading on the sidewalk towards the Tube the sun is slipping below the heavy clouds and street lights flicker on. He’s soaked to the bone and wants to do nothing more than go home but he makes a quick stop not just to a nearby pharmacy, but to his old locker. He’d kept a med kit there, the duffle stuffed with supplies that no corner store would ever carry.
He has no idea what he’s coming home to, what kind of blood bath O’Hara has dragged with him this time. Trouble following the other man’s heels where ever he goes to the point that he makes even Marc feel lucky in life.
Taking the stairs up to their new shared flat two at a time he leaves a dripping trail of rainwater behind him.
The door is unlocked when he opens it, but most of the lights are off, and the apartment is cast in darkness. Inky shapes are only lit by the fish tank taking prize center just next to the tv and the soft yellow light that sits over the stove.
Steven rises from the kitchen table to greet him. Dry and warm as he pulls Marc into a fast hug and then takes the duffle and plastic bag from his cold fingers.
“You’re a bit wet, they didn’t have you standing out in the rain all day like that, did they? That’s quite rude. Come on now, take your coat off.” Steven says, voice a whisper, setting the bags on the floor and pawing at his coat. Marc stops him, easily grabbing his wrists and holding him still. Drinking in the sight of Steven in the low light.
“Are you ok? Is everyone ok?” He asks, matching Steven's whispered tone as he lets go of his wrists. No blood. No wounds. Perfect, healthy- if not a little ruffled looking from stress.
“I’m fine, we’re all fine. They’re on the couch. Miguel is going to be ok.” Steven nods. Going to be okay, but not fine- and Marc notes the words with a heavy sigh.
Peeling off his wet jacket and hanging it on the coat rack to dry, Marc’s boots come next, soaking socks following. His feet and hands are frozen stiff and he wants a hot shower but he instead moves silently towards the main sitting area, the couch coming into view around the wall of bookshelves that contains a part of Steven's massive research collection.
Miguel takes up the whole couch, and even then one knee is bent, barefoot hanging off for toes to touch the floor. Jake isn’t so much on the couch as in front of it, sitting on the floor at Miguel’s shoulders, head twisted back to share the pillow under the taller man’s head in an awkward way that’s going to leave him crabby and sore when he wakes. His white undershirt is stained rust with dried blood in smears and splashes but whatever damage there is on Miguel lies hidden beneath the soft throw blanket tucked over his torso.
There’s something equal parts venerable and protective about them that has Marc taking a silent step back. Giving them their privacy and retreating to where Steven is sitting the plastic bag and duffle on the kitchen table, cautiously peering at the contents inside.
“You want to tell me now what happened?”
“Nah, imma make a pot, you take a shower and dry off. I’ll tell you then.” Steven says, waving his hands at him, shooing him along, and Marc is proud. A year ago Steven would have caved and cried, dumped the whole day of stress on Marc, but now he’s strong and brave too- it warms Marc more than any shower could.
He throws up a sloppy military salute that has Steven chuckling and moves off silently to the bathroom.
Whatever signs of the carnage that happened in here are gone too, mopped up and cleaned away so efficiently that there's not even a bloody napkin in the trash can.
He allows himself the luxury of taking a long shower, letting the hot water work out the stress knots in his shoulders, and defrosting his toes. Changing into sweats and a hoodie before coming back out. He passes the couch again on his way, but both still sleep. Jake has turned to press his face into Miguel’s bare shoulder but otherwise, neither has moved.
Steven is in the kitchen still, putting two fresh steaming mugs on the table of what will probably be some kind of horrible caffeine-free tea, and Marc- Marc will drink it with a smile. He also catches sight of a pan of warming soup on the stove next to the kettle, and he doesn’t think he could love Steven anymore at that moment.
It’s not till he’s sitting, soup and mug in front of him that Steven finally talks.
“I don’t think he knew where he was.” He starts with and it has Marc nearly standing again, looking over his shoulder to where he can just see the corner of the couch. Both are still asleep.
“Is he ok? Is things in his world ok?” It’s still weird to ask that, he knows it’s all true now, he’s had that knowledge beaten into him, but it still sounds insane to talk about other worlds. Other dimensions.
“I’m pretty sure things in his place are ok- and Jake says he’ll be ok,” Steven says again looking concerned over Marc’s shoulder to them before his sad eyes meet Marc’s. Marc sets his spoon back into the bowl and reaches across the small span of table to grip Steven's shoulder. Kneads the muscle there under the ridiculously oversized jumper he’s wearing.
“He kind of just showed up on the back patio. Jake wasn’t even supposed to be home, he was walking out the door to leave when Miguel dropped in” Steven says with a flop of his hand, and from what Marc’s suspecting, ‘dropped in’ is not a figure of speech. “I cleaned the porch as much as I could, I think the rain did the most. I’m not squeamish, not as much as I was- but it was a lot of blood.”
“He heals fast,” Marc says, and Steven nods, hands wrapping around his mug, fussing with the handle.
“I just- if Jake wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have known what to do. You can’t take him to the A and E. I think I’m going to take some classes, first aid stuff. In fact, I know I am. Just in case, for all of us. Can’t rely on the pidgin forever.”
Marc hates this, hates O’Hara for bringing this to their door. Hates Jake for doing it a lot too but at least Khonshu heals his Avatar, so most of what blood Jake spills is gone by the time Steven sees him.
Steven, ultimately, is right though. He’s the only one of them without real knowledge of first aid, and given Marc and Jake's lifestyles… it would be wise for him to gain it. But it still sits like rot in Marc’s stomach. His Steven should have never have these kinds of fears.
His Steven is pure and deserves nothing but good. Not frustrating ancient Egyptian gods and not fucking dimension-hopping spider assholes.
“He’s not your responsibility-” Marc says, and knows he’s a damn hypocrite the second the words leave his mouth because there is a whole list of people Marc has labeled as his responsibility. Steven is allowed to do that too. He’s his own person, especially now.
Steven just gives him a bored look, looking for a moment more like Marc than himself. “He’s my friend.”
“He’s weird and I still don’t trust him,” Marc says just to be stubborn, Steven for his part ignores him.
“I think- he was just hurt and lonely,” Steven says leaning a bit closer, conspiring. “He likes us.”
“He likes you and Jake-” Marc says around a mouth full of vegetables and noodles. Swallowing the warm soup before continuing. “And he has his, whatever the fuck he calls it. All his spider people.”
Steven wrinkles up his nose at the mention of spider people, even he’s not sure what that means, and Marc is sure Steven has conjured images of eight-legged people in his mind. Neither of them has gotten a strait answer from O’Hara when they ask, the man always just shrugging and saying some of them do.
“They are kinda close, right? Jake and him. Jake was downright lovey patching him up.” Steven says after a moment. Smile bright as the moon hidden behind the clouds.
“Nope. I'm not going to go there and you’re not either.” Marc warns with a choke, refusing to even entertain the idea of their third half climbing in bed with O’Hare.
2
Steven loves his new job- which is a lot like his old job- only without Donna bitching at him every day, the small crew he works with is delightful. The bonus that the metaphysical shop is just down the road from the museum, so he can still pop in and check out all the new exhibits on days he has shorter shifts.
Today was not one of those days…
It was long and annoying as it creeps closer to fall and Halloween. People treating other people’s religion like a holiday prop. Two years ago he wouldn’t have cared, but now it bothers him. Personally knowing a few gods changes one’s perspective on this kind of thing.
By the end of his shift, he’s tired and smells of herbs and incense that reminds him of tombs, of the Duat and the Ennaed and their souls splitting into three. The only thing he can think of the whole bus ride home is taking a shower to scrub it -and some particularly nasty memories- off.
-
Once he’s home and out of the shower he feels like a new man. A tired, hungry- new man.
Rubbing a towel to his still-drying curls he blindly walks to the kitchen, nose in his cell phone, reading messages from Marc and Jake about how they’re running late, both ironically trapped in the same traffic.
He’s typing out a quick ok, that he’ll get dinner going for them when he walks straight into an unmovable object with a surprised ‘oomph’. Dropping the towel down for a brief second Steven squawks out a startled sound and scrambles a few steps back, trying and failing to summoning the suit around him in pure instinct.
Miguel, for his part at least looks as close as he can to sheepish, eyebrows raised as he finishes taking a drink from the coffee mug in his hand.
“Sólo yo. It’s just me.” Miguel says. Holding a red palmed hand up in peace.
“Sorry. You gave me a hell of a fright.” Steven says, rolling his shoulders.
“And here I thought you just scream as a form of greeting,” Miguel says and Steven wags a finger at him with a grin, coming close to jab an index right between the eyes of the skull-faced spider on Miguel’s chest.
“And that’s why Marc doesn’t like you. All that dry sarcasm. Americans don’t get it.”
“Are you racially profiling me? I’m American.” Miguel says there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Ha. Ha.” Steven says, trying for mirthless but it is damn funny now that he has his heart out of his throat. Tossing the damp towel from his hair across the back of one of the kitchen table chairs.
“No one’s home. How long have you been here?” He asks, stepping around Miguel to the fridge. Pulling out some ingredients he’d left to marinate in sauce this morning.
“Not long,” Miguel says, stepping out of Steven's way and leaning his hip against the counter. Mug cradled in his hands. “You were in the shower so I made coffee.”
“And let yourself in,” Steven says, but there’s no bite to it, placing a bowl of prior cut veggies on the counter and prepared tofu. Marc and Jake have been making an effort to try to eat vegan with Steven- or at least vegetarian- once a week. His cooking isn’t the best but it is slowly improving with time, trying and finding new recipes. Layla is giving him lots of tips too.
“You here to help Jake and Khonshu? Or just pop in for a cuppa?” He asks, casually being nosey as he adds more seasoning and sesame seeds on top of the vegetables.
Miguel shifts, making more room for Steven to work. Taking another deep drink of the coffee in his hand before answering, probably weight how much Jake would want Steven to know. “He asked me for backup on something.”
“He knows me and Marc can help too-“ Steven starts but then stops himself. That’s only half true. Jake is fully Khonshu's avatar now, all three may retain their suits and Khonshu's direct protections, but they’re not the gods to do with. No missions. No bullshit.
Jake's life for theirs.
A trade Jake made more the willingly, protect them and he’s made it more than clear he doesn’t want them out there.
His face must show how much that hurts him because Miguel’s eyes soften in sympathy and he glances down into the last dredges of his coffee. “Él sabe.”
Miguel is silent after that at his side, and Steven glances over as he pulls a baking tray from the oven to grill it all on and sets the oven to preheat. Under the hard kitchen lighting the taller man looks exhausted- and it’s a look Steven knows well because he wore it himself for so long.
His crimson eyes smudged dark and his shoulders slumped low. He’s still observant though, and intimidating, but it’s toned down like when Marc or Jake run themselves to the ends of their energy. Even a dull knife can still cut.
Steven dumps the contents of the vegetable concoction on the tray and then sets it aside and starts preparing the rice cooker Layla got him. Adding the water and cleaned rice. Miguel’s tired red eyes track his movements through the kitchen. “Not to pry- but mate, you look like shit.”
“Wow, gracias,” Miguel says dryly, giving Steven a sneer that shows a flash of dangerous fangs. Steven is unflinching though and just smiles back up at him, setting the machine to run.
“I’m just saying,” Steven says, holding his hands up in defiance once they are free. “Are things ok in your world? With the whole-“ he waves his hand thinking of the words Miguel uses, “anomalies, the people going to dimensions they don’t belong?”
He’s not sure why but that draws an open flinch from Miguel before he shuts it down, taking a drink from his mug. Face shifting into an expressionless scowl.
If Steven were to guess, in a way, that’s what Miguel is doing right now… being in a dimension he doesn’t belong. But Steven himself doesn’t see it that way, they’ve invited Miguel to come here as often as he wants. That’s what counts, right?
“It’s been busy. It’s a lot of work and a lot of idiots.” Miguel says. Turning away to set his now empty mug in the sink he pauses there. Hands gripping the edge of the sink and head bowed low. He looks like a man crumbling under the weight of a world, a whole poly-dimensional universe of worlds.
Steven watches him a moment more as he cleans his hands with a towel. Reaching out once they are dry to set his hand on Miguel’s massive back. Miguel tilts his head to look at him from the corner of his eye but doesn’t move away from the touch. “Go have a sit down on the couch. Jakes is stuck in traffic anyways so you two aren’t jumping off the porch for another half hour at least. Have dinner with us first. I’ve made plenty. Till then, go rest on the couch, yeah?” It’s framed as both a suggestion and somehow a demand. He gives the tense muscles under his hand a pat pat.
“I’m fine,” Miguel says, pushing away from the sink, and Stevens touch, plants his hands on his hips, chin tilted up to tower over Steven. Stubborn. He’s nearly a full foot taller than Steven, a literal brick wall of emotionless muscle when he wants to be but Steven knows where that weak spot is.
“You’re no help to Jake tired.” He says, turning as the oven beeps cheerily that it’s come to temperature, moving to put the tray of vegetables and tofu in the oven.
He knows he’s won when he turns back around and Miguel is gone.
He doesn’t hear the back patio door open, so he assumes Miguel hasn’t stormed off in an insulted rage- but he also doesn’t go looking for him, he has better things to do. He busies himself cleaning the small mess he’s made in the kitchen and then sets to washing the dishes in the sink. He takes a peak at the veggies and tofu grilling to perfection in the oven, the smell is already filling the kitchen, heavenly and rich.
It’s only once he’s done and is returning the damp towel from his shower to the bathroom, that he finds the other man again. Miguel is sitting on the couch, head tilted back, dead asleep. The emblem on his chest rising and falling with his slow breaths.
There’s a small glowing screen open on the fancy gadget he wears and Steven creeps as close as he dares, reaching out and flicking it closed. Miguel’s fingers twitch but he stays asleep, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the couch.
Mr. I’m Fine, clearly couldn’t sit still for longer than three minutes without falling asleep. Steven doesn’t always like being right, it sucks to see his friend this way, worn ragged, pulled in a thousand different directions. He sighs a little before turning away to feed the fish, letting Miguel get what sleep he can in the safety of their apartment.
3
Layla's flight had been delayed, what was supposed to be a landing back in London with enough time to have a nice date with Marc before he flew off to Germany for a week of bodyguard work ended up with them passing in the air at 3 am.
After having her bags searched yet again by CAA and bitterly biting back every ill-willed comment she could muster it's predawn by the time she steps out of the international wing of Heathrow. London is, as always, beautiful. The sky is painted soft pastel in the east, pinks blooming into blue that shift to velvet purple as night fades and the city wakes.
She’d endured a two-day hunt across America for a stolen Egyptian tablet only to lose the artifact the moment it was in her hands. She’s not just tired- she’s dejected and just wants to relax and tend to her wounded ego.
The boy’s apartment is closer to the airport than hers and Marc had already texted her before his flight left that if she wanted to crash on his bed she was more than welcome to. So she gives the cabbie their address, and tips extra in honor of Jake on her way out twenty minutes later.
She likes their new apartment, it’s still near Somers Town, not far from the Museums but distant enough that there are no tourists on their stoop every day. A sprawling three-bedroom she helped them pick out when Steven's old flat became suddenly unbearably stuffed with three men. It’s warm and homely and she firmly believes it’s good for them. Something stable in their world of chaos.
The only problem with it is that the flat is on the top floor and waiting for the small lift sometimes takes what feels like hours. She’s not walking seven flights of stairs after just getting off of a fourteen-hour flight.
She’s somehow even more exhausted when she gets off the small lift, dragging her wheeled luggage behind her down the short hallway and using the key Marc and Steven had given her the day they moved in.
Gently closing the door to it disturb Steven's sleep, or Jake's if he’s home- his schedule as both a cabbie and Fist of Vengeance leaves much to be wanted. The apartment is lit by the rising sun, now more golden and bright, bleaching the sky as it crests over the city through the large patio windows and sliding door. Layla can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves her, finally able to relax.
Jake, apparently, is home.
She finds him sprawled on the couch in the warm dawn glow, head leaning comfortably against a man Layla has only had the pleasure of meeting a few times. They must have spent the night working together, Jakes out of his dark armor and in a wrinkled dress shirt and tie, flat cap pulled low over his face to shield his eyes from the rising sun but Miguel only has a grey jumper pulled over the top of his red and blue suit.
Both are asleep, Jake's head on Miguel’s shoulder and Miguel’s cheek resting atop Jake's cap, mouth parted showing the tips of fangs. Both of their permanent scowls look softened in sleep.
It’s… cute.
Layla moves as silently as she can to draw the curtains closed to offer them some darkness. She knows better than to get too close, to startle either of them awake. Cute or not, they are probably the two most dangerous men in London with Marc in Germany.
She chances one last look back as she wheels her suitcase towards Marc’s room. Jake deserves to be happy too after everything he’s been through, and while she doesn’t know Miguel much at all- if he’s the one to finally make Jake happy, then he can’t be all that bad.
+1
Steven's sleep schedule never really fixed itself after he and Marc- and then Jake- became a cooperative system. Even now with a body all to himself he still has bouts of wild insomnia. All three of them seem to suffer from it in some form or another, he’s not sure Jake sleeps longer than eight hours a week sometimes and Marc will push himself till he’s passing out. It makes him wonder if it’s a common trait among them or some kind of repressed trauma none have taken the time to figure out.
Knowing them, it’s the latter.
He’s not dwelling on it tonight though, instead, he’s reading through a lovely research paper borrowed to him by a man that visits the store he works at. It’s a well-written doctoral bit on the Egyptian pharaoh Namer and his uniting the upper and lower regions of Egypt. It’s really a fascinating read and he’ll have to pester Khonshu later for more information on it next time he sees the pidgin.
After three hours of reading, and another less dignified hour scrolling social media on his phone, he’s ready for a snack. It’s a terrible habit, the worst really, He has to go to the gym three times a week now and he admits there’s a secret part of him that misses being able to just wake up in the morning exhausted but fit.
He knows there’s a pack of glazed cookies in the pantry, the buttery kind that melt in his mouth and pair perfectly with a late night. Maybe after he’s fetched his snack he’ll also google exactly what’s in them to make them taste so good- whatever thought beyond that evaporates as he comes to a dead stop at the mouth of the hallway.
Jake is in Miguel’s lap on the couch.
His Moonknight suit is still on but the snow-white hood has been tipped back as the two lazily kiss. Or not so lazily as Miguel swallows a needy sound the cabbie makes into his mouth. One of Jake's hands' fists in Miguel’s hair deepening the kiss.
Steven should not be here, he shouldn’t even go to the kitchen, he should go back to his room and forget he ever saw this. Beg Khonshu if he can scrub the sight from his mind. His feet have grown roots though, cheeks hot with embarrassment and maybe something more he’s not ready to analyze yet that turns his stomach to twisting snakes.
His mouth goes dry as the Duat as Miguel breathes out a needy whine and Jake says something into the corner of his mouth too low to travel across the room- something private that Steven is sure he’s not supposed to hear anyways. Whatever it is, it makes Miguel’s mouth part in a breathless sound and his hips twitch under Jake's weight.
Red palmed gloves follow the line of Jake's spine down settling to grab Jake's ass, pulling him impossibly closer as thumbs rub tender circles over Jake's hip bones. Steven's mind runs wild with what that must be like, to be so tenderly touched by something so capable of destruction.
Jake tips his head back and moans when Miguel squeezes his hips, grinding against him with a sound from the larger man that sounds like a cross between a purr and a growl. Steven's ears burn as the sound makes his pulse speed up. Unable to look away as Miguel follows the line of Jake's jaw with his tongue, fangs flashing bright in the moonlight.
Steven's heart stops cold in his chest when incandescent red eyes snap to him.
Suddenly taloned fingers draw Jake closer, tearing into the snow white of Moonknights cape, a blatant display of possession and guardianship, as if Steven would ever come between them. Steven who feels like the floors opened up and darkness has swallowed him whole. His feet return under his will again a heavy heartbeat later, shaken loose by shame and a healthy undercut of fear, and he takes a trembling step back and then another, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat.
It’s not till he’s retreated a good three steps that Miguel's eyes close and his attention returns to Jake in his lap, nosing along Jake's throat like an animal marking his scent. Jake tilting his head so Miguel can place a tender kiss on the soft skin below his ear.
Spell broken Steven turns away and closes the door to his bedroom, locking it for good measure. Throwing himself into his bed and screaming into one of the pillows, the yell turning to a wild giddy laugh.