I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Bright, Spanish sunlight fell across Mallos’ face where he lay with his head on Croe’s belly, reawakening him to the world.

Rousing from hyperfocus always felt like wakening from a lucid, narrow-minded dream. Slowly, Mallos became aware of the soft, white carpet beneath the two of them, damp with sweat. The light reflected off the low, glass coffee table and cast a glaring beam over Croe’s midsection. The heat was incredible, not merely from the activity but also from the fast-approaching Mediterranean midday. Mallos could feel rather than see the sun racing towards its zenith. Where had the morning gone?

Except for the heavy breathing from the two occupants and a very low, gentle humming from the refrigerator in the kitchen area of the room, the suite was silent. Mallos closed his eyes, reached out with his mind and telekinetically hit the switch on the air conditioning. It whirred into life, adding its own distinct tune to the apartment.

It was unusual to become hyper-attentive with anything living. Ordinarily Mallos only became blind and deaf to the outside world when he was tinkering about with mechanics or losing himself in a sketch or composition. It was hard enough to keep track of time on a normal day, devoid of planet-hopping and mortal concerns, but in hyperfocus everything but the object of his attention fell away.

Moving was something akin to being forced out of bed in the morning by his three year-old; the vibrant energy which was usually indistinguishable had burnt to a low flame. It had been replaced instead by a blissful calm, the lingering aftermath of euphoria. He sat up, stretching out his left leg a little where it had begun to cramp, and leant back against the edge of the sofa. The cool black leather offered a welcome relief from the hot air. From this position, it was easy to see across the open-plan lounge-kitchen-diner to the wall of glass on the far side looking out over the city of Granada. Mallos was still too low down to see the bustle of activity on the dusty streets, but he could imagine it. Beyond the maze of white, pink and beige buildings, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada rose up on the not-too-distant horizon. An opaque black curtain on one side of the window was semi-pulled across, obscuring the view of the Alhambra.

He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of nowhere, plucked one out and offered the box to Croe. A lighter was still on the arm of the sofa from his last visit. Mallos could have lit the cigarettes with a thought, but he preferred to flick the lighter a few times, watching the flame spring back and forth with curious fascination. After a few seconds, he lit his own and held the flame out for his partner. The first inhalation of smoke felt like a breath of fresh air after a decade in a musty cave.

“Fuck,” Mallos muttered appreciatively. Sex and cigarettes, and not a single toddler toy to be seen. “Tastes almost as good as you.”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go