meadowlarksabove

[meadowlarksabove]

Never give away your position. A voice– no, – voices, his and his master’s both, called to him from the depths of his memory. The shadows which’d long waned beneath the canyon sun all lunged from the darkness in his head. Starved, ravenous, they’d never actually left his side, but waited patiently for the chance to strike him. The easeful quiet of the fields, his days in the light and with his lover, had been enjoyed under a false notion of safety. As all the while the eyes had watched, had leered and, with formless teeth, had gnawed on the corners of his foolish revelry until Gabban was ready for the taking once more. He was stupid, damnably stupid and so prone to getting carried away. For a moment, he wholeheartedly believed in the peace and in his belonging to some other place, that Venus had finally looked on him favorably and given him sanctuary away from a home of scorched earth. He should have known better than to imagine himself worthy of being rewarded. As if his nature hadn’t already warranted the scorn of his peers, his family, and now– Stupid, filthy dog. 

Images flitted by him the more his spirit cracked. The sight of places and people he’d kept bottled away within his faulty frame. Disappointed and begrudging siblings. Decanii and Centurions who’d cast the worst of their lots onto his back. Soldiers, friendly and cruel, defaced by a hailstorm of bullets. A chain of failed loves that in coming apart reminded him of the worst nights of his life and their all reaching corruption. The hands that marked him as cursed, that made him a vile creature even to Her merciful gaze. Fields set aflame, houses destroyed, bodies of all sizes sluggishly piled together in the same hole for burying. The hungry mongrels that bit into his flesh, like the whipping at his back, like the knives in his side, like the small burns on his calf, like the knuckles against his cheek, like the hands at his ankles. All of it was there, and not, yet mounting over his shoulders as if he were only born to carry it so that others, better than he, wouldn’t have to bend as much. 

Gabban would have carried the burden to the very end, if only for his brothers. But ever since meeting Paukka he’d gone irrevocably mad. Everything reasonable in Arizona no longer applied. The things he’d learned since he was old enough to wield a dagger fell senselessly before his feet, like dead and brittle flowers. Putrid and useless, having lost their perfume in ages past. All of his lessons had been learned in the midst of smoke, but when the mayhem was gone, was lifted, the second he was left in the quiet–suddenly none of it worked or mattered. Only the low braying of the animals and the whistling of a gold hearted farmer were left. Venus and Mars, how he loved this man. How he loved him. How he loved him so much, and his mind was coming apart. 

The other’s eyes were on him again. 

His back muscles tensed, bracing for what awaited him. For what he deserved. The frumentarius made no attempt at defending himself or stepping away. Shoulders back, chest out, his legs rigidly set in place. Paukka should have learned about this sooner, from the moment they first shared in their intimacy, he should have honored their union by serving them the truth. Instead he’d listened to his own sense of self preservation like a skittish animal. Worse than that, he’d stalled his duty to Venus by the tolling of that same fear, urging him to burrow away when he should have confessed to everything. Was he actually born wicked? How else could he explain it?  

There was some subtle movement, and Gabban balked before he truly realized what was happening. Slowly, he reached for their outstretched hand and laced their fingers together. Tenderly, and with only a simple gesture, Paukka had disarmed the pretense of his stalwart stance. Because soon enough he was trembling as he had in his boyhood on the battlefield, remembering all the parts of his heart that’d once stopped functioning after the sight of so much death and destruction. The ghost of something which’d been forcefully torn from him as a child.  

“I–” 

A flush overtook his face, different from the pretty shades that often followed his smiles, but one of a deep and far reaching shame. The red of a seething wound, still open and spilling. Warm tears began to well up in his eyes and crumbled the remainder of his previously stolid appearance. 

“I should have told you sooner.” His voice was strained as he forced himself to speak without betraying his need to weep. Not wanting to seem any more wretched than he already was. “I’ve been a coward.” 

His other hand followed, and squeezing Paukka’s with both now, he cracked open. There was such terror in his eyes, still seeing the burning fields in a sort of warped, dual vision. Yet the candor of the surrounding flames and the screeching of men in mortal agony didn’t phase him as much as the chance that Paukka hated him. And with reason. With reason! 

“I can’t keep this from you any longer– not you– I– Gods not you.” Gabban’s voice broke to whispers, any louder and he would have to succumb to the force of his guilt. “I love you. I love you and I can’t hide myself anymore. Please–”

                                    › › ›  @meadowlarksabove / cont.

He breathed out. A long, drawn-out sigh that came the moment he was given confirmation. An accumulation of pent-up anticipation released the same moment eye contact was broken from his side. His gaze first sank, then wandered off to the side, down Gabban and onto the old wooden floorboards, to the table and the mismatching chairs of which some were newer than the others. He breathed in again and although it felt much easier to do than before, he felt strange. Understanding the sensation as the beginning of lightheadedness, which he had under control but could not drive away the strangeness within his chest, how heavy and light he felt at the same time at a truth unearthed that surely needed to be but he wished was not nevertheless.

For a second his eyes remained on the nearest chair and his body craved to walk over and pull it to the side enough for him to sit down, before his body ended up feeling too numb and his legs would end up giving in anyway. The bad one especially, absurdly quick in forfeiting his ownership over it. He wanted to sit and needed to breathe even better than he was. However, Paukka decided against sitting down. He simply could not. Could not remove himself from where it stood because it meant drawing away from Gabban. Could not give himself weak, because deep down, he knew that if someone had suffered worse in this war, it was Gabban. Because even then he did not wish to give Gabban reason to believe that he hated him. He did not. He did not!

The air was pulled all the way in and still he felt as though he was close to suffocating. Which too, barely reached his surface. Only the long and strained breathing of a man whose eyes wandered and whose mind worked, processing what had been said and reminded of all that it meant. Thrown back into a past he had tried to remove himself from, now so vivid and clear. A battle had begun to rage within the former soldier, visible in the way his eyes continued to quickly move from one side to another. One side firmly stood its ground against the other, like two deer fighting for their right, throwing their heads together and antlers getting stuck in a show of strength as they both tried pushing the other away from the line drawn on the ground that was their here and now. For a brief moment it looked like the younger one won. It moved quick and determined. Kindling that old familiar feeling felt. How he had abhorred the very existence of them. When he was still young and foolish and with a fire, blindly believing the cause he had fought for was the only one acceptable and right. So easily detesting. Until he had killed for the first time and he had been torn between feeling proud and something else after. Something his gut feeling had tried to convince him of and he only came to understand much later. When he had shot so many that he only felt apathy. Apathy had turned into that bitter taste that would follow him for the rest of his time under the flag of the Two-headed bear.

It was that same bitter taste that won. That resurfaced and lingered and made his saliva gather in his mouth. Paukka knew what it felt like when he needed to retch, and swallowed, trying to push whatever wanted to come up down. Knowing that it would be ugly. Knowing that it was ugly. What stuck with him was not the hate, even though the practices of the Legion against innocent and rival soldiers alike were all but something he could ever defend or accept. It was the images that were burned into him that had him question his own humanity to this very day. Men that he had seen in the distance and through the scope of his rifle. Men wearing that familiar red of the Bull. How disgustingly easy it had been to end their lives with the simple pull of a trigger and watching them collapse on the ground after having their heads blown off or holes torn into their bodies. Many of them. Too many of them. Men that Gabban could have known. Comrades, friends. How many of them had he killed? How much had he taken from the man he loved? One that — against all odds — was still with such gentle hands and such a gentle soul? How much pain had he caused him? How much?

Paukka did not dare look up anymore. Caught by a guilt that began eating away at him where he stood, the urge to throw up only got worse. In his eyes he was the monster. He had killed because he had decided to do so. Gabban did not have a choice. All that were caught and indoctrinated by the legion had not had a chance. Every single man that he ended had been caught and forced to fight a war for the only truth they knew. Paukka was no better than the demons haunting Gabban in his restless nights. All those scars left on Gabban's body. They could as well have come through him. They could as well have been done and left behind by him. He was no different. Had not been any less vile.

Paukka exhaled. Drawn-out and shakingly, this time. The older deer had won, wearing the torn-off head of its adversary tangled within its antlers. Unable to throw the other off, it too would succumb to their tragedy with time. Paukka's chest ached. Yet still, with the last bit of courage he looked up again, back at Gabban, with eyes that spoke more than his words ever could. Reaching out with an unsure hand he was searching for the fingers of Gabban, to hold. His own cold and trembling.

He loved him. He still loved him so much.

[meadowlarksabove]

There were hands exchanging flags over the map, pinning red-colored tacks across the opposite shore of the Colorado. They’d breached the Mojave from the South, where most of the desert remained untamed and outposts were scarce. Soundlessly cracking the perimeter walls of their enemy’s territory, drilling holes where the mettle was weakest. What little resistance they faced was nothing in comparison to the slow and mounting wave of their red sea, with waters that poured into the hull of that beastly ship. Tipping the weight in their favor, until it’d forced most things to stall and drop anchor. Still, their efforts hadn’t been felt as deeply as they would–, and someday soon. 

Communications in the Mojave were slow, especially in those regions where the roads had cracked or disappeared beneath a new layer of dirt. But that much was already learned by their couriers, having drawn information from the Mojave Express, and marveled at their inefficiency. Whatever else they extracted from Camp McCarran barely made any improvements on these prior methods, only that messages and shipments were both safeguarded by armed forces. The strength of these military escorts aside, it had slowed the republic’s progress to a crawl, and all to the detriment of some of their furthest camps. Half starved and maddened with thirst, whispers of discontent had risen to a murmuring crowd, questioning the meaning of everything that lay before them. Their superiors would let most of them wither if it meant cutting costs, and even easing pressure off the more declined states. From where they stood, it was clear the NCR’s internal affairs had reached such a state as to halt their expansion on the frontier. The listlessness of their military bases were but the mere reflection of a long-settled stagnation. So much for their resounding victory. 

Vulpes drew closer, whispering without so much as facing him, though Gabban understood these were notes for him to remember. Briefly, the fox asked if he’d learned anything from the letters Caesar received from Aurelius of Phoenix and their decanii, his brothers, that was worthy of a follow-up. There was not. Nothing yet to scrutinize and pick apart. Even if he felt the opposite was true, unreasonably so and without any evidence– just a needling sensation at the pit of his stomach. The call of the primordial link between siblings. If there was anyone he could usually count on believing his intuition, during any other time, it would have been his princeps. However, with things as tense as they currently were, and a sermon on the cusp of being preached, he reasoned it would only be dismissed due to an increase in responsibility. There was too much on their plate already. 

Someone else, Lucius, interjected on the hands shifting across the table, and argued the setbacks of gathering too many of their forces to the South. A few agreed, others dissented, yet both Vulpes and Gabban stood silent amid the conversation, and with sidelong glances told each other all they needed to know. Subtle gestures, like folded messages passed behind their backs, snide little comments that threatened to carve smiles from their seamless calm. Their role in the meeting was different to the rest, though they had more than enough authority to speak if they wished. Strategies beneath strategies, Caesar’s eyes and ears watching from every possible angle. Half there to aid, and half there to cast judgement on everything said. Turning even the simplest word on its head. Vulpes raised a brow and Gabban quickly shifted his stare to and from a particular soldier without ever turning his face. A second discussion taking place entirely in the confines of silence. A blink, a twitch of the lip, a stare, a tilt of the head, and it ended, having seemingly come to a conclusion. His master leaned away and set their sights on could-be prey. 

Finally, Gabban felt the leash around his neck loosen, giving him air. Relief was short lived, but it’d been felt and welcomed for the seconds it took to be replaced with that other worry again. The one which had him quickly drifting back to the sound of groans against his mouth. The rattling of another’s voice on his tongue, invading and claiming space, prying its way deeper with numbing reverberations. He could almost taste them– could still feel their strong hands ghosting over his flesh, even then, as if he could be haunted by the phantom of someone yet living. 

Just as striking were the memories of his own actions. How he’d wrapped his legs tightly around the other’s waist and was desperate to meet their crotch with his own. The way his hands clawed down on the Legate’s muscular back and urged them to consume all that he had. Gabban had thought the very willingness to plead had been thoroughly beaten out of him, and yet he’d begged Lupercus to take him in that moment. 

Something had snapped, cracked through, in that dream, like a broken vase gushing with water. Leaving them both a mess of wants and emotions unquenched, simultaneously met with the oasis that promised them everything. Wild and unruly, he crossed another line and reached below the cinch of their belt with gentle fingers  

Though before either of them could relish in a new wave of pleasure, morning swept the last shades of the night right away, and he was left to take care of the yearning by himself– Damn it. Which he did the second he realized he was back on his cot. Eyes closed, whispering their name under his breath, and letting his mind patch together the rest of that frenzied fantasy. He shouldn’t have let himself succumb to the pulse of his desire and reach the peak of his ecstasy with their handsome face in mind, but he had. And even in succumbing, it somehow hadn’t been enough. 

Not nearly enough. 

His expression sharpened, unable to stay the dark turn of his thoughts. Worsened by the hounds that surrounded him and their ceaseless yapping. For once, he wished to be kept alone in the dungeons, buried away from the sun. Both the one overhead and in the tent. Gabban frowned, tempered his breathing, and in wanting to look anywhere else, had accidentally met with the young Legate’s eyes.

They were both so different then. The crimson waters of the Salt Lake on one side, the gray-ish blue of a melancholy sky on the other. Polar opposites, and worlds away, unable to touch, until the colors blended, kissed, with the blur of a far off horizon. His heart raced with the vague notion that he’d been watched for some time, and already he’d caught his face softening in turn, casting off the soldierly veneer for something warm. Eyes briefly glinting the way they had on the boat. He would have all but come undone if his senses weren’t still keen and his reason intact. Though even as he slid his gaze away, the motion felt more than reluctant and drawn out. Almost wishing he could be pulled back, bordering on a bashful turn.

@meadowlarksabove Could they tell? Was it written across his face? Or in the strange light of his eyes? The subtle and quiet embarrassment of having seen something he shouldn’t. And all of it an accident, he thought, the slip of a mind too weary to shield itself from total folly.  Just the night before, after hours of tooling through flesh, Gabban had finally caught a moment’s rest. His back seething over a worn cot, heart ever rattling in its cage. Sleep only came to him at a slow and heavy crawl, pinning him in place like netting over a restless bird. He felt himself fretting even as the candles faded from his sight, burying him in darkness, until the cold light of the moon miraculously poured through the mists.  There were sights and sounds everywhere. Valleys swept and come alive with the night breeze. A salt lake the color of black wine, dappled by the glittering of the heavens. His hands were busy steering then their (-- the legate was with him–) boat with one of the paddles. They spoke so plainly further out on the water, dropping their guard as camp and pier fell away. If anyone had listened to what they both had to say, voices muffled by the gentle lapping of the waters, they might have saved themselves a spot on the next pyre.  Still, when they laughed, new stars were born, both sprouting from the shadows hung high above their heads and deep within his chest. The warmth of their newfound honesty stirred him, made him sit with the other as they had before, only closer this time, and closer,-- and closer. Then Lupercus’ lips hovered against his own for a moment, hitching his breath as in their eyes raged a red and scalding hunger. More alarming still, was the pleasure Gabban took in finding it there, an unspoken want quickly resonating between them like a bell. They remained that way for a pause, observing one another, unable to voice the questions bodies were keen in answering.  Closer still, and they finally shared a kiss. Soft and curious. Only to then consume each other with gums and teeth, and with hands reaching everywhere. Desperately searching and raking, whilst the boat creaked beneath the shifting of their weight.  Someone would hear. Someone would see. The night wouldn’t be enough to shroud them. Even in the throes of his deepest delusion, Gabban was still conscious of the dangers posed all around them. So there was no excusing his next course of action, no explaining his calm and sober choice to pull Lupercus over himself… Again, he swallowed back the dream, hurriedly running from it and the notable absence of his regret. Yet all he could think of when faced with the Legate at the war table again was –  He must be delicious.

Eyes downcast, the focus of those two seas of red were the maps laid out before him (between them); focused on taking in the positions making out their own and those of the enemy. The table used for strategic planning and decision-making was only different to the one they had in Yuma in one regard: the locations. The difference in terrain and the number of locations not yet claimed.

Standing with his wide arms crossed before his broad chest, Lupercus had been silent for the occasion. Mayhaps because the brute was unsure what to make of the number of specks marking where the two headed bear had built its den, he had expected to see more in numbers. If less brazen he would have felt insulted surely, over the fact that the opposition did not seem to see them as the threat that they were. Or he would have fallen victim to confusion, as to why his father had called for him in name and for his men to drop and leave it all behind them, thinning their forces at Yuma's border to strengthen their forces here. Perhaps it had to do with those other factions that all seemed clashed on this fleck of land. The Khans, which had yet to be swayed to join their rows and ultimately be swallowed up by the Legion despite what was promised them — as all the tribes before them. Then of course, New Vegas. Whose reputation he had learned of but whose intestines he did not know yet. Oblivious to the body that could pose a threat if left unsupervised and unmeddled with. It was only the fake, artificial light casting its pestilent shine onto the nightly horizon so brightly that it was even visible from Fortification Hill which the young Legate had witnessed off the hotbed of sin.

The truth was that he thought and wondered all that – just not in that moment. His mind was elsewhere, trying to catch fleeting images that he was so sure of having seen but not knowing where. Not remembering, which itself hung over him heavy in frustration, causing the narrowing of brows and the light grimacing that could be misinterpreted as distates for what it was he saw. Images of a ground that was red, as his eyes. Red, as the blood spilled on too-dry ground that had trouble gulping it up despite its sickening greed, whenever dark and plump clouds broke and opened themselves to pour down much needed rain. Red that had gathered in puddles beneath his boots. Red that changed in color as the oxygen left the body, blood slowly darkened. Eventually, it looked muddy red in color. But that was not the red he had in mind. Not the shade, not the scent... not the feeling... not the time, not the place—Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi. The deepest rivers flow with the least sound.

But what about lakes?

The Legate looked up. With apparent scrutiny his gaze landed on the young Frumentarii standing on the other side of the table. Locked onto him, as though there was something of interest to see (why else did he look at Gabban of all that were present? Only and truly looked at Gabban?). Why was it that something in his eyes changed and that his features sharpened into that of someone beholding something with keen interest? Searching, questioning and yet somehow knowing that there was something worth searching on those mesmerizingly blueish-grey eyes?

Because he had been there, too. In that boat. On that lake made of blood-red water. Whatever lake that was or what it could possibly mean, Lupercus did not know. He only remembered the part of his dream where he saw Gabban sit before him while he listened to his voice. How they were calm and then suddenly were no longer. Close, then. So close that the Legate was sure he could truly feel it. The breath, the touch. The warmth of a body in the cold desert night. His own body and his mind wanting in a way that shook him even then, as he stood there sheltered from the burning sun through the roof of the tent. Felt his body temperature rise through the smoldering of his blood as before his inner eye vague images became a vivid memory. One dreamt yet strong enough to breach the fabrics so enormously that Lupercus felt his breath hitch in his throat, as his body remembered the feeling of looming over the other; the epitome of kouros. Apollo reincarnate; powerful in both his strength and beauty. With his limbs well proportioned and harmonious, muscles not worked out too strongly. Hips thin in proportion to the breast...

Lupercus had felt it all underneath the few layers of clothes, when the very hands that now tightly gripped his own upper arms in growing tension, had slid their way to explore and scout the perfect body of the other man, while his mouth had been busy feeding his starved self on the feeling of Gabban's lips, barely able to contain the noise of heedy want coming from him in the form of hums and groans.

Whatever the reasonwas Lupercus had been met with such a dream — he could not get himself to hate it. Even less the more he remembered. The opposite. He actively began to wish for everyone but the Frumentarii to leave.

[meadowlarksabove]

The sound of cars speeding off towards the highway were dampened the further they went, muffled by walls and swaths of unruly vegetation. A fortress in green, a hideaway beneath the thinning branches of a winter thrush. This was the sort of privacy he craved, dusky and absolute. Even if there were shadows lurking around every corner, their voices would still be out of reach, masked by the breeze and the persistent rustling of oak trees. Gabban took a deep breath, dragging from the stillness as if it were something to be smoked. The scent of dormant citrus blossoms swirled in his lungs and sharpened his senses. When Paukka finally offered him the seat, he smiled, a little surprised by how polite they were. Even going so far as brushing off the leaves for him. 

Once settled, Gabban couldn’t help but inch closer until the sides of their thighs just barely touched. 

“Not at all! I was only resting my back when you called.” Eyes open in a dark room, searching the outlines of a monster that couldn’t be there, but was somehow felt in its absence. He’d waited for relief to reach him in the easeful quiet of the night, and soothe the knotted-up tension in his limbs– It never did. It never would. Time spent away from the pain wasn’t a reprieve but a mere turn of the dial, the stroke of a hand just before the blow lands on one’s face. Was he going to spend the rest of his life bracing for impact? Preemptively flinching until his stomach turned from the stress? “Actually, I was worried I’d made a bad impression. I don’t–” 

The memory shocked him still, half convinced his hands were moved by an external force, a fiendish devil lost in the synapses of his brain. He’d never shown any interest in his patients beyond the matter of their teeth. They were pliable mouths and sparkling incisors, cracked molars and infected roots. People to be helped during some of the most vulnerable moments in their life. Gabban could never purposely add to their humiliation. It was bad enough to be lying prone beneath him, all while he pried and prodded their raw and aching gums with his tools…

“I never give my number to patients. That’s not how I work.” But. The word clung to the back of his throat before he managed to swallow it back down. What could he say? That Paukka was somehow the exception? He hardly understood what’d pushed him to action, and would have completely sworn it off if the feeling wasn’t still there, and stronger. A fire raging in the pit of his stomach, burning brighter with every shared look. Perhaps he’d done it because of those dark eyes, wanting to pin their gaze on him, to be consumed by the darkness gathering within their irises. To be gnashed between their perfect teeth, and flesh suckled right off the bone. His bones then pummeled to dust by their strong hands. Holy Virgin, if only he could be devoured by everything that made up the handsome man before him. 

He swallowed and searched for the flask hidden in his coat, only slightly lamenting the loss of warmth against his side. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought something to drink. It’s only tea though…We can share if you’re alright with sipping from the same cup.” 

Gabban poured himself a humble serving, then pursed his lips to gently cool the first sip, vapor-coils streaming up the sides of his face as he does so. 

“...What made you want to call tonight? What’s on your mind?”

Monumental. This very moment was, playing out before him in an event that was so significant, Paukka would be forced to question the sanity of humanity if it did not make history. There, guarded by that nearly-dark and only barely, occasionally illuminated by synthetic street light and subtle offerings of a face painted by an expression that left him entirely in awe. Seamless beauty showing itself in different forms, unchanging and ever the same. Tugging at the strings of his heart every second and every breath as he hungrily watches from the corners of his eyes, the feelings felt and put to view, only for him. There and then, that same face he had seen before in a faded photo, that had always looked the same and had not ever changed, even with him increasingly wishing that it would. Day after day. Going as far as imagining what it would look like, if he smiled. Or if he laughed. How his lips would move and how his lashes would compliment the shape of his face...

            „I promise.“ Although low in tone and sounding a little dreamy, the way his eyes remained focused on Gabban, his two words were sincere.

How prettily handsome. So sensually alluring and yet soft. Soft and warm and gentle, that expression he hoped to make out as hope. If only he already knew Gabban well enough to be able to properly tell what each tell-tale sign of his movement meant. If only he could understand the way those eyes looked at him, or correctly interpret that flattering color, and know whether it was solely due to the cold or a mutual feeling, of two hearts finally beating in unison after what felt like a century of separation. If not much longer than that.

So awe-struck he nearly stopped in his step, if it were not for them walking closer together. It was Paukka now that could not take his eyes off the side profile of the other. He looked and the longer he looked, noticed the shadows falling in from the other side, which alerted him to the dark also falling in from their back, or the top, whenever they were in between street lines. An ominous and bottomless void that seemed to reach out with its cold and dark tendrils to take hold and claim that very light that walked with him, greedy and gross, demanding rather than asking to be given and Paukka could not help feeling that there was a damning intimacy between the two. Almost as though the handsome blond knew of it, if not carried it around with him with every step that he took. A place he solemnly did not belong and that Paukka wanted to reach out and grab him and tear him away from. How he wished to shoo and wave away the cold and the dark, to protect that beautiful soul and that sheepish expression. To feed this flower the sun and have it flourish and bloom...

Their chance meeting felt less and less like chance and more like fate.

Paukka swallowed. Wondering how absurd his thinking was and how much he was in extension. To suddenly believe in something he had not ever before, how much of it was wishful thinking and how much of it him not making any sense? It had gone well so far. How much of a good idea could it be if suddenly said how much he wanted to reach out and not only touch him, but pull the other close and hold him so no bad could possibly ever reach him again? That he suddenly had the urge to fight the dark and the night, just because he knew well of the dead hours and how they so skillfully brought back the ghosts of a past long dead? Or the senseless present and absolute helplessness felt through all of it?

The touch had him blink and with it he returned to the present. Turning his head the opposite direction another wall of dark greeted him with some lights further back, illuminating no concrete and brick stone but dark shades of green and a path winding itself with the terrain much like a snake. Instinct kicked in and his senses went sharp again. Being a man of the law, the Finn momentarily wondered (and considered) what type of shady individuals spent their nightly hours in that very park. Even if the shadows could grant them privacy, it also did to others. Whether it was to do dope or participate in illicit intercourse. Kaisaniemi especially was a beautiful park but although extremely safe by international standards, it had a bad reputation in Helsinki. The park had a botanical garden that was nice to look at, especially summertime. If you were able to avoid being pick-pocketted or mugged. Instead of speaking his mind however Paukka moved, walking alongside Gabban, more than considering himself capable of taking care of anyone dumb enough to try something stupid with either of them.

Searching with his eyes through the dark for a bench that well matched his sense for comfort and where they should remain hidden enough to others, he steered the direction. Coming to a halt right in front, he leaned down enough to brush some fallen leaves off the wood, before gesturing to the other to sit down first. He followed suit, sitting down beside Gabban shortly after and immediately leaning against the backrest of the bench. The nearest light pole was across on the other side of the path, a little off to the side but still close enough to reach their legs with its shine.

            „I hope I did not wake you up.“ Slowly his head turned, as if he did not dare looking at Gabban again immediately. „Calling you so late, I mean.“

[meadowlarksabove]

I have met my deadlines!!! I can resume writing :') but first...let me sleep for about 24 hours straight...I am so tired...please...

[meadowlarksabove]

If he would be looking at anyone other than Gabban, he would have laughed. Would have drily chuckled and shake his head in disbelief, casting eyes that signaled that there was no funny bone within his body and that this sound leaving him was no enjoyment but dangerous. He would have laughed, bitterly and evil and would have stared with cold eyes at that someone to let them know he did not appreciate making a joke at someone else's expense. Depending on who would be standing there, he would bluntly say that he did not find it funny. Or call them out for being stupid to make a joke like that in the first place. Yet Paukka knew that Gabban would never be like that. Paukka knew that Gabban would never joke about something so serious.

So he only stared. Looked at the younger man with a lack of reaction that suddenly seemed atypical for him. There was hardly an expression on his face. As though he did not know what to think or had trouble thinking altogether. Thinking and feeling, which had gone hand in hand ever since the two had met for the first time, now out of reach for him. Paukka did not know what it was he felt besides the sudden heaviness of his heart and in between blinking and shallow breathing wondered if he was feeling anything at all. It was just so surreal. So ludicrous. So wrong. He must have misheard. Surely he simply had understood wrong. There was no way the two had been fighting on opposite fronts the entire time.

He would ask again and Gabban would tell him that he truly had understood wrong.

„Legion?“

🐻🐂

“Legion.” 

There it was again. That strange note of defiance in his voice, as if he were confessing a crime to spite himself, or a force pressed over his shoulder. The hand of either guilt or good conscience, or both. It didn’t matter at that point. He’d already felt the war creeping into their seamless lives, had seen it leering from the dusky corners of the house and in the shadows of the canyon wall. Reaching, clawing, threatening to tear off the mask for itself. Even the remnants of Paukka’s service, his weapons, his uniform, had stripped him of his facades in a matter of seconds. Surely, that must have sown a few seeds of suspicion. Made them question the way he furled into himself and cowered behind the stables. Who else would have reacted so violently– so viscerally– to something many would have thought as trustworthy and safe? A buen entendedor pocas palabras bastan. 

But Gabban refused to be disgraced for a second time. If he were to suffer the humiliation of discovery, then it would be wrought by his own hands. No one else was allowed to destroy him anymore. 

“They took me as a child, and I have been theirs ever since.” His jaw tensed, as with the rest of him. Yet his eyes never shied from Paukka’s, revealing in their measured gaze, not pride, but an unwavering sense of duty. Ultimately, this was the right thing to do.  Paukka had a right to know.

“I am Legion.”

[meadowlarksabove]

"I mean I'm not into this but the way you talk about it makes it seem hot" - someone who is about to develop a very weird fetish by being in contact with me

[meadowlarksabove]

: ) made a new portrait for the bio...

[meadowlarksabove]

wife rating.

Gabban subtly coughs and shows his bare ring finger.

[meadowlarksabove]

Morning moved slowly over his crumpled blankets, like a dreamer reluctant to cast from their eyes the last wisps of an easeful slumber. Perhaps, even reluctant to breach the shadows which tenderly shrouded the lovers beneath the doorway. As if not wanting to intrude, the light only fanned so far and no further, landing some inches away from their legs. Secreted away in the spaces between night and day, Gabban sought their lips with a gentle sense of fervor. Theirs was not a love that needed hiding, yet he wanted to swaddle it in as much privacy as possible, and make the moment something entirely of their own. To hold it between their mouths, their breaths, where not even the winds could intervene. 

A blasphemous desire! Had he just wished to keep Venus from Her altar? To keep Her from the boons which were rightfully Hers to collect? It should have been an impossible wish. Unthinkable for a man as devoted to Her worship as Gabban. But as he heard Paukka’s whispered responses, and felt the deep timbre of their voice tickle his senses, the fires behind his fever turned greedy and corrupt. (Hungrier than ever before, and riled enough to sink his teeth into them. Or better yet, have theirs mark him where the flesh was still tender and unscathed.) Still, he quickly corrected himself, understanding that it was through Her will, and Hers alone, that he’d been given this chance. A mongrel could only be so lucky, once disgraced and dragged through the sullied earth. This was more than he deserved. 

He savored the taste of their lips as his fingers curled tighter around their back. Memories flitted by him, colored then by the certainty of what he knew to be true and not merely imagined. Shared looks, as with shared touches, recontextualized in a flash. How nervous he’d been on their first night together, their union overseen by the cold eye of Juno’s moon. Nervous still when he arrived at the farm, and weaved himself to the seams of such an honest and pleasant life. Not at all like the war camps or the red-bannered settlements which lined the frontier, to which he was confined and forced to frequent. The difference had made him once uneasy, unable to trust with what mercy he was being graced with. The quiet of the fields, only partially interrupted by the friendly braying of animals, reminding him only of the hush before an onslaught of bullets. Until the peace had finally made its way into his chest. How stupid he’d been to fear, and doubt, when all this time he’d been in the very bosom of paradise. 

Paukka themselves was nothing like the soldiers he knew and fought alongside with. (Or fought against for that matter.) Kinder than any man had cared to be to and around his presence. Whatever Paukka’s misfortunes, whatever they endured, to Gabban they had come out the other side victorious. They’d endured everything, and more, with their hands still clinging to the truth. The greater truth, the one nailed to the arteries of one’s living heart, and without which a person withered. He couldn’t deny the other man their grief, or the pain the glow of a good soul had unjustly lured. But he refused to call them anything less than a great man. Mistakes and all, whatever the burden entailed, they were a great man.  

“Home?” Their words struck him in place, confounded by emotions he'd long suppressed or seemingly killed. Or so he thought. Gabban had fiercely yearned for a home before. As was often the case for most of the “bull’s children”, left orphaned in the wake of its bloody rampage, their parents and ancestral lands erased like murals corroded with smoke. Everywhere they looked empty valleys and faces purged through with fire. Where was he to make his home then? His real home, not the Salt Lake nor the reluctant mother Flagstaff had turned out to be. But a place to hang up his heart and ignite the warm, familial hearth. Arizona held in its breast a variety of beautiful landscapes, all with the blossoming delights of his Goddess. Yet none of them had ever felt like– This. This very moment. 

The frumentarius couldn’t compare those newborn cities with Paukka’s homestead. Cradled by canyon rocks and an interminable wall of silence. Here, the wildflowers bloomed and wilted with the simple passing of the seasons. Not by flames or the trampling of boots. The brahmin grazed languidly by the fences, clustered together by simple notions of friendship, and their weights lumped against each other for warmth. Beautiful in its banality, in the crudeness of the life they’d cut out for themselves there. 

To share all of that with Paukka– just to be there with Paukka. It was perfect. It was all so perfect. 

Then, to be told it was his being there that made it possible, that’d breathed life into the quaint silhouette of the house, had stirred him with an almost violent intensity. Gabban felt as if he’d been undressed of all his walls. Unlatched from the already fraying ties which bound him to imperfect loyalties. The path forward was clear. 

“–You are my home, Paukka. You are where my heart is!” He pressed another fretful kiss to their lips, wanting somehow to reach the spirit behind the arms which pressed him closer. Only to ask if they could hold him tighter. 

“Wherever you are, is where I want to be. Nowhere else.” Gabban let out a soft breath.

“I want to be home with you. I want to meet each sunrise and sunset together. I want to feed the animals, clean the house, replace the windows, hem the curtains, repair the furniture and help with the fence! –I want us to live together.”

Unwaveringly his eyes remained, to closely watch that pretty face. How it could change to his spoken confession, to how its own display of emotion changed. To how it drew closer, how it remained close and even how those eyes looked back at him and how those lips moved, hushing to him what was so prominent and heavy on the heart of both of them with a shaky voice. Again, and again. Ripples traveling the water surface his abrupt confronting had caused. The plummeting of a stone in the middle of what had stood still and laid deep. Perhaps it was through that motion where it all became clearer to him. Or it was through reaching into his chest and the ripping of the heart which he had cast into the ring, now sinking into the depths of what they both had come to understand as actual love, that he realized how much more of it there lingered. Overwhelmingly, how aware his body suddenly was to the sensations. How his feelings had a life of their own. Paukka felt how the confession was not just the starting of something that had grown, but the beginning of something he admittedly had long stopped seeing himself witnessing.

For a fleeting moment he returned to that shed that had been turned into a bar. To the counter and the made contact of eyes that had looked at each other similarly already, back then, than they did now. To the sitting across a table, and the talk. And how Gabban had said that many had called him a fool, and to how Paukka himself had objected to that statement. Guilty now, because he too could not help think it now. You fool. To fall in love with a man such as him.

Paukka had leaned in at the tug. Always would. Following every gesture and every sign of the blond, to give to him what it was he wanted or get for him what he was in need of. Gabban called and he would answer. Just like he did now, answering every I love you with a low-toned „I love you too“. Noticing only briefly how his own breath had been stolen, or how silent he was responding, as though they exchanged fretful, little living things that he feared running off or dying down through the immense feeling overdoing their weak little hearts, if he spoke too loudly. Whispering as if in secret. When the truth was much more simple than that. Only Gabban needed to know. Only Gabban deserved to hear. Only Gabban existed to him, then (had before and would, from now on). Gabban. Gabban...

The older man closed his eyes and could barely contain the trembling of his body at the familiar sensation running down his spine. That feeling he was prone to having since learning of that name, and it sometimes being all that filled his head, and his heart. Bringing it to beat faster and for his blood to rush and boil, and reach regions of his body he knew was not appropriate. Not through simple repeating of the name of a man. Both hands that had landed on the hips of the blond twitched, gripped a little tighter in sign of pure want. His resolve already webbed so thinly, facing a different struggle now. How weak he was when it came to wanting Gabban...

Gabban was younger than him. How much? He had never asked. Yet he could see it, past that well-toned body who had been trained and primed for a life he was still not sure Gabban had lived, before ending up here. Rough and unfair, if anything. Going by the many scars that adorned his body. While Paukka was not good when it came to reading emotion in people, he knew what a young lad looked like freshly enrolled. Knew what they looked like after their first exchange of flying bullets, or worse, watching a mad man rush towards them with nothing but a knife in hand. He knew what those looked like that survived, and how changed they became, after time. More adept, more composed. How the cheerfulness and innocence was slowly poached from their eyes. How they could still laugh, but it sounded different.

Gabban was nothing like them. Even with those scars, or those gazes he did sometimes catch fleeing to a place that was not here — his laughs did not come forced, or compromised, or crippled. As did the cheerfulness not sound strange, now did the joy look off or fabricated whenever he was out with the animals. Or talking with him... He could see. How in some rare moments he had been so innocently unsure. Saying what it was he wanted but once receiving, Gabban had not been able to hide that shiver, that light tremble or that soft gasp that either betrayed a man that was starved, or a young man who had yet to learn that such feelings even existed.

With a body that had gone and survived so much and a mind that had the same, if not much worse, Paukka figured (and his own mind would wander and he would be the one going mad, with anger. Were it not for the overwhelming sense of belonging and loving that kept him rooted). Paukka had accepted the thought that there had been some, before him. Gabban was handsome. Delightful to look at. Listen to. Smell, when given the chance. Their first conversation had hinted at him having experience.

All the more shocking to him that it had seemed as though Gabban had never been properly touched. Not with gentle yet wanting hands. Not with a starving but admiring mouth. Whenever he looked at Gabban he saw a man that had given more than he had been receiving. Still, his eyes did not wrinkle the way Paukka's would (or as the faces of his comrades had, watching the new blood arrive knowing most of them were only fodder), when skeptical. Nor did lines appear above his brows when narrowing them in suspicion. Paukka had yet to see Gabban's face be ruined by the tooth of time.

Fool. To fall in love with a man such as me. When Gabban clearly deserved much better. The list was long. Every moment when he was unnoticed (or felt that he was), when his eyes settled on the other man and watched him simply do, did he repeat or add to the many things Gabban was deserving of, or could have done better. All starting with Paukka wishing away his bad leg. No. His self-esteem was not good enough not for him to think Gabban deserved better than being in love with him. While his ego was strong enough to believe that — even then — it was better for Gabban to love him than someone else. Because Paukka loved him, in turn. Paukka wanted him. Wanted to be with him. He did not want their days here to end, he did not want their way of living to end. Even if sometimes he wondered how it would be, if they settled down in one of the cities instead. So he could offer his lover more each day, so they would have to worry less, each night. Even if being on the farm so far out looked like living in paradise. Paukka was not naive enough to believe nothing bad could happen.

No. Only them. Them and the sun that rose every new morning on the same side, following the same path. Greeting them with that warm glow seeping in through the front-facing windows, past some of the old lace curtains. Touching them and watching them, even now, as they stood so close together. And still not close enough. Still not close enough... Now, that Paukka knew as it was. That depth his heart had sunken into opening to a vastness of want. Of needing to be with Gabban and to be close. His Gabban. Who looked so beautifully, held onto him with such soft fervor.

Paukka huffed. Unable to contain the growing sense of want any longer (more than he had until this point) his arms followed the exhale. Slid around the waist of the other man, wrapping around him and locking him to stay and remain close. Not that Gabban could walk past him anyway. He was still blocking the door. Tilting his head a little to properly kiss him, his lips almost immediately found those of Gabban. His want began to pour, guiding him in how he moved, how he pressed up and made Gabban press up against him, gently yet firmly pressing the flat of a hand against the blond's lower back. His own exhale came shakily and for the moment he kissed Gabban as if his life depended on it. Gasping even when breaking the kiss again, sounding his need for air.

            „Stay here with me. All that is, all that I have, it's yours—“ He breathed. Visibly tense, as he held himself back from kissing Gabban almost immediately again. „I am, and this house is. This home. You are what makes this place a home—“

[meadowlarksabove]

The rough hewn floors had chafed both his prisoner’s palms, turning them a raw pink as they felt and crawled forward. Specks of peeled flesh clung to the cracks and made note of their passing, followed closely by wisps of fresh colored blood. Bared against the merciless light of the torches, the shadows cast against their face and ribcage only deepened, dressing them in airs of desolation. Like war, like famine, like death, they grimaced without ever meaning to, suggestions of teeth all-too-clear behind their sunken cheeks. They chanced a look to the blonde, then briefly to the crimson bull nearby, before they were admonished with the hard stamping of a boot. 

This one wouldn’t survive the dungeons for long. Weak in mind and body, already holding onto their life by a hairline fracture. But one couldn’t ask too much from an untrained profligate– neither uniformed or fitted for battle. Only a bystander, and often profiteering from a war they’d never once fought in. Gabban wondered what they’d sought in the arms trade. Or if there was any glory to be had in the spread of heavy weapons. An affair so far removed from the violence, but keenly involved in it. Nothing like the smiths who burned their faces against the broiling furnaces of the Fort, artists and soldiers soldered into one, forging one day and deployed the next. This was a simple man with a simple profession, their actions compromised by the hands which wielded the money and power to take from their inventory. Of which he’d already learned was greater than they first professed, nervous to reveal to what extent they’d supplied the NCR– as if one or two rifles less would have made a world of a difference to their sentencing. 

He led the ‘mongrel’ to the slab, observing their slow crawl in case they instinctively reared or tried making use of their hind legs. But it’d become easier for the trader to remain on all fours, possibly due to the bruising on the back of their calves, left there as aching reminders of their prior mistakes. Once beside the table they hooked their fingers along the edge and waited for the right command. 

“Up.” The prisoner complied without another moment’s delay, lifting themselves onto what they knew would be the seat of their pain and despair. Strangely resigned to it like a part of their destiny, no longer glancing at exits or knives for an attempted escape. Instead they ticked the minutes in silence, a mute clock which counted hours by the spaces between scars. They had entered a new phase in their confinement, one that played on the necessity of keeping themselves alive for more information, a chipped blade that still hung on the rack for mere convenience. In the end, each prisoner learned to operate under those terms no matter the kind of treatment they received. If they were useful, they couldn’t be killed. In fact, the blonde would have to actively keep them alive. Assumptions like those were dangerous, and gave them enough courage to rebel whenever the opportunity arose. Still, Gabban had ways of circumventing the hands at play, wheeling the stakes back in his favor…

“At the end of our last session I told you to remember a specific color. Do you remember what that was?” The frumentarius worked to strap them in, barely sparing them a look as he strode from one side to the next, pinning them to the cool metal. All the while the victim tensed and held their breath, not wanting to incur another hit. 

“...Red.” They finally whispered, brows knit as they were never sure what the colors were for, only that it was important for them to always remember. “Very good.” Good dog. 

Gabban’s lips curled to a pleasant grin, his features softening with undue calm. The sight of his expression, his prettiness, made the trader recoil somewhat, as if they were being subconsciously pulled to a long and perilous fall. A kind of vertigo, and strong enough to make them nauseous. They balled their fists. 

“And do you remember what we discussed after that?” 

Another pause, the veins on their hands bulged with the strain. Everything that followed the color– the tools which gleamed on the table, the fine edges which smiled like devils in the shadows, scuttled back towards the light. They felt then the pang of an absence in their mouth where a molar had been plucked. “Yes.” 

“Then, we’ll take it from there.” Gabban subtly motioned for the Legate to stand closer, even if it were just to impose with their presence alone. “Our guest would like to revisit that conversation.”

He was not deaf. Nor was he blind or oblivious. He knew of the names he was given, of the title others sometimes called him. Spoken by hushed voices that only dared coming through the shadow, as if addressing him without properly looking into his eyes in any capacity or form was a sacrilege; as if deviating from that god-given title of that very man whose name was just as sanctimonious was not worthy having the head removed from the shoulders. The brute too had many ears that heard for him, had many eyes that watched for him. Attentive yet mute. His own pale ghosts that assured no scheming or fraudulent behavior had ground to root among his ranks. He had heard how they thought of him as young. Called him such. A truth that he could not deny, not when he looked at the man of similar title having marked his territory here, on this stretch of prime land, where the horns of the bull pointed right at the two-headed bear and all else that waited on the other side (in the safety) of the river. Terror of the east. A tall man long past his prime. Worn and with old bones, with greying hair and deteriorating health. Not as bad as their Caesar, with the worsening aches plaguing his head. Not as bad. Not as bad... Still old. Ancient, some might think. Was he not? Long-lived, compared to most else. Comparing his life span to that of the average legionnaire, he could well be considered seasoned. His soul ripe to be plucked.

Compared to him Lupercus was young. Compared to the commander of the Praetorian Guard and all those that gathered under him. Or most, at least. All those that were stationed here, as though Caesar only felt comfortable assembling all those veterans to fill the spots to all his sides. Maybe a wise choice. Maybe there was a reason the younger generations were spread across the land. Lupercus recalled only one man that had gone with him to claim the barren grounds surrounding Yuma being of older age. Another Praetorian. Sostratus' father, who he trusted enough to stay and remain and have a watchful eye over his city until the day he would finally return. Sostratus himself was barely a few months younger than Lupercus. More than once he had thought of the possibilities of them being brothers. If only he did not know any better.

Young. Perhaps he was. In some instances, in some eyes. Down there, deep in the dark, standing in a rock and iron trap feeling just as cages as those men before him in their tiny barred confines, he felt old. Felt the cold seep into his tired, worn bones. Felt the cold seep into his tendons and joints and feed war-born aches. The cold dark of the dungeons made his muscles cramp and joints stiffen, as they sometimes did when there was no sun and heavy rain cascading down the desert sub-region. When there was not a lot to do and he could watch from his tent the downpour falling over them like a thick veil. The brute could literally feel the warmth seep from his heated skin. Down here, the gods could not reach. Not the keen eyes of Mars, not the warm touch of Sol. Not even the gentle, soothing glow of Luna was capable of reaching the strings of his being, making him feel tense and on edge, as he watched the blond perform, as he watched him execute all that he had taught those dogs. Behavioural correction. How long had it taken for resilience to falter. How long for the mind to break?

Like dogs. He thought, watching attentively while standing there with his arms crossed before his chest, and corrected himself in that same moment. Because even dogs were looked at more lovingly, were more keen on serving their master in want for his approval and affection. He had met the houndmaster of the Fort and had witnessed his work with their war dogs. Mongrels that were respected by the man who taught them. There was a semblance. Perhaps they were more alike than he initially saw. Perhaps this ugly feeling he felt came from the fact that the dogs were animals and that the four-legged sacks of meat he saw here had been human once. Pitiful wastes. Perhaps he could not shake that strange feeling because all of it led to something much more frustrating. Something that bothered him, gnawed at his nerves and strained his endurance, his will. The fact that the Frumentarius was made to dwell down here. In the deep, in the dark. Away from both sight and touch of their gods. Dealing with bodies that should be dead but were not. There was a reason why one should not drink from a body of water a carcass lay rotting within. It infested. Contaminated. How much of this stale, stench-filled air was Gabban made to live off of? Forced to. How weak were his bones, how brittle his nails, not getting enough sun?

Lupercus felt the taste of bile slowly rise at the back of his throat. Not because he was disgusted, as Gabban had feared. Because he could feel the anger of him being used (wasted away) like this. He remained silent, yet his expression had hardened.

[meadowlarksabove]

The mark on the crook of his neck cooled with their retreat, minor degrees of separation now making way for air and labored breaths. Gabban should have lamented his brazenness, his shameless act having warranted them to look and notice the keenness of his desire. How even his chest had flushed with thoughts of their eventual union, swaddled in the heat of both a spiritual and animalistic yearning. But his eyes were moreso focused on the other’s arms and shoulders, the tension built upon their muscles and the veins which snaked up to their trapezius. So alive– so beautiful. As if he were rediscovering all the pleasures of the flesh, redefined by the kindness of their rough hands. 

It was through Paukka that he finally understood the mercy in love. The beauty at the very root of a storm whose winds flayed one raw. Although he was sure desolation was all his body and spirit were worth, born for disgrace and Her rueful punishment like a stowaway cast over the side of a boat, he’d somehow made his way to a bless’ed shore. And like a man lost at sea, he sought with his hands to grasp the sands, the first signs of dry land in ages, and kiss them with a violent and religious fervor. Making of this moment a revelation, as if the mysteries of the world were suddenly revealed. The stars no longer as far or unfathomable, because their meanings were written clearly before him. Gleaming from the depths of his lover’s brown eyes, reaching and filling with emotion the very back of his mind, brutally culling the hounds left there by his previous masters. Until the one, and only true answer forged itself upon his tongue. Paukka. 

Paukka, Paukka. What else was there to know? What else beyond the stirring of their chest and their voice feathering across his shoulder? There was a darkness to them, of course, a past as riddled with cruelty and resentment as his own which reared itself from time to time. A heavy dose of midnight which often burdened the other at that self same hour, the moon no longer as clear to them as it really was on its high perch. Yet for as unjust as the world had been to Paukka, they’d never paid it forward, never succumbed to the temptation of making it so for someone else. There existed in Paukka an unwavering sense of justice more akin to the pillars of a temple than a mere human belief. Almost tangible in the way they spoke and acted, determined to make good of what was left of the wasteland. No matter how wounded their ego, or how shattered their hope had become, Paukka remained steadfast in everything they held true in their own way…

He was so proud of them, so in love, he realized, and unspeakably honored to count himself as a part of their life. If only he possessed the gift to express as much, the chance to craft notes or verses the way he whittled animals from repurposed wood. He could fill the skies with songs for them, make hymns of the divinity he knew was burrowed deep within their bones. They were a god, or something close to it, they had to be– Gabban felt the calling of his worship again, and Paukka seemed to understand this, or preternaturally sense the turn of his expression, as they then placed a pillow beneath the small of his back. He was ready to serve them in whatever way they wished. Unafraid of pain and pleasure both, he would accept the outpour of their want whether it be a gentle brook or a coursing river. 

In the face of what was to come he was utterly serene, his breathing steadied by the certainty of his own hunger, knowing this would be the only way he would ever feel sated again. Gabban shifted his weight to lie more comfortably over the cushion, then drew two fingers to his mouth and lathered them with saliva. Briefly, his gaze flitted back to his lover’s belt, listening, and looking on with delight as the leather strap unhooked itself from the buckle. With his slickened fingers he reached between his thighs and further still, prodding himself as he was once taught to relax the puckered muscle. His legs tensed with the motions, hips subtly jolting with excitement and little samples of rapturous delight, just as he caught the full meaning of their question. 

His hand slowed, softly kneading as his mind was set to thinking even through the overpowering haze of his arousal. The other was checking on him, simultaneously bracing, and leaving enough space for Gabban to refuse no matter how far they would go. A simple act of goodwill and common decency, but to a legionnaire, to someone with his kind of life experience, it was worth a brahmin’s weight in gold. This was more than kindness, more than all the good intentions nested deep in the souls of every man and woman, but a love he'd thought impossible to recieve. Himself a gnarled and shamed animal, remade a man just for that moment, miraculously seen as a being worthy of integrity in every sense.

“I’ll be alright.” The blonde nodded reassuringly, lips curled to a tender and heartfelt grin. Happier than ever. No one had treated him with such a level of forethought and care before. “I trust you.” I trust you with my life, my everything. 

"You don't have to hold back." Gabban breathed deeply, and fixed his gaze to Paukka's, hoping that whatever light shined through his stare would be enough to stress with what complete certainty he'd made his decision. “I want all of you.”

And, as if to further stress his point, Gabban partially spread himself with both fingers, his free hand already moving to help in the act as well.

Instinctive it came. All of it. The way his body moved and did, acted. In no need of a mind that pondered and thought, that wasted time imagining or dwelling. Finding a reason or an excuse to. It just felt right. To be guided by that drive. For this wounded body to function without question, to not yield and not relent, or protest in any form. Not the aching of tired joints or the typical numb feeling slowly starting to creep up his leg, whenever it was positioned oddly and wrong for too long. Or when the weather was bad. Or when he looked at it knowingly.

That instinct guiding him was still his own, not some outside force that had to show him how it was done. There was no outside influence that would later have him question how it had to be read and if perhaps he had interpreted the feeling wrongly. Even if, perhaps (most certainly) there had been a higher power bringing them together (because how else could he possibly explain it, if not with him having been blessed by something that must be holy), now — this — was all just him. Gabban and him. Them. A word he had uttered so often and without thinking, without any proper meaning and carelessly tossed into the world. Or spit out in frustration and anger, whenever he spoke of they. Now reborn. Now having a different meaning. A sense of strength, the feeling of gentle joy growing into fiery want. A word so ripe of meaning. So full, so enriching, empowering. Just like us. Yet only ever if he spoke of them. Of Gabban and himself. Of them. Only then...

Gabban taught him a whole new language. Ever since their first meeting Paukka had come to question words he knew and their alleged meanings. Had been made to dig in deep and reconsider. Ever more so since he had seen Gabban walk up the road leading to the farmstead for the first time. Even more since the hours of his stay turned into days...

A new language. A new sense of self, too. Feeling things he had not before. Similarly, once, perhaps. Different enough. Not as strong as it grew to be now, certainly. Overwhelmed to a point his reason almost escaped him fully and still he was capable and fit to leading? To do? To partake and fully indulge in this moment, this embrace. This revelation. This church service. Gathering to pray and sing and worship, for the purpose of communicating with their God. Paukka had seen god. Saw him still. Heard him. Tasted him on his tongue which pressed against the skin trapped between two rows of teeth. He held god in his maw and felt the itch, the urge to sink his teeth even deeper in. How strong the urge was to leave a mark. Unfathomable. Enticed by the sound of moaning that turned him a sinner more than a devotee.

Briefly his jaw locked in place. Tensed and refused to let go free. As if knowing better, his mouth opened again and released the bit of skin carrying the elliptical imprint of the characteristics of the teeth. Paukka did not look at it and only partially cared if it was really there. For he would make properly sure that it would be the next moment. The lick of his tongue to trace the spot where his mouth had latched onto dragged. As though to clean Gabban of any saliva still sticking to him. What followed was the ghosting of lips over the sore skin, followed by a notable strained breath suffered through the friction of their crotches that was yet again strong enough to send the entirety of him trembling through sheer want. The urge gathered and toiled, first at his nape, then traveling back into his jaw. He felt it itch in his gums before turning into an ache at the base of his teeth. The kind of sensation that only promised release if given in to.

With his mouth opened to deliver another bite — he paused. Was made to pause by the retreating of hands that had previously clung to his back. That bit of reason (the one that would always stay, despite the animal clearly overtaking. The bit that would always want to make sure that Gabban was okay, even if Paukka felt not a proper man any longer but a hungry thing hardly contained and already breaching the seams). He paused and tried to read the movement that came henceforth. Perked up his ears and as if on cue, heard the ripping of fabric. Paukka did not know what made him retreat a hand (grieving already the warmth and full feeling of Gabban's ass) to push himself up enough to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Dark eyes darted downwards and within seconds a sound escaped the older one. A low rumble that started within his chest, born into a low, breathy chuckle that came heartfelt yet in disbelief. In awe at the realization of how desperate and how strongly the blond must be feeling to be with him. Instantly Paukka leaned in again, nuzzling the side of Gabban's face while briefly pressing a kiss to his jawline. To praise him, maybe. To reassure that the unbearable feeling of want was mutual. Still, deep down, he could not help the tugging feeling to drag it all out. To tease... for this moment to never end.

            „Look at you, being so pretty. Looking so nice...“, he mumbled, his breath hot and strained against the crook of Gabban's neck, where the bite mark still sat and the desire to leave another was the strongest. Instead of relenting however the man tore himself away even further, returning into a proper kneeling position. Yet not without reaching for one of the two pillows from the head of the bed. Sliding one arm under the other, Paukka lifted him up enough to push the pillow underneath the blond's lower back. Carefully letting him sink down again here was hoping it would bring at least a little more comfort for what was to come. Knowing from his own experience the mattresses in the house could be all but that.

With lust-drunk eyes he watched, took in the view and felt the immensity of its impact on him. For a moment he felt sure he was going mad, and never before had he felt so ready and willing to. To cast all reason he had aside, watch it tumble down the cliffside, out of reach for him and anyone that could ever want to make him become sane again. If it meant not having this, not being able to see Gabban in this way or in this position ever again, they could all go to hell and keep their sense and die with it. He did not need it. Already was it visibly slipping from his face again, making more space for that hungry stare, as he watched still and watched closely, examining every piece and bit of a body so beautiful and perfect. So much so Paukka had to swallow strongly, making his Adam's apple move in his throat. Even his hands — although skillfully working his own belt and then the button and the zipper of his pants — trembled and twitched with uncontained excitement.

            „...you'll tell me if I am too much?“

[meadowlarksabove]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to someone who fills my life with joy and excitement!! Wishing you a day filled with love, laughter, and all the things that make you the happiest, Sol! I only know you for so long and yet you have become such a precious and inspirational person to me! I am so blessed having gotten the chance to have such lovely talks and create such delightful stories with you!

Here is to celebrating you — your kindness, your strength, and all the beautiful things that make you who you are! Keep dazzling us with your wonderful presence, your kind soul and phenomenally artistic talents! Keep being the beautiful person that you are! Never ever stop being you !! :)

☀️☀️☀️☀️

:') AAaa Thank you so much! I have been very lucky to find these little creative spaces on the internet where I can write/draw without shouldering any pressures or expectations. It's been an especially blessed experience having you around to share in the fun! I have been carrying our conversations with me while I'm out in the world, and they never fail to lift the mood or spark new ideas. Life's not easy, but I'm determined to always be 'making' something. And it's been a lot easier to do that with just talking and discussing things together! I hope we both have a good day !!!

[meadowlarksabove]

it's my birthday today! ^^ Have a slice 🍰

[meadowlarksabove]

What Color Character Are You?

RED

Red characters tend to be both quiet and observant as well as loud and dramatic. They are often brash and impulsive, and tend to act on instinct rather than planning ahead. They are quite self-sacrificing, often veering into self-destructive, and they push themselves to their limits trying to succeed. They tend to be stubborn, and it might take a lot to change their mind. They have a hard time expressing their feelings, and may come off as either emotionless, self-absorbed, or perpetually angry. They don’t have a ton of friends, and when they do, it’s often by circumstance rather than choice (although they grow to fiercely love their friends). They are not usually innately good at fitting into social situations, and can be awkward and out of place in them. They can come off as unhumorous because of how sincere and honest they tend to be, but tend to just have a dryer, sarcastic sense of humor. They do often think of others first, but their motivations for it might not be entirely selfless. They usually have a hard time conceivably lying, and are quite earnest without meaning to be. They put their full effort into what they do, and push themselves to improve at all costs. They get easily defensive, and feel like they have to prove themselves to earn anyone’s respect. They have a strong sense of internal morality and high standards for themselves. They also hold others to their internal high standards, which can cause a lot of conflict if not worked out. They tend to have bad relationships with their parental figures, who were usually either absent or abusive, and contributed to their toxic view of themselves. At their core, red characters want to be loved and accepted, but have often been denied it, leading them to build up lots of defenses. Others need to be patient with them and give them a safe space to be themselves as they open up and begin to flourish.

tagged by: @ihmissutta (thank you!!) tagging: @ratherxintense @shadowatmorning @cicero-the-assassin , and whoever else wants to <3 tag me I wanna see

[meadowlarksabove]

His eyes, as with his hands, had lifted to meet the handsome face which’d so easily fixed him in place. Paukka’s lips pressed tenderly across the back of his palms then, and his fool’s heart swelled in response, brimming with emotion. The mere simplicity of that act, the soft and subtle notes of devotion behind it, undressed him of any worries. He leaned forward, mere inches away from pressing a cheek against their chest when– 

“-- What?” Gabban’s fingers curled tightly around the fabric of their shirt. Surprised, he blinked a few times, certain he must have misheard or misunderstood what they were saying. “And leave everything behind?” 

What of their own goals and ambitions? Their happiness? The last thing he wanted was for Paukka to lose everything they had rightfully earned up to that point. Although he wasn’t allowed to know the gritty details of their profession, secreted away, as if tucked in the pockets of Paukka’s favored overcoat, it was clear to him that both the experience and the years prior to their current station had been more than exceptionally grueling. Yet here they were, offering to cast it all away as naturally as the waves rolled onto the sand. 

It’d be a lie to say a small and undeserving part of him wasn’t tempted by the proposal, lured by the confidence glinting at the back of their dark gaze, like a trail of stars leading him to peerless dreams. But his other half, the wounded animal deeply pitted in the marrow of his bones, knew better than to latch on too tightly, or be rash enough to trust an all-too-ambitious promise. Paukka had dedicated a good part of their life to work, to duty and an unwavering sense of justice. Resolute, and stubborn in the best of ways. They were steadfast in what they believed was a good enough reason for taking up arms. Could Gabban really be so selfish as to tear them away from their legacy? To have his dear Paukka risk it all, so that one day the starlight of their eyes could be dimmed by a thousand midnights spent nursing their regrets? And another thousand for love to curdle to a blackened resentment. 

“How could I ask you to do that? What kind of lover would I be?” 

What kind of person would he be? This was his lover’s home and livelihood they were talking about. Places, people, memories colored by emotions both wondrous and cruel. Countless spaces and objects touched by loved ones, and tombs of family members long past. A million threads which tethered the soul to fertile soil. These were more than chains to a mortal man, but veins that coursed far beyond the body. 

“I could never ask you to hurt yourself like that.” Gabban reached up to cup their face, while his own seemed to teeter between a look of sorrow and joy. No one had ever been so willing to sacrifice years of hard labor for him. But that seemed to him a double edged sword, wielded recklessly in the hands of an impassioned heart. “Isn’t there anyone you’d miss? My love…” 

He caressed them gently, trailing his fingers along the strong ridges of their jaw. “I never want to be the reason you miss someone, or even the reason you resent a moment in time. You don’t have to sacrifice anything to be with me– I’ll support anything you choose to do, I–” 

Finally, he buried his face against their chest, hands sinking to quickly wrap around and cling to their back as before. “Of course I want you to stay! All of me wants you to say! But I don’t want you to be miserable.”

Paukka huffed. A soft sound, strange and unfamiliar, coming from him. Yet it was carried with such tenderness, as though he had to breathe it out in that moment, or else he would be overwhelmed by the need to be gentle. How it tugged at his heart, to see Gabban suffering. Pained and wounded by the very absence he had caused. A wrong done. Another huff left him. This time even his expression was soft and loving, and he could not help regarding Gabban with that very feeling. With love. With so much of it that his heart could not decide between beating violently at their reunion or if it shuddered and took itself out by the sight of his lover breaking at the seams over both, his departure and his return. How it felt like it broke, like it tore. Torn through a bullet of a gun he had placed against his own chest when deciding between returning or remaining. With every beat, his heart seemed to slow. Heavy thuds and immeasurable pain spreading from the center of it coursing through his chest and tickling through his entire body like thick poison.

Hearing Gabban speak, even breathing hurt. Paukka inhaled briskly, then exhaled sharply. Thousand knives had waited for his lungs to dare keep him alive, when he truly did not deserve it. Almost as though whatever force watching over them wanted him to feel the same pain Gabban said he had.

           „Don't have to hold back, love—“ Paukka mumbled in a low yet smooth tone. His words fell feather-soft, as the pads of his fingers did. One hand had reached up, to slowly brush over Gabban's temple at first, before stroking back some of the blond strands of hair, trying to maneuver them behind his ear only for half of them to stubbornly retreat to frame that handsome face again.

And he meant it. Gabban did not have to hold back, not around him. He did not have to hide his tears, or keep silent about his fears. Paukka did not think him less of a man when he cried, as he did not see him as less of a strong mind and a strong heart, whenever thoughts and ghosts caught up to him, trying to remind him of what Paukka did not know but hated all the same. Traces left, so much as those on his body. Only that they claimed his soft soul.

           „Say“, he suddenly began. Having settled on it before so much as thinking about it, before considering. Because to him there was nothing to think about. The problem was clear and so was the solution. Even though it meant he would give up everything that he had, all that which he had ever achieved and done. All part of an old life that now seemed so trivial, frivolous. So utterly insignificant compared to what was before him, and if his own chest would not hurt as much as it did then Paukka surely would have laughed. Hard and loud, why he had not seen it sooner. Why he had been so blind and caused the one he loved such unnecessary pain. His hand returned to where the other still held that of Gabban, taking both again. Yet instead of continuing the caress, Paukka lifted them up and against his mouth. Kissing first the back of one hand, then the other.

            „What if I stay. What if I do not go back.“ Paukka guided Gabban to place his hands against his chest, from where his own hands sank and started caressing his lover's thighs. Lovingly stroking over them in between firm gripping, which he hoped was a touch that would help reassure the blond that Paukka was there and would not leave again anytime soon.

           „I have enough money saved up. Work I can find anywhere.“ Despite the gentle expression, there was confidence in those dark brown eyes that looked at Gabban with a willingness unundeniable. He would give it all up for him.

[meadowlarksabove]

The frumentarius was still keen enough to notice the change in their cadence, the drop of something pivotal in their voice that immutably switched the frequencies, like stations drowned under a tide of static. He’d heard this shift before in soldiers, and in himself, wholly unprepared and unfit to make sense of all the losses they’d be forced to contend with. Whether those be of brothers in arms or true familial connections forged by blood, he’d both felt and heard the quiet fraying of men forced to hide their grief.-- And at the very back of Paukka’s words, he heard the clear and unmistakable snapping of hempen ropes tearing apart. 

Were parents the kind of people you deeply mourned for? He supposed they were. Sadness of this kind wasn’t exactly foreign to him, though it had flown to him through other means. Like mismatched birds perched along a single branch, his and Paukka’s pain were similar enough to share a space, but were of a different species altogether. Feathered, but crowned with different colors. Beaked, but twittering in different harmonies. They took to the very same skies, but migrated in opposite directions. Yet he understood how they came to nest in the nook of their ribs for long seasons at a time, roosting over little miseries crying out to be fed. Until a nest became a flock, and a flock an entire ecosystem of secret remorse. 

Gabban rubbed the tense mound of their muscle as he listened, careful not to hint at his own emotions when the other needed tending. They could depend on him for anything. Even if that meant wearing himself thin in the process. He’d happily reduce himself to nothing more than a smoothed and faceless stone to bed the river of their sorrow. However their last words, needle-pricked with such boundless regret, broke through the calm and tempered expression he’d chosen to maintain. His heart suddenly ached too strongly. The same hand which’d rested on Paukka’s bicep then reached up to tenderly cup the side of their face. 

“I don’t believe your mother would ever hold something like that against you. So, why should you?” Gently, Gabban stroked their cheek with the pad of his thumb, drawing himself closer with every line. It wasn’t his place to guess the character of their parents, or presume their thoughts– even the full breadth of their affections for a child they’d almost lost at war. But he refused to let Paukka, or anyone else’s memory for that matter, pass judgement upon something that wasn’t a crime. Because to be hurt, to be wounded, wasn’t proof of any wrongdoing. It was simply a matter of cruelty on this side of the world. If only he could show them, through gazes unburdened with prejudice, the amount of bravery it must have taken for them to carry on as they had. The sheer strength to welcome every morning having been changed from the man they once were. Though, would they have resented their previous form any less when it came time to face the brunt of all that’s happened? Would they have found other ways to hate themselves just as he divined ways to shame himself for his own shortcomings? 

His eyes sharpened with a twinge of protectiveness, warding off wisps of ill-will or misgivings with the raise of his guard. Out of everyone he’d ever known, Paukka was the most deserving of his defense. Whatever teetered over the line would be swiftly met with his teeth. 

Finally he cooled, realizing he’d tensed like a mongrel whistled to attention. “Forgive me, it’s not my place to speak for her like that…” 

The letters rustled softly, held fast between his and Paukka’s waists, as if cornered away from an unseen third who shouldn’t pry. As if Gabban himself weren’t the stranger trampling on what should have been a private family affair. At least he sincerely hoped his lover didn’t see it that way. They didn’t have to face this alone if they didn’t want to. There was now another body to help shoulder the burden if they’d just let it…

The blonde offered them another freshly tempered grin as he gained better grounds over his own composure. Yet there remained in the corners of his lips the whisper of an unvoiced worry, and a touch of warmth which betrayed an ardent wish to be of any use to them. Still, he wouldn’t push them to do or accept anything that wasn’t borne from their self same spirit in that moment. 

The hand at their cheek trailed up to caress their hairline. “I’ll put them somewhere safe if you like, and that way you can come back to them whenever you want…” 

Whenever you’re ready.

The smell of the processed wood still hung thick in the air. Warm and earthy. Decadent in a way that bordered on too much. Even with all their years of age the dried plants seemed to still have held within them the last reserves natural saps and oils that were now released and sticking to both his roughened hands; emitting from his skin that had soaked up all of it. That, or he had simply inhaled enough of the dust that his air ways were painted by it, causing him to imagine smells that were not there. Among it, there was a rather inert smell. Seemingly not too noxious to breathe but if ingested, smelled like it would surely give a stomach-ache or worse. It was not quite 'sour' (but almost) or 'chemical'. Wood finish that had long ago turned or oxidized. At least he had kept the sealing wax, which he wanted to use on the new window frames instead to protect the wood from weathering, closed for now. Already did he feel slightly heady as it was. Strangely close to suffocating, with how full the air was and how unclean. How dense the air filling his lungs felt, how it slowed the beating of his heart.

His heart ached. Should. For a moment he even believed that it did. Yet the drop never came, his heart never stopped or stayed. His next inhale came slow and dragged but perpetually and stretched. Paukka never fell into the cold hands of asphyxiation. Never succumbed to the condition of deficient supply of oxygen to his body. Never reached that near immediate panic, never met that agonizing pain as his lungs screamed for oxygen. The smell was there but he could breathe easily.

The unearthing of a memory he had refused to face for the past three years did not pull the rug from beneath his feet as he had feared. The weight of his failure and betrayal — although heavy — did not crush him or force him onto his knees. Because the touch of the hands that held those letters was soft. Because those hands that held out to him fragments of the dead belonged to a man that strengthened his heart and had carefully worked to restore his resolve, without knowing. Because he was not alone and that part of his past not breached with malice, but curious eyes that meant no harm. Eyes belonging to a man whom Paukka had offered to this very home. That wonderful, soft soul that even reached out and touched him now, reassuring him further and blessing him with his presence the ex soldier was not so sure he deserved.

How could he be mad at Gabban? When the only person in this house he had a reason to be mad at was himself. No one else. I memorized them. He wanted to say it, regarding the letters. To reassure and gently put down instead of facing what he had put off processing for three years and one more. Realizing slowly that he had not memorized all of them at all. Most of them. I should have...

He could not lie. Paukka did not want to lie to Gabban. Not willing to make another grave mistake that would haunt him in nights where sleep would not come and was pushed away by images of a war that still went on — without him now.

Maybe he should read them again.

            „Most are from my mother.“ He broke the silence. Although not wholly disturbed, there was a difference in how he sounded. Something reached emotionally deep. „Her handwriting was always more decipherable. I take after my father.“ Lightheartedness returned and Paukka even managed to offer a weak smile. Thinking about how illegible his own writing often could be. Sharp lines forming harsh words.

There were more reasons why the father had barely written any letters while the son was serving the NCR and Paukka was aware of all of them. Reasons he did not blame the old man for and that he too felt within him, rooted someplace that was made for something softer. Something they both (and many more walking the wasteland) were robbed of. Men that never learned to properly express their emotions, let alone had learned that it was okay to show weakness.

Dark brown eyes having rested on the letters (and the fingers holding them still), they moved back up in search of beautiful pools of greyish-blue. Although not visibly tense, something still prevented him from reaching out and taking the letters.

            „If I had listened to her I'd still have two functioning legs.“ If he had listened to her he would not have blood on his hands.

[meadowlarksabove]

On my hands and knees. I've been without electricity and water for two days...Please...bear with me...I'm told it should be coming back midnight or tomorrow afternoon. :' ) Sorry for suddenly winking out of existence.