your hand that feeds ｡°✩ flynn &. andal [day 3 end]
Nov 16, 2023 17:02:19 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 16, 2023 17:02:19 GMT -5
“So, what happened to …”
“The peacekeeper whose
throat you mutilated?”
“Yes, Sandow. That one.”
“Hospitalized. Surgery,
I heard. But he’ll survive.”
He lets go of the breath he'd been tenuously holding onto, slumping back against pillows. Good grief. Finally a table scrap of pleasant news in a heaping, rotting pile of bad.
The phantom iron tang at the back of his throat diminishes, even if only for a bit, as he removes a name from his mental ledger. The list has not grown much since Isabella but there had been a few close calls. Even now he could feel it. The monster lurking underneath his skin and wintering within his spine, eager to take over if called like an obedient pet slouched in front of the bedroom door:
patient, waiting, ready.
It would be best to keep the door closed. Best to throw away the key, bury it unmarked, pretend it never existed. He wishes he could.
And yet the wolf has its uses. If something similar to the previous night is to happen again, well, he would much prefer its fanged and clawed protection over anyone else’s. Andal Searley, a monster by his own design. No matter how hard he had previously tried to mask it, he has always been the maker of his own beast.
The leash to his heart, however, now lies in someone else’s hand - someone he had begged Sandow to let him meet, but was always refused. “You need a few more days of bedrest, Mr. Searley,” his butler would drawl as he stands at the foot of his bed, idly sorting out medication he’s been secretly flushing down the toilet. “The public fears for your safety —“
“Damn the public. I wanna see Flynn, now.”
Sandow cocked his head during this instance and, with an exasperated sigh, voiced, “The public fears for their safety amongst you, Mr. Searley. Rumors have been spread since the previous night’s ordeal, ugly little words that we must not give any credence to. A few days only, I promise.”
He spent those few days like a dog forced into a kennel, restless and sleepless, waiting to be freed on account of perhaps good behavior. But on the third day spent pacing every inch and corner, Andal could no longer stand it. His yearning has grown teeth and begun devouring him from within.
Getting the key card was the easy part.
He dazzled the nurse, smiled his best smile and pulled out the country twang, and took her access card once she was distracted. He used it to unlock his room after midnight, stepped out, and then it hit him: where was Flynn’s room?
Sandow had told him that all the victors were kept here, but where exactly? The hotel’s hallways flicker uneasily, sterile and clean as though it is a hospital in disguise. He shivers.
The reception is where he reluctantly approaches. The attendant there looked a surprised to see him, but not alarmed, and after a few pleasantries, she freely gave him Flynn’s whereabouts, even directions on how to get there. That meant whoever wanted him in his room hadn’t told anyone that he was forbidden to leave. But why?
Little time to ponder. He takes the elevator up to Flynn’s floor and instantly makes for the other’s room. The knock comes hurried, impatient, wanting - and right after the door opens to that adorable face, Andal’s first greeting is the heated pressing of their lips together, something he’d dreamt of for days.
He comes in uninvited, unannounced.
“We’re trapped here,” Andal mutters as the door clicks closed behind him. Concern darkens his features. “You doin' alright? Any rough treatment on the way in?” The thought alone stirs a brief surge of anger within him. “Smokes, Flynn,” he sighs, visibly relieved, “Thought I might kick the bucket if I didn't lay eyes on you tonight.”
