promptfic: o14, enthralled

[sword_logic]

Osiris makes no noise as he transmats into this Lighthouse, and he is immediately assailed by Saint's booming voice; he sounds almost hoarse, like he's been shouting in glee for hours. He probably has. Sagira hums quietly.

Geppetto turns to blink at them, slowly, and Sagira tips her shell in greeting. Geppetto turns away, silently, eye glinting knowingly.

Saint doesn't even pause for breath, much less to turn around. Osiris pays no attention to what he's saying, encouragement, callouts, whatever it might be; he's much more interested in the way the sun drenches his armor and licks up his back like flame. These fields were forged in fire, and Saint is a radiant spark dressed in gold. Like flame and tinder, Osiris is caught.

Saint watches the match. Osiris watches Saint. Sunlight washes over his armor like a living thing as he moves, pacing, eyes locked on the match below him, and Osiris wonders how anyone can stand to bathe in his presence without burning. How his own Solar Light could possibly be anything other than pitiable in the face of this, how the Sun doesn’t flee in shame at the sight of him.

The match ends with a team having earned their seventh win. Scopes glint in the harsh light as the fireteam, flawless, barrels towards them, shouts of glee echoing across the sands.

Osiris brushes his fingers against the small of Saint's back, right where the unyielding curve of his breastplate gives way to lighter shielding, and immediately ducks in anticipation of the automatic, instinctive Void-tinged swing that follows.

"Is that any way to greet me?" Osiris asks, amused, drawing back up his full height and folding his arms. The air is still alive with Saint's surprise, his Light dense and beautiful. He wants to drown his hands in it, feel it against his skin, draw it into his veins so he is full of nothing else.

"Osiris," Saint says, voice bright with shock, and the momentum of his surprise carries him forward. “I– forgive me.”

His hands light briefly on Osiris's elbows, then slide up to his shoulders, leaving eddies of warmth and Void in their wake, and then Saint's broad palm cups his cheek with far too many layers between them. Osiris turns his head in toward that familiar curve, the smell of metal and leather and heat rising between them.

"I was not expecting you," Saint murmurs, voice warmer than the Sun could ever hope to be.

"Clearly," Osiris snorts, and does not move. Like an animal drowsing in sunlight. Saint’s other hand picks at his scarf, neatening a fold. “You were so engrossed in the match, a full Cabal regiment could have landed and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Saint snorts right back, then sighs and leans forward to press his helm against the very top of Osiris’s cowl, the proud line of his crest bowing to simple feathered cloth. Osiris closes his eyes, just briefly, and patiently pushes away at every clamoring cell of him that begs to stay.

"You do not need to check up on me," Saint mutters. If Osiris did not know any better, he'd misunderstand that tone as petulance.

"No," Osiris agrees, "but I want to."