(After)life: Trio
Lear stayed in the shower for hours. Nel had gone to the door to let Fen in, then, ostensibly left go do her thing. He sensed her leaving, just as he sensed Fen arriving. He was still fucking tired, and the water made him feel better. Blame fucking Ozzy for that. Or maybe it was just being what he was. Either way, he stayed under the searing spray, testing the capacity of Nel's hot water heater, as he cashed the entirety of the pipe. The pot had a soothing effect on him, which was good, because he still felt like ripping people to shreds.—In fact, he only left the sanctuary of the shower once, and that was to answer the phone. The call hadn't lasted long, because he didn't fucking care enough for it to, and he'd come back to the cleave of comfort as soon as possible.
It was only once he felt scalded all the way through, marrow boiling in the hollow of his bones, that he finally stood. His skin never wrinkled, not on his fingertips or anywhere else, and the effects of burning water pouring over him for hours seemed to be nil. Lear pushed his wet hair back, darker now, and, after toweling off, he found one of Nel's robes and slipped into it. It was a brown plaid that came up short on his long legs, covering him just barely, brushing on his thighs. Whatever. Then, he went to his sister's place next door, and slept. A lot. He got up once or twice, and he'd seen Fen, in his less human form, padding around. But, he went back to bed after 20 minutes or so.
He woke up days later, upstairs, in Nel's bed, with the blankets a nest around him. He felt better. Less like he'd kill anyone who happened to stumble into his path. He yawned, and climbed out of the warmth. He could sense Fen next door. He retightened the robe around him and padded toward the studio, knowing he'd find his brother out there. And he did. Fen was on a sofa, drink in hand.
Lear yawned as his brother made his threat, and his skin was still warm as he settled on the cushion just beside Fen, with serpentine insinuation. If the robe rode up, he didn't care. Lear had never been inundated with shame. "Brother," was his greeting. He let his arm rest on the back of the sofa, behind Fen's shoulders. "If it happens again, we'll kill every last fucking one of them," he promised the other man. He tipped his head toward his shoulder opposite, to look at Fen, then at his drink. "You should've come slept with me in Nel's bed." He smiled. "You stay warm. I don't." Entitled and not at all worried about the malice and aggression that hooked in every syllable, he took the drink from his brother's hand and took a swallow.