meadowlarksabove

[meadowlarksabove]

His hands remained on the length of their belt, gently feeling the leather and the cold, but pretty buckle. The urge that’d spurred him to reach out had flown right into his chest, coming to roost in the nook of his heart like a bird returned from a long and arduous journey. It was joy, fluttering and desperate to be shared, having found its equal in the warmth of another man’s gaze. Gabban stood firm even as their expression tightened, terrified of rejection, but determined to face it in whatever form it took. Whether by words or balled fists, he wouldn’t tear his eyes from the other, even if they’d become a flurry of winds and scorching flames. He would stay, he would burn, and he would turn to ash. But always beside them. Holding on by mortal hands, until his skin and bone were no more. 

The blow never came, however. Their response had not been the surge of violence he’d been trained, or groomed, to expect, but a mess of soft wings, as the nest in his chest welcomed another guest. He smiled with greater strength, and relief colored his skin a tender shade. Really, it had been absurd of him to fear, to think anything but mercy would ever come from Paukka. Paukka, if only he could read those eyes as easily as any other person’s. Yet there was something about them which eluded him, or rather, ensnared him as he reached. A singular beauty which blinded him to the rest of the world and made of him a willing captive. Theirs was a snare he would walk into without question. He swallowed thickly while warmth gathered at the pit of his stomach, sensing Her fever spark the ends of his nerves, making him want to surrender over everything life had given him to this one man. And only to this man. 

“Yes, sir.” He whispered through a soft chuckle, his hands already working to undo the strap, unhooking and pulling until he’d snaked the belt off his waist. It fell to the ground with a subtle clink, and the sound only encouraged his want, sending a shiver up his spine. The pleasure of helping them undress, of serving them in that instance, made his fingers a little more insistent as he unbuttoned their shirt. How could he resist the chance to make himself useful? To offer up the same care and consideration he’d been given beforehand? It’d been Paukka who peeled him of his dirty clothes first, naturally it was time for him to do the same for them. He slipped his pads beneath the hem of their undershirt and stripped upward, revealing the handsome and well toned muscle beneath. Their firm abs and the marked outline of their Apollo's belt were especially precious to see. Gabban couldn’t shield the character of his stare then, the snap turn of his expression from light to heady delight. Not as a hand followed the outline of their side, trailing lines from one mole to the next, as if he were learning the constellations by touch. Dark stars upon his lover’s skin. 

Gabban leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to a mole or a dark freckle on their shoulder. All while he’d reached low to take hold of their zipper. “You’re beautiful.” He breathed the words against their collarbone, sowing them gently, wanting them to seep and flourish beneath the flesh. To make them understand what had become so obvious. Because Paukka was beautiful beyond a doubt, the vision of a dark and cooling night– alive and bathed in Juno’s blessings. Divine, divine, divine. He could go mad with it. He was mad with it. 

Slowly, he pulled their zipper open.

@meadowlarksabove He’d come back into the house after pouring buckets of water over himself, his ruined clothes already whisked away, and newborn Etta safely tucked by her mother’s side. There was nothing else for him to do but run a bath and try to relax the joints of his strained arms. It was then he discovered Paukka had gotten far ahead of him, finding them in the midst of testing the water with the gentle wave of their hand. Gabban stood in the doorway, almost not wanting to disturb the warm and peaceful scene before him, how it made him feel, how much it meant for him to be considered. To be cared for. Yet he was noticed eventually, given one of those subtle grins (so subtle one would think it wasn’t actually there), told to rest and to enjoy himself after all the good work he’s done. Paukka began to excuse himself when just then, even to Gabban’s surprise, he pulled them back by the buckle of their belt, urged by the bells chiming in his heart. He toyed with the buckle slightly as a shy smile played on his lips. “Won’t you join me?”

Briefly paused, it was the tug felt at his lower abdomen that had the tall man halt in his movement, had him look back at the other with question in his eyes. Paukka had not expected such a response (perhaps he should have. By now should be wiser and know of the bond that had come to be and the underlined want growing within the both of them with every passing moment they were together). Searching Gabban's face for an answer he already knew it before he found it. How it had demanded he stayed, that he remained. How it was then even said so plainly and boldly with a courague he often faltered in finding.

Won't you join me? Won't you be with me? And truly, was it not blasphemous of him to think Gabban should have been left alone. Was it not sacrilegious of him to not listen to his inner voice, reprimanding and reminding, that his own desire and want had hoped for something else than separation, that with the hard work done for the day and only little left to clean up and correct before the night would fall over their home like a darkened veil, stealing light and noise and uncomfortable warmth in exchange for something intimate, something sacred. A time he did not think he would ever have again. Better than that. A time he frequently still came to question whether he even deserved it at all.

Paukka turned fully on the spot, to better and properly face the other man. How he stood there looking at him with eyes that begged (he did not need to beg but the fact that those eyes looked at him in ways, always did something to him. Always rattled the sleeping beast. Always warmed a body and heart stone-cold and dead, unreachable even to the unbearable desert sun. A depth that only Gabban managed to reach. With such absurd ease, sometimes. Like now. A tug and a question enough and he already felt how his blood began to boil at the images working their way into his mind. Reminiscent bits of truths he was unworthy having discovered. The feeling of this particular skin. The way it took shape and form, freed from the cage and unholy prison of fabric and cloth. The way a voice could sound so different and sweet. The way he tasted when he opened his mouth for him.

Temporarily his own lips formed a thin line, then a deep huff followed. The letting-off-steam of an engine already bursting at the seams. It felt so. Paukka was sure he would, any moment now. Already felt himself devoured by that want, by that deeply-reaching desire that brought change to his already dark eyes, making them even darker. Dangerously so. Because the beast that did slumber within him was. Because he was a gentle man but not a gentle lower, not with the way he had been shackled for so long. To be able to experience raw, absolute longing. For that touch and that sound and that taste, of one single man that did not even know how dangerous he was making him be.

He should have known better than to succumb to the shy plea of his angle. He should have understood the risks of taking advantage, the consequences of so willingly tarnishing—

            “If you want me to join that belt needs to go.”

His voice, low and smooth, flowed like a suggestive hum, resonating with a deeper timbre that seemed to vibrate from his throat. There was no need for louder words. He could feel the density of the tension between the two of them and Paukka acknowledged himself growing more eager — slipping further into the atmosphere and in turn starting to lean in and closer. His fingers reached upward, brushing aside the damp strands of sun-kissed hair, attempting to tuck them behind Gabban’s ear. Just a little longer, and it would stay there.  

[meadowlarksabove]

The night flower had squeezed his hand, wrapped its vines around his scarred flesh, if only for a brief moment. But that was enough to make up his mind. No more doubts or half guesses, the light of Her domain and the moon outside had more than illuminated the path laid before him. There was still tenderness beneath their skin, warm blood which coursed from a wounded heart mirroring his own. Whatever their faults, their miseries, he accepted them without question. As they would only be two men this night, held together by the cinch of Venus’ girdle, and blessed in Her gaze. Not mongrels or scorned flowers, but persons of skin and bone. Human, and whole, all while they would blend together. 

It was strange how much his heart fluttered and anticipated. Gabban wasn’t inexperienced with intimacy at all. He had seduced, had bent and had been himself mounted when ordered. His face and body being what they were, there were at once keen strategies made under a shroud of his prettiness. Points to his usefulness as far as Vulpes was concerned, though he was grateful his princeps did not rely on it often as others had. Perhaps that was why. Perhaps because he truly wanted this man, desired him as he hadn’t desired the myriad of strangers, and known-offenders, he’d been forced to tolerate. So much that he wanted to call Paukka’s fingers to him the second they slipped from his grasp. The yearning welled at the back of his throat, but he merely bore the separation with a grin, hopeful that it would end with their hands on him again. 

They stood, albeit slowly and with some struggle, but the frumentarius kept both arms to his side for his part. He knew of retired soldiers from his own nook of the wasteland, their limbs torn apart by the rush of war, but they were not hopeless creatures. Just because a man labored more than someone else did not make them lesser. Neither could they be looked down upon, but given the decency of time and understanding instead. They had been brave, had faced the worst, and still they lived beneath the same sky. That was worth something. It was worth more than jewels. 

Gabban faced them for a moment, unable to suppress the urge to look at them fully, his smile as approving as it was curious. No, he hadn’t expected them to be that much taller than him, and the revelation warmed the pit of his stomach. Just a little closer, he saw hints of the strong and steeled body beneath their clothes. Somewhere else, and in another light, they might have cut for themselves an intimidating figure. Yet he wasn’t afraid of their still-stern look, nor afraid of what those strong hands could and would soon do to him. Instead, his mind raced at the thought, welcoming the visions of touches yet relished. He was then motioned towards a direction and he made for it patiently. 

Up the stairs, he waited for another moment, either to be signaled or personally shown to their room. He felt even if they should keep pointing and walking for the rest of the night, he would still follow the other to the letter, into eternal darkness, or a road with no end. Without understanding why, or the force which surged in his chest, Gabban knew he would walk with them, and walk with them, and walk. Perhaps forever. Perhaps always side by side...

Perhaps the both were about to make a mistake. Indulging with a man they hardly knew. Did not know at all, in fact. What did such a brief exchange of words mean in this world, anyway? How much of it were honest spillings of opened hearts and how much of them were thought-to-be or made up lies. Wishful thinking, between making yourself look better and braver than you were. Were bars like these not full of people like it? Telling stories of strength when in truth, all of them were hardly that. All of them were weak. Miserable, and broken. Wounded in ways some could comprehend, some could not so easily. A handful of them fools, maybe. Believing in the good and walking head first into problems that could cost a life. Paukka knew well where he belonged. To the kind that had given all they could in foolish youthfulness, believing lies only to fall right through the hands that had spun them. Used and discarded and now not recognized. He had felt pride and had felt what it was like to be unmade. Fighting battles under false pretense, when he truly, so stupidly foolishly had believed he would do something good.

Did Gabban know where his place was? Was he just acting in desperate search, for a warm bed and a warm body to keep away his hosts at night? To soothe sore spots and bruised skin and offer perhaps a strong arm or two, for whoever it was that was after him and that he needed hiding from? Or was he truly this pure, this untouched by the horrors of a dying world? Would it not be beautiful, if he was. Would it not be horrible? Another beautiful thing killed with his hands, unmade and undone with dirt and misorder.

Regret... No. He would not ever regret this night. Even if Paukka he should not touch such gentle things. He should not touch something tender and unadulterated. He truly was a killer through and through. Deserving of his fate. To not know better. To not do better. To not act the samaritan his naive younger self wanted to be. Perhaps he would have. If his mind was a little clearer and his heart more brave, and not so full of many holes that allowed his own resistance to seep through the sieve that it had become. He would not have been weak then. Not find flattery in words he should not believe, in the idea of someone so young and handsome to find him appealing.

His hand slipping for Gabban's and a light squeezing of it.

           "Only thing I'll regret is not meeting you sooner."

Instead of keeping the offered hand in his own however, the man pulled his own back, needing both for what followed (and refusing to be given any help. His pride was wounded enough, was vigilant enough, was sitting behind bars and showing its teeth and waiting for that bit that would bring them both over the edge). Paukka pushed himself up the chair and off the table, with the help of his hands pressing flat against the surface. The strained noise that came added to the clear lack of elegance and when he stood his back was all but straight and his posture hardly a remnant of his military days. Even so, it came as a surprise that he still stood taller than the handsome blond. Enough that he furrowed his brows slightly and could not hide the forming of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He turned halfway, targeting the direction where the stars led to the first floor yet instead of moving let his hands slip into the pockets of his worn pants. A light nod down the direction, he signaled Gabban to go on ahead.

[meadowlarksabove]

@caesaremvehis:

„So he wants to take you with us.“ A familiar voice. Even though the time it had been heard first it had sounded in lightheartedness and good-will, guiding conversations with unsavory comments and unbefitting jokes, in between the occasional laughter to feign and comity. Its tone was a little lower now but also more serious, in a strange way, as though there was more intent than just keeping their conversation quiet and away from possibly prying ears. In his own ambiguous way, Sostratus made it clear enough that he was questioning that very decision of his Legate. Having spent considerable time among people, he had absorbed the myriad stories and grim whispers that shaped the reputation of the Frumentarii – this one in particular. The Praetorian was not a man easily swayed; he was acutely aware that one should not take every claim at face value. Yet, he also recognized that rumors often came to be holding a kernel of truth. He was silent for a moment. Making no secret of eyeing the contents of the tent of the other man. He did not dare enter but stood before the entrace. „You think that is a good place for you to be? Yuma.“

The tent was practically empty, void of any personal effects, and stripped down to its barest essentials. Even of its shadows, as his candle caught almost every corner by the fanning of its wick. A small table and its matching chair were the only strips of color in the entire space. The rest were weapons, packs of supplies and whole sets of armor. Not his, but of the other frumentarii that frequently passed the Fort, and who made use of the tarp as their stop. Vulpes had given him ownership of the cot, but nothing more. The closet room in the dungeons should have been more than enough to satisfy a need for privacy, an assertion he’d accepted with the same indifference as his current charge.

Carefully, Gabban worked the needle and thread through the fur, tightening a seam along the underside of a snout. An ugly thing, this cowl, yet how revered by its owner and their followers. It had been in the hand of their master once, bestowed onto Vulpes as a sign of honor, and so finely cared for it barely ever needed fixing. Still, flesh and smoke had a way of wasting things in their presence, projecting their impermanence on well kept cloth. He raised the dog head in his hands slightly, taking a better look at the gaped maw which hugged the princep’s face when worn.

Though his eyes were focused, his hands skilled and swift in labor, he’d indeed listened to the praetorian. What a strange question. You think that is a good place for you to be? He understood the rivers flowing beneath the words, the wild currents of suspicion, the mistrust. His work had never inspired confidence in anyone. Yet the wording was interesting. As if he were ill and dying, the carrier of a plague looking for a new land to infest. Gabban wondered then what the other men said when he had left the table…

“I hear the days are especially bright but pleasant there, and since I mostly work underground, I’ve lacked sunlight all this time. It would be a nice change for myself.” He looked up briefly, meeting their eyes.

“You can come in if you like.”

[meadowlarksabove]

¡Feliz día de reyes!

[meadowlarksabove]

Grief struck him, a fist that closed around his own heart, as he watched the tears well and roll down their face. The sunken man, now a hair away from breaching the surface, struggling for air as even their eyes seemed waterlogged. Again it struck, and he strained to wear his smile, to be the mantle of peace which tenderly shrouds the ill and the wounded. A doctor should never make his sorrow known, not when his patients suffered cruelly, not when his hands could reel them back to shore. He shushed the other quietly and brushed their hair. There were great and confounding emotions behind that drowned gaze, a battle, a war that surged. If only he could pull them the rest of the way, to pluck out the cork from the neck and let it pour, and pour. To merely lighten the burden around their lungs. 

He felt useless in the face of such misery, a pain he could not touch with his tools, but was tangled with their veins nonetheless. Intimately known to him as it was now to them, a force strong enough to cast anyone on their knees. What could he do for them? What could he say? They shifted in his grasp, full and fussing with desperation, uncontrollable in their torment. 

Then, a voice. 

Their voice. The silence between them mutually broken, shattered by a broken plea. Gabban felt the wings of his soul reach out. His skin, his blood, his very bones, all begged to lend their strength. Like driftwood for a sailor fallen overboard, rope for the hapless climber, a pillar, a crutch. Anything to lift them from this fear. He cupped their face with both hands then, and rubbed the wet streak on their cheek with the pad of his thumb. Felt the strength in their features, and the clench of their jaw. So much being held back, and why? Why shouldn’t one cry when they're hurt? Why shouldn’t a man curse the world when it has also cursed them? 

“There you are. There is your voice.” He kept his own voice to a whisper, trying not to add to their excitement, and instead calm the sudden outburst. This dear spirit, crumpled and scarred. There was no way for him to know their thoughts or the haunt nestled in the pit of their brain. But he would be there with them regardless. Even if he were caught in the storm and the violence of it all. He would be there.

 “I will not leave you.” 

Gabban slipped his palms away, but only briefly, merely wrapping them around as his arms followed. Carefully, he leaned forward and embraced them, warmly pressing their face to his chest. If his stitches had held them together, then why couldn’t his arms? He felt their breath, the shudder of a sob that wouldn’t come out. Perhaps with this touch, with the cradle of his being, he could shield them enough for them to feel safe. Because they were– because he would never let anything harm them. Not then and not ever.

“I am holding you, see? I will not leave, I will not let you go.”

Briefly his lips parted, as if to speak. When he felt the sensation of the other press against his palm. Shocked, by that overwhelming sensation. Yet it did not take a second before he blinked, because he felt it well up in his eyes. All of it bundled up in one single feeling. The hurt, of the body, of the heart. Of a mind still processing the betrayal. Of what it had taken from him and what it had cost his body to survive it. Of helplessness. The feeling of not-belonging. The overwhelming urge to hold onto that beautiful face, who he more and more remembered seeing, when he briefly awoke from drug-induced slumber. Always there and always soothing, when it was. A face that merely looking at it told him that it was okay. The relief, that it had not just been a trick of his mind. That the face was there and that the body to it existed, and that the angel was there and looking at him, and not looking away in visible disgust. At the relief that he could touch his angel, that he was allowed to. To finally grace that skin that felt so soft, and supple, as the young man pressed in. Smooth and warm and tender, and warm again and so soft. All of it which overturned itself in his head, that inner voice, commenting in awe at what he and his skin perceived. Which became sorrows, and more hurt. More frustration, which was the cause for the wet to gather and collect at the corner of his right eye.

Because what he mostly felt was cold. And numb. And the lack of something that should be there and added in feeling all of that beautiful face — but was not. Did not. The tips of his fingers were covered by a light fuzz, claimed by a thousand little pin pricks piercing his sin continuously. A pain turning into a sore ache, a lingering burn a little lower than that. Where knuckles pressed against thin skin. Where tendons lay severed and gone. The revelation of his missing digits sank in even deeper. He would never be able to feel it. To feel all of that face. Only ever less as before. Less than was possible. Less than anyone else walking on this rotten earth.

The man exhaled sharply through his nose, then clenched his teeth. The bone visibly shifted underneath his skin. Lips pressed together in a thin line, he was fighting, trying to hold back the absolute devastation that befell him. Tried to hold back the stinging in his eyes and in his heart, and felt even more heavy when a single tear did end up running down his face. Pulled down by gravity and the position of his face, turned and slightly tilted to better see.

His remaining fingers briefly twitched and so did the rest of those that were no longer. His desperation grew (as did his frustration. as did his frustration—AS DID HIS FRUSTRATION—) and he wanted to sit up and reach out with both hands then, to feel and take hold of that angel, to keep it from leaving him, for good. As it would eventually. Even if it had told him it would not. I am here, you are not alone. From somewhere the voice of the angel told him that he was safe. Singing to him so softly in his beautiful voice. But everything else had left him, too—The face of the angel shifted a little nearer, made it easier for Paukka to look at him (and he looked at him, and he stared at him). He did not want to be alone. He did not want to be left alone—From somewhere the voice of the angel told him that everything was painful now, but that it would get better. That it would get better again—He did not want—From somewhere the voice of the angel told him that he will be by his side—and he wanted it—and he wanted it—AND HE WANTED IT—and he—he...

            „Don't go—“ The broken man begged with a low, trembling voice. The broken man pleaded in absolute desperation. His other hand was trying to make its way up so he could use it too, to touch that saintly face. To keep it where it was. To not have it leave him again. „Do not leave me—!“  

[meadowlarksabove]

The other room had drifted into his dreams that night. Its four walls and its shadows, the blood stained bed and the chain that shackled him by the ankle. He’d heard the damned jingle as he shifted in bed, a metal rattling, half there and not. As if it’d still weighed on him, how it had limited his reach for so long, and pinned him in place when his heart had always screamed for him to run. Worst of all, he’d felt the breath at the back of his neck when he arose. Or swore he’d felt it. A shadow, a ghost, a demon at his nape. Even now he was terrified, but had worn it in stride throughout the day, tucked it aside the moment he’d returned to Paukka with breakfast. 

Gabban tilted his head slightly, pressing his cheek further against their shoulder. Shutting his eyes, holding their hands just a little tighter, he wanted to think and speak of better things. Beautiful things. Whatever made this world a place worth living in. Because it was something the other needed to hear, as well as himself. There was goodness left on this earth– 

–like Paukka. 

“I was born and raised by the seashore. I have heard that people who see it for the first time are scared and bothered by the sound. It is always roaring and hissing, because it is always rolling and shifting. But to me it sounds like the world is breathing, inhaling when the waves curl, and exhaling when the water climbs up the sand and foams at your feet. In fact, I’m reminded of it every time I listen to your lungs.” A quiet chuckle slipped from him. “The sea holds such life, so much it can scare you. When it storms– you are at the mercy of something too big to behold. A terrible force. Ahh, but even then how beautiful. Like the rage of clear and pristine angels. Like war.” 

His own shoulders relaxed as he spoke, as already the droning of the waves slipped back into his memories. The push and pull, the way the clouds gathered on the horizon. How could he not believe in the divine? 

“Light glitters on the surface, it even changes the colors of the waves depending on the time of day. Until at night it all becomes a great shadow. But the light is better seen from inside. When you dive deep into the darkness and look up to the surface, the waves over your head make the sun dance and glitter about. You could believe you are swimming up to meet heaven when you come up for breath.”  

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he wasn’t ready to smile just yet, the fear too present in his blood. But another small huff, a kind of stifled laugh, burst through the purse of his lips, having just remembered something. 

“Very pretty. But it smells very bad in some seasons. Too much like salt and raw fish. God save you, if you or something of yours fall in. It will stick to your skin for hours…I fell in many times as a child.”

@meadowlarksabove Gabban lit a candle on the sheriff’s bedside table, having just watched the sun dip beneath the hills and their room slip into darkness. He looked to Paukka, so often sunken with their own thoughts, and again, he took the other’s palms in his. Not inspecting but rubbing to warm the scarred and rough hewn flesh. If only to make them look at him, or even look at their hands locked together, a reminder that they were warm and living still. It was with that thought he leaned even closer, and carefully, to accompany the man just strong enough to sit up in their silent reverie. He tried his best not to shift the bed with his weight as he moved to sit beside the other, resting his head on their shoulder, their hands still clasped together- which he drew up to his chest, letting them feel the gallop of his own stubborn heart. For a moment he only sat there in silence, his heart clearly racing at their closeness and his sudden brazenness. Until his voice broke through. “Have you…have you ever been at sea?”

Have you…have you ever been at sea?

The brunette looked up in question, a gentle expression playing across his face, with the usual, deep furrowing of his brows noticeably absent. He was still in consideration, wondering about the closeness (of their hands intimately touching) and the fact that the younger man had come this near, to sit beside him and lean against him slightly even. As though he was the one seeking solace and in desperate need for support, now. The weight of exhaustion seemed to cling to him, as if he were grappling with his own unseen battles and was perhaps haunted by his own ghosts who had breached the thin layer of worlds to fall into their own, now with the beginning of twilight, attracted by the soft glowing light from the sky as the sun was below the horizon.

He could feel it. His warmth. The beating of a heart that sprung and fluttered much quicker than his own (who, soon enough, as if drawn in by the delicate dance, too quickened in the frequency of its palpitations). And Paukka wanted it, to be the strong and sturdy anchor that his angel now seemed to need. Which was why he did not budge. Briefly his fingers moved, involuntarily brushed, with the instinctual desire to feel and get to know, how the body of the other felt. To make out the muscle and flesh hiding underneath the fabric. To know what his angel was made out of. Was his skin of starlight and his blood liquid gold? The wounded man hummed in wonderment, silent and only to himself, and a weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

            „I have been at the shore of a lake. Never at sea.“ Gentle and soft-tone his voice came in a murmur. A low, smooth sound, almost-whispered. And perhaps he would have whispered if they would not have been alone, because his words were meant only for the heaven-sent and the heaven-sent only. They were alone, so he did not whisper. His angel smelled so nice and his skin shared with Paukka a warmth he had not tought to ever feel again.

            „Does the sun break differently on the surface? Is the water fuller of life?“

[meadowlarksabove]

They were unraveling each other, peeling away layers of pretense and paint, red and gold encrusted over tender flesh. Gabban knew the risks of such a revelation, his still-beating heart laid out on the platter along with all the other fruits. Would they eat him? Would they tear him apart? It was their right to draw lines over paths he had already crossed, and demand his respects when he’d never meant to offend. Those were their ways, after all, and a privilege for those in power. A tradition of starved and snarling manners, that benefited mongrels over men, where anything offered could be sharpened to a lethal enough point. Yet the frumentarius remained as still as ever, accepting of everything that came his way. Even death itself. 

Of all the shame he felt, the grief stuck to his chest like a garden of cacti, he would never feel embarrassed over his own love. Others may, and already have, called him foolish for the depth of his emotion. But they hadn’t heard the call as he had. The singular ring of Her bell, Her hands in the nest of his ribs, the bountiful mercy that had opened his eyes with the morning, and had kept them open ever since. 

Their features changed and softened before his gaze, discarding the gloom that’d clung to them since their arrival. Then, the noise at the pit of their chest rose as a thunderous laugh, and Gabban imagined a flight of birds, a mess of red wings ascending to the clouds, and with them followed his heart. They had called his Goddess a laugher-loving being, an enjoyer of joyous and clamoring voices. After all these years of worshipping Her, he finally understood why. Their delight, whatever joy they had found in his answer, had sparked and spread a flame between them. Nothing monstrous like the fires each had fanned to destroy cities on the borders of Arizona. But a warmth, an understanding even, shared and with equal footing. Ah, he felt– 

Gabban felt his shoulders relax, and a knot at his throat loosen, one he hadn’t realized had kept him from breathing with ease. The smile he wore only flourished, mirroring the beauty he witnessed in the other, a touch of humanity restored to someone so feared. That he had played some part in it played with his nerves, stirring a ticklish and nervous sensation in the pit of his stomach. Yet, it wasn’t a bad feeling. At all, at all, at all…

Again it stirred from within, strong this time, and his head tilted slightly, surprised by the invitation. No, not an invitation. The assertion they would take him to Yuma, spoken with such clarity that it already seemed a fact. Regardless of the war, the turmoil that surrounded them, the doubt that nipped at all their heels, it felt as if they’d carved it into stone. How strange, and how unexpected. He felt the praetorian’s attention on them, but only for a moment, as even that was quickly fading from his mind, the table and the mongrels replaced by open fields instead. The world slipped from his grasp as he thought of Yuma, of how he wanted more than anything to see these flowers. To be brought to them. 

“I look forward to it.” His voice was strengthened, as if to say he would hold them to it. Because he would, and with insistence. A man shouldn’t go back on his word!

Perhaps there was something in his future after all. A speck of light in a dark and gaping maw, as small as a pin prick, and still- how full he felt. Gabban’s fingers twitched with an unnamed urge, the want to touch or move, he couldn’t tell which. But it had drawn enough of his focus that he reached for his empty cup, not once quenched, and finally relented to having it filled. There was something to celebrate now. Something to drink for. Even if it was still a dream, it was something to long for.

A way with words, truly, he would huff in acceptance over the fact that the other did play his might well. It was a gift that too many underestimated, when their very head of power was the epitome of making his knowledge his utmost advantage.

He did not know what the Frumentarius was trying to do then and there, as he was unsure how he should best behave on it. The young blond offered him a perfect occasion to take those same words (that heartfeltness) and twist it. Turn it and beat it into something ugly, something that could send him faltering and oozing with regret. He could take those words and act offended, or claim the smaller dared putting him and himself into question. Already did his own mind go there, brandishing the blade, instinctually and naturally — breed into the head that he was not meant to use outside of the old and outworn lines of their Tabula Peutingeriana. Another reason why sharp minds and open hearts were such a dangerous combination. How easy it made it for the wicked to claim and defame.

Lupercus knew better than to do that. The Legate did not need to make use of it. Actions were his forte. He was the kind to put someone into their place physically and make an example of it if need be. Verba volant. Because just as strong as words could be, they were not sturdy and would not shield from might and wrath and certainly not from the truth carried within muscle and brawn. Caesarem vehis, caesarique fortunam. He carried Caesar and Caesar's fortune. After all, he was his tool. An extension of his arm, the fruit of his loins.

No. Lupercus knew better. It was exactly because he knew that he did not go down that path, that he did decide not to feel falsely offended. It was because, for some reason, deep down, he knew before he even came to pondering and having to decide between either or. This had been a dangerous conversation from the start, for a man that was known but also not, not as he was by those so closely around him at least. He knew that eyes would land on him and question and begrudge, as he knew others would question with good reason, and that it was up to him to prove to them. This was one of such moments. He was tested, looked at. By a man who offered to him an honest chance, genuine and fair in total loyalty to a cause they both had dedicated themselves to (because this conversation could have gone differently. could have gone ugly and hackle-raising, snarling and fang-baring).

Instead the Frumentarius did not speak in falsehood, did not speak a single lie (Lupercus refused to believe it. refused the possibility. grabbed it and wrung it out and undid it, the blasphemy). He could see it in those eyes. Those mesmerizing, bluish-gray eyes. Duality, of gray as dark and melancholy as the ashes of the people he had killed, mixed with a blue that was ocean-strong. Heavenly deep. Sky-crystal. Lupercus looked at eyes that looked at him, that mirrored a resilience he did not expect but appreciated and which brought him back to that flickering fire, that flame, that brought life and strength into this very clever man. It was a boldness he rejoiced seeing. The workings of a mind and heart that gave him back the hope he had more and more lost on the long travel from Yuma to the Fort.

It first showed in the softening of his face. Into the tugging at the corners of his mouth. Into the low-rumbling chuckle that began as vibration in his chest, making its way to his throat, from where it continued to spill over his lips like steam did the nose of a huffing bull. Growing louder with confidence and satisfaction. Into a broad and boisterous laugh. A sound rare enough that even the Praetorian turned to look their direction. The Legate was pleased. With what he had heard and the fact that the other man had the courage to have him hear it. It was an honest and honorable truth and Lupercus could feel the warmth return to him, to his chest. His body discarded all tension and he languidly sunk back into his seat.

            „Once this war is won I will bring you to Yuma. I will show you our flowers.“

Contentedness had returned to his voice, as though he had come up with a plan that he was quite pleased with himself for. A plan that brought him pleasure. Something that he was actually looking forward to. Briefly his brows furrowed at the realization, yet he let it slide. To be excited for something so... small. Completely insignificant in the grand design. He pushed that thought away. He wanted it, so he would have it.

[meadowlarksabove]

The warmth that’d naturally brightened his expression, and heightened its amicable charm, had now slowly crept from his face. A kind of unraveling, as shadows gathered over his features and in the seams of his grin. One mask cast away for another, the casual gambler for the hardened soldier. Gabban watched as the lurker’s wrist tensed slightly inside their jacket, as concealed fingers tightened around the hilt or the grip of a weapon, his own twitching against his sides in a bizarre mirroring. This would only progress in one of two ways. Either he would be too slow in reacting to the stalker’s attack and be killed in a flurry of gunshots, or he’d be blessed with just a fraction of a second– a chance– to tear them apart against the counter. The blade in his pants was certainly hungry enough to try for it, and he was no stranger to high stakes himself. Though even if he should survive, if luck were to actually skew his way, would he have enough time to escape before someone else retaliated? 

Slowly, the frumentarius’ hand inched toward his pant leg, just as the other leaned to a better position. His heart hammered against the bars of its cage, his instinct and good reason alone screamed for him to duck and run for the vast night outside. But the legionnaire in his blood, the golden bull which protested at the very thought of retreat, cemented his stance against the coming violence. There was nowhere left for him to go, it huffed, and he hadn’t the will to question if that was true. Only the strength to take oblivion straight to his nose. 

Then, something strange happened. The haunt’s eyes flickered to the side, confused, as a figure caught in their sights pressed ever closer. His thumb had barely touched cloth when he felt the press of a hand at his nape. He shot a sharp glance at the encroaching silhouette, stricken with silence, merely questioning with the arch of his brow as he realized it was Alexander. Why were they getting in the way? Why were they trying to stop the inevitable? He parted his mouth to pose the question, yet found himself pulled to them instead, crashing against the bluffs of their lips as if he were the roll of a grand, but ephemeral wave. 

All of his thoughts vanished with the tide, swept clear of the shore as lashes fluttered close and his hands grasped their waist instead of his dagger. What incredible and feigned desire, what a sweet and torturous lie. The hunger he’d felt before returned tenfold, intensified by their bare taste, a sample of what he’d already half imagined despite his better judgement. This was what they felt like, tasted like, smelled like– Gabban’s brows furrowed, weighted with anger and frustration, knowing himself tricked but hopelessly lured nonetheless. Slowly, he returned to where he’d only hovered before, pressing his lips and even nipping lightly where the jugular pulsed. 

Strangers had taken notice of their embrace, chuckling and wondering, believing them drunk no doubt. The man behind the counter certainly thought so, but had the decensy to still offer them the room. It was better to let troublesome lovers well alone than have them cause a scene on the main floor. Really, what was the harm? “I’ll pay.” 

 Their darkened third stalled, the curl of their fingers loosened while they shot him and the crowd a few furtive stares. He gave the stalker a look in return, cold but tempered. As if to say they would pick this up another time, when his hands weren’t bound and his mind not compromised by Her bless’ed chiming. Because Venus had truly come to him in all Her glory, demanding he kneel and worship by the sudden turns of his fate. Perhaps this had been Her way of protecting him in that instance, acting through Alexander as a means to spirit him away. Who could really tell, Gabban felt he might go mad trying to uncover the mystery of this moment. From the other’s interference to the beating of his heart, he was lost. 

“Let’s go, sweetheart.”  He whispered to the side of their face, tugging them to follow by a hand to their hip, while another employee stepped forward to guide them.

No. Oh no, did it sound the alarm. Casting the other man a respective glance, akin to silently implore him to heed an unspoken warning that was not once even brought up between them. The devil had never promised him not to kill and Alexander had never told him not to kill anyone. Perhaps he should have, even if the blond most likely would not keep to it anyway, if he had. There was no need to listen to him, nothing that bound them to one another and ask for decency or decorum. They could not even be sure if they were safe around one another. Alexander was aware that he was the one certainly playing a dangerous game with someone just too eager to slice and kill. Just by chance it was not his throat that was seen in need of an opening.

No physical protest came, as did not ring his voice when he watched the man distance himself and turning around to face his follower of shadows, now brought into the light. They both were. Not alone. Around a gathering of people that the Spy only anticipated to get drawn into an imminent escalation that could happen any moment now. Brought into the proximity of danger with the choice the other had made. To have fun instead if escaping. Was he mad after all? Not so sane as their conversations had made him seen? Proving to Alexander that he as a walking timebomb, ticking and ready to explode. Which he could not allow. Not for the sake of the blond (or perhaps for his sake, too), for the sake of the shadow prowling (so badly. still not knowing who the shadow belonged to. his death still not justified).

Alexander did not want anyone to die, or for things to escalate, and perhaps he was too fueled by a feeling of frustration, because he had been proven wrong painting an image of the other that was not the truth after all. Making up excuses for his killing, for his atrocious involvement into the criminal underworld. He really seemed to just enjoy being a part of it. Alexander knew better than to have it surprise him, affect him. But he would not be him if he did not mourn the passing of what must once have been an innocent soul.

He would not let him kill this time. He would not let any blood be spilled. Using that frustration to narrow eyes and watch with a cutting-edge glare, he locked on. Set into motion and followed behind with a stride that was bolder than naturally. His posture indicating that he was not afraid to take up space, suggested greater confidence to those that looked in his direction and caught him approaching from behind the other man. Eyes traveling the direction notioning to Gabban that something was happening at the spot he had left. Within seconds however Alexander was already there, close behind him. Reaching out with an arm to ungently place down his glass with a loud thud on the wooden surface of the bar counter. In the next moment, his hand shot out with swift authority, gripping Gabban firmly by the back of the neck without a warning.

            „What is it you think you're doing—“, making his presence known to him through the usage of his voice, to let him know that it was him (if he did not already), to let him know to stop his tomfoolery and continue their act (he better would. he better would).

His movement flowed seamlessly, a single, graceful motion that began with the approach, continued with the placing of the drink and the stepping in between, that seemed almost choreographed. He positioned himself with ease, redirecting his stance to face the blond, his own back now turned to the shadow. The hand sank from the nape then and instead firmly grabbed Gabban by his collar, strongly tugging at the fabric, pulling him close while Alexander leaned in, guiding their lips to crash and collide in the form of a kiss. Not so gentle. A little rough, yet not lacking in demand. It was anything but gentle. A hungry roughness underlined by urgency, a kiss that spoke volumes of a man unwilling to let go. The kiss of a man who refused to be dropped for another. Deep and needy enough that some of the loose strands of hair fell into his face, but short, quickly broken again to add more to their play, to feed the narrative. Each moment was carefully crafted to draw the attention of onlookers, who watched with rapt curiosity, as if they were all part of a performance unfolding on an intimate stage.

            „I have waited long enough for you to come back! You will not leave me standing like that...“

The grip weakened for a moment, slipped from Gabban's collar down to the fabric that hid away his chest, where it tightened again in a frenzy that spoke of obsession. It was the hold of a scorned lover, unwilling to accept to be made second place by his paramour. Simultaneously Alexander shifted on the spot, shifted his weight from one leg onto the other with a sway of the hip, as if attempting to fix a disheveled appearance, to present a more composed facade. Reaching up to have gloved-fingers glide through the strands of his hair in an attempt at slicking them back. Once done, the jealous lover turned ever so slightly, just enough to cast a venomous gaze to the stalker, before his attention openly turned to the man standing behind the counter. With Gabban still within the grip of his left hand, the right fisted and slammed down on the counter in furious demand.

            „A room! And quickly.“

[meadowlarksabove]

WHICH TRAGIC DEATH WOULD YOU SUFFER?

THE SACRIFICE

you die saving the thing you love. maybe it is family, friends, perhaps even a cause. they will carry your face with them for the rest of their lives, and every milestone they pass will make them think of you. it does not matter because you won't be there to experience it with them. years down the line, they will meet people who do not even know the weight of your name upon their skin. this is what your selflessness gets you in the end.

Tagged by: @malefikant

[meadowlarksabove]

They were certainly conscious of his presence, but he felt as if he were speaking to someone drowned at the bottom of a river. Sunken, and weighed down by a stone, his own voice warbled by the great stream between them. And still he reached out to them, had cast his netting with the curl of his smile and hoped it would reel them back to dry land. Whatever laid behind that dark and handsome gaze– whatever their faults or virtues, he was there to accept them all into the land of the living. This is where they truly belonged. With a chest that beat and heaved. A little changed, but alive and breathing. 

He took their silence as a sign of one of two things. Either they were still under the influence of some dark and pernicious thought, or they were exhausted beyond the use of their voice. Both seemed a likely answer in that instance, with their sullen expression and the knotting of their muscles. Gabban wondered then how he could soothe the pain without having to resort to the use of opiates which, while effective, often came with a grave risk. Well, he should probably start by helping to clean them for the day, even give them a new change of clothes. It would also give him time to look at their bandages and double- triple check they hadn’t opened any of their fragile stitches. Then, if they weren’t nauseous, he could risk giving them a light broth for their first meal…

The Sheriff shifted from their spot, straining their wounded body and making an effort which had very clearly hurt them. All at once he leaned closer, fretting just as he was confused by the sudden change in their demeanor. Were they feeling sick? Did they need to vomit? 

Finally, a hand breached the surface of that imagined water and made for his own face, which spurred his breath to hitch subtly. Gabban blanked at first, unsure of what it meant for their fingers to hover beside his cheek, whether they felt the urge to harm by the scorn of some grief or were merely clutching for anything in sight. But when he stared back into their desperate gaze, frantic and helpless, he couldn’t help the sharp tugging at his heart, how every nerve in his body screamed with terrible recognition. He’d felt the same way before, had looked out with the selfsame animal-fright, wanting nothing more than to be met with warm humanity. Only to be forced to curl inwards, and so tightly that he could have swiftly disappeared. 

“It’s alright.” Gabban pressed his cheek to their grasp, and held their palm flush to his skin by the gentle touch of his own hand. His other mirroring the reaction by cupping their face, wanting to prove through his touch they were both warm and secure. Carefully, he nuzzled the scarred and semi-swollen tissue, wholly unafraid of that battered and mutilated graze. They weren’t wicked at all. “See? I’m here, you are not alone– you are safe.” 

Gabban eased forward, and tried to guide the other onto their back with the motion. Slowly, and with all the patience in the world, he readjusted himself slightly so they wouldn’t feel that he was ever pulling away, all the while wondering if they were afraid to be alone. If everything that’d happened on the road had left them convulsing with adrenaline. It pierced him, somehow, more than he'd ever thought possible. That such a man, someone who must have been so strong, be abused by fickle and ungodly heathens. Torn asunder, when everyone around him could only ever account for a stern, politeness of spirit. When had God last set his eyes upon the world?

The hand at their jaw moved slightly, trailing upward to brush back their hair. Again, his chest fluttered strangely, taking in the sight of that striking expression, and the weight set upon their brow. They looked as proud as a soldier.

“Everything is painful now, but it will get better with time and with rest.” He whispered softly, his voice no higher than a smooth and tranquil hum. “I will be by your side.”

He had fallen for celestial grace once before. A being, who had brought light into his life, who had lulled him and cooed him soft-sung songs of love and devotion. The same being that had disappeared for years, only to return when he had least expected it. The same being who had taken advantage of that good heart, had toyed with it only to cast it and him alongside it aside. To lie battered and broken on the cold paved walkway of a foreign city, much too big and much too loud for a man such as him. Feeling the warmth escape him as he laid on hardened ground, slowly cooling out through the puddle of his own blood collecting underneath him. It had been that good heart that had brought him into the situation. It was this same, wretched, diabolical heart that had fallen for what he now knew was a demon, that was the reason why his life had ultimately changed forever.

He could no longer see them but did not need to, the image of his hands was burned into his mind. How did the rest of him look like? He wondered. Watching the sandy, golden hair of a familiar face inch away and inch closer. Listening to that familiar voice, who he had not ever heard before and yet felt like it was the only thing keeping him sane, his mind clear and his soul from leaving the body he did not care whether it remained. Something within him did. Deep down, in the empty and gast cavities of that praised muscle. Gratitude. Because even if his mind was far from clean and his vision still a little hazy at the edges, Paukka understood as much: he lived only thanks to this man. This man he knew but did not know. This man, that seemed so happy that he had opened his eyes again.

Unwaveringly the man kept his brown eyes on the other. Even when the blond moved away again, after being done with his examination. It must have been that, Paukka guessed. Although he did not know a whole lot about doctors and their ways of working. What it all was they could do and did.

Pretty. He was really pretty. His eyes were, alongside his smile. A brightness that infected each other. Color, warmth. Softness. The Sheriff wanted to hear more of that voice too, yet his own had escaped him and refused to come back, even then. He only swallowed. Yet continued to look at the other man through half-lid eyes. Taking in the hair that had been brushed back only seconds ago. He wondered how the hand would feel brushing through his own. Hummed at the half-managed sensation imagined. Already subsiding satisfaction caused the corners of his mouth to twitch in the beginnings of a smile. One that was never reached. Instead the idea and the image brought a craving and a want, and motivated by that the man began moving underneath the blanket. An attempt being made at turning on his side. One quickly stopped at the new pain surging through his being, this time starting at his upper thigh, surging down and upwards both directions, biting his calf and viciously gnawing at his hip, from where it shot up into his side.

The wounded man brought forth a pained exhale yet for some reason, was not stopped entirely. Stubborn, his arm lifted and his shredded hand reached out, hovering close to the cheek of that beautiful angel. Desperation flared in his eyes alongside the pain. All that he was in this moment was the pure will to touch him.

[meadowlarksabove]

Surprise had urged him to turn on a light, to banish the shadows from his room so that he might think, and think clearly. Gabban sat up and flipped the switch upon his bedside table, instantly dousing the place in a warm and tender gleam. Had he really just heard what he thought he’d heard? Were they really asking to see him right then and there? He blinked a few times, unsure of how to even respond– despite him knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and without ever questioning their motives, that his answer would be yes. 

He’d felt it in his chest the moment they proposed the idea, and again when stressing their urgency. This could be dangerous, of course. A stranger had just asked him to walk out of his apartment in the middle of the night, with a strained and nervous cadence. With a needling pressure that seemed a far cry from the shy mutterings he’d shortly known them for. Perhaps they were the creep, having set their sights on their next victim, mistaking Gabban for someone soft and helpless. A body they could abuse first, then mince, and feed it to the scavenger fish in the riverbeds. It’d be just his luck. That a handsome and friendly face be the one to destroy him 

Or, perhaps they were merely drunk, having only mustered up the courage to dial his number after imbibing a little too much, emboldened to a point of absurdity. They wouldn’t be the first man to call him crazed and out of their wits, nor did he suspect this would be the last. Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn’t in good conscience go along with Paukka’s request. 

And yet-  and yet- 

-and yet beneath the throng of voices clamoring for him to see reason, to think of his own safety for once, he heard instead the soft and tranquil notes of a windchime. How it danced with the gentle breeze, and how familiar. As if he could envision the porch it belonged to– the house, the rooms, and the surrounding fields. Every blade of grass so strangely dear to his heart. Warmth surged all throughout his body then, flushing his skin to a bright pink. Just the way they’d said it, the way they’d confessed to needing (needing!) to see him had stirred something unspeakably strong from within his chest. He thought of how their gaze had beheld him, spoke to him, and that was enough to make him smile in remembrance. But what was he remembering exactly? 

“I’d like that. Where did you want to meet?” His heart was pounding by that point, his voice a little breathless from his anxious wanting. “It’s pretty late so I don’t imagine there’s anything but bars open.” And he wasn’t one for getting wasted. 

“Do you want to come over? There’s a park near where I live and it’d be nice to finally walk there with someone. We could just sit at a bench and have a chat.”

A strange nose filled the space of the car. Strange, because when he made it Paukka could see the front view mirror reflect his face right back at him. What would have normally been a light scoff looked different. Felt it in hindsight, too. Had he just smiled? Had the corners of his mouth truly, unmistakably moved for a brief second? What an odd thing to see. So much that had taken the Finn aback and had made him pause, watching (scrutinizing) carefully his reflection, in case his reflection did this strange thing again. Why for a moment he did not respond and instead silence settled between them. Only a few seconds of staring at himself later did he dare break the staring contest, dared looking somewhere else instead. Back down to the thin piece of paper in his free hand.

            „I hope I am not too forward asking if we can see each other.“ No again. Again would suggest a check up on his teeth, which would be coming anyway. If things would take turns and it would result in him staying over for a couple more days than initially suggested. No, he did not say it. Again. Because it could suggest seeing each other sometime later, some couple hours from now or worse: days away.

Now. He wanted to see him now. Best this instant. Now, that he had finally found him. That he had finally found out his name and what his voice sounded like. How could he not want all of it? How could he continue his day and go to bed in the evening and waste away his time awaiting a set date where the only reason why the met again was a cracked tooth he was suffering under after having been pulled into a fist fight? At least it was only a tooth, he thought. How embarrassing would it have been finding the man he had been looking for for what felt like a lifetime, sporting a blackened eye.

            „I know it is late—“, he added and his voice grew stronger and more firm. Eager with confidence and fear alike, because even if Gabban (God. Gabban! His name was Gabban. He knew his name!) was nice and tender now — every man needed his sleep. Shown interest or not, Paukka was almost sure the other man could not be as serious about them as he was in this moment. Tormented by a single image found from a time long ago, of a man that should simply no longer exist /but did. Did! There, he was right on the other side of the phone).

The Finn huffed. Let the piece of paper sink onto his lap and with his hand, firmly gripped the top portion of the steering wheel. So much that his knuckles turned white. He could hardly endure the pressure felt, the fluttering within his chest, of a heart beating so frantically he feared the only thing able to soothe it was to hear that sweet voice again. He could feel it already. How heavy it got in his chest. How needy he suddenly felt. If he would not hear his voice this instant his heart would stop beating and Paukka Laukkanen would die on the spot!

            „I really need to see you—!“

[meadowlarksabove]

How many walls and how many soldiers have crumbled before that gaze? The deepest shade of crimson he’d ever seen, like rich and seething blood. A blind rage made manifest in hulking muscles, the silhouette of a god scorched through mortal tapestry. What beauty and what horror! To know with certainty how their hands could reach and rip him apart. That just as Gabban had deftly peeled the skins from the fruits before them, they could also, and with as much ease, sleeve him of his own flesh. 

Yet he’d long stopped fearing pain and the call of the grave, the very shrouds that should befall them all in the end. Truth be told, Gabban had found an even greater evil in the short run of his life, a darker shade of midnight in the cradle of wicked hands. At the mercy of animals he dared not name, and who had left him in awe at the very depths of their wickedness, forever stricken by a malice he could scarcely believe had been committed by living and feeling creatures. In comparison, even the young Legate fell short of that terror. 

So he leveled their stare, not defiantly, but as a door which was held open with a smile. They may judge him, they may hurt him if they wanted, but he would never allow himself to cower again. He had to be better than that. He must. 

“Is no part of you selfish? Can you claim that for yourself?”

His expression sharpened as he searched the other’s face for an answer, but only slightly. There was little more he needed in order to grasp how the other was wild, stubborn, and fiercely loyal to the bull. That in their chest beat the heart of an honest warrior with a too-clear view of the battlefield, unclouded by the fog of war. That fact alone softened his features once more. It would only become even clearer for them… 

“Maybe you can. I could certainly believe it.” He truly would.

“I will speak for myself then. I can not claim to serve our Caesar selflessly. Because I know that serving our master is serving the Legion. That serving the Legion is both serving his people and the lands I love. It means fighting for my siblings for whom I would tear through any fortress and any person with my bare hands.” 

Again, he thought of his brothers, their confounding reports, and the words Dead Sea had used to describe their progress on the front. It was abnormal for them to be so unsure of their plans and of where they stood. If only he could go see them– help them directly!

“I think it’s right for men to fight for something they love, to devote themselves to a cause born of their flesh. Because we are mortal and we must labor as things that must someday die, we must work with the knowledge of our own impermanence. No one here, save for one who is presently not sitting at this table, can boast to be divine and as eternal as Mars. So we must fight, in the little time we have, to make our efforts worthwhile.” 

And who could stain their hands the way he had without a shred of care to drive it? Without the fervor of some pure and ardent desire fanning the flames? No one could be so sedate. 

“When it is over, when death comes for me, I would like to face it knowing I have done everything to protect all that I loved and believed in.” Perhaps then, he would have done something worthy, not of praise or of great note, but of being called a person. To have been someone who stood on their feet and not on their paws. “It’s surely a weakness to have your heart chained to something. Plenty have told me so– my princeps especially. But–” 

A small huff escaped his lips, a piece of a pretty yet stifled chuckle. “In that respect I am entirely hopeless. Once bound, I am bound forever. I do not abandon what is precious to me.” 

Again his eyes returned to the younger man. No less stern and no less piercing, a little more so even, perhaps. What could well be misunderstood as aggravation was all but that. No animosity despite the burning intensity that seethed in that hot red gaze still (accompanied by that tense muscle locking his jaw, by the way his herculean body sat comfortable but looked ready to spring up from his seat to crush and malm whoever next dared insulting, or belittling his views and ideals openly and plainly for everyone else to hear. The remnants of the bull coursing through blood-filled veins.

In truth, there was understanding. In truth it was a focus that had come with a revelation that he had not considered in a way and had come to the conclusion that he should have. It was the waking of a mind that caught its own sinking into depths that were unbefitting the occasion and sickening. An illness he had been fighting instead of allowing it to befall him, for many years now. Like a fresh breeze had kissed the soreness of skin. Like a balm gently applied to an infliction, a wound. Like precious water, spilled at the threatening of the imminent feast of an unstoppable wildfire. Like gentle hand that had cupped his face and had pulled from his eyes the veil of red, of murder. Cooing the softest syllables of a hum-sung hope, whisper-soft. That voice, so gentle, in the presence of mad dogs, or corrupted minds. No, those eyes looked not at something that was to their distaste or something displeasing. It was a sort of reverence, of awe.

Lupercus had to admit that he had forgotten (and perhaps had done so willingly and blindly, driven-mad by the ignorance of the man he could not even call his father. To allow for such differences to be bred into and amongst his very own men. That forces were separated through the mad-making promises of power, binded and sewn together through fals devotion to a cause that was not believed in but a title that was craved, and under which those that fought and bled mercilessly succumbed and were sacrificed under in baseless schemes and headless endeavors. He too had become bigoted and judgemental through the reflection he was shown by the men of the Fort at their arrival. They did not know and he did not either and still they were rabid enough to snarl and show teeth and aim for the throat.

The Frumentarius mentioned something else that had his brows shit and knit ever so slightly in a sign of light scrutiny. A confession he was not sure whether it was meant as such or if perhaps it had slipped him.

Unfortunately, one is often alone among comrades here.

The Legate observed the man before him, a figure marked by a precise mind and a sharp wit that cut. He found himself contemplating the depths of the Frumentarius’ character, pondering how much of his demeanor stemmed from an unwavering integrity and steadfast dedication to truth and how much of it (if there at all) was there, of a guarded honesty rooted in a fervent belief in justice. He understood yet again why the Frumentarii were talked about the way they were. Masters of intelligence, fighting the same war but in different ways There was an underlined admiration that he felt in that moment. A revelation he was in two minds about. He was not oblivious to the tales told and the deeds rumoured  to be done in more selfish and questionable endeavours. Bad-mouthed in uncertainty over a power that was found difficult to assess.

Were they truly so double-faced? Was all this man said and shared with him nothing but an act...?

He could not know. A truth that displeased him, turning his eyes into blood-slick daggers. Enough to let his gaze fall onto the massive table before them. To its contents, the lavish dinner, the wine. All there to be devoured in celebration. Never before had Lupercuss felt so strongly a sense of mourning. Never had it been sitting with him so closely - the reality of death.

            “What do you think. Have I found my flower? Do you suggest my loyalty being an act of selfishness rather than true and honest devotion to our Caesar?”

[meadowlarksabove]

His breath feathered across the jugular, the sight of which sparked mongrel urges in both the back of his mind and the base of his jaw. How he wanted to bite them. To gnaw the life from his prey in the swift clamping of his teeth. Gabban wanted to lick their blood off his gums, pick the meat from the back of his molars, and be sated with scents of gore and perfume. Briefly, he wondered if the cannibals had changed him in some way, or enhanced what had always lain dormant. The festering hunger which snapped at his heels, this want for an everlasting hunt wherein someone else, and not himself, was the prey. 

The frumentarius observed their flesh in silence, half listening and half imagining, as visions blended seamlessly together. A part of him thought of their body crumpled at the bottom of the Ultra-Luxe, while another, more fervent half, wondered how they would sound gasping under his touch. Left breathless by the glide of his fingers over their hips and waist. He swallowed thickly, and narrowed his eyes as he stepped back, having found himself at the brink of some dark and pernicious fall. Stupid, slobbering dog. A heel stamped on the floor in a quick burst of frustration, as if he were reprimanding himself before letting his expression cool. FOCUS. 

“Sneak away?” 

A strange noise escaped him, between a scoff and a laugh– even a growl. It was hard to tell with how he’d drawn away from the stranger once more, letting the ambience of the bar filter between them. Yet it was clear he’d reached some kind of conclusion, as the corners of his mouth tugged back to that pretty and amicable smile, his face clear of the fire that still broiled within. Not a care in the world, save whatever pleasures were left to behold.

“I think I’ll have my fun instead.” He lifted his hands in a kind of placating gesture, signaling they were free from his terrible grasp, untethered and left to stray from him as they wished. Again, he noted how much it had bothered them to be drawn so close to his own chest, the alarm prevalent in their features despite their naturally calm demeanor. A mystery for another time. For now, he wasn’t sure he’d even make it to see another sunrise. “Since you won’t want to play with me, I’ll just have to make use of this little situation I’m in. Let’s see how many seconds it takes for this soldier to pop my head open.” 

Gabban quickly poked the bridge of their nose before turning away altogether. Quietly, he maneuvered his way back to the bar near the entrance, his body relaxed despite his gait seeming deliberate, his steps counted as he threw away all of his facades and made eye contact with the lurker. That seemed to quickly put them on their guard, just as much as they were suddenly off it, not having counted on the obscene (lascivious) thrill he felt taking a gamble and turning the haunt on its head. The stalker slipped a hand into their jacket, most likely reaching for a pistol, yet Gabban only pressed further, stopping just three feet away from them. 

“Oh, you don’t want to ask questions?” The legionnaire clicked his tongue and laughed. “I’d probably answer them if you’re scary about it.” 

He chuckled. A noise of suppressed amusement, as he suppressed the shiver that threatened to run down his spine, at the closeness of the two of them, at the touch, at the whisper sounding so dangerously close and the breath escaping the other, tickling him where he was sensitive.

            „Clothes.“

He says it and only that, already figuring that it was not the response the blond was after but it was the answer he would have to make do with. Just because he had accepted his plea, just because he had stooped down to playing along and offering a chance, just because the both of them were in this situation and acting on false intimacy did not mean that Alexander would wear his heart on his sleeve. He would not crack open and spill all his secrets, as he would not lay himself bare like an open book translating each and every sentence into a language the other could understand. It was too dangerous too and he unwilling, still unsure if he could come to regret helping.

Absend-mindedly his hand began traveling, intrigued by the feeling of a body beneath those clothes and even if he could not feel the fabric — even less the skin itself — through leather made into gloves, he thought to be able to make out the ridges and dips of muscle and bone, which he trailed upwards with the tip of his pointer. Following the snake-shape of the spine until it sat between the shoulder blades. Wings protruding; his curiosity got the better of him and he needed to touch them, feel if they were there. If the man more befitting to be sprouted from pits of hell had been an angel once. Like lucifer; said to be the most beautiful of them all only to be sent falling, unjustly so. Would the similarities in the narrative not fit? Fit his image which he had painted of a man he did not even know. A man whose name had escaped him and who did not want to come back.

            “Whoever this is, is calm. Not shaking the slightest. No nervous ticks.”

Trained perhaps. Someone that knew what they were doing...

For a brief moment Alexander fell into pondering. During his endeavours he had heard of rumors regarding an undercover agent of the New California Republic police spearheading an investigation into alleged chem trafficking into the outer Vegas area and he could not help but wonder whether this was what his blond devil had gotten himself into this time. While drug trafficking was vastly different from the ongoings within the White Glove Society, Alexander still did not know his motivation for working with them. The profound discussion they shared one fateful night in New Vegas suggested there might be more beneath the surface of his motives, yet who truly needed justification for their misdeeds? Regardless of how articulate or eloquent one might present themselves, they could still construct the most hollow rationale for their actions.

            „Whatever you did, he sat down at the bar. So unless you know of another way out the building, you will have to sneak past him. Which, good luck.“ He broke his own train of thoughts and signed the ending of their agreement, accentuated by the retreating of the hand which had felt enough of another body. More of his body moved — although subtly — and he hinted at soon ducking to the side, away from the closened, if the blond would not be the first to move away and give him back his space.

[meadowlarksabove]

Update! The electricity is back (and running water too :') )!!!! I'm gonna work on replies for both blogs and try my best to keep up.

[meadowlarksabove]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful!! 🌺 :)c

!!!!

aaaa!!!! Thank you for making this last year so special and full of creativity! I'm so very glad we met and I hope this new year brings you good fortune!

[meadowlarksabove]

general outtage across the island, meaning I'm gonna be spending my new years and my first day of the year (and possibly the second) without electricity :), ah, how festive! :)) Apart from my everlasting rage against the system and our dying infrastructure, I want to wish all of you a happy new year while I have some battery on my phone! Love you all!

[meadowlarksabove]

Couldn't sleep, animal crossing Gabban