The Fallen

A/N: Warning: Adolescent hand porn. (Almost wrote hand job there, hehe.) ...Do I have to give a warning for that? Guess better safe than sorry. No nudity or genitals involved, but it is two boys, so if that bothers ya, I'd recommend something else.

In the dark of the coming nights, they opened up to one another. Little things at first. A preferred food. An intolerable teacher. An interesting anecdote about bondmate or sister. Sufi wisely strayed away from discussing parents. Stold often wondered how his companion could bare to recount any stories of his intended... until he realized Sufi had begun to speak of her in the present tense. As if she were really far away, rather than...

And perhaps she was. Stold had no experience to question the strength of that bond. This wasn't the only shelter.

As the slowed breathing of the others around them filled their ears, they'd fall quiet. Unable to sleep for the gnawing in their bellies. The pain in their minds.

Simply finding comfort in the presence of an individual who hadn't been a stranger before all they knew imploded.

One moonless night, when Stold nearly fell asleep for the sheer serenity of not having that unblinking eye staring down upon him, he felt a slight nudge keeping him awake.

He blinked his eyes open. The stars, in newly recognized constellations, gently touched the curve of Sufi's cheek.

In this gloom, with his mind nearly succumbed to sleep, his eye overlooked the gaunt turn of his cheeks. The hallow of Sufi's eyes lost to shadow.

Could almost convince himself that he'd found that certain individual with a resonant hum in his mind. That he had been the one to walk Sufi to their classes, to share quiet conspiracies over a meal he had prepared, to share whispered words of confidence meant for no one else's ears or mind.

Stold sighed as a curious warmth flooded him.

He looked down to his hand. In it's usual place, about chest high, resting on the bedroll. When had he scooted his hand to the very edge of his roll? When had Sufi mirrored the movement?

He physically shivered as Sufi's little fingertip caressed the outside of his little finger.

Stold held his breath. Uncertain if he should be telling his comrade to stop, or ask for more. Afraid that any noise, any movement, would cease this precious contact.

Sufi's eyes, a glimmer of dark in shadow, flicked up to him and back down. Emboldened by Stold's apparent lack of disgust, the little finger stroked to the very tip of his, drawing back down with excruciating slowness. Exploring every ridge and dip of his knuckles. Returning the way it came even slower.

Stold's blood rushed in his ears as that exploring finger passed over where he'd gnawed off the white of his nail. Explored that ragged edge before delving into the dip between his the fourth and third finger with a grand sweep so that he might fondle the delicate webbing at the base.

He stopped at Stold's gasp. The touch too intense. The accompanying caress of his mind too intrusive.

But he didn't pull away. Just rested his hand passively next to Stold's. Waited while he reconstructed his shields.