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“Ray, calm down!”
If it had been just that voice, that same old, kid-playing-general voice that called out the red-head’s name, he wouldn’t have even bothered to stop talking.
Stig was like this all the time, stuck up and unwilling to think outside of the box, to truly understand what the Earthling was suggesting, so his demand for silence was nothing new.
But, the feeling of the green haired man’s hand grabbing Ray by the chin with a force that could only have been considered the very verge of rough, and pulling it so that the younger man was looking at him, before he gently lays the same fingers across Ray’s cheek?
Now that was new.
Something deep within the red-head’s soul knows that, flaring at the touch, and he finds himself unable to look away, mouth hanging open, conspiracies dying in his throat.
It’s those sharp sea-green eyes, a swirling mix of scolding and concern, that kill them.
It’s the caress of his skin, strangely cool against Ray’s, that makes the latter wonder for half a second if he really did have a fever after all.
His breath hitches and stalls, light blue eyes wide open as the hand on his face is joined by yet another, this time on his forehead, tenderly pushing up his sweat-mangled and fiery hair.
Stig lets out an exhale, something slightly overwhelmed and irritated, before he parts his lips to speak, letting his eyes slip shut.
It’s a clear indication that what he plans to say next is going to seriously upset his companion.
Ray counters first.
“Uh, n-no.”
As he stammers, both sets of fingers fall from where they lay across his face, and that feeling in his stomach goes too. He’s disappointed, but doesn’t want to admit it.
“I-I’m fine, I… I
don’t
have a fever.”
The Martian looks back disappointed, but unsurprised.
Even that look makes the red-head feel like he’s gonna barf.
But he wasn’t sick, surely.
He knew he was right, that this underworld the trio had found themselves in was in fact made to test their metal, that the inbit were trying to study them and dinosaurs and…
God, maybe he was going crazy, the back of Ray’s mind sighs as he bites his lip and turns his eyes to the sky, trying to move his gaze from Stig’s harsh one.
He doesn’t need that kind of pressure.
Silence invades the clearing, save for the chirping of gigantic, prehistoric crickets and the cries of mammals no longer of this world, trapping the pair of still awake boys in their positions, facing one another with their bodies, but not with their glances.
A hand sits itself upon Ray’s shoulder, and the younger man looks to its owner.
Stig’s expression is hard, but shockingly sympathetic, and the way his finger’s grip the Earthling is only hard enough to convey his care.
That pit in Ray’s soul makes its return, and his own face melts.
“I… I’m still not sick.”