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WHO: Rupert & Jonas
WHERE: Jeopardy 001
WHEN: The evening of that literal car crash of a day
WHAT: It's hurt/comfort but everything is German and time is fake
WARNINGS: ~~Not yet but Hentzau gonna Hentz~~ soft boy nsfw

Rupert refuses to do anything as pedestrian as die in his bed, considering he hasn't lived the life he has to earn such a boring death. But the shaking won't stop, even after polishing off a bottle of wine between them, and Rupert has a sneaking suspicion that the headache currently wringing his brain inside out isn't to do with the wine.

Still, despite all of this, Rupert refuses to see a doctor. Even as he's stumbling up the stairs towards his room, half-pulled and half-pushed by Jonas, Rupert is bloody-minded.

"I'm telling you - this, this is nothing," He insists with forced brightness between clenched teeth as he leans heavily against Jonas, staggering up the staircase. Every single bone in his body feels bruised, right to the marrow. "I could tell you stories - God! I've suffered worse, so much worse. I promise you, this will not be the death of me. There's no need for a doctor..."

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"What do you see?"

It's morbidly fascinating for Rupert, who has to place so much trust in his physical senses. The edge of a blade, the angle of a pistol, the particular flex of a horse's muscle beneath his own. Uncertainty in his old life would have had deadly consequences, daily. Rupert would probably rather be dead. He shakes his head fractionally as he realises that a better question would be:

"How do you cope?"

Jonas scoffs wryly, "Not very well, wouldn't you say?"

He's not sure what it is about him that seems to have attracted Rupert's attention, but he does know that his charms are far from universal. At home, he was broken. At school, a freak. An outcast in 1921. An outlaw in 2052. Being an imPort is the closest he's gotten to fitting in since his father's suicide, and that's only because he's one weirdo out of a hundred weirdos. He hasn't managed to fit himself into the neurotypical mold. The evidence shows that he never will.

"Until recently, I had maps. Schedules. Places to be when I needed to be there. Things I was meant to do. But this world wasn't part of any plan, which has been hard. I can't count how many times I've tried to kill myself here."

"But death doesn't take hold in this world, surely you know that," Rupert whispers with a frown of reproach. "Death is no escape here."

It shouldn't be an escape anywhere, not that he'll say that out loud. Not right now.

"It doesn't take hold in any world, for me."

The most obvious evidence of that being the mark left by a noose that will always fail to kill Jonas.

"You could put a gun to my head right now, pull the trigger, and nothing would happen. But the only time I feel hope is in the second before the trigger fails. There's a little space in the second where I can't help but feel something might go different this time."

For a wild, awful moment Rupert wants to say show me, as if Jonas could (or even would) perform some great example of attempted suicide right here in his bed. But the moment passes and he realises that he doesn't need to see it to believe it - it happened today, in front of his very eyes.

"Like with the car," He says slowly. "You were unharmed. Even my terrible driving couldn't kill you."

It must be awful, feeling that desperate longing for death. Rupert loves danger, he feeds off it like an addict in search of an ever-increasing dizzying high, but he doesn't particularly want to die. There's still too much to experience, too much to enjoy. He chews his lip, sucking it between his teeth in thought, before asking:

"What would help? Don't say 'nothing'..."

But nothing can help. When Jonas knows the only experiences ahead of him are horrors, how can he enjoy anything? Forget about the thrill of danger. Until something finally manages to kill him, the only danger in his life is the danger he poses to others. And there's no thrill in that.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "I didn't mean to make you feel like you have to do something. I think you were hurt today because I couldn't be. I'm the one who should be helping you feel better."

"No," Rupert insists firmly with a sharp, sudden frown. The hand still resting gently between them moves, sliding to cup Jonas's cheek as if that solid touch could communicate just how much Rupert rejects that idea.

"You have enough to beat yourself up over, please don't add more to the pile. I was hurt today because I was driving like a fool and another fool saw fit to throw a man in front of me. Unless your superpower is a terrible taste in friends I'm afraid you had painfully little to do with it, Jonas."

Jonas nearly argues. He opens his mouth, preparing to launch into detailed explanation of probability and how the likelihood of injury doubles whenever someone is near him. It's a matter of mathematics, not blame. He doesn't need to be reassured. He needs to be avoided.

The argument slides right out of his brain, however, as he registers the hand resting against his cheek. Sucking in a shaky breath, he shuts his eyes and leans into that touch. The underlying panic that had been building now dissipates. His mind goes quiet.

Rupert is used to his touch having a marked effect on people, albeit not quite like this. As a rule, people like it when he touches them. And generally, he too responds just as readily, just as eagerly; hungrily seeking that silent response of thank you, yes, more. It's a common trade, a language that Rupert speaks intimately - that of touch and reaction, for better or worse (and nearly always for the better).

This isn't quite like that, but it's the same thing in its bare bones. The sudden quiet that leaves Rupert breathless in case he might shatter it. The fractional lean into his hand that Rupert can only interpret as a silent request for more. Rupert quietly marvels at the broken yearning in Jonas's expression, sliding a thumb smoothly over his temple. Pushing his fingers through that blond hair. He's an expert when it comes to understanding what people want. What they need.

"Does this help?" Rupert murmurs, smiling faintly. "Talk to me, Jonas. Tell me."

Jonas breathes so slowly that he hardly seems to be moving at all. As if he, too, is afraid of shattering something. Even with Rupert only further encouraged, his caress assured, it feels like something will interrupt this. Something always does.

His lips part a moment or two before they actually form words.

"It's been a long time."

And the last two people who touched him were dead within the hour. Maybe he should warn Rupert. Maybe he will, in a couple minutes. He just wants a few more seconds of contact.

Eyes lidded in heavy amusement, Rupert continues to gently thread his fingers through Jonas's hair. Reassuring, comforting. Enjoying the gentle agony of whatever's taking place inside Jonas's head.

"Ah. Your area of expertise, is it not?" He points out in a murmur. "Time."

"That's a little generous," Jonas protests. He's not an expert in it. He's a slave to it.

What's Rupert doing, though? The longer this goes on, the less Jonas understands it. This is too intimate a touch for near-strangers. Rupert hardly knows him, has no right to care for him as much as he seems to. Jonas doesn't know what to make of it, or what to make of Rupert's expression, the look in his eyes as they watch him.

The uncertainty isn't enough to make him withdraw, though. He'll take as much affection as Rupert cares to give him, however inexplicable it may be.

Rupert's doing exactly what he wants, as he always does. Concepts like duty or necessity or propriety are will-o-the-wisps compared to Rupert's impulses; if he wants to stroke this poor boy's hair then he will. He's nice to him because he can be, because he wants to be, and Rupert has so much affection to spare for someone so hungry for it.

"I am a generous man." He grins brightly, settling into this gentle teasing. Nothing is taken seriously with Rupert, especially in Rupert's own bed. "How long?"

Rupert means to be playful, but Jonas can feel his mind dragging him someplace dark. He swallows and lets out a breath that could almost be mistaken for laughter, shifting his focus back to the fingers combing through his hair.

"I don't know. Decades. Centuries. Maybe a month."

He's being weird. He's not sure if Rupert will like him more or less for it.

"It's dangerous, actually. I'm radioactive. Maybe I should have mentioned that before getting into bed with you."

Rupert rolls his eyes - mostly at himself - and tuts fondly.

"Ask a foolish question," he sighs, realising that he should have known better than to ask a time-traveller how long it has been since X. And he has no idea what radioactive means; he's heard the word applied to Jeopardy, but the actual meaning of it is thoroughly lost on him. Something bad, maybe. Rupert isn't one to judge.

And this is nice. Rupert can't stand being solitary, especially not when there are pretty (and apparently dangerous) boys yearning for his touch. His hand moves, skirting down along Jonas's cheekbone, his fingertips tracing along the smooth line of his jaw to dip lower to his throat. Examining that necklace of scarring with idle, tactile curiosity.

"You would hardly be the first dangerous person in my bed," Rupert adds offhandedly as he lightly brushes an index finger along the scars, wondering where Jonas's boundaries lie - when he'll be told to stop. "I've developed something of a taste for them, apparently."

Jonas isn't sure of his own boundaries. Most times, it feels like he's separated from the rest of humanity by an insurmountable wall. As a paradox, he's set apart by his nature. The more he interferes, the messier things get. But there isn't actually anything keeping Jonas apart from others, not even the invisible radiation seeping from his skin. Anyone can reach out and touch him, the way Rupert has. The strangeness of it is in the fact that Rupert feels compelled to do so.

His cheeks redden with the brush of Rupert's fingers, though Jonas doesn't realize it. The warmth is the wine's fault and he willfully ignores Rupert's meaning, because the very concept that this could be a come-on is too ridiculous to be conceived.

Rupert is just curious about the scar, like everyone else. Jonas wouldn't normally let someone explore it, but he probably owes it to Rupert to satisfy some of his interest. It's a little embarrassing, anyway, and Jonas averts his eyes.

"I'm not the fun type of dangerous, though."

Jonas's eyes flick away and Rupert's fingers pause, taking it as a sign of retreat. Rupert considers him thoughtfully; this curious, fascinating young man lying in front of him. A little fierce, a little solemn. Weighed down by so much, and so desperate to be free of it in the worst possible way. There are other ways to be free of one's past, Rupert thinks to himself. Hopefully the same techniques apply to one's future as well.

He leans in to press a kiss against Jonas's pale lips, as chastely as he can. Rupert can be innocently charming when he wants to be, gentle where gentle is required. Plus his lips hurt.

Somehow, Jonas doesn't see it coming. Even as Rupert's lips make contact with his own, his mind lags behind, struggling to interpret the movement. This isn't his first kiss, but it's certainly a kind of first kiss. Nonsensically, though he's the only other person in the room, Jonas wonders if Rupert has somehow made a mistake and placed his lips on the wrong target. And then, realizing he's in Rupert's bed, considers the possibility that he's the one who made a mistake somewhere.

All this confusion, yet he doesn't pull away. There's only a short gasp of surprise in the split second it takes to decide that he wants to be kissing Rupert, too. The pressure of the exchange increases by just a fraction, because it seems like anything more will only injure Rupert's already-bruised mouth. It's there, though. Not mere tolerance, but reciprocation.

It's sweet, that initial surprise and the tentative reply. Inexperience can be such a chore sometimes, but this - this is delicious. He savours that gentle pressure, lips sliding, gently easing the kiss into something more relaxed, more comfortable. Less of a question.

But his face really does hurt. Whatever impact he'd made with the airbag in that fateful, violent half-second was enough to make this slightly less pleasant than it should be. How very fucking ridiculous, Rupert thinks to himself as he breaks the kiss with a weary, drunken laugh.

"I may bleed on you," He warns, his wine-stained lips a breath away from Jonas's. "Which isn't the fun type of dangerous either."

Now that they've started this, Jonas doesn't want to just stop. He gives a small chase when Rupert draws far enough away to break the kiss, though he does manage to reel himself back before he looks too pathetic. Doubtless, Rupert can feel the shakiness of Jonas's breath on his lips.

"That sounds more unpleasant for you than for me," he laughs weakly. Awkward. He doesn't know why Rupert kissed him in the first place, when it's so obviously painful to do it.

Instead of trying for another, Jonas reaches out to him, skimming a hand along Rupert's side from his shoulder down to his hip in an experimental journey. Things are beginning to make more sense now. Looking back, he can't help but feel he should have noticed this earlier.

Then again, maybe it's just loneliness. Desperation.

Jonas confesses, "I don't know what I'm doing."

That hand is a good sign. Rupert holds his breath involuntarily as it explores his flank, just in case a sudden movement might scare that touch away. Only when it's resting on his hip does he allow himself to exhale, smiling and pleased by Jonas's initiative. He squirms a little, lifting his hip beneath Jonas's hand, in silent recognition of the touch.

"Then I'll try not to do anything complicated," Rupert replies with his blood-cracked grin. In all honesty, he knows he isn't good for much; lazy, exploratory kisses and soft hands sounds ideal (no matter how desperately that familiar red-blooded core of him clamours for energetic fumbling). He's hurt, he's tired, but the mind is willing...

That hand at Jonas's hair tightens a little, encouraging him to lean back in for another kiss. Between them they can surely handle a little bit of pain, a little bit of blood.

What Rupert doesn't understand is that everything about this is complicated. Human warmth. Skin on skin. The rise and fall of breath. It's too soon. It's long overdue. When one goes so long without the slightest intimacy, even the lightest touch feels charged. A magnetic pull draws Jonas closer, and though he knows that whatever he's going to get out of this can't possibly replace what he just lost, he can't refuse it.

What hesitation he harbors is for Rupert's sake, and since it's Rupert who's spurring him on, Jonas doesn't hold back. His lips part against Rupert's swollen mouth and he tastes iron on his tongue. Rupert has been taking care with him, so Jonas takes care in turn, applying the softest pressure in every drag of his mouth. A gentle kiss can be just as fervent as a ravenous one, especially with all the neediness that Jonas has pent up behind it. Every time he exhales, the tremble in his breath betrays him.

This slow, gentle exploration is normally too slow, too sentimental, for Rupert's liking but here, between Rupert's pain and Jonas's tremble and the bottle of wine between them, it's forgivable. Needed, in fact. It's about as much as his hazy thoughts can handle. That gentle unevenness in Jonas's breath leaves Rupert wondering if Jonas is the one in pain, not him. It takes a moment to remember that it can't be pain - Jonas was unhurt and Rupert knows this - but it must be something else. Maybe sadness? Is he crying? Rather than break this kiss again (Jonas is so careful, so caring - it would be mean to break that gentle concentration) he gentle skirts his knuckles against Jonas's exposed cheek, expecting to feel tear tracks and finding smooth dry skin instead. And that breathy tremble still there...

Nerves, then. Or longing. Nervous longing. Two ideas that Rupert wants to chase away with kisses, to be replaced with confidence and surety. But his battered head and the wine are making him lazy; he pulls away from the kiss again, this time to sprawl on his back with both hands and a hooked leg encouraging Jonas to roll with him, to settle against him comfortably within kissing distance. Because this is his answer to nervous longing: to be open and generous, to let Jonas arrange himself in a way that suits him, without pressure or expectation. It's not backing off, it's an invitation.

It takes Jonas by surprise, but then again, he has the impression that Rupert is only going to keep surprising him. Allowing himself to be swept into the roll, he curls up against Rupert's side, one arm draped across his chest and one leg hooked around his calf.

If he wasn't so unsure about the state of Rupert's ribs, he might have kept climbing to straddle him. He may be anxious, but he's far from prudish. The very opposite. He wants to drink up everything Rupert's willing to give him. Or rather, everything he's physically capable of giving at the moment. There's no lack of enthusiasm here.

Now that they're comfortably arranged, Jonas seeks out Rupert's mouth again. He's either starting to get the hang of it or he's confident enough that Rupert's enjoying it, since he hasn't told Jonas to stop.

It's only when Rupert is laid out on his back that he realises just how much his aching body really hurts; his back is stiff to the point of agony, his neck feels like it's made of jagged glass shards. But sprawled out on his mattress properly is so much more relaxing; he melts into his pillows as Jonas settles himself half-on, half-off, and he exhales a soft, hum of contentment against Jonas's lips. Yes. Better.

And Jonas's leg, draped over his own, is perfectly situated for Rupert to nudge a thigh between Jonas's own. They're clearly in silent agreement; Rupert isn't so sure he'd survive having someone sitting on him right now, not that he's being dramatic, but a leg is fine. There's something deeply satisfying about the idea of gentle pressure and friction, as opposed to anything too sharp and energetic for his battered body.

And the kissing - the kissing is gloriously enjoyable, even with his bruised lips and aching jaw. Jonas seems to be enjoying himself too, if this reaction is anything to go by. Rupert's quite sure he bit his own tongue at some point in the crash, but it doesn't matter. Not when he has the slide and warmth of a mouth against his own; there's hunger in his kiss, despite the pain of it. Hands cup at Jonas's cheek, a hand either side, keeping him as close as possible as he seeks out more and more.

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