#the implication being that yoglabs mind wiping is rather an imperfect science

[oldpeculier]

had more thoughts about honeyphos

a little bit of writing set before the skyhold trials

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Not for the first time amidst the chaos of their travels, Xephos finds that he cannot sleep. Honeydew is snoring easily in the bed to his left. The cradling motions of the Skyhold no doubt carried him to a peaceful rest - just the faintest sway, as the buffeting winds at this height push them back and forth, whistling over the walls far above. And it isn’t that Xephos isn’t exhausted. He is. In a series of long days, this has been a very long day.

It’s not the nerves of first flight keeping him awake, even though his hands still cramp from clutching at the airplane joystick with white-knuckle grip. As if that could save him from his own poor aviation. It’s also not the gory vision of Baako’s death, maybe the worst sight of their travels thus far. Hard to begrudge Honeydew’s loss of lunch there. Xephos had only just kept his own food down, and then felt even worse at the prickle of taint underneath his own skin, held off only by the occasional golden apple or, more effectively, a death, resetting that perpetual timer created by proximity to the sands. The sooner they get rid of that shit, the better. He flexes his hands beneath unfamiliar bedsheets and grimaces. His knuckles are tight and coarse.

What Xephos is thinking about is maybe more foolish. Embarrassment. The urge to hide a poorly-kept secret that ended as it deserved to. Given the circumstances, it was a bit ridiculous to pretend that Jasper and Lysander’s relationship was anything other than patently homosexual, but Xephos just…

He sighs, and rolls over in bed.

As if acknowledging their relationship would draw attention to himself. Not that it matters. Not that Honeydew would give a shit. They’ve been together for as long as Xephos can remember, in a very real sense, right back to those fleeting moments on the seashore when he had awoken with sand in his coat and hair. If he tries to think back any further, all he gets is an overwhelming sensation of dread. So he doesn’t. And when he looks at Honeydew, he thinks ‘friend’ with the powerful certainty of an absolute truth, pre-sensory, pre-existential. He also feels guilt. He doesn’t know why. If the dread and the guilt are connected, then Xephos can only fear the worst.

Xephos turns to watch Honeydew sleep. A round, freckled face has turned pink with the warmth of the heavy skylord bedding, and he’s snoring. It’s a funny thing. Honeydew is quite effete for a dwarf, sweet-looking. He’d once confided that, back in his old mining home, he’d been the son of the chieftain. Pampered by virtue of birth. It’s still visible in his looks.

Finally Xephos can feel his brain switching off, watching Honeydew’s chest rise and fall in the darkness. His thoughts grow careless and detached. What would I be without you, he wonders loosely. He doesn’t take the time nor have the wherewithal to examine the warmth in his chest. It’s just the duvet. But when Xephos falls asleep, he dreams of a night many, many years ago, where he’d kissed Honeydew after having one gin beyond his tolerance. He’d sat in the Yoglabs office for several hours afterwards, clutching his head in silence. And then he’d wiped their memories.